“It’s been stated that the existence of the Circlet was the necessary requirement for the breakthrough, but until it was demonstrated that it could be done, no one was willing to try it. Once done, however, the forces required to achieve it were again harnessed. No one knows if the second process developed by the central laboratory is the same one used to create the Shoshone Circlet. To discover this, the Circlet would have to be subjected to destructive testing and that’s never been allowed.
“This is the conclusion of the tour.” I bowed my head in gratitude. “Thank you for taking the time to visit the Mengchi Centre for the Promotion of Historical Knowledge. When you exit this room, to your right is the gift shop and restaurant. Please stay as long as you wish and feel free to explore more of the exhibits not included on the tour. There’s a particularly fine collection of Darkham crystals on the 15th floor and full-scale replica of the FDS Explorer craft launched 100 years ago to scout beyond the combined systems, still relaying scientific information today. The exhibit contains a live feed of the transmissions and commentary. Thank you.”
My shadow stood in front of the glass case, with arms crossed, as the members of the tour pressed around to view the Circlet.
“Lanken, forgive me, I’m dazzled by beauty every time I see this death warrant for my ancestors and the ancestors of others. This glowing clot of blood is the full stop to our history; from that point on, we’re lost amid human dust and can never be found. Yes indeed, I see that you had wondered if I was one. You’d never dare to ask of course, but still you had doubt. I’m sure you attribute this doubt to your own natural instincts. You can always spot a fake I’m told. Come this way to another exhibit, not the most popular one in the Centre, but still quite fascinating. After all, you’re here in pursuit of Historical Knowledge, aren’t you?
“That little trinket back there did more than change the energy industry; it changed the possibilities of what could be done with lifeforms, and it took little time for this to be understood and acted upon. They may have been drained of essential energy, but there were still breeding possibilities … if a minute spark was utilized to animate them. You could shape them to any purpose. And look here, in all their splendid forms are some of those purposes—workers, slaves of every shape, size and capacity able to work under any conditions, ready to create waterfalls of money to flow into the mouths of their masters.”
My shadow always gave an extended tour and always came to this exhibit, and this was where the danger was greatest. It was a comfortable room that held a first edition, possibly the only surviving one. It lay open to the dedication page on a grand desk where its author had completed the work. The dedication never changed, no matter how often I looked and hoped the sheer weight of the lies it held would have made the words bleed off the page.
“The spark of life burns equally in all. Let it shine forth in freedom and dignity.” Such a shining lying truth or a blazing truthful lie.
“Meet the supposed Patron of all modern fakes that wander about freely, the human who set us free. Apologies. I always have a reaction to that; it’s why I carry the bag to catch the vomit. It’d be bad form to have it splatter in this hallowed place.”
“He had a name, but I won’t use it. Let it rust in silence. He had a secret that he couldn’t share and he set about hiding it. He wanted to fuck a bottle-brewed creature and not suffer any social consequences for doing so. He’d fallen in love with an Ornamental and wanted to marry her. No sex slaves for him. This was a love of equals, and apologies again as my stomach can only take so much. So he wrote Manifesto for the Liberation of the Oppressed, a rallying cry that awoke the conscience of the human race and turned a great chapter of history.
“Here you see a very rare first edition, Radical Reason: The Spark of Life … which frightened those in power enough that they realized it was far better to have an enormous population of brewed lifeforms on the inside pissing out, rather than risk a flood flowing in. So, any lifeform that wasn’t brewed to a single specific purpose, a general-use lifeform in whatever shape they might be, was granted full, equal and inalienable citizen status of the combined systems. The number of these creatures has been vanishingly small compared to the torrent of highly specialized versions; still they do exist.
“Here I am, a tribute to the mathematical truth that any number that is greater than zero, no matter how small, is still a number that can be counted, added, managed, dressed in clothes, and sent forth into the world to—being carried away is an occupational hazard in this place. I hope you’ll forgive me. I must excuse myself now and dispose of this heavy bag.”
Even in the deep confines of my head, there were places unsafe to visit, ideas never to be formulated. If they ever took on the weight of thoughts, they might force themselves out of my mouth, and that would be the start of something too frightening to give a mere glance.
I headed for the small staff room to get ready to head back to my space. I had some time off and was ready to rest. It was hard to believe that I was stopped at the exit when my pass didn’t open the gate. Returning inside, I walked as slowly as I could without actually stopping at the management offices. I turned the corner in the corridor and saw a long queue leading up to the Resources Office. I’d been Waved in and was now being Waved out.
The Standing Committee of Mengchi was composed of people with a finely tuned apparatus for detecting problems that might become a danger to their continued presence on the Committee. One of the most significant problems: a large standing, if not stagnant, pool of unemployed citizens. Agitating this pool was one of the major preoccupations of the SC members and the Wave Policy one of the ways they did it. Moving large numbers of citizens of every type and stripe though jobs at various organizations decreased the total number of actively unemployed. When a very small percentage of this group actually got full-time employment at an organization, it was a triumph of public policy.
For the rest of us pool algae, we got Waved into employment and Waved out again to make way for the next set of bodies. For the most part, we were never going to get substantial employment for all the reasons we were in the pool in the first place, unless fantastically lucky or much less fantastically, unlucky. By the time I’d made my way up to the counter at the Resources Office, I was still hoping to be marginally lucky and get a ticket for another private-time job, or even a spell on a bench filling out forms at employment agencies. When I saw the smile on Philbean’s face after he noticed me, I knew I wasn’t going to be lucky; still, I had enough time to harbor completely fruitless hope that it wouldn’t be the worst. I was wrong.
“Mr. Shakbout Mansard, how nice to meet you again. It seems that there’s going to be small change in your circumstances. Let me be the first to congratulate you.”
The malicious sarcasm that Philbean breathed with every word clung to me like damp fog. The only reason Philbean hadn’t been clubbed to death a long time ago was that he was a three-meter high lizard with a proven taste for blood and the willingness to take it in a fight. He never started one, but always finished one, and I’d been very careful during my time at the Centre to stay out of his way. Not that that did much good; he always seemed to want to take a well-placed stab at me. Maybe it was my lack of response that aggravated him. Certainly, I was an object of unusual attention. Nowadays, I just waited for the next jab.
“We received a Quota Requirement Notice and I naturally thought of you. After your sterling service here, I was happy to have the opportunity to ensure that you found permanent employment matching your talents. It took a little effort, but what’s that among friends when the results are so beneficial? I shouldn’t delay you, the Public Service Allocation Bureau waits for no lifeform and, I’ve heard, can get tetchy if applicants aren’t on time. Your appointment is at seven, so I’m sure you can make it if you don’t delay.”
It was a classic Philbean set-up. I could give in to my temper and jump him, and I’d lose, but I could do damage on the way down, or I could turn and run with the already f
ailed hope of getting to the PSAB on time and avoid a beating for being late. I ran, scrambling over the security gate to save time, hitting the street and trying to gain speed with every step as I raced across the square to the top of the moving stairs that dropped into the dark. Dodging gargoyles, however, slowed me down.
Now that I was no longer employed, protection had been withdrawn and I was fair game. A very persistent gargoyle, perched determinedly on my back, bit me on the shoulder as I reached the entrance to the underworld of the Public Service Portal. I slipped on the steps and fell, hitting a hard surface with jarring impact. A voice muttered something as I exploded with body-filling pain and heard the gargoyle scream before passing out.
2
I woke up fresh and alert in a comfortable padded chair, and looked across an impossibly beautiful desk at the most alluring woman I’d ever encountered. Soft amber lights emphasized multiple shades of red—crimson, scarlet, ruby, and berry—in her perfectly cut hair. Smiling sage-green eyes caressed me with promises of sweet, shared pleasures. I had an erection that could have lifted her off the ground unaided, and the energy to do so as often as we wanted. All of which would start as soon as I’d signed the form she was presenting. I took it and my fingers brushed hers; more intimate contact would be a delicious, life-altering experience.
“I’m Shakbout Mansard, a free citizen of Mengchi. My residence number is 2269334789521.”
This didn’t please my beauty, nor me, but I had no control over my voice or my arms, hands and fingers, which refused to sign the form. A tiny but heart-rendering frown line appeared on her forehead and her lips pouted with disappointment that our blissful union was being delayed. I struggled to move my hand, to get on with the task. Instead, my monotonous voice droned on. “I fully and deliberately invoke the protection enshrined in Clause 7C, Subsection 36, Paragraph 78, and Clause 2231 of the Establishment of Citizenship Decree, as amended by Decree AGMLZ500788453 and confirmed by ruling ODDETSGH7931 of the Standing Council.”
I had no idea what I was saying and was desperately trying to stop; I could see that each sound was hurting my heart’s desire, and I’d never be able to make it up to her.
The form was snatched from my hands and I found myself sitting in an old and worn office chair in a rather shabby cubicle, facing a Harvester across a strip of scuffed plastic desktop. The Harvester didn’t look like my beauty, but like a sentient flower with a large blood-red cluster of small flowers serving a vague approximation of a face, hanging on a green reed of a body. The reed would be resting in a basin of swamp water fed from a tap in a wall. One of my previous jobs had been in a swamp-water fermentation plant and had gifted me with a weight of knowledge I’d have given a less vital organ to forget.
The flower cluster rippled and I felt as much as heard the Harvester say, “Your Notice of Service will be delivered to your habitation before the start of the third shift tomorrow. Do not be late.” Before I could get up or move out of the way, the Harvester sprayed me with sweet smelling pollen.
Harvesters were about the most mean-spirited lifeforms in the systems, which was exactly why there were so many in the PSAB; they were perfect for the work. Going forward, I’d have a hyper-reaction to any sexual attraction encountered, a massive and uncontrollable reaction that would ensure that wearing anything except very loose underwear would be a very serious and painful mistake for the rest of my pre-death life.
I was on time for the start of my new working life in the sewers of Mengachi. With time it moved from being oppressively awful to being awful. There were always turds waiting to be stepped on.
“Hey Screw-Top, The Knob wants to see you in his office re your achievement assessment, I believe.” Lincoln delivered the news in a cheery tone, which was entirely fair since it wasn’t her who’d waste precious time in the company of Thobald Ivton the Third, Deputy Assistant Sub Manager for Branch 12 of Area 96884/AQ/X, known to all as The Knob, and my direct line manager.
Lincoln was glowing with pleasure at the near miss. The day previous, she’d been stuck for three hours in a presentation on the strategic direction of staff development and was happy to use all that she’d learned, even when merely delivering a message. Lincoln was an Ornamental whose ancestors had been bred to fill giant pools and fountains on a long-lost estate; they swam and darted between water sources, their wet blue skin a perfect backdrop for the sparkling light that burst through the droplets engineered to stay on them. Nowadays, she worked cleaning sewers.
“You know that’s a birth slur and an objectionable term under the objectionable terms rules, don’t you?” I stood up from the bench where I’d been putting on slurry boots.
“Really?” Lincoln replied with peerless innocence.” I read just yesterday that it was term of endearment among citizens who weren’t subject to a natural birthing process, and could be employed to indicate friendship and respect for a shared heritage.”
“Stay off those Human Rights lines. They’ll lead you astray. Then what will you do when you find you’re the only blue-skinned citizen in a room of hungry Naturals looking for someone to blame for their body hair and lack of success in mating?” With that, I strolled from the locker room and headed up the lower depths to the Knob’s office. Unfortunately, he was in. I’d hoped he might have wandered off to another meeting and forgotten all about this one.
When I entered the dim office, he looked up. I say “he”, but the truth was that no one had the slightest idea what the Knob actually looked like, or if “he” might be a “she”. The Knob used a glamour charm keyed to the leading cast member of the top-rated show on the lines for that day. The worst “top-rated” show had spotlighted a semi-dismembered, decomposing corpse running for a seat on the Standing Committee; a huge hit, it ran for weeks through the election cycle. The charm called up the stench, as well as the look, and that stink hung like a bloodsucker, taking at least four showers to remove.
This time he was two metres tall with broad shoulders and a nipped waist, flowing golden beard, and long thick pigtail. Piercing sky-blue eyes were set above etched cheekbones. An air of casual, yet complete, mastery was wasted once he started to talk. Seated behind the desk, he waved me to a chair, strategically lower than the desk so I had to look up.
“Ah, good. Please sit down for this important meeting. A performance appraisal is a serious career event, a time for reflection and consideration … assessing what’s been achieved and contemplating what will be achieved. This is a moment to look back and to look forward from the firm footing of the present. We need to use it to read the lessons of the past and sow the seeds of the future, so we might harvest success in time.”
He beamed with benevolence and encouragement, and I did my loyal follower part by nodding agreement and sticking the pin I’d brought for this moment into my thigh to stop from laughing out loud.
“Excellent, excellent. Shanksworth, I believe your performance on the road-development project in Sector 15 was an example that all should follow. I’m delighted to tell you that you’ve been promoted to Assistant Lead Supervisor on the project. Do you have anything you’d like to say?”
I shook my head to convey modest acceptance of his gratifying, if not wholly deserved praise, and how overcome I was at his generous recognition of my efforts. I took the cue to leave and left to speak to Rosby, the Knob’s guardian angel.
“Hi Rosby. Would you let someone call Shanksworth know that they’ve been promoted? I’m guessing that they’re a StoneBeater, involved in a road project in Sector 15.”
Rosby smiled and I wished she hadn’t as it triggered a major reaction barely held in check by charms. She was another Ornamental, with lovely wings on her back made of the whitest feathers; when fully unfurled, they lifted her off the ground and transported her with considerable force. Rosby was tall and muscular, with olive skin, wavy jet-black hair and matching eyes. Usually dressed in flowing close-fitting robes, she was stunning … and enchanting when she smiled. While I struggled to move blood
from my dick to my legs so I could step away, Rosby placed a hand on my arm and asked, “You okay, my friend? You look like you’re going to faint.”
Her gentle touch burned my arm like a heat restraint and prompted my blood to circulate; the charms moved into overdrive and I was able to regain enough control to respond. “I’m fine, just experiencing a shock of relief. I heard last week he gave an execution order instead of a transfer. Getting an accidental promotion was too easy.”
Rosby smiled again and waved me off as I walked with stiff legs, grateful for the alterations I’d made to my suit to accommodate such events. I took the long route back to the locker to let the reaction dissipate.
Lincoln was sitting on one of the many benches, clearly waiting for me. Her work comm blinked with unanswered calls. She eyed me with concern. “You took so long, I thought you’d received an execution order and I’d have to find a new drinking partner for tonight.”
I was surprised. While we’d been using the same locker room for the last 18 months, I’d been working for the PBS. Lincoln worked in an office shoveling paper, and I worked in the sewers shoveling shit. As a rule, the two groups didn’t mix at work or outside it. But Lincoln was a cheerful locker-room acquaintance, and we often chattered or batted insults. This was a very abrupt change. Even at the best of times (long-gone times), I’d never had the best social skills, so I was a bit stumped how to respond.
Happily, Lincoln knew how to take charge and move things forward, normally in the direction she wanted. “Scrub up and be at the Red Eye 20 after the shift.” With a nod, she left.
I finished dressing and headed to the gates where I found my IPS crew standing around like a bunch of re-animated corpses waiting to be told what to do … which, incidentally, was exactly what they were (re-animated corpses, in case there was any question).
I formed them into a hollow square and stood in the middle. To my left, right, and behind, the IPS staff were wearing chainmail trousers tucked into slurry boots. All had a nerve-stick with one setting that would kill any creature with a nervous system that it touched. The nerve-stick used on me when I entered the Public Service Portal was designed to subdue not kill, and the memory of that encounter still reverberated through my muscles.
Bottle Born Blues Page 2