Or, like Aaro, you didn’t act like an animal and buy them. Though, that sentiment wasn’t very widely shared.
‘Good guys are even harder to find than decent booze,’ a woman had once told him, during sex. And decent booze was damn hard to find these days. Aaro never knew what happened to her in the end. He didn’t like to imagine.
Most of the stuff that passed for alcohol knocking around the streets was bathtub moonshine made from rotting potato peel and dirty seawater. Sometimes piss. Aaro grimaced at the thought, raising his hand at the first checkpoint for scanning. As he walked towards the port, thousands of refugees grumbled and stumbled over each other behind the high razor wire-topped fence. The processing paddock that led from the port into the city.
They stood in a rough line, ambling slowly towards the interior, having just escaped one hell, and now unwittingly entering another. The fabled safety of Oslo. He had to laugh at that.
The distant screams of anguish from a laser on skin somewhere at the registry station beyond the crowd echoed back through the din of the people. Aaro caught a whiff of burnt flesh on the wind, as he often did, and his mind sailed back to his own coding. It hurt like hell. He clenched his fist over his barcode and trudged on.
Along the street, vendors and traders pounced on him, shoving their wares into his face. Vagrant women offered to snap chicken’s necks and the slavers jiggled half-naked, stoned and inebriated womens’ breasts, yelling, ‘Virgin, virgin!’
But none of them were.
This went on like a sea. Aaro meandered around buyers and lookers, kicking dog shit into the gutter as he went. He stopped at a little stall as he did most mornings and bought a synthetic coffee, trading four synthetic cigarettes for it. He slurped the thick liquid before the paper cup disintegrated and turned back towards the city. The huge tower blocks loomed in the distance like a disease, pushing through the surface of the earth fungal growths, scarring and deforming it.
He grimaced and took another sour slurp.
SEVEN
THE BEGINNING
2108 AD
Aaro swallowed hard, his heart drumming wildly in his ears. He was terrified that the sound of it would wake the creature.
He’d not really expected it to be here.
The thought had crossed his mind but he’d hoped that it would have moved on by now, looking for its next meal.
He was standing, framed in the broken doorway, held on by one hinge. He shivered and the axe shook in his cold hands. It was curled up like a dog on his bed. The sheets were streaked and soaked with blood, torn up from where it had hauled its bulk onto the bowed mattress. And now it slept, soundly, on the duvet they’d been given as a wedding present, wet with his wife’s blood.
And where was she? Where was what was left of her? Aaro’s eye darted around the room, and then he found her. Her limp hand was protruding out of the sheets. She was buried somewhere underneath the monster, pinned there. Her fingers curled with rigor mortis, clutching meekly at freedom, caked red.
Aaro tried to move but his muscles had all but seized in terror. He swallowed again, trying to dislodge the iron lump in his throat. He should have turned and run but the cold thirst of revenge welled up inside him and pushed him forwards. He moved slowly, his eyes locked on the shut lids of the reptilian thing before him. He could hear its hot breath washing in and out of its nostrils in rancid plumes. He grimaced and forced the rising vomit back down his gullet. His fingers tightened around the hickory handle and flexed, slipping further towards the hilt. What else was there to do? His wife’s hand was close, still twitching as the stomach of the beast moved slowly with its breathing, squeezing the tendons in her crushed arm as it did. The smell was putrid. Like death.
His vision blurred with fast-forming tears. Wipe your eyes. You need to see. You can’t miss. If you do…
He circled around, drawing level with its head before he stopped and measured it. This creature was deadly, probably more so than anything else on Earth. And here it was, in front of him, soundly asleep on his bed, on his wife — on what was left of her. He gritted his teeth and kept his eyes fixed on it. He let the fury come. The axe came up and back. He hauled it high into the air over his head. The thin scabs on his stomach broke apart and the blood ran from his wounds. The beast’s nose twitched at the smell of fresh gore. He picked his spot. The soft patch of flesh behind the jaw bone. He could see its jugular there, throbbing through the thick black fur, more like spines than hair.
Its head was slightly to the side, throat exposed. If he brought it down here hard enough it would sever the artery and the thing would bleed out. It had to.
He paused for an instant at the top of the arc and focused.
In that moment of stillness, with blade poised to strike, the beast opened its eye. The veined yellow orb, slit down the middle, spun out from under the dual lids and fixed itself on Aaro. A deep growl rippled from its chest as it stirred, trying to face him.
Aaro swung.
The axe whistled through the air and sank into the beast’s neck with a dull and damp thunk. The leathery hide and thick muscle was harder than any log he’d ever split. It felt like the blade had barely even pierced the skin. The axe lodged itself there, caught between the sinews and skin, and was ripped from his grip. The beast rolled sideways and snarled, the axe handle dragging across the bedclothes. Aaro staggered backwards and watched as it stepped down off the frame with a squeal of bending metal bolts, seemingly unperturbed about the chunk of steel stuck in its neck.
The creature sank to the floor on the far side and sidled around the bed. Aaro’s hands stretched behind him as he backed up, hitting the wall a lot sooner than he’d have liked. He pressed himself there, praying it might give way and he’d disappear through it. But it didn’t.
The lizard crossed the carpet unhurriedly, the axe still protruding from its neck, leaving a blood trail as it did. It splashed to the floor in a steady stream, slapping on the wooden boards in near-black gushes. It didn’t seem to be doing anything to slow the thing down. Aaro took half a breath and his own throat clamped shut. His heart had become incessant, his body alien. He could hear the clipping of its forked tongue on scaled lips, the hiss of its hot breath between narrow fangs. For the second time in twelve hours he accepted death and waited, eyes tight shut, face shied away like a child.
But then, the fear drained away, his heart slowed and a serenity descended. He drew a long, easy breath and his eyes opened. They looked beyond the creature, to what remained of his Emilie. All that was left was bloody pulp — an arm and locks of matted hair. He felt the warmth of tears on his cheeks and couldn’t help but look up to the ceiling. I’m coming, Em. Don’t worry.
He smiled gently, the tears running.
He faced the beast again, watching it approach through a dreamy haze. Emilie beckoned, arms open, calling him. He stretched out for her, looking for her hands.
But then, cruelty struck. The fantasy was penetrated and he was suddenly aware of the space between him and the monster.
The snout and maw loomed towards him, flat and sharp, close enough to taste the blood that filled it. It locked eyes with him, still seemingly unphased by the blood roaring from its neck. The beast slowed and then pushed back, rearing onto its hindquarters. Its huge forelegs dropped to its sides and its head hit the ceiling, cracking the plaster. Aaro stood there, awaiting his fate as the creature hissed again, revelling in it. Breakfast.
Then, it swayed a little, the blood falling from the handle of the axe in a thinner stream. It ran over its body, snaking through the brushy fur like tar. The beast gurgled, blood tumbling from its lips. It swayed again, more violently now, stumbling almost. The floor shook. It hissed and doused him in hot crimson.
He was still waiting for it to slash at him with whatever strength it had left. He willed it to. Come on.
But it didn’t. It made another meek growl and sank backwards, collapsing on itself with a strangulated hiss.
The creature ha
d been sleeping off its full stomach — curled up on a soft bed while the curtains flapped around in the shattered window frame, the storm dying overhead, the sirens wailing in the distance, and trees rustling on the street. The beast had slept soundly, without worry. And that deep sleep had allowed Aaro, scent masked by the massacre in the room, sound masked by the din filtering through the window, not even breathing because of the fear, to creep close enough to strike. And whether it was groggy, or cocky, or just too full to move quickly, its slow advance had let the wound take its toll, and now it was crumbling, folding to the ground in a limp heap.
The entire house rattled as it landed, the crack of the floorboards beneath it lashing through the still morning air like a whip.
Aaro stood there. In awe. In fear. In anger. In disappointment. He’d accepted his death. He’d wanted death. He was dying to see his wife again. And would have died to do so. He felt cheated now. Robbed of it. And the revenge was only a bitter consolation.
The disgust returned. He stepped forward, squelching through the pool of blood towards its head. Its slowly flailing limbs clawed helplessly at thin air as the last dregs of life fled from its body. Aaro’s hand fell upon the slick axe hilt. He planted his heel on its heavy and with a quick jerk, the axe came free. He raised it again and brought it down. And then again. And again. He kept striking until the axe head fell against the floorboards and bounced.
He exhaled, his rage depleted. He dropped the axe. It landed in the blood with a thick splash and came to rest against the corpse.
He was alone now, and lost.
He sucked in a rancid breath and moved away from the headless beast, sickened by the sight of it — dead or not.
He stumbled towards the bathroom with the vague thought of bathing, though he doubted he’d ever feel clean again.
The shower was scalding. He scrubbed at his skin and the blood came away, yet he didn’t stop. His stomach stung, the cuts fresh and screaming. He could have been in the cubicle for a minute or an hour, he didn’t know. His brain had turned off. He was empty now. His life was in bloody tatters in the next room.
He cranked the water off only when it ran cold. In silence, he bandaged his midriff with gauze he found in the cabinet and dressed. He walked among the bodies without seeing them, wiping the blood from his feet with a clean corner of the bed sheets before he put his socks on. His clothes felt strange on his skin, like he’d never worn them before. Everything was different now. Everything was new. New, but dead. It was all grey. He floated through the house in a daze, grabbing his keys from the side table by the door like any normal day.
Back on the street, he could hear someone crying. He could hear a dog barking. He could hear a symphony of sirens in the next village, though he investigated none of them. The car door smacked shut and he turned the key in the ignition. The electric engine whined to life and he pushed it into reverse on autopilot. He released the break and turned into the street, not knowing his destination or his route, but as he pulled away, checking automatically for other cars, he knew that he would never return.
EIGHT
PLAYING GOD
2062 AD
‘Two minutes.’ The man in black held up two fingers to clarify, in case saying it wasn’t clear enough. Gertlinger rolled his eyes.
The runner screwed his face up, listening to the voice in his headset, and then he turned away. Gertlinger sighed, trying to shrug off the nerves. A delicate, yet confident hand nestled into the small of his back reassuringly. He turned to look at her, and the beautiful face of Angela Perrott stared back with disarming innocence. It was odd — when he looked at her, she seemed pure, innocent, unable to tell a lie. She was a person he felt he could trust. And she was stunningly beautiful, as well. Or at least he thought so. Her small, mouselike features and bright, shining eyes always struck him, made him dumb. Someone like her would never be with someone like him, he often thought. Her winning smile and charismatic demeanour rounded her off as someone on whose every word he hung without a second thought. Him, and everyone else she ever met.
And all that is exactly why the GSC had her as their acting PR Director. She was only thirty-six but could have passed for twenty-six. She handled all the publicity, public appearances, interviews, and puff pieces. And here she was again, her billionth time on television, her millionth on a primetime network talk show. Since the discovery, everyone wanted a piece of the action.
‘Florian?’ she half whispered, her hand still in the small of his back. ‘Are you alright?’
‘Nerves is all,’ he said with a forced smile, wondering if she could feel the dampness of his skin through his button down. He hoped not.
‘You? Nervous? Mister Sarcastic?’ she said, baiting him for a reaction and a real smile.
He knew what she was doing but he still bit. ‘It’s Doctor Sarcastic, thanks. I didn’t go to university for eight years to be an old mister.’
She grinned now and it caught on. Contagious it seemed. And miraculously, the longer she smiled, the more his nerves just fell away. He supposed there was a reason she was being paid five-hundred-thousand dollars a year. It was simply that she was excellent at what she did.
The man in black returned and reduced his two erect fingers to one. ‘One minute.’
Gertlinger sighed again, his nerves returning in force.
Angela stepped in front of him now. With her hands on his shoulders, she spoke reassuringly. ‘You’re gonna be fine. As soon as she asks you the first question, you’ll be away. You know this stuff like the back of your hand. So, just look at her, and look at me. We’re just three people in a room, having a conversation. I’ll take care of the public, I’ll handle the hard stuff. You just do what you do best.’
‘And what’s that?’ Gertlinger mumbled dejectedly.
‘Giving facetious answers to simple questions.’ She said it happily and slapped him on the arm. ‘Right, now buck up, we’ve got a planet to wow.’
With that, she was gone. She skirted around him and strode powerfully down the corridor towards the door marked STAGE. The squeak of her leather heels and the wake of floral perfume were the only things she left behind as Gertlinger sucked in a few last rattling breaths. He was thankful once more for not eating breakfast before he came, as he was sure that it would have come back up if he had. Through the numb drumming of his pulse in his head, he could hear Angela calling his name.
‘Well, let’s get this over with,’ he muttered to himself.
The show’s theme tune echoed through his bones from backstage as Tamara Clarke, or “Tammy” as she’s known by the nation, took the stage with her fake smile and faker curves. She waved falsely and the audience cheered for no reason. Tammy was adored by millions. She was a “new take on hard-hitting journalism”. That was horse shit. All she did was buy movie stars and news headliners with her huge viewership, luring them in with promises of good publicity and a chance to redeem themselves of their latest public failure, whatever it may be. But instead of letting them say that well-rehearsed cue-carded statement they’d had prepared by their managers, Tammy would cut in and ask unscripted questions, usually swinging way below the belt.
‘So, why were you really in rehab? How did it feel when you walked in and caught him screwing the maid right there on the kitchen table? Are you actually a racist bigot or do you have an explanation for using that word on live television? Does it make you feel like a tough guy to act like a pig and cheat on your wife and kids?’
Gertlinger had seen many stars stumble at the questions, all of them like a deer in the headlights, with a dozen cameras and a million eyes watching. Angela had forced him to watch videos of it online so that he could prepare himself. It was most of the reason he was so nervous. And if the celebrities refused to go on the show for fear of public crucifixion, she’d do it anyway, naming and shaming, saying they had something to hide. She’d say that she was providing a “public service”, as people had a right to know these private things. She was a leech and
nothing more. She’d announced two weeks ago that she was going to get GSC to answer for what they were doing, to go into detail about the ethically questionable methods and objectives involved with this project of theirs that they mentioned only vaguely in the publicity film they released. Oh no, Tammy would not stand for the public insult. She was leading the crusade for more information, fuelling the fires burning in the hearts of protesters.
The whole operation, Project Argus in its entirety, was a publicity stunt — it was something to get the entire planet excited about. A singular goal that the world could revel in and stand behind regardless of gender, race, or religion. To put Tammy on the warpath by boycotting her sorry excuse for a show would spell disaster for them. The people would rally and the protests would begin in earnest. Argus would be destroyed and all the work they’d put in, three and a half years by now, would be for nothing.
No. Tammy would get her answers, and then some.
As Gertlinger smiled wryly, drowning in a fantasy where Tammy was tied by her feet to horses and dragged through the streets lined with the people whose lives she’d ruined, he felt Angela squeeze his arm.
They were standing behind a curtain, waiting for their introduction. Trial by fire. If they could keep their heads off the chopping block, her sheep would fall in line and support Project Argus. Though, that was no small task.
‘And now, my guests tonight,’ Tammy began, her voice high and nasally. ‘They are not faces that you’ve seen in the news recently. No, these faces do not see the light of day. They are the ones working in the shadows. They are the faces of a faceless corporation!’
Her shrill setup was met with boos inside the studio. She continued.
‘So, be ruthless, be vicious, my friends. They are here to answer questions, to hand over the truth that they have tried so hard to keep from us. Here they are — Angela Perrott and Florian Gerdlanger.’
Gertlinger sucked in a hard breath and puffed. Gerdlanger wasn’t even close. He was about to turn and storm away when he realised Angela was still holding his arm, tighter than he thought her slim arm and hand was capable of. She was still grinning, maybe thrilled by the challenge of it all. She started to pull and in a blur of curtains, they were both out on stage.
The Veil Page 4
