Ruin Nation

by Dan Carver

  “Waste not want not, yes?” says the doctor. The receptionist, called Michelle, shrugs.

  “Oh, yeh!” comes an inexplicably excited voice from the depths of the ventilation system. Holubec shudders.

  “You will be signing the visitor’s book,” he says, producing a massive, dust-encrusted, leather-bound tome full of blank pages.

  “I think not,” says Malmot, shaking his head. “Hush hush, you know,” he adds, tapping his nose.

  “I said, you will be signing the visitor’s book!” Holubec repeats.

  “And I said...” starts Malmot.

  “You are illiterate?” Holubec interrupts.

  “Why, er, no. No, I’m not.”

  “Then why do you not sign your name? If you wish, you may put down an ‘X’ and I will write in the time and date for you.”

  “I am not illiterate.”

  “What about your idiot friend? Can he write his language?”

  “I’ve seen him draw a pig in a top hat.”

  “Then you will sign and he will draw his animal with its headgear. I have crayons. Then you may proceed into the facility. Not before.”

  Malmot reluctantly snatches a pen and gouges something angular into the pristine white page.

  “I don’t think you know who you’re dealing with.”

  “You are right,” Holubec answers. “But you do not offer me money so I will not engage the emotion of caring. I will show you round, answer your stupid questions, but that is all. Offer me financial assistance, however, and I will be your finest friend. I will call you Sir. I will give you tea and I will not point out the extent of your ignorance.”

  Malmot’s non-uniform persona is perfect for secretive excursions but hinders as much as it helps. And in situations where violence isn’t appropriate, well, it’s back to good, old-fashioned diplomacy.

  “I’m a firm believer in scientific progress, Doctor Holubec. And I have no ethical objections to buying your friendship. Two hundred million is a nice number, don’t you think?”

  “Ach! Hyperinflation is making my wallet too heavy to carry, yes? The Scottish have a stable economy. Ten thousand of their dollars will suffice. I am not a greedy man.”

  “You’re a sharp operator, Doctor.”

  “We have the agreement?”

  “Indeed. We have the agreement.”

  “Then welcome, Sir, to Stemset. And how may I be your assistant?”

  “Can I count on your discretion?”Holubec nods with a wry laugh.

  “If it were not for the simple virtue of lying by omission, I would not be where I am today!” And he gestures toward a set of heavily-barred steel doors. When the infrared fingerprint scanner fails to work, he unlocks them with a rusty old key. “We shall enter through there. But the fool must stay here, for all our safety. He is drunk and his tongue is like a wobbling eel. I do not wish to see it.”

  “I was hoping you could take a look at him, Doctor. You see my problem is … is him.”

  “We can observe him via surveillance camera. I have them everywhere because I am, how you say, a paranoid bastard. Plus, he appears to be the kind of man who opens dustbins in search of food. We have very unusual things in our dustbins here, Sir, and were our retarded acquaintance to satiate his appetite, he would undoubtedly explode.”

  He seats Ceesal beside the increasingly worried looking receptionist. “Do not worry, he will be perfectly safe here. Michelle is a cold and unpleasant woman. Her heart is dead from a man who left her many years ago. She will make sure your shavenape does not make any trouble. And now, Sir, if you would be so kind as to follow me, I shall show you around whilst you detail me the full extent of your problem. Possibly you will offer me more money at the juncture of which we may endeavour to do something about it.”

  “Indeed,” says Malmot, picking out the meaning from the doctor’s rattling syllables.

  Stemset’s labyrinthine corridors beckon. Onward they go, through infinite soulless, olive drab hallways – all mental institution clichés present and correct. They barge through reinforced door after reinforced door, Holubec pointing out numerous fascinating atrocities; things that shouldn’t exist but do; partially-human arrangements of flesh, screaming silently inside tubes full of oxygenated liquid.

  Meanwhile, in reception, Ceesal skips and sporadically collapses, performing a dance he believes will win Michelle’s affections. He asks if he is annoying her. She replies that he is.

  In some horrible, tiled room, Holubec points into an incubator.

  “This,” he says, moustache twitching emphatically, arms in an animated flourish, “is the most rather amazing breakthrough in bio-mechanical surveillance technology. I say, the most rather amazing, but I mean the most rather fantastic! This is Science in action – beyond the cutting edge; beyond the bleeding edge; the Stanley-knifed cheek of discovery: The Sliced Face, yes?!”

  “Where is its head?” asks Malmot.

  “There,” says the doctor. “We have replaced the jaw and mouth with a socket that goes straight to the stomach. It is accepting an intravenous-style drip tube for the drastic reduction of feeding/refuelling times.”

  “And the wires?”

  “We steer the creature with electrical impulses to the brain. The connector in the spine is for data transfer.”

  “It looks like ... Well, no offence intended, Doctor, but now I look, it bears a passing resemblance to your good self.”

  “It shares a small percentage of my DNA, I will admit.”

  “And you’ve had it tattooed?”

  “Let us be realistic,” Holubec says, pointing with a pencil. “Many institutions employ complex anti-surveillance technologies. Given a long enough operational time span, it is likely that the creature will be discovered. And if it is to be seen and examined, then we would be foolish not to utilise the advertising space.”

  “Is it alive?”

  “It, er, was.”

  Further into the intestines of the building, they encounter a stack of insulated metal containers.

  “What’s in there?” Malmot asks, whilst adjusting his flies.

  “Possibly your penis,” Holubec replies, “But the boxes contain arms.”

  “Guns?”

  “Arms,” Holubec corrects. “Like legs with hands on the end. We are removing them from soldiers in preparation for limb regeneration experiments. It is very hard to get genuine amputees these days, since the landmine treaties.”

  “You experiment on conventionally-born people?” asks an incredulous Malmot.

  “Of course!” Holubec answers. “We cannot let the freaks take all the credit. We are an equal opportunities experimental facility. We can even experiment on your companion. We were always testing the cognitive capabilities of apes. We could teach him sign language. Then he would be able to communicate.”

  “Which brings me, rather, to my point,” starts Malmot, but the doctor interrupts.

  “You will be wondering what happens to the arms in our efficient waste-not-want-not operation,” he says. “In times gone by, we are sewing them onto the dogs at tobacco research laboratories. The dog had no opposable thumbs, you will remember. It could not be holding its cigarette in a dignified manner. But now the dog is extinct. So we are taking the arms and are grinding them up into a highly nutritious, high-protein milkshake which we are feeding directly back to the soldiers. They are needing a lot of protein. You would be needing it too, if you were trying to grow back an arm.”

  “I’ve always believed in recycling,” says Malmot. “And your success rate?”

  “Hmm,” Holubec says, “Limited for the moment. Partial regeneration in two percent of test subjects.”

  “How partial?”

  “Very Partial. Quite minimal. Almost non-existent. But we are working on a new incentive scheme and are expecting to be seeing more positive figures soon.”

  “Incentives?”

  “Yes. We understand the military mentality, you see. We are documenting its tendency toward cr
iminality. Rather than to suppress it, we are choosing to be accepting and exploit it; to work with what we have been given. Freedom from prosecution for one illegal act. A form of getting-out-of-jail-free card for one pre-planned, pre-agreed crime for the first soldier showing indisputable signs of regeneration.”

  “And who did you arrange this with?” he asks.

  “We have an agreement with The Policing Company. We assist with their prisoner sterilisation projects and they, shall we say, do us small favours in return.”

  Malmot nods. He smiles – outwardly. The inward view's a little less rosy as our arch-conspirator considers he's been cut out of the conniving by his own coppers. Or one copper in particular. But we'll go into that later.

  “So, these crimes?” he enquires. “What sort of things do the fiends go for?” Holubec guides him through a pair of dirty-olive doors into a packed ward. He points at a sleeping soldier.

  “Well,” he starts, “cutting off the limbs is never particularly popular. Especially without permission. So you will be unsurprised to discover that the majority of their criminal intentions are aimed towards me, myself. Private Chippen, there – you see: fat, snoring man. He is simplistic mammal. Barely sentient. Chippen is wanting to beat me round the head, to my death, with my own legs. Other fellow there, with the moustache and the beady eyes – frankly, he is very sick. He requests intercourse with my mother whilst I am forced to watch.

  “And that doesn’t bother you?”

  “Hah no! My mother was cremated many years ago and now resembles the contents of an ashtray. He will experience no sexual pleasure, just gritty chafing.”

  At the far end of the ward, shrouded in shadow, sits a lone soldier, motionless in a dirty towel dressing gown.

  “What’s wrong with him?”

  “He is dead,” Holubec answers.

  “Dead?”

  “Yes. But we do not bury him because losing part of the team is bad for morale.”

  “Isn’t it bad for morale staring at a dead body morning, noon and night?” says Malmot, displaying some form of empathy for once.

  “Oh, they do not know he is dead,” says Holubec. “We have had him embalmed and a urine-dispensing pump fitted. The others avoid him because he stinks of the wee, yes?”

  “A urine pump? Your own invention, of course?”

  “No. Strange to declare, it is, how you say, off-the-peg model. That is the joy of the Internet.”

  “Yes,” replies Malmot simply, recalling his own adventures in cyberspace. Then something catches his eye. “Blue urine?”

  “It is the agency temps,” Holubec blusters, “they have the sick sense of humour and the morals of jackals. I try to stop them but they …”

  “I don’t care,” says Malmot. “As long as the deeds you do for me deliver the results I require, you can sleep safe, knowing that your weird antics remain your own business. My soul concern is that you help me with my idiot.”Holubec nods frantically.

  “Then I will be taking you to a place where we may observe him and you can detail to me his, how you say, deficiencies.”

  Now Malmot nods.

  “Then let it be so.”

  They turn a corner. The miniature train passes overhead, laden with television remote controls.

  The temperature drops as they delve ever deeper into Stemset’s endless burrows, through another million miles of grey, featureless concrete and cold, clattering footsteps.

  Steep stone stairs take them upwards. The fire escape takes them outside. A parapet winds around the fourth story exterior of the building. Another door takes them inside. A man viewing monitors sucks in his stomach and fastens his fly. He appears to be eating a large meal. The room is arid, filled with the smell of obsolete electrical equipment. Two banks of thoroughly antiquated monitors reveal the comings and goings of the facility staff in skewed, zebra-striping images. Crackling electrics and feedback provide the soundtrack.

  Holubec urges the man aside, where upon he (the man) sits down on a pile of remote controls, undoes his trouser button, unleashes his gut and quickly resumes eating. Holubec regards him with disgust. Malmot wonders what the meal might be. The little train toots in through the air conditioning duct. The man stands and tips a serviette full of short, greasy bones into its tiny wagons. He licks his fingers and waves it goodbye. His trousers fall down. He turns to Holubec, who stares like the gorgon and sends him scuttling out of the room, muttering apologies.

  “Louder!” Holubec barks at the disappearing figure.

  “I said I’m sorry, Sir!” the man pleads through the closing door.

  “Debased ape,” mutters the doctor. Malmot smiles approvingly.Holubec resumes his air of professional grandeur.

  “So, to reception,” he says, adjusting the equipment, “and the unfathomable mysteries of your idiot friend. Look! There he is. I think Michelle may be about to be hitting him with the hole punch.”

  “I never said he was a friend.”

  “Your relative?”

  “In Christ’s name, no!”

  “So then what? A bald yeti you discovered with hilarious consequences?”

  “He’s the face of my latest marketing campaign,” says Malmot, clearly lying.

  “But he is a halfwit?” says the sceptical doctor.

  “Exactly!” Malmot answers, thinking on his feet. “A blank canvas. For others to, er, project themselves upon.”

  “If he is a canvas, then someone has scrawled across him. Picasso, perhaps? A bit of that Kandinsky guy? I am seeing a problem with his eye. His tongue we have mentioned earlier. Do you mean him to be like this? Is he the ‘before’ part of an advert?”

  “Regrettably not. He’s both the ‘during’ and ‘after’. I was hoping you could tidy him up a little; make him more presentable; less abhorrent to polite society. You’ll notice if you freeze-frame – Yes, that’s it. Now zoom in a little – that he can appear quite handsome. It’s just the moving and talking that ruins the deception.”

  “Then do not let him.”

  “I’m afraid he must. He has to appear in public. Or, at least ‘appear’ to appear in public, if you understand?”

  “No. Am I needing to?”

  “Not desperately.”

  “Good. Then I will give you my medical opinion: I can be stabilising the eyes with an injection to the optic muscles. It will stop them wandering independently. He will only be able to stare straight ahead and he will not be able to focus properly, but that is more than he can do now, yes? His tongue is simple. Tell him that if he sticks it out, you will sting it with a wasp.”

  “How fiendishly simple! But do you have any wasps that I could, perhaps, borrow?”

  “More than you could possibly imagine and for reasons you would not want to.”

  “Wonderful.”

  “Now look into the monitor. Observe him closely. I am thinking of his other problems. For instance, the torrent of stupidity he calls speech. Are you wishing him to speak in public?”

  “I had hoped. I thought you might have some form of psychotropic wonder-drug that might make him smarter, more adept at communication? ... If such a thing exists?”

  “It does and I do but the administering process is ridiculously complicated and smells appalling. Have you not thought of punching him in the throat and playing his words from a tape player? No one will notice. We are a nation of drunks, remember.”

  “Truly, Doctor, I’m rather glad I came to see you.”

  “And I am glad you are glad, mysterious Sir. Not least, for my wallet. On a coarser topic, however, I am trusting our financial agreement still holds firm?”

  “Indeed it does, my good man. Half now, the remainder upon return of my suitably modified moron. I have a packing case outside. You may deliver him in that. And, if all our meetings are to conclude this successfully, well, I predict many future collaborations.”

  “Perhaps, then you will be revealing your identity?”

  “I fear not, Doctor. For, whilst I detest lying,
I share an equal if not greater revulsion to telling the truth.

  “I understand, Sir. Discretion is the better part, as they are saying, yes? But one thing, if I may ask you? You are choosing a cretin to front your campaign. Would it not be better to be selecting a man who can go for long periods of time without soiling himself? There are many actors and models out there. They can look handsome without invasive surgical interventions. Some are even capable of thinking for themselves.”

  “Which is the last thing I want. Show me an actor and I’ll show you a vacuum searching for a cause, someone with half an opinion and the desire to broadcast it to all and sundry. Couple that lack of understanding with the near religious zeal of the recent convert and you’ll find yourself with the type who delivers speeches about starving orphans at the opening of supermarkets; who berates schoolchildren on sportsday because they’ve never trodden on a landmine and they don’t appreciate their legs; who spreads white-liberal-guilt like typhus. Turn your back for ten seconds and there they are, telling the world God sent them to cure AIDS, the bleeding-heart scum. Give me someone happy in their own skin and dumb enough to trust I’m right and behave accordingly.”

  “You are critical of our thespian friends, yes?”

  “I move in political circles, Doctor. That should tell you all you need to know. But I digress. Please. Take my card. You’ll notice there’s no name. Have the idiot delivered to this address. You’ll find it’s a bawdy house but …”

  “A ‘bawdy house’?”

  “A brothel. A place where kidnapped women rent their internal friction for the stimulation of lonely gentlemen. I prefer to do my dealings in whorehouses. Visitors with something to lose keep quiet. Those without, well, it’s a professional hazard, isn’t it?”

  “What is?”

  “Why, being shot and mutilated in an alleyway, of course. My idiot knows the place. In fact, they treat him as some kind of mascot there. And you might find it somewhat educational yourself. On a purely physiological level, of course. You being a married man and all. ... Well, now, must be going.”

  “You are leaving? I shall see you out. Stemset is

  a big facility, yes?”

  “No need. I have the plans to the building and an airship equipped with thermal imaging equipment tracking my location. I might take the scenic route, though. You don’t mind?”