by Edge O. Erin
Chapter Eight
The potent sedatives were overcome by an even stronger will to survive and a genetic fabric fortified with years of focus and discipline. Tearing her restraints free of the gurney, she looped one around an attendant’s head and, with a violent twist, broke his neck. A doctor, needle in hand, jumped towards her, but she parried the thrust and knocked him unconscious with a head butt.
Three guards moved to surround her, and the wall splattered with the blood of the nearest man as she delivered a spinning backfist to his jaw. The other two guards grabbed her, but she managed to knock one down with a short elbow to the temple. As she struggled with the remaining guard, another doctor rammed a tranquilliser into her thigh, and Jop stepped forward to punch her in the throat. She crumpled to the floor, but her excellent physical condition allowed for a quick recovery, and she front kicked Jop in the stomach. Unfortunately, the doctor had loaded up another tranquilliser and poked it into her shoulder.
The remaining guard had one of her arms pinned behind her back and tripped her forward, which allowed Jop to cuff her hands together as she reached out to break her fall. She drove hard against him, and they crashed into the gurney with the guard clinging to her leg, getting a back-heel that dislocated his knee.
Riot stepped forward and drove a needle into Mary’s backside. She tried to raise herself, but the drugs had taken their toll, and Jop grabbed her by the neck and hair and started dragging her into a cell. Mary was shrieking as if her individuality was being stripped away one particle at a time, and she managed to bite Jop’s hand, and he dropped her, but only for a moment. Mary struggled to rise, and as her fingers curled into claws that tore at Jop and invisible enemies, she yelled something intelligible and crashed to the floor. Jop grabbed her again and dragged her into the cell as she writhed like a mortally wounded viper.
Riot suppressed revulsion and sympathy and then smiled.
***
Squirts of icy-cold water revived the captive, and they looked at each other; sisters — in a fashion — yes, but loved-ones, no.
Riot squirted some more water into Mary’s face. “Ah, yes, there you are. A fair failure, though you had a good run for about nine years. Thankfully, I’m here to save the day.”
Mary didn’t say anything, and Riot grew impatient, “Well, what do you have to say for yourself? What is the nature of your dysfunction?”
Mary wouldn’t dignify the question with a response.
“I think a ‘thank you’ is in order. Why, if not for me, sister, you would be in the scrap heap like the others.”
It was a lie; clones were too valuable an asset to be squandered. Riot reasserted her authority, the difference being this time she was positioned to do so without consequence.
Impatient, Riot walked over, forced Mary’s jaws open, shoved in the nozzle of the water bottle, and squeezed until Mary began to choke and gasp.
“There sister, you need to combat dehydration.”
Still, Mary said nothing.
Riot returned to her chair and looked at Mary, much like a cat would a mouse it had grown weary of tormenting.
“Fine, have it your way. You will talk to me eventually for surely the mumblings from next door will induce boredom.”
Mary smiled then for the mumblings could only come from Cheriot; Riot had overplayed her hand.
Mary finally spoke, “Her.”
Riot’s brow furrowed. “Her? Her who?”
Mary began whistling a tune from a play called Fake Candy. Riot hated that song.
“Stop it, or I swear…”
Mary whistled it louder, and it resulted in Riot beating her until she lost consciousness; there was no love lost between them.
***
When she awoke, she was in a unique yet familiar chair. She knew what that meant and was intended for. Still, she had her memories, so if they had reactivated her PIP, they had not done so to purge her.
A group of doctors and technicians hovered around a table with an array of diagnostic equipment, and she made eye contact with one of them, a man among women, and for a moment, the old man did not look away. The word she found for his look was ’compassion’.
She heard a section of the wall being removed from behind her. Then a minute later, a pad was secured to the back of her head. While the women talked and looked at their devices, the male doctor came over and made as if to check her wrist restraints, then pressed a small bit of something into her palm. He looked into her eyes then, and his eyes moved back and forth several times, which she divined as meaning “Do not acknowledge what you have received.” She glanced at her palm. The message, “Good sisters and MEM will try to free you” evaporated quickly but stuck in her mind. It seemed she had an ally.
The women stopped their techie-talk; they had affirmed all was ready. A dark visor was placed over her eyes, and then she felt her PIP, followed almost immediately by the presence of another mind. It was Cheriot.
The microbots on Mary felt the loss of their comrades from Chez Fluse. It wasn’t an emotional loss, but a loss of capacity and they were forced to improvise. They reported the whereabouts and condition of their host along with the connection established to a brain next door. They didn’t state how stimulating the clones’ nature and the impulses were and how it provided a template to amplify capability and promote cognition.
***
Understandably no one could, or would, wear the Cyclops all the time, but it did need to be within three hundred feet of one’s location. This invariably meant it was in the home or on the person. Cyclop Cops, could, without cause, ask a citizen to produce their device. If the individual didn’t have it, a fine was levied. Repeat offenders not only received stiffer penalties but were sentenced to community service, and that often translated into the unclogging of sewer systems. Very few people wanted to risk such a punishment.
Beyond that, the bandwidth provided by the Cyclops exceeded that of private providers and allowed free streaming of any Ghan-certified news, entertainment, and educational product. The Cyclops was as capable at indoctrinating as it was informing, and combined with education, the Red Articles and a suite of other propaganda tools, people were well stupefied and controlled.
The flashing of the Wristpad indicated it was ‘Cyclop Time’, and he got his eye together.
“Her Leadership escaped an attempt on her life by poisoning” … “the dosage would’ve killed most people, so the fact it only caused some” … “is expected to make a full recovery and while MEM has not yet accepted responsibility” …
The verbal diarrhoea would be gobbled up as gospel by the populace, and that knowledge, in addition to the sour taste in his mouth caused by bile rising from his stomach, made him spit into the trash can. He wondered if the powers-that-be had engineered ‘spitbots’ to analyse saliva and ascertain if one was predisposed to be a nonconformist, or worse, a subversive. The idea gave him pause.
***
They were two of the most powerful people on Earth. One was a woman in her sixties, with large eyes and ears and a reddish tone to her skin. Her mostly grey hair was flecked with natural black and artificial red, and there were tiny jewels entwined in her hair and adhered to her temples. The brooch was radiant, as beautiful as it was functional. Her lipstick shone red, and today, but not always, she wore fake lenses to give her eyes a cinnabar hue. She was clothed in many layers; some said it could take up to two hours for attendants to dress her. The layers of clothes disguised the fact that she weighed not more than a hundred pounds. Two aestheticians were always at her beck and call. Her attire matched the wall, red and white, but with a sequence that presented a royal purple aura.
The younger lady stood 6” above her elder and at 140 pounds was the equal of most men in size and strength. She was incredibly fast, well-versed in various martial arts, and could be absolutely and unmercifully vicious. Her makeup was understated, and while her attire was suitably professional, it was designed to accentuate her impressive physique.
“We know you murdered the security guard, the man you knew from here.”
Riot held her posture and mindset rigid, though taken aback that they had found out. “He deserved it… no loss.”
“Perhaps, but in terms of our faith in your ability to assess risk, a definite setback. And had we not so quickly eliminated the witness and destroyed the video, we would’ve incurred a substantial loss of time, energy, and credits to suppress it.”
Riot replied tersely, “Well, it’s done, and the world’s a better place without him. I’m sorry it cost some time but doesn’t it reinforce we have an elegant system in place to rectify missteps?”
“That answer, and attitude, is unacceptable and will not henceforth be tolerated. It was much more than a misstep. It was a messy miscalculation!”
“Oh, come now, it seems you may be the one overreacting!”
Abigailius Ghan turned a dial that ringed the sizeable rainbow-coloured brooch that hung from her neck, and Riot collapsed to the floor, paralysed; fully aware yes, but immobile and incapable of speech.
“I should not have to remind you of your standing young lady, nor to mind your tone and temper around your superiors.”
The other elderly ladies sitting on either side of her nodded their approval.
The Ghan leader tapped the centre of her brooch twice, and Mariot was freed from her paralytic state.
The Grace helped her up, stood beside her, and stroked her auburn hair. “An apology would be appropriate.”
“I apologise for my rash and rude behaviour Your Grace and Eminent Ladies of the Ghan.”
“Apology accepted. My dear, we can’t have you thinking you are omnipotent. Your predecessor thought she could hide things from us and look where that got her.”
Riot replied meekly, “Yes, ma’am.”
“Chin up now, I want to show you something.”
The Grace took her hand, and they walked to the back of the room where family crests and commemorative artwork adorned an immaculate red-and-white wall, a wall that shone so brilliantly they could see their reflections.
The Grace tapped a code on the wall, and it slid silently down, revealing a balcony overlooking a large medical facility, with clear acrylic ceilings and opaque walls so all could be seen from above, but nothing between individual rooms.
“Can they see us?”
“Oh no, dear, of course not. It’s one-way. Now, see there, the room on the right with the pink-cloaked doctor and the four tall, red-haired ladies.”
“Yes.”
“Do they look familiar?”
Mariot had experienced something like this before, back when she was first activated for duty.
“Yes, your Grace, they are others like me.”
“Partially correct, yes. We’re always making improvements, you know. Some technology becomes redundant, some obsolete; nothing is permanent. No one is indispensable.”
The old lady squeezed the young lady’s hand, and Riot was surprised by the strength in the grip.
The Grace tapped a message, and the pink-cloaked doctor gave a ‘thumbs up’ in her direction.
The doctor left the room with three of the clones in tow. After they left, the Grace tapped her Wristpad and then turned and poked her brooch. The clone alone in the room collapsed on the floor.
“That one, M8501 has, for whatever reason, consistently outperformed the others in adaptive learning, but stubborn, wow! It never fails to amaze me how the integration of virtually identical biologic and synthetic components can result in unique specimens. M8501, we call her ‘Riot Junior’ for how she reminds us of you. She just thinks, or did think anyway, she is ‘full-red-ahead’ and doesn’t need to follow all the rules. I am increasingly impatient and wary of that attitude. Can’t have our leaders being rule-breakers or forgetting their beginnings and source of their power, now can we?” Again, she squeezed Mariot’s hand.
“So, now Riot Junior needs a little rest and some, system maintenance. When next activated, she won’t remember what happened today; she will start anew, but with just a little less moxie. I still have confidence in her, though. Why, it’s possible to imagine her someday being as capable as you, perhaps even more so. Many of us are only as good as our last decision and course of action, after all.”
The Ghan let go of her hand then and walked back to sit with her imperial relatives.
Mariot looked at M8501, thought of the mental cuff she had just received, and resolved not to be so controlled.
Chapter Nine
The lovers lay back, pleasantly exhausted, and oddly contemplative.
For him, it was satisfying for many reasons; how she performed, how she looked, and that she was the wife of a Ghan ranked ‘Two’ to ‘Four’. Number ‘Five’ could be several things, but today it was that he needed the exercise. Number ‘One’ was climbing her meant climbing the ladder. He thought some more, maybe how she performed should be number ‘One’? No, no, advancing his career was the best. But damn she was good! And that she was at least ten years his elder was astonishing.
For her, the performance was artistry. Whatever she did, she did it with passion and creativity. That the man was good in bed enhanced the art. She painted exquisitely, lied honestly, schemed expertly, dreamt fantastically, and concerning the last hour, fucked incredibly.
He sipped on a glass of brandy, and she smoked a long cigarette.
“Do you think he suspects?”
She shook her head and continued to smoke.
She had a few men on the line; every two months, she would drop one or two and get some fresh meat. As for her husband, he trafficked in numbers and was brilliant in that regard, but in other respects, he was uninspiring, and a moron.
He poured another drink; she had the best brandy… and a great ass.
She looked at him then. He wondered if he could read her mind, and she knew what he was thinking.
“Perhaps we will do it again later,” she said before grabbing the drink out of his hand and downing it.
He admired her. She found him useful.
He was ever cautious not to overplay his hand, but he also had to demonstrate he was worth keeping around and a more significant asset than she might envision. It was time to surrender a potentially valuable token.
“My sources tell me that a certain someone at the top of PEDE may feel restricted from achieving her full potential and thus open to well, intelligence sharing, and who knows what else?”
She appreciated his efforts and that his informant could also be useful.
“I’m impressed, and yes, I expect Mariot will soon be in play… an Alliance of sorts is being explored.”
And here he thought he might be a step ahead of her on something!
“Well, I’m here to help in whatever way I can.”
“I understand you’re going to be part of a team going to a certain island where reports suggest there may be some ancient and potentially valuable assets.”
That she knew these things no longer surprised him.
“And you want me to, what?”
“Be prepared. I foresee you leading the search team.”
He’d been told Tero would be leading the team. Clearly, she had other plans.
He was functioning on a need-to-know level, and she was always operating.
“I’ve things to do, so see your way unseen out the back, please, and thank you.”
“Sure.” What she said or wanted could not be questioned, so he got dressed and started to go.
He wondered if he was anything more than a pawn, and she knew how to manoeuvre every piece on the board.
“Wait.” She crossed the floor to him.
“I do appreciate you,” she confessed before kissing him.
“And I appreciate your appreciation… and how much you have helped m
e over the years.”
She nodded, then turned and walked away. Buoyed by the overall experience, Wezer bounded up the steps from her lair.
She got out her paintbrushes and resumed a non-objective piece she called ‘Thoughtful Treachery’. Objectively speaking, she thought, ‘treachery’ was not an abstraction.
Even the words she elected to describe her thoughts, motives, and actions were colourful and passionate.
The painting was starting to look like her soul; dark, exotic, and spectacularly fractured.
***
Your origins and strengths are known. The precarious nature of your station is known. Unless you adapt and embrace change, you will always be a pawn in the game; controlled by your ‘Betters’. If you want to control your future and have real power, let it be known. Respond with a Y or ignore this message at your ultimate peril.
Was this yet another test from the Ghans? A hoax? Immediately she launched a utility to trace the transmission and used a script she had written to extract metadata. The primary source was undefined, and the codes in the metadata pointed to a scrambled, alias network. There was nothing that led to an official or highly secure channel, server, network, or scrambler. If it was a test, they had gone to a great deal of effort.
The only way she would know for sure is if she replied right away and received a delivery token with a timestamp or vector metadata. An ‘N’ or null response wouldn’t suffice. A ‘Y’ response probably would, but would also commit her to an agenda, or demonstrate she was either a nonconformist or not to be trusted. Yes, she did deserve more than being ‘Queen Clone’ and beholden to the Ghan elite. Yes, she was engineered for excellence, but that same engineering made for a ceiling she could never punch through.
She tapped a ‘Y’.
***