Bottle Born Blues

by Conor H Carton

  I walked over to the desk and moved the chair to the wipe-clean. If it didn’t work, Jovial would have to get to the desk and I hoped that Lincoln would have enough time to kill him before he managed it. The taste of fear flooded my mouth with metallic flavours; breathing was proving difficult. I sat in Jovial’s chair and felt him stir; he was powerfully present.

  I glanced at Lincoln, who stood back and well out of lunging distance, the weapon in her hand pointed at me. Time to play. I closed my eyes, rested my head against the headrest, and walked into the room to meet Jovial.

  Jovial didn’t have clear features and his voice was a hodge-podge of other voices I’d stored in my memory. I hadn’t really seen him when we encountered each other and didn’t have a sharp image of him. He was trapped in my mind. The failed takeover attempt had weakened him, but not completely reduced him.

  Jovial was sitting at a small table in a standard-issue kitchen. I spent considerable energy every day not thinking about that kitchen or hearing the voice that was clearly speaking comfort to a baby from the room beside it. In this location, at this moment, aided by the knowledge he’d just looted, Jovial was clearly hoping to make another attempt for complete mastery. Just as I had access to Jovial’s memories, Jovial had access to mine, and here was the proof that he was willing to use them against me in the ensuing fight.

  Jovial smiled cheerfully and waved at the chair opposite him. I did as requested and he spoke first. “Nice kitchen. I used to have one of these back in my flesh days. It is amazing the awesome and wonderful things that can happen in such ordinary surroundings.”

  I lunged at the indistinct shape and forced it to give up the secret I wanted. It was like arm-wrestling an octopod. He wrapped multiple arms around me, pulling me into an embrace. I heard a door handle rattle and threw myself toward it to stop it from opening.

  Jovial swallowed me as I yelled … just when the force of the blast from Lincoln’s weapon propelled me back into the chair. I hit the wipe-away hard enough to impel me onto the floor and lay there, a storm of sensations demanding attention over the disorientation in my mind.

  I appeared to be alive and in the operations room. Clearly, I’d been shot and was still alive. I had the knowledge we needed, as well as a huge bruise on my chest … and Jovial was finally silenced. None of it made any sense. Jovial had defeated me, yet I was present in the operations room. I cracked open an eye, the least painful thing to do, and saw Lincoln standing where I had last seen her, still pointing her weapon at me.

  “Screw-Top? That you?”

  I was too sore to respond or signal, so I simply closed my eye again. Apparently, that was enough as I heard her come over. She stabbed me in the neck with something freezing cold. Here was a handy household hint: if you were going to undertake an insanely dangerous and probably fatal trip, make sure that you included a companion who packed a military-grade make-up kit and knew how to use its contents to restore the nearly dead back to full-strength living.

  “Why didn’t you kill me?” I stood up and stretched, enjoying the feeling of being awake and well.

  “You’re not the first ghost attack I’ve seen. A shock is enough to disable them; they’re not as rooted in your body as you are. If it hadn’t worked, I had time for a final shot.”

  Just what sort of people did Lincoln work with if she had such casual experience with ghost takeovers? … Right, Lincoln worked with people like me.

  She dropped a bomb. ”Who is Petra? You shouted that name just as I recovered you.”

  Sometimes plain, context-less truth was the most effective lie. “A girl I once knew once.” Lanken’s Tears, I’d spoken the name. We were in one of the most secure places in Mengchi, yet very keen ears may have heard that. The secret I had to hide to protect those I loved, the reason I was running had nearly slipped free. I was being battered too much I would have to make a final decision soon.

  Lincoln smiled and nodded, and thankfully didn’t pursue it. “Did you get what you wanted?”

  “Yes, there’s an exit code that has to be entered in the cube array here, and then we have five minutes to get to a blast-space before the whole location melts. The code also triggers a suicide command in all active lifeforms. The Standing Committee will have a rash of sudden deaths among the staff. I don’t suppose it will take long for them to launch relevant cover stories. Security is going to be topnotch once bodies start to drop. Once they read the heat signature from here, they’ll be all over it, so we can’t leave traces.”

  “How long before the bodies drop?” Lincoln asked.

  “Same as the melt: five minutes.”

  “So we have minutes to get from the blast-space to a safe distance for the initial inspection and then to get outside the security orbit. Not bad. Let’s get to it!”

  I sat down at the array, placed a palm on the cube in front of me, and thought the startup code. The cube warmed as it sent out feelers to read the code, or kill me if it didn’t. A demand for the secondary start-up code prompted me to tap it onto the plate my other hand rested upon. The plate also warmed and held me firmly in place while the array considered my request, I felt feelers on my body, assessing the possible threat I posed. Jovial was no longer active, but I had his signature and that was enough.

  The array connected with me and I was in. The rush of information was exhilarating. I knew every molecule of the farm. I could organize the data as I wished … create a lifeform to my exact specifications … build an army and fix all my problems. All I had to do was will it and it would be so. The astonishing possibilities drifted to me like an intoxicating cloud, and I wanted to do it. Then it passed, because I wasn’t Jovial, and his dreams and desires didn’t pull the same levers in me.

  When I found the exit strategy line, I entered the code and waited. There was a delay while the cube array considered the request. As a semi-autonomous item, it had a vested interest in not processing the code. When it tried to kill me, I had my response. Feelers attacked my hands and attempted to invade my body, but failed because they were coded to Jovial’s physical structure and not mine. During the brief interval, before they adapted to the change, I repeated the exit code. The override opened and the feelers retracted. The exit strategy line was engaged and the first step uncovered.

  I had to solve a standard brewing equation; hidden in it was a subset that only Jovial would be able to resolve. As I unlocked the sequence, I felt as if I were wearing Jovial’s heavy boneless body like a flesh suit. I popped the trap and resolved the inherent contradiction to create a new version of Jovial/myself.

  The simulation then asked a question. “Five to the left then?”

  “A thousand steps up the ladder to the sun,” was my reply and the simulation opened a door through which it entered.

  I followed and ended up in a huge, empty room. The ceiling was high and painted to look like a clear night sky. The simulation vanished and something shimmered not far ahead. A tall, lithe and stunningly handsome human male smiled. He had glossy raven-black hair and deep bark-brown eyes, and wearing custom-made robes with twisted gold threads and tiny glistening jewels. He radiated friendly, warm charisma; he was your best friend the moment he met you. You were happy and relaxed in his company.

  The lifeform spoke with a rich, deep voice that caressed your ears and inspired confidence and trust with its confident tone. “Hello there. We need to go this way.” He turned and started to walk.

  The stress of the past hours ebbed and I was content . . . and my knife plunged into his ribs before slicing into his back. A spray of blood, hot and sticky, splashed over me. The lifeform fell without a sound and blood pooled around him, turning black as it continued to flow. It reached my feet, flowed up my legs, and quickly covered me.

  I was back in the chair, looking at the cube array. My hands had been released and the wipe-away had swung away from the wall, revealing stairs that led downwards into darkness.

  Lincoln looked at me with a what-now expression.

&nbs
p; “You first, I have to close it behind us.”

  She strode to the entrance and began down the stairs, stopped, and returned to hand me a small crystal disk. I hooked the communications link behind an ear. When she stepped back down, I placed a palm to a wall plate. The wipe-away closed silently behind and subdued lighting emerged, just enough to navigate by. I had to hurry to catch up with Lincoln and found her climbing into an open pipe in the wall. Following, I began to crawl.

  Thanks to the shot she’d given earlier, I was full of energy, so when the reaction set in, it was at gale force. The sight of Lincoln’s bottom wriggling in front gave me an erection the size of a lamppost. I became dizzy from the lack of blood reaching my brain. (As an FYI, one precaution I’d taken for such a situation was to organize underwear so there was sufficient room for my exuberant dick to expand without crippling me.)

  The tunnels were narrow enough to brush my back and shoulders as I moved, and an expanding sense of enclosure started developing.

  “Hey Screw-Top, don’t you think this is a bit weird? Here we are, crawling along the fallopian tubes of a bottle factory. Sort of a multi-layered moment, don’t you think?”

  I remained silent—and uncomfortable—thanks to the claustrophobia and mixed emotions. Lincoln took my silence as an invitation to pursue the topic. “This is as close a return to the womb as you can get, isn’t it? A rebirth experience. A chance to re-consider all the possible choices you can make after you emerge. I have to say it’s not something I’d go for myself. I’m pretty happy with my choices. Still, for someone as tightly wound as you, this may be a breakthrough. “

  That stab brought forth my voice. “What do you mean, tightly wound?”

  “Every word you just said came out at different volumes and tones. You’re waiting to explode. Stop projecting into the future, grasp the moment, and deal with it. The past is closed and the future is unwritten, so capture ‘now’ and make it work.”

  It was too much and I laughed helplessly. Lincoln had imitated one of the stars of the lines, a peddler of platitudes and clichés, and delivered with soulful seriousness and synthetic sincerity. I hated her empty verbiage right at that moment, but I quickly recovered and crawled forward faster, conscious that I’d lost time. Finally, I caught sight of Lincoln.

  “Dead-end, Screw-Top. Any suggestions?” she asked when I reached her ankles.

  I started to speak when the wall behind whispered, drawing our attention. Several blades formed a seal behind us. We were trapped in a confined space, with no going forward, no going back—so down we went instead. The section of the pipe we were in moved forward at increasing speed. I was flung into Lincoln, which intensified my reaction. I wriggled to avoid touching her with my erection.

  The pipe section halted abruptly. We were able to stand upright, with space between us. Without a sound, a section opened to reveal an array of sinks and wash stations. Lincoln didn’t hesitate, and stepped forward with me immediately behind.

  She grunted softly and turned. “That won’t do.” She removed a small silver box from her pocket, slid open the lid, and took out two small gems. One she placed on my forehead, the other on hers; they were low-power image charms. Lincoln now had ivy-green skin and looked a decade older. Her cloths were business-neutral robes. She was an office drone and no one would pay enough attention to her to spot clashing details. I assumed that I was something similar, but it had to be trickier to manage, given I had blast marks and blood to conceal.

  Satisfied, Lincoln nodded and headed for the exit just as several commuters walked in. I hurried after Lincoln who seemed to know exactly where she was going. She took a turn off a corridor and we emerged onto a suburban transit-stop platform. A transit was pulling up and Lincoln and I hastily boarded.

  “That was good work, Screw-Top. They mixed with dangerous people. It’s just as well to have rolled up the carpet after them.” Lincoln was still using the link we’d put on back at the farm, so we could talk quietly without being overheard.

  “I think they were dangerous enough by themselves,” I smirked.

  “This exit route wasn’t set up by lawyers or bankers, or by brewmasters, no matter how talented. I recognize the architecture and that worries me. This was designed to return them safe and sound to their cover lives, and be free to try again. They were playing with Constain and he never plays for anything except the highest stakes. This exist route is his design and if he’s involved, trouble is deep and wide, and very present.”

  I was amused by what it took to make Lincoln believe that the plot was serious: for me it was the presence of a brewmaster of Jovial’s ability, for Lincoln Constain’s involvement. We exited the transit and boarded another, and did this four more times. At every change, there was a visible increase in security, and always concentrated in areas we were leaving. The final stop was my normal one, thought I have no idea how we got there. At the exit, Lincoln grinned and headed into the crowds. I made it back to my space without further trouble, placed my clothes in the recycler, showered, and had the best night’s sleep in year.

  9

  I woke up at the usual time, ready to start the day. Checking the message line, I saw the usual flotsam and jetsam that evaded my filters and one real alert from the UPCR campaign office. It was short and to the point. “Meeting tonight, 8:30.” I felt a sliver of unease and nausea settle in my stomach. A second update noted that Dr Sand had been replace as campaign manager by Mr. Hennessey, Dr Sand was moving on to different work for the organization.

  At work, there was considerable buzz—chatter and messaging about the deaths of a number of senior staff. A bit too many to be random was the consensus, followed by the determination that a purge had been implemented. This was good news for everyone still alive, because danger was now past. I avoided discussions and concentrated on work as much as the nausea would allow. The day finally passed and I had to head to the UPCR office and discover what was waiting for me there.

  It was Reyan who was waiting as I entered the campaign HQ, which had moved to a new location. The UNPRC was getting serious traction in the electorate and becoming a serious contender. The new offices were impressively low-tech, which made Naturals much more comfortable because mechanics were out of sight. She’d been promoted to a permanent staffer for the campaign. As Deputy Director of Outreach Services, she’d have a slot on the Standing Committee staff for one of the UPCR representatives. This made being nice to her imperative.

  “Shakbout, you have a meeting with Mr. Hennessey, don’t you?” she asked flatly, with a slight frown.

  “I do. I was told about it this morning. Are you coming, too?” So I hoped.

  “I’m not,” Reyan replied stiffly.

  The lights came on. Reyan was concerned that I was being called to a private meeting and she wasn’t, and she was wondering if this was bad news for her.

  “I’m sure Mr. Hennessey is just taking a look at staff. We’re in the final days and he’s taken over, so he wants ensure we’re all to his liking. He’ll want to make sure that there are no legacy issues.” I smiled and beamed all my bureaucratic experience at her.

  Reyan appeared relieved. “That makes sense.” She motioned me to follow her to Mr. Hennessey’s office, knocked loudly, and opened the door without waiting for a response.

  Mr. Hennessey was a Disguised Ornamental, a fairly rare sub-group. Their features didn’t show except under specific circumstances. They were often the showpieces at parties where the lighting or air composition would suddenly change and they’d be revealed. He was a tall human male with brown-toned skin, tar-black eyes and hair. He looked strong and fit, and his robes were tailored to display his form.

  The large kidney-shaped desk of polished stone he stood behind supported stacks of multi-coloured papers on two corners: security briefs from the Standing Committee. Mr. Hennessey motioned a small table with three chairs and I sat down. The man strolled over with papers in hand, sat, and then tapped the papers against the table.

&n
bsp; Zusak Sedge quietly entered and took the third chair. She smiled, overflowing with good fellowship and humour; in fact, she glowed with relaxed charm … which was utterly terrifying.

  “So, Shakbout, how are you?” she asked with a tone of friendly interest.

  I managed a smile and nodded, not trusting my voice.

  “Snapper got your tongue?” she asked with an amused chuckle. “No need to be shy, because you’re among friends. Tell us how you are. We’d like to know.”

  My mouth was suddenly so full of saliva, I was on the verge of drooling. After swallowing a bucketful, I responded with a quiet, “Fine, thank you.”

  “Enjoying your promotion? Slick work with that food space it was a smart solution to a tricky problem. The sort of thinking and action we look for in our associates, don’t we Mr. Hennessey?”

  Mr. Hennessey leaned towards me and I could see a small circular scar on the side of his right eyebrow. I realized that I was wrong about Mr. Hennessey. He wasn’t a Disguised Ornamental, but much rarer than that, so rare as to be considered a myth. He was a Scar Carrier. For every lifeform he extinguished, he grew a scar, the more appalling and inventive the process, the smaller the scar. They were enforcers for their creators, easy to create and fabulously difficult to control. Very few lasted long before being extinguished themselves. The scars were usually internal, hidden in the skin, visible only in the right light or if the Scar Carrier revealed them. Mr. Hennessey’s scar was visible only because he wanted me to see it.

  He spoke with a calm voice that would have made him a fortune on the advertising lines. “That is correct, Honoured One. We look for such mental energy and ingenuity as Mr. Shakbout has consistently demonstrated. A supple energy that allows him to fit into all sorts of situations and find solutions that others might not.”

  “Why don’t you tell Mr. Mansard about our little problem that’s sure to engage that supple energy?” Zusak Sedge suggested happily.

  “We want you to bring us the Shoshone Circlet on Election Night,” he with a straight face.