Molehunt

by Paul Collins

  He was sure Lotang would want him alive, if only to gloat then consign him to a flash of obscene pain. Maximus would have done precisely the same if he were in Lotang’s position.

  Maximus had rented a disused laboratory in the vacuum zone near Reema’s north pole. It had once been used to manufacture bio-weapons in the Telugan War a century earlier, hence the vacuum buffer zone. Even exotic Level 5 viruses needed an atmosphere to migrate to hosts. The vacuum sector, in turn, acted as a pressure differential, so that leaks were always inwards, not outwards.

  Simple but effective. Not that Maximus cared, except that his future plans included the further use of Reema’s End and its heterogeneous population. Other than that, they were entirely dispensable, just not yet.

  He had three of Reema’s End’s most dispensable examples in the hermetically sealed cells in front of him. A long slit window, reinforced and mirrored on the other side, ran the length of the observation chamber, stretching for five metres and giving him full visual access to the three cells.

  The occupant of each cell was an example of what Maximus called Dregsville or Down Town, way down any ladder you cared to name, including the evolutionary one.

  Two were men, thin, malnourished and dyspeptic. The woman was a pale-faced prostitute in need of a Vitamin C shot.

  Losers, all three, lowlifes fated to service the food chain.

  In fact he would not have minded if they had been strapping, well-fed individuals, model citizens, and useful contributors to the social organism. Scientifically speaking, however, his experiment would yield more interesting results if its effects could be gauged on the material he had before him right now.

  If one could produce a work of art from coarse clay, then imagine what could be made from premium material!

  One of the men returned to his bunk and slumped against the wall, too short on calories for any more ranting and railing. The other man was still beating on the window, aware that someone was watching. The woman seemed dazed and confused. Drug habit. All three had narcotics in their blood. The woman’s level was the highest, as if she had taken something shortly before being snatched. No matter. He was about to put them through a unique rehabilitation.

  One might say it would rehabilitate everything about them. Everything.

  Maximus smirked at his own joke and checked his watch again. He had administered the viral agent exactly one hour ago to his specimens. His calculations showed that a reaction should start to show soon.

  Uh-oh.

  One of the men went into a spasm. He slid to the floor, legs and arms jerking, froth spewing from between his lips. Eyes wide with fear, he tried to scream, but failed. Lockjaw. Now that was interesting. Nothing in the molecular profile had indicated that. No matter. Maximus made a note of it.

  By the time he checked them the other two had also spasmed.

  Damn, he had missed them, but that was what the cameras were for. He could review the inception moment later at his leisure.

  The timing between the events was remarkably uniform. Another two hours passed. He watched the changes, making notes. At the end of that time, pale-faced and queasy, he checked that the recorders were working, that the viral injectors were ticking over, and that the inmates had sufficient food and water to last for several days – just in case he was detained when he stepped out.

  A fist smacked into Maximus’s face, snapping his head back. From the corner of his eye he saw a thin thread of his blood arc across the room.

  They had nabbed him an hour earlier than he had anticipated.

  Just to make life as difficult for Lotang’s hunkies as possible, he had made a point of staying in public places, especially crowded ones. Might as well make them earn their pay. Hell, Lotang should thank him. He was doing the guy a favour, testing his minions’ ingenuity.

  Well, they had come through okay. In fact, he had to give them eight out of ten, because they had taken him in transit on one of the threaders.

  He had spent an hour hanging out in the main street of Uptown, the chief tourist and entertainment district of Reema’s End, a kind of city in itself. A street festival was in full swing, celebrating the local anniversary of the end of the Telugan War. He had mixed with the crowds, bought a botchi burger, had a pint of local brew, and almost been tempted to have fun. As a sociopath, Maximus thought of torment as a side effect. He did not like the idea of being sadistic. Sadists were stupid and incompetent, and fell apart once exposed to real challenge. He was only sadistic when he had a reason.

  Maximus had boarded one of the tear-shaped four-person transit bubbles that glided on almost invisible silver threads through the ‘sky’ of Big Dome, a colossal cavern covering more than forty square kilometres and rising nearly five kilometres. Its ceiling holographically mimicked the green sunlit sky of a neighbouring planet. As he drifted silently through the sky, he watched the crowds surge through the artificial canyons of Uptown, in search of merrymaking and intoxication.

  The threaders, as the transit bubbles were called, were automated through the orbital station’s centralised AI. It was of course possible to reroute the capsules and interdict them. Lotang had more control here on Reema’s End than Maximus had guessed, though that had not come as a surprise. Maximus had lost a dozen agents and spies here in the last year, though he had more than twice that many on his payroll. Fortunately, none of them knew who they worked for, or for what reason they gathered information. Maximus preferred it that way.

  He surfed the infonets with the sense-projector button on the armrest of his seat. Light and sound were projected directly into his eyes and ears respectively, through lasers and soliton equipment. Half an hour after he had stepped into the capsule the projector image flickered and vanished with the soundtrack he had been listening to.

  There were three other passengers beside him. An announcement declared that the capsule had developed technical problems. It slid its thread to a junction then took a priority thread back towards its maintenance base. The passengers complained, but were ignored. Maximus knew something was wrong.

  Just before reaching base, the threader veered into a dock. The doors snapped open and a digitalised voice requested everyone to vacate the capsule and that another vehicle would be along in a few minutes. The capsule docked on the side farthest away from Maximus so he was the last to reach the open doors.

  As he did so, the doors snapped shut in his face with a hiss. He caught a startled glance from the three passengers outside as they gazed back in at him, then the threader slid out of the dock. Maximus smiled grimly.

  ‘Well done,’ he said aloud. ‘Bravo. Now where?’

  The same digitalised voice answered, its pleasant contralto unnerving him a little.

  ‘Painsville, where else?’

  BAM. The fist connected a second time and stars flashed in front of him.

  ‘Listen Nat, the boss is patient, but he ain’t this patient.’

  ‘Well, don’t let me keep you,’ Maximus said through his swollen lips.

  Blood dribbled down his chin, and his tongue felt thick and unresponsive. He was not feeling great pain yet though. He had prepared himself with pain inhibitors, neuronosis, plus a coordinated cocktail of narcotic suppressors that would be hard to detect and harder to neutralise. He did not expect them to block out all the pain, but he knew punishment was a necessary part of the plan. Not only could he later cry foul before the Cartel, but he also had a convincing alibi, should he live long enough to need one.

  ‘You oughta pay attention, Nat.’

  But Maximus was not paying attention, at least not to his interrogator. He was a short, squat man by the name of Ackie. Maximus was trying to catch a glimpse of Ackie’s watch but the man kept turning it away just as he managed to focus on it.

  BAM. Another fist incoming, or maybe it was two in quick succession. His whole face felt numb now, his ears ringing from the blows.

  ‘Okay,’ said Ackie to one of the other hunkies. ‘Let’s warm up the juicer.’ />
  Juicer? Through the building pain Maximus wondered what that was. Something bad, that was certain. Probably something he knew about, but he could not be sure. Underworld slang changed more quickly than pop song ratings.

  He laughed, not realising he was delirious.

  ‘Nice to see you’re in such good spirits, Nat,’ said Ackie pleasantly. ‘But I’m afraid I’m gonna have to ruin your fun now.’

  Maximus sensed the men arranging machinery around him. They attached electrodes to various parts of his body, which was clamped to a wheeled metal trolley. As torture equipment went, it was a bit old-fashioned. Still, it was probably going to hurt.

  Moments later Maximus heard somebody screaming. He rolled over and looked down. A thin young man was fastened to a trolley, his back arched in agony, his screams erupting through clenched teeth.

  That’s interesting, Maximus thought. It took some time for him to realise it was himself on the trolley. The neuronosis had kicked in, dissociating him from his body. He felt wonderfully calm and warm, oddly disinterested in what was happening to his body. If he was up here gazing down at his own tortured flesh, who was down there screaming?

  Was there someone else in his body, someone he did not know about? Was it his primitive self, a presence inside the reptilian brain that lurked at the base of every human’s consciousness? Or was it a collective scream of his pain-drenched flesh, a cellular gestalt? Was it his soul? Did he have a soul?

  This torture continued for some time. Maximus suddenly snapped back into his body. A wall of agony hit him, as if a thousand slaver whips had hit raw nerves. This was after they had stopped. Had he been in contact with his flesh while it was happening … But that thought was not worth staying with.

  Maximus clammed up. He always had his back-up suicide mantra. They didn’t know about that. As he lay there he considered adding an explosive device inside his skull, so he could take some of them with him. The poison that would kill him, a protein bomb, could trigger it.

  The men unhooked the juicer, unfastened the clamps and shackles, then loaded him into a hover van. Ackie sat next to him, sucking a neonicotine lozenge. Neonicotine. Maximus seized on the thought, trying to distract himself. Mesolimbic dopamine stimulator. Ackie half-closed his eyes as the drug hit his bloodstream, just like a common wirehead. Neonicotine was a good deal. It had no cancerous effects, and inhibited the body’s natural homeostatic reaction to increased dopamine pleasure receptors. Without this there was no decreased sensitivity to stimulation. Unlike cigarettes that had less and less effect the more you used them. Neonicotine heads were known to enjoy themselves for years at a time on the same dose. Right now Maximus needed to think about enjoyment, to focus his will.

  ‘Ain’t never seen nobody clam up on the juicer,’ Ackie murmured, almost to himself. He gave Maximus an admiring look. ‘Not bloody bad. Not bloody bad at all.’

  ‘Thanks,’ Maximus managed to grate out, injecting as much sarcasm into the word as he could manage. His mouth hurt, his lips hurt; pain pervaded his whole body.

  Ackie threw back his head and chortled.

  Oddly enough, Maximus liked the man. Must be that hostage syndrome thing, he thought. Got to watch out for that, but maybe I’ll make it quick and painless when I kill him. After all, Ackie was just doing his job.

  You’re getting soft, Maximus, he said to himself. First sign. Second sign is talking to yourself.

  ‘What now?’ he managed.

  Ackie’s expression hardened. ‘Gotta recycle ya, Nat. Boss’s orders. Should be painless. Nothin’ personal, ya know.’

  ‘Yeah. Just business.’

  ‘Vaporise ya, takes a millisecond, tops. Faster than the pain signals can get to your brain. Merciful, it is. Wouldn’t mind goin’ that way myself, some day.’

  How about today? wondered Maximus.

  The hover van moved through a noisy section of town. Through the polarised diamondoid windows Maximus could see a blur of passing buildings, no more.

  ‘Festival still goin’ on,’ said Ackie.

  ‘What time is it?’ Maximus asked.

  The man frowned at him, as if to say, ‘What does a dead man need to know the time for?’ Then he shrugged and showed Maximus his watch. Maximus nodded, satisfied.

  The hover van pulled a sharp left turn, its multiple mini-jets moving around their rotational joints and flexible elbows, then stopped, engine still running. Maximus heard a door hiss open. By the sound of it, it was big enough to allow a hover van inside. A moment later the van glided forward and the dim light outside the windows shut off. The door clanged shut and the vehicle’s back door opened.

  Ackie got up, bent low. He helped Maximus out of the van and led him into a large poorly lit room. Several men stood around nervously, two wearing the municipal uniform of the city.

  At a sign from Ackie they turned and led the way through a chamber into a long corridor. Some minutes later they stopped outside a door. One of the uniformed men checked inside, then returned with the all-clear sign. They marched Maximus in, stopping before a vast machine.

  Maximus was impressed. He had never seen a recycler up close. This one was monstrous; it would have taken up several city blocks of a normal planet-bound city.

  In front of them was a huge maw into which materials of enormous size could be dumped, including obsolete starships. This was the mouth of the recycler. Below, out of sight, the station-sized accelerators rammed heavy sub-atomic particles into anything that entered the chamber, unzipping their atomic structures faster than light could circle Reema’s End.

  What came out the other end was energy, which was pumped into the orbital station’s grid, powering everything from kitchen appliances to orbital adjustment jets.

  Gazing at the gigantic aperture, Maximus shivered. He imagined a dragon’s mouth would look like this.

  He straightened, smiling wryly. ‘It is a far, far better thing that I do, than I have ever done.’

  ‘What’s that?’ Ackie asked, equally mesmerised by the maw and the raging inferno that lurked out of sight.

  ‘Old saying.’

  ‘It means something?’

  Maximus shrugged. ‘Every saying means something.’

  ‘What’s that one mean?’

  ‘Just that this isn’t over yet,’ said Maximus, eyeing Ackie’s watch.

  Ackie chuckled. ‘You wanna take a minute? You got any, you know, beliefs?’

  ‘I believe we should do it,’ Maximus said.

  Ackie nodded at two of his colleagues. They each grabbed one of Maximus’s arms and marched him forward.

  ‘Mr Ackie?’ called Maximus.

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘You be good, huh?’

  Ackie laughed. ‘From now on, I’m a saint, okay?’

  They reached a yellow line painted on the metal floor. The two hunkies holding Maximus’s arms took a deep breath. Clearly, they did not like being this close to annihilation. One swallowed. ‘We have to get closer.’

  ‘Yeah, yeah, I know,’ the other muttered. ‘Just not too close, okay?’

  ‘Fine with me.’

  Maximus resisted squirming as they edged towards the chamber. An odd heat emanated from it. It was not normal heat because it did not affect skin temperature; it was more like being heated from the inside out. Not a comforting sensation.

  The two henchmen reached a point about five metres from the sloping part of the chamber. It was clear they were not going any closer.

  They tightened their grip on Maximus’s arms. ‘You have a nice trip now,’ one of them said to him.

  Maximus took a deep breath to compose himself. He began to think the death chant that would destroy his own brain painlessly. Then stopped.

  ‘Wait a sec,’ Ackie said. ‘I got a call coming in.’ The two men hesitated. Then Ackie put up his hand. ‘Hey, bring him back here.’

  Maximus’s escort swung him around and returned him to Ackie, who regarded him oddly. ‘That was the boss,’ he said, frowning. ‘Seems
you just got a reprieve.’

  ‘Expected that.’

  ‘You did?’

  ‘I’m too valuable to trash, Mr Ackie.’

  ‘Boss probably just forgot something.’

  Maximus smiled for the first time, showing his ruined teeth. ‘Bosses have to be careful. The buck stops with them.’

  THE huge bulk of Reema’s End floated in space, blotting out the star field. To one side and below lay the world of Telugus, a patchwork of browns, greens and dazzling whites, where clouds caught the sunlight and reflected it back into space dazzling the unwary eye. As the station turned ponderously, the day-night line swept across its junkyard surface, casting a confused shadow landscape of ramshackle structures, half-finished skeletal extensions, mounds of debris and garbage, and the shifting pools of dust that clung to the artificial world by strong electrostatics and weak gravitation.

  In one of the small twisted canyons of the eastern meridian a tiny shadow moved suddenly into light as the world revolved. It was a space-suited figure, though the suit was a coherent field, employing a boundary-field layer that repelled the vacuum, cosmic rays and heat differentials of space, and contained a breathable atmosphere at a temperature suited to human beings.

  Anneke was bent over a device the size of a suitcase, inputting a series of commands. A readout screen on top carried a display of buttons and program linkages.

  Suddenly the suitcase spoke. ‘Okay, I got it.’

  ‘You got it?’ Anneke asked doubtfully. ‘I haven’t finished programming you.’

  ‘What, I was invented in the Stone Age? You don’t think I can extrapolate?’

  Anneke snorted. ‘Fine. No need to get testy. Now do you want to run over the parameters or should I take your word for it?’

  The suitcase responded with what sounded suspiciously like a sigh. Anneke smiled. Everything was AI nowadays, even kitchen appliances. It was hard to believe that once you could make breakfast without having an argument with the technology.

  ‘I’m to proceed to geosynchronous orbit 0034-36-39-401 and investigate an alleged orbital object, possibly an Old Empire Orbital Engineering Platform … But honestly, I ask you, what are the odds?’