Solaris Rising 3 - The New Solaris Book of Science Fiction

by Ian Whates

  Kris moved faster than I did – or could – easing her down, taking her hands in his. He looked up at me. His skin, I realized numbly, hadn’t changed like the others’. He said something I couldn’t hear over the bedlam.

  Not that I needed to.

  Walczak.

  Maybe he’d murdered Baptiste. Maybe he hadn’t. But this stunt at her funeral?

  This he’d planned.

  FINDING WALCZAK WAS easy. He’d stayed by the doors, surrounded by adoring masses and the media. I found myself more invisible than usual, being the only one not generating a personal circle of light, and moved close enough to Belle Baptiste to smell her perfume.

  I resisted the temptation to whisper “nice funeral” in her ear. Besides, Walczak was holding forth.

  “– permanent? Yes, of course. ‘Bright Skin’ is Star Power’s latest friv-mod, guaranteed to last until the owner wishes a new look. And that, my friends, will be as easy as drinking your morning coffee, won’t it?”

  Cheers and whistles drowned out the broadcaster’s next question.

  “– all volunteers. And why not? This will go down in history” – Walczak paused, as if savouring the words – “as the first flash-mod in history. Won’t be the last, will it?”

  “Nooo!!!!!”

  They were all certifiable. Certifiable and drunk.

  “I didn’t agree to this!” Media eyes zoomed close as Hale staggered forward, hands grabbing for arms and shoulders, sliding over glowing skin. “You’d no right to mod me!”

  The unicorn was beside her, horn lowered. I was amazed at his restraint. Wouldn’t last.

  “I warned you not to drink, my dear Kamea.”

  Walczak had put his ‘Bright Skin’ mod in the fountains?

  Daisie’d said there’d be a breakthrough one day, something to take the sting – literally – out of mods. She’d called it a world-changer.

  Then, I’d chuckled. The urge to vomit almost overwhelmed me. What if I hadn’t used the liner today?

  I’d be glowing. And look ridiculous.

  And unable to do my job. A glowing cop?

  More importantly – far more importantly – if so, he’d done what everyone said was years away: to deliver a mod into a body through ingestion.

  There must have been another question. “– being available through regular retailers is the long-term goal, but for now we’re giving ‘Bright Skin’ away. This is the future. Mods without pain. It’s the end of expensive synth clinics. Drink up to be what you want. Whatever you want! The essential precursors went out in the latest shipments from ’Strains.”

  Shipments Baptiste hadn’t tasted, being dead. By a staff she hadn’t purged of Walczak’s influence, being dead.

  I had him.

  No, I realized a sickening heartbeat later.

  He had us.

  Silence spread through the darkened hall as even the drunks realized something more was happening here. Something dreadful. Hale whimpered. She wasn’t alone.

  “The precursor transinfects the DNA of every cell in your body, ready to accept whatever mod-code you ingest. No need for nanovectors. Total efficiency. Mods activate the moment they enter cells.” Walczak chuckled. “Unless stopped. The real market will be for what I call ‘code-glue.’ If you want to stay as you are, simply take code-glue to suppress the precursor. Elegant, isn’t it?”

  Hale was speaking frantically to her elbow – shutting down distribution centres, flushing tanks, trying to stop this.

  Too little, too late. “First you had to murder Baptiste,” I said, the words echoing. Media eyes whirled to focus on me, but it was the department I hoped heard. The department, and one other. “M.J. was on to you, wasn’t she? Your little plan to own the world.” The murder weapon hadn’t been Baptiste’s mod; it had been whatever Walczak – or her daughter – had put into her food or drink. How didn’t matter. It never had. This was why. “Aren’t you rich enough?”

  Walczak’s laugh drew back the eyes and sent cold fingers down my spine. “Let there be light!” he ordered.

  The hall lights came on, washing away the glow, turning everyone back to a semblance of normal. But no one was. They held out their arms, bunnies and pseudo-fish and elves. Black words strutted in their skin. A name. ‘Bolivar Walczak.’

  “Wealth doesn’t go to the grave, Inspector. I’ve rewritten humanity and signed my name in every one of your cells. I will live forev –”

  Blood, not another word, spurted from his mouth as the unicorn’s horn went through him.

  IT WAS MURDER and I solved it. After a reprimand, I was back on my beat. Kris? He’s a fucking folk hero.

  The rest of us? Life’s about change, my Daisie says. Humanity’s been changed, again, this time at one man’s whim, this time in a way that accelerates the pace of our evolution.

  No one’s willing to say what we’ll become.

  My guess?

  I’ll still have a job.

  DOUBLE BLIND

  TONY BALLANTYNE

  Tony Ballantyne is the author of the Penrose and Recursion series of novels as well as many acclaimed short stories that have appeared in magazines and anthologies around the world. He has been nominated for the BSFA and Philip K Dick awards. His latest novel, Dream London, was published in October 2013. He is currently working on the follow up, Dream Paris, due for publication in September 2015.

  AFTER THE COLD swab and the smell of antiseptic, after the prick in the arm, after the masked medics folded up their cases and filed from the room and the door was locked, after that, we were left to wait.

  Five people, five seats, five beds, one table. A little kitchen, a little cubicle for the chemical toilet, another for the shower. A long mirror set in one wall.

  We sat around the table. Five people, fingers clasped together, fingers laid flat on the table, fingers tapping nervously. Five people looking at each other, wondering.

  “What are you thinking about, Paul?”

  I smiled at Liza. She was the youngest of us, barely out of her teenage years, not quite filled into her body, with the gaunt, half-starved look of someone who had been born in a town far from the employment zones.

  “I was wondering if this was itching,” I said, rubbing my arm.

  “It’s all in your mind,” said Solomon. “You just relax, young man. Five days and we’ll all be out of here. You’ll see.” I didn’t buy his wise old man act. If he knew so much, what was he doing in here?

  “It’s not in your mind,” exclaimed Groone, nervously. “Look Paul, it’s flaring up red beneath the sticking plaster.” He looked at his own arm. “Just like mine! Oh shit!”

  He stood up suddenly, sending his chair clattering backwards across the glazed tiles.

  “Now, Groone, stay calm.” That was Solomon’s voice. I was too busy looking at my own arm, now itching like crazy. Could I see a rash?

  “Stay calm?” Groone gave a laugh that was completely without humour. “Hell, it’s getting worse!”

  “That’s because you’re scratching it,” said Milly, plump and complacent. Her own arm was smooth beneath the plaster, I noticed.

  “No, I’ve not touched it! Hell, it itches!” Groone’s voice was shrill with panic. He walked around the table, twisting our forearms around so that he could get a better look at them. “Look, Liza has the mark, too. Look at us, Paul. You can see it growing.”

  He placed his arm next to mine. We watched the blistering red rash spreading.

  “See?” he shouted. “But mine is worse! Much, much worse! And it’s spreading faster, it’s spreading faster!” The panic in Groone’s voice was contagious. Solomon and I were on our feet now, dancing back and forth. Liza was licking her lips, looking from her arm to Groone’s.

  “Who was injected first?” asked Solomon. His face betrayed the assumed calm of his voice. “That would make a difference, wouldn’t it?”

  “We were all done at the same time,” said Liza. “I’m sure we were.”

  “No,” said Groo
ne. “The doctor had trouble with the seal on my syringe. I was done last. My rash really is spreading the fastest! I got the strongest dose!”

  “Now,” said Solomon. “You heard what they said. There isn’t necessarily a strongest dose. They don’t always work that way...”

  They had this time, I thought. Groone’s arm was burning red now. Liza was pulling at her fingers.

  “Take off your rings!” she called. “Take them off whilst you still can!”

  I didn’t have any rings, but both Groone and Liza were festooned with jewellery. The fingers on Groone’s left hand were already swollen like red sausages. He was pulling at the silver knot ring on his middle finger.

  “It won’t come off!” he said. Solomon took hold of it.

  “Don’t yank it!” called Milly. “You’ll make it worse. Here, use this.” Milly had a handful of white soap. She rubbed his hand, lubricating it. Liza’s rings clattered to the floor. Silver and indian gold, black metacarbon and verdigised copper bouncing on the floor.

  “I think my arm is swelling up too,” said Solomon, matter-of-factly. Mine definitely was. I sat down and breathed deeply, tried to remain calm. Groone grabbed at my shoulder, his eyes were wide. I could smell the acetone hunger of his breath.

  “Too hot!” said Groone. “Too hot!”

  I could feel the heat coming from his skin. Liza was undressing, pulling off her loose top, stepping out of her pants, quite unselfconscious.

  “Stay still!” said Milly, pulling Groone’s hand free from my shoulder. “You need to get those rings off more than you need to undress.” She was rubbing soap over his fingers, her plump pink hands massaging them, raising thin bubbles. “There we go,” she said, easing the heavy silver knot over his knuckle.

  “I feel sick,” said Groone. “I’m going to throw. Need to get undressed...”

  I felt sick too. I was itching all over. Solomon pulled off his shirt. The skin of his chest was raising up in bumps.

  “I’ve got all the rings,” said Milly. “Strip off, Groone!”

  “My head hurts,” said Groone, to the room in general. “Have you got that too?”

  Liza moaned something in reply. She was feeling her way over to one of the beds. She collapsed on it, face down.

  “Liza! Are you okay?”

  “Headache. Don’t shout.”

  Milly hadn’t shouted, though her voice echoed around in my skull. A headache charged in behind my eyes.

  Groone screamed.

  “My head! My head! It’s going to explode!”

  Solomon was scratching his chest. Liza was writhing on the bed. Only Milly seemed untouched by the symptoms. I tried to raise myself up, to make my way to the bed. The room moved with me.

  Groone fell thrashing to the floor.

  “You okay, Paul?” That was Solomon.

  “I think I need to lie down. I don’t think I can get there.”

  “Let me help you,” said Milly.

  “No, get Groone onto the bed.”

  “He’ll fall off,” said Milly. “I’ll pull the chairs away. He can’t bang into anything.”

  Groone’s arm swept across the floor, sending the discarded rings scattering in flashes of silver and gold.

  Milly scraped the chairs back behind the table. Groone was screaming now. I was itching like crazy. My head was pounding. I lay down on the bed. I could hear Liza whimpering on the next bed, her long dark body twitching.

  A retching noise. The sharp smell of vomit. More retching, more vomit. That was me.

  I AWOKE TO see Liza gazing down at me with bloodshot eyes.

  “How are you?” she asked.

  I touched my head. It felt like a bell. Tap it and it would resonate.

  “I ache all over, but I’ll be okay, I think.”

  She nodded. “Groone’s dead.”

  I nodded, and my head rang with the movement. Her words didn’t surprise me. I felt half dead myself, and Groone had clearly got the highest dose.

  “Poor bastard,” I said. “How are you?”

  “Not too good. I’ve got a splitting headache, but they say that I’m okay.” She jerked her head towards the one way mirror that stretched along the wall. “They say that my brain didn’t swell in my skull like Groone’s did.”

  I sat up. Milly was standing in the little kitchen, making scrambled eggs. Solomon sat on his bed, watching her.

  “We’re still going ahead, then?”

  “What do you think?”

  That was the deal. Why waste time arguing about it?

  “I’m the last one awake,” I said. “Where’s Groone’s body?”

  “Milly and I put him in the storage locker.”

  “You should have let me do it. You had a worse dose than I did.”

  “I’m younger than you. Besides, it’s not just about the dose. It’s how it affects you. I might get it worse next time. You can clear up then.”

  I gazed at her, wondering. Next time? I was thinking. They were really prepared to do this again? Of course they were. That was the deal.

  “Come to the table,” said Milly. “Breakfast is almost ready.”

  Solomon got up from his bed and sat down at the little table. Liza busied herself setting out the cutlery.

  “Hey, let me,” I said.

  “You can barely stand up,” said Liza.

  She was right. Whatever had been in the first dose had affected my balance. The walk to the dining table was a seasick, roller coaster ride that took me on the waltzers around the little room.

  Milly moved around the table, spooning scrambled eggs onto our plates.

  “I don’t feel hungry,” I said.

  “They said we should all eat,” said Milly. “They said we’d feel better faster.”

  “Isn’t there any toast?” asked Solomon.

  I opened my mouth to tell him to get it himself, but Milly silenced me with a look.

  “It’s coming right up,” she said.

  Liza carried a big jug of coffee to the table, then returned to the little kitchen to fetch four mugs.

  “Next dose is tonight at six,” Liza announced.

  “So soon?” I said. “Bastards!”

  “It’s supposed to be a kindness,” said Liza. “The waiting is the worst part.”

  “It’s the most cost effective, I bet,” said Solomon.

  “Not at the breakfast table,” said Milly, taking her place. “Let’s enjoy the meal.”

  “Amen to that, Sister,” said Solomon, picking up his fork and scooping up a fluffy pile. “Mmmm! These are good.”

  They were. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d had real eggs. I scraped creamy butter all over my toast, watched it melt into an oily yellow pool in the middle of the brown toast, saw the little seeds in the bread float up.

  “It’s almost worth dying, just to taste these,” said Solomon.

  “Groone never got to taste them,” I said.

  “Not at the breakfast table,” repeated Milly. “Liza, will you pour the coffee?”

  “Let me,” I said. I lifted the heavy jug and splashed hot brown liquid onto the table.

  Liza gently took the jug from my hand.

  THE DAY PASSED slowly. Solomon seemed quite happy just to watch the video feeds they pumped into the room, occasionally tapping out his thoughts on his console. The tip tapping of his fingers on the plastic screen irritated me, and I bit my lip and tried to ignore it. We all had to keep personal logs as part of the testing process; they wanted to be able to examine our mental as well as our physical state.

  Milly had brought a reader. She tapped its screen in counterpoint to Solomon, flicking through the pages of glossy magazines one by one. Tip tap tip tap tip tap.

  I chatted with Liza. Partly to distract myself, partly because she was so pretty in her half-starved way.

  “Are you really going to take the second dose tonight?” I asked her.

  “Why not?” she replied. “What’s changed from when we first came in here?”


  “You almost died,” I said. She was a young woman. I was just a little too old. That didn’t stop me worrying about her. “Didn’t you?” I said. “You must have got the second strongest dose.”

  “You got it worse. We both lived. Anyway, I’ve had my bad dose. If anything, the odds are more in my favour next time.”

  “It doesn’t work that way,” I said. “The coin doesn’t have a memory. Flip heads ten times, there’s still a 50% probability of it coming up heads on the eleventh go.”

  “Don’t tell me that.” Liza put her hands to her ears. “I don’t want to hear it.”

  She was silent, thinking. I looked at her face, her green eyes. Give her a good diet and the chance for regular exercise and she would be a real looker. Match that to her quiet confidence and she would have been incredible.

  “Anyway,” she continued, “what would be the point of me stopping the doses now? My family wouldn’t get paid, there’d have been no point in me coming in here in the first place. Last night would have been for nothing.”

  It was a fair point, I suppose.

  “You came in because of your family?” I said.

  “My mother was killed by gangrene. My father died of blood poisoning. I’m the oldest. Someone has to earn some money.” She nodded to herself. “What about you? Why are you in here?”

  “Something similar.” I wonder if she read something in my eyes. I guessed that she didn’t believe me.

  Milly put down her reader and came to sit with us.

  “How are you feeling?” she asked me.

  “Much better. I wish you wouldn’t fuss.”

  “Why are you here, Milly?” Liza asked, and I was grateful to her for changing the subject.

  “I’m earning some money for the grandchildren. You’ve got to put away a little bit for them, haven’t you? Especially these days.”

  Liza was open-mouthed with wonder.

  “Is that it?” she said. “You mean you don’t have to be in here?”