by David Gullen
‘Stomp them good, baby.’
‘A free and frank discussion, Merlotta.’
‘Hey Halifax,’ Marytha said urgently. ‘Remember me?’
‘Marytha?’ The pipe fell out of Halifax’s mouth into his hand. ‘Long time, girl. You still doing that fake cop thing?’
‘I gave it up.’
‘I hate cops,’ Halifax said vehemently.
Marytha pressed on. ‘How’s it with you?’
‘Still doing the thing and we’re doing good. We hold our corners. We pay it up and we pay it down, and when we have to, we pay the Man.’ Halifax shrugged, half in apology, ‘It kind of got real.’
‘That always was the problem with method acting.’
Halifax laughed. ‘Yeah, I guess Gielgud was right.’
‘We had some times, didn’t we, Halifax? Back in the day.’
‘Yes, we did. Back in the day.’ Halifax briefly became lost in nostalgia.
‘Look, Halifax–’
‘Tell me true, Marytha. What brings you here in the company of numbskulls and dipsticks?
‘Hey,’ Josie hefted the shotgun.
Xiong’s rice flail whirled into a blur.
Marcel flexed his arms, his Breton top bulged with muscle, a half-smile fixed on his face. ‘If you knew how to use that you’d have the safety off.’
Josie felt his physical presence like an aura, at once repellent and attractive. Her gaze wavered uncertainly. Marcel reached out with deceptive slowness then quickly stepped back with the gun cradled in his arm.
‘No ammo.’ Marcel propped the gun by the door. ‘I had hoped for more from you than just show.’
‘Motherfucker,’ Josie breathed.
‘You really shouldn’t call him that, it’s terribly common,’ Halifax said. ‘If you walk around saying motherfucker this and motherfucker that you won’t be taken seriously.’
‘You must change. Change is growth,’ Marcel said.
‘Absorutery,’ said Xiong.
Novik forced a deep breath. ‘Look, Halifax, all we want is to talk.’
‘Then talk we shall. First, however, you need a lesson on the language of the modern street.’
Novik reluctantly agreed. Marytha once rated these guys, perhaps this was a way in.
Pipe in hand, Halifax looked around the room. ‘First things first. Who knows the currently acceptable insults in contemporary tough-guy patois?’
‘I’m guessing it’s not “motherfucker”,’ Novik muttered.
‘Exactly so,’ Halifax said. ‘Take it as given that popular culture is, to a significant degree, derivative, that there is cross pollination between the different strata of society, and that visual media plays a dominant role in defining a-la-mode gangster jive.’
Novik kept his thoughts to himself as Halifax continued:
‘There is a well-established convention that lead-villains are English. Authenticity dictates underworld banter should, therefore, include significant British English elements for all six villainous archetypes. Namely: the suave and debonair, the anti-hero, the brutish thug, the loveable rogue, the sadistic aesthete, and the charismatic psychopath. Such linguistic shortcuts permit fast role identification with a minimum of intellectualisation. A significant advantage in tense moments when time may be short.’
‘I get it,’ Novik said. ‘That’s why you say arsehole, not asshole.’
‘Collect,’ Xiong said.
‘Sorry?’
‘Xiong is from Pittsburgh, fourth generation,’ Halifax said. ‘In his role of henchman he’s adopted clichéd south-east Asian pronunciation in a self-parodic protest at the transient nature of bad-ist dialogue. Marcel explores a very different archetype, the Gallic Monsieur Dangereux.’
‘The medium is the message.’ Josie said before she could stop herself.
‘And that’s all there is to it,’ Novik said. He almost felt sorry for them.
‘Oh, there’s so much more,’ Halifax said. ‘We haven’t even started on insults. For example, “wanker”, the quintessential English insult. And never flip the bird, it’s always two fingers, a traditional insult that dates back to Agincourt.’’
‘You sad wanker,’ Novik said.
‘A short “a”, like in cat,’ Halifax corrected. ‘There’s one more word.’ He whispered it to Novik, who flinched at the sound.
‘Is this really what you’ve become, Halifax?’ Marytha said. ‘What happened to the man who wanted to hold up a mirror up to the world? Where did the Halifax I knew go? The one who was so determined to confront society and make us take a hard look at what we’ve become?’
‘He learned you can’t change the system, you can only make it work for you.’ Halifax gave a cynical laugh. ‘I took all those drama-school dreams and character acting and made them mine. None of us are born into a world we deserve. Life is a bad joke so I gave it one straight back, the one about Give and Take. You want to know where the man you knew went? You’re looking at him. He’s carved out a niche in that world and set his crew free to do the same. You should be proud.’
Marytha shook her head in sorrow. ‘You gave up.’
‘I grew up,’ Halifax growled, then laughed again. ‘Is that what this is all about? You’re still hanging with idealists and dreamers. They can’t help you, nobody even knows who they are.’
‘You’ve heard of the mall buyouts?’ Marytha bridled. The look of surprise on Halifax’s face told her that he had. ‘Then you’ve heard of them.’
‘You’re part of that gig? Saints above, where did you get so much money?’
Marytha made an equivocal gesture. ‘It just came our way.’
Halifax grinned and clapped his hands. ‘How wonderful. Just like you, here, today.’ His hand drifted towards his jacket. ‘Nobody need get hurt.’
‘Halifax, don’t–’
‘Take us to the money, Marytha.’
Old training kicked in. You didn’t wait for it to happen, you made it happen. Marytha slugged Halifax on the jaw as hard as she could. ‘Josie,’ she yelled.
Josie was already moving. Marcel got there first, snatched up the shotgun and held it in both hands.
‘I don’t want to hurt you,’ he said. ‘But I will.’
‘I know.’ She tried to remember his moves. A languid opening, grip, twist, lift, and step back. Josie held the shotgun.
‘Oh.’ Marcel sounded disappointed, then tried a winning smile. ‘A fast learner.’
Josie drove the stock into Marcel’s stomach and he staggered back. She thumbed off the safety and fed in a round from her pocket. Marcel pulled a knife and started forwards. Josie pumped the gun and he subsided scowling as she fed in more rounds.
Rice-flails whirling, Xiong hesitated, looking for an opening. Josie swung the shotgun between him and Marcel.
Novik flung the dude off the bed, grabbed the mattress and ran full-tilt at Xiong. Xing’s flails bounced away harmlessly and Novik pinned him against the wall.
Marytha and Halifax grappled. Slowly and steadily Halifax broke free of her grip.
Josie fired into the ceiling, the gunshot deafening in the confined space. ‘Enough!’
Halifax released Marytha and stepped back with exaggerated care. Marytha deftly relieved him of his hand gun, an old-style revolver.
‘Over there.’ Josie waved the three men into the corner. ‘Face down.’
Scowling furiously, the three men lay on the filthy carpet.
Josie kept guard while Novik, Benny and Marytha bound and gagged them. For good measure they tied up the dude as well.
Marytha stood back and regarded Halifax, filled with regret for what might have been. He looked back with eyes that glittered hate. ‘You lost your way, we shouldn’t have come.’ Marytha said. ‘I’m sorry.’
Novik led his people outside and shut the door. Out on the landing, Josie said, ‘Novik, what was that other word?’
Novik told her.
Josie kicked the door open, the shotgun over her shoulder. ‘You really
are a bunch of cunts,’ she said, and slammed the door again.
Alone in the room, the bound men struggled and strained. Marcel flexed his powerful biceps and burst free. He pulled a switchblade from his boot and cut the others free.
‘Rankers,’ Xiong fumed.
Halifax snapped his pipe in two, and two again. ‘After them. Those motherfuckers are going to pay.’
– BREAKING NEWS – BREAKING NEWS – BREAKING NEWS –
‘Watcha doing, Rik?’
‘Ralf, we got breaking news.’
‘You just broke in on The King. It had better be big or you’re going to wake up next to a horse’s head.’
‘Check this out. Zeppelina, the 1,000 lb, 19-year old chanteuse of the Bariatric Babes has been rushed to hospital with suspected organ failure.’
‘That’s big. She’s big.’
‘Listen to this: “She’s gone,” sobbed friend and band member, The Calorific Queen. “She gave her all for the Babes and now we’ve lost her. We love her so much.”’
‘That’s sad, Rik. Death in one so young.’
‘It is sad, Ralf. But is it important?’
‘I don’t rightly know where you’re going with this. If being dead ain’t important, what exactly is?’
‘Your hair.’
‘Are you shittin’ me?’
‘Think about it. We’ve all got to go. When you do, what’s everyone going to remember?’
‘The music? Your VV cup size?’
‘Your hairstyle, Ralf. Hair defines an era. Look at last year’s films – which anachronism do you notice first?’
‘Hot-dog, he’s right, folks. It IS the hair. I’m going to hire me a coiffeuse.’
‘And I’m going to engage a tonsorial artiste.’
‘Damn. Outclassed again.’
‘Let’s have some music.’
– Rik’n’Ralf’s Podneck Redcast
- 38 -
Alone in the privacy of her own suite in the seclusion of the Million Pines estate, Ellen turned off her desk screen. She had known it would be a mistake before she logged on, it always was. Some days she couldn’t help herself, some days the part of her that wanted to be hurt was ascendant. Her exoframe systems would not permit self-harm, seeing what the world thought of her was the closest she could get.
Across the world Ellen Hutzenreiter-Crane was the object of hundreds of subscription communities and thousands of blogs by feeders, wannabees and morphophiliacs. There were numberless forums with countless postings, photos and video mashups. There were animations, songs, animal adventures, poems, food sculptures, crochet figures, unofficial biographies, mech-eng projects, bogus interviews, DIY non-doctor medical projects, Ellen-Apps and Ellen chat-bots. And there were porn, BDSM and slash-fiction variants for everything you could imagine and a few things you might not.
There were seventeen trending news stories. None were true.
So far this year, thirty-five wannabes had died from complications arising from exoframe attachment, exoskel malfunction, lipoplantation, whole-body implants or polypropylene and saline expansion. Nine more were on life support, twenty-eight were permanently disabled.
Ellen was worshipped and despised, imitated and mocked, reviled and envied. She was a goddess and she was a fetish. She was a fat whore with too much money. She was a vertical revenue stream.
Her father ran a group to shut it all down but he didn’t own everything and nobody controlled the wildfire of data, the multi-language web of webs that used to be the internet.
For a terrible giddy moment Ellen saw herself as a puppet, a monstrous, helpless toy suspended inside a metal skeleton controlled by the will of strangers. The thought made her nauseous, she was such a freak it made her sick just to think about herself. She fled her rooms and descended the reinforced staircase with black oak bannisters that led down to Million Pines’ wide entrance hall. As she crossed the foyer, Raymond St.John appeared, dapper as ever.
‘Good day, Ms Ellen. I trust all is in order.’
‘Yes, thank you, Raymond. I’m going for a walk.’
‘There is a high probability of rain in three hours.’
Ellen turned away. ‘I’ll be back before then.’
St.John cleared his throat. ‘Ms Ellen, para-human patrols have been deployed in the estate.’
‘If I see them, I’ll say hello.’
‘They will keep to themselves. I didn’t want you to be startled.’
‘I’ll be fine.’
‘Enjoy your walk.’
Ellen passed through the main doors. Outside, she breathed the cool, pine-scented air with relief, and headed down the drive.
St.John watched her enormous slope-shouldered form with a curious mix of emotions. Two decades past he had held Ellen as a babe in his arms. The differential between then and now was too great for him to easily contemplate. Out in the forest the trees continued to grow, but even there – change. Two thousand miles to the south Hurricane Larry pounded the Gulf of Mexico to wet ruin. Was there such a thing as genuine stasis?
St.John put the thoughts from his mind. Until he retired the Crane households would run with predictable order. Then he and Mrs St.John would move to Toronto to be close to their children and grandchildren, something they had planned long ago.
Million Pines itself was built from local Cedar and Douglas fir. The three-storied structure of verandas, covered ways, balconies, gables and courtyards sprawled in the shade of Silver Spruce, White Fir and Ponderosa on a half-acre of levelled ground fifty feet above a long lake. In front of the lodge, moss, lichen and fallen needles softened the gravel of the driveway and filled the corners of the broad steps that ran down to the boathouse. Boreal forest stretched for ten miles in every direction.
Away from the house, Ellen turned onto a well-made woodland trail. The path headed uphill then descended into a wide valley of open forest. After another mile she reached a shady glade where several tracks converged.
Ellen chose the track that ran straight ahead. The softness of the needle-cushioned ground and the ribbed fans of pine roots were transmitted through the pressure sensors and feedback systems on the soles of her exoframe then simulated in the foot-pads and joint dampers.
High overhead, scudding clouds turned grey. A short and heavy shower of rain fell and the sky cleared.
A shaft of sunlight fell on a cluster of fir saplings, their soft young foliage emerald green. Water drops hung from the leaves, silver cobwebs spanned the branches. A lighter mood came over Ellen, the timing of St.John’s weather report had been wrong, not everything could be predicted and managed.
After the rain the air was rich with damp, leafy odours. Rivulets chuckled in the dripping silence. Energised, Ellen stretched her trunk-like arms and gave an incongruously delicate skip and hop of pleasure. For the first time in days she felt free and alone. She headed deeper into the woods.
Although the exoframe did much of the work, Ellen was soon breathing heavily. Deep inside her chest her overworked heart beat harder, fans forced more air over the cooling vanes of the blood radiators across her shoulders. Status LEDs phased from green to amber, a soft warning tone sounded and the exoframe slowed.
A man’s voice sounded, close to Ellen’s ear. ‘Hello, Ellen. This is Chandra Smith. How are you today?’
Ellen’s mouth drooped. She forced herself to be cheerful, determined to retain her carefree mood.
‘Hello, Chandra. I’m walking through the woods around Million Pines. It’s a lovely fresh day.’
‘We noticed your heartbeat is rather high. I can see you are moving quite quickly, which is fine, but your core metrics have moved out of the green zone.’
‘I was enjoying my walk. Where are you today?’
‘I’m in Hyderabad, at the university. Ellen, perhaps a year ago this level of exertion would have been fine, but you are heavier now and your heart is not as strong. In your situation it is easy to overdo it. If you agree, I’d like to introduce a speed limiter on your suit, say
10Kph.’
Ellen wiped away sudden tears of frustration. Upset at her own reaction, she was glad there was nobody to see it. How selfish she was, Chandra was trying to look after her, goodness knows what time it was in India.
‘I don’t want to stop you, Ellen.’
‘All right,’ she said. ‘12 Kph, and I want an override.’
‘That’s fine. I’ll set a keyword, something easy to remember, but not a word you regularly use.’
‘How about “Freiheit”?’
Chandra hesitated. ‘A good word, Ellen. I’ve enabled it for you.’ Another pause. ‘Have you thought about our latest idea?’
With no hope of a cure and time running out, the doctors had made a wild suggestion: a retreat into a Meeja-II simulation, where a year of subjective time could be experienced in an hour.
‘Only as a last resort.’
Chandra’s silence was eloquent. Finally he said, ‘Everything is set, Ellen. Enjoy the rest of your walk.’
The mood had gone. Ellen trudged unhappily through forest seeing nothing. After a while she heard a faint rumble ahead. As she continued it grew to a steady roar.
Ellen stood on the edge of a low bluff above a series of cataracts and clear pools, tumbling white water and stacked boulders. A hundred yards downstream the ground dipped to a grassy riverbank. At her feet, pine, rowan and stunted hemlock clung to a near vertical slope. Out of sheer perversity Ellen started down. Her steel alloy heels sank deep into soft loam, she rode a small avalanche of soil.
The base of the slope had been undercut by spring floods. Ten feet above the river, Ellen broke through and dropped onto a small gravel beach. She landed in an instinctive crouch, knees bent and fingers splayed. Pistons and dampers in her frame hissed as they absorbed her weight.
Startled by the fall, pleased by the elegance of her landing, Ellen did something she had never tried before – she jumped. Her leap carried her twenty feet over the river onto a flat boulder the size of a small truck.