The Golden Circuit (The Smith Chronicles)

by John K. Irvine

  The suit was on a hanger and smelled very much like Earth-based pine scented air-freshener. Sempre breathed in deeply through his nostrils - he liked the pleasant, man-made, foresty aroma.

  He removed the suit and put it on over his own clothes. It was a fine fit, just as Bigsby had said. Much better than the old ones, he thought to himself. Doesn’t nip me between the legs like the last one did.

  At the bottom of the receptacle there was a pair of soft booties. Sempre took them out and slipped them snugly over his stockinged feet.

  “Now, sir, please move to the main door on you right,” Bigsby instructed.

  Sempre did as he was told as a small, circular lens above the door opened and shut. It was taking a photograph of him - a further security measure.

  “The door is opening now, Mr. Sempre.”

  Swizzzshumpf!

  “Please go in, sir.”

  “Thank you, Bigsby,” he replied, as he walked into the semi-darkened space.

  Sempre knew where he was going. He’d been there many times before. And he quickly recognised the ambient space-muzak playing softly in the background, instinctively dropping his shoulders and moving his neck around in a circular motion, loosening the tensed-up muscles. It was a calming, soothing sound of Earth-based waves layered underneath soft synthesizer textures – I must get a copy of this, he said, to himself. I’ll ask Bigsby later, when I’m done in here.

  The chamber was perfectly air-conditioned; a constant temperature of 65 degrees was maintained at all times. It was a bit too cold for Sempre in the long term, but refreshing in the short, and made a pleasant change from the summer temperatures of Muhaze.

  He was approaching the centre of the room, and there, in front of him, was a dome-shaped structure made of glass, sitting on an imposing marble platform.

  Inside the dome, was a man’s head.

  The head was on its own - that is, there was no body underneath it. It was completely severed from its original owner.

  There were hundreds of tiny sensors stuck onto the facial area and all around the back and sides of the cranium. Tubes ran through every orifice, carrying the yellow and brown liquids to and fro. LED lights flashed up and down the various pieces of electronic equipment inside the Actionglass casing, as a multitude of readings were being taken simultaneously - numbers were being crunched and then re-set on the displays.

  “Air Marshall Sashan? Mr. Sempre is here, sir,” announced Bigsby.

  Low-level lights came up slowly inside the dome as the head’s eyes began to flicker and open. They blinked, several times, adjusting themselves to the new light, then looked around, moving from side to side, rolling around a little inside their dark, sunken sockets. The eyes were cold and had an icy appearance that somewhat betrayed their true volcanic quality. They were the kind of eyes that, when looking deeply into yours, were actually gazing at their own reflection.

  The head’s mouth opened slowly. Dried saliva had managed to jam it shut, but the strong jaw made short work of it and, soon, it had managed to separate the hardened strands of spittle holding it closed. It worked its mouth for a few seconds, the tongue running over the gums and remaining teeth, then, at last, the eyes of the two men met and the disembodied head’s face cracked (literally) into a beatific smile.

  “Hello, father,” said Sempre.

  “Hello-my-dear-David-nnmmmnn-I-hope-you-are-well-my-son?”

  Sashan’s voice seemed to swirl around in an electronic haze, the decoder humming softly when it was not engaged. It had an aloof, grizzled tone to it - not a friendly voice by any stretch of the imagination, and one he’d hardly even heard as a child.

  “Yes, father. I am well, thank you,” replied Sempre.

  “That-is-good-David-nnmmmnn-Oh-I’m-so-happy-to-see-you-nnmmmnn-What-is-the-date-today?-nnmmmnn-Tell-me-boy?”

  “It is the 28th of July, 2187, father. The evening of.”

  “Thank-you-David-nnmmmnn-Oh-I-so-look-forward-to-your-reports-nnmmmnn-Things-must-be-going-well?”

  “Yes, father. They are. Very much so. Let me give you my news, sir.”

  “Of-course-of-course-nnmmmnn-Let-me-hear-it-nnmmmnn-Please-continue-nnmmmnn-boy.”

  “Well, father,” Sempre began. “You’ll be glad to hear that I have succeeded in getting those annoying Codes off of Baal-500.”

  “That’s-wonderful-news-David!-nnmmmnn-Oh-you-have-made-me-so-happy!-nnmmmnn-So-very-happy!”

  Of course, Sashan could be ‘made happy’ 24/7 and he would still be a twisted, wretched warmonger.

  “Yes, father, it is good news, isn’t it. However, there is a slight problem. You see, Jameson has taken onboard a Code youth… and an infected muidog.”

  “But-Jameson-works-for-us-David-nnmmmnn-Does-he-not?” asked Sashan.

  “Yes, father. But he seems to be ‘rebelling’, for want of a better word.”

  “Hmmmm-nnmmmnn-That-is-a-shame-nnmmmnn-He-and-his-nosey-wife-were-always-troublesome-nnmmmnn-And-have-the-Codes-responded-to-this-‘hostage-taking’?”

  Sashan said this last with a twinkle in his already aqueous eye.

  “We have been trying to get a link with them, father, but so far we’ve been unlucky. Their radio-receptors are blocked, or at least, unavailable,” said Sempre, somewhat ruefully.

  “Yes-yes-I-see-nnmmmnn-But-when-you-do-nnmmmnn-tell-them-you-will-send-Jameson-back-nnmmmnn-with-the-youth.”

  Sempre was surprised at this. “Yes, father, certainly. Although, I had wanted the Code to stand trial, in Muhaze; you see he fired on one of our men, wounding him gravely.”

  “No-no-David!-nnmmmnn-Send-him-back!-nnmmmnn-And-when-the-Argon-gets-within-striking-distance-nnmmmnn-we-blow-the-Krashaon-out-of-the-galaxy-nnmmmnn-Ha-ha!-nnmmmnn-Ha-ha!-nnmmmnn-Then-blame-Jameson-for-all-the-mess!”

  Sashan had the same disturbing laugh as his son - just one ‘ha’ shorter.

  Why does he have all the good ideas? It’s not fair! thought Sempre, like the juvenile he was. He had a love/hate relationship with his father, and at that particular moment he hated him for being such a wickedly brilliant tactician. To add insult to injury, it appeared that his father was on a roll.

  Sashan continued with a Plan B to his already grotesque Plan A.

  “Or-nnmmmnn-even-better-nnmmmnn-Put-a-couple-of-androids-onboard-nnmmmnn-for-‘security’-nnmmmnn-Then-if-anything-goes-wrong-we-blow-up-the-nnmmmnn-Codes-and-the-Argon-in-one-big-illumination-nnmmmnn-Foolproof!-nnmmmnn-Ha-ha!-nnmmmnn-Softly-softly-catchy-Codey-Ha-ha!-nnmmmnn-Oh-I-shouldn’t-make-myself-laugh-nnmmmnn-It-hurts-my-face!-nnmmmnn-Ha-ha!-nnmmmnn-Ha-ha!-nnmmmnn-Ooooh-stop-it!-nnmmmnn-Don’t! -nnmmmnn-Ha-ha!”

  Sashan carried on laughing as the electronic meters in his dome went into the red. The machines started bleeping and blonking, and Bigsby’s voice came on from on high.

  “Mr. Sempre! Please do not get Air Marshall Sashan over-excited. It is not good for him. Dr. Tamashito is very busy with his work, we do not wish to disturb the Doctor for unnecessary repairs.”

  “Yes, Bigsby, yes, of course,” said Sempre, hiding his irritation. “I fully understand. My apologies.” Though it’s father’s own draining fault, not mine! he whinged, to himself. He’s the one making all the jokes! And Bigsby is only voice. A draining computer voice! What right does he have to tell me what to do?

  Nearly every time Sempre went to deliver his report it turned into an advice session from his old man. Sashan never listened to his ideas and he felt taken for granted. It stirred up childish emotions within Sempre that he didn't want to feel. He was dutifully carrying out his father’s wishes and thought that the Air Marshal should be pleased with the work he was doing. But, sometimes, Sashan made him feel like he was 12 years old again. Why is it always me that has to do as he’s told? he groused.

  “And the dog, father?” he asked, sulkily obedient once more.

  “That-goes-back-with-the-Code-nnmmmnn-What-use-is-it-to-us?”

  “Yes, father, very good,” Sempre acknowledged, reluctantly.

&nb
sp; “Now-nnmmmnn-are-there-anymore-nnmmmnn-problems-that-you-need-me-to-solve-for-you-nnmmmnn-boy?”

  “No sir, no. That’s them all, father. Thank you.”

  Sempre was on autopilot now.

  “Then-David-nnmmmnn-Tell-me-nnmmmnn-how-is-business-proceeding-with-the-Specialists?”

  “Perfectly, father, perfectly.”

  “And-they-are-following-the-nnmmmnn-Manual-For-Solar-System-Domination?”

  “Yes, father. To the letter.”

  “Good-nnmmmnn-Now-go-and-say-hello-to-your-nnmmmnn-Mother.”

  “Yes, sir. Goodbye, father.”

  Sashan closed his eyes - and opened them - making the nod that his head couldn’t make. He shut them again, as the lights dimmed inside his dome.

  Sempre walked moodily over to a small Perspex capsule in the far corner of the room. It was about 5ft from end to end and covered with Actionglass for its entire length. The inside was full of nitrogen gas, swirling around in a thick mist. Every few seconds Sempre got a glimpse of what was inside.

  It was the body of a woman.

  Her skin was as white as bone, her auburn hair streaked with grey. She was completely still and motionless. But this was normal for a woman in her condition - namely, long-term cryogenic suspension.

  “Hello, mother,” said Sempre, trying to sound cheerful, but, instead, sounding depressed.

  He touched the nameplate at the foot of the capsule. It read: ‘Mayette Froome: Deceased 2180’.

  Sempre’s face slowly twisted with hate.

  Chapter 13

  21:28 - Saturday, July 28, 2187 (Balmaha Shopping Centre, Muhaze, Tapi-36)

  The happy mutants were getting out of their work clothes and into their normal day wear, carefully folding up their overalls and worksuits and placing them in their lockers. Each locker had a number and a name on it. Fun names like Barri, Kenni, Jacky, Suzy, and so forth.

  Every mutant’s name ended in either ‘i’ or ‘y’. If it was an ‘i’, you were male. If it was a ‘y’, you were female. Any vagaries about gender were eliminated this way. They wore their nametags at all times and took special care in removing them and then pinning them onto the clothing they were about to change into.

  Mikita was deciding whether to take off Tammy’s overall, or stay in it and make a run for the exit, when all the mutants stopped what they were doing, and stood stock still.

  Mikita looked around in confusion.

  The mutant’s eyes started to blink and flicker, then spin around in their sockets, as their mouths opened in an ‘O’ shape, making their faces cadaverous and spectral.

  What the fire are they doing? she wondered, uneasily.

  Mikita could see some form of processing going on behind their eyeballs; a whirring and flashing of 0s and 1s. It was almost as if the mutants were relaying information – or, rather, information was being relayed to them. Then it hit her like a ton of stardust.

  Oh, fire! It’s me! The mutants are getting information about me!

  After a few more seconds of eye rolling, they all stopped and stared at Mikita.

  “Ah,” said one of the rock-chick-mutants, “you Mikita Smith. You woman we want for murder. We get upgrade that tell us. Good. I find you first.”

  The other popstrel chimed in. “Hey, you change hair. I like. It suit you. But we scan Mikita Smith bone structure, not hair. You stupid, Mikita Smith.”

  The mutants then began to slowly close in on her and she was soon corralled by the female automatons. She backed away not knowing what to do next. Their eyes were glaring at her; burning a hole in her thoughts. Normally, mutants were smiley, friendly types, but now it seemed they’d all become ruthless bounty hunters. It was like they were the eyes of TAPCON! Like David Sempre was peering at her, through them, from on top of his monstrous tower, glowering at her with sadistic intent!

  Mikita suddenly realised that she had nowhere to go. She was backed-up against the changing-room walls and now found herself cornered, near the laundry disposal. She looked over at it. The chute! Yes! Oh, fire. My weird fear of laundry! (unfortunately she had one of those). But it was either that or be torn to shreds by the pop-loving tinheads.

  Mikita lurched to her right, opened the hatch, and threw herself in.

  “Drain meeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!” she screamed, as she went whizzing down the smooth metal slide.

  Five seconds later and she was spat out into a large basket full of dirty mutant laundry. Yuk! Get it off me! she panicked.

  Mikita needed to control herself. But her phobia of dirty linen was something she’d had for as long as she could remember: Towelling’s the worst – the feel of it – yuk!

  She tried to breathe normally.

  Sticking her head up over the edge, she saw a young services-mutant walking over towards the basket. Mikita took a deep breath and ducked down under a couple of stained overalls.

  The mutant was your typical ‘happy-in-his-job’ mutant. He was singing to himself as he walked. He did a twirling dance move, catching the handle of the trolley perfectly on the down-beat of his melody, then began to wheel the dirties towards the collection point. Mikita noticed he was singing the song that the mutant girls had been talking about earlier in the queue:

  “Hit me slowly, Hit me faster, Hit me with your mutant -”

  But he never did reach the end of the chorus.

  Mikita stood up, facing him, giving the mutant the fright of his virtual life, and placed her right foot on the top of the basket. Then she pushed down hard and tipped the whole kit-and-caboodle over. She crashed into him sending them both sprawling to the floor. Mikita got up first, removed Tammy’s garment and threw it into his face for good measure. Dazed and bewildered, the laundry-boy watched her disappearing around a corner - when two other mutants shot out of the chute and landed on top of him, creating a big, meta-humanoid heap.

  Luck was with Mikita, for once. The collection point was located at the side exit of the Balmaha Centre. It was only one more block north to the Shuttle Station and the corrugated roll-up door was open. Mikita stuck her head out, looked both ways, then went left up Centris towards the MCSS.

  As she walked past a Megatron, she caught a glimpse of herself on the news. Some of the bigger screens had PA systems attached, so she could hear what the voices were saying:

  “She is armed and dangerous. Anyone sighting Miss Smith should report this to us, immediately. Do not try to stop this woman, go straight to TAPCON, or dial 100. We repeat, she is armed and dangerous.”

  Hang on! I’m not armed! And dangerous? - Yeah, to myself!

  Keeping to the shadows, as usual, Mikita safely made her way up to Unita Stratis and turned the corner to directly face the Shuttle Station. Looking over at the other side of the street, she could see three men in the dark blue uniforms of the TTF keeping watch over the station entrance. They must have traced her meta-file message - they seemed to know exactly where she was heading.

  But she still needed to find Polo. Something might have happened to her, and she was now very late.

  Maybe Po’s already gone to Fizz’s? That would probably be for the best, she thought. Mikita didn't really want Polo tied up in any of this mess. Contacting her had been a mistake, she knew that now, and she rebuked herself for having texted her from Hanoi’s flat. She’d been in such a state of panic at that point she hadn’t known what she was doing. She would need to be more careful the next time… What am I saying? The next time? The next time I kill someone? Oh, fire, no!

  She decided, then and there, that she would never, ever, use her powers again. But her thoughts were disturbed as felt her meta-file vibrate in her pocket.

  Mikita took it out. It was Polo:

  [You’re late! Still here. Px]

  Oh, fire, she’s in there… with the agents!

  Mikita decided not to reply to the text. They could easily get her current location from any response she made.

  Then she saw a large van pull up at the front of the entrance. The three agents we
nt to the rear of the vehicle and stood waiting as the back doors opened. They got in. The van then drove off down Unita Stratis in the direction of the TAPCON Transportation Unit connected to the east wing of the MCSS. This was her chance.

  I must be mad! This is too dangerous!

  She began to walk towards the Strathbungo Stratis crossing and continued over towards the semi-circular drop-off area at the front of the station.

  She’d not been seen.

  Muhaze Central Shuttle Station was an exemplary piece of space-age architecture. The station was an enormous double-vaulted building built out of steel girders, Texture-X plate sheeting, and a great many large sections of multi-coloured glass. It contained five arch-like parabolas that marked out the entrances for each of the shuttle platforms, with stairways at the east end of the main concourse leading up to galleries housing shops and restaurants. On the west side, the station a walkway led to a 400m overhead tunnel that extended out from the station over Unita Stratis and down into Muhaze Park. Mikita often went to the gardens for solitude and quiet after her Mu-U classes. And she felt like running there right now and hiding in the tall ferns until all this was over. She just wanted to fall asleep amongst the flowers and wake up to find this had all been a bad dream.

  Chance would have been a fine thing.

  Back in the concourse, she could see Polo standing over by the Meeting Point. She looked tense and worried.