Hunters & Collectors

by M. Suddain

  The hulking stranger at the bar was one of the more strikingly handsome men I’d ever met. The only thing to tarnish his looks was the small scar on the left side of his neck, and his slightly long earlobes – something I’ve never quite got used to. He was fending off the attentions of a particularly persistent female admirer. I instantly grasped his problem, nodded. He excused himself to use the restrooms, and I engaged the woman in a conversation about the life of the professional manager. I explained how Daniel was easily my most popular item, how for just a hundred notes he’d give her an hour that’d reposition her internal organs. ‘We call him the “man-quake”.’ The stricken face the gentle Beast could not bear to have looked upon was food to me. She was gone by the time he returned. ‘I’m grateful, sir, truly. I find it hard to be cruel to women.’

  ‘Well, I’m as grateful for this drink, and I get a kick out of being cruel to needy people. Are you wearing Vertigo?’

  ‘I find wearing women’s fragrances helps repel them. It confuses their senses. I got the idea from a documentary on marine biology. Some guy on Zoraster was using a scent dispenser to confuse sharks.’

  ‘Why the fuck would you swim with sharks on Zoraster? Those fuckers grow past fifty feet long.’

  ‘Right? The seas belong to giants.’

  He was a junior solicitor, there to assist a big firm in a dispute over possession of a formerly beloved grandfather’s extensive library of illegal pornography. Both parties were arguing it didn’t legally belong to them. He spoke fluidly on most subjects, but was largely content to listen, and flatter. He’d only recently graduated. He was the spawn of a sedative-addicted, though generally nurturing mother, and a retired naval officer he described as a ‘sadistic cunt-bot’. Frank Woodbine had set about moulding his infant son into a perfect specimen of manhood. ‘A man’s man, that’s what he wanted.’ And he got it. Young Woodbine kept his budding taste for boys a secret. Not that he needed to try very hard. His dad’s capacity for denial was as big as his appetite for barely cooked flesh and action reels. When he found copies of Man Meat in the boy’s sleep-hub, Beast told him he’d ordered them as reference material for his physical fitness regimen. He’d spend hours watching action reels with his dad. ‘They’re basically gay pornography without the sex.’ And when his dad came home and found him reviewing the scene in High Flyers where all the pilots shower together, the boy said, ‘I just spotted a continuity error. In this shot Hatch has a tattoo, but in the next shot … see? Isn’t that funny?’ And his dad said, yes, it was funny.

  It all came to a head at his cousin’s wedding. Beast was sixteen. He had been following his older cousin Donovan around like a puppy. His dad openly called Donovan an ‘arse-invader’. It might have passed with little comment, if not for the fact that he was giving a congratulatory speech to the bride and groom at the time. His wife stood and said, ‘Frank, what if that were your son?’ She was not in denial.

  ‘I’d execute him on the spot is what I’d do.’

  So she says, ‘You don’t mean that.’

  And he says, ‘Yes I do, I’d shoot him dead.’ He used the microphone he was holding to mime shooting his son in the head, execution-style. ‘Pa-choooo.’

  So she says, ‘Well, it’s a good thing he’s not even yours.’ Turns out Emma Woodbine had fucked a wounded army buddy of Frank’s while he was away on duty. Surprise! So then Beast takes his kill shot. ‘Also, Dad, I am an arse-invader. Shoot me if you want,’ and he points to a spot between his eyes. Now I ask you, from his dad’s perspective, is that two losses, or is it kind of lose/win? He found out his son was gay, but also that he wasn’t his son after all. The old man chose to take it all as bad news. He ran off, started dating an underage stripper called – get this – Vicinity. Months later the police busted into his apartment and found him trying to build his own rocket launcher. So it didn’t turn out well for Frank, though his impromptu wedding speech did go down as one of the great family moments.

  Beast gave me some sound legal advice: to drop the suit and count my blessings. ‘We have to love and support our mother, even when she’s in the thrall of witches.’ Since then he’s been my lawyer, my agent, my valet, my witch detector, and everything in between. He was instrumental in helping me turn the Tomahawk into a profitable enterprise. He introduced me to Gladys, but I forgive him. He is a brilliant negotiator, a good conversationalist, and he has passable manners.

  Until he gets hungry.

  ‘Did you call reception?’

  ‘They said they’d send some rolls up. Some rolls, Jonathan.’

  ‘It’s OK, Beast. I’ll handle it.’

  Gladys was asleep in an armchair. Though not truly asleep. Her Water Bear mods let her rest parts of her brain while still maintaining up to 35 per cent awareness. She’d have been aware that we were awake and moving around, that Beast was turning the hamper upside down and shaking it to see if he’d missed anything. She had a sheaf of hotel letter paper next to her on which she’d been scribbling notes. There were flow-charts. Diagrams. As my eyes washed over them she opened hers and said: ‘Who the fuck is Doctor Difflayderman?’

  ‘Difflaydermaus. He’s my doctor, remember? The one I’ve been seeing in my dreams.’

  ‘He’s real?’

  I shrugged.

  ‘I just thought you were nuts.’

  I shrugged again.

  ‘The fuck happened to your head?’

  ‘He ran head first into the wardrobe?’

  ‘You ran into the wardrobe? Why?’

  ‘Sleep-running.’

  ‘I wasn’t “sleep-running”, Beast. I had to wake myself up to escape Doctor Rubin. You’ll see, Gladys. He’ll get in your head. It’s what he does.’

  ‘Yeah, he won’t get in my head. Listen, I’ve been working through the angles. Their set-up is a massively distributed virtual neural network. This doctor knows his AI. But he’s opted for fidelity and predictive strategies, so the system is slow to react to unexpected things. Like when we showed up early. And it gets glitchy when it’s pushed. If we can act unpredictably we might be able to confuse it enough that we could get to the last pod. We could get disguises, or move to another apartment to confuse them. We could steal staff uniforms. Systems like this can’t waste bandwidth taking in every piece of information. There’s a chance they wouldn’t even see us if we were dressed as staff. There might even be a way to get under the virtual substrate. They could have maintenance tunnels behind all this fancy stuff. We could disappear in there. Ride this out. Or find a back way to Terminal Annexe. Also, the staffing system is stratified. We might be able to make allies, turn some of the staff against the others.’ She picked up the hunting knife from the table and used it to slice the top off a packet of Cheese-U-Laters. Ate one. ‘And such.’

  ‘Righto.’ Had no fucking idea what she was talking about. ‘That’s all good thinking, Gladys – espesh about changing rooms. This apartment is outrageously small for three people. And what about my meal? How does that integrate with your plans?’

  Gladys stared through me. Then stood, stretched, and went into her unused room. She would shower violently (when G finishes with any bathroom it looks like a recently torpedoed submarine). I went to get shaved and dressed, and to take some pain medication. Found I didn’t have to. Shave, that is. And I realised my pain meds were in my pharmacopoeia, which was with my luggage, which was still being scanned for spy devices.

  I went back out and remeasured our suite. At least a foot smaller. Then I hauled myself up on a stool at the bar and put the ice pack on my head again.

  ‘A boy came earlier with your shoes, and my jacket, and a note for …’ He flicked his eyes at the door to her room.

  ‘Who came with a note, Beast?’

  ‘Just a porter. Frightening boy.’

  ‘They’re all frightening. You opened the door?’

  Beast shrugged. ‘Thought they might be bringing breakfast. Anyway, they can’t come through the door unless we invite them. So long as
our “Do Not Disturb” sign is on.’

  I’d been so intently focused on measuring that I hadn’t even noticed my shoes by the door, or the note for Gladys on the table. The moment I slipped into my shoes I realised they weren’t mine.

  ‘What do you mean they aren’t yours?’

  ‘I mean these aren’t my shoes. They don’t feel right.’

  ‘Check the monogram.’

  I did. J.S.T. ‘Maybe there’s another guest here with the initials J.S.T.’

  ‘Another guest, with exactly the same initials, and exactly the same handmade shoes, in exactly your size?’

  ‘Well, they aren’t mine.’ I walked to G’s room in my alien shoes to slip her note under her door. Was tempted to read it, but I’d learned the hard way not to invade her private zones. I felt a strange lump under the insole near the heel of my left shoe. I pulled out a slip of paper. A note, scribbled on a laundry ticket in a fluid hand, unsigned.

  I can help you. Take the audio tour. I’ll be waiting in the Mirror Lounge. – A Friend.

  PS I’ll be wearing a white dress.

  Didn’t recognise the hand. But the note was tainted with a scent I knew very well: Vertigo.21 The same one Beast uses to repel women. A Friend. They’d capitalised Friend, so maybe it was their family name. I don’t know anyone called Friend. Gladys startled me from behind. She moves like the ghost of a snake across a sheet of velvet.

  ‘What the fuck is this?’ She shoved a piece of paper into my hands.

  I have smelled you. Today my heart is yours. You have lovely boy knees. I will look for you in the halls this day. X.

  Her glare-lasers tore twin holes through the back of my skull.

  ‘No idea. Do you know anyone with the initial X?’

  She glared on.

  ‘It’s the Feast of Hearts, Gladys. People send each other love notes. I’ve already received one – in my shoe.’

  ‘If you two are fucking with me, even a little bit, I’ll hurt you.’

  ‘We’re not, Gladys. We know better.’ I folded the note in my hand. ‘Now, speaking of giving notes: I’ve just been going through your plan. If I understand you correctly, and I believe I do, your plan is that we could confuse the hotel’s somewhat glitchy staffing system by dressing up like maids and porters. Maybe this is the head injury talking, but I think that’s insanity. Do you honestly think I’d pass for a porter?’ I put my arms out and did a turn. ‘And where are we going to find a maid’s outfit big enough for Beast. This is not my idea of a survival strategy. And besides, we need to deal with our immediate threats first.’

  ‘Dear gods, Jonathan, breakfast!’

  ‘You see? You’re talking about making it out there in the world when there’s a good chance we’ll be eaten in here. But I take your point: we need to change rooms and have fresh clothes. It’s outrageous the state we’ve been left in. I had better treatment at St Direghul. And then there’s my shoes.’ She looked slowly down at my shoes, returned her eyes to mine.

  ‘What about your fucking shoes?’

  ‘They aren’t mine.’

  Nothing.

  ‘I’m serious. Someone has replaced my shoes with exact duplicates.’

  Nothing.

  ‘Anyway, arm yourself, Gladys. We’re going down to the front desk, and we’re going to make an official complaint.’

  ‘Are you fucking …’ She took a deep breath, then flung out her arms, ‘… insane?!’

  ‘You said we should act unpredictably. What would they expect less than the three of us going downstairs to lodge a formal complaint? Anyway, would you rather be stuck in here with him? Because that sounds like insanity to me.’ Beast had begun to gnaw on his own wrist. It sounded like several dozen giant snails having a semi-violent orgy on a sheet of glass.

  16 ‘It’s conceivable that our strangely complex universe of strands and multiple dimensions – including time – could originate as a projection from a flattened, two-dimensional model without time or gravity. It might be that some of the inexplicable thermodynamic problems thrown up by black vortexes and other phenomena could be understood when extrapolated from a lower dimensional universe. Our universe could be explained as originating from what might simplistically be called a “hologram”.’

  17 ‘Another way to build AI might be to plagiarise the human brain. I’ve already reverse-engineered parts of the brain to figure out how they work. But with advances in three-dimensional scanning equipment it could be possible to map a WHOLE BRAIN. Imagine. How this might work is that our engineers would “slice” a brain into thin strips – like slices of ham at a picnic – then scan each one to build up an overall image. We could then upload that model to a powerful computer and make it think. It might even be possible to scan and upload a REAL mind. Imagine if we scanned your brain in super-high detail and then uploaded you. The next time you woke up you’d be inside a machine, with all your thoughts and memories, and if we did it right your brain would now be super-powerful. You’d be able to think faster and better than you ever did, access databases filled with information, and even talk to other brains inside that same machine. “Hello. How are you? How’s the weather?” Well, there would be no weather where you were, and you wouldn’t need to ask about the weather in other places, because you’d know! And you wouldn’t have that pesky, unreliable body to worry about. We could link potentially millions of these brains together into a massively powerful neural network which could solve some of our greatest problems in the blink of an eye. And the best part about it: you could live in that computer for a long, long time. Potentially until all the stars burn out. But let’s not get ahead of ourselves, hey? Like I said, we’ve only got as far as an ant’s brain!’

  18 ‘… There is one idea common to both religion and science: that a single, all-enveloping force powers creation, and gives unity to everything we do. In religion they give it names like “the One Mind” and the “Universal Spirit”. In science we call it a “Unified Field Theory”, or similar. Is it possible that we speak of the same thing? “There is only one truth,” says the Prophet, “but we each describe it in different ways.” Picture an elephant. Four blind men are trying to describe it while grabbing parts of its anatomy …’

  19 ‘… The universe is a symbiotically connected whole, not a mess of broken pieces. Physicists and mystics know this truth. It is integrated, interconnected, networked, harmonised at every scale, an unbroken and unbreakable chain of creation. Our universe as a whole is contained holographically in each of its parts, unified and distributed by systems of energy and consciousness we still can’t begin to understand. Systems, sub-systems, sub-sub-systems, and on and on into infinity, all knowledge contained within an uncontainable whole, and vibrating through particles, waves, strands and mysterious energy vectors which we, in our primitive ape-stage, find almost unfathomable.’

  20 ‘But creating artificial intelligence is challenging, hey? Have you ever tried it? I have, and I can tell you, it’s no picnic. Or maybe it is. For AI to work you need ideal conditions, a basketful of essentials, and you definitely don’t want ANTs getting in (Asymmetric Neurodisruptive Tangents). So how do you build a mind? The human brain is a miraculous evolutionary accident incorporating uncountable trillion changes over millions of years to become a powerfully aware computing machine. But we don’t have millions of years to wait. We could use genetic algorithms to go through the evolutionary process at fantastic speed, but so far this has only taken us to the point where we can emulate the brain of an ant. (That’s a normal ant, not an ANT. Ha ha.)’

  21 ‘… live high, live free, live on the edge: Vertigo.’

  NOTES ON A HORROR SHOW

  I felt confident in my plan until we left the room. Then panic set in. Because I realised I’d forgotten to consider some basic facts: such as the fact that the small girl might still be out there; or that this time there might not be any strategically placed sheets to mask the carnage in the halls. The sheets were gone. The bodies lay unshrouded. Some bodie
s had been moved. Other bodies, and parts of bodies, and parts of parts of bodies, had been put in piles, categorised according to some unfathomable system: by body part, or by gender, or – as in one pile of severed legs – by the colour of the shoes they wore. Dead fingers clutched crookedly at the air. Our presence seemed to summon two dark shapes from afar. They tottered past, small nods to my watchful eyes. The maids wear elaborately ribboned white aprons over dresses of a coarse clerical-black fabric. Their little white hats are shaped like seashells, and tiny seashell clips hold the ribbons on their dresses in place. The white crosses on their backs were the last things to vanish.

  ‘Still want to do this?’

  ‘Of course. Let’s go.’ It’s a weakness I have that I can’t show any weakness in front of Gladys. Spring Rounds had begun. Two cleaners stood with a mop each and watched us like a pair of primitive hunters as we passed. I heard one whisper, ‘That’s her.’ The carpet was tacky. No hopes of cleaning all this blood, surely.

  ‘I want to go back. Let’s go back.’

  ‘Go back if you want, Daniel.’

  ‘Not alone. I’m not going back alone. Let’s go back.’

  ‘Be calm, Beast. Just look at the ceiling. Fuck, no, don’t look up there.’ Nowhere to look. Not on that morning. They lay everywhere, alone, but often in couples, fingers knotted, arms entangled. Florence and Alma Notoma, whose renowned charity funds the search for alien life in other galaxies, had been killed by single blows to the temples with a narrow tool – probably an ice pick. In many cases quick deaths had been administered – the spinal column in the cervical region severed with a precision strike from a sharp instrument, or the jugular or carotid sliced cleanly – but others had been given elaborate, fantastical, quasi-occult checkouts. There were things I’d only seen in prints of ancient martyrdoms. Have you heard of an execution method called the ‘screaming eagle’? The victim’s lungs are pulled out through an incision in his back so that they look like wings. Then the victim’s penis is removed and placed in his mouth. That’s what they did to Charles Dyson Black, chairman of Daiko Ubiquitous Computing Incorporated. The publishing technologies tycoon Edward Crain had been tied to a wingback chair with a fire hose, then had his intestines removed. He was wearing them like a fancy turban. That funny little line between comedy and horror.