Smoked Havoc

by Rupert Harker

  He threw back his head and bellowed with laughter, and I realised that I had actually cowered, my hands up at my chest like a dog begging for scraps. I felt the bile and fury rise in my throat, and I stood straight and spat upon the floor.

  “You, Sir, are lamentable. I know I speak for us both when I say that we will never knowingly assist you or your foul band of ghoulish swine.”

  “Hear, hear, Rupert.”

  Urban-Smith and I stood shoulder to shoulder, resolute, but our captor seemed unimpressed.

  “You shall change your minds soon enough.” He clicked his fingers and extended his hand towards Clara, who placed the Atman in his outstretched palm. He raised the glass sphere aloft, admiring it beneath the overhead lights.

  “Beautiful,” he murmured. “Exquisite.” From his breast pocket, he withdrew a jeweller’s eyeglass and inspected the Atman in finer detail. “See how it dances,” he marvelled. “The shape and colour constantly changing, like a kaleidoscope. It’s hypnotic.”

  He stared through his lens at the tiny light for a minute, before resigning the eyeglass to his pocket once more and returning his attention to his captives.

  “Is it not incredible that three quarters of a century ago, with no prior body of research or experience, Hitler’s scientists were able to master the human spirit?” A broad smile spread across Schwarzkröte’s face. “Yet this was not their greatest achievement. More incredible still, they developed the technology to control the human mind. And now…..” He brandished the Atman. “Now that technology is mine.”

  “Poppycock!” I spat. “A hypnosis machine? Balderdash!”

  “Really?” He raised an eyebrow. “You do not believe that one man can control another’s thoughts?”

  “Of course not.”

  He tapped a neatly manicured fingernail distractedly against The Atman. “Let me ask you, both of you. Do you ever dream?”

  Urban-Smith and I glanced at one another.

  “Of course,” said I.

  “Do you dream that your home is burning, and that you cannot control the blaze? Do you dream that the fire is spreading while you stand helpless, certain in the knowledge that the flames will spread and spread until they engulf the whole world?”

  I swallowed nervously, and a corner of Schwarzkröte’s lip rose in scorn.

  “You see, Doctor? Do you see what power we possess? It is but a short step from implanting dreams to implanting memories, thoughts, desires….orders.”

  “But how…?” I stuttered.

  He began his pacing again.

  “I know not how familiar you are with my background,” said he, “but before I came to London to serve the Fervent Fist, I served at the behest of the KGB, overseeing classified military projects. You will already be familiar with Project Tremble, better known as the LOL curse. Less well known is the Dream-catcher Project (Lovets snov proyekt in Russian).

  “In the 1980s, the arms race had become uncontrollable, the nuclear arsenals of both east and west propagating to farcical levels, so much so that President Ronald Reagan announced a project to militarise outer space; his Star Wars Initiative. At this point, it became apparent that neither side could ever dominate the other via military force. What was required was a way to covertly subvert and coerce massive sections of the American populace through mind control.

  “We had modest success, but many of our attempts left the subjects damaged or insane, until one of our scientists suggested we could influence people by targeting the subconscious during those phases of sleep when the mind is most vulnerable to suggestion; thus was Dream-catcher conceived.

  “The idea was simple; bombard the American people with dreams and visions of apocalypse and devastation to fill them with dread and nullify their appetite for war.

  “You see,” he announced, spreading his arms, “all we wanted was a safer world, a world controlled and moderated. Of course, at that time, I did not realise that the whole cold war was a fiasco, engineered by The Illuminati to strengthen NATO with a view to weakening Soviet power, with the ultimate aim of integrating Russia into Europe. However, when I left the KGB, I did not leave empty-handed. Dream-catcher has been incorporated into a larger project, a new system that will allow us to control the minds of the proletariat and steer them en masse into their new future.”

  Despite his better judgement, I could see that Urban-Smith’s interest had been piqued. “Did the KGB ever unleash Dream-catcher?” he asked.

  “Sadly not,” lamented our host. “It was a brilliant conception, but we were unable to find a method to distribute the signal. We considered the hijacking of television transmitters or communication satellites, but ultimately, financial considerations and improvements in American counterintelligence made it impossible, and the project was deemed impractical; until now.”

  “Why now?” I asked. “What has changed?”

  “The BANG outbreak! It is the final cog in the machine.”

  None the wiser, I turned to Urban-Smith for clarification, and my blood turned to ice in my veins, for my friend, colleague and landlord was pale and waxen, clearly stricken by some appalling revelation.

  “What is it, Fairfax?” I gasped. “Whatever does it mean?”

  Urban-Smith’s voice was tremulous and weak. Fear clutched at my heart, for never had I seen him affected so. “It is as I feared,” he whispered. “There is something in the vaccine, and within the next few weeks, it shall have been administered to every man, woman and child in the British Isles.”

  “Very good, Mr Urban-Smith.” Schwarzkröte positively beamed with joy. “Each vaccine contains a nanochip, impossible to see without a microscope, undetectable, yet capable of allowing a signal to be targeted to as many or as few individuals as we choose. Each chip carries a unique identifier, just like a barcode, but one that can be accessed remotely from our central database. Is not technology a wondrous thing? Total control at the click of a mouse.”

  Schwarzkröte brandished the Atman once more.

  “Now then, gentlemen. Let us gaze into the future.”

  *

  24. Into the Apple’s Core

  Despite our being unarmed and outnumbered, Urban-Smith and I were still considered enough of a threat to have our hands secured behind our backs with plastic cable ties and be kept at gunpoint.

  Schwarzkröte gloated and sneered at our impotence, positioning himself in front of the Apple’s door to deliver some rousing words to his cohorts.

  “Fellow Fisters,” he cried, holding the Atman aloft, “with this key, I shall unlock the future of mankind, a future where our leadership prevails, and the World unites in servitude beneath the wisdom and power of the Illuminati.”

  He turned to face the door, and I was roughly pushed forward so as to observe the proceedings. The door itself was unremarkable and featureless, save for a recessed handle. To the left of the door, about a metre from the floor, was a panel, indented with a hollow into which Schwarkröte reverentially inserted the Atman. For a few seconds, all was as it had been, then there was a click as the Apple of Eden’s defence mechanisms deactivated, followed by a pneumatic hiss and a slight shudder as the steel chamber’s door unsealed itself. Schwarzkröte grabbed the handle and flung the door outwards, peering intently into the darkness.

  “Lights,” he demanded, “bring the lights,” and his minions rushed forwards with battery-powered lanterns.

  Clara was the first to enter, pistol in hand, whilst the rest of us hung back, watching the motes of decades-old dust dancing in the glow of her lantern. Her light receded into the recesses of the chamber, then returned.

  “It’s clear,” she assured her father skipped, and he gleefully through the door to inspect the contents of the Archive, like a child let loose in a toyshop with a barrow of sovereigns. Urban-Smith and I entered behind him, and I was struck by the methodical order with which the contents had been arranged. On each side of the chamber stood rows of shelves, affixed at floor and ceiling, and loaded with thin manila folde
rs. As I proceeded further into the steel vault, the folders gave way to metal reels, in turn giving way to cardboard boxes.

  I counted seven rows of seven shelves on each side of the chamber, each about five feet wide, loaded on both aspects, and coded by letter and number.

  “A rough calculation would give approximately one thousand feet of shelf space,” said Urban-Smith, seemingly reading my thoughts.

  The shelves ended about half way down the length of the steel chamber where the central aisle widened, and it was within this area at the far end that Schwarzkröte had busied himself. It was a little cramped, but I managed to shoulder my way past Urban-Smith, who was watching as Clara and Saxon Schwarzkröte inspected a most bizarre contraption, about the size of a roll topped desk, bulging with dials, valves, switches and gears, and trailing a long bundle of wires attached to a metal helmet.

  “Is that it?” I asked. “Is that the machine?”

  “I believe it is,” replied Urban-Smith.

  A low filing cabinet squatted in the corner, and it was to this that Schwarzkröte now turned his attention, leaving Clara poking and prodding at the machine’s assorted appendages and instruments.

  “Aha,” cried Schwazkröte, brandishing a sheaf of papers. “Schematics.” He began leafing through the sheets of paper, uh-huhhing and well-well-welling at intervals. After some little time, he discarded these papers and rummaged once more, this time coming up with a bound volume entitled, ‘INDEX.’

  “Interesting,” he murmured as he rifled through the volume. “It would seem that these shelves contain documentation relating to various experiments and surgical procedures carried out by the scientists and doctors of Unit 731 and the Third Reich. For each case number, there is a folder, movie reel and several wax cylinders.”

  Schwazkröte turned and strode to the shelves, pushing me aside in his haste to reach them. He pulled one of the cardboard boxes from the topmost shelf and removed the lid, revealing a half-dozen squat black tubes, like large liquorice toilet rolls. He set the box aside and returned to the machine.

  “There is a spindle here,” he announced. “This is where the cylinder attaches. Here is the playing needle, attached to this wooden arm.” Returning to the bound index, he turned to a page at random and read aloud.

  “B-forty seven; dissection of fair-haired, male twins, aged eight and a half.”

  He pushed past me once again and made his way down the rows of shelves until he found row B. He removed one folder, one reel and one cardboard carton from the shelves, left the reel and carton on the floor and returned to us.

  “Here,” he said, opening the folder and removing a few monochrome photographs. “What is your opinion, Doctor?”

  To this day, I wish that my curiosity had not had the better of me, for the images in those photographs haunt me still. It was only the briefest of glances, but the appalling sight before me nearly reduced me to wretchedness.

  “It’s foul,” I spluttered, turning my head and closing my eyes tightly in a vain effort to squeeze the vision from them. “How can you bear to look? Have you no decency?”

  “They are merely pictures, Doctor,” he replied evenly. “Perhaps we should take a look at the movie footage?”

  “No,” I pleaded. “Please do not defile the memory of those two innocent children by parading their suffering for your amusement.”

  “Hmmm,” mused Schwarzkröte, fondling the photographs. “Memories. I wonder….”

  I turned to look back down the Archive towards the exit, wondering if there was a chance of escape, but I could see our way blocked by several armed guards. I started when I felt a strong hand grab me about the shoulder.

  “Doctor,” cried Schwarzkröte, “this is indeed your lucky day, for you stand at the vanguard of a cultural revolution. You are about to become the first person in more than sixty years to experience another’s memories.”

  I recoiled in revulsion and fear. “No. Please.”

  Schwarzkröte motioned towards the door with his chin, and two of the guards marched into the vault and seized me roughly, forcing me back out into the warehouse. Urban-Smith attempted to stop them, but with his hands secured behind his back, he was at a distinct disadvantage. There was a sharp smack as Clara struck him about the cheek with the butt of her gun, and he sank to his knees groaning in pain.

  I was deposited into a sturdy chair and my ankles attached with plastic cable ties to the chair legs. I struggled impotently against my bonds as the guards dragged Urban-Smith from the Archive and threw him to the floor. Clara kicked him in the upper part of his back, driving the air from his lungs, and he choked and spluttered and gasped as she laughed and taunted him.

  “Enough,” shouted Schwarzkröte. “Fetch the machine, then find me a power supply and some cables.”

  One of the guards skittered away into the Archive, and a few seconds later, I heard the squeak, squeak, squeak of stiff castors as he hove back into view, pushing the strange device. Schwarzkröte began his examination of the machine, probing and prodding each dial and knob, and referring back to the schematics and instructions.

  “It is remarkable, really,” he said, “far ahead of its time, although I have no doubt that our engineers will be able to reproduce its function in a device no larger than a deck of cards.”

  Urban-Smith rolled onto his knees and tried to stand himself upright. “Leave him be,” he demanded. “Use me instead.”

  “I’m sorry,” replied Schwarzkröte, pushing Urban-Smith back down with his foot, “but we have no way to know what damage this device could cause. For all we know, it may cause madness, convulsions, even death. I’m afraid I cannot possibly risk harming that superb brain of yours.”

  “I have the power supply, Sir.”

  “Excellent,” cried Schwarzkröte cheerfully. “Let’s get started, shall we?” The sweat beaded upon my brow and my palms, yet my mouth was parched and barren as he attached the cables and gently dialled up the power. Light flared upon the machine’s wooden fascia, and a dial fluttered, then was still.

  Schwarzkröte abandoned the machine momentarily to collect the cardboard carton, from which he removed the first wax cylinder.

  “Imagine it,” he said, holding the cylinder up to the light. “The memories of a child, committed to a simple wax tube.” He shook his head in awe. “Incredible.”

  “This is despicable,” said I. “This machine is an abomination and should be destroyed, along with your wretched organisation.”

  Clara cocked her pistol and held it against my shoulder.

  “Hush now, Rupert,” she whispered softly. “Don’t force me to cripple you.”

  I knew better than to protest further, and within a very few minutes, Schwarzkröte had attached the cylinder to the spindle and adjusted the machine’s settings to his satisfaction.

  “Right,” he said. “Fetch the razor.”

  “R-r-razor,” I stuttered. “What? Why?”

  “The helmet contains electrodes,” he explained. “They need to be in direct contact with your scalp. Clara, will you do the honours?”

  They fetched a bowl of cold, soapy water, half of which Clara unceremoniously poured over my head before proceeding to hack away at my locks using a safety razor. I sat shivering, humiliated and furious as hair fell onto my shoulders and lap, and soapy water and blood ran down my collar.

  Clara stood back to admire her handiwork.

  “Not bad,” she said, nodding her approval.

  Next came the helmet, lowered onto my bald dome, then fastened in position via chinstrap, and although I shook my head and thrashed, I was unable to dislodge it.

  “I’m sorry, Rupert,” called Urban-Smith. “I cannot free myself.”

  “Fear not, dear friend,” I replied. “I feel sure that some divine providence will intervene,” but my words were merely hollow placation, for never before had I been seized with such a grim feeling of hopelessness and despondency, yet my misery was an insignificance compared to that which was to c
ome.

  Schwarzkröte wheeled the machine before me.

  “I want to see your face as I operate the controls,” he explained. “Only then will I truly know the power of this device.”

  There was a sudden wetness on my cheek as Clara licked me, and I recoiled in horror.

  “I want to taste your despair,” she moaned in my ear, and it was all that I could do not to scream in revulsion and terror.

  Clunk. Schwarzkröte flicked a switch on the machine’s face, and a series of dials flickered into life.

  Clunk. A second switch began a series of clicks and groans as, for the first time in over half a century, electricity surged through the device’s valves and circuits.

  A third clunk, and the wax cylinder began to rotate upon its spindle.

  Schwarzkröte’s eyes were wide, and his lips drawn back into a manic grin as he slowly lowered the machine’s arm onto the rotating cylinder. There was a scratch and a scrape as the needle locked into the cylinder’s playing groove, and then all eyes were upon me.

  For a few seconds, I felt nothing, then I was suddenly no more, and although my eyes were wide, my vision became black, and the noise of the machine and my ragged breathing, and the smell of dust, grease and Clara’s perfume all faded away from me like the final sigh of a dying man.

  *

  25. Josef, Isaak and Jakob

  I was a child, maybe eight or nine, laid out upon a metal gurney, naked (apart from the steel helmet upon my head), afraid, staring into the overhead lights. I tried to sit up, but straps about my chest and waist held me fast, my arms tight at my sides. My legs were free, and I kicked and writhed, but to no avail. My small, frail limbs felt totally alien to me, and for a moment, I knew neither where or who I was.