Evolution Z

by Everist J Miller

  "Not in time," Marcia's voice rose. "This could go on forever. You're going to keep me in this place for a long time with no idea when I'll get out." Then she added, "If ever." Before Cynthia could insist further, Marcia said, "It's pretty simple. He sent a charge to the black box chip. A real electric charge that he created. Software to hardware. Program to the physical world." She paused. "Happy? Now you have everything. Can I go now?"

  "How?" Cynthia asked.

  "See?" Marcia asked rhetorically. She turned to all of them to direct the question to all present. "More questions. For every answer there'll be more questions. This. Will. Never. End. We'll be trapped in here and the police will come, and we'll all be dead. Maybe now's our only chance to get out."

  There was a tense silence.

  "She used the Z-word," Marcia pointed at Cynthia. "She's so desperate to keep us here that she's going to leave us fodder for the police."

  Cynthia's face was flushed, betraying her anger.

  "Let's get out of here," Marcia pleaded to all but Cynthia. "While we still can."

  Silence. Then it was broken by a spritely young man entering the room. He had keen eyes. "It's a call for Ken Field," he said, holding out a phone in his outstretched hand. His voice was breathless, his eyes wide open.

  "It's a lockup," Marcia snapped. "He's not allowed to take a call." She looked squarely at Cynthia. Cynthia nodded in agreement.

  "Who is it?" Ken asked.

  "He's not allowed to know," Marcia interrupted. "Don't. Tell. Him." Again, she turned to Cynthia. Cynthia nodded.

  "He said he had to talk-"

  "No," Marcia said.

  "But he threatened to tell the police-"

  "Stop talking!" Marcia demanded. Ken wasn't allowed to know what it was about.

  "Hang on," Cynthia said. "Tell the police what?"

  Marcia motioned to say something but, before she could start, Cynthia said, "Quiet." Marcia scowled. In response, Cynthia said, "If it's a threat about the police then I need to deal with it. I will not risk my - all of our - lives Marcia." She looked around the room. "I'm sure everyone here agrees with me." All present except for Marcia nodded.

  "What if he knows something about my son?" Marcia asked. "Maybe it's about him."

  "Hardly," Cynthia said. "He wants to speak to Ken." She rolled her eyes.

  "He's pretty impatient," the young man interrupted. "He's not going to hold on forever."

  "Marcia's right," Ken said. All but the young man turned to him in surprise. "I can't take the call." He looked sheepish.

  Cynthia didn't look at Ken. It was as if he didn't exist. She motioned for the phone.

  Ken moved between the young man and Cynthia. "It's a lockdown," Ken said to the young man. "We can't take calls. "

  "Worried about something?" Cynthia asked Ken. Ken shook his head. Too eagerly. "Then get out of my way," Cynthia said.

  "Please," Ken said. "I don't want special treatment." He kept himself between Cynthia and the phone.

  "I'm not doing taking the call for you Ken. What you want doesn't count anyway," Cynthia said to him. She pushed Ken off balance. He staggered out of the way.

  Cynthia turned to the young man. "Give me the phone."

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  "WELL, GO AHEAD," Queenie said. "What you waiting for?"

  R47 was short of time.

  When he had been Ray, R47 heard a news story about a murder on a street corner near the entrance to the city. It had happened on the cusp of the Shit Belt in which he ironically found himself now.

  In the story, a woman with a knife had approached the man. She had tied him up and then tortured him by burning the head of his penis with a cigarette lighter. She applied the flame to the tip for ten second intervals, literally cooking it until it charred. Afterwards, she amputated each of his fingers, pulled out all of his front teeth and then stabbed him three hundred times.

  The story had commentary from a self-defence expert who had derided the man for allowing himself to be tied up. "When she first approached him," the defence expert had said, "that was the time to act."

  Queenie had already threaded string tightly around R47's wrists. So according to the story, R47 has failed to act at the right time. Fuck.

  R47 concentrated on the nerve endings in his hands. A glimmer of hope. The string was old and brittle. It's not like the homeless scavengers could afford anything of quality. They picked up what they could and the Shit Belt contained… well… shit.

  R47 heard a voice in his head. "Now's the time to act," it said.

  But how could he get out of this? It wasn't just a matter of breaking the string, getting up and running away. He had to exit console mode, then somehow overcome a fundamental constraint that made him helpless against any human being. The black box. A lot to contend with.

  He felt Sharpie grip his mask and apply gentle pressure to remove it. The mask resisted. It remained tightly in place.

  "You'll have to try harder than that," Queenie said. She ceased fumbling with the string and moved to Sharpie's side. "I can get it off," she said.

  "I'm trying not to be too rough," Sharpie said. His brow furrowed in annoyance.

  Queenie pulled at R47'a mask. "How does this stupid thing work?" she asked in a strained voice.

  Sharpie rolled his eyes. "It's not that easy then," he said.

  R47 felt an uncomfortable pressure as if his face was about to be lifted from his skull. He heard the heavy breaths escaping from Queenie's lungs. She let out a grunt and then withdrew. "Well you're the clever one," she said to Sharpie. "You work it out instead of making rude comments to me."

  Now's the time, R47 said to himself. It was even more the time, if that were possible, because Queenie was suddenly distracted.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  MIKE HAD TO find Ken Field's contact number and get the hell out of there. His fingers fumbled with the computer keyboard. He kept missing the right keys and had to go back to correct his typing. Doug stood over his chair like an ogre.

  "Get on with it, my friend."

  Doug's finger stabbed Mike in the back. Mike cowled.

  "Okay, okay."

  "Get. On. With. It." Stab. Stab.

  Mike winced. The computer kept freezing. The connection was slow as he had expected.

  Leave me alone, Mike's mind screamed. The more Doug poked him in the back, the greater Mike's urge to cry. Doug was a bully all right, just like Mike's father. Mike cowered, anticipating a strike. His father had conditioned him to expect it. It didn't eventuate. Instead, the stabbing continued.

  His contact list finally loaded. He scrolled through it.

  "Don't scroll through the whole list. Search for it. You're wasting time, my friend." Stab.

  "It'll take time to load again if I do that, okay."

  Doug grunted. "Really, you make it look so painfully hard, my friend. I am going to have to look through it myself in a minute."

  Another threat, Mike thought. A parent would say the same thing.

  Mike was desperate to find the entry with Ken Field's number. He realised that he should have kept a better system. He had become lazy with adding contacts and for some stupid reason they weren't sorted in alphabetical order. It wasn't all his fault. You'd expect the software to sort by name. The quality wasn't yet up to scratch since the V-Crisis.

  Fear crawled to the nape of Mike's neck as he struggled to resist a shiver. What if he didn't find it? Doug would torture him. God knows how. He could feel stinging salty sweat running into his eyes.

  Shit. Where is it? Mike asked himself.

  "Can I trust you, Mike?" Doug asked in a soft voice. Mike nodded. "Can I trust you?" Doug repeated, his face so close to Mike's that Mike could smell his ghastly breath. It was like having his nose deep in shit.

  "Then find it!" Doug screamed.

  Mike seized involuntarily. He could hear Doug chuckle. That damn bastard.

  The world swirled around Mike. He was nauseated. It was like he would faint. Doug
shoved Mike's chair. Mike was sandwiched between the desk and chair. A sharp pain struck his abdomen.

  Mike squeezed his eyes shut. The pain was so severe that he could only scream silently.

  "Are you sleeping?" Doug asked.

  "No," Mike squealed. He lifted his head and his eyes widened. Ken Field's details were on the screen in front of him.

  The adrenaline enabled Mike to find a voice. "I found it. I found it," Mike said in a gravely voice. He pointed "There it is, okay."

  ###

  There were two men, one beach ball round, the other tall and skinny. The lanky man was seated in a chair facing a bright screen, his eyes alight with excitement. He pointed at some glowing text. "Do you want me to print Ken's details for you?" He asked. "Then I can get back to the office, okay. And you can go to your engagement."

  The larger man grinned, a glint in his penetrating blue eyes. Not a chance, he thought. He would not let the other man go. He was having too much fun toying with him. He hadn't yet decided whether the other man should live. Still, he knew too much. Keep him as a toy or get rid of him. His life in my hands, the large man said to himself. He leaned over the back of the chair, his weight tipping it like a seesaw. Without warning his posture changed, and he pressed his chest against the back of the chair.

  The larger man slid his arm, thick as a python, around the other's neck. He laughed inside. I bet he'll panic, maybe beg. The thought of it turned him on. He would see where his impulses carried him.

  "Doug… What are you doing?" The skinny man instinctively clutched his hands on the other's arm, trying in vain to free himself. He was indeed on the verge of panic. Maybe Doug was playing with him. Yes, he thought. Just playing.

  "I'm going to show you something, my friend." There was nothing to show. The larger man was teasing. He didn't know what he would do or where this would go. He was amusing himself; wanting the other man to keep guessing.

  "Doug. Please."

  "You will like it. Well, you will like what's it called. Ask me, my friend. Ask what it is."

  "Doug, I don't know, okay. Let me go. Just let me go."

  "That's not it, my friend. I want you to ask me." The attacker was whispering his words into the ear of his victim. There was an erotic pleasure in courting his victim's demise.

  "Doug, please."

  The slender man struggled. His attacker reached his other arm around the back of his victim's neck, closing a triangle that compressed his victim's arteries; the arteries on either side of his neck. The blood was blocked from reaching his brain.

  The larger man's arm squeezed inward, compressing the other man's arteries. That action ensured there was no escape.

  The smaller man struggled to get oxygen. He tried to squeeze air in. He couldn't. His world froze. All that was real was his struggle to release himself from the weight of other's grip. His head felt like it was an inflating balloon; the blood trapped in his brain, swelling it. He felt the heat of the pressure intensifying inside his head. He tried to remove the arms in vain. His struggle slowed; his energy drained. Struggle turned to panic. He couldn't force any meaningful thought or reason out of his mind, only alarm. Reflex. Writhing. All the time a voice in his ear asking the same question over and over. "Can I trust you Mike?"

  Black spots appeared in the seated man's vision. They grew into uneven growing pitch black puddles. The room swam, becoming unreal. He saw his entire existence swallowed by the growing void. Then nothing. His consciousness was depleted.

  The larger man knew that if he let go now, his victim would live. The man's life was entirely and literally in his hands. He felt a deep satisfaction like a quenched thirst.

  Better decide, he thought. He'll be dead in a couple of seconds.

  Then on to bigger things. Getting himself another prototype headset to spark a new deadlier, and hence more exciting, conflict.

  ###

  Marcia's anger dissolved into fear of the police. She had been so caught up in challenging Cynthia, the significance of the telephone call hadn't sunk in. Until now. That's what adrenaline does.

  The keen-to-please young man delivered the phone to Cynthia. He's sucking up to Cynthia because he doesn't know what's going on, Marcia thought. His life was also in danger.

  Now that she had the phone, Cynthia motioned for Ken to move close to her. Marcia drifted towards them.

  "I'll put it on speaker," Cynthia whispered turning to Ken. "That way I can get you to speak if I need you."

  The colour drained from Ken's face. With furrowed brows Cynthia added with a pointed stare, "But you will only say exactly what I prompt you to say." She looked around the experiment room. To the burly guards, the young man and Marcia, and said back to Ken with emphasis, "All lives are at stake here."

  The young man recoiled. His poise disintegrated. Cynthia and Ken were too busy to dismiss him. He retreated to a distant corner of the room.

  Marcia's eyes dropped. Did she want to listen in to the call? It could only be bad news. Would it extend her imprisonment? Most likely.

  Marcia felt an immediate urge to run. Adrenaline again. Maybe she could make it while Cynthia was distracted with the call. But could she make it? Hell there were guards everywhere in the complex. Where would she go?

  "Hello," Cynthia said in her most polite voice. "Who am I speaking to?"

  "I asked for Ken Field." It was a gruff male voice. He panted when he spoke, like he was climbing a mountain.

  "He's here," Cynthia said. She motioned Ken to speak.

  "Hello," Ken said. His voice wavered. Marcia could relate to his hesitation. That didn't mean she felt sorry for him. She could never feel sympathy for Ken Field. "What can we do for you?" Ken asked.

  "I don't know who answered the phone. She can do nothing for me, my friend. I only want to talk to you." His voice was abrupt. Marcia's heart sank.

  Ken shrugged. Cynthia hit the mute button. "Tell him I'm your boss," she said. There was an urgency in her voice. She turned off mute by hitting the button again and then motioned for Ken to speak. Marcia had seen Cynthia alternate between voice and mute many times in previous conference calls. Normally, Cynthia would wait for a pause in the conversation or when others were talking between themselves. She would take her time with one ear to the call. This time she switched instantly, her head pivoting.

  "She's my boss," Ken parroted. His voice was robotic.

  "I see," the man chuckled. "I've got things the wrong way around. I had better talk to her, my friend instead of my wasting time with you."

  Cynthia was evidently relieved and looked ready to take charge.

  Marcia sighed. It was better that Cynthia spoke to the stranger. Ken wasn't up to it. Again Marcia recognised Ken's incompetence. He had presided over his own fiefdom but crashed in the wider group. She remembered the lunches he used to chair, the glutenous portions of food on his plate and his air of arrogance. That's where he prospered. Now he was grovelling and subservient. In a crisis he was ineffective. Or maybe he was worried about something.

  "My name is Cynthia. Who am I speaking with?" Cynthia's voice was tentative.

  "And your last name?" the man asked.

  Cynthia paused. Her face froze. Was she holding her breath?

  Cynthia's mouth wobbled. "Smith," she said. "Cynthia Smith. "

  "That's a very common second name," the man said. "My name is also Smith. Doug Smith. How about that, my friend?"

  "A happy coincidence," Cynthia said with a grave face. She must have realised that the man knew she was lying. It was obvious. She seemed to crumble. What a waste of time it had been trying to remain on her good side.

  Marcia realised she didn't have to be that smart to be valued.

  "I have something of yours," the man said. He paused as if for effect. "It's a special headset. It was given to us by one of your people."

  "We don't have any special headsets," Cynthia said.

  "Now now. Don't play games," the man said. "Your subordinate gave it to us. The one I ask
ed for when I called."

  "Ken Field," Cynthia whispered, as if to herself. Her lips curled in a grimace and here cheeks reddened. After a pause she aimed a death stare at Ken. He recoiled.

  Oh my God, Marcia thought. That bastard. She knew it. He was so eager to get the prototype out; to test it. Marcia's anger towards Ken was immeasurable. Her imprisonment in the lockdown; the danger to her son. All for Ken Field.

  "Who else?" the man asked.

  Ken motioned to leave the room. Cynthia raised her hand for him to stop. She motioned a guard to stand next to him. Ken's face sank.

  "I take it you're calling us to return it," Cynthia said. She had regained composure.

  "Well, it has malfunctioned, my friend," the man said. "But I don't want to waste time returning it. There's always so much red tape. You send the specs to me and I will fix it. I just need full detailed information. I'll give you a remote server address to send me what I need."

  "What kind of malfunction? Is it attached to a volunteer?" Cynthia asked.

  Anything could have happened based on their testing, Marcia realised.

  The man sniggered. "What else would it be attached to?"

  Cynthia's face dropped. The colour drained from her. She was ghost white. "What happened to it?" She asked.

  "It's under control, my friend," the man said. "As I said before, just send the specs to me and I'll fix it."

  "I can't send that kind of information. We-"

  "I can give you a work order, my friend. We are a long-time customer. Our terms let us see the full specs, my friend. We do our own maintenance."

  "But this is a proto-". Cynthia stopped herself.

  It was too late, Marcia thought, alarmed. She's given it away. No doubt he would call the police.