Kzine Issue 23

by Graeme Hurry et al.

  The device came alive. It adhered to the man’s wrists mercilessly, stretching out its length and circling around them. Marco could hear him grunting and then yelling through the water. Once it had his wrists, it pulled them together like handcuffs and solidified. While the man struggled to get free, bubbles of air coming from his nose and mouth, Marco took out another and slapped it on the man’s ankles.

  The guard fumbled to get a knife from his belt and cut at the bonds. All he managed to do was open his own wrist, and he looked up at Marco as the light in his eyes dimmed and went out. Through the entire surface of the skin, Marco could smell and taste the iron in the man’s blood. His sweat. The aftershave he’d used and the onions he’d eaten that day and finally his bladder and bowels emptying.

  The alarm system continued to blare, and he felt it pressing on him from all sides. He swam over to a terminal, put his fingers in a pouch over his stomach, and pulled out container that could be taken for a glasses case. Marco opened it and eyed the three rows of tiny drones. Some of them had an arachnid appearance, others looked like moths and a few resembled tiny eels. He touched an eel delicately with a fingertip and it sprang to life. It swam straight up, scanned the room for an instant until it spotted a computer, then shot toward it. When it reached the terminal, it flattened and squeezed itself through a seam in the casing.

  Marco floated. Waited. He could hear his own heart beating as slowly as if he were at home reading a book in bed. The next room, he knew, contained no people at the moment. The rooms farther away felt fuzzy, unclear, but he definitely sensed movement there. They’d be on their way.

  And then he felt it, the control. He closed his eyes to concentrate, tried to shut out the sounds, smells, tastes, pressure changes, heat signatures and electrical pulses. Pulling all his focus together, he thought about the alarm, about how he wanted it to stop.

  It stopped.

  The door, he thought. He wanted the door to open just for the briefest moment, just wide enough for him to get through, then close again.

  It did. He rushed through the crack with a flood of water, then it closed behind him. Another room with chemistry equipment and lab tables, this one bigger than the last. The only other door was on the opposite side of the room. He squatted down and put both hands on the floor, the skin and his brain in concert creating a synesthesic phantasmagoria in his mind. Heavy boots pounding the floors and deep voices shouting. More would arrive any second.

  Marco calmly chose one device after another and placed them strategically around the room just so, above the door, on the tables. Then he picked a place where he’d have a good line of sight to watch the show, and pressed his back against the wall. He looked down at the skin over his left forearm, which had a series of octagonal, color-coded touchpoints. He touched a grey octagon and the skin camouflaged itself, becoming invisible. When the guards came in, they’d not be able to see him unless they had very specific, expensive countermeasure tech.

  A half-dozen men crept down the long hallway on the other side of the door. Marco sensed that the man at the tip of the spear signaled to the others with hand gestures. All of them breathed quickly and shallowly, occasionally holding their breath. He felt the weight and density of body armor, heavy assault weapons and packs filled with combat tech.

  Beautiful. This would be good. His heartbeat picked up slightly, not out of fear, but childlike anticipation. Normal people, he understood, were sometimes pulled out of the mindlessness of everyday life by the pathos of snow falling in the woods, or a striking ocean sunset. He couldn’t remember if he’d ever been like that, before the military, before the chip they’d put in his brain. But in moments of life-or-death struggle, in those crossroads of risking everything, he saw poetry in the violence. Metre in the movement of the bodies, rhyme in the blows, alliteration in the shots. In struggle, the chaos of the universe revealed its pattern to him. In war, the song of life rang out.

  The door slid open and Marco bit his lip. The first two men came through quietly, pointing their rifles everywhere, clearing the corners. Searching for him. As they passed through the threshold, two small cylindrical devices over the door sprayed a fine mist of aerosol onto their helmets. They’d not even noticed until a second later, when the helmets sizzled and melted onto their skin.

  They screamed as they dropped to their knees, clawing wildly at the protective gear, the substance burning their heads and now hands. In half a minute their screams trailed off into gurgles and they lay slumped just inside the doorway.

  The remaining the men sent a drone though. It passed through the doorway fast and low enough to avoid the spray, then turned and hovered in front of the aerosol devices. It shot a small arc of electricity into both, then turned to scan the room.

  Marco touched a blue octagon on his forearm. A flat, circular device he’d left on a nearby table clicked and shot its own arc into the underside of the drone, which sputtered, smoked and clanked on the floor.

  Four men rushed through the threshold, stepping over the bodies. Marco touched a red octagon and inhaled sharply at the thrill of it. Two oblong black spheres on the lab tables activated, each uncoiling into a drone in the form of a millipede the length of a man’s forearm, but with a scorpion-like, drill-tipped tail.

  All four men shouted and fired, but the drones scurried in lightning-fast zigzags down to the floor, over to the nearest men and up their bodies. One man silently struggled to swat the thing away while the other shrieked in a way that made Marco giggle. “For Christ’s sake, don’t shoot at it! Just pull it—”

  But before he got all the words out, the drone had crawled up his back to his head and brought the tail forward. With a high, buzzing whine, it drove the drill into his skull. The second drone did the same on another.

  At that, the remaining two fired, but again could not quite hit the skittering targets. The drones easily took them down, and Marco touched the red octagon once more. They rolled back up and he returned them to their pouches.

  Marco felt more men gearing up and heading his way. As much fun as he was having, he reminded himself to keep his eyes on the prize. Dream. He concentrated, linking with the drone that had hacked into Bennett’s system, and willed it to lock down entrances to that level, preventing any more men from coming for now.

  He took out the case with the remaining drones and sent out four moths to find Peters. While he waited for them to return, he leaned against a table and stretched his senses out in different directions, reveling in the power. But less than a minute later the moths buzzed back to him and led him down the hallway and through two more rooms.

  He found Peters hiding in a bathroom, crying.

  * * *

  Marco waited, invisible, inevitable, in Bennett’s bedroom. Eventually his rival came in, swearing and muttering to himself. He changed his clothes, brushed his teeth, took some pills and fell asleep after a while. Marco took a moment to quietly disable the alarms and guards, then turned off the skin’s cloak, pulled the mask off and sat on the edge of the bed.

  Bennett woke and grimaced at him, but said nothing. They locked gazes for a few beats before Marco broke the silence. “I could say I’m sorry, but I’m not. Apologizing would mean I did something wrong. Which is silly.”

  “You’re a goddamn psychopath.”

  “A tsunami kills thousands and no one calls it a psychopath. Isn’t it strange? When a tornado rips through the Midwest, no one thinks it’s evil. I didn’t make myself or Dream or this world.”

  “The directorate will take you down for this. My son will—”

  “I’ll deal with the directorate. And your son is dead. Or will be in the next few minutes.”

  At that, Bennett’s cold sneer twisted into a red, teary mask of heartbreak as his body shook. Even Marco could make out Bennett’s emotions this time, without Grace’s help.

  Anger, Marco could sort of understand. Marco had flashes of anger, explosive sometimes, but generally short-lived. The fear, though, was harder to fath
om. He knew the word—fear—and he knew how other people acted when gripped by it, but he couldn’t remember ever actually experiencing it himself.

  “Things happen, Bennett, they cause other things to happen, blah blah blah.” Marco shrugged and rolled his eyes, then got up and opened the window.

  Bennett sat up. “You’re not going to kill me? You want to leave me alive to suffer. That it?”

  As Marco stepped one foot out the window, he pulled the mask down over his head, sealing himself inside the skin. “No, you’ll be dead in a minute. Thanks for the Dream, though.” Bennett’s bloodshot eyes widened and he put his hands to his throat, struggling as if some invisible monster choked him.

  Marco slipped out into the night.

  * * *

  Hours later, at 3AM, Marco stood at his penthouse window, smoking and scanning Night Water. In the reflection, he saw Arturo leaning over the pool table to take a shot. The cue hit a ball, which knocked into another, which in turn knocked into others. Already the thrill of the night had passed, the distraction come and gone to leave the usual vague, haunting hunger. His eyes moved from the constellation of neon signs below out to the cold, black waters beyond and up to the infinite vacuum above.

  Finally, his gaze settled on the dark horizon in the Northwest and he squinted, taking a deep drag and releasing the smoke slowly. “Letting us,” he whispered.

  Arturo surveyed the pool table and whistled. “Your shot. Damn, boss, I think this game is yours for the taking.”

  SURVIVING LIFE

  by Cameron Johnston

  Her grandpa Rab struggled up in bed, rheumy blue eyes squinting out into the hospice corridor. Satisfied nobody was eavesdropping, he slumped back into his pillows. “Alex, pet, I’m falling to pieces here. There’s something I need to tell you before it’s too late, a secret I’d never dream of telling your dad.” He coughed, a phlegmy bubbling hack, and fumbled the plastic mask back over his mouth and nose.

  Alex found the sight heartrending, and still couldn’t believe that her big burly grandpa had become this withered husk of a man. The only person that truly understood her and here he was crumbling like a condemned house riddled with rot. Her grandpa had always been a bit mental: mad as a bath full of cats but still the smartest person she’d ever met, and cool in a peculiar sort of way. Now it was almost like he was a different person.

  He was marshalling his strength to tell her yet another of his supposed secrets and she wondered if this one would be an absent-minded repeat or a work of total fantasy. Hopefully it wouldn’t be like clearing his browser history again. Ick.

  She waited until he was ready to continue, her mind dwelling on a bleak future without him. One more year and she could escape to university… but that year loomed like forever, and only her grandpa accepted she didn’t have the faintest interest in studying accountancy or law, despite her parents’ badgering and blackmail.

  Finally, he eased the mask aside. “There is a metal box hidden up in my loft behind the old water tank. The key is taped to the back of that pig-ugly painting in the bedroom… your granny loved that horrible old thing…” His eyes clouded over with loss, still deep and fresh after fifteen years. He loved fiercely and hurt keenly, living life joyfully, each day a gift. Alex admired that vibrant ethic, so very unlike her parents – if you cut them they’d ooze a dull grey.

  She never could resist a mystery. “No problem,” Alex said. “What’s in it? You want me to get rid of it, or…?”

  He gasped in pain, covering his mouth with a hand. Blood seeped from between his fingers and pure terror filled his eyes. “Teeth… iron teeth…”

  Alex sat straight and chewed on her lip piercing. Another delusion? Her grandpa shuddered, closed his eyes and lapsed into silence, breathing slowing. She waited, but when he didn’t continue she poked him in the leg. “So what do you want me to do with it? Grandpa?”

  “Best you leave him to rest,” a young nurse said from the doorway. “Talking takes a lot out of him now.”

  Judging from the dark circles under her eyes, Alex thought the nurse should take her own advice. She held her grandpa’s hand, careful of the drip taped to the back. It was big and calloused and lined with old scars, but so thin now. “See you later Grandpa. Stay cool, yeah.”

  She slung her bag over a shoulder and trudged to the bus stop, to head home. Home… to her it was just a place she lived: all modern and plastic where everything had its set place. Her grandpa’s creaky old house with its open fire and heaving bookshelves felt more like a home should. Outside the hospice she paused to look up at his window. A shiver rippled up her spine. That look of terror on the old man’s face…

  * * *

  “Alexandra Tennant!”

  Her mum stood with crossed arms, tapping her foot, you stupid girl stamped across her face. “He’s an old man with lung cancer. Don’t you dare bother him with your petty problems.”

  “He’s the only one that understands me,” Alex snarled. “For once in my life I want to do what I want to do?”

  Her mum sniffed. “You want to study archaeology or English literature? Good luck getting a decent job with that rubbish. A university degree with good job prospects is what you need. You’ve always been awful at science so your father and I have ruled that out. If only you applied yourself to your studies instead of wasting time playing games on that stupid console.”

  Alex threw her hands up in despair. “Well I’ve had sod-all encouragement from you and dad! It’s always ‘you can’t do this, you can’t do that’.”

  Her mother scowled. “Grow up Alexandra. You haven’t done a hard day’s work in your entire life. If only you could work half as hard as your grandpa did at your age. He was grafting day and night down those shipyards.”

  “And look what that got him,” Alex snapped. “Asbestos in his lungs and hooked up to machines.” She regretted it instantly.

  Her mum’s eye twitched, jaw muscles rippling, hand paused half-raised as if she wanted to slap her again. “You spoiled brat! Go study, or, oh I don’t know, do something—anything—actually worthwhile with your life. You’re doing accountancy and that’s that.”

  “I won’t,” Alex shouted.

  “You will if you want us to pay for it! Or you can toss burgers to pay for it yourself. Go to your room, and don’t you dare play those stupid computer games. Tomorrow you have piano practice, then the visit with your grandfather. You will be on your best behaviour for Linda and John’s visit in the evening. You will learn a lot from them.”

  Oh great, Alex thought, the bankers - another evening with the most tedious people ever to walk the Earth. She gritted her teeth and choked back the venom clamouring to spit forth. Instead she stomped off to her room and slammed the door. She knew better than to push it. She’d rescued her console from the bin only last week after her Luddite mum threw a hissy fit, and she’d only needed another another five minutes too. Now she’d have to beg forgiveness from the rest of her guild when she logged back in. If she was ever allowed to. “Vindictive bitch.”

  She flung herself into her bed and checked text messages, but wasn’t surprised to find nothing waiting. Everybody was off sunning themselves on gorgeous beaches in Spain, not bored to death amidst the muggy drizzle of a Glasgow summer. She Who Must Be Obeyed insisted Alex stayed where she could keep her beady eye on her—she was never allowed to have any fun! She’d be up to spy on her later as well. “Stupid cow.”

  She savagely punched her duvet, but it didn’t help. Downstairs her mum thumped cupboard doors closed.

  She slumped into her pillows and gazed longingly at her console. Gaming was the closest she was allowed to adventure and even then her parents had to be total arsehats about it.

  Tree roots wrap around her legs, trapping her. Soil covers her face, flows into her mouth, choking, smothering…

  She woke drenched in sweat and clawing at the damp sheet cocooning her. The clock blinked 3 a.m. She couldn’t get back to sleep so she flicked on her bedside l
amp and fumbled for a novel amongst the unread pile next to her bed. An escape from smothering reality was just what she needed.

  * * *

  Hellish as it was, in some ways visiting her grandpa was a relief—anything to get away from her parents’ constant nagging. He was usually fast asleep anyway, which left her free to do her own thing for a while. She had swung by his house on the way and retrieved this latest secret, and now that she sat by his bed examining the rusted box she felt an odd reluctance to open it: this might be her grandpa’s last mystery.

  She took a deep breath and fitted the key, grunting as she forced the rusted lock to grind round. She leaned back before easing up the lid—you couldn’t rule anything out where her grandpa was concerned—but to her relief it only held a dog-eared scrapbook and an ornate locket of untarnished silver engraved with delicate whorling Celtic art. She stared. It called to her and she couldn’t help but try it on…

  Her mouth burns, agony like every root is rotten and exposed with acid squirted into the cavities. She kneels on the grass, dazed and sobbing as hob-nailed boots slam into her ribs. Another boy, taller than the others, hefts a golf club and swings at her head.

  “Take that you monster!”

  It cracks into her skull and she falls face down in the mud.

  “We’ve killed her,” says one, voice cracking from puberty.

  “Oi, Bert! Constable Deeprose is over by the entrance.”