Transmatic

by Chris Kelso

  Ellis took another draft of his beer. Pushkin was a bulky man with hair combed back with too much lacquer. He looked important, successful.

  - Oi, I swear, if I read one more longwinded description of a fuckin’ zombie eating a delectable human brain, I’ll scream.

  - Aye?

  - I.WILL.FUCKING.SCREAM.

  - Fair enough.

  - Anyhoo, not to be a fickle Freddy, I made the most of this situation. Hey, what else could I do? So I set up my business and put a sign that says OPEN outside the door. I watch the undead idiots pour in, fucking POUR in! I didn’t say that what I do isn’t lucrative, just dull.

  - Everyone has to make a dollar I suppose.

  - For one reason or another I was not turned into a starving abomination by the Slave State virus - more bizarre even than that is the damn zombies won’t touch me either (any cracks about my brain not being plentiful enough, well, just save it! I left my sense of humour back in Wire City with my ex-wife and her condo). This one slobbering moron comes to me and groans something about editing and publishing his piece-of-shit bio. He drops a sports bag full of crisp green notes onto my desk. He says it’s mine, just clean up his manuscript and get him a publisher. He says this book just HAS to get out there. I ask him who he is and he grins a toothless, rotted grin. He says Baroness Un wants his book published by the best in the business. I was flattered and confused. You see, the baroness had died about a month before. I tell the zombie fuck-head this and he shuffles closer. He says that Un ain’t dead at all, that he faked his death after an assassination attempt.

  - Who’s Un?

  - Christ, that’s too long to explain man, just try and keep up…

  - Ok.

  - Back when I owned Subterfuge I was a real highflyer.

  - You’ve certainly got the threads Mr Pushkin.

  - People wonder why I stay in Shell when I could get out there and work on some credible books.

  - Well why don’t you?

  Pushkin gave Ellis a look that suggested the answer was patently obvious.

  - Oh aye, no-one can leave. Shit…

  - I tell those people that the parched hills of Shell County are where the real work is. Artistic integrity means jack shit to me. I think baroness Un knew this.

  Ellis stood up from his stool and finished the last of his beer. He put one hand on Pushkin’s shoulder and thanked him. Pushkin put his head back in his arms as if to go back to sleep.

  EIGHT

  HE WAS A CRAPULOUS OLD MAN, the doctor. He often drubbed neighbourhood children with his cane. The old man’s hard-on poked out in the playground. His hair wasn’t grey yet, nor was it the buttery blonde colour from his youth. He was a perpetrator of arcane systems, from the native quarter of some sunken, exotic city…

  - Yawning lets the good energy out… - he’d tell students in his classes who were noticeably bored.

  Dr Chopin surveyed a cadaver. The cadaver was some poor tortured soul with a face frozen in heartbreak, one Mike Ryko. Chopin got a pair of chest separators and parts the sternum.

  - Take a look inside…

  The class peered round in a circle into the bloody bunghole.

  - We see the heart is stressed and hollow, like a burst balloon. The ventricles have ruptured and the entire atrium has gone a bruised blue colour…anyone care to offer a diagnostic?

  - Broken heart sir, you can tell by the gradual decay in the bicuspid. There are some signs of hypoxemia, the heart looks choked of oxygen – suggested one student with scolded skin and a shaggy hair full of rats.

  - Excellent. And do we know how he got here?

  - His heart broke the moment he realised the familiar world around him was counterfeited.

  - Good, and how do we know that?

  - Distended jugular vein?

  - Cardiogenic shock and apical ballooning in the takotsubo ventricle.

  Chopin nodded with a pleased loom on his face.

  - Yes, yes…anything else?

  - Because he’s black?

  - NOOO! – Chopin cracked his cane over the idiot intern’s skull.

  - Not only does that make no sense, it violates the sense of etiquette any decent practitioner abides by. Realisation causes wraparound LAD, but look at his face. What’s unique about his expression?

  The interns studied the Ryko’s agonised features closely.

  - Anyone?

  A series of blank faces stared back at him desperately.

  - Neuralgia anyone? Realisation causes trigeminal neuralgia!

  Most of the interns made an OOOOHHHH!!! Sound while a small group of the more serious students slapped their foreheads and cursed under their breath.

  - Realisation of the Slave State causes the blood vessels in the face to inflate and press against the root nerve, obvious stuff class!

  - There’s also signs of a stress induced tumour, this is a sign that he might’ve been transmatic… - one intern pointed to a bulge at Ryko’s temple.

  Chopin raised his cane above his head ready to thrash the little know-it-all sonofabitch.

  ****

  Ellis hadn’t masturbated once since he got to the Slave State. It previously bothered him that he hadn’t been laid at all since arriving in San Francisco, now he felt like a neutered dog. The tightening colour around his neck was as castrating and emasculating as his chemical sterilisation…

  From the ledge of a Shell County flop-house, he gazed out at the filthy, vanishing city and wondered what Sur was doing. Was he casually stalking his next hit? Or had it all gotten too much for him? Ellis imagined he might be writing songs on an acoustic guitar and taking part in peace rallies, the work of a hired killer didn’t entirely suit Sur’s image. He should have been lying on a tarp while naked hippie chicks braided his long tresses and fed him tokes from a ginormous spliff. Ellis hoped he was at least happy.

  Everything in Shell seemed to emit plumes of vapour, of smog, the essence of life trying to escape through vents and pipes and the breath of fetid walking corpses. Ellis shared a room with a woman. He’d been there for over an hour before he decided to stop gazing forlornly out the window actually speaks to her. He asked her who she was and what her story was.

  She said her name was Isabella. She was an actress. She was very beautiful.

  - I came here with an old love of mine; or rather I was banished here alongside him.

  Isabella explained that she’d fallen in love with a director and that they’d both initially been exiled to a place called the Zinc Theatre after his movie failed miserably at the box office. She tried explaining what the Zinc Theatre was but Ellis was too fried, too swollen with barely digestible new information that there simply wasn’t room for any more – and that was fine, because meeting Isabella was the first positive thing that’s happened since Ignius had been sucked into that trap with the silverfish.

  - It was my own self-sabotage that saw me on that path to chaos. I remember a William Burroughs quote that reminds me of my own efforts of self-sabotage, “Every man (or in this case, woman) has inside them a parasitic being who is acting not at all to his (or her) advantage. Why do you spill things? Why do you drop something? You have the equipment there not to drop something. Why isn’t that capacity used? Something is preventing it. And you come down t some sort of basic dualism. There isn’t one person out there, but two. Acting against each other.”

  - You read that as if it were Shakespeare.

  - It’s better…

  - What ever happened to you boyfriend the director?

  - He lost control of the situation, as I knew he would in the end. He became a hopeless drug addict. We eventually made it out of the Zinc Theatre district. The director was murdered in cold blood by his producer and writer. I was almost molested and killed by his main actor in the movie, another troubled wad of protoplasm called Stanley. It was a terrible mess.

  Isabella explained that the director had a drug habit that could not be quenched. Ellis had never been addicted to anything, he told h
er this (although he wasn’t sure why), perhaps violence at one point in his life, but not now.

  - Do you know someone called Mike Ryko? I was hoping to bump into him…

  - I get the feeling that Mike Ryko was Transmatic?

  - Well, no one is really 100% on that, but I believe he was.

  - He was…

  - Then you know him?

  - All transmatic vessels are aware of those with the same gift.

  - So you’re transmatic as well?

  - I’ve always been aware of something, extrasensory within myself, but have a very muted version of it. Years of physical abuse and a familiarity with serfdom have dulled all my unique perceptions. I’m actually grateful for that. I’m still able to identify others of similar ability though…

  - Do you know where Mike might be?

  Isabella closed her eyes and shook her head sadly. Ellis knew what this meant.

  - The truth Ignius, is that people who are transmatic can see through the fabric of the slave states parameters. This is a very dangerous and threatening gift to possess. Most people who do not collapse internally when they cross realms are lobotomised and killed. Mike never stood a chance.

  - I see…

  - I’m sorry. I get the feeling he was a significant person in the universe. His powers could have changed things for us, or at least led a successful uprising.

  - I know he would’ve.

  - Were you close?

  - Not really, but in a way, he was the person closest to me. Well, Mike and Sur anyway. Do you miss the life outside this fucked up zone of hell?

  - Honestly?

  Ellis nodded.

  - This place isn’t any better than where I originally came from.

  - Me either – agreed Ellis before adding - I can think of worse places to be…

  NINE

  UN SAT DOWN AT THE TRESTLE TABLE and shuffled his data papers. Moog wriggled into the high chair opposite, waiting. When he saw his superior was comfortable and a suitable amount of time had passed, Un began to read.

  - He’s a Negro.

  - Yes and what else?

  - He was born into serfdom, grew up in the pits. He also worked in a civil service job in Abbeville County, South Carolina, USA, a police sheriff.

  - And he is settled?

  - He’s pretty drugged up at the moment. We won’t know how distressed he’s going to be when he regains lucidity, never mind have any indication if he’ll willingly mate on request.

  Orb scoffed indignantly at the notion.

  - Well if he doesn’t mate he’ll be euthanized.

  - Yes sir.

  - Tell him this.

  - Of course sir.

  - Anything else? No transferable venereal diseases I should know about? These insects scuttling around on Earth soil are notoriously afflicted when we bring them in for testing.

  - No sir he’s clean.

  - Good.

  - In fact, you might say we’ve done him a favour bringing him out of his own environmental context.

  - How so?

  - The white demographic have heavily chastised him. It’s why he became a police officer, although he doesn’t command the respect you might think.

  - Well then, see if he’s awake.

  ****

  Un peered through the bar-beams of helium-neon. The naked specimen was curled up in a ball in the hay.

  - Are you awake? – Un asked, quietly at first.

  The Earthling stirred restlessly, then upon realising Un’s presence outside his cell, scrambled to his feet.

  - We have no intention of hurting you Negro…

  - What did you just call me?

  - Negro?

  - You sonofabitch, what are you? What’d you want? – The Earthling’s anger dissipated when he became aware of his nakedness. He clutched at his genitals, shielding them from view.

  - We ask only one simple thing of you. Failure to comply with this request will result in extermination.

  The Earthling’s throat seized up.

  - What do you want me to do?

  - There is another human, a female in another cell – a Norwegian with pallid skin. You will mate with her.

  The Earthling stood naked in quiescence, his face fast becoming contorted by inner conflict.

  - I can’t… - he eventually choked out.

  - You must, or you’ll be murdered.

  - I…already have a partner…

  Un stood a moment, scrutinising whether the human was being serious or indulging in sarcasm. When he saw the severity in his dark stare, Un knew him serious.

  - Monogamy? Does such inclination still exist? You have stratospheric divorce rate on your planet. Unions which last are often sexless and absent of passion.

  - Not always…

  - Yes always! Here, on this planet, Ortega, we live in a much less sexually possessive culture and it has brought us nothing but happiness. Lifelong coupling is draconian, archaic, pointless. We live in egalitarian and peaceful groups and have consistently high rates of sexual interaction, as evidence of our natural inclinations, love without limits.

  - No.

  - Why do you glory in the ideal of monogamy, especially when your life is at risk?

  - I choose to glory in monogamy.

  - You are denying your own nature, I should know, I’ve spent my entire life studying and probing your species!

  - Human brains are wired for social group interaction.

  - And what of it?

  - We crave the intimate synchrony of emotions. What do your people do for comfort and security?

  The earthling looked at Un. He was a pink protoplasmic blob of tapioca pudding, an amoeba with advanced sentience, and now he looked stumped.

  - Listen Negro, the female awaits you. She is comely, do not refuse…

  - You don’t understand. I can’t mate with a woman.

  - And why not?

  - Because…that would be against my nature. The Slave state hasn’t distorted who I really am.

  Un motioned backwards in horror.

  - A homosexual? – The alien blob uttered, accusingly. The Earthling did not respond, only sat back down in a hill of hay.

  - On this planet, homosexuality is as detrimental to our existence as a nuclear holocaust.

  - You’d think that were the case on Earth also…

  - Any variation on the sexual function which deviates from procreation is flawed. You must mate with the girl!

  - Why do I have to do it?

  - Because, despite what you may think, we are not trying to hurt you, we are trying to save you!

  Un looked at the nude human. His skin was iridescent under the gaze of Ortega’s twin moonlets.

  What a waste – Un thought, for this specimen to shun his calling. He would make many beautiful, intellectually gifted offspring, enough to save and re-populate the desolate ruins of Earth. Perhaps were he made aware of the situation, he might be more willing to cooperate.

  Un gulped and his transparent membrane changed colour with shame.

  - Your planet has been destroyed by radon gases.

  - What?

  - These gases came from our planet. Following our attempts to mitigate the harmful chemicals radiating from our mine enclaves, we unintentionally deflected a large portion into your planet’s atmosphere. It was an accident.

  - You bastards…

  Un became a wobbling canvas of guilt.

  - We are seeking to remedy our error. At Ortega we have sought permission from the Galactic Council to spearhead Earth reparation. The Slave State is run by us now. Our planet has been so ensconced by Earth’s demise and its consequences that we have dedicated our lives to helping mend the mistake we created. We are taking responsibility.

  The Earthling felt tightness in his chest. He thought about his partner and the crushing comprehension that he had been, by the law of averages, decimated by the radioactive onslaught along with the majority.

  - We were all killed?

  - Ther
e were others on Earth, a clutch of survivors dotted throughout the continents, but the pollutants have left all but two men completely infertile. You are one of those men. You see now that you must do as we say.

  - Use the other guy.

  - He is currently in stasis. His genes are weak, his intelligence low. Dan Smear is not someone we want to resort to. Using subjective measures and circular reasoning one might deduce that your homosexuality merely veils your latent heterosexuality. Your negative experiences with women have manifested…

  - Let me stop you there, I have had a wonderful relationship with women.

  - Do you want your species to die forever?

  Un became angry by what he perceived as irrational intractability.

  - Better your species die than you insert your seamen into a female?

  The Earthling considered this; his sexuality did not define him. This was surely a matter which transcended both his pride and sense of self, therefor it was passable that he put such facets of himself to the darkest crook of his mind, if only for that singular act. The Earthling felt himself about to agree to the Ortega people’s demands.

  ****

  He was led at gunpoint to the cell containing the Norwegian woman. He caught a glimpse of her on his way in; even he could not deny her intrinsic beauty. They would indeed make attractive children. A gelatinous Ortegian guard pushed a button on a control panel and the bar-beams ceased to imprison. The man was nudged forward, lunging forth in the girl’s direction. He landed on his knees. She smiled faintly, sensing something reluctant about the man chosen to impregnate her. The guard backed away from the Earth creatures and hit the switch to bring the bars up once again.

  - I am Asta – said the girl in broken English.

  - I’m Samuel.

  The girl glanced at Samuel’s breechcloth. She was evidently attracted to him and could not contain her delight that he had been selected. Asta loved black men. Noticing the joy and excitement dancing across her face, Samuel leaned in as if to whisper, cupping his hand over the girl’s ear before revealing - I must confess something to you Asta. I have never been attracted to a woman, not since my own mother. This is going to be difficult for me.