Sim

by Andy Remic

‘It is a time for Hell,’ said the raven.

  *

  The pain came suddenly back and I was awake and floating. My dream fled under this painful onslaught but I did not care. Night time had come in the dregs and it was terribly cold. But my skin was burning, a tox burning that made me shiver and groan. Why would I not die? Why would I not die? I had been a fool: I should have stayed back at State Prison 7 and took their bullets... again I wanted to cry, but could not and so I screamed my frustration into the darkness and I vomited once more but had not the strength to move, and it rolled down my face and into my hair.

  They would come. That filled me with sudden hope. They would come and put a swift bullet in my skull and it would finally be over. If only I had my own SMKK! I would kill myself, and end this incredible suffering. How ironic. A hundred people wanted me dead and I had not the strength nor the tools to kill myself.

  I waited. I burned.

  But they did not come.

  The night flowed by. Some kind of creature scuttled over me, and I flapped it away with a weak wave of my arm. Even that left me vomiting once more, and I was shivering bad. And then a face appeared in my vision and I knew I must be hallucinating. Or it could just be SIMs sent to kill me.

  ‘Kill me,’ I croaked. ‘End it.’

  The face moved away, I could hear voices but not the words they uttered. Then I felt a presence beside me, searching through my pockets and I laughed then, laughed out loud and started to cough heavy and in pain, and I screamed – they were fukking petty scum from the wastelands, from the dregs, and they were robbing me in my final hour. How fukking hilarious!

  ‘Kill me,’ I managed, once again.

  The hands stopped their search, and a face appeared in my mech eye view. It was a woman with long hair tied back. She was beautiful and she smiled with a radiant gentility.

  ‘You are hurt badly?’

  ‘Yes,’ I managed.

  ‘You shouldn’t go swimming in tox,’ she said, smiling again.

  ‘Funny,’ said I.

  Her hand went across my forehead then, and she checked my pulse at my throat. Suddenly I realised that she had a gun, but it was not SMKK or any GOV military issue; it was home–made. Therefore, she was reb.

  ‘I had a dream,’ I said.

  ‘Good,’ said the woman, and I could see her giving instructions. Something was laid out beside me. ‘We’re just going to get you onto this stretcher,’ she said.

  ‘It was about a raven. On top of a mountain. And I was a King,’ I said.

  ‘What’s your name?’ asked the woman, but I ignored her. I realised that to give away my Justice SIM status would mean instant death. But then, wasn’t death my goal now? Wasn’t an end to pain and existence what I strived for?

  I thought about the dream, then. It had always been easy. My life had always been easy. But now the time to fight had come, and I needed strength, real strength, inner strength.

  I had to descend to the lowlands and there was a time to kill and a time to heal.

  My time to heal had come.

  Then I would take the war to the enemy.

  ‘My name is Emmy,’ I said, and there was a deep sadness in my voice and my skin was cold now, for the woman had given me serious injecto and I was pumped full of mandrake but there was no high, only relief from pain and a need for deep sleep. And as I drifted off I heard the dreg reb’s voices.

  ‘Is he going to die?’

  ‘Be quiet.’

  ‘I’m not carrying him all the way back to camp if he’s going to die on me! What a waste of energy and time!’

  ‘You will carry him, Senko, because I’ll break your spine if you don’t.’

  ‘He is going to die, though, isn’t he?’

  ‘Just do it.’

  *

  Later: they carried me.

  And all the time I could hear the poem, the poem Mission D had written when we were pinned down in a shell–hole waiting to die. It was a poem he murmured over and over and over again as we waited for the end of the world. It was a sad poem, a poem of death, I think, and I never truly understood Mission’s meaning. But I remembered, remembered all the words and they filled me with a bitterness, and a longing for my old friend. I wished he was here, I know he would have stood by my side through all this shit, and we would have caused chaos, but he was dead and gone to dust now and all I had to remember him by were his words:

  – churned under mud

  churned under boot

  churned under death

  churned under rot

  churned under taste of

  darkened fear

  as lights go out

  and lights go out

  the rain falls down

  the rain falls down

  filled with poison –

  *

  Mission D had been my friend. But he had been much older than me, much more experienced and more of an enigma. What would he have done in my situation? Badly burned by tox, badly wounded by SIMs? Faced with the prospect of torture and slow death? What would he have done? Would he have run from the pain?

  No, he wouldn’t. And a small voice whispered in my mind, words that I knew to be true and that tickled my brain like an invading maggot...

  Mission D would have fought.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  THE DREGS II

  TIME HAD NO meaning. For a long while I remember orange and I welcomed the colour, revelled in the image and feel of orange. Orange was good. Orange told me that I was alive. But then orange faded, disintegrated, and was replaced by green. A deep green. An emerald green – ah – and that reminded me of Emmy, and I could picture her with horrible diseased mice between her jaws, presents, kills, for me –

  Why? I asked.

  There was no reply.

  The green was steady, filling my mind with thoughts of my cat. My dead cat. But then I could hear, distant at first, voices. A woman’s voice and this was good for I was not yet dead. The voices were hushed, whispered –

  ‘What does he know?’

  ‘We’ll find out when he wakes.’

  ‘How long?’

  ‘An hour. Maybe more.’

  ‘This had better be worth the risk, Marianne. It had better be worth it...’

  ‘Trust me. I have a feeling on this one.’

  I waited, and suddenly felt incredibly hungry. Tastes flooded my imagination: what I would have given for strawberry jam and toast! Or a drink of hot chocolate! Or, and this was the killer... an icing and vanilla doughnut! I would have murdered and mutilated for a small icing and vanilla doughnut, so hungry and narco–intense was the feeling in my belly and my mouth.

  ‘A doughnut,’ I whispered.

  I felt a hand, holding my own, and squeezing my fingers.

  ‘How do you feel?’

  ‘I could do with a piss,’ said I, and opened my eyes. I could see the woman who had rescued me, helped me, but she seemed more relaxed now. I looked past her, scanned the room I was in – for it was a room, not a cell like it really should have been. There was wallpaper, a gentle marble blue. The ceiling was black, and a mesh window allowed a soft grey light into the peaceful chamber.

  ‘How is the pain?’ asked the woman.

  ‘Better,’ said I. ‘Why have you done this for me? Why have you helped me?’

  ‘Is it not right to help one another?’

  I was about to reply in the negative, but realised that my twisted SIM logic would announce my genetic deviation as readily as any confession.

  ‘Yes,’ I managed.

  ‘Lie back,’ said the woman. ‘You are weak, very weak. Our surgeon, Gregory Pushkin, has been tending you. He says you are lucky to be alive.’

  ‘Thank you,’ I said, my eyes connecting with this woman who had saved me. But I could sense something else, something deep beyond words and mere facial expressions. This was no act of kindness.

  They wanted something more from me.

  We sat in silence for a while, and I watched the outside li
ght fading. The door clicked open, allowing a cold draught into the room. A small, wiry man with cropped black hair and the look of eagles entered. He was carrying a steel case and his nose was hooked, like a beak. His lips were thin and bloodless, and his mech eyes stared hard at me, clicking.

  ‘You feel pain?’ he asked, his accent a thick, heavy drawl I did not recognise. He was certainly not of State land, nor local GOV country.

  ‘Yes. My ankle... and my back,’ said I.

  ‘Your back is where you took most of the toxside burning,’ said the surgeon. ‘Your ankle is severely broken; I operated and put in a steel pin. I feel I need warn you that your face, now, is also severely burned. The scarring will be quite heavy when you finally recover.’

  ‘Yes,’ said I.

  This surgeon, this Gregory with his look of eagles and his small furry hat, administered a deep narco injecto and I felt sleep descending like a grey mist floating down from the mountains. He departed and I lay there, unmoving, watching the woman and wondering how such a small man like Gregory with a furry fluffy hat could embody the almost mystical magical pagan look of eagles.

  ‘What is your name?’ I slurred under the narco.

  ‘Marianne,’ said the woman, and smiled. ‘And you are Emmy?’

  ‘No,’ I said. ‘That is not my real name. Emmy was... a friend of mine.’ I thought, but everything was strange, soft and filled with a beautiful pastel shade. ‘You know, don’t you? About my status?’ I could sense a need for the truth. A pure truth without any lies.

  ‘Yes,’ said Marianne.

  ‘You know I am SIM?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Then why do you help me? Why have you saved me from death? On Leviticus 20 tours I have killed many, many of your kind. I have slaughtered rebs and dreg scum and filled them with hot steel time after time after time. I have watched your kind screaming in the mud and shot them through the teeth. I have shot pregnant women through the belly, getting a simple but effective double-kill. Why would you help me?’

  ‘We want something,’ said Marianne carefully. ‘I will not explain just yet. But let me ask you a question before that narco puts you out for another twelve. The media have hyped you up, hyped up your murders and your crime against GOV. And yet now they are claiming you are dead. They say you were executed. But our genetic tests show you are a Justice D SIM, stripped of rank. Not all rebs are heathen foolish dreg scum like you think... we put two and two together. When my scouting party picked you up, all tox burned and ready for death – well, there weren’t many Justice D SIMs who have gone down loon recently. Now, activity is hypo out wasteland side; they’re looking for you, but we got to you just in time and brought you back here. Why do they want you so bad, Justice D? Why dead? Is it true you killed SIMs and peps?’

  ‘Yes,’ said I.

  ‘And would you kill again?’ she asked, her eyes gleaming.

  ‘Of course,’ said I.

  ‘OK. So, you are waging your own private war against GOV and State. That is good. But have you info we could use? We have HTanks ready for mando ops but we need co–ordinates. We need addresses. We need power point locs for the wire. Have you such info?’

  ‘Yes,’ said I. I could see orange again. It was beckoning it to me with sweet combo MM in my veins. ‘Have you a pen? I will give you this tech information. I want you to... to kill them. Kill them all...’

  I told her, then.

  I told her everything. I had nothing to lose.

  And as I faded I felt her lean over me, straightening my blankets, and I felt a curious affinity with this woman despite her downtown reb status. And as I sank deeper I managed to say, ‘How the fukk did you get HTanks?’ for they were strict military shit and their shells incredibly powerful; but all was orange and then green and I was gone and the pain was lurking on the edge of my dreams like a black raven with large heavy wings, beating a tattoo of drumbeats to mark the passing of each second drowning in inky sleep.

  *

  The rebs transported me often, over a period of weeks, sometimes by Truk and sometimes on foot at night. They would blindfold me, and support me between two reb shoulders for I was still very weak and coughing up bile regularly. The tox had fukked serious with my system and my lungs would not operate properly. Gregory the surgeon was very good, very experienced despite his look of eagles and his silly furry hat. He told me that I would never be able to breathe properly again but this did not worry me for I was going to die in fire and bullets before age came close to extinguishing my hot flame of hatred.

  The co–ords I had given Marianne had been correct; and the stolen reb HTanks had wreaked havoc on several SIM GOV outposts at the edges of State before being wiped out in a vicious battle of heavy steel rage. This success had earned me a little trust with the rebs, but there was much hate amongst the near rebs who tended me and I felt it like a physical presence. Only in Marianne was this hatred a non–existence, for she took me at face value and did not judge me for what I was: a Justice D SIM guilty of serious grievance against reb kind.

  They had every right to hate me. I understood. I would have been the same. But that no–longer mattered, because now I hated myself.

  I was finally taken underground, into a vast complex of narrow corridors and giant chambers housing advanced tech military equipment, and more HTanks, and even mech dogs. As I was helped along my mouth hung open and my eyes were wide. This was amazing! The rebs were much more organised, much more deadly than SIMs and GOV had ever realised or given them credit for. A classic case of underestimating the enemy.

  After passing through the military section we entered narrow corridors with rough–hewn marble walls filled with glittering diagonal stripes of quartz. I had to rest often, and still puked tox crap if I exerted too much. The pain in my ankle was incredible and walking had become a nightmare; it was strapped tight and I was supported on two sides, but still the steel inside bit me often. We reached a room at the end of a long, dark corridor and inside were the barest of essentials. I was helped onto a low wooden pallet, and the rebs departed and I was left alone for a little while to gather my thoughts.

  This was all too much. It fukked my brain. I was being helped, kept alive, by the rebs whom I had so inhumanely slaughtered in the past. Once I had treated rebs as vermin, scum, but I had changed – as we all change – and I had learned; I like to think I had advanced. Rebs were not scum. They were merely the underdogs, kept down by bad propaganda and the need of a physical enemy for the purposes of media trophy and triumph and GOV superiority and justification.

  Marianne entered, with a tray. It was soup, all I could eat and keep down, and a tin mug of water. She sat at the end of my wooden pallet and watched me in silence, her face unreadable, her eyes clicking softly. I ate half the soup and could manage no bread. Then I lay back, panting heavily, and trying not to puke.

  ‘We are planning a massacre,’ she said.

  ‘Yes,’ said I.

  ‘We are going to take down GOV.’

  I shook my head. ‘Impossible. Even I do not know the whereabouts of their Contro HQ. That is highly classified info.’

  ‘Even so.’

  I pushed myself up slightly, and met the reb’s gaze. ‘You are serious?’

  ‘Yes,’ she breathed. She smelt sweet, a perfume I had never before noticed; I found this suddenly endearing. I was attracted to her – but painfully aware of my own disfigurements. And I felt like I knew her. Like I knew her mannerisms...

  ‘Why do you tell me this?’ I said, slowly. ‘You do not know my mind. I could be a spy working GOVtime. I give you a small victory with the aim of catching bigger fish. Yes?’

  Marianne nodded. ‘That is an option. We have considered that eventuality, but find it highly improbable. You are genuine, we are sure. I am sure.’

  ‘Good.’

  ‘I have been instructed to bring you to our meetings. We will be planning strategy and battle tactics. Once the conflict begins there will be no option of retreat; we must
all work as a single unit, but with different functions. You are an Entropy Vet, and your knowledge could be invaluable.’

  ‘Give me a minute,’ said I. ‘I am still very weak.’

  ‘Of course.’

  We sat there, the only sound my heavy breathing and I was feeling sick and not just a physical sickness but a sickness of the soul. Things were just wrong, completely out of hand and I felt myself emptying, becoming hollow, a vessel. My hatred bled away. Disappeared. Vanished. More war, more games. And what for? Exchange of power. Win one battle, lose one battle. Win the war, lose the war. Who would care in a thousand years? Would the mountains care?

  No.

  Marianne helped me along the corridor and into a large room with many men seated around a rough–hewn table. Maps were spread out and my arrival was greeted with silence, then a mixture of anger, disgust, hatred. It washed over me with the effect of a gentle breeze.

  I sat down. Sipped a glass of water.

  The discussions continued, warily at first but then gaining momentum with passion. We were twelve hours away from the Big Push and reb troops were being secreted along lines of communication and access. The rebs were very well organised, I had to admit. I felt ashamed of my earlier underestimation.

  Eventually, confidence gained. A general asked my advice on battle manoeuvres. I replied. Another general asked advice on standard military procedure, and I told them all, told them everything. I held back nothing, I spilled out info and tech data on weapons and machinery and mech dogs and the illegal GOV use of 5Ts in nasty little sub–State battles. When the meeting was over I was helped back to my room, and TV switched on and Marianne sat with me and it was a prog on HRG and the continued destruction of animals. Many creatures were now extinct, many more heading that way. Stock levels of cattle were at a dangerous low. People were beginning to question Cantrell’s findings. Things were getting dangerous and there had been several SIM uprisings, and my name was mentioned a few times as being deeply influential, an evil banner instigating violence and rebellion. Irony! I, who once put down rebellion with an iron boot wherever I found it, now being treated as some kind of martyr by a fukked society in need of narco-fukked heroes.