by Liam Clay
“Yes, that sort of thing. After the activists have been eliminated, we will be relocating the Americans into different Hexes. That means separating kids from parents, husbands from wives etcetera. They aren’t going to like it, and examples may have to be made. The rest of us can push through some pretty gruesome shit on adrenaline, but for this type of work... well. The worry is that it could be bad for morale.”
“What about our morale?” One of the girls says angrily.
“Morale is a social phenomenon; it doesn’t apply to the self-sufficient. And because one of your mods eliminates physical aversion to violence, you are the perfect choice for this type of job.” We must not seem convinced, because she pulls a face and says, “Look, I know the last few months have been hard on you guys. But everyone has made sacrifices during this final push to complete the directorate. So just do this one last thing for me, please? Then the conquest will be over and you can begin your real lives. I promise.”
Glancing from face to face, I sense that we have become trapped in a shared nightmare, from which none of us will wake unless we refuse this order. But if we do, they will just find someone else, and probably have us killed while they’re at it. So we bow our heads and prepare to move out.
.
Of the five Genesis batchers who die during what will become known as the American Hex Genocide, three are suicides. I witness one of them firsthand, but the memory is reduced to impressions: a crying child wrapped in a scrap of saffron cloth, an axe in the hands of a wailing mother, a gunshot. And then a second shot, this one self-inflicted, followed by silence. As for the rest, it’s as though my mind is shielding me from my own actions even as I carry them out. I become an automaton, following orders with mechanical precision while my conscience cowers in the dark, waiting for it to be over. See no evil, hear no evil.
But even when the job is done, our nightmare continues. The mop up was supposed to have been completed on the hush after the regular army pulled out. But somehow, everybody knows what happened and who is responsible. We are escorted back to Kingston under guard, and when we reach our destination, there are separate cells waiting for us. I am too numb to be properly surprised.
After a brief trial, our group is found guilty of crimes against humanity. According to the official account, we had been expressly forbidden from killing non-combatants, but lost our heads in the heat of battle. It is a perfectly believable story; after spending most of our lives being hunted by the Hexes, the desire for revenge would seem only natural. In court we are painted as psychiatric cases, obsolete batchers whose neural circuitry has been fried by childhood trauma. When the death sentence is proscribed, it is presented as the most merciful option. The only person who might have defended us has vanished. Word is she hasn’t been seen since the battle.
I spend my days attempting to summon the faces of the children I killed during the slaughter. But it’s like trying to recall the shape of a cloud after the wind has shifted; every time I try, the details distort and slip away. I conclude that my body has become so adept at self-protection that it refuses to even let me mourn properly. Judging by the whispered self-recriminations I hear from the adjoining cells, I’m not the only one facing this problem.
Meanwhile, the directorate continues to cement its position. Embassies are replaced by government offices, garrison barracks become police stations, local advisory boards begin to draft law. Religion is separated from state, then marginalized, and finally outlawed. Technology becomes the new faith, and it is without limitations; humanity has an obligation to evolve by all available means, runs the party line. Naturally born humans are recast as inferior creatures whose time has come. Whispers of a ‘Procreation Transition’ run rampant as well.
Our jailors (whose conversations are the source of these details) speak with a mixture of awe, pride and something else left unsaid. Although they would never admit it, I think that the pace of change terrifies them as much as it does me.
And finally, a new enemy is presented to the masses: Opacity. We hear that the city’s raids on our supply lines are a threat to human advancement, and must be stopped. Its own progress, the directorate says, stagnated long ago, mired in a swamp of moral qualms and political maneuvering. Having a foreign target for their hatred seems to calm our jailors. In a remarkably short time, they are blaming Opacity for virtually all of the Hive’s problems. It might actually be funny if it wasn’t so depressing.
Six weeks after the massacre, the directorate announces our sentences. The seven of us are to be transported to a shipyard on the east coast, where we will be publicly executed as part of the launch celebrations for a new type of hovercraft. Our journey begins two days later. The entire Hex turns out to see us off, rotten vegetables (and more than a few rocks) in hand. We have been stripped naked with our hands cuffed behind our backs, and I am soon covered from head to toe in pungent slime.
But no amount of expired produce can keep me from staring in amazement at the Hex itself. When we went into lockup, the Designer’s territory looked as it always had: like a cross between a corrugated iron shantytown and a desert tent encampment. But now, wherever I look, I see glass. From roads and sidewalks to apartment blocks and warehouses, Kingston is being remade in tinted shades of green, blue and violet. Most of it is only halfway built, but I can already tell that it’s going to be beautiful.
I am bleeding in multiple places by the time we leave the crowds behind - mostly across my back from rocks I didn’t see coming. The others are no better off. Our head jailor is a man named Lars who, along with being a total asshole, is also unusually OCD for someone who works with unwashed criminals. After looking us over with distaste, he heads to a communal water station.
“Alright, you child-murdering fucks.” He says after we’ve cleaned ourselves up. “We are about to leave town, which means that you are probably starting to think about escaping. So instead of waiting for that to happen, I’m just going to get this out of the way now.” He points to one of his subordinates. “Fry somebody.”
The guard looks from his boss, to us, and then back again.
“Which one, sir?”
“Surprise me.”
Swallowing, the guard pulls out a handset and taps a few keys. At first, nothing happens. Then a girl beside me starts to cough. When she holds a fist to her mouth, it comes away red. A minute later she’s lying face down in a bloody sludge of her own lung tissue.
“And there you have it!” Lars chortles. “Try to escape, and this is how you will end up.” He turns to his team. “Let’s get them to the sky elevator.”
Kingston’s Hexwall has never been breached, necessitating another means of getting goods and people in and out. Built well before the Designer’s arrival, the elevator is comprised of two separate shafts - one on each side of the wall. A newer glass elevator is still a few months from completion. If we hailed from any Hex but this one, now would be the time to don our contagion masks. But immunity to disease is another of the Designer’s gifts. We are given pants and shirts to wear (apparently our naked departure was just a gimmick to please the mob) and then it’s up the elevator we go.
Kingston is situated near the geographic center of the island, which makes the view from the wall top rather daunting. Not only is the ocean nowhere to be seen, but what is visible resembles an ancient ruin more than a newly formed empire. The Hexwalls are in various states of disrepair, and the quarantine zone between them has been largely overtaken by jungle. Lars is visibly shaken by the sight. But my own mood lightens, because in a sense I’m going home. A few of my fellow prisoners are actually smiling.
But the sensation is short lived.
The quarantine zone used to be my safe place. Aside from the occasional raiding party it was completely deserted, and although food was too scarce to survive outside the Hexes permanently, I could often hide there for weeks - just me and the trees and the silence. I liked to imagine that I was the lone survivor of an apocalyptic event, watching as the earth slow
ly returned to its natural state. But that illusion is impossible to maintain now. I lose track of how many work crews we pass, how many felled trees we are forced to climb over. It’s like a second industrial revolution is taking place on a massively condensed timeline.
Three days pass in a fugue of humidity and mosquitos. Our jailors hate every minute of it. To hear them tell it, no greater misfortune has ever befallen members of the human race. I consider mentioning that we were recently forced to commit genocide and are now marching to our deaths, but decide against it.
On the morning of the fourth day, we reach the sea. Pushing through a final belt of vegetation, we emerge onto a rocky headland overlooking a garbage-choked coastline. I have never seen the ocean up close before, and nor will I just yet. After checking his GPS, Lars leads us north into another stretch of forest. When we break the trees a second time, it is to the sound of circular saws and arc welders.
The shipyard is enormous - or it’s going to be, anyway. Five floating construction cradles have already been completed, three of which house partially built hovercraft. The frameworks for twenty more cradles have been laid down as well. They hug the shore of a pebble beach that has been overrun with equipment and temporary shelters. On the far side of the yard, a concrete jetty stabs out into the swell. The completed hovercraft tied off to it resembles a reflective silver octopus.
Hundreds of workers have lined up along the beach to witness our arrival. As we descend into their midst, I keep waiting for a repeat of our Kingston experience. But aside from the cameramen who dash out of the crowd to dog our footsteps, no one moves. The surf crashing against cradle pilings provides the only noise. We reach the jetty, step out onto its concrete surface, and approach the hovercraft.
The octopus comparison doesn’t fade with proximity. The vehicle is comprised of an egg shaped pod supported by eight recurved arms, each with a buoyant fan module at its terminus. Twin cannons have been mounted to the port and starboard sides of the egg. All in all, the thing looks more like a giant attack drone than a traditional hovercraft.
Up to this point, we have been given no hint as to the form our deaths will take. But all questions are now answered as a statuesque woman steps forward to address the cameras.
“We have gathered here today in the name of justice. The monsters you see before me have committed a terrible crime against humanity, and although our new directorate embraces the ideals of peace and forgiveness, any leniency shown them would only encourage others to follow in their footsteps. It is also imperative that we begin this new age as equals, by proving that no one - enhanced or otherwise - is immune to the law.”
At a nod from the woman, our jailors begin the awkward task of cuffing us to the hovercraft’s legs. They position me atop a fan module near the ship’s prow. But although my arms are pulled back around the recurved tentacle, it isn’t actually that uncomfortable, and I start to wonder if they’ve made some sort of mistake. But the Designer’s emissary quickly dashes this tenuous hope.
“Tonight, when this craft departs on its maiden tour of duty, these criminals will go with it. For ten days they will stand atop their pedestals, exposed to the elements and possibly battle as well, until even their superior bodies are rendered weak and helpless. They will beg the crew to help them then, but those pleas will fall on deaf ears. And when death is so near they can taste it on the wind, maybe they will come to understand the pain their victims suffered.” Raising her hands, she strikes a pose meant to imitate the weighing of scales. “Thus will justice be served.”
This all seems rather theatrical to me, but what else would you expect from a mysterious recluse who insists on calling himself the Designer? The crowd seems to like it though, because a ragged howl goes up, slowly morphing into a more conventional brand of cheering. The journalists record the phenomenon with enthusiasm. One woman even turns the camera on herself before shutting down the feed.
And then, the moment the show is done, everyone goes straight back to work. Clearly, attendance was compulsory. The sun rises higher in the sky. I watch a work crew fit a steel rib into a half-finished cradle, doing my best to ignore the waves that occasionally douse me to the waist. Sometime in the early afternoon, I try to start a conversation with the girl beside me. But she just gives me a dark look and goes back to brooding. I doze off.
The sound that wakes me has two distinct octaves: one so high it is almost beyond hearing, the other low enough to set my bones vibrating. Disoriented, I open my eyes and look around. The sun has just set behind the island, sketching a golden line along its profile. A southerly wind has picked up as well, pushing swell and mounded trash through the Gulf Straight. The doubled sound is coming from inside the hovercraft’s body. The engines firing up, I guess. I’m finding it hard to care at this point, though - I just want all of this to be over.
Whoever is driving seems to agree, because we pull quickly away from the dock. The fans gouge deep grooves into the waves, modules adjusting in response to the pilot’s instructions. We are soon well out into the deepening night. Spray soaks me and the wind bites hard, but I find the cold oddly invigorating. It makes me feel like an explorer, setting out to discover what lies past the edge of the world. Which, when you think about it, is more or less the case.
Time passes; I have no idea how much. Between the darkness and the spray I can barely see, and even if I could, there’s nothing out here but ocean. Then something taps me on the head. Forgetting that my arms are restrained, I try to raise my hand to the spot without success. The tap comes again. By twisting my neck around, I am just able to make out a dark figure balanced in the crook of the recurved leg.
“If I undo your cuffs, will you promise not to attack me?”
I stare at her in amazement. She has replaced her gunmetal robes with the undyed homespun worn by most Hexers, but the voice is unmistakable.
“What are you doing here?” I shout over the engines.
“Isn’t it obvious? I’ve come to save you.”
“Why?”
“Because even though I wasn’t in on the conspiracy to frame you guys, I still feel shitty about it, okay? But I don’t really have time to discuss the whole thing, so either you get onboard with this rescue right now, or I leave you here to rot. Capeche?”
I manage to nod. My handler drops sideways until she’s hanging upside down, face to face with my handcuffed wrists. There is a faint click and I’m free. I almost fall off the module, but she is there to steady me.
“I hope you’re ready for a swim.” She says, breath warm against my frozen face. “Because it’s a long way to the mainland.”
“Shouldn’t we unchain the others first?”
“I already did. You’re the last one.”
Then she’s shimmying up the leg toward a catwalk that runs around the hovercraft’s body. My fellow war criminals are there too, huddled together for warmth. I hurry to join them, but I’ve only got one hand on the catwalk railing when all hell decides to break loose.
It starts when an orange flash lights up the night sky about two hundred meters to starboard. “You’ve got to be kidding.” I hear my handler groan. “If goddamn pirates of all people mess this up for me, I swear I’m going to -” A rolling boom drowns out the rest of her threat, and then an explosion rocks the hovercraft. One leg is sheared completely off, and two more are damaged, turbines stuttering to a halt. Unbalanced, the ship veers into a listing right turn. A body falls past me into the sea as I hang from the railing.
“Shit, shit shit!” My handler is screaming. “Those aren’t pirates - that’s the fucking Opacian navy!”
The hovercraft’s starboard cannon opens up, but then we take a second hit from a different direction. I’m thrown clear by the blast and land hard in a trough between waves. Forcing my eyes open underwater, I see a wedge shaped submarine pushing through the garbage a few meters away. A trio of yellow ropes trails behind it, and I instinctively grab one of them as it passes. The sub drags me for twenty meters bef
ore coming to a stop, engines whipping the ocean into a dark froth. I surface to flames and gunfire.
There are five subs in total. They have the hovercraft surrounded, and although one of its cannons is still active, the other is already done for. Another rocket hits the octopus’s carapace as I watch. The remaining cannon goes silent, and a few seconds later the crew can be seen abandoning ship.
“Oh, thank god!” Someone sobs almost into my ear. “At least one of you is still alive.” I turn to find my handler treading water beside me. For the first time since we’ve known each other, her composure is completely gone. Seeing her tears cuts through my shock, and I begin to cry silently as well.
“We need to go.” She says about twenty seconds later, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand.
“What about the others?”
“Four of them died in the blast that knocked you clear.” She says with a grimace. “And the fifth got diced by the hovercraft fans. I won’t be unseeing that anytime soon. Now seriously, let’s get going. Those subs are going to split in a minute, and if we’re still here they might mow us down on the way out.”
I want to say something, but my brain isn’t working properly so I simply nod.
“And since it’s going to be just the two of us,” she adds, “I might as well formally introduce myself. I’m Kalana. Did you name yourself while you were out in the wilds?”
“What? Oh... no.”
“That’s alright.” She says kindly. “You would’ve had to change it when we get to Opacity anyway. Then she gives me an encouraging smile, and swims away through the floating garbage. I can only follow.
CHAPTER 18
“For god’s sake Tiana, would you quit scratching at it? You’ll rip the damn thing out if you keep that up.”
“But it itches.”
“Don’t you think I know that?” Delez replies. “We’re all in the same boat here.”
It’s been three days since the anesthetists pulled Alpha platoon - some of us kicking and screaming - from our induced coma vacations. We are being housed in a long, white walled room complete with steel framed beds and starched linen sheets. It’s black eye patches all around, and between that and the shapeless smocks we’ve been given to wear, I’m having trouble telling people apart. If Delez is right and we really are all in the same boat, then it must be some kind of geriatric pirate ship. It is also, disturbingly, a ship with only 16 crew members, instead of the 19 that went under the knife. I guess I should be happy that all three casualties were strangers this time as well.