“I’m glad we’ve got to that. So what’s my incentive?”
“Five thousand munits.”
“For killing a man? That’s pretty cheap.”
“Not for a culture who never made a coin in his life. Not for a culture who lives in the street somewhere.”
“So who am I to kill?”
“More incentive for you,” said Nevin Parr, who smiled far too much for Jones’s taste. Jones seldom smiled. He had heard that smiling was a trait left over from the animal ancestry of the birthers; it was a threatening baring of the fangs, in origin. The idea amused him, made him feel more evolved for so seldom contorting his own face in that way. After his smiling heavy pause, Parr continued, “The man we have in mind is Ephraim Mayda.”
Jones raised his hairless eyebrows, grunted, and stirred his coffee. “He’s a union captain. Well guarded. Martyr material.”
“Never mind the repercussions; he’s trouble for the people I’m working for, and worth the lesser trouble of his death.”
Jones lifted his eyes in sudden realization. He almost plunged his hand into his coat for the pistol he had bought from Moodring. “You work for the Plant!” he hissed.
Parr grinned. “I work for myself. But never mind who hired me.”
Jones composed himself outwardly, but his heart pulsed as deeply as the music. “The union is cozy with the syndy.”
“The people I work for can handle the syndy. Mag, those strikers out there hate you...shadows. They’ve lynched a dozen of your kind in a row outside the Plant barrier. If they had their way, every one of your kind would go into the incinerator tomorrow. You yourself got roughed up by a group that got inside the Plant, I hear.” Parr paused knowingly. His spoon clinked in his mug, making a vortex. “They broke in. Trashed machines. Killed a few of your kind. I heard from our mutual friend that they found you naked by the showers, and cut you...badly.”
“It didn’t affect my job,” Jones muttered, not looking the human in the eyes. “And it’s not like I ever used the thing but to piss. So now I piss like a birther woman.”
“Didn’t bother you at all, then? Doesn’t bother you that Mayda works these thugs up like that?”
They were angry. Jones could understand that. If there was anything that made him feel a kinship with the birthers, it was anger. Still, the weight of their resentment...of their loathing...their outright furious hatred...was a labor to bear. They had hurt him. He had never intentionally harmed a birther. It was the Plant’s decision to utilize cultures for half their workforce (more than that would constitute a labor violation, but the conservative candidate for Prime Minister was fighting to make it so that companies did not have to guarantee any ratio of nonclones; freedom of enterprise must be upheld, he cried). Let the strikers mutilate the president of the Plant, instead. Let them hang him and his underlings in the shadow of the Vat. But didn’t they see—even though Jones worked in their place while their unemployment ran out and their families starved like the protestors—that he was as much a victim as they?
This man was under the employ of his enemies. Of course, he himself had once been under their employ. Still, could he trust this man as his partner in crime? No. But he could do business with men he didn’t trust. He wouldn’t turn his back to Moodring, either, but in the end he needed to eat. Five thousand munits. He had never earned a coin until he had escaped the Plant, and never a legal one since.
He could go away. Somewhere hot. Have his tattoo removed. Maybe even his useless vestige of “manhood” restored.
Parr went on, “A third bit of incentive. You’re no fool, so I’ll admit it. The people who hired me...you once worked for them, too. If you decline, well...like I say, they’d like to get a hold of you after what you did to those two men.”
Slowly and deliberately Jones’s eyes lifted, staring from under bony brows. He smiled. It was like a baring of fangs.
“You were doing well, Nevin. Don’t spoil it with unnecessary incentives. I’ll help you kill your man.”
“Sorry.” Ever the smile. “Just that they want this to happen soon, and I don’t want to have to look for a partner from scratch.”
“Why do you need a partner?”
“Well let me tell you...”
2: THE PIMP OF THE INVERSE
From his perch atop the Vat, with its stained streaked sides and its deep liquid burbling, Jones watched night fall in Punktown. The snow was a mere whisking about of loose flakes. Colored lights glowed in the city beyond the Plant, and flashed here and there on the Plant itself, but for less gay purposes. Once in a while there was a bright violet-hued flash in the translucent dome of the shipping department, as another batch of products was teleported elsewhere on this planet, or to another. Perhaps a crew destined to work on an asteroid mine, or to build an orbital space station or a new colony, a new Punktown, on some world not yet raped, merely groped.
He watched a hovertruck with a covered bed like a military troop carrier pull out of the shipping docks, and head for the east gate. A shipment with a more localized destination. Jones imagined its contents, the manufactured goods, seated in two rows blankly facing each other. Cultures not yet tattooed, not yet named. Perhaps the companies they were destined for did not utilize tattoos and decorative names—mocking names, Jones mused—to identify the clone workers. Jones wondered what, if anything, went on in their heads along the drive. They had not yet been programmed for their duties, not yet had their brain drips. He, whose job it had been to bake these golems, had been born already employed, unlike them. They were innocent in their staring mindlessness, better off for their mindlessness, Jones thought, watching the truck vanish into the night. He himself was still a child, but a tainted innocent; the months since his escape had been like a compacted lifetime. Had he been better off in his first days, not yet discontented? Disgruntled? There were those times, he in his newfound pride would hate to admit, that he felt like a human boy who longed to be a wooden puppet again.
He listened to the Vat gurgle with its amniotic solutions, pictured in his mind the many mindless fetuses sleeping without dream in the great silo of a womb beneath him. Yes, Christmas was coming. Jones thought of its origins, of the birther woman Mary’s immaculate conception, and gave an ugly smirk.
He lifted his wrist, gazed at it until luminous numbers like another tattoo materialized. Time to go; he didn’t like being late.
* * *
So that Parr would not guess just how close Jones lived to the Plant, he had told Parr to pick him up over at Pewter Square. To reach it, Jones had to cross the Obsidian Street Overpass. It was a slightly arched bridge of a Ramon design, built of incredibly tough Ramon wood lacquered what once had been a glossy black. It was now smeared and spray-painted, dusty and chipped. Vehicles whooshed across in either direction, filling the covered bridge with roaring noise. The pedestrian walkway was protected from the traffic by a rickety railing, missing sections now patched with chicken wire. Furthermore, homeless people had nested in amongst the recesses of the bridge’s wooden skeleton, most having built elaborate parasite structures of scrap wood, sheets of metal, plastic or ceramic. One elderly and malnourished Choom, a former monk of the dwindling Raloom faith, lived inside a large cardboard box on the front of which, as if it were a temple, he had drawn the stern features of Raloom. The pedestrian walkway was bordered on one side by the railing, on the other by this tiny shanty town. Some of its denizens sold coffee to the passers-by, or newspaper hard copies, or coaxed them behind their crinkly plastic curtains or soggy cardboard partitions for the sale of drugs and sex.
Jones knew one of these shadowy creatures, and as if it had been awaiting him, it half emerged from its shelter as he approached. Its small house was one of the most elaborate; as if to pretend that it belonged to the bridge, in case of an infrequent mass eviction, it had constructed its dwelling of wood and painted it glossy black. The shack even had mock windows, though these were actually dusty mirrors. Jones saw his own solemn face multiply re
flected as he approached, his black ski hat covering his tattoo.
The tiny figure moved spidery limbs as if in slow motion, but its head constantly twitched and gave sudden jolts from side to side, so fast its features blurred. When still, they were puny black holes in a huge hairless head—twice the size of Jones’s—almost perfectly round and with the texture of pumice. No one but Jones would know that this was no ordinary mutant, but a culture defect from the Plant, an immaculate misconception, who had somehow escaped incineration and to freedom. Who would suspect that they had been cloned from the same master? The defect had once stopped Jones and struck up a conversation. Jones’s hairless eyebrows had given him away. When not wearing dark glasses, Jones now wore his ski hat pulled down to his eyes.
“Where are we going at this hour?” crackled the misshapen being, who had named itself Edgar Allan Jones. Magnesium Jones could not understand why a shadow would willingly give itself such a foolish name, but then sometimes he wondered why he hadn’t come up with a new name for himself.
“Restless,” he grunted, stopping in front of the lacquered dollhouse. He heard a tea kettle whistling in there, and muffled radio music that sounded like a child’s toy piano played at an inhuman speed.
“Christmas is in three days, now,” said the flawed clone, cracking a toothless smile. “Will you come see me? We can listen to the radio together. Play cards. I’ll make you tea.”
Jones glanced past Edgar into the miniature house. Could the two of them both fit in there? It seemed claustrophobic. And too intimate a scene for his taste. Still, he felt flattered, and couldn’t bring himself to flat-out refuse. Instead, he said, “I may not be around here that day...but if I am...we’ll see.”
“You have never been inside...why not come in now? I can...”
“I can’t now, I’m sorry; I have...some business.”
The globe of a head blurred, halted abruptly, the smile shaken into a frown. “That Moodring friend of yours will lead you to your death.”
“He isn’t my friend,” Jones said, and started away.
“Don’t forget Christmas!” the creature croaked.
Jones nodded over his shoulder but kept on walking, feeling strangely guilty for not just stepping inside for one cup of tea. After all, he was quite early for his appointment.
* * *
“Ever been in a car before?” Parr asked, smiling, as he pulled from the curb into the glittering dark current of night traffic.
“Taxi,” Jones murmured, stiff as a mannequin.
“Mayda lives at Hanging Gardens; it’s a few blocks short of Beaumonde Square. He’s not starving like the folks he works up; he has a nice apartment to go home to. It’s that syndy money.”
“Mm.”
“Hey,” Parr looked over at him, “don’t be nervous. Just keep thinking about your lines. You’re going to be a vid star, my man...a celebrity.”
3: THE CARVEN WARRIOR
Parr let Jones off, and the hovercar disappeared around the corner. Jones cut across a snow-caked courtyard as instructed, his boots squeaking as if he tramped across styrofoam. He slipped between apartment units, climbed a set of stairs to another, and found a door propped open for him. Parr motioned him inside, then let the door fall back in place. Jones heard it lock. He didn’t ask Parr how he had got inside the vestibule.
Together they padded down a gloomy corridor across a carpet of peach and purple diamonds. The walls and doors that flanked the men were pristine white. This place reminded Jones of the cleaner regions of the Plant; primarily, the seldom seen administration levels. He listened to the moving creak of Parr’s faux leather jacket. Both of them wore gloves, and Jones still had on his ski hat and a scarf wound around his neck against the hellish cold he could never get used to.
A lift took them to the sixth floor. Then, side by side, they made their way down the hall to the door at its very end. Quite easily, Parr knocked, and then beamed at his companion.
Jones pulled off his ski hat at last, and pushed it into his pocket. In the dim light, his hairless pate gleamed softly, the fiery halo pricked into his skin burning darkly. He hid both hands behind his back.
“Who is it?” asked a voice over an intercom. Above the door, a tiny camera eye, small as an ant’s feeler, must now be watching them.
“Enforcer, sir,” said Parr, his voice uncharacteristically serious. And he did look the part in his black uniform; leather jacket, beetle-like helmet, holstered weapons. He had cut his hair to a butch and shaved to a neat goatee. He held one of Jones’s elbows. “May I have a word?”
“What’s going on?”
“Your neighbor down the hall reported a suspicious person, and we found this culture lurking around. He claims he’s not an escapee, but was purchased by an Ephraim Mayda.”
“Mr. Mayda doesn’t own any cultures.”
“May I please speak with Mr. Mayda himself?” Parr sighed irritably.
A new voice came on. “I know that scab!” it rumbled. “He escaped from the Plant, murdered two human beings!”
“What? Are you sure of this?”
“Yes! He was from the Ovens department. It was on the news!”
“May I speak with you in person, Mr. Mayda?”
“I don’t want that killer freak in my house!”
“I have him manacled, sir. Look, I need to take down a report on this...your recognizing him is valuable.”
“Whatever. But you’d better have him under control...”
The two men heard the lock clack off. The knob was turned from the other side, and as the door opened Jones pushed through first, reaching his right hand inside his coat as he went. He saw two faces inside, both half-identical in that both wore expressions of shock, horror, as he ripped his small silvery block of a pistol from its holster to thrust at their wide stares. But one man was bleached blond and one man was dark-haired and Jones shot the blond in the face. A neat, third nostril breathed open beside one of the other two, but the back of the blond’s head was kicked open like saloon doors. The darker man batted his eyes at the blood that spattered him. The report had been as soft as a child’s cough, the blond crumpled almost delicately to the floor, Jones and then Parr stepped onto the lush white carpet and Parr locked the door after them.
“Who are you?” Mayda cried, raising his hands, backing against the wall.
“Into the living room,” Jones snarled, flicking the gun. Mayda glanced behind him, slid his shoulders along the wall and backed through a threshold into an expanse of plush parlor with a window overlooking the snowy courtyard of Hanging Gardens. Parr went to tint the window full black.
“I’ll give you money, listen...” Mayda began.
“You do remember me, don’t you?” Jones hissed, leveling the gun at the paunchy birther’s groin. “You emasculated me, remember that?”
“I didn’t! That was those crazy strikers that got in the Plant that time...that was out of my hands!”
“So how do you know about it? They told you. It was a big joke, wasn’t it?”
“What do you want? You can have anything!” The union captain’s eyes fearfully latched onto Parr as he slipped something odd from his jacket. What looked like three gun barrels were unfolded and spread into a tripod. Atop it, Parr screwed a tiny vidcam. A green light came on, indicating that it had begun filming. Parr remained behind the camera, and Mayda flashed his eyes back to Jones to see what he had to say.
Jones hesitated. What he had to say was rehearsed, but the lines were a jumble in his head, words exploded to fragments by the silent shot that had killed the blond. He had killed a man...for the third time. It came naturally to him, like a brain-dripped skill; it was a primal animal instinct, survival. So why, in its aftermath, should he feel this...disconcertion?
His eyes darted about the room. He had never been in such a place. Tables fashioned from some green glassy stone. Sofas and chairs of white with a silvery lace of embroidery. A bar, a holotank. On the walls, a modest art collection. Atop several t
ables, shelves and pedestals, various small Ramon sculptures, all carved from an iridescent white crystal. Animals, and a Ramon warrior rendered in amazing detail considering the medium, from his lion-like head to the lance or halberd he brought to bear in anticipation of attack. Each piece must be worth a fortune. And yet there were men and women camped outside the Plant who were on a hunger strike, emaciated. And those who were emaciated but not by choice. And Jones recalled that woman sitting in her shroud of flame.
His disconcertion cleared. Jones returned a molten gaze to the terrified birther. The anger in his voice was not some actor’s fakery, even if the words were not his own.
“I’m here to make a record, Mr. Mayda...of the beginning of a rebellion, and the first blow in a war that won’t stop until we clones are given the same rights as you natural born.”
It was clever, he had mused earlier; the Plant would be rid of the thorn in their lion’s paw, and yet the law and the syndy would not hold the Plant responsible. No, it would be a dangerous escaped culture who killed Ephraim Mayda; a fanatic with grand delusions. Still, Jones had considered, wouldn’t this make birther workers at the Plant, unemployed workers outside and a vast majority of the public in general all the more distrusting of cultures, opposed to their widespread use? Wouldn’t this hurt the Plant’s very existence? And yet, they surely knew what they were doing better than he. After all, he was just a culture...educated by brain drip, by listening to human workers talk and to the radio programs the human workers listened to. Educated on the street since that time. But these men sat at vast glossy tables, making vast decisions. It was beyond his scope. The most he could wrap his thoughts around was payment of five thousand munits...and Parr had given him half of that when he climbed into his hovercar tonight.
“Hey,” Mayda blubbered, “what are you saying...look...please! Listen...”
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