Archive

Tag Archives: Technology

If Aliens were able to travel lightyears through space to reach us, what makes us think we’d have even the remotest chance to resist them? If they were so advanced as a society, we would be like spear wielding cavemen in their eyes, would we not? More to the point, what makes us think they’d be any less vicious than we are? This story is my take on Independence Day. Enjoy!

Slaughterhouse

 The place stank of blood and metal. Moans and wails and shouts funnelled up to Vesko from the yard, screams of pain from the hang room and of terror from the kill room. Machinery grinding away day and night, a heavy deep sound that you felt in your bones, just a hint of the incomprehensible power it represented.

The Giants.

Vesko cooked his dinner under the sky vent. Tonight’s meal was a new delicacy: thigh tenderloins skewered with a piece of charred wood. He wished he had some spices to add, or better yet, some vegetables. An all meat diet was taking its toll on him: scurvy had already taken three of his teeth and his skin was turning a pale yellow and breaking out in small, suppurating sores. Still, no matter what hell you were in, you just did what you could. You made the best of it.

The first ship. So big it blocked out the sun no matter where you were, fast enough to cross half the world before it landed somewhere in the Indian, not far from Australia’s west coast. Vast. Everyone so excited, scientists and army flocking to it to welcome our Alien guests, if they were alive. Headlines like: Alien life confirmed – friend or foe? And – Experts say ship alone advanced enough to revolutionise modern technology.

            Then the Giants emerged.

Deep in thought, Vesko sat cross legged as close to the flames as he could without being burned – the giants didn’t like the heat. They had a thin down of hair all over their bodies and it glistened with sweat permanently, making them reek like sewage, the only smell that could penetrate that of raw meat in this hell. He turned the skewer over, watching the tenderloins he’d cut turn brown around the outside, the red meat turning pale. Occasionally a drop of blood hissed on the flames.

Angie blinked into existence across from him, looking perfect, not the plump empty shell she’d been at the end. This had been happening a lot lately, and though he was aware she was a hallucination, Vesko prayed every time that she wouldn’t leave him again. ‘Hey, baby,’ he said, grinning.

‘Hey.’ She wrinkled her face at the cooking meat. ‘You’re not really going to eat that, are you? That could be me, for all you know.’

He shrugged. ‘If that’s true, you’re delicious.’ He laughed until he choked on his own saliva, unaware of the tears trickling down his cheeks. They came every time he spoke to his wife. She smiled sadly at him and leaned across the fire to wipe one of them away. Her strawberry blond hair hung into the fire but didn’t singe.

‘Thanks, Angie.’

‘We need to have a talk.’

‘Yeah.’

‘About what you’re going to do now.’

He nodded. ‘I’m sorry I left you, you know. I wanted to stay with you all right to the end. I wanted to get back into that vat with you but there was no way.’

But her face hardened. ‘Don’t you dare talk like that, Vesko. Tell me what good that would have done. Just tell me.’

‘I could have been with you.’

‘You are with me,’ she said, softening a little. ‘But you staying with us when you could get away? That’s not the Vesko I married. That’s not him at all.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘You remember the one that hung us up? You were watching, weren’t you?’

He cringed at the memory, gritting his teeth against the wave of horror that came over him. It passed quickly and he took a gasp of smoky air.

The sheer size of them wouldn’t have been enough by itself. A grown man was perhaps the size of a chicken in comparison to one of them, but mankind had developed formidable weapons to bridge that gap. No, the terrifying thing was their efficiency. No one stood a chance at all against that ruthless single mindedness. They had the population of earth beaten in intelligence, technology, numbers and size, but their greatest advantage was that relentlessness, utter devotion to their own kind. Each and every one of them ready to die for their cause. And what was their cause? Consumption. Expansion. Growth.

One of them picked their car up while it was driving. He remembered that moment of madness, the road just falling away beneath him, everyone screaming, the engine making a crazy high pitched sound as the wheels spun in the air. The giant held the car perfectly level in the air, moving at incredible speed over farmland to one of those enormous dump trucks they had, things the size of golf courses with a flat pan on the back, the barriers high and smooth. They were packed with other human beings, and the giant tipped the car slowly over the middle and shook it until they all fell out and hit the hot metal a couple of meters below.

When they reached the slaughterhouse, the dump truck opened up and the flat pan tipped to make a smooth slide, emptying them into a feeding pen. Vesko had still been hopeful he could get them out of this place. They were so much smaller than the giants – there had to be some crack to squeeze through, some weakness in the holding.

There wasn’t. Every day, a giant dropped enormous loaves of bread into the pens, delicious, moist bread that tasted like olives. Some refused to eat, but not for long. Soon after his arrival Vesko saw one of the giants reach in and pluck a man from the group. Judging by his holocaust survivor build, he hadn’t eaten in a while. The giant held him twenty feet or so off the ground, its long fingers pinched under his arms, and then it raised a tool of some kind, a pair of shears that they used to cut their body hair in an effort to cool down. It cut that man into pieces from the toes up, pieces of him falling down in a red shower, his screams going on far longer than should have been possible, only stopping when the shears reached a place just below his chest and his stomach acids came pouring down along with the blood. Most of him was gone the next day, eaten by the other hunger strikers.

Vesko was hugging his family when they were emptied, along with hundreds of others, into an enormous metal vat, but he lost hold of them during the short fall and hit the edge of the container they were all landing in. He didn’t remember much, only the sharp pain of hitting metal bars on the way down and a lurching in his stomach. When he woke, he was lying somewhere beneath the slaughterhouse, his hair caked in blood, the only light filtering through a crack in the floor above him.

The loins were pretty much cooked now, and he brought the skewer to his mouth and bit one off, chewing it slowly, his grumbling stomach welcoming the meal. He liked to imagine it was pork, and usually he succeeded. It was harder when he was eating fingers or pieces of a face, anything recognizable as human.

‘That’s the one you’ve got to kill, baby,’ she said.

He nodded. He had the thing’s face fixed in his memory. The giants weren’t like animals, they all had distinctive features, though as far as appearance went they looked more like enormous apes than humans. They had the disproportionately long arms, even the sideways loping gait when they were running fast. Some had different coloured body hair, blonde or red or brown, some had big, low hanging chins and an under bite, others had arms that bulged with muscle or bellies that sagged from too much meat. The one that had hung his family, gleaming steel hooks through their backs and out their chests, had big eyes the colour of ash.

‘But you’ve got to have a plan. You have to stay alive after, so you can kill more.’

‘Yeah, I know. I got a plan. I’ve been sharpening my sword, every day.’ He chewed at another loin and looked over at his sword. It was a piece of scrap metal shaving he’d found on the floor of the kill room, twice as long as his forearm, hard but surprisingly light. There was another smaller piece beside it, which he’d been using to sharpen the edges of the sword every day. It was almost sharp enough, but the handle was thin and he sometimes worried it would snap. Nothing he could do about that, though.

‘Live for me, honey? Okay?’

‘I will. I will.’ But she was gone, and he didn’t think she’d be back again, at least not until it was over and he was either dead or somewhere safe.

After the meal he curled up a little way from the fire where the metal was warm but not scalding, and tried to sleep holding his sword like a pillow. He would do it the next day. He’d have to get around to the place the hooks came out of the wall by a conveyor belt on the ceiling, hitch a ride to the hang room. He’d only get one chance at the giant, and that only if he was lucky. If he missed… The mincer.

The mincer was the source of most of the mechanical noise in the place. It was the kind of sound that made your skull vibrate no matter where you were in the building, and it kept going from sunrise to midnight, when the slaughterhouse closed and the giants descended below ground to sleep. On his second day here, Vesko had climbed up into the beams in the mincing room and checked it out. The hooks stopped at a point just before the mincer and a giant stood beside it, sorting the dying people. The children and the old or diseased, he lifted from the hooks and dropped straight into the wide circular hole in the ground, a constantly churning mess of blended bodies, a mash of black, red and yellow. Whatever blades worked just beneath the surface worked fast, because if so much as a toe disappeared beneath the surface, you were gone.

The young and healthy were left on the hooks, which took them to the next room. Vesko had spied there also, and seen another giant divide the bodies into the best cuts with expert precision, reducing still living human beings into ten separate blocks of meat in the space of seconds. Occasionally he judged a body unfit for consumption and threw it into another pile on the far wall. It was from this pile that Vesko had obtained all of his meals since.

He planned and mentally rehearsed what he would do until he could see every moment of the following day in clear detail, accounted for every possibility he could conceive of, and at last he closed his eyes and stole a few hours of sleep.

He awoke to the sound of the mincer starting up, and in a few moments he was on his feet, sick to his stomach with fear. He pissed in the smouldering fire and reached for his sword. Instead of leaving straight away, he sat down and sharpened it for another hour or so, not so much because it needed it but because he was hoping Angie would come back to him one last time.

She didn’t, but when he finally started on his way down the vents, her voice came to him on a blast of hot air from behind. ‘See you soon,’ she said. The words chilled him, but he told himself she meant them as a comfort, that whether he lived or died he would see her again.

It took a while to find the right place, and he had to squeeze through a narrow groove slick with black grease and barely large enough to fit him let alone his sword. When he finally got out and crouched on a shelf near the factory’s ceiling, he saw he was in the perfect position: the hooks were emerging directly beneath him: in fact he could have followed along the top of the conveyor belt directly above them. That wouldn’t be quick enough, though: he was going to have to drop down and stand in one of the hooks, be ready to jump at the perfect opportunity.

Vesko stayed where he was, watching the heads of some of the other giant workers pass below him, going about their gruesome work. They spoke to each other over the sound of machinery in a series of low howls and high yelps, like baying farm dogs on a hunt. He was terrified of them, but he was also angry, and for an hour or more he sat above the conveyor belt and allowed the hatred to overtake him.

He thought of the grey eyed bastard, working day in and out, grabbing wriggling bodies from the enormous vat and impaling them like worms on fishing hooks, unthinking or uncaring of the pain he caused. Vesko would make him think. Vesko would make him care.

He dropped down onto one of the hooks, both his feet wedged in the U bend while his free hand gripped the chain from which it hung. He held the sword backhanded: knowing that slashing would give nothing but scratches; he would have to thrust, and he would only have one or two blows to get it right.

The hook neared the hole in the far wall, and Vesko squinted ahead and saw two grey haired arms lay a screaming child onto a hook, the tip thankfully piercing her heart and cutting her suffering short. The hooks moved relentlessly on and the arms pulled back, then returned with a heavyset man who wasn’t so lucky: the hook wound up too low, piercing his stomach and bursting through with a light spray of stomach acid. The man turned and saw Vesko on the next hook, but whether he saw him and understood what was happening or was too lost in his pain was impossible to tell.

Vesko was coming through the gap now, and his mind had shrunk down to the tunnel vision that always accompanied extreme fear. He was not aware of the ear piercing screams, nor the thrumming machinery, nor the stench of blood and gore. He was aware only of the way the hook was swaying slightly under his weight, and of the sword in his hand, and of his own quick breaths.

Everything happened in a matter of seconds when he emerged into the hang room. The giant was pulling a plump, struggling woman from the vat, bent over the side of it with both arms inside, his back to the room. Vesko had a couple of seconds before it turned and saw him, but he didn’t wait: he pushed off the hook as hard as he could, kicking it hard against the conveyor belt, and grabbed his sword with both hands above his head as he flew through the air.

The giant heard him, the enormous head swivelling while the woman squirmed in his hands, and Vesko collided with his shoulder, sinking the point of the sword into the base of his neck.

The wind was knocked out of him but he held on, and when the Giant turned violently to swipe at him he was pulled along with the protruding sword handle, almost flying into the vat and then back the other way again, where he might have landed on a hook had he let go. The Giant was not bellowing but choking and gurgling, and when he went down on his knees with a deafening crash Vesko saw blood pouring down his furry front. All the motion had torn the airways and veins in his neck. Even now the sword was sliding out with Vesko’s weight on the end, and the giant’s hands fell on air as they reached for him. The blade came out with a wet sucking and Vesko landed hard on the metal floor.

The giant knelt there, swaying and confused, wide hands grasping his throat, grey eyes staring around him until they settled on Vesko. He was on his feet now, sword up and ready to fight. The giant was triple his height even though he was on his knees, but Vesko was mad. ‘You die, you murdering fuck. You die slow.’ His voice didn’t sound like his own. It sounded sick and harsh, like that of a bitter old man.

It died slow, making a weak grab for him as it came toppling to the bloody ground, but he hopped out of the way in time and then crouched right in front of its face, letting hot blood pool around his feet until his shoes were soaked. It watched him, just a hint of wonderment in its eyes, that such a harmless little thing could have killed him, and Vesko smirked. Working slowly, his hate burning like fire inside him, he pried out the giant’s eyes one after the other and listening to wasted screams hissing from its broken wind pipe.

There were no other giants in this area, but that wouldn’t last long: the giant in the next room would be seeing the first empty hooks about now and getting curious. Vesko had not expected to be alive now, but he had prepared for it all the same, and as he started for half open doorway into the next room he heard Angie urging him on: ‘Go, Vesko, kill them all for me.’

He entered the mincing room at a full sprint, and in a state of mind closer to madness than he’d ever been, but further from fear. He’d taken revenge, what else was there to live for? Everything else he killed was a bonus, a joy, a pleasure. With his mind full of the roaring mincer and his eyes and mouth open in a wild scream, he went for the next giant.

This one was standing hunched over and staring with a look of consternation at the fresh empty hooks emerging from the hole near the ceiling of the slaughterhouse. They were smart beasts, their minds working with the same mechanical efficiency with which they had conducted their enslavement of the human race.

But for all their intelligence, the giants were limited in that their eyesight was their primary sense to the exclusion of most others, and since this one, a slack jawed, big chested beast, was concentrating on the hooks, it did not see Vesko run in through the doorway nor hear his screams over the sound of the mincer.

He hamstrung it.

The giants were alien, but their anatomy was not so different from that of an ape or a human, and just by watching them move Vesko had seen the way their bodies were held together, the places their tendons showed through their pale skin. He dragged the sharp sword with all of his adrenaline fuelled strength beneath the knee joint of the beast and heard the snap as he broke through ligament. In almost the same motion he followed through with a hack, planting the blade in the place a human’s Achilles would have been and pulling it across the bone.

The giant let out a howl of pain and surprise as he went down hard on his right knee, and Vesko, still screaming his fury, launched himself at his back, colliding with a buttock the size of a bed and pressing the point of his sword into the soft flesh as hard as he could.

That was all it took. The giant let out another yell and jumped forward onto all fours. Only there was nowhere for its hands to land besides the mincer. Vesko didn’t see but felt its thick arms connect with the unseen blades, the giant’s whole body vibrating with the force of them. He let go of the sword and flung himself backward before he could be taken with it, and after that he could only sit and watch as the giant was pulled into the churning pit before him, the engines whining and struggling to chop the thick bones.

The pool of gore rose up fast as his midsection and then hips disappeared beneath the surface and suddenly the pit was overflowing, red waves with yellow froth washing over the stained metal floor towards Vesko. Watching them come, he only knew that if he stayed where he was and let that bloody tide reach him he would lose whatever remained of his sanity. At the last moment, he jumped to his feet and ran, not caring where he was going, only looking for a way out of this hellish place, never thinking about anything except getting away from that endless rushing wave of death.

He ran to the adjoining door but did not slide beneath it. Instead, he stopped beside it with his back against the wall and waited. Sure enough, a moment later the giant from the chopping room burst through and immediately headed for the control panel on the opposite wall which controlled the mincer. Vesko slid around the door.

There was nowhere to go from there. On one side of the room, the pile of discarded bodies. Vesko taken his food from that pile by lowering a noose made from his pants, shirt and shoelaces, and snaring a corpse around the neck so he could haul it up into the vent, so there was no way to get up there from the floor. There was no sanctuary there: Vesko had been here long enough to know what happened to those bodies: they were dropped into the mincer at the very end of the day and fed as gruel to the people in the holding pens.

His only hope was the pile of ready chopped body parts in the corner to his left. He ran for it, knowing he could be seen at any moment now, cursing himself for not being man enough to make a stand with his sword at least and take as many of the bastards with him. He dove into the pile and dug himself in as quickly as he could until he was settled in, near the bottom. The blood was still dripping form some of the cuts, and he was covered in the lukewarm mess. He could smell the sweat on a hundred bodies, the dirt in the flesh. He felt they were still alive and pressing on him from all sides.

There was much activity in the slaughterhouse after that, but Vesko didn’t take note. He curled into the foetal position, weighed down by heads, torsos, arms and legs. The best cuts.

The initial wars were furious, intense, and utterly hopeless. Vesko knew this from the very first news reports, and it was for this reason he packed his bags and drove as far out into the Australian country as he could with his family: to hide.

            He was right. By the end of one year, the earth was littered with the titanic ships and little of human civilisation remained. At least, nothing that the giants couldn’t use. By two years, when Vesko was beginning to grow accustomed to an isolated life, a place so barren surely no giant would ever want to go, they had demolished every form of organised human resistance that existed: every army, every government, every city. Their ships came and went with steadily increasing frequency, taking away resources in mind boggling quantities and depositing machines larger than cities themselves, their purposes only to mine Earth’s bounty ever more thoroughly.

            The giants were more than omnivores: they consumed anything and everything to feed themselves, and besides that there seemed not a single material they had no use for. When they mined a city, the material from the buildings was salvaged along with the asphalt from the roads, the cars, every life form, and then the dirt underneath for thousands of meters below the surface. The oceans themselves were being steadily drained by ships so large they rivalled the size of a small country.

            And Vesko lived in the desert, seeing these things in the distance, hearing the far away sounds of machines and the thudding of giant’s feet and refusing to believe they would ever come for him. What could there be for them, in the desert?

            But after five years the giants had erected their own monstrous factories, established their own systems, and there were few places of Earth that had not been thoroughly depleted. They came.

He didn’t know why he was trying so badly to stay alive anymore, but asking why had never been his prerogative anyway. It just was, that was all. His family was dead and he was lying here with someone’s intestines sliding lazily over his face and a factory full of giants nearby. That was just life. What could you do but make the best of it?

A head dropped down through the pile and landed on his left arm so that it was looking right at him. As his eyes grew used to the semi darkness, Vesko thought he could make out the contours of the face. A woman, not unlike Angie. The longer he looked, and let the shadows swirl in and around the features, the more like her it was, until she blinked open her bright blue eyes and smiled at him.

‘Sorry I had to leave you, baby,’ he whispered. His lips were cold with drying blood.

‘You did what you had to do.’

A few minutes later he reached out into the mass of chilled flesh and found a soft breast and a torso just like Angie’s. He dragged it into a hug, and soon after, groping around, he found her arms and legs and arranged them into position. She wrapped her arms around him and gave him that beautiful smile that had haunted his dreams since the day he’d met her.

‘You want to thank me Vesko baby? Keep living and keep killing. Alright?’

‘Yeah.’ He smiled back, unable to resist. ‘For you, Ange.’

She kissed him then, and her lips were warm on his and she didn’t taste like blood or death and there was still hope in the world.

You had to make the best of it, after all.

I had this idea crawling around my brain for ages, and even wrote sections of it and then deleted them on three separate occasions. Finally, I decided to do the thing and be done with it, bad or good. I think it actually turned out pretty good. The concept definitely worries me, that’s for sure. This will again be the last story for a little while, because I’m well on my way into a new novel. Enjoy!

Eraser

By Ben Pienaar

 

In the year 2045, a baby is born, wailing and screaming and flailing pudgy arms. The mother lets out a sigh and wipes the sweat from her face before promptly closing her eyes and going to sleep, while the doctor takes the baby into the next room. After cleaning and wrapping the squirming infant in a blanket and ensuring its health, the doctor, a middle aged man with a neutral expression, takes what appears to be a gun from his coat. He turns the baby onto its stomach and presses the wide, narrow barrel of the weapon to the baby’s head, at the point just where the brain stem meets the spinal cord. He pulls the trigger, and the baby falls dead silent mid scream. It will not scream again for another thirty two years.

 

Colin and Mike clock on at nine and start work beside each other. You’d think assembly work should have been a thing of the past since 2030 but in the end, nothing beats manual labour when you can get it so cheap. Not that either of them are complaining. Not that they’re doing anything besides standing next to each other and screwing the same bolts onto the same screws as they roll past over and over again. Neither has a concrete thought in mind, only a vague anticipation of what comes later.

After twelve hours (and no breaks) of uniform movement, neither so much as glancing up for a moment in that time, neither uttering a word or thinking anything more meaningful than a fleeting can’t wait! – they clock off and head straight for Reilly’s bar across the road.

First though, they stop off at Sina’s Taste Emporium, where Mike gets himself four beer chips and Colin gets two plus a chicken burger chip for dinner later. At the bar, they slide the first of their chips into one of the ten horizontal slots in the back of their necks and order the beers. They slide into a booth in the far corner, away from the music. When you don’t have the chip for it, music is just blaring noise.

‘I don’t know how you do it, man,’ Colin says these words, his first of the day, to his best friend after the beers arrive.

‘Do what?’

‘Only taste. And only drinks, too. I mean, doesn’t it get old by the time you hit beer number four?’

His friend takes a long draught and closes his eyes while the chip does its work. A small smile touches the corner of his dry lips. ‘The taste maybe,’ he says. ‘But I like to appreciate being drunk, too. Nothing worse than drinking beer after beer and feeling nothing until the hangover hits. Nah, if it’s taste you want, there’s only three ways to go: good wine, good scotch, and the sip of the first beer.’

‘So why you go the other three beers?’

‘For the sip of the last, just before the chip runs out and you’re good and buzzed. You should try it sometime.’

Colin shrugs and takes a swig himself. He has to admit, it feels good. Damn good. The past twelve hours are already blurring in his memory, another piece of his life he’ll never have to think about again. ‘One day, brother, I’m gonna save up five of the best and try em all at once.’

Mike laughs. ‘You’ll have a heart attack. And so will your bank account.’

He shakes his head, but it’s true. Thanks to popular demand touch alone is more expensive than all other four senses combined, and that’s only for the most basic pleasures. Taste, music, sight and smell follow in roughly that order. ‘I guess we’re living pretty good as it is,’ Colin says.

‘Besides, it’d be a waste. You plug in all five senses at once you won’t be able to concentrate on any of them, they’ll get in the way of each other. Nah, always better to try em one at a time. And you still gotta buy the product, don’t you? I’m gonna get myself a girl before I go anywhere near touch, and what the hell are we gonna look at, or listen to, in this city? I get one of those chips I wouldn’t even know where to start. That stuff’s for rich people, man.’

Colin nods and takes another drink. The chip makes sure he misses none of the rich hops or the smoothness or the way it slides down his throat. He sighs. A fight breaks out near the juke box and they turn in their seats to see a bony looking man with the build of a child on top of someone twice his size, pounding his face. A few others stare at them until security drags the maniac out and a medic goes over the other guy to make sure he’s not too badly hurt. He isn’t. He gets up with blood dripping from his nose and mouth and keeps drinking his beer, shaking his head.

‘Don’t see that every day,’ Colin says.

‘Yeah, guy must’ve taken some Rage.’

‘Weird. You’d think you go for Adrenaline at least, or Love, or hell, just raw endorphins.’

He turns back to see Mike staring at him like he’s mad. ‘Love?’ he says. ‘Man what planet you living on? You think that guy’s got the cash for that?’

Colin shrugs and orders them another two each with a hand signal. ‘True. Me, I’d rather save up for the good stuff than waste it on Rage.’

Mike chuckles and finishes his beer. ‘Yeah, you think it’s a waste, but wait till you’re twenty years older and still working in the factory. You go nuts to feel anything, my friend. Trust me.’

‘Oh yeah? So what do you take?’

‘You know me, I’m just a regular alcoholic. I like my fine wines and they can keep their fancy senses for themselves. But I’ll tell you one thing, I am saving up.’

‘Are you?’ Colin watches his friend over the brim of the glass and can’t help but feel one of the rare emotions not yet exploited: curiosity. He used to wonder why they hadn’t commercialised it yet, and then he realised that if no one was curious about what the senses were like, they’d never buy them.

‘Yes sir. I’m gonna buy myself some dreams. Really good ones, you know, like where I’m on a tropical island with some woman drinking mai thais and living it up. Long dreams.’

‘Why don’t you save up for the island and the woman instead?’

‘Because, man. Then I gotta afford the chips too, otherwise what’s the point. How am I gonna afford a week’s worth of chips running on all six cylinders? And they better be on all six, I’m not going on a holiday like that unless I enjoy every goddam second.’

‘Yeah, I guess. Dreams, though. I dunno.’

‘We all got dreams, my friend. I heard, you get a really good quality one it’s almost as good as the real thing. The way the guy explained it to me, the difference between drinking scotch and drinking watered down scotch. Still sounds alright.’

‘Maybe. I just don’t like the idea it’s not really… real. I sometimes feel like I’d rather have a beer without the beer chip, instead of the chip without the beer.’

Mike’s expression doesn’t surprise him. A beer without the chip is just water with a hangover. The chip is everything. Half the guys at the factory never even bought the product to go with it, would just buy a bunch of chips and load em up, one after the other, until their whole pay check was gone and it was time to get up and go to work. You still missed out on a lot that way but it was a hell of a lot cheaper.

‘It’s just at least it’s real, then. The beer…’ He’d just finished his second – and last – beer, so he picks up Mike’s glass and takes a long sip. ‘That’s the real deal. The taste,’ he taps his head, ‘is all in here.’

Mike snatches it back, looking offended. ‘If you say so, buddy. Me personally?’ He closes his eyes and downs the whole thing in one and wipes his mouth. ‘I’d be happy if they just gave me one chip and made it reusable.’

‘Guess which one?’ Colin says, and they laugh, both of them feeling more than anything grateful for the laughter, that they can still do that at least, without paying.

 

Colin leaves first, looking forward to that chicken burger, and chucks his used up chips in the can outside for recycling. The second beer and chip are gone, but the buzz he feels will continue until it wears out naturally. Usually the walk home is his favourite part of the night for that reason, that warmth in his head, but tonight it’s drizzling and he’s hungry. Hell, maybe he’ll save the dinner chip for tomorrow and just gorge himself on the tasteless stuff and fill his belly.

He’s a step from passing the alley between Fragrance and the Thriller bar when a hand reaches from the dark and grabs his arm, pulling him into the dark. He brushes it off, mildly annoyed. It was this kind of thing that made him think the Protesters for Free Adrenaline had a point. If this guy stabbed him, he would die. Fight or Flight was a thing of the past, though admittedly it had done wonders for the population problem.

The guy himself is short and wiry with a wild red beard, and almost immediately Colin recognizes him as the guy they’d thrown out of the bar for fighting earlier. His eyes are wide and mad, and Colin wonders what kind of chip he’s got in the back of his head right now. Probably adrenaline, or more rage.

‘Hey pal, wanna see something cool?’ He grins crookedly. Colin stares back, unsure what to say. He might not be afraid but he’s still got some survivor instinct, so he tries to pull away.

The guy wrenches him forward and brings his face close, breathing hard. Colin finds himself extremely glad he can’t register smells. ‘I gotta make someone else like me, man. I don’t think you’ll like it at first, but I gotta do it.’

‘You’re insane,’ Colin says.

The guy laughs and his throat sounds raw, like he’s been shouting a lot. ‘Oh yeah, baby, I’m insane alright! I’m drunk and high and I don’t got a chip to my name, son. It’s all free, all the time, every day. And it ain’t all good, believe me, but it’s all good. Know what I mean?’

His grip is so tight the circulation is cut off to Colin’s arm, and the guy’s practically hanging off it. No escape likely, unless he can talk him down somehow, or just wait it out. The guy stares into his eyes again and chuckles, shaking his head. ‘Oh boy it’s just like I was, just like I was. Tell you what, man.’ He whips out a square metal object about the size of a pack of cigarettes. It glistens in the rain, featureless and smooth. Colin has no idea what it is.

‘I got a whole stash of these just down this alley,’ he says. ‘There’s a door that goes into the back of Thriller. I used to work there, see, and I lived down in the basement only no one knew. Used to experiment, trying to make new chips and senses, and then I made a whole crate of these bastards once I found out what they could do.’ The hand holding the square is shaking as he talks, flecks of rain flying into Colin’s face, or maybe it’s spit.

‘I gotta get out of town before someone catches on, and I’m takin one with me just in case, but the others? You can have em.’

‘I really don’t want them, sir. Please let me go, I’ve got to get home to my wife and kids.’ He doesn’t have a wife and kids, but once someone had told him that some chips made people sympathetic to that stuff. It could work.

The guy moves his hand from Colin’s arm to his neck and pulls him roughly again, so that his lips are right up against his ear. ‘Some of those chips they give you, man, they’re fake. They’re not the real deal.’

It takes a moment for Colin to register what the words mean, but before he can react the guy slams the piece of metal into the back of his head and everything goes white. He drops to all fours and an electric shock rocks his whole body, starting in the ports at the back of his head and shooting through him. For those agonizing moments he feels as though his skeleton is burning red hot, writhing inside him like a separate entity and trying to peel off the coat of burning flesh.

Finally it’s over and he’s face down on wet asphalt, breathing but otherwise paralysed. He hears scratching noises and realises it’s his own hand twitching on the pavement. The guy is gone.

 

Colin makes it back to his apartment, locks the door and drops onto the couch. He’s breathing hard, his sweat as cold as the rain, and there’s something else: his heart is beating. Am I having a heart attack? No, he doesn’t think so. Actually, now he thinks about it, it doesn’t feel that different from the one and only time he bought himself an adrenaline chip – more intense, maybe.

The metal object is lying on the carpet and he stares at it. What the hell did you do to me? Oh shit, what if I’m dying? He considers calling the ambulance and then doesn’t. He lies where he is for a long time, calming down, breathing slower. It’s alright.

He gets up, a little unsteady on his feet, and feels the back of his head tenderly. There are mild burns on the skin surrounding the six ports but nothing serious. He wonders if the guy disabled his ports. Another stab of fear shoots through him as he imagines living the rest of his life unable to enjoy anything, and then shakes his head and gets up.

He gets the chicken burger he saved out of the fridge and puts it on the counter, and ruffles through his coat for the chip he bought earlier. Nothing. He reaches into his pockets and finds only his house keys, phone and wallet. Shit. It’ll have to wait. For now, hunger is burning a hole in the bottom of his stomach and an unchipped burger is still better than no burger, so he grabs it and takes the biggest bite he can manage.

He almost spits it out in his surprise. Within seconds flavour is flooding his mouth: delicious lettuce and tomato and Christ, what is that? It surely can’t be chicken – the chicken he knew was never this crispy, never so… rich! He chews the stuff a good ten times after he’s already made it into mulch and then takes another bite. Incredibly, all the tastes are still there, and so strong! He got pickles this time, and somehow he tastes the individual pickles over the other things. Usually every bite tastes the same, an equal measure of all chicken burger ingredients, regardless of which part of it he’s eaten.

He gropes the back of his head again, certain he must have put the chip in without realising it earlier, but there’s nothing there. How is this possible? He finishes the burger in minutes and stands up, looking around for another test, anything. His eyes settle on the open sliding door that leads to the balcony.

Originally, Colin bought one of the rooms with a view thinking that an occasional sight chip and a rest on the balcony would help to relax him, but he’d never got around to it. Now, the view isn’t enough: all he sees are dark streets and an overcast night sky. The rain is still falling fast.

He goes right to the railing and looks ten stories straight down and sees a few parked cars. He puts one leg over and his heart starts going faster again. He puts the other over and stands right on the edge, leaning back with his hands on the railing and staring up at the sky. His whole body is going mad with it, the fear, excitement, utter exhileration. He can see the building stretching up another ten stories of empty balconies and then the sky above that, pouring rain into his face. He laughs genuinely for the first time he can remember and then imagines what it would be like to slip now and fall. He realises he’s scared, no – terrified.

He screams for the first time in thirty two years and feels it run through him as powerfully as the electric shock from the metal device. It is his first real emotion. ‘I don’t want to die! I want to live!’ He shouts.

A light goes on in one of the apartments above him but before anyone can come out he’s heaved himself back over the balcony and gone back inside. His heart beating madly, he goes straight for the fridge and opens it. There are some onions and bacon, and he throws them onto a pan. He grabs three eggs and throws them on, too, and then grabs the half eaten pizza and eats it all, cold. There’s a block of cheese, the same cheese he buys every time but never has the chips to taste it, and he shoves a chunk of it into his mouth and eats it.

‘Tastes like shit!’ he says, and laughs again. The bacon and eggs and onions are much better, and he licks the plate and is out the door before he’s finished chewing his last bite. The smell of the street hits him for the first time: of gutter and exhaust and rain on the asphalt. He breathes the acidic stench deep into his lungs and relishes it. It’s not good, not a good smell at all, but boy is it good to taste it like that – the pure, unadulterated real thing.

He walks through the doors of Reilly’s and stops for a minute to appreciate the smoky glow of the place. It makes him feel warm inside, somehow, a familiar place, and when he sees Mike still sitting there in one of the back booths with a beer in his hand he feels glad to see him. He’s never felt glad to see Mike before; Mike was always just there. He just was.

As he approaches, Mike looks up, surprised. ‘Hey, wasn’t expecting to see you for at least…’ He looks up at the time displayed on the television over the bar, ‘eight hours.’

Instead of replying, Colin signals for two beers and slides into the booth. He breathes deep, trying to slow himself down. He’s not sure exactly what he’s going to do with his new ability, but getting noticed is not high on the list.

‘You alright, man? You look pale. You get some new beer chips?’ he adds as the barman drops the brews on the table and walks away. Colin immediately takes a long draught. Yep, the taste is still there. No, in fact it’s better. It’s far better than having a beer chip. What had the guy said? Half the stuff they give you ain’t even the real deal.

‘I got unplugged,’ Colin says, still looking at his beer like it’s made of solid gold.

‘What?’

‘I don’t know what else to call it. Erased, deactivated, realised.’ The last word catches him and he looks up and repeats it, a half smile on his lips. ‘Realised. I’m real now, Mike.’

Mike looks like he’s about to call the crazy house so Colin talks quickly, telling him everything that happened and, most of all, how it feels, how it tastes to be real. When he’s finished, Mike’s expression has returned to neutral. Of course, he can’t feel fear or excitement unless he buys it.

‘Colin, get your face in order, you’re drawing stares.’ He’s right. People don’t usually have expressions unless they’re on something, and if anyone caught a glimpse of the manic smile on his face and saw that he had no chips in the back of his head… He sees one of Mike’s used up beer chips lying discarded on the table and he picks it up and jams it in one of his ports. ‘There, now if I slip up they’ll just think I’m on something.’ Still, he forces his features to relax. It’s a strange feeling. He’s not used to being aware of his facial features at all, let alone using them to have expressions.

‘Let me get this straight,’ Mike begins slowly. ‘A guy pulls you into a dark alley and erases all your limits with some machine, and then runs for it… why?’

‘Why what? Of course he runs. This shit ain’t exactly legal, Mike. It’s stealing from the government.’

He nods. ‘But why do it at all? Why not just keep it a secret and stay hidden?’

‘Because. He must be some kind of revolutionary. What he said was he needed to share what he was feeling with someone else. He said he was going crazy.’ Looking at Mike’s blank face now, Colin can understand. He imagines walking around day in, day out, trying to look normal, seeing everyone else’s blank dead faces all the time.

They fall silent for a long time. Dread settles in Colin’s stomach as it occurs to him that the government might have put something else in them all, like some kind of loyalty chip, that would make Mike want to turn him in. If it was possible, he was certain they did it. But when Mike finally speaks, all he says is: ‘What’s it like?’

Colin lets out a sigh. ‘Oh, man. The chips we been buying? Not even close to the real thing. I mean, from what I’ve experienced. God, there’s still so much to do. How the hell am I gonna get through work tomorrow?’

‘You gotta be careful. Real careful. Are you going to get that guy’s stash? Can’t you use the same device over and over?’

‘I don’t know. But if we could, we could distribute the others, get them out to people. It would be a revolution, a real revolution. The government couldn’t replug us all.’

Mike’s nodding, and Colin takes another swig of delicious beer – the glass is almost gone already – and glances around the bar. No one’s looking their way, so why does he feel so self conscious?

‘We can’t stay here, okay?’ Mike says. ‘Listen, tomorrow, we work like normal, then I’ll come over yours and you try to use the thing on me.’

‘Really?’

‘Yeah. What can I say, I’m curious. Look at you, you can’t stop smiling, and it’s a real smile. Too real, it’s kinda freaking me out, man.’ Colin hadn’t realised his expression had changed and he makes it neutral again. Damn this was going to be hard.

‘Anyway,’ Mike goes on, ‘Whether it works or not, we wait till late at night and go to this alleyway, and check the place out.’

‘And? If we find the stash? If it all works?’

Mike smiles. ‘We deliver to the masses, baby, but not for free.’

‘What, like a black market? Make people pay?’

‘Yeah, why not? Not too much, and we’ll make it cheaper once we learn how to make them. The hard part will be distribution, do it some way we can’t be traced.’

Colin thinks about it, but not for long. He finishes his second beer in three long gulps and puts it down, his head spinning in more ways than one, and he’s never felt like this before, ever. ‘Okay,’ he says at last. ‘Let’s get out of this hole. I’ll see you tomorrow, alright.’

‘Alright.’

 

I’m living in hell, Colin thinks as he stands next to Mike eight hours later with a pounding hangover, staring at the endless conveyor belt. Mike doesn’t say a word, as per usual, just sifts through the screws, picking one up now and again, throwing it away or putting it back. His face is totally blank. Is this what I was like? He knows it was. He hadn’t realised how numb he was until now, and now he finds himself wishing he was numb again. I’ll go insane before my shift ends.

In the end, he can’t take it. He mutters ‘See you later’ to Mike and leaves without notifying the foreman. It could cost him his job, but if he cited sickness they’d send him straight to the infirmary where they’d find out nothing was wrong. What other reason for leaving was there? Besides, without the need to buy a chip for everything, the savings he had now could last him years.

The sky is grey and everything is still wet and humid from last night’s rain. He tries to walk like he normally does: slow but purposeful, looking straight ahead, disinterested. In fact his mind is going wild with everything – the smell of delicious sizzling beef wafting from a street stand (which also happens to sell taste chips), the way the suns rays are creeping around a dark cloud, a violinist playing something so beautiful it almost brings a tear to his eye; how long has it been since he could afford a decent music chip? And here it was, all free. All he wanted to do was stand there in the street and listen to it, but that was dangerous, so he kept walking, his face as featureless as stone.

There were just six hours left in his shift, so all he has to do is wait it out in his apartment until Mike shows up. He wonders what it’ll feel like to have a hot shower, or if anyone’s ever wasted such an expensive chip on such a basic thing. No factory worker has, anyway.

He doesn’t find out. His apartment is empty when he opens the door, empty when he closes it. When he locks it, though, two cops step out from the adjoining room and level pistols at his face. He backs against the door, hands up, and if they had any doubts as to what he was doing before they couldn’t now because the terror is written all over his face.

They keep coming at him fast, as if they’re just going to walk right on through him and out the door, but they stop when the barrel of the pistol is pressed right up against his face and the other guy is cuffing his hands in front of him. All this happens in silence, no one saying a word. The guy who cuffed him, a tall lanky blond, pulls him forward just like the guy in the alleyway, only he lets him keep going until he’s face first on the carpet.

‘Where’s the eraser?’ It’s the other guy talking, the one with the gun who was heavyset but in a tight suit. He’s sitting on his back now, pressing the barrel of the gun against his head. Colin’s breaths come in gasps and wheezes.

‘What’s an eraser?’

The butt of the pistol comes down on his ear – the ear, of all places! He doesn’t cry out but grinds his teeth against the pain. He realises that in that same weird way, he’s enjoying it. Like the guy in the alley said, it’s all good. He’s alive, alright. He chuckles, and then regrets it as the cop hits the exact same place again, hard.

‘Ow! Shit!’

‘Ha. It’s funny, you know, cos they always work people over in the movies, doing all these fancy things, but the best is to just get the same place over and over. Doesn’t matter where you go for, just as long as it’s the same. You can kill someone like that, just being relentless.’ He hits him again and now Colin decides he’s definitely not enjoying it anymore. Not even a little. The carpet is warm next to his head where the blood is pooling.

‘It should be right there, next to the coffee table in front of the couch I’m lying next to right now,’ he says.

The lanky guy goes around pauses, and picks up the metal object. ‘Got it,’ he says.

‘Chuck it here.’

‘Fuck you, I got it.’

‘What?’

‘What, just cos I’m the new guy you get all the credit? Eat it.’

The heavy guy pulls something out of his pocket, cursing under his breath, and Colin has a short lived fantasy in which he draws a handgun and blows the other guy to hell. Short lived, because what he draws is something small and metal and when he plugs it into the first of Colin’s ports the world turns to static, like the kind you get on televisions with no signal. Hissing, white noise.

 

When he wakes up he’s still on the carpet in his own dried blood, and he knows they’ve re plugged him because he feels fine. Not bad, not good, no hangover, just fine. There’s an official looking note beside him.

Dear Citizen.

            This note serves as your first and only warning in regards to the crime of erasing. Thanks to your co operation and information supplied, no further action will be necessary. If, however, you are found to be erased again in the future you will be summoned to court and possibly sentenced to the following:

  • A depression chip lasting up to six months.
  • A mild to moderate pain chip.
  • Imprisonment and sensory deprivation of up to three days.

If you offend again in the next three months, these punishments may be incurred without trial. If you have any queries or complaints, contact your local Government Citizen Liason branch.

Signed, S. Manfried, NYPD.

 

Colin reads it twice, rubs his eyes and reads it again. ‘Thanks to my co operation and information supplied?’ He says out loud, and shakes his head.

He cleans the carpet and grabs a few hunks of old bread for calories. It tastes, as usual, like nothing. When he’s finished, he looks out the window and realises the sun has just risen – he must have slept for twelve hours. They’d be expecting him at work soon. He gets ready, showers, washes the blood from his head, and stares vacantly out of a window. He thinks of the guy from the alley, and wonders why Mike never showed up.

He leaves early, and this time he doesn’t have to pretend to be normal. His thoughts are vague and disconnected, but he’s thinking about that shower he never got to have. Still, he’s got some savings, and after today maybe he could buy a touch chip and try it for real? Yeah, that’d be nice.

He stops in the alleyway. It’s dark and empty, the small door with the rusty hinges is still there. He looks at it for a while, and then shakes his head and walks on.

No one says anything to him about leaving early the day before, which strikes him as strange, but he doesn’t think about it for too long. His mind soon becomes absorbed in the comforting routine of a familiar job. He picks up a screw, puts it down, picks up a screw, throws it away. Picks up a screw.

‘Hey.’ He’s been working three hours already and yet it’s only now he realises it isn’t Mike working beside him but one of the other full timers, a short wiry guy with bright eyes called Keiran. They’ve worked in the same area of the factory for two years, and this is the first time they’ve made eye contact, let alone spoken. Colin just looks at him.

Keiran begins a smile, but falters at Colin’s expression. ‘Hey,’ Colin says. For some reason Kieran only shakes his head and turns back to the conveyor belt, and a minute later so does Colin, although a while later something occurs to him and he looks up again. ‘Where’s Mike?’ He knows the two of them spoke sometimes, but doesn’t know how well they got on. Still, worth a try.

Kieran shakes his head again. ‘Don’t know,’ he says. ‘Just didn’t turn up for work, I guess.’

It’s a strange shift. Besides Kieran’s attempt at small talk, Colin swears he catches one or two of the other guys glance his way and just look at him. He wonders how he’d be feeling if he were still erased. If he’d be bored or scared or worried or depressed. In truth, none of those emotions seem desirable at all and he finds he’s glad he’s not feeling them. Plus, time moves quicker this way, and before long his twelve hour shift is over and he’s out the door, heading for Sina’s Taste Emporium. Touch could wait for another day – he needed a beer. Maybe Mike will be at the bar, taking work off sick.

Mike isn’t at the bar, and he doesn’t answer his phone. At work the next day, no one Colin cares to ask seems to know where he is or what happened, and those strange looks just keep coming. Colin keeps getting the feeling they’re supposed to be meaningful, those looks, but he can’t for the life of him decipher them. And he doesn’t really care.

But he is curious. Just a little bit. He walks past the alley way every day, and every time he does he pauses and looks down it, expecting to see a guy, Mike, maybe, standing there with a little metal device and a smile. He wonders if the cops are watching him.

It’s almost a week after Mike’s disappearance, and he steps into the alleyway. He makes the transition into darkness smoothly, his overalls blending totally with the darkness. He waits there, invisible, for almost an hour, staring at the brick wall opposite, thinking nothing in particular. No one follows him.

Eventually, he turns down the alley, pulls open the door, and steps inside. Smells come to him with the stale air that he can’t discern. He knows they’re dusty, old smells and can identify some of them: soil, rusted metal, stone. But he gets nothing from them, feels nothing as a result of them.

He goes down a short flight of stairs and enters a dingy, basement room where the crazy guy must have been living for a while. There’s a hole ridden mattress in one corner with a few thin blankets on it. A rotted wooden desk with a mug of something black which has round pools of fungus floating in it. Everything else has been cleared out, except… A piece of paper full of scrawled writing, and a paperweight. A square, metal paperweight.

Colin has never seen Mike’s handwriting before, but the note is signed Mike, and once he reads it he’s sure it was him.

 

C.

            I couldn’t afford to leave any of the others, but even if the bastards get this one I got a feeling it’ll still only be a matter of time for you. I had to get rid of a bunch to lighten my load, and guess where I started? Heh heh.

            Anyway, let me explain: I walked in on you, bleeding on your floor with the metal thing, (Eraser), missing. I have to admit I felt kind of mildly disappointed that I wasn’t going to see what it was like, but then I remembered you telling me about the guy in the alley. And the fact that the cops beat you so bad made me even more curious. So I came down here, and guess what? Turns out these things do work more than once! That’s right, I’ve been busy.

            I had to run pretty much straight away though, and I have a feeling I’m going to be running for a long time, man, a long time. I know we never really got to know each other, but you’re the only person I could ever really call my friend. You won’t have any idea what I’m talking about until you erase yourself and please, for the love of god, erase yourself. Friends seem to be few and far between in this world, but I’m going to change all that. As long as I’ve got my mind to myself, as long as I’m free, I’m going to change everything, and you can help.

            There’s a revolution starting, C, and it’s going to be big. Step one is erase. Don’t worry about step two. It was good knowing you, man, I hope we meet again someday in another world.

–          M.

 

Colin drops the letter back onto the desk and shakes his head. It seems bizarre, too strange to be true. A revolution? Maybe the ‘eraser’ as Mike called it, messed with his head, made him crazy like the guy from the alley. Maybe all the stuff Colin thought he experienced after he got erased was all an illusion, hallucinations?

What if it isn’t? A quiet voice in the back of his mind asks him. And what was life like before senses and feelings became things that had to be bought and sold? Someone like him, who’d lived almost his entire life this way, would surely be shocked by the change. What if all that was how human beings were really supposed to live?

Colin picks up the eraser and holds it up by his head. He feels nothing, of course, no elevated heartbeat or excitement or anticipation. It would be so easy for him to put the eraser back on the desk and walk out of this dingy basement place and go back to work. It would be like slipping into a comfortable old pair of shoes. No, better, it would be like curling up in his blankets on a cold morning and going back to sleep. But there is that curiosity.

He puts the eraser against the ports on the back of his head and the world turns white again.

 

He’s not sure how much later it is when he picks himself off the floor, wiping a trail of drool from the corner of his mouth. He has a hell of a headache and he wonders how bad the side effects might be from too many erasings and re pluggings. He decides if the cops re plug him again, he won’t erase, just in case.

But this feels good. He’s unsteady on his feet, and his hearts going mad, now. The full force of what he’s done – of what Mike has done – hits him and he lets out a dry laugh which quickly turns into a cough. It’s dusty in here, and now he takes a deep breath and really smells it, the mustiness that reminds him of the old beach house he used to visit as a kid.

The feelings and senses bombard him in waves, but he closes his eyes and stays in control. He lets it wash over him and breathes slow, and after a while it gets easier to filter some of it out and steady himself.

Now what? He wonders, and almost immediately the words from Mike’s letter jump out at him: Don’t worry about step two. Well, he’s trusted Mike this far, after all.

He slips the eraser into his pocket and tears up and scrunches the letter before doing the same. He’ll find somewhere to dump them later, but it would be too risky to leave them here. He slides the door shut behind him on the way out and hurries down the alleyway and into the bright sunlight. It feels so warm and pleasant on his skin, but he doesn’t smile. Instead, he turns the corner, stares straight ahead, and walks at a slow and steady pace to work.

He’s almost an hour late, but he doesn’t see any of the foremen and no one pulls him aside to give him a warning or fire him or anything. He walks right in and takes his place by the conveyor belt, where Kieran is already hard at work, methodically sorting the screws.

Just like before, a feeling creeps up on Colin, a sense that something is wrong. The cautious, searching glances out of the corners of eyes, the silence of the place broken only by the sound of relentless machinery. He picks up a screw, analyses it, puts it back. He picks up a screw, throws it away. He looks up.

Kieran has stopped work. He’s looking at Colin with a strange expression on his face and the beginning of what may be either a smile or a leer. ‘Hey,’ he says.

Colin looks at him for a moment, his face still neutral, his heart and mind racing. And then he smiles. ‘Hey,’ he says. He extends his hand. ‘I’m Colin.’

‘Kieran,’ Kieran says, and breaks out in a genuine smile of his own, no leer in sight.

Colin drops his screw on the factory ground, and twenty faces turn to look at him. He meets their eyes, one by one, and they all grin back at him. Everyone excited, geared up, ready to go. He realises he was the last one, and by the time he turns back to Kieran the silence is total: the conveyor belt has stopped, and only a few distant clunks sound from deeper in the factory.

‘So what now?’ Colin says.

‘Follow me.’

I was reading an article about common concepts that come up repeatedly in popular movies. This one came from the ‘Ship of Theseus’ clone related one, obviously, with the main question being ‘if you cloned yourself, would you still be you?’ Or if you want to get deep, ‘what makes you you?’ Anyway, I didn’t want to just repeat old stories so I decided to present the concept in the most twisted and disturbing way possible. Enjoy!

 

Perpetual Suicide

 

By Ben Pienaar

 

‘Supress your nature all you want, you sick bastard. It’s still in there, waiting to come out. Not fighting, no, just waiting. Because it knows that if it just keeps hanging around in there, eventually you’ll have to let it out or go crazy. In the end they both come to the same thing, anyway.’

In truth, the man staring back at Anton Kave through the mirror and saying these words with him looked pretty damned crazy. His hair was messy, his eyes were so black around the sockets he looked like he was wearing two layers of eyeliner, and he hadn’t shaved or eaten in days. Not a good look, but then it was exactly fitting, considering the kind of things that were going through his head.

He looked down at the basin and saw a few drops of sweat fall onto the porcelain. When he looked up again, he thought he looked a bit more composed. Someone it was conceivable to do business with, maybe. He hoped so, but he was mainly relying on the fact that someone seedy enough to sell him a Cloner wasn’t used to dealing with trustworthy types, anyhow.

He cleared his throat.

‘At any rate,’ he went on, watching his reflection to make sure he maintained an air of respectability, ‘it’s none of your business what I want it for. You’re a seller, and I’m a buyer, and that’s all there is to it.’

He slammed his hands on the sides of the basin, stood up, and nodded at himself.

‘Now let’s do business.’

The central New York City business district was simply named B1. In a world where there were simply too many districts, streets and cities to name, everything was reduced to letters and numbers. There was still slang, though, and so B1 was also known as ‘Shark City’. That was the place where the high rollers and the big dealers and the real business tycoons went to build their empires, where the streets were squeaky clean and not a single begging hand could be seen extended from a dingy alley. That was not where Anton went this day.

Anton went to B9, ‘Dark Towers’. It was the kind of place you’d get if you condensed the whole of 21st century India into one city and then propelled it two hundred years into the future: better technology, same problems.

As he shuffled down B9-19th street, he found he was glad for his dishevelled appearance, because he fit right in with everyone else. Hell if anything, he was overdressed. People saw him, but a rough snarl and a wild look deterred anyone who gave him a second look. He was just another broke nutcase in the city to them, and that was good, because if anyone had so much as guessed that he had over sixteen million dollars under his tattered overcoat they’d have fallen on him like starved wolves.

He made it to the Ragman without any holdups, but he had an idea the journey back was going to be harder. He wished he’d thought of buying some piece of trash bike to ride in, so no one would bother stealing it. Then again, it would have made the whole crazy hobo act a little harder.

‘No shit. You got the money, huh?’ These were the Ragman’s first words as he brushed past the dirty curtain in the shop front.

‘That’s right, I got it.’

The room was small and cramped, but it was just a front, like the dirty curtain. To a casual eye the Ragman was just that, a poor bastard trying to make his way with a cramped little shop. Truth was, he owned most of the building this little room was in, and most of that was storage space.

‘Sure I got it,’ Anton said, pulling out the wad of cash from his inside pocket. He sat down in a splintery chair and laid it out on the table in front of him. It was all in ten thousand dollar bills, and as a result didn’t look like much. The Ragman raised a grey eyebrow at it and rolled his fat body forward in his wheelchair. He leaned right over the wad and brought his head in close, analysing it. After a few moments, he nodded, grinning.

‘That’s the real deal, alright,’ he said.

‘Okay, so where’s my Cloner?’ Anton said, leaning over his cash protectively, for all the good it would do.

The Ragman chuckled and winked, pushing away from the table and swivelling around to the door in the back. ‘Just gimme a second. No need to be on guard so much, buddy. I gotta do business, ya know. I’ll rip you off, but I won’t steal. I’m an honourable man.’ This last was called back to him from the next room, which Anton already knew was a place the size of a cathedral.

When he came back, he was holding a bundle of electronic parts and wires. He rolled over and dumped it on the table in a grey mess, which he began to separate into its various elements.

‘That’s it?’ Anton said, frowning.

‘That’s it? You a dumbass? You come askin for a Cloner, I give you a Cloner. You think this isn’t a Cloner?’

‘No, I’m sure that’s it. I mean… But how’s it work?’

The Ragman rolled his eyes. ‘Give me a minute, will you?’

Anton gave him a minute, though he wanted to get the hell out of this dingy, oily den as fast as he could. It smelled so strongly of petrol he swore he was getting high on the fumes.

Finally it was all separated into different components across the table. Anton noticed, to some dismay, that his money had vanished.

‘Okay. So you got the processor here,’ the Ragman said, pointing to a long rectangular compartment. He slid open the top and showed that the insides were clean and empty. ‘You stick a bit of yourself in this part,’ he said gleefully. ‘Could be anything, but the more matter it’s got, the quicker the clone. So, you stick in your baby toe, it’ll be a few months before you got a full clone. Put in your leg and you got one in a week. My advice, kill the first clone and freeze him so you got body parts for the next ones.’ He chuckled, ‘and they wonder why this shit was outlawed.’

He slid across the desk and pointed at a pile of four metallic cones.  They were dark silver, and not connected to any of the other pieces. ‘These are the makers. You stick em up around a room, any room. The one that has TOP engraved on it, goes highest up, and you gotta have the pointy part aiming at the middle of the room, where the compartment is. Next one says TOP MIDDLE, then BOTTOM MIDDLE, then BOTTOM. You get it?’

‘Yeah.’

He nodded and pointed at the final piece. It looked pretty unimpressive in Anton’s opinion: just a metal box with a few knobs and dials on it.

‘That’s the operator. See all those different knobs and dials and shit?’

‘Yes,’ Anton said, anticipating a headache.

‘Ignore that shit. I already set it up for you. Don’t touch it or your clones are gonna come out like fucking mutants. Same thing if you pass through the room where the cones are while it’s going on. See the green button on the side? That’s all you gotta press. It’s that simple, man. You set up the cones right, you dump the body part – the fresher the better – in the compartment and close the door, and you press the green button. The clone will come up in whatever room you set the cones up in. Leave the machine running until your clone moves away from the original spot, and I dunno, says something or gives you the finger or whatever. Then you press the green button again and it shuts off, and you got yourself a clone.’

‘Okay. That easy?’

The Ragman chuckled again. ‘Sure. He gives me sixteen million and then asks if it’s that easy. Yeah, sure. Listen, I’ll give you some advice because I feel sorry for you. Put the cones in a secure place. Don’t let your clone out for a while.’

This time it was Anton’s turn to chuckle. ‘Don’t worry, that won’t be a problem.’

‘Oh yeah? So what, you gonna talk to him for a bit? Explain to him why you so desperately need a clone army to take over the world?’ He gave that dry chuckle again. ‘I mean, shit, you wouldn’t believe the reasons I’ve heard. I had this one chick come in to buy a Cloner one time, no joke man, she was planning to put herself out on the streets as a whore. Use herself to make money. Oh, and she told me she was gonna make six. Six! You believe that shit?’

Anton smiled blandly. ‘Sure.’

‘Anyway. Nine times out of ten, dudes that clone more than once get arrested in about a month, so good luck. And don’t come crying to me, either, this baby is untraceable. Oh yeah, one final thing.’ The Ragman leaned forward so far across the desk that he would have touched noses with Anton if he hadn’t reeled back at the last moment, surprised. ‘You point so much as a finger at me if the law comes… I’ll kill you.’

He didn’t need to say more than that – didn’t need more detail. It was all there in his eyes. Anton nodded. He stood up and packed the three parts of the Cloner into a compact bag he’d brought with him, realizing for the first time that it was going to be much harder getting out of B9 than it was getting in.

‘Hey, by the way. What the hell do you want this for, anyway?’ Anton looked at him sharply, all his prepared answers and suave retorts disappearing in a moment. He was in a hole within a hole within a hole: It didn’t matter.

‘I’m going to satisfy the lifelong homicidal urges I’ve had by murdering my clones,’ he said. And then, because his mouth had already started running, he added: ‘I’ll probably torture them, too.’

Ragman stared at him with a look that was shocked but not totally surprised, and as always, there was a hint of s mile there. ‘Shit,’ he said after a moment’s silence. ‘You think you heard it all.’

Before he finished the last word Anton shoved aside the curtain and stepped back onto the street.

How he made it out of there alive he wasn’t sure, but he again he attributed his luck to his acting and attire. Whatever, it didn’t matter. He was home, and the Cloner was set up. The past eight years of fantasy had suddenly become reality, and now he didn’t think he could deal with it.

‘You sick bastard,’ he told the mirror. ‘Don’t even do it. Go back to the Ragman and get a refund, and if he won’t take it back then chuck it in the street.’ He said this with conviction and determination, but he didn’t believe his words. He didn’t believe that he was a sick bastard – in fact he knew he wasn’t. A sick bastard would have started killing as soon as he got those strange, compelling urges. But he hadn’t, he’d held out, fought them for eight years. He’d never so much as harmed a hair on the head of an innocent, and he wouldn’t for the rest of his life, either. It wouldn’t even be murder, what he was doing – just suicide. Perpetual suicide. He chuckled, didn’t like the look of the grin in the mirror and turned away.

The Cloner was exactly as easy as the Ragman had told him it would be, except for one part. The salesman had so nonchalantly mentioned putting a finger or a leg into the compartment, but he’d neglected to go into detail about the removal process. Anton spent about half an hour with a butcher’s blade poised a foot above his left hand and his teeth gritted. Try as he might he couldn’t bring himself to chop.

Eventually, he decided it would be enough to cut all his hair off and drop that, along with weekly nail clippings and daily drops of blood into the compartment. After a month he thought he had enough. The compartment was packed with these scraps of him, and as he looked down at them he couldn’t help but wonder if it hadn’t been a swindle after all.

But there was no going back, now. He’d spent too long on this project to stop – his whole life, it seemed. The clone room alone had taken an eternity, and not least of that was getting hold of the Halothane gas that waited to be pumped into the room from a large black container fitted into the wall like a perverted air conditioner.

He went into the darkened room, and put the compartment in the middle, laying it down as though it were made of glass. He couldn’t help but feel the prickle of the ‘makers’ as though they were loaded guns pointing at him from the corners of the room, and as soon as it was down he backed out of the room fast and shut the door.

He’d installed a thick window into the room (one way tinted – Halothane gas was sensitive to light and he couldn’t risk his clone waking up early) and he looked through it now. He could practically feel the potential for life radiating from the metal box, as though another version of himself could explode from it at any moment. He bent down and picked up the operator, and the sense of potential grew.

He moved his finger to the green button and let it hover there for a moment, running over the process in his mind. The clone would appear in the next room, which was locked from the outside. It was airtight, and there was no escape, and if he knew that then so would his clone. He’d flip the switch and the gas would pump into the room, knocking Anton 2.0 out long enough for Anton 1 to enter and set up the kill room. After that…

The thought of things to come turned his stomach to jelly with excitement and goose bumps rose on his forearms.  He closed his eyes and listened to his quick breaths, savouring the moment, the same way a sky diver might savour the moment before jumping off the plane. His eyes still closed, he placed his finger firmly on the button… and pressed.

There was a sensation of being pushed on the back, hard, and he fell forward with both arms out to protect his face. But instead of falling into the adjoining wall, he kept going until his forearms hit the cement floor.

He lay there for a moment, his eyes screwed closed. Something was wrong. The floor in the living room was carpeted. The only room in the house with a cement floor was…

He opened his eyes and saw nothing at all. The room was pitch black, which meant the door was still closed and locked from the outside, just as it was meant to be. He swore and then flinched at the loudness of his voice in the small room. As he struggled to his feet he knocked the compartment and froze. There was something wrong with it.

It took a few minutes of scrabbling on all fours before he realised that the metal box was no longer a box. It had unwrapped, opened up like a Christmas present with all sides flat on the floor. And it was empty. His hands should have touched the crusty mess of hair and nails and blood but they hadn’t.

That was when he heard the hissing of gas entering the room from a small hole in the wall near the tinted window. That was impossible – that had to be manually turned on with a dial that was outside the room and there was no one… He froze.

‘No.’ His instinct told him to back away from the gas, press up against the far wall and hold his breath, but his despair was far stronger, because it was born of everything he knew of himself. And everything he planned. Numb with horror, he could only wait for the gas to take effect and pray that he’d calculated the wrong amount and that he’d never wake up.

He woke, and God help him he woke exactly the way he expected to: tied fast to a steel chair in the middle of the kill room. Next to him was a fold out table decked out with over thirty different tools. The idea, he recalled, was to test out as many different things as possible on the first clone to see which were the most fun. The light was on, and so the next thing he laid eyes on was himself, standing in the open doorway.

Anton Kave was not used to feeling strong emotions of any kind, but he felt something at that moment, and it was pure and unadulterated terror. Terror because no sooner had he seen himself like a reflection come to life, he knew there was no hope. Still, he tried.

‘Stop, please. You don’t understand what’s going on. I am not the clone, you are! This should be the other way around.’

The clone stared at him, eyebrows raised, a mildly curious expression on his face.

‘I know you think you’re real, but just hang on a minute and try to remember the rest of the day. What were you doing this morning? Do you remember the rest of the week – or the rest of your life?’

The clone nodded slowly, fixing Anton with that bloodshot stare he’d seen just that morning in the mirror. ‘Yes, I can. I’m sorry, but I’m the real boy, it’s you who has the fake memories.’

Anton stared at himself, speechless at first. But as the clone chuckled and reached for the shears, a thought occurred to him and a thin, mad smile broke out on his face. Anton 2.0 hesitated. ‘What?’

‘Oh, nothing,’ he said in a shaking voice. ‘I just realised that whatever you do to me, you’re going to get worse yourself. Much worse.’

‘Really?’

‘Damn straight. You know why? Because I’m only the first one, remember? After me, you’re going to want to make another one, and when you use the machine, you’ll see exactly what I mean. You’ll be sitting in this chair yourself in a month or so, looking at Anton 3.0, and he won’t believe you either because he’ll have all your memories. And I’ll be laughing, alright – dead or not I’ll be laughing. Unless you stop this now. Let me go, who knows what we can achieve with two of us? We’re too smart to get caught out.’

The clone stared at him for a moment, his brow furrowed. He shook his head, slowly. Anton managed to hold his gaze, but he had an idea the other saw only the sick fear of death in his eyes.

‘You really believe you’re me, don’t you?’ the clone said. He put down the shears and reached for the pliers instead. Anton struggled, but his heart wasn’t in it even then, because he knew exactly how he’d planned to restrain himself and there was really no hope of escape. And now the clone had his index finger between the two blunt edges of the pliers, right at the second knuckle.

‘I’m kind of disappointed in myself, you know?’ he said. ‘I mean, of all people who should have known me better than to make stupid arguments, it would be you, right?’

Anton gave up and just sat, blinking cold sweat from his eyes.

‘I mean, what were you expecting? Hey, you’re right, you really sound like your memories are the real ones, and I’m the clone instead of you. I guess we should just switch places now, huh? I’ll strap myself into that chair there, and then you can have all the fun.’

He shook his head, chuckling, and Anton closed his eyes as he felt his own hot breath in his face and this time felt not just terror but revulsion. Only now did he realise what a monster he was – in a way worse than a serial killer who’d given in to his urges, because at least that man would have looked after himself.

‘God damn,’ said the clone, grinning as though he’d heard the best joke of his life. ‘I can be so dumb sometimes, huh?’

And then he gripped the pliers with both hands, and began to squeeze.

This was one of those ones where, I had to rewrite it cos the first one sucked. I think in future if that happens I’m just going to chuck it and write something new, because even though it’s much improved, its still… not quite right. Then again, maybe I’m being harsh – it has it’s moments… and there were times when I felt kind of wrong for writing it, and that has to be a good sign.

Real Murder

Gary Mathers was woken first by the cold, and second by the tight clamps on his wrists and ankles. As his disorientation began to clear, he realised he was horizontal, but elevated: he was eye level with the open window to his right. The panes were being blown open and shut by a chaotic wind. The sky outside was grey, and the view revealed nothing for miles around but rolling green hills.

He watched the scene for a while, mesmerised, letting the haze hang over him for as long as it wanted to. He was in a bad place, he thought distantly. He didn’t want to be there, but soon this dope would wear out and he’d have to be. So he watched the window and waited.

The first stab of fear came after a few minutes, when he felt an itch on his shoulder and was unable to scratch it. Only then did he dare lift his head and take a look at where he was. After a few seconds, he let it drop back down again. This was not good.

He was lying on a table in a long, narrow room at the top of what must be a very rickety wooden house. Two or three stories tall, judging from the view. The more the haze wore off, the more he felt the sway and creak of the place beneath him, as if a strong enough wind could blow it all over. He was to a table which, while also made of wood, was much thicker and sturdier than the rest of the house. Oak, maybe. It was smooth under his back, maybe reinforced.

None of these things were what really grabbed his attention, though – they were all background noise. No, what really got him when he lifted his head had been the opposite wall. It was like one of those walls in a tool shed, full of hooks and shelves. Only this wall didn’t have tools hanging from the hooks – or if it did, they weren’t the kind a carpenter might use, but more the kind a surgeon would. Then again, was that a saw? Was that a bone saw?

He groaned and struggled weakly, but it was no good.

‘Hello,’ a voice said.

Gary’s head sprung up again and he saw a man standing by the wall of weapons. He hadn’t heard the door open, hadn’t seen anyone a second before, but there he was. The man was slim and tall, and he was wearing a neat suit. Just by the way he’d said ‘hello’, Gary could tell he was Russian.

‘H… Hi?’ Gary said. ‘Listen, I don’t… I don’t think I want to do this anymore.’

Why had he said that? That was ridiculous. He had a brief flash of two words, but he couldn’t remember where he’d seen them: real murder. Was that it? There was much more, but he couldn’t recall. He swore.

‘Shall we begin?’ The Russian said, turning to look at the wall behind him. Gary watched him with wide eyes, hypnotised. The man would reach for something, then shake his head and take it away again, all the while muttering to himself.

The drug haze was all gone now. Now everything was too real, right up in his face. He could smell the varnish of the table he lay on. The cold sweat cooling in the wind on his forehead. His heart was beating so hard his vision was shaking.

The Russian reached for the bone saw, hesitated… and selected a steak knife. He looked at it, smiling. It was rusted but sturdy.

‘Oooooh no. Oooooh NO. I’m gonna need a tetanus shot for that one,’ Gary said, giggling madly. His body was electrified with fear, now. He struggled against the bonds with fresh energy, even felt the table move a few inches over the floor boards. Maybe that was the way, he thought. What if he could get over to the window and tip himself through it? But no, the table was nowhere near big enough.

The Russian approached him, and now his excitement was evident. His eyes had an almost Mongolian squint to them, and they glinted. Lightning flashed off them, and a moment later the thunder followed, drowning out Gary’s scream.

The Russian took the steak knife and placed it right over his solar plexus, the point poking into his skin. ‘I think I like this game, don’t you?’ The Russian said. ‘It is very exciting.’

‘No. Nooooo please don’t, please don’t! NOOOO –’

But his cries were cut short as the Russian put all his weight on the handle of the knife and it plunged into him. Grimacing, he twisted the blade and then ripped it out, and only then did Gary find the breath to scream.

For a moment he could only stare at the ceiling and watch fountains of blood fly up with every pump of his thundering heart.

‘JESUS!’ he shouted, half out of surprise. ‘Stop!’

But the Russian had no intention of stopping. He climbed onto the table so that he was straddling Gary, the knife held in both hands. He brought his face close, oblivious of the warm blood spurting up and soaking into his new suit.

‘How does it feel?’ he asked. ‘Is it really bad? I am the murderer, but maybe one day I’ll be the victim, what do you think?’

He lifted the knife and brought it down again, this one landing in Gary’s shoulder. That was a nasty one, but somehow it wasn’t as bad as it should have been. He was losing too much blood, going into shock.

The Russian wrinkled his face as more blood sprayed onto him, but then he was grinning.

Only then, seeing the look on his face, did Gary truly believe he was going to die. In that instant, there was no going back, and the stomach dropped out of him the way it did on the world’s scariest roller coaster.

The Russian grinned at him, showing blood spattered teeth, as he tore the blade form Gary’s shoulder. The pain rushed through him again, sending goose bumps all over his skin. He watched the blade rise higher and higher, the slit eyes open wider and wider, and there was a second when the fear disappeared and he was almost calm.

Then everything was chaos. The Russian brought the knife down again and again, screaming with joy, severing the arteries in his neck, destroying his right eye, widening his smile, digging a hole in his chest.

To Gary, it felt like being punched over and over, but with each stab he felt his heart rate weaken, his skin run cold. His arms and legs relaxed.

As his vision began to fade, he was only aware of the patter of rain on the window sill, and the distant rustling of the trees in the field. Then everything went black.

The black lasted a very long time. At some point, he realised he was still thinking. For a minute, he was struck with a horrible idea: what if this was death? An eternity of blackness, nothing but your own consciousness, floating in the void forever? But then, something unplugged his ears and he heard his own breathing.

A voice spoke to him from the void: ‘How we feeling, Mr. Mathers? Heart still beating there?’

With the voice came a name – Doctor Hagman, and then something else unplugged and there he was, the stocky bald doctor, smiling down at him and fiddling with something above his head.

‘Don’t panic, now, the memory should come back by the minute. All is well, no injuries. You’re not dead, my friend.’

He was in a kind of hospital room, but as the doctor himself had told him when he entered, it wasn’t so much a real hospital as an arcade. Real Murder, inc. Or Limited, or whatever. He was beginning to remember.

Hagman took out another two needles and placed them on a tray beside Gary’s head, followed by a third and a fourth. At last, the odd numbness he’d been feeling receded, leaving all the skin on his body tingling. His heart was still beating like crazy, though, and he turned to the doctor with wide eyes. ‘That was incredible,’ he said.

Hagman beamed and extended his hand. ‘Glad to be of service.’

Gary shook it vigorously, for the first time truly glad to be alive.

‘Now, a couple of things, just mandatory questions seeing as how this was a test run.’

‘Shoot.’

‘Pain?’

‘Really good. Dial it down a little, maybe, but not too much – otherwise it wouldn’t be as real, you know?’

‘Excellent,’ he whipped out a clipboard and pen and began to scribble notes.

‘I wouldn’t recommend it to anyone with heart problems.’

‘Right, right,’ Hagman said, nodding. ‘No one over say, fifty, or younger than eighteen, of course. –’

‘Because that was damned scary.’

Hagman laughed. ‘How’d you like the setting?’

‘Brilliant. A little cliché, maybe, but man, I wasn’t thinking of any of that stuff at the time. I was just like, where am I, whose that guy, what are those…’

‘Ah, yes, about that. We gave you something to confuse you temporarily, how did that work? Obviously, the thrill isn’t as good if you remember me.’

‘Sure, yeah. Worked fine. Listen, I gotta tell you, Doctor. I’ve been skydiving, bungee jumping, you name it. Nothing, I mean nothing, has ever given me a rush like that. Look at my hand, it’s still shaking.’

Hagman laughed again, clearly pleased. ‘Well I’m glad, Mr. Mathers. We were worried about how the victims would experience it, even if they had volunteered. Was there anything else?’

Gary thought for a minute. ‘Yeah, who was that guy? Did you pull him from a mental institution? Prison?’

But Hagman shook his head, bemused. ‘No, actually he was playing you from the adjoining room. Just your average Joe. Physicist, I think.’

‘Oh. Wow.’

Gary got up off the chair, which was very much like one you’d find in a dentistry. Except for the odd contraption hanging above it, which looked like some kind of robotic octopus.

‘We’ll need you to answer a few questions for review in the next room,’ Hagman was saying. ‘It’ll help us get it up to standard before the official release.’

‘Sure, no problem. Oh, yeah, just one more thing, doc,’ he said, hand on the doorknob.

‘Yes?’

‘Can I be the killer next time?’

Hagman laughed and winked. ‘Sure, why not?’

%d bloggers like this: