by John Gribbin
They all ate together on her last night, for the first time. Until then she’d been taken meals in her bedroom, away from the mother and father who ate together silently at the kitchen table (she opened the door to bring her plate down and saw the father head bowed over his untouched pasta whilst the mother stared past his head out of the window, seemingly at nothing). The daughter also ate in her room, the thin wall between them allowing the occasional clink of spoon against plate to be heard. It was almost the only sound she ever made, apart from the groans of pain that would wake Anna in the middle of the night, and the mother’s frantic soothing.
But that last evening she was called downstairs to find all three of them seated around a dining table spread with a little of everything they’d given her, plus other things she’d never tried. Some looked and smelt exotic; she knew the names, had eaten them before in the other’s memory but to Anna their taste was still a beguiling mystery.
The daughter was propped-up by cushions, on a chair between the two adults. She raised her dark-ringed eyes to Anna as the mother clutched her hand.
“I’m sorry I haven’t been in to see you before.” It was the first time Anna had actually heard her speak; the voice was a cracked husky version of her own. She stopped to cough into a tissue then continued shakily. “I’m sorry for everything. I know you don’t want to hear this from me right now...” more coughs, “but I have to say it while I still can. Thank-you... Thank-you for giving me the chance to live; I promise you I’ll make the most of it. I won’t forget you, or what you’ve done for me. I’ll remember you for the rest of my life, however long that is.”
Anna fought down the anger surging inside, ‘however long that is’ would still be a damn sight longer than hers.
She looked at the deathly pale imitation of herself; simpering pointless apologies next to the parents who’d paid their life savings to create Anna, use her up then destroy her. ‘You’re the Copy’ she thought, ‘you’re the fake, not me. You’re sick, I’m well, you’re using me but I’d never do something like that. I’d rather die first.’ But would she if in another world it ever came to that, if the positions were reversed; she the original about to lose everything, the other girl the Copy instead? Would she...?
In the car as they all drove to the company’s medical centre that final morning, she tried to process all she could see, all she could feel, of the bright summer day. She opened the window for the breeze to flow through her hair, for the sun’s warmth to find her upturned face, for the thousand and one subliminal sounds of this world to leave their trace on her mind. Once she was through those doors it would all be over; no more sensations left, bar fear of the lonely slide into oblivion.
Her attuned senses picked up a noise above the rest, high-pitched and discordant, monotonous. Looking out across the park they drove beside, the one visited on her first day, she realised what the sound was. “Stop the car please...”
“Anna, we haven’t time. The appointment...”
But the father put his hand on his wife’s and pulled over. “Don’t go far, you’ve got five minutes. And please...” His face clouded with embarrassment.
“Don’t worry; I won’t try to run away.”
She opened the door and walked slowly across the newly mown grass to the wailing child. She crouched down beside him. “What’s the matter, have you lost your mummy?” The boy nodded, nose snotty, hand in his eye failing to stem the flow of tears. “It’s alright, I’m sure she’s here somewhere, looking for you. I’ll stay until she finds you ok?” He nodded again, then clumsily put his short stubby arms around her neck. Anna squeezed the little body to her. She saw a flustered, panicky-looking woman rushing from one group of picnickers to another. Anna called out to her and waved. The woman stopped and looked her way, then began to run across the gap between them; halfway there, the run turned to a stiff walk as she collected herself.
“Oh thank-you, I’m so sorry, thank-you so much. I was... it’s so kind of you...” She picked the child up and he clung to her. As she was walking away he turned to look over her shoulder and wave at Anna.
Lying on the bed as they were about to prepare her for surgery the company representative visited her again. “Thank-you for your co-operation Anna. We feel the experience has been mutually beneficial for all parties concerned and...”
“I want to change my name please.” Anna cut him off.
He looked surprised. “I’m afraid that’s highly irregular, the documentation involved...”
“I’ve read all the small-print; I know I have the right.”
The company representative sighed. “Very well then, I’ll make a note.” He must have seen her doubtful expression as, surprisingly, he smiled. “You can trust me, it’s the least we can do for your kind. What name did you have in mind?”
She thought of the child waving happily back at her, of the mother’s wiped-away tears of relief, of the gentle breeze in her hair and the sun’s warmth on her face. She thought of the terrible fragility of life itself, and the moment she’d shared that fragility with another.
She understood what it was to lose it and how other Recipients to come must realise this; that she was more, much more, than just an unfortunate procedure.
“Joy,” she told him, “I want to be remembered as Joy.”
Murder in M-23
by
Peter Wolfe
Peter Wolfe lives the life of a hermit, desperately trying to avoid the mysterious and terrifying ‘Real World’, preferring instead the varying realities that inhabit his bookshelf and his mind.
Peter lives in Leeds with his fiancée and their cat, who has the joint function of being Emperor of the Known Universe and Chief Editor. His Lordship seems to disapprove of Peter’s writing, forever stealing his pens and or leaving indecipherable comments by walking across the keyboard.
Peter’s first published story was in [Re]Awakenings (Elsewhen Press, 2011). On a more personal note Peter finds writing about himself in the third person quite peculiar and fears that if he doesn’t stop soon he might do a Jack Torrance. After all, All Work and No Play…
My name is Marcus Raines, disgraced naval officer, failed husband and alcoholic. When I woke up this morning my mouth was dry and my head was splitting. I rolled onto my side and vomited all over the deck plating. Spitting the sour taste from my mouth, I tried to pull myself up. It didn’t work so well and instead I dropped back to the floor with a heavy (and very painful) thud. Unfortunately that set my head spinning and it took a few seconds before I could even see again. That’s when I noticed something strange, I wasn’t in my bed. Hell, it wasn’t even my room.
I grabbed hold of the cargo pallet I was leaning against and dragged myself shakily to my feet. OK, cargo pallets, that probably meant I was in a cargo bay. That only helped a little though, the station had more than a hundred cargo bays ranging from some that were just a few metres square to the main bays which were more than half a mile long. I rubbed at my eyes and could just about make out a large M-23 painted on the wall. Well that explained which bay at least. It seemed familiar for some reason. Hadn’t I been working there yesterday? Had I gone home? Hell, had I even made it to the end of my shift?
M-23 was one of the station’s mid-sized cargo bays, almost three hundred metres long with dull grey walls and stacked high with cargo crates. The label beside me showed that the crates were filled with food packs bound for one of the colonies. Even thinking about the less than appetising food packs sent a wave of nausea flowing through me. It ended with what was left of the contents of my stomach spewing all over the floor and splashing up my boots. Slowly my head began to clear a little and I realised I could hear the distant murmuring of voices coming from the far side of the cavernous room.
I sobered up in an instant. It was against station regulations to be in one of the cargo bays out of hours. At best I’d lose my job, at worst get locked up by Station Security and accused of stealing or smuggling. As quietly as I could I meandered my way
through the maze of crates until I came to a dead end. The voices were clearer now and coming from more than one location, inspection teams maybe. Rather than double back and risk bumping into someone, I clambered up one of the stacks, using the mag-grabs on my newly stained, station-issued boots to help. Using my new altitude to help me, I took a guess at which direction would lead me to the door and began crawling along the tops of the crates.
I almost made it. I was even close enough to see the access door, but a group of heavy looking guys in civilian clothes were standing around, guarding the entrance. Civilians weren’t allowed in the cargo bays so in my mind there was no doubt who these guys were. They were smugglers.
Most people have a romanticised idea of smugglers. Ruggedly handsome rogues who bend the law, cheat the taxman and fight for the poor. None of that is true, not around here anyway. Smugglers are not nice. They are certainly not modern day Robin Hoods. They are just killers. When they aren’t killing to help or hide their crimes, then they’re killing with their contraband. Most of the time what they smuggle is illegal for a reason whether it be weapons, drugs or, if the smugglers are the lowest form of scumbag, people.
I watched from my perch, hoping that they might move off long enough for me to sneak past. I considered trying to make my way to the huge cargo bay doors at the far end of the room but decided against it. There was too great a chance of me bumping into some of the smugglers’ friends and besides, I felt like crap. So I lay there and watched. Minutes passed and my already stiff body began to ache even more. Finally another group of rough looking men emerged from the stacks and stopped by the door. One of them was out of place and, unfortunately, I recognised the bastard.
James Franklin had been my supervisor on the docks for the past six years, ever since I’d been booted out of the service and left marooned on this godforsaken station. He’d always seemed like a good guy, stern but fair and usually willing to look the other way it if I turned up for a shift a little late, hungover or both. He was even nice enough to buy all the guys a round if he saw us while we were on a night out.
I watched as Franklin opened one of the crates and removed a small, cylindrical metal container that looked a lot like a cigar tube. It wasn’t a cigar though. It was A.S.H., Adrenal Stimulant H, the new ‘in’ drug that let you run faster and further, lift more than you ever could normally and of course fuck for longer. But if you took it you were hooked for life. Literally. If you stopped taking, you died. My respect for Franklin dropped dramatically, but as I watched what happened next it went forever.
Franklin and two of the others grabbed hold of the crate and slid it forward revealing a grey cargo container hidden behind it. The door was a three metre square but, hidden inside the crates, I couldn’t see how far back it went. Franklin placed a thumb on the keypad and the door slid open to reveal the cargo inside. Men and women dressed in plain grey jumpsuits were chained up inside. Men and women who were probably kidnapped from their beds, from their homes. Men and women who were chained and beaten and who were bound for frontier colonies where they would be used as labour until they died from exhaustion. Men and women made into slaves. Suddenly, I hated Franklin.
Even if slavery wasn’t totally immoral and depraved, there is no need for slaves anymore. Clone servitors were created centuries ago for the express purpose of doing all menial tasks so humans never had to. But when did humans ever need a reason to do something that would hurt someone?
One of the smugglers said something to Franklin that made him laugh and me want to jump down there and pound his face in. I restrained myself though, being outnumbered eight-to-one helped. Franklin turned back to the crate, preparing to close the door and reseal the slaves in darkness. As he did so, the smuggler who made him laugh raised his arm, a gun held in his hand and fired a round into the back of Franklin’s head. Ten minutes ago I would have been upset at Franklin’s death, not anymore. The blood sprayed over the slaves who all began to scream. Even from where I lay I heard the thud as Franklin’s head hit the deck, then watched as the man I had now mentally nicknamed ‘Joker’ fired three more rounds into his body.
Normally the sight of blood doesn’t bother me but I wasn’t feeling too good and unfortunately my body chose this moment to puke again. The vomit hadn’t had time to fall to the deck plates below before the smugglers opened fire on me, bullets ricocheting off the crates and ceiling alike. I rolled left and dropped off the pile of crates and onto the floor with a heavy bang. It hurt like hell but I didn’t wait. I scrambled to my feet and set off at a sprint through the labyrinth of crates, heading in what I hoped was the direction of the cargo bay doors. Behind me I heard shouts and the thundering of feet as the heavies near the door began to give chase. Luckily I had a head start, they needed to make their way around the crates. Even so, I’d better not waste it.
I careened around a corner and saw two confused looking smugglers ahead of me. I hadn’t seen them near the door so they probably didn’t know what was going on. I decided not to give them a chance and shoulder-barged one of them into a crate while ramming my elbow into the throat of the other. Both dropped to the floor, the one I’d elbowed gasping for air through his crushed throat. I gave the other a quick kick to the gut before bracing myself against the crate. I was already breathing heavily and my body was nowhere near recovered from the previous night’s binge. I couldn’t pause though. Panting, I started to run again, weaving around crates and hoping to hell that I didn’t run into any more smugglers or dead ends. I paused at a cross roads of crates, desperate for a chance to catch my breath, as I decided on a direction.
No luck though, I heard noises behind me, a shout then a gunshot and a bullet ricocheted off a crate beside me, grazing my right thigh as it passed. I let out an involuntary noise, somewhere between a yell and a (manly) scream, and limped forward, leg stinging, but not wasting time looking back. I took a left, another left, a right, ran straight on then took another right and found myself staring at the huge doors. I gave thanks to whichever gods were looking after me and put on another burst of speed. I collapsed against the door console and fumbled my station key card from my uniform pocket. I swiped the card and heard a huge ‘THUNK’ as the doors unlocked and began to slowly inch open. I dived towards the opening and began to squeeze through the gap.
There was another shout and bullets bounced off the door around me. I forced my way through the widening gap and reached for the console on the other side, slamming my hand on the large, red button on the surface, the one titled ‘EMERGENCY OVERRIDE’. Slowly the doors ground to a halt and reversed their path, grinding shut. At the same time red lights began to flash and a siren sounded, warning people not to get their stupid asses crushed by the big doors. Finally the doors shut completely, the huge bolts locking into place. I fell to my knees, legs turned to jelly, chest heaving and body trying to vomit up contents that just weren’t there. My head was pounding and my vision fading. My body just couldn’t handle the mix of hangover, detox and adrenaline. I needed to find a place to lick my wounds and recover. Fortunately I knew a place nearby. I stumbled across empty F-24 to the main door where I carefully peered out making sure the coast was clear. Then, taking a right I jogged along the corridor, seeing no one except the occasional diminutive servitor as I went. It must have been early, the docks on this side of the station were always busy with the exception of the scheduled morning maintenance. Eventually I came to an elevator and pushed the keypad for J deck. I slumped against the wall as the lift whirred into motion and began to drop down through the mid-levels of the station.
30 seconds later the lift came to a stop and I staggered out, almost bumping into a servitor. The short grey skinned creature bowed its bulbous head as I emerged from the lift, its large lidless eyes fixed firmly on the ground. Stepping around it, I began to move along the corridor for a few metres until I found the door I was looking for. Supply Closet J-154 hadn’t been used by anyone except me (and servitors) in the six years I’d been on the station
and I’d passed out there drunk more than once. It should be safe. I opened the door with my thumb print and staggered inside. It was deserted as always and I was unconscious in the corner only seconds after the door slid shut.
When I woke again I felt slightly better. Don’t get me wrong, my head still hurt, my body ached and now the pain in my leg added to it all. Somehow, while asleep, I’d cocooned myself in the handful of blankets I’d left here as a makeshift bed. Untangling myself, I noticed the blood on the sheets and paused to inspect my leg. The bleeding seemed to have stopped but the gash still hurt like a bitch. Dragging myself up, I began to hop my way over to the small sink in the opposite corner. Underneath I found the stash of medical supplies I’d left there, fished out a med-patch and slapped it onto my leg. Almost instantly I felt the pain lessen as the nano-whatsits got to work on the wound. Letting out a sigh, I turned on the tap and began gulping down the cold water. I splashed some on my face and glanced in the mirror. It wasn’t a pretty sight. My eyes were red and bloodshot, my skin a few shades too pale, my hair greasy and plastered to my skull. Between that and the stubble on my chin I looked like hell.
In the corner of the mirror a flashing light caught my eye. Stretching out a hand I tapped it and the mirror changed to show a different version of my face, though this one wasn’t much prettier. Now I had two black eyes, broken nose and busted lip. I looked more than a little drunk. Under my face were words which made my blood freeze: ‘WARNING! MARCUS RAINES – WANTED FOR MURDER. DO NOT APPROACH. MAY BE ARMED. IF YOU SEE THIS MAN CONTACT STATION SECURITY IMMEDIATELY.’ They were using the mug shot from the last time I had been picked up by the station’s security forces for drinking and brawling. Below the wanted poster a newsfeed was playing and, as I tapped it, it grew to fill the screen as one of the stations many bottom-feeding press officers reported on the bullshit story.
