by JT Lawrence
There’s no evil in the dream tonight. Tonight it’s the biker woman who, in slow-motion, kisses his cheek and whispers something into his ear. Her vitality radiates off her. He wants to hold her, wants to climb inside her, would do anything to feel her vibrance against his lonely skin.
Then a miracle happens. She breaks out of the dream and is right there in his room with him. He can feel her hand on his face. How is this happening? He’s wanted this moment for …has it really been twelve years?
But something feels wrong. He ignores it at first, so desperate for the dream to be true, but the skin feels wrong. And the smell. It’s not nutmeg, like it should be, but yoghurt.
Zack flinches, his eyes click open, and he knows who it is before his eyes adjust. Of course it’s Bernard. It’s always Bernard. But she’s never woken him like this before, her toady palm on his cheek. Her too-white face is a sinister moon. He hears a gasp, realises it must have come from him. Zack scrambles backwards into his pillow, away from her.
“What do you want?” he asks. “What the ever-loving fuck do you want?”
He hates her. Hates every part of her, even the way she breathes. He wishes she would stop breathing. She doesn’t answer him.
He can’t do this anymore, can’t stand it one night longer. One way or another, this will stop tonight.
“Why do you do it?” Zack asks.
He’s surprised when she finally speaks. “What?”
“Why do you watch me sleep?”
“Isn’t it obvious?” Bernard asks.
Twelve years. Twelve years! Something about that makes Zack want to blow this place up, with Bernard in it. Without any warning, he’s reached his tipping point. Something is twisting inside him, coiling, ready to strike.
One Stage to go. Just one more Stage and you’ll be elevated. DON’T DO ANYTHING STUPID.
“It’s not obvious,” says Zack.
“Then I’ve done my job.”
“Is it over?” asks Zack. “Your job? Are you going somewhere?”
“You’re the one who’s going somewhere. It’s time.”
A warm breeze of hope.
“Do you mean … I’m being elevated?”
His heart lifts in his chest.
“Is that why you woke me? Are we going now?”
“You’re due to get your last Stage tomorrow night.”
Zack’s besieged by conflicting emotions. He covers his face with his hands.
Twelve years.
He should be feeling a clean hit of joy, shouldn’t he? Instead, his stomach is a cement mixer of longing and dread and something else he can’t identify.
“That’s good news. That’s really good news.” His voice is flat.
Bernard screws up her face. Her contempt is almost palpable; it’s like the room is crowded with her scorn.
“Good news?” she snarls. “Don’t you understand anything?”
“You’re upset that I’ll be gone,” says Zack. “You’ll have no one to harass.”
She snorts in disbelief. “Harass?”
“What would you call it? You’ve worn me down so much that I don’t even know who I am anymore.”
“Well, I’ll remind you who you are. You are Zachary Girdler. And you had better start acting like it, before it’s too late.”
Zack is taken aback. She’s never called him by his name before.
“What’s that … What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means you need to wake the fuck up.”
He’s never heard her swear before, either. Never seen her so riled up.
“Wake up!” she says, and he senses she wants to shake him, but holds herself back. “Remember why you exist.”
“I—”
“Do you really believe that Lewis was promoted? After what you saw?”
Lewis?
He has a vague recollection of the man.
Lewis? What is she talking about? What did he see?
“Lewis was elevated,” Zack says, as if hypnotised. The words don’t seem to come from him.
“What about Mulalo? Steven? Azwi? You think they’re all up there?” She skewers the air with her finger. “Playing fucking foosball?”
Suddenly it seems unlikely, but where else would they be? Out on parole?
“I thought you were smarter than that!” Bernard punches the bed.
“What do you mean?”
“You of all people should know the truth about this place.”
Bernard’s words echo in Zack’s head. Something is resonating through the smog that is his brain.
He knows. He knows. He knows. But why isn’t he seeing it? Because he’s been worn down by this place. Worn down, beaten down, dumbed down. They’ve drugged the memory out of him. Zack doesn’t know anything anymore. He gave up a long time ago. He lost the plan.
“On the first day here I saw the upstairs levels,” Zack says. “I saw the different floors. The VR room, the restaurant, the open-plan offices.”
“You saw what you wanted to see,” says Bernard. “Lewis saw a pool. Steven saw an ice cream shop. That initiation tour is a fucking hologram. Why do you think we didn’t get out of the elevator?”
As he hears it, he knows it’s true.
“But then where do the promoted men go?”
“You know the answer to that. You saw the body bags.”
“What?”
“Karōshi,” says Bernard.
“No,” Zack shakes his head. Thinks of the friends he’s lost.
“Karōshi,” she says again. “They monitor your declining health as you work yourself to death. And then, one day, the circle is complete.”
Zack sees the dragon tattoo clearly now. Ourobos. Lewis. The circle is complete.
Bernard is agitated. Her fingers keep flying up to her hard-gelled curls. “You want to know why I’m in here every night? Why I watch you sleep?”
Of course he does. He does and he doesn’t.
“I’m protecting you.”
“What?”
“Don’t you understand anything? I’ve been protecting you all along.”
Zack’s head is spinning. Bernard grabs his leg, forces him back into the moment.
“You need to focus,” she says. “We don’t have much time.”
“Focus on what?”
“On your end game.”
“I don’t know what that is anymore.”
“Think, Zack. Think. I don’t know the details. It’s up to you to remember them.”
Bernard places a band over his temple, and plugs the black lozenge XDrive into it. There’s a flicker of light in his head and hot sparks in his skull as his backed-up memories are restored. He remembers the cardboard cut-out trial, the Orb, the first of the zombie drugs. Other concepts come to him, too, but he doesn’t understand them yet.
“I’ve been able to access your cuff. Over the past forty-eight hours I’ve been weaning you off your SkyRest medication. You should be seeing things more clearly now.”
That’s why he had the dream. The reaching for the truth. Pictures, moments, names are coming to him, slowly at first. It’s as if his mind is opening up and is in danger of absorbing every starless concept around: the inverse of Pandora’s Box. The zombie spike is wearing off and exposing what he’s always known, deep down. It gains layers and scope and force and speed and he feels like it’s going to bowl him over and leave him for dead.
A lotus flower blooms in Zack’s head. “I need to get out of here.”
Bernard’s eyes glint. “I can help you.”
Part 3
Chapter 64
RedPepper Proxies
Ashram Ramanana
Panchagiri Hills, India, 2036
Marko’s done what he can to warn the Nancies about the V1R1S, and sent them his recommended shutdown procedure. He made it clear that it’s imperative to cut the power to the entire country, and the neighbouring countries, to stop it from spreading. If the contagion beats the shutdown they’ll have to use the Kill
Switch, and no one wants to resort to that; if it comes to that they may as well nuke the whole country. He doesn’t know yet if they’ve taken his advice.
Now Marko fistpumps as he finally finds the IPX of the person responsible for creating the V1R1S. He’s been working for fifteen hours solid. He’s been knee-deep in darkweb dungeons and redpepper proxies. He’s sweated through his scratchy roughcotton robe. There’s a plate of congealed dhal on his side-table. The swami urged him to eat, but he doesn’t have time. He hasn’t been able to get hold of Keke, and he has a terrible twisting feeling in his gut that is telling him she’s in real danger.
Marko’s longed-for epiphany finally arrives, and it’s nothing to do with sun salutations or silent retreats. It’s all about Keke.
He’s been such a fool. Once this disaster is over he’s going to kick himself like no man in history has ever kicked himself before. And then he’s going to rush back to South Africa and give every remaining second to Keke. Keke! Love of his life; fuel for his fire. What a damned fool stupid bastard he has been. What had he been thinking? He loves her like fire loves wood. If he is the bird then she is the join between his breast and wing. He was nothing before he met her and he’s nothing now. Keke is his creator. She makes him into the best version of himself. He’ll worship her the way she loves to be worshipped. The way she deserves to be worshipped. Gradually, with his tongue, in slow circles. Until she shouts out and squeezes him between her godly and glorious thighs. Marko feels himself get hard. He adjusts himself, and a notification pops up on screen.
The image of Keke fades slightly as he discovers the IPX.
“Come to Papa,” he whispers, squirming in his seat. When he licks his dry lips, his tongue comes away salty. He needs electrolytes. He needs hydration. He doesn’t care; he’s so close to the answer he can feel nipping at his fingertips.
“Yes, yes, yes.” It’s the right place. An unmistakable server signature. Now it’s as simple as finding out who it belongs to and shutting the motherfucker down. He sends a dummy NASP email to the address he finds. If the owner of the address opens it, it’ll escalate Marko’s privileges and he’ll be able to identify and destroy the Root. He automates a SMPR flash where the fucker’s identity and physical address will be broadcast to every South African with a mandible. He smacks the ‘send’ key and then stares at the screen, waiting. He’s going to catch the ratbastard who put Keke in danger if it’s the last thing he ever does.
Marko plays an invisible piano on the table top. He hums a made-up tune. He searches for his secret stash of nutnut cookies, and he waits.
He starts when there’s a knock on the door. Damn it, is he going to have to wrestle the swami to get out of yajna? But when he looks up there’s a young local boy holding out a white courier satchel to him. More kids hop on their bare feet and giggle from the doorway. They’re excited about something. Marko takes the bag and looks at the waybill, dated last week. He gives the kids all a cookie and tells them to scram.
It’s a drone delivery from Johannesburg, but the sender’s address is blank.
Chapter 65
Happy Hour
Fourways
Johannesburg, 2036
When Kate hears the annoying buzz of the Volanter again she feels like swatting it out of the toxic sky. She can’t stand the hovering, hovering, hovering. Can’t they just land or fly away? Anything but this supremely irritating humming giant mosquito that feels as if it’s inside her head. Then, as if by magic, it does start to descend, whipping up the red smoke and litter as it does so, and they both have to cover their eyes to prevent them being sandblasted.
It’s not a Special Task sunchopper. It’s a handsome metallic navy affair with a pinstriped belly and bling on the blades. It lands, and as the dust begins to settle, Seth steps out.
“How?” is all Kate can manage to say. Relief, certainly, and also perhaps the after-effects of the trauma of finding Keke bleeding—what she at first thought was dying—on the ground. She blinks away the tears.
“How?” The answer is not important. What is important is that Seth is here in a Volanter—a Volanter!—and she knows the Lipworth Foundation has a dronepad.
“She’s hurt!” Kate yells at Seth, who nods and tenderly picks up Keke and carries her to the aircraft, helps her up into the bucketseat, straps her in. Keke winces, then puts on the headset and clicks the ignition button. She switches off the smartpilot; she knows she has to fly it manually. The blades start whirring above them.
“You okay?” shouts Seth, and Keke nods. Gives them a thumbs-up. He leans into her, kisses her cheek, stays there a moment longer than expected.
“See you on the other side!” she shouts, and pulls the stick backwards. The Volanter begins to rise, and within seconds it’s humming high in the sky, then it’s gone.
Seth watches the sky.
They start walking towards SkyRest, two blocks away. Questions crowd Kate’s head.
“Mally?”
Seth’s lips turn down. “I didn’t find him.”
Her heart contracts. She can’t think about that now. Unknowingly, she’s stopped in her tracks.
“Come on.” Seth pulls her gently along. “One thing at a time.”
“Did you steal that Volanter?”
“I don’t like to use the word steal. It has negative connotations.”
“Who does it belong to?”
“I don’t know. Some billionaire? I found it at the golf course.”
“The golf course.”
Kate thought that golf had gone the way of cigarettes and swimming pools. She hasn’t even heard the word for over a decade.
“That AstroGolf place.”
“You stole a sunchopper from a billionaire at a fake golf course.”
“It was happy hour.”
Kate looks at her digital clock display.
“It’s 9AM.”
Seth shrugs. “Billionaires don’t care.”
Kate laughs. It feels good. How life can be so dire and so stupid all at once makes her feel slightly human again. She still has Keke’s blood on her knees.
“I pulled a giant piece of glass out of Keke’s back.”
Seth glances at her, perhaps to see if she’s joking.
“Forgive me if I find that difficult to believe.”
“I swear.”
“You can’t even look at a needle without passing out.”
“That’s not true. Not anymore.”
Having kids has toughened Kate. She’s dealt with smashed faces, broken bones, even … an image of Meadon flashes in on her vision. A dark night, the long ribbon scent of roses, Lumin’s swift hands, and a crunching sound she’ll never forget as long as she lives. No, she’s not going to think about that. Not now. She has to focus on getting Zack.
“What’s your plan?” asks Seth as they get to the SkyRest building.
“I don’t have one,” says Kate. “Don’t look at me like that.”
“You think we’ll just be able to walk right in and collect him? A serial killer. From the PLC with the highest security in South Africa.”
“When the situation is so impossible I tend to not overthink things.”
“Or not think at all.”
“Shut it. I’m in survival mode. I’m moving on instinct alone. It’s the best I can do.”
It’s always been like that between them. Seth for thinking, Kate for feeling. Maths and colour.
She’s tempted to add Just trust me, but Seth has a rule that you should never trust people who say that.
The receptionist at the entrance greets them with a wide smile. Kate’s auto-targeting adstream had delivered a few of SkyRest’s marketing messages to her while she was researching the funeral party.
Was it really just yesterday that they were eating those funeral cake samples?
SkyRest is the leading innovator in the urban death industry. The last ad she saw informed her that she could have the ashes printed into anything she likes: a flashdisk brimmed with downl
oaded memories; a decorative ceramic fruit bowl; a knock-off of a designer garden chair.
The guard cheerfully relieves them of their weapons.
“Welcome to SkyRest!” The receptionist points to her holotag. “I’m Gaelyn.” Despite the situation outside, her make-up is perfect, her forehead uncreased.
In fact, the whole place looks remarkably orderly, given the chaos on the streets. Maybe they’re even happy about the apocalypse. It is, after all, what they specialise in. More bodies to turn into soap and FongKong trinkets. Gaelyn doesn’t bat an eyelid at Kate’s dirty and blood-stained clothes.
“I’d like a tour of your products and services, please,” says Kate.
“Forgive me being so bold,” says Gaelyn. “But when you walked in, the system scanned your dynap codes.”
Kate flushes. “Is there a problem?”
“Not at all. I just wanted to offer you both my sincere condolences about your mother.”
“Thank you,” says Kate.
“Has she been ill long?”
“Not too long.”
Anne has stage four uterine cancer. It spread to her lymph nodes before she agreed to see a doctor, so although there are many different and effective cures for cancer, it’s too late for her. The disease has already ravaged her insides. Her senior smartwatch SOS suffer-score is a solid eight out of ten. Rather than languish in hospital, she’s chosen elective death. The living funeral is scheduled for next week, and the plan is for her to be surrounded by her loved ones, say goodbye, and take the pentobarbital.
“We hope that here at SkyRest you’ll come to understand a more positive experience when it comes to death. In ancient times it was regarded as a passage and celebrated accordingly. It’s only the modern western way that has shrouded it in fear. Soon your mother will no longer be suffering, and we’ll take care of the rest. I hope you take comfort in that.”
Gaelyn sticks a small green dot on each of them, then takes them past the front desk, past a watercooler, the door to the emergency fire stairwell, and through to the exhibition hall. The second she steps away from the reception desk, a carbon copy replaces her.
