by RD Hale
'This better be cooked properly, Arturo. I don't wanna get Avarian flu. My face is far too pretty to be peeled off.' Mila demonstrates her concern by taking a big bite of chicken flesh.
'Hmmm-fmm-hm, haven't had meat in agessth. Tastessthoo much better when it's cooked.' Scoop mumbles with stuffed cheeks.
'Yeah, that processed crap you get in supermarkets just isn't the same - tasteless slices of rubber,' I reply.
'Going forward, Arturo will be able to buy us proper food like this all the time. Chickens, piglets, alligator babies… No more locust burgers for us!' Sylvie suggests.
'Aye, I suppose I can… On the condition you stop being annoying and do as you're told. You can start by referring to me as Mr Basilides,' I reply.
'Ignore him, Sylvie. Locust burgers are actually pretty healthy and if Arturo starts giving hand-outs, it'll just make him even more excruciating!' Mila butts in.
'Says her who's always dipping into my pocket! When was the last time you fed yourself, Mila?' I raise eyebrows as I await a reply which is not forthcoming. 'Eyelash fluttering is your sole survival skill.'
After several drunken hours with a full belly and the distinct sense we have gained a foothold in this inequitable system, I approach the compuscreen and type: Rail Gun. The search engine brings up a list of options offering various descriptions of the weapon. I select the Military.net site which takes me to an image of a gun similar to the one I was earlier shown. The description is as follows:
The first railgun was invented in 1918 by Henrietta Villeplier, but things have come on a long way since then. The railgun was once a cumbersome device which faced reliability problems due to the extreme heat produced when firing. The first handheld railgun went into military production in 2019 and all modern rail guns use strong metamaterials with tremendous heat resistant properties. Safety and reliability are a prime concern.
When the weapon is fired, conductive rails propel the projectile at 3.4 kilometres per second. The most advanced rail guns can tear through the silicene layers of an armoured tank. These weapons are far more powerful than hand held laser rifles, but have the obvious drawback of the soldier having to carry ammunition.
'That claim about safety is bollocks. I've seen one of them things randomly explode. Tore my mate's arm straight off. He nearly died from the blood loss.'
Unaware anyone was watching, I notice Turbo leaning over my shoulder. The AWOL soldier pulls up a stool and we check for further information at the end of the article. On the lower display of this single surface which curves into two perpendicular screens, there is a video link above the virtual keyboard for a demonstration of the weapon in action. The touchscreen does not respond to several finger presses so I highlight the link and click the mouse.
'Education time, guys. Come and take a look at this,' I yell.
The lads stop whinging about our depleted alcohol supply and drag lazy arses from grooves formed in cushions to watch a video of a young soldier with a brainless grin. Rifle in hand, he stands on a grassland before an ice-capped mountain range. His uniform ripples in a blustering wind and he has to shout to be heard.
'Today we are going to test the Kansdale 10.64MJ-EMRG. And to demonstrate the unrivalled power of this weapon, we are going to test it on one of those mammoths!' the soldier proudly announces.
The camera pans across the landscape to a herd of mammoths grazing in the distance. Burgundy fur shimmers below a clear sky as the huntsman lines up his gunsight to focus on a matriarch who is stroking the head of a youngster with her trunk. He savours the final moments of this improbably resurrected life with a long pause, then in a moment of gratuitous barbarity he pulls the trigger. A blue flash causes the magnificent beast to collapse pitifully; her head exploding as gore splatters the calf and her leaderless family run in wailing circles before stampeding.
'Whoa, deadly!' the encroaching lads shriek. 'Let's test one on a stray cat!'
The time at the bottom of the compuscreen reads 01:00 and my eyelids feel increasingly heavy with emotions drained by the intense action of these speculative days. Our limited alcohol intake and Dynah's reluctance to be a circus animal have caused the night to peeter out earlier than usual. Some of the girls have already gone to bed, stating: 'You lot are boring'.
I slump away to my mancave to catch up on much-needed sleep, but lasses gossip in the next bedroom as I laze in my sweatpit. Sylvie is telling Dynah about a boy she knows, probably the idiot who lives on the rooftops.
'And his friend is dead sarcastic but gets away with it because he's cute behind the scars. I think you'll like him. Last week he...'
I bury my head under the pillow to block out Sylvie's voice as she attempts to transform Dynah into a clone of her airhead self. This nonsensical waffle should be enough to send an insomniac to sleep but I struggle to doze off with the muffled nattering and the craziness of recent events spinning in my cerebrum.
So how exactly did Dynah escape? Her powers must have sent those evil scientists and helpless guards flying through the air. Amusing... I wonder how the guys who attacked us got so big, must be genetic mods but those things cost a fortune. So why were they in the woods? Maybe they were burying a dead body! How the hell did we manage to escape with those guns? The military are stupid, really stupid! Six thousand credits… Wow!
With a sleepy smile I drift into a lucid dream. Or maybe my previous experience was the dream because crystallised senses bring a glistening beauty to the chambers of my mind which are normally dark, dusty and filled with cobwebs.
I walk through an enchanted forest, accompanied by swirling sparks of energy as aurora dance amongst shooting stars. Branches sway, flower buds open on approach and trees whisper to my subconscious in an encrypted language, guiding my instincts to the source of danger above.
Rising into the sky, way past wispy clouds, I see Orbital City sitting at an angle against a galaxy of white dwarves and red giants, then I am within the confines of the station. Ape-like faces are unveiled by flickering red lights as hybrid soldiers rampage towards a phaser-wielding Turbo, but Dynah is providing backup with flames leaping from her fingers. Badly injured, I search to prevent a catastrophe, ignorant to my actual goal and the number seventeen flashes but I disregard the sign.
My search is ended by a devastating explosion and my spirit drifts from my body to watch my charred flesh writhing in fire. Suddenly I am down in the forest, peering through the canopy. Dark clouds block stars as a face materialises in the sky, bearing an alarming similarity to mine. Its booming voice says: 'Inevitability leads to destruction.'
A flash of fork lightning is followed by the cataclysmic roar of thunder like the heavens are being torn apart by the rage of ancient gods and senses are shattered by voltage surging through my trembling spine. Plunged into blackness I hear a high-pitched scream which refuses to relent until it becomes apparent I am no longer dreaming. These aching eyelids open and I somehow ascertain the scream is coming from Sylvie's mouth. The raw tone fills my veins with a dread which suggests inaction would be the safest option, but cowardice is quickly over-ruled.
Sitting up, I fling the quilt to the side and stumble through the passage in boxer shorts. An alarming commotion, like thrashing against a mattress, stimulates my adrenal gland so I clench my left fist in readiness to one-handedly destroy any intruder; kicking the door open to see Sylvie visibly shaken in the corner of the room. Her gaze is fixed on Dynah whose limbs are lashing the bed as two balls of light glow in place of eyeballs. Her limp body rises into the air, hovers for a moment, then crashes down and lies calmly but her eyes remain bright.
Luminosity spreads until every part of Dynah's golden flesh radiates and the light source rises like a departing soul. The aura dims to reveal a fiery bird which slowly flaps its wings, then swoops through straight the barred window and leaves a burn mark on glass.
'What the...?' Sylvie trails off into silence.
A pair of indistinct sleepwalkers are gawping from the doorway, having witnesse
d a breaking of the boundary between the scientific and the supernatural, but Dynah remains sound asleep. Obliged to confirm well-being but wary of further paranormal response I shake her arm; uncertain if she is even alive until she stirs and pulls the blanket up.
'I'm tired, I need sleep,' Dynah whispers, before drifting back off.
'There is no way I'm sleeping in here,' Sylvie states, heading downstairs with a stiffened gait. The normally unflinching Turbo follows with the sudden paleness of his face noticeable even in the dimness. Bex can barely put one foot in front of the other as she trawls away and I am astonished nobody else has responded to the turmoil. Leaning against the wall I slide to the floorboards where I sit in disbelief, unable to leave the presence of this frightening force. Maybe we have torn off more than we can swallow this time.
San Terian Propaganda
A week passes without the jeep's contents being acknowledged, although the seriousness of Turbo's tone has left no doubt in their inquisitive minds. One morning the gang are filled with jumping beans, despite being up half the night hearing about the notorious Battle of Kalavera because Turbo let slip we have a big day.
I escape the clamour to shave patchy stubble with a rusty razor and dry my nicked skin, leaving red spots on the towel. After lazing on my mattress for a short while to enjoy some solitude, I trot downstairs to see transfixed mugs playing an online game called Samarian Soldier. Scoop has a bead of sweat trickling between boils on his forehead as he yells: 'Five kill streak and counting. I'm gonna beat you, nerd!'
'Well, you've got less than sixty seconds.'
'Sthdop distracting me, Arturo.' Scoop sticks his tongue out as his computerized avatar crawls through grass to line up a meticulously stalked victim in the sight of his sniper rifle. The window of an enemy compound shatters as a photorealistic soldier collapses with blood gushing from a neck wound and the words: Kill Confirmed appear. 'Only two killssth behind.'
'Check the time, it's eleven fifty nine,' I advise.
With inspiration likely drawn from our AWOL guest, Scoop switches to submachine gun and sprints in full panic mode, but fails to locate a target in time. 'Damn!' he yells out in frustration as Oscar jubilantly raises his controller, following yet another victory over his virtual nemesis.
'I would've definitely beaten you, I wanna rematch after this moment of lightament. We need Bailey to install an over-ride chip, I'm ssthick of our games being spoilt.'
The videogame has been cut short by a daily sermon which disrupts online activity for San Teria to preach to the masses. Elder Melchezediek grips a serpentine staff with emerald eyes as she prepares to address the world. The top of her golden throne forms an infinity symbol, highlighting the fact she is beyond Level One and she wears typically modest regalia: a red robe and tall hat adorned with gold trim. Apparently she is approaching ninety years old, but her face has not so much as a wrinkle.
'If she's so quick to preach about paradise, why isn't she in such a hurry to go there?' I mutter.
'Today we are going to discuss homosexuality,' Elder Melchezediek says in her usual cold, harsh tone. 'Homosexuality is wrong on many levels, it is a deviation from our physiological design. The goddess created woman and man for a reason…
Nobody can justify the right to homosexuality, but if two adults consent what harm are they doing? The problem is two consenting adults could also rape and murder someone. I am not saying the act is a monstrous crime, just as I would not say stealing one credit is, but no-one is advocating the legalisation of stealing of one credit.
Many homosexuals were abused when they were young. They do not want you to know abuse victims are more likely to become paedophiles. We also know many have psychological problems because of their troubled pasts. They are promiscuous by their nature, they do not believe in fidelity nor love.
Scientists have studied the human genome for six decades and have yet to discover a single gay gene. This proves it is a psychological abnormality. Homosexuals are three times as likely to participate in the use of narcotics and five times as likely to carry an infectious disease.
It is important to understand the risk they run, for the Orientis states: Any person who refuses to forsake immorality will not inherit the Kingdom of Heaven.
We understand the underlord's influence can be hard to resist. I would like to take this opportunity to reach out to all homosexuals. Our prayers are with you and so long as you are willing to repent, we are willing to help. If you speak to your doctor you can participate in a rehabilitation course for only two thousand credits to help rid you of your demons. San Teria has love for all Citizens of Anatolia, even homosexuals and we need to step up our efforts to rid society of this illness.
It has been decided to make it illegal for a doctor to treat any homosexual who has contracted a sexually transmitted illness, unless that person first places themselves onto a rehabilitation programme or alternatively pays to have themselves chemically castrated. This may seem harsh, however many homosexuals are refusing our kind offers of help and we feel this measure is necessary for the sake of society.'
'Better book yourself into rehabilitation, Oscar!' I yell, prompting the bag of skin and bones to shoot upright and his reddened face contorts in defiance but lack of confidence means he has never moved beyond leering at girls and is therefore the regular butt of our not-at-all immature gay jokes, which never get old.
'F-fuck off, I'm not gay. That Elder Mekkel... deze... diek or whatever you call her, she's an idiot,' Oscar replies.
'Aye, I know mate. What business is it of the goddess's where you stick your cock!?' I ask to a roar of laughter from the boys.
'Well, I think there's nothing wrong with being gay, Oscar,' Mila butts in.
'Get lost, I'm not gay!'
'I'm only joking, Oscar... but I like the way she contradicted herself, saying it's not a monstrous crime and then saying you'll go to hell. She can't make her mind up. Actually she didn't give one legitimate reason why it is wrong,' Mila says.
'And this is one of the women who leads us,' I reply.
Money Money Money
'Lads, it's time to don your finest attire to meet the boss at Underworld,' Turbo yells like we have anything other than sweat-stained casual wear to choose from.
With a payday-boosted mood and an outfit that screams Lowlife, I grab a red apple for breakfast and join my accomplices in the jeep. We set off to complete our arms dealing contract, heading off-road to breach a gap in a wire-mesh fence. Juddering along a disused railway line, we enter a network of tunnels and pass by a pair of inhabited stations, reaching a renovated platform where dripping red paint spells out: Deva over an old sign, followed by the word: Station.
Squeezing the jeep up a ramp, we park on a platform next to a dozen motorbikes and two vans, one with its bonnet open. Guncrates strain our arms as we carry them into the greasy town of steel rods and corrugated iron shacks which house ex-cons. Former shops built into walls have become lairs to the most dominant of these monsters. Stalls bear cluttered shelves and open cabinets are filled with tools and engine parts. A mechanic lying on his back takes a wrench to an old motorbike engine. Heavy metal music growls in the background and there are literally thousands of candles. True to name, DevaStation bears resemblance to a chamber of hell.
'Consider this the capital of Underworld. Home to five hundred of the meanest bastards unknown to woman,' Turbo says.
We venture across the repurposed platform with sinister faces staring miserably as we pass them by, as if our presence is interrupting their illicit routine. Every ounce of humanity seems to have been torn from the flesh of these brutes who escaped from prison only to go down in the world.
We reach a crowded area between two platforms where wrinkled skins turn shades of purple as a pair of middle-aged ruffians appear thirsty for violence. 'You still haven't paid for the retinal implants. I'll tear them out with my own fingers if I don't get my money!' Gears and chains rattle as a fist bashes on a worktable.
&
nbsp; Minding our own business we climb non-functioning escalators and follow a semi-circular corridor lined with reinforced doors and blacked out windows. At the far end an expansive area emerges, which according to the sign was once known as: Westgate Mall. Averting the gaze of an eye-patch wearing man, I admire a devil head painted on the wall, seemingly in blood. Another broken escalator leads to the upper level of the mall and we arrive at a barred window bearing a skull and crossbones. Turbo pounds on the reinforced door but does not get an answer.
'Hellooo!' Turbo pounds his fist again. 'Get off yer arse, old man!'
'Come in!' a voice booms as the lock of the hideout clicks open and we enter a workshop containing benches covered in wires and circuit boards. An iron hook hangs from the ceiling, a circular saw sits amongst hundreds of pieces of wood and metal and in the midst of this carnage is a delightful hologram of a topless woman dancing.
The door swings shut of its own accord and the lock clicks. 'I'm in the back!' the voice booms and we zigzag through cluttered tables, entering a furnished room where a huddled figure clasps a screwdriver in his metallic hand.
'Hello Turbo,' the man mutters, fiddling with a plug socket and his turning head reveals a gold tooth and an air of familiarity. Then a weird coincidence dawns - this is the imposing brute we passed on our journey to the Medicentre.
'One of the nation's most wanted, yet so trusting. Fancy revealing your stash to a pair of thieving little shits!'
'If they're with you, Turbo, I do trust them. And it's not like a thief would have a chance in hell of making it past the lockdown system, gun turrets, security droids and armed freaks!' Jardine removes the plug socket to expose a hidden safe and he rotates the dial. 'Sit down, men, I'll be sorted in a second.'
