And then we heard the guns. We were almost to the broken door, and I could see the plastic in the windows and holes appearing with little pt-pt-pt noises. A whizzing sound touched my ear and I looked over at the same moment that Rod cried out.
"Rod!" I said.
He was laughing as we burst through the door into the shadowy building. "Just kidding," he said. "I'm okay." He was laughing uncontrollably, and for a moment I was more scared of him than I was of the aliens.
They didn't come in behind us, though. They left us there. We were okay.
Weeks later Rod and the boys went out again, as they did every Wednesday. I didn't go because I was sick in bed, and all I could think about was Rod pretending to get shot before, and him laughing about it. To be honest, I think I got sick because I kept going but didn't laugh and play the game like Rod and Hal and Clay did.
That night, far too late, Rod came back looking hollow. Mom met him in the kitchen and they were talking quietly where I couldn't see. I listened. One of the twins, Hal, had stepped on a bad part of the Skull and broken through the particle board. He had fallen all the way to the bottom floor.
I couldn't remember then if Hal was the one who loved me, who had held my hand that day. All I could think about afterward was Rod and Mr. Voltaire and the next war.
###
When Jedd Cole is not writing stories, one can find him brooding over the pages of other worlds both real and imaginary (but mostly imaginary), usually accompanied by his wonderful wife. His stories have appeared or are forthcoming in Daily Science Fiction, Bewildering Stories, and Beyond Imagination, among several others. Find him, his work, and his creative writing blog at electricdidact.weebly.com.
Mayhem at Manville
Michael Andre-Driussi
1. Portrait of a Defective Agonizer
The shock came to Talon 99 when he could not recognize his own photograph on the telescreen.
Even in color, the image was a study in white and black: a humanoid with white hair, pasty complexion, black agonizer uniform. The figure held aloft the severed head of a human in one hand and the gore-smeared power saw in the other, his boot possessively resting upon the tattered corpse with all of its artistic wounds. Obviously it was an agonizer at Whitewall Arena, finishing up a batch of undesirables for the enthusiastic crowds.
Curious, Talon 99 found a reflective surface and looked into the makeshift mirror, hoping for an easy answer. Instead he was alarmed to see that same stranger gazing back at him with pasty face, bloodless lips, piercing dark eyes.
His human skin crawled as his robotic brain raced, trying to determine how he could have an identity problem. It was as if he had the catamite disease, yet that was impossible since he was always the skinner, never the skinned. Perhaps one of the memory skins in his collection was somehow tainted or diseased. He ran a diagnostic on all his purchased memories, each like a string on the harp of his emotions, the collection that made him more than machine, higher than human, each one granting him a wider range of passions, a stormier heart. But now he discovered one skin was diseased, somehow. It must be the source of the whore's sickness: amnesia.
He was split. In addition to the natural horror and revulsion at his altered state, he felt a strange hope. He was a new man, he was not Talon 99 anymore. This collection of second-hand memories he carried was suddenly repugnant to him. Perhaps this was all just an effect of the disease. Maybe once he had ejected the bad skin he would return to normal. He checked the metadata of the memory to trace which cat the bad skin had come from, and found it was Boy Vic, currently residing in a back street rental unit over in Cold Steel.
He turned and left the subterranean auditorium. As he climbed the stairs he heard something like rats in the walls. His psiorb detected a human, probably a borderline failure, his decaying mind mewling for the pleasure and power of a fresh skin. It was disgusting, another shambling wreckage of the hollow men: probably he would be picked up by the Grays within days, then shipped over to Whitewall. Walking trash.
"Could this be the solution?" he thought. "The guy wants a skin, I could give him this one I'm trying to get rid of, then I might tip off the Grays. They pick him up tonight, give him the test, and he's dead tomorrow. Weak link—if he doesn't fail the test, the solution is postponed. Weak link two—once he's rummaging in my collection, how to make sure he takes the right one? Solution unsatisfactory."
He emerged onto the surface of Manville at night, where he caught a taxi for a ride to another district. The city whirred by the window, a parade of men, robots, and the various combinations thereof. The robots came from the alien enclaves, sealed districts. The humans came in from outside, and the city seemed to break them faster than the outlands could breed them. Boys came to Manville from the rustbelts, the toxic swamplands, the chemical mirages. A few rose up through the power structure to serve the aliens, but most found their place bargaining among other humans, while many were simply ground up one way or another.
Pondering his changed self, he tried for a new name. Nothing came to mind.
#
2. Boy Vic on the Edge
"This will only take a minute," said the one Gray to Boy Vic as the other Gray closed the rental unit door.
"Yes, Mr. Wall," said Boy Vic, looking at the one by the door with some confusion.
"You haven't met him before," said Wall, his eyes like dry black pebbles. "This is my new assistant, Mauve. I'm teaching him the ropes. Mauve, this is Boy Vic, catamite class three, age twenty-one, but he looks younger with his small frame and those buck teeth."
"Pleased to meet you."
"Charmed."
"As you'll learn," said Wall, "there's more than one way to skin a cat."
"But all of them hurt," said Boy Vic.
"Ha, good one. You remember that?"
"Sure," said Boy Vic. "Is this the test already?"
"No, no," said Wall, but they all knew he was lying. "How's tricks? Any flush patrons lately?"
"Nah, just the usual."
"What's 'the usual'?" asked Mauve.
"Taxi drivers, bar owners, gamblers."
"Young men need it special," said Wall.
"I don't know," said Boy Vic. "The other day I saw an old guy I serviced before, long time gone, and he looked bad, like he needed it even more."
"Sounds kind of spiritual," said Wall, dryly. "Speaking of which, ever had a star-mad?"
Mauve shot Wall a puzzled look, but Wall held up a hand to halt him.
"Sure, a few at least. Subway drivers, too."
"Mentor, what is a 'star-mad'?"
"They worship us off-worlders as gods," said Wall. "There's a faction or three behind it, I imagine. But back to the subject—this billy is pretty used up. If he gets a patron tonight, that guy will be rummaging around in a junk drawer." The alien asked the human, "What's the best patron you've ever had, the highest ranking?"
"An agonizer, I guess."
"You don't remember?"
"I do."
"Back when you were fresh," said Wall, nodding. "What was his name?"
"I don't know. I never did."
"Do you know this man?" Wall handed him the yellowed clipping. Labeled "William Milhous Daguerreotype," it showed a blurry face taken from a security cam.
"No sir, I don't."
"Mentor, who is this man?"
Wall's eyes went wide with alarm, then squinted at Mauve with irritation.
"He's an enemy of the city-state, a faction agent."
"Which faction?"
"Who knows, there are six or nine of them."
"Local?" said Mauve.
"No, no," said Wall, "that's different. The rival city-state sends spies, too. Observe." He turned to Boy Vic and asked, "Do you ever think of women?"
"No. Never."
"Not even your mother?"
"I can't remember her."
"See," said Wall to Mauve, "young memories are worth the most, memor
ies of Manville are worth the least. The junk in the junk drawer." To Boy Vic he said, "I guess we're done here. Be seeing you—"
Mauve interrupted with, "Can I use the wiper?" His black eyes glittered.
"Well, I dunno," said Wall, taken aback. He thought for a moment, scratching his pointy gray chin, then shrugged. "Sure, why not? He might not pass next week anyway, and you need the practice."
Boy Vic saw a light that filled his vision, a warm, soothing thing that faded, leaving him stranded in a cold ratty room with paint peeling off the walls. He wondered where he was, then gave a little curse under his breath, recognizing the bookends of missing time. He stomped his foot in anger, but then tried to recall that lost sense of light, which seemed to have some shards of memory in it.
There was a soft tapping at the door. He opened it and found the escort he had hired before.
"Meter's running," said the robot.
"Yes, sorry—how long was it? Never mind, come in, come in." The escort entered. "Please sit down," said Boy Vic as he closed the door.
"Thank you," said the escort. He lowered himself into one of three tattered armchairs around the coffee table. "Now then, how may I serve you?"
"I'd like to whip you a bit, for starters."
"That sounds...fine. No metal ro—ds, I hope?"
"No, just a belt, a hairbrush, maybe a hanger."
"Very good sir."
"Assume the position," he said on his way to the bedroom.
Boy Vic's spirits lifted as he selected a leather belt. He felt it had been too long since he had splurged on an escort, and he was looking forward to the workout and release. There was an open packet of Marquises on the chest of drawers, so he took one out, lit it up, and drew the smoke deep into his lungs. He grabbed up a boot brush and hurried back to the front room, a spring in his step and a whistle on his lips.
The tune died abruptly: the escort had not moved from the chair.
"Hey," said Boy Vic. "Assume the position."
The robot did not respond.
"Oh, I see," said Boy Vic, his enthusiasm rising as the Marq's drug hit his system. "A smart one, eh? I'm getting angry. Very, very angry. Assume the position."
The escort was inert.
"Hey! Assume the position!"
He poked at the robot. It tilted over to lean drunkenly in the chair. Dead.
The disappointment and frustration made Boy Vic's throat thicken. He was all "Marqed to move," but had nowhere to go. What bad luck!
#
3. The Third Visitation
"Shave-and-a-haircut" went the knock at the door.
Startled, the young man opened the door to an agonizer, who said, "I'm glad I caught you at home. May I come in?" The agonizer observed the belt in the human's hand, then noticed the escort in the chair. "Or perhaps this is not a good time…"
The human sighed and gave a world-weary little laugh.
"No, come on in," he said. He bent over to stub out his cigarette in the ashtray on the coffee table. "There's no party here—he burned out before we could get started."
"Tough luck," said the guest, closing the door behind himself. "That must be rare."
"Yeah, I've never heard of it myself. So, what can I do for you—skin job?"
"Well, sort of. That is, I want to return a skin to you—"
"What? Hey, no refunds!"
"No, no, I'm not asking for money back, I just want to give the skin back to you."
"It's impossible."
"What do you mean? Just get out your emro, and we'll do a cross connection, transfer it right over."
"I don't have an emro."
"What? But—never mind. I noticed there's a grafter just down the alley—no, there's no time for an implant."
"What's the rush?"
"I start my shift soon."
"Well, huh, okay," said the human, sensing an angle and slowing down to better exploit it. "What I mean is, why the sudden need to try this new kink?"
"Solution unsatisfactory," said the robot. "Look, how about this—I'll pay you and then I'll try to use my emro to send instead of take."
"Gross. Is that even possible?"
"Worth a shot, and you'll be paid either way. Up front."
"No, no money. You see what I got here?" He gestured at the room. "How about you let me whip you first."
"That—that's crazy."
"Forty strokes, and then you get your kink."
"Why not just whip him?" asked the agonizer, thumb jabbing at the escort. "You could really make him bleed."
"Yeah, but if he's burned out, it's just like flogging a statue. Thirty."
"Don't make me mad. We could do this the hard way."
"You don't have time for that. Twenty."
The robot appraised the human's arms, and, finding them boyishly slender, said, "Fifteen."
"Seventeen."
"Done."
The agonizer unbuttoned his black shirt, exposing his near-albino white chest and the black bandeau that kept his emro folded against him like the striking arm of a praying mantis.
"Take it off," said the human.
The agonizer glared for a moment, then took off the support garment. His emro flopped out, a chest-mounted tentacle similar in size and function to a third arm.
"Assume the position."
"What do you mean?"
"Just…bend over. Look at the floor. No, wait--here, move over here, hold the back of the chair."
"All right. Get on with it."
The human lashed. The robot was silent, but its skin now had a red line. The human whipped again, and a third time. The robot grunted. The three lines were parallel. The human shifted and struck again, repeatedly, forming a crisscross pattern. Then, in a growing sense of power, he lashed again and again, laying down lines upon lines. The agonizer was quiet, but the human felt delight at the sight of the emro writhing at moments like a half-crushed worm.
"Enough," said the agonizer after the final stroke. "Now it's my turn. Assume the position." The tentacle was reaching for him. "This is going to be fast and hard."
The human had been skinned more times than he could remember, but this repulsive invasion was far worse than the service ever was. He vomited a torrent, a cascade that seemed more than his body could possibly contain.
…to burn the autumnal city. Time freeze breaks: alarm ringing for days, part of background noise, endless loop now silent, now past. Radio playing "White Christmas" for years in endless loop, now plays "On Broadway." Boy Vic felt the weight of his many years in Manville suddenly fall off, shrink down: he had only been in the city for nine or ten months.
A flash of blue-white light, a pillar going straight up. Stairways and alleyways where the needy hungry hollows are scrounging for a skin to get them through another day. Station to station, Cold Steel, Leatherhead, Whitewall, Overdrive.
Deep inside an animal fire burst into life, growing. He vomited a torrent, a cascade that seemed more than his body could possibly contain.
"Get out while you can," the human cried, water streaming from his eyes. "The city, leave it."
"Never again," said the agonizer on his way out.
The human was alone, shallow panting, trying to think. There was something aching inside him, a partial memory, like half a line. Was it home? It felt like home.
He had never felt so lonely, so bereft. Where was his missing half? He had to leave, go out into the night and find someone to talk to. Anyone.
He headed out toward a bar in Leatherhead.
#
4. Getting Through a Police Checkpoint
Boy Vic came up out of the subway station only to get stuck in a random police checkpoint, waiting in a line that seemed to go on forever. The guy in front of him wore a gray overcoat, could be anyone; the guy behind him was a little too intense, maybe an artist, but his clothes were rather severe. His lips were busy twitching slightly, as though he were nervous or mutterin
g to himself. Boy Vic turned away in disgust, thinking, "Great, a crazy." He heard the other say, "Rigel…mumble mumble…Sirius…mumble-mumble…" which made him shudder. "Even better, a star-mad."
The queue of civilians went through a gauntlet of cops, two lines of surly brutes in sky blue shirts. Lower faces like sandpaper, eyes like ferrets, most of them smoking Sharps like they were on a major stakeout or something. Just like cops to do that.
Boy Vic did not recognize the Gray doing the testing. After an age, the guy in front of him was up.
"Papers. Name."
"Red Rick."
"Occupation?"
"Bar owner."
"Mr. Red Rick, do you know this man?"
The alien flashed one of those typical clippings, but Boy Vic's heart suddenly stopped: he recognized the man in the photo now, but he had never recognized him in all the times before.
"No sir," said Red Rick, "I can't say that I do."
"I see. Are you catamite or catamount?"
"Oh, a bit of both. To maintain balance, you know."
"There's more than one way to skin a cat."
"And every one of them is right."
"Do you ever think of women?"
Boy Vic twitched: at the edge of his memory there was a woman, a secret woman. He racked his brain for clues, thinking, "She worked as a waiter, but where? At Whitewall Arena. She must be a spy, an enemy agent for the other city. Should I turn her in? But what if she is the missing half?"
"Well, I am now!" said Red Rick. "It's like saying 'pink elephant,' ain't it?"
"Please step aside Mr. Fred Dick."
"Wait, hey!"
The cops went for the man. Boy Vic fought the urge to bolt then and there, the situation seemed so bad, and some panic sense told him he might very well escape in the confusion. But after some quick truncheon work, the cops had their perp under control, and the Gray said, "Next."
Boy Vic swallowed hard, and stepped forward, papers out.
"Name."
"Boy Vic."
Bastion Science Fiction Magazine - Issue 8, November 2014 Page 7
