by Roland Byrd
them correct.
Despite the danger, regardless of their fear, people still used the C-Net. It was woven thoroughly into their lives, inseparable for most from reality.
Besides, people have always known, in one degree or another, the dangers of the C-Net. There have always been predators. Even in the infantile days of the ancient Internet—when people sat in front of a screen and there was no mental interface—there were people who hunted the innocent.
But I was an entirely new breed of predator. They never suspected the danger I represented.
How could they?
So they gambled.
Many lived on…Some didn’t.
˜˜˜˜
With a little help the CNA eventually figured out that I was responsible for the deaths. Then they tracked me down.
I remember the day they found me. One moment I was ripping memories from a woman’s mind, the next I was cut off completely, totally alone in my mind, blind to the data-streams and power to which I’d grown accustomed.
They must have shielded themselves from the C-Net—smart. Otherwise I’d have sensed them long before they slammed that ether-shield over my head and locked its collar. I tried to fight them off physically, but while my mind had grown exponentially with power my body had withered, shrunk to husk, and I hadn’t the strength.
As a reward for my feeble attempt at fighting them off, something slammed into the side of my head and darkness took me.
I awoke in a shielded room, shackled to a metal chair, the ether-shield still locked around my head. I must have moved. Someone tapped the side of my head lightly—it felt like a sledgehammer and I screamed in pain. Then the front of the shield turned translucent. Like a creature of the underworld, the light burned my eyes, stabbed my optic nerves. I whimpered and blinked to clear them.
It didn’t help.
A brick of a man sat across from me. His hair streaked with grey. His eyes, hard as steel, bored into mine as a vein pulsed in his forehead. His badge read, Stone, and I believed it.
“I’m Detective Stone and you’re in a deep way. Do you know what we’ve got on you?” He asked, contempt dripping from every word.
I shook my head and howled with pain. My head felt like it was being crushed. My pulse pounded through my veins, lancing my mind with each beat.
Stone smiled broadly and waited until I stopped screaming. Then he triggered a holo-display in the center of the table. Faces marched before me, each with a description of when they died and how they were found.
I tried to turn my face away, to avoid looking at my victims. Something held my ether-shield in place. I closed my eyes and was jolted with electricity from the chair. I opened them and the electricity stopped.
“Oh no, son… You’re a freak and a monster. You’re gonna watch this.” Stone stabbed his finger into my chest with each word. “You’re gonna see the face of everyone you destroyed. Then you’re gonna rot in Hell.”
“How did you find me?” I managed to choke out the words through my pain.
Stone squinted his eyes and tilted his head slightly, as if measuring whether he should tell me or not. Finally he said, “We received an anonymous tip; complete with a list of all your victims. It also told us exactly where you were hiding and how to capture you.”
Then Stone sat back, crossed his arms, and said, “Somebody doesn’t like you, son, and I can’t blame them.”
I tried to close my eyes again, my body danced with electricity. I screamed, opened my eyes. The current vanished.
“You aren’t getting off that easy, son.” Stone spat his words. Then he turned and barked, “Kipman, Holt, Carson, get in her and make sure this freak keeps his eyes open!” He stood, looked at me one more time, shook his head, and walked out of the room muttering, “I can’t stand the sight of him…”
That’s when my suffering started. But they didn’t care. Why should they? I was an animal, something less than human. Why should my plight concern them?
Cut from the source that fed my addiction and forced to watch the holo-display, I began to tremble and sweat. Before the holo ended nausea wracked me. By the time they threw me in a special holding cell, I writhed in anguish on the floor. They pointed, whispered, and laughed.
There were no drugs to ease my pain, no sympathy from my captors, no comfort of any kind...only their laughter, cold, hard, and justified.
By the end of my first day in custody, I could no longer function. The agony I suffered was so perfect, that I'd withdrawn to a comatose state. I remained thus during the first few months of my incarceration—there never was a trial.
Why try the guilty?
The burden of proving one guilty beyond reasonable doubt disappeared long ago, around the same time as the last bald eagle. I’d watched an old holo about those birds once. They represented freedom when America was still a country, before the world government took over. It seemed fitting that the last living symbol of freedom died along with freedom itself.
Oh, they still have trials—for those who can afford them. But these are mockeries. Gone are juries of peers. Gone is the burden of proof. Now we’re guilty until proven innocent. Weak circumstantial evidence is enough to lock one away for years. But a fat wallet can buy your freedom.
And none of that mattered in my case, I was destitute and I was guilty.
In time, I began to function normally again. My mental facilities returned. I found myself alone, locked in my small corner of Hell, only time and guilt as allies while I pondered what I’d done.
˜˜˜˜
Once—after a few years without access to the C-Net—I thought I was finally free. Free of the need, of the evil that had been awakened within me.
I was wrong...
Four months ago, I again felt the Cerebro-Net's soft caress. The desire within me instantly surfaced like a caged beast. Beating furiously at the bars of its prison, it screamed savagely for release.
I knew then, that no matter what controls society imposed, until I’d changed from within I’d always be the monster. But I didn’t know how to change and no one would help me anyway. There were no treatment programs in Hell’s Tower. Why waste time treating someone you’ll never release?
And for the first time I was glad to call Hell’s Tower home. At least behind its walls I would never harm another innocent.
Since then I’ve waged a war in my mind. The beast within struggles for release and I fight to contain it. I can’t access the C-Net but I can feel it. I can sense it, calling to me through the walls, tempting me with its secrets, driving me to the brink of insanity. And still I fight. I can’t give in.
Not again.
This morning I wondered if taking my life might be the only way to ensure I’d never harm another. Would the void save me from the beast within? Would it end my darkness?
Yes.
But how could I do it? My barren cell left nothing to chance. Could I use my teeth to tear open my veins and let my life flow out slowly? I hadn’t the courage for that.
Then a vision swept my mind. In it I charged the wall head first and broke my neck. But what if I failed and only injured or paralyzed myself? As long as my mind functioned I might still harm another.
No. That was too uncertain. I had to know it would work. I could jump up and dive head first into the floor. Better, I could land on the side of my head. The torque and angle on my spine would certainly finish the job.
Yes. That would work. My method decided, I crouched in preparation and counted down.
Five…
Four…
Three…
I don’t know what triggered it. Perhaps my inner plight or the remorse I now felt for my past wrongs. It doesn’t matter, really. At that moment a presence touched my mind.
Stop! I find a seed of remorse within you. You may be of use to me.
No one was in my cell, yet I jumped up and spun wildly looking for the speaker. “You’re in my mind.” I said as I realized the obvious.
I am.
; “How? Why..?” I stammered in fear and wondered if that was what the people I’d invaded felt.
No. The voice said, You feel fear. Those you ravaged felt terror and pain beyond your imagination.
“Terror?” I asked, knowing full well the truth, yet realizing this with detached fascination.
Yes, Terror. The voice paused as if thinking, withdrew from my mind for a moment, and then returned. You must understand the truth of your actions if you are to be any use to me. Let me show you. It said.
Then true agony began.
How can I describe my torment, my baptism, my redemption? Nothing I say can even touch the surface of what I experienced. I lived every moment, every breath, every heartbeat of the torture I’d put my victims through.
It started with Charlotte.
It was as if I were her, enjoying my dinner, talking excitedly with my friend about my wedding when I felt the presence invade my mind. It ripped through my memories like a dull scythe. I tried to fight, but it was too strong. “Get out of my head!” I screamed in desperation.
The pain was like white-hot needles piercing my skull, dancing along my body, tattooing my soul in real time. Why? What have I done? I wondered and writhed in agony as my mind shut down.
I died her death. I felt life leave my body. But instead of blessed release, my awareness of Charlotte vanished, shifted.
I was on the floor. Sweat and urine pooled around me. Uncontrollable chills twisted my spine. I begged for mercy, sobbed uncontrollably.
Did you grant mercy? The voice asked.
I didn’t want to answer. I didn’t need to. We both knew the truth. I’d never granted mercy. I’d
