“I am currently working for a sub-committee of the Peace and Reconciliation Committee,” Fraser continued, in that lilting voice that was like water lapping on a misty lake. I guessed he was from New Caledonia, a planet famed for its mists, whisky, and dour pessimists largely of Scotland-Earth extraction. “And I’ve come to offer you a deal.”
“Do I live or die?” I asked.
“In this deal – live.”
“Then,” I said, “I take it.”
Let me back up a moment.
There I was, shackled inside the death machine, awaiting my own reduction to a jammy paste. What was I thinking then? Did my life flash in front of my eyes?
Yeah, it did, kind of.
Here are some of the moments I saw:
Tears rolled down my cheeks, and I snorted back a grief-drenched string of snot.
I was inconsolable. or so I told myself. And I revelled in how entirely inconsolable I was, even as I failed, utterly, to be consoled! (I was, you may have deduced by now, a very strange child.)
“She died,” I murmured, “she died!”
My father glared at me. “What is wrong with you, Artemis?”
“She died,” I told him mournfully. “She died!”
“Who died?” He had a tone like cold marble, if marble were also impatient and rude.
“Annabelle.” I held up my book. It was a paper volume with a plastic cover that looked and felt but did not smell like leather binding. “The Story of Annabelle.6 She dies.”
My father stared at me. A smile lit up his face. I had never seen him smile before. I was, by the way, seven years old. “She does die,” he admitted, “she does indeed. Sacrificing herself, am I right, to save her puppy?”
“Her dolphin.”
“Her dolphin,” he conceded.
“Bobby,” I explained.
“Bobby, I see. Well. It’s sentimental tosh, really, isn’t it?” said my father, but his eyes were twinkling.
“Do you think she rejuved, Daddy?”
“Well that’s a good question. When was the book published?”
I checked. “Twenty-one sixty-four.”
“Then it’s a very old book. Did they have rejuve then?”
I thought. “No, Daddy.”
“Then she didn’t rejuve did she?”
“No, Daddy.”
“But she does—” Then he stopped, abruptly, and said no more.
I stared at my father curiously. He had the most severe face of any man I’d ever seen. His hair was jet black, but tired black, not young black. You could tell it was old hair. But now he looked – playful almost.
“She did what, Daddy?”
“Read the sequel,” Daddy told me, trying to hide his delight at the surprise in store for me. “And you’ll see what you’ll see.”
I was totally naked. I touched myself down there, and there were definitely hairs. I was eleven years old.
I threw myself off the cliff.
As I fell, I held my body straight. Arms ahead. Legs together. The air rushed past me. I could see the angry spume of the waterfall falling in parallel with me. The spray was thumping me all over, and I fought to keep my body from buckling and flailing.
I hit the lake with perfect form like an arrow plunging into a heart. And then my body shot through the water like, well, like a dolphin. The momentum propelled me deep and I kept my eyes open and I was shocked at how fast I was moving. I knew it was cold but I couldn’t feel the cold because of the SMACK of the impact. But I continued the arc of the dive and rose to the surface and broke water and gasped.
I trod water. The sun was hot on me. No one was there to witness my feat. No one could see that I was naked. No one could tell me off for risking my life in a foolish stunt. But it had worked. I had triumphed. It was a perfect “me” moment.
“You cooked this?” I asked.
“I cooked this.” Randall7 was grinning all over his face. He had freckles on his nose. I loved those freckles.
“Where did you learn to cook like this?” I asked.
I tasted another piece of steak. It was bloody inside – actually bloody! – and the meat was luscious and gorgeous. I put some potato dauphinoise on my spoon and sucked the cream off. The potatoes were firm, but soft inside. They tasted of earth and life. And the cream was like, well, like the richest cream I’d ever tasted.
“From a book,” Randall admitted.
“Which book?” I quizzed him.
“Cooking for Beginners. I found it under Science, Food, Gustatory Arts in the archive.”
“Nice one.”
“It took some hunting down.”
“You’re such a nerd, Randall,” I told him.
He beamed. That was the highest praise indeed, from one Rebusite to another.
Randall was thirteen years old. I was also thirteen years old. I had breasts now. I knew that for certain, because Randall kept looking at them.
“The first time I ever cooked,” I admitted, smiling at my own folly, “I burned toast.”
“How can you burn toast?” he scoffed.
“Easily.”
“What is toast?” Randall asked, shamelessly conceding his bluff.
“It’s bread. Basically. Heated up so it burns.”
“So it’s meant to be burned?”
“You had to be there. In context, it was really amusing.” I simulated the sound of eating hard black burned toast. CRUNCH CRUNCH CRUNCH.
Randall and I were friends for just a year. He was the only child my own age that I had ever met. His parents were dispossessed colonists who moved to Rebus when Randall was twelve, but hated it, then emigrated to who knows where8 when he was thirteen and a half. But let’s not spoil the memory.
“CRUNCH CRUNCH CRUNCH!” I said, crunchingly.
And Randall laughed.
And I laughed too.
“Taste this wine,” said Daxox.
It was a rich ruby wine. Even redder than the wine my father used to drink on Christmas Day. I took a sip.
“Wow.”
“Wow indeed,” said Daxox.
The taste filled my throat. Then it made my head expand. Galaxies collided. I felt drunk. My limbs were loose. I was, I realised, suddenly very randy.
“Is this strong?”
“Two sips and you’ll be wailing like a banshee,” Daxox informed me gravely, his eyes twinkling, his great frog face crinkled in amusement.
I took a second sip.
He was right!
You’ll have got the idea by now. My life was flashing before me, as I waited for the death machine to crush my brain to pulp.
But you’ll have noticed that I was only remembering the good bits. The best moments. And I was remembering them incredibly fast. A hundred memories possessed me in the space of, in objective time, moments.
You can do that, you see, with a brain chip, if you program it right. You need to organise the memories by category, and define the category as High Value Pleasure, and label each memory HVP when you save to chip. Then subvoc HVP and blink three times when the amber light appears in the right hand side of your visual frame. It’s possible of course to do the same with all the bad memories, but why would you?
“More more more!” I screamed, joyously.
“Isn’t it my turn now, to, you know?” said the guy – his name was Rodors, according to the visual cue on the top of my visual frame. But I didn’t remember him with my actual memory.
“More, you fucker!” I screamed. His head was between my legs. What can I say! I was on a roll. I didn’t let him off there for a long time. Twenty minutes or more at a rough count.
“Now,” I said, and he came away, and I helped him with his pintle. He slipped inside me and—
Oh yes. Oh yes! That was one of the best—
Oh! Yes! Yes! Yes!
Another good one, this.
I could see myself in the copulatory act via the hotel room mirror. There was a guy behind me, doing pleasurably intimate things involving much
treasured parts of our respective human anatomies, but I couldn’t actually see his face. The visual cue said CARL. Ah. I remembered Carl. A real hunk.
He reached a frenzy of in-and-out stuff, and I came. And I saw myself come. My face howled silently and went bright red. The orgasm was like, like – I don’t know what it was like. It was the best orgasm I’d ever had since – since – well, since the last one I just remembered.
“You like it like this?” said Daxox.
We were fucking in the dark.
“Anything, rather than see your godawful ugly face,” I said.
He laughed. And laughed. There was joy in Daxox’s laugh. I came as he was laughing. It was really sweet.
I was walking home. I was still drunk. The dawn crept up over the sky. The sky was seared with colour. Darkly scarlet bars were stamped across the blackness of night. It was an astonishing image. The moons were bright. It was cold. I was sober now. That was the night I realised I was in love with Daxox.
“How do I look?” Jimmi asked.
He was wearing a Kzaal-leather jacket and trousers and cowboots – you know, those old-style heeled boots with spurs, made of real cow. He looked ridiculous.
“You look great,” I told him.
Jimmi laughed. “Not too much?”
“Much too much!”
“I like much too much.”
“So do I.”
I hugged Jimmi.
“He’s going to love you, trust me,” I said. Jimmi had a date with a Laguid financier. It wasn’t business. Instead it was, Jimmi hoped, going to be the greatest passion of his life.
Jimmi’s face lit up with expectant joy.
—oh yes, so firm, that ridged and rippling torso—
—those powerful legs—
—his back was so powerful and I covered it in kisses, touching myself as—
—kissed his cheeks, and felt him drift drowsily—
“Will you kiss me?” said Cassady, and I did. Then—
“Put your hand there,” said Cassady, and I did.
“That was wonderful,” murmured Cassady. And it was.
“I love you,” said Cassady.
“I love you too,” I said, shocking myself.
And more, many more memories in that vein.
Beautiful men, and women. Great sex. Gorgeous Cassady. I’ve saved to chip every orgasm I ever had. I even have several subcategories of sexual encounter, catalogued by activity, theme and costume; but maybe I shouldn’t go too much into that.
But get this. A lot of my “good” memories are of clothes I have worn. Especially on Cúchulainn when I had money to spend, and attitude to express. Hundreds of pairs of favourites boots and shoes. Jackets I Have Loved. Cool scarves. Brightly Coloured Socks That I Just Love To Put On In The Morning. T-shirts with funny pictures on them.
How sad is that, huh?
For instance: my Dimari boots.9 Made of black Bandersnatch leather. Soft, softer than human skin.
I can smell the leather. I can hear the clack of the heels. I wore these boats with jeans usually. They are associated with the time when I was enforcing for Daxox. I killed a lot of people wearing these boots.
My favourite jacket. Sky blue, spacepilot style, with pockets and buckles galore. Not sexy, not really, but I loved it. I wore it with the Dimari boots.10
There was a gun holster built into the lining. My own personal design feature.
The black and silver Maraiz dress. High breasted, practical, but it made my waist slimmer than it really is. I had very large biceps, back then. This was less evident in my favourite Maraiz dress.
I never got to wear dresses when I lived on Rebus. I was a barmaid on Gullyfoyle, so I usually dressed to repel. And the women on Cúchulainn who wore sexy dresses tended to be whores. So generally, the idea of wearing GLAMOUROUS shit never appealed to me.
But I loved that one dress. It wasn’t glamorous. It was just me.
Eventually, however, my beloved Maraiz had to be binned, because after one failed assignment I got some icky blood stains on it, plus a bullet hole that couldn’t be mended. Fortunately, the bullet didn’t penetrate my armoured corset.
Yeah, that’s another story. Armoured lingerie. Usually in white.
Don’t go there.
There weren’t that many of them.
There really weren’t.
Happy memories I mean.
There was the time on Rebus when – no, but that reminds me of—
And that time when Daxox – but no, remember what Daxox did to you eventually – REMEMBER WHAT THAT FUCKER DID!
Lots of one night stands. My sexual memories are pretty impressive, I have to say. No shortage there. But I’d like – well—
I’d like baby memories. That would be nice. Baby’s first smile. Baby sucking my nipple. Baby – look, face it girl, you’ve never had a fucking baby! And therefore, duh, you can’t have any memories of what it was like!
Well actually I can. If I really wanted to. I just have to access Magog and sneak into the Personal Memories Backup of all the computer users on the planet, and down them.
But it would be wrong, wouldn’t it? To access the baby memories of other women and pretend they are my own? That would be sad. Too sad for words.
The trouble is, though, I don’t want to remember all the men I fucked. Or the people I killed. Or the great quantities of booze I drank. No, I want to remember having a child.
Before I die.
I have to admit it: I went a bit mad back there. Trapped in the old death machine.
But then, as you know, I got my reprieve. The neck-shackle came off me. The arm and leg restraints were unfastened. The DRs cuffed and hobbled me, and led me back down another corridor and into a small bleak impersonal interrogation room. Sitting at the desk was the old-looking man I’ve told you about, with the aforementioned big nose and old-fashioned eyeglasses. And I sat down and I stared into his eyes and he stared back. And then:
“So,” I said to Fraser. “Who the fuck are you?”
Chapter 5
Here’s the Deal
And Fraser stared back at me, calmly. He smelled of tobacco – tobacco! His eyes, I noted at this point, were blue.
“My name,” he said, “since you ask so verrra nicely, is Brigadier Fraser.”
And then he offered me a deal, as I’ve already told you. And I said, Yes, as I’ve already explained. And then I made what I hoped he’d consider a helpful suggestion:
“Release the handcuffs,” I said.
He peered at me a bit more. I don’t know why. I was sitting directly opposite him, I wasn’t exactly hard to spot.
“I dinny think say,” he said. Or some such shit.1 Mangling the English language with his archaic brogue.
“The hobbles then. Let me stretch my legs.”
“No.”
“Why not?”
Fraser smiled, faintly, as if a thought had occurred to him and he wanted to tickle it for a while. “If I did that then you could, bonny lassy, kill me very easily, with a headbutt or a punch or a kick to the head. I’ve read your file, you know,” Fraser pointed out mildly.
Bonny lassy? I checked my chip: it meant “beautiful girl.”
“Why would I kill you?!” I said, in tones of outrage.
“I’ve read your file,” he repeated, patiently.
“Just let me loose, pintlesucker, so I can rip your fucking eyes out,” I said, seductively.
He stared at me, reprovingly.
“Okay,” I conceded. “I’m out of line. Just kidding, okay? So what’s the deal? What do I have to do?”
Fraser frowned. He was going to eke this out with agonising slowness, I realised.
“We have a mission for you,” he said, slowly. “A vital mission, to protect freedom and democracy. In fact, strictly speaking, three missions. We feel you are ideally suited. But it’s dangerous. Verrra dangerous.”
Here we had it: the old suicide mission deal. I risk my life for them, they wipe the slate cl
ean.
“No sweat, you’ve got it,” I said. “But there’s one condition.”
“No conditions,” Fraser chided. “But if you survive, we wipe the slate clean.” Told you! “Five million scudos will be paid into your bank account. We’ll give you a new identity. You can make a fresh start.”
“There is,” I insisted, “one condition.”
“Name it.”
I named it.
“Out of the question,” said Fraser.
“Then kill me.”
He smiled. “Let me tell you first,” he said, “about the progress of the war.”
We were losing the war, Fraser told me, and the very soul and future of humanity were in dire peril. (Yeah, he did actually talk like that.)
All this I knew, kind of. But I have to admit, Fraser’s briefing came as something of a shock to my system.
I was aware of course that there was some seriously bad shit taking place out there. I read the news portals avidly. I knew that a number of colonist planets had committed acts of terrorism against the SNG Government, in protest at the restoration of freedom, democracy and human rights. And yes, of course I knew that – technically – we were at war with a number of these gang-run worlds.
But to be honest, I hadn’t really fathomed how bad things were. Nor had I truly grasped that our side – the ones who believe in liberty and democracy and such shit – were losing. This war, I now learned, was no minor skirmish; it was the second greatest human war of all time, next to the Last Battle. It was fucking HUGE.
For all my historical awareness, I hadn’t really understood all that. And I know I wasn’t alone in my ignorance. Most supposedly well informed citizens at this time were oblivious to the sheer scale and horror of the conflicts between the majority of the Clan worlds and the SNG, the democratic government that ran the humanverse from its base in Parliament Square on Planet Earth.
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