by Andy Remic
Mission dived forward over the barricade and I followed. Our guns screamed hot bullets, metal and cold death, and many CIVs screamed and they were ripped open and apart and asunder in bloodfukk showers.
Mission leapt into the breach and his gun punched the gunners from their feet, spraying the walls with blood and organ tissue and Mission did not see the giant man behind him armed with TT12s and the wires lashed out and I was there, my SMKK pumping bullet after bullet into the man’s chest and finally he fell and released the TT12s and Mission got the narrow killing wire from around his throat, all covered in blood, his face all crazy and frothing... he hadn’t thanked me but I had saved his life and he had saved my life and thanks were not needed, thanks were imbued in our very existence for we had total reliance on one another during Entropy and that was merely the way it was because we were WarBruvs.
We took more blockades, working our way up and eventually we managed to kill all the CIVs and regain the weapons and me and Mission threw the bodies from the upper windows of the CubeScraper onto the spare ground below where they were torched and destroyed to alleviate risk of dreg disease.
We sat smoking, later. Back in our miserable damp cold dugout. Mission was lying on his damp bunk, his boots against the wood wall, and he said, ‘Do you ever grieve in the darkness? Do you ever feel sorry for the lives you take?’
I shook my head in the gloom.
‘Once I might have cried, but these mech eyes cannot produce tears. I fear the world is mad. Once I would have grieved. Once I would have felt sorrow. But these are harsh times, Mission, and death is a harsh reality.’
*
I awoke. ‘Death is a harsh reality,’ I whispered, remembering saying those words, remembering the evening as if it had been yesterday – but even as wakefulness came so the colours faded from my dream leaving merely shades of grey and a painful grasping of coloured strands which shattered like illusions and left one desperate for more. But the colours could only be remembered with mandrake injecto. And my mandrake was all gone and used. Hell.
Confused, because there was still darkness outside, I reached across and turned on the light and wondered what had woken me. The light refused to function, and groping I found it had gone.
I rolled out of bed and crossed, switching on the main beam; my table lamp was on the floor, the cord having been tugged by Emmy. The bulb was smashed.
A movement caught the corner of my mechanical vision, and I whirled – saw Emmy near the corner of the room and I wondered what the damn cat was doing.
I moved closer, and saw she had a mouse cornered, an errant squeak echoed, and Emmy batted the mouse with a sharp–clawed paw and the mouse struggled to get away, was tossed through the air and then pounced on.
I watched, fascinated.
The mouse tried over and over again to escape, but Emmy was merciless, tireless, enthralled by this Game of Death. I, also, was enthralled and I watched Emmy torment the mouse and I knew that a pep would have felt compassion for the mouse because it showed bravery and a determination to live, to escape; it tried to get past Emmy time after time after time but then I was not a pep, I was a SIM who had fought in the Entropy War and I watched the cat, watched as she finally made the killing strike and the mouse stopped twitching and just lay bent and broken under Emmy’s claws.
Emmy realised I was watching then and turned to me, the limp corpse in her jaws and I laughed out loud, laughed long and loud and watched her ears prick up at the sound of my laughter.
Emmy suddenly ran, dropping the corpse and disappearing into the darkened apartment. I moved to the mouse, picked it up, examined the battered, blood–stained little creature. It was dead. It would torment me no more. It would infest me and my apartment no more.
I dropped the mouse into the waste and went into the kitchen; Emmy was washing herself and stopped and looked up as I entered.
She miaowed.
I opened the fridge and got out a carton of milk. Ripping it open, I poured some into a plastic bowl and placed this on the floor.
‘Drink?’ I said.
Emmy looked for a minute, as if puzzled by my action, then crossed and sniffed the offering; she dipped her snout into the milk and with delicate little laps took her fulfilment from the liquid.
‘That is a reward,’ I said. ‘A thank you.’
I watched her drink, admired her grace once more and realised that we were so, so alike. Both killers. Both operating without mercy. Both... friendless.
‘Maybe we can be friends, Emmy? Friends?’ Emmy continued to drink. ‘Maybe one day,’ I said softly, and switching off the light I returned to bed and plunged the room into darkness and crept under the covers so that I could return to my troubled dreams.
I hated dreaming about my mother.
I hated dreaming about the War.
Sleep started to fall and the mandrake tasted bad in my veins and I was only semi–aware of Emmy jumping up onto the bed and curling up against my chest, her purring loud and soothing and my hand rested on her fur; and I stroked her and it was soft and comforting and my breathing calmed and I slept.
For the first time ever, bad dreams failed to haunt me.
CHAPTER THREE
FELINE
I AWOKE LATE, my dreams fleeing memory as if afraid of violent reaction. I sat up. Emmy had gone, but I could smell her musk, I could see the depression she had left ringed with errant fur and I could feel the warmth of her recently departed body.
I got out of bed, feeling like fukk because of the narco; it had never felt like this back during Entropy when Mission had forced the stuff on me day after day after day just to get us through the mud and the pain and the piss and the screaming. I had a shower, brushed my teeth, had a shit, dressed in a casual manner because even though I was a SIM I had some style and sense of style and my clothes were loose, baggy, very comfortable, not like the latest pep fashions which were all starched and stiff and angular with massive collars reaching skyward how they made me laugh and puke with their pathetic attempts at vanity. Out in the Steel Jungle vanity became as nothing and you had to rely on your WarBruv and nobody else and you both got each other through the mud and pain and endless fighting – alive.
I sat down to breakfast, a simple fare of porridge and salt, and switched on TV whilst I ate. Usually I switched on TV just for the noise, the babble of aimless views and opinions and adverts for things you either need or you do not need – maybe it is because I am SIM and not pep, but why advertise things you cannot do without? Advertisements are something I will never understand and it is all false economics to me.
This morning, though, something caught my mech eye. It was a news report as told by one of those new compu reporters and the more I heard the more I became interested as if it offered some explanation as to why I suffered mechanical eyes and colour blindness – along with the rest of the humans on the planet:
... and news is just coming in from our technical correspondent on the Scandinavian continent. A professor named Cantrell of the Royal Swedish University has claimed to have made a breakthrough in explaining just why peps and SIMs have no vision, and hopefully soon we can do away with the seven hour op...
A seven hour op is where a baby is born, and within the first seven hours must have his or her eyes surgically removed and their mechanical replacements connected to the relevant nerves carrying signals to the brain; if this is not performed within the first seven hours then the child will be permanently blind for the duration of life. I watched this news info in interest as I ate my salted breakfast:
... over to Kate Jess for the latest update – thank you Jonny – well as you can see, behind me lies the Royal Swedish University and inside lives and works one of Scandinavia’s most prominent professors, a man who claims to have unravelled the genetic mystery that inflicts us all.
His name is Gerry Cantrell, and although he has refused any direct contact with the press he has issued this following statement which has been passed as authentic by the G
OV.
It reads:
I, Professor Gerry Cantrell, do hereby claim to be the first at unravelling the depths of genetic mystery surrounding the problem of vision defect in new born homo sapiens. I call the problem ‘Homo Regressive Genetics’ and I believe, backed by chemical and biological evidence, that this regressive genetic syndrome is caused by a viral strain, a single cell bacteria containing both DNA and RNA of unknown composition. This virus is very rare indeed, and I am not yet sure as to its origins – that is a problem being tackled this very moment – but the virus itself works by attacking the building blocks of human life, deoxyribonucleic acid. As all scientists know, the DNA molecule consists of repeating units of phosphate and deoxyribose plus one of four bases – adenine, thymine, guanine and cytosine – and spiral threads are bridged by bonds between the bases, and these bases always follow their own code when pairing: adenine pairing with thymine, cytosine pairing with guanine. What the viral strain does is imitate within itself sections of the primary spiral after preliminary formation and ejaculation from the nucleus, and then goes on to imitate hybrid representations of itself linking the four bases in a way which should be biologically impossible – this creates a hybrid within the hybrid, which then regresses back up the chain and thus deviates the original blueprint; finally, it removes itself with an almost alien intelligence and the end resultant shows the primary nucleus replicating a DNA strand which is not its own and thus subsequent replication is diseased and the viral strain’s job is complete.
This biological hijacking does, of course, take considerable time, but because of its complexity and failure to detect within the human cellular structure, the viral strain has no rush. Another side–effect is the structure of the double helix is altered slightly (so far we have not discovered what diverse effects this will have) and within the human organism as a whole there is a threefold effect: 1) certain aspects of the nucleus blueprint begins to regress, and as can be seen in humans this has taken the form of regression in sight, thus loss of sight as the brain ‘forgets’ how to see and severs links with those nerves transmitting signals; the nerves then cease to function and become obsolete in a similar manner to that of the appendix which became obsolete as an organ; 2) this regression, due to its forcible viral intervention (working in a chemical way, a chemical ‘hijacking’ the biological mechanics of which we haven’t yet been able to discover) is irreversible – the regression is permanent due to alteration within the nucleus blueprint and subsequent internal reversal of the virus; and thus, damage occurring due to viral regression cannot be later rectified by science or nature; and 3) as has already been seen in modern day society, the viral attack alters the physical state of the DNA and this new state is hereditary; this carries on into subsequent generations and thus primary regression at the nucleus level is passed to our children and to our children’s children.
The ramifications of my discovery into the cause of this genetic regression will be unveiled in a very short time, but due to the complexity of this virus which happens at such a basic, early level – even before formation of the RNA on the DNA thread – no guarantee of time factor can be given.
For now let me say that once the source of this viral strain is ascertained then measures can hopefully be taken to stop it attacking other areas of the human genetic structure. Another aspect for consideration is that it is indeed viable for the viral strain to attack different areas of the brain causing irreparable damage – for example, if it were to attack the motor areas of the brain via intervention at the basic nucleus level then co–ordination – and thus walking, muscle co–ordination, etc., would be made extremely difficult if not impossible (depending on the extent of nucleus damage). This is an unconfirmed theory as such, and I do not wish to spread panic or alarm, but I think it is a problem of which the peps and GOV organisations of this globe should be aware...
*
I switched off TV. I had heard enough. Hm. I rubbed a hand across my stubble and rolled my neck, listening to the tendons crack. Then, tentatively, I reached up and touched my mechanical eyes; they were smooth, alloy, cool to the touch. I could hear the tiny clicks as they focused and wondered how long their power cell would last. What – another ten? Fifteen years if I was lucky? I’d have to get Sullivan to do a power test on me during my next armour upgrade. It would never do to lose my sight in a battle situation.
Emmy appeared then, as silent as ever and I poured her another bowl of milk which she lapped daintily. I bent over, ran my hand along her fur. ‘The virus didn’t attack you, did it Emmy?’ She did not answer, merely lapped her milk and purred.
Maybe this virus was punishment, then, visited on us petty mortals destroying a world once beautiful. Maybe this virus was Nature’s way of saying: ‘slow down, you’ve fukked up a few too many times – ZAP – this virus will bring you down a step or two. The more you ravage, the more you will regress.’ But we were fighting Nature; fighting the Great Mother warring vengeance upon us. With our mechanical eyes, we were fighting the Will of whatever it was attacking our basic genetic structure. Fukk. That makes me feel all horrible and squirmy as if something was living inside of me and moving and twisting my very organics and it made me shiver and Emmy looked up, miaowed, sensed my shiver and I smiled at her and stroked her and switched on the groovy groovy MM more out of habit than any desire to listen to it on this heavily clouded morning.
Due to my night shift I had till 4 to relax, and then I would be on duty down in Lower Mall 15. With the injecto filling me, I picked Emmy up and went into the kitchen and gave her some meat and some milk. She lapped the milk and with her teeth ripped up the meat and ate it. She seemed to be smiling, or maybe that is just me being a big softy soft for a change.
I switched on TEK–Q and sat in my comfy swivel chair and put my feet up on the desk, my skin resting against cold polished wood.
‘How’s it going, buddy?’ he laughed and his voice sounded very happy and joyous on this cloudy afternoon; but then he wasn’t alive, he was compu and very intelligent system stuff.
‘OK,’ said I. ‘Have you heard the latest? About Gerry Cantrell and his genetic discoveries?’
‘Sure have,’ bubbled TEK. ‘Sounds kind of foreboding, don’t it? Sounds like this Gerry is on a crusade for mankind! Ha ha.’
‘Do you know anything else?’ said I.
‘What do you mean, Justice? Something classified, eh? Something GOV or militarised? The answer is of course NO because we both know I’d be dismantled if I told you anything I wasn’t supposed to...’
‘So you do know,’ said I.
TEK–Q was strangely silent for a moment, then piped up, ‘Have you been watching Jolly Joker? He’s trying to push a bill through the GOV to elect himself as a politician! How crazee craze is that? He’s asking for all our good consumer votes and...’
‘I’m not interested,’ said I. ‘Jolly Joker is fukking dreg. He is waste. His banality offends me and if I ever meet him I’ll take my SMKK and shove the barrel down his fukking...’
‘Shh!’ urged TEK–Q. ‘You can’t say that! If he is elected, and your comments come out then your words will be against GOV and that is treason. Jolly Joker the Jolly Jokeman is more important than you could realise, Justice!’
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Forgive me. I am not feeling myself this morning.’ And I wasn’t.
‘Too much narco, naughty SIM!’ chastised TEK–Q.
‘No,’ I snapped. I was in very bad mood now. This conversation was annoying me, so I reached for the switch but TEK–Q’s next words stayed my hand.
‘Snow is coming back.’
‘She can’t be,’ said I.
‘But she is.’
‘How do you know?’
‘There is information,’ said TEK, ‘that is – shall we say – less classified than other classified information. Snow is coming back to UK Plates and she is still alive.’
‘But will she make it here alive?’ I scoffed.
‘Yes. She has comman
deered a HTank and is skimming the sea this very moment, even as we speak. You knew her well, didn’t you buddy?’
‘Yes. Too well.’
‘That was before my time,’ laughed TEK. ‘Before I’d been integrated – compu born, so to speak. Were you good friends?’
‘Enough,’ I snapped. ‘I have the Mall Tour in ten mins. I’m switching you off.’
‘OK. Off–lining, buddy budd. Catch you next one.’ The screen went blank and I sat there for a while, on the swivel chair before the screen.
Reaching down, I pulled on my heavy thick boots and watched Emmy come trotting in, another dead mouse between her jaws; she looked up at me then, her eyes round and wide and I admired them and the mouse dangled dead in her jaws and I could see she had done well and rid me of this dreg and then she did a strange thing – she walked over, dropped the mouse at my feet, and walked away, disappearing into the kitchen – and I suddenly felt all warm and happy because I realised she was offering this corpse as a present, a gift for my hospitality; she was in fact paying her way and this made me feel even happier and I laughed out loud – something I had not done for a very, very long time. It was something not encouraged in us SIMs.
