Drones

by Rob J. Hayes

  I remember the monster from my nightmare. The shining cleaver spotted with blood. I hope the terror I’m feeling doesn’t show. The need to see Pascal presses on me.

  “He don’t need nothing,” the ganger says, looking over my shoulder. “He’s a Drone. No emotion.” He waves a hand in front of his face and laughs. The footsteps behind me scuff as the gangers go back to their steps.

  I continue to stare up at the tall ganger. His pistol is shoved down the front of his trousers. I could take it now, put a bullet in him and his two friends before any of them could react. It would be pointless though, just likely to draw more attention and that was something I didn’t want. I’ve already noticed eyes watching the encounter from nearby windows.

  “You one of Allens?”

  I shake my head again. “I work in the city.”

  “Upscale. Nice.”

  My curiosity gets the better of me again. “Do you know who killed Allen?”

  The smile drops from the ganger’s face in an instant. “That why you here? What? Revenge? Sent by another harvester?”

  “Just curious. I’m unarmed. It would be a poor attempt at vengeance.”

  The ganger nods. He glances over at his friends and then back to me. “No one knows. Weren’t none of the gangs. He paid everyone too good for that. I reckon it was some customer didn’t get what he wanted, huh?”

  That seems unlikely. Allen operated in Mextown for years. He was used to gang warfare. I only saw his operation once, but his security was good. A selection of the usual thugs and four ex-rangers. Special forces. The best of the best. Soldiers who would make my Mars unit look like bunnies.

  “Hey,” the ganger says, snapping his fingers in front of my face. “What you sell, huh? What makes money up there in the city?”

  “Fear,” I say instantly. “Heart pounding, adrenaline fuelled fear.”

  The ganger snorts out a laugh. “Shit. They don’t need to pay some fool like you for that. All they gotta do is step out of their shiny city and come visiting down here. We’d show ’em fear.”

  The ganger laughs, his friends join in. I nod. As non-committal as I can.

  “BOO!” the ganger shouts at me. I flinch. Not because I’m scared, but because I know that’s what he wants. He wants to feel he has some power over me. That’s what all bullies want and people like him are always bullies.

  More gunshots ring out somewhere in the distance, the sharp report echoing around the streets. The gangers all look at each other, then start to move away down the street, ignoring me as though I’d never even existed. I watch them go for a few moments, then check my PD and continue towards the city.

  It’s a long walk back to the city and not a pleasant one. I still feel eyes watching me. Maybe it’s more gangers, or maybe it’s just the other inhabitants of Mextown. Not everyone can afford to live in the city proper, many are forced to take up residency here and hope they don’t fall prey to the lawlessness. It’s not an easy life, but it’s all some people can afford.

  Anyone can enter the city limits at any time, there’s no restriction on travel to or from Mextown, but there’s law and law enforcement in the city proper and they don’t take kindly to crime or vagrants. For those who can’t afford to live in the city, it’s safer to live in Mextown. It dawns on me then just how damning that sounds.

  My PD beeps at me. I turn my arm over to see an incoming call from an unknown number. I only know one person who uses an unregistered line, or at least I only know one who would be calling me. Pascal.

  I glance around as I take the earpiece and slot it in. There’s no one watching me. It’s hard to see anything in the gloom though. Mextown might still receive a steady supply of electricity, but that didn’t mean the street lamps were kept in regular repair. The darkness reminds me of my nightmare again and I swallow down an unwelcome lump in my throat.

  Pascal’s jowly face flashes up on my PD screen when I answer the call. I keep walking. The bright lights of the city signal my destination. I’m close to the Mextown border.

  “Garrick, is that you?” Pascal asks, bringing his face closer to his own PD. I can see the individual hairs of his patchy stubble.

  “It’s me.” I rotate my arm so the camera on my own PD has my face in view.

  “Good. Good. Have to make sure. Never certain these calls can’t be intercepted. Not that it really matters now, I suppose.”

  Frustration. I’m in a dodgy area of the city and I’m carrying around emotions I don’t want. It’s been too long since my last harvest. Days. I’m nervous. Sweating. I need a harvest.

  “Why are you calling me, Pascal?” The doctor calling me at all is rare, his use of the camera is unheard of.

  “The client pulled out, Garrick.”

  “The special request?” All that planning, all that expense. All that terror. For nothing. I feel the skin on the back of my neck crawl and turn to look behind me, but there’s nothing there. No monster. No cleaver. It was all in my head to begin with, a terrifying situation dreamt up by me. I want rid of it, buyer or not.

  “Yes. I’m afraid so. I don’t know what you have planned, but…”

  “Can they do that? I thought you take payment in advance?”

  Pascal nods and glances away from the camera, his jowls wobbling a little. “Yes. Well, usually you know I do. But with such a large sum of money, I gave the client a few days to come up with it.”

  “Why?” I can see the city limits now. Bright lights beam out from the checkpoint, guards with guns sit atop the watch towers. Anyone can travel to and from Mextown, but that doesn’t mean the borders aren’t guarded. There are more people so close to the city. Some are gangers, watching the border, waiting for any easy marks. I don’t care anymore. I storm forwards towards the city, anger driving my footsteps. Another useless emotion I want to be rid of.

  “Of course you haven’t heard,” Pascal continues. “I thought you might pay it a bit more attention after our chat the other day. Congress voted. Surprisingly quickly actually. Makes me think there’s more to it after all. Makes sense. Lots of money involved.” Pascal leans in towards his PD so he’s staring at me across the screen. “Harvesting and selling emotion is no longer illegal, Garrick.”

  “Shit,” I say and my footsteps slow a little. I didn’t actually think it would happen. Pascal’s operation will grind to a halt. He doesn’t have a medical license and it won’t be long before licenses to sell emotions come into effect. My income is about to take a dive. “The client thinks they can get it cheaper elsewhere?”

  “They will be able to soon,” Pascal agrees. “For a fraction of the price. New laws state that a person’s emotions aren’t their sole property, but the property of humanity as a whole, as that whole can affect the sole.”

  I stop at the border and wait while a bright spotlight is pointed towards me. They probably think it more than a little strange for someone to be walking out of Mextown at 2am. I see cars up ahead, the lights of the city, billboards. It feels good to be passing out of gangland. It feels like finally passing out of my nightmare. The spotlight swings away and they shout me through. I start walking again.

  “Are you in Mextown?” Pascal asks.

  “Not anymore. I’m coming in, Pascal.”

  “When?”

  “Now.” I don’t think I can take much longer with the emotions still in my head. It might be an inconvenience so late at night, but I decide to ask Pascal for a deep harvest. I miss the calm conformity of being unencumbered.

  “Urgh, I’m not sure…”

  “Pascal, I need to come in now.” I look directly into the camera. “I’ve already fulfilled the request.”

  “Oh.” Pascal chews at his lip for a moment. “That explains why you look like seven kinds of shit. I’ll get everything ready.”

  Chapter 7

  Shock: Sudden. Debilitating. Harsh. Shock hits like a gunshot and fades quickly. Shock is a big seller. People love the rush. It’s one of the most addictive of all the emotions.<
br />
  The city never really sleeps, night or day. It’s not surprising. A city this large, this many people flooding it, there’s always a small army worth of people awake. I try to remember the last time I slept, but I can’t. My memories are still in no order. I remember sleeping, just not when.

  On street level the city is bright even in the darkest of nights. Halogen street lamps and passing car headlights give it a bleached look, as though the concrete has been stripped of any real colour. Neon signs light the side-walks in bright, blinking hues that look gaudy against grey.

  There’s a number of twenty-four-hour conveniences close to the border of Mextown. Busy places, even at 3am. This is where the people who live in the lawless gangland come to shop. Buying groceries and hoping they don’t get robbed just a few feet back inside the border.

  I duck into one of the shops, a minimart chain by the name of Tantas. It smells sterile and the security guards watch me with thinly veiled contempt. They think I’m from Mextown. Probably think I’m a ganger. One of them breaks from his fellows and follows me as I enter the store, he doesn’t even try to hide it. I ignore him. I pick up a bottle of water from the open fridge and take it to the self-serve, paying with the meagre coins I have in my pocket. The security-guard follows me until I’m back over the threshold of the store.

  I gulp down half the bottle of water in one and then press the button on the nearby taxi caller. Not many drivers take the risk of coming so close to Mextown, so eventually an auto-driver turns up. Takes a good ten minutes and I can see the security guards watching me the entire time.

  Irritation. Another useless emotion with no street value. It’s hard to believe they still think I’m a threat. It’s probably because I look so strung out.

  The taxi arrives and I climb in. It requests payment and I realise I don’t have it. My wallet is at home, on the counter next to the coffee machine. I climb back out of the taxi, the security guards still watching. The irritation hits me again. It’s a long walk to Pascal’s workshop. A long walk with a bunch of emotions dragging me down.

  I try to call Pascal. He’ll be pissed if he’s waiting around for me to turn up for hours. My PD refuses the call, something about the target number being unregistered. Sometimes, advances in technology set us back. I continue on. Pascal will just have to be pissed.

  It’s a long walk, not hard, but uncomfortable. With the warmth of the city, even at night, I find myself sweaty and foot sore by the time I arrive at Pascal’s apartments. I walk straight past, as always, and to the next apartment block. I press the buzzer for 18A and wait.

  The door doesn’t unlock.

  I stare into the camera above the door and press 18A again. Still nothing. It’s possible I really pissed Pascal off with the wait. I said I was on my way hours ago. My PD reads 5am and the world is just starting to get light. The sun creeping in over the horizon and giving the sky a washed out blue colour, like an old t-shirt that has long needed retirement.

  I try the buzzer once more and still receive no invitation. Home is an option, get some sleep, come back in a few hours and hope that Pascal is in a better mood. But I want these emotions gone. I can still feel the terror of the nightmare, still see the cleaver. Even with the sun brightening the surrounding street I can still feel it. It’s not just the terror either. Irritation, anger, disgust. Too many emotions strangling me. I don’t think I can take another few hours with them. They need to be gone. Now.

  Stress. The worst seller of them all. Nobody needs to buy stress. It’s everywhere, all the time. Everyone feels it.

  Breaking any of Pascal’s rules is not something I’ve ever considered before, but now I’m under stress and out of patience. I simply don’t care anymore. Back down the street, I walk past a couple out for a morning jog, and head straight for Pascal’s apartments.

  This is his customer entrance, and it looks just like another block of apartments to most people. I know better though. I press the buzzer for 10C and wait. No answer. I press the buzzer again and again and again. Eventually I just push it in and hold it. Still no answer.

  “You OK?” a man’s voice from behind. I turn to find another jogger, taking earphones out and staring at me as though I’m a mad man. He’s not entirely wrong with that assumption.

  I reach up and wipe a sheen of sweat from my forehead into my hair. “I’m fine,” snapped words with not patience for the effort. My hand is shaking. I’m not fine. Too many emotions and too many unordered memories.

  The jogger doesn’t move on. He continues to stare at me. I probably look like I don’t belong in this part of the city. I probably look like a ganger trying to rob the place.

  “I’ve just… I forgot my keys,” I say and release a long sigh. “My wife isn’t answering the door.”

  I see the man glance down at my hand. He’s checking for a wedding ring. He sees one. The only real attachment I still keep to Susan. Any love we once had is long since gone, on both our parts, but we’re not divorced. Not yet. The jogger doesn’t look completely convinced.

  “Maybe try a neighbour?” the man says and then puts his earpiece back in. As he jogs away, I see him raise his hand and tap at his PD. He might be calling the police. He might be posting on Me.com about running into a half-crazed madman trying to get into his apartment. Everything ends up on Me.com these days.

  I watch the jogger go for a few moments before turning back to the door. 10C, 10A, 10B. I run my hand over every single button. I’ll annoy Pascal so much he has no choice but to let me in.

  The lock on the door clicks. No voice comes through the intercom. No sign from anyone. I grab the door handle and wrench it open, stepping through quickly and heading straight for the stairwell.

  There’s no security on the ground floor. I’ve never been in Pascal’s building this way, but it seems odd he has no one to greet me. I half expected one of his brutish heavies to turn me around, send me back out onto the street. I open the door to the stairwell and start up, taking two steps at a time.

  Anticipation. I’m eager to see Pascal. Eager to sit down in the harvester and be free of my burdens. The eerie silence of the apartment building isn’t making it any better. I can’t help but remember my nightmare. Can’t help but remember the monster with the cleaver and how helpless I felt.

  I’m almost running up the stairs by the time I reach the tenth floor. Part of my rush is my eagerness, and part is the crawling feeling that there’s something coming up the stairs behind me. It’s stupid, but I can’t shake it. I push against the door and it stops about half-open, bumping into something on the other side.

  A leg on the floor. Long, thick, and clothed in denim. I freeze, caught in indecision. Part of me wants to close the door, turn back around and run back down the stairs, straight out into the morning. Part of me wants to continue on, wants to find Pascal and his harvesters. Part of me is curious as to what exactly I might find on the other side of the door. My curiosity always wins.

  I slip through the half-open door to find a slaughter on the other side.

  Four bodies. The closest two, a man with cornrows and a woman wearing a fine Italian suit, now stained with blood. It was the man’s leg blocking the door. They’re both Pascal’s, two of his security. Ex-marines. I see a pistol lying a short distance down the corridor, another a little further on. Kicked away from the fallen bodies.

  Two more bodies lie the other way down the corridor, close to the door to Pascal’s workshop. They both look like men, wearing casual clothes. Likely they were Pascal’s security as well. I slip around the first two bodies and pick one of the fallen pistols from the floor. A Glock. Reliable and standard issue to many police services worldwide. It’s still loaded. The safety is off, but no shots have been fired. The attack was sudden, taking them by surprise.

  I take the second pistol, tucking it into the back of trousers. It’s not how I like to carry a piece, but I’d rather have the backup of a second gun in case the attackers are still around.

  My intuitio
n screams at me to leave. Smart money says Pascal is dead. There’s no sense in me being here and there’s the chance the jogger called the police. The chance I’ll be caught amidst a slaughter with a pistol in my hand. My curiosity won’t let me go before I’ve seen this through though. There’s something else too. Pascal is the closest thing I have to a friend. The closest thing a Drone can have to a friend. He’s also my best chance to get rid of the emotions. I hope he’s still alive. Then I hope I can get rid of the hope.

  I creep along, close to the wall, my new pistol held ready. I have four years of military service and six years of personal security training. None of those years stop my heart from hammering in my chest. Fear. Anticipation. Tension. I was never very good around dead bodies. I was never very good at creating them either.

  The next set of two bodies have had a similar treatment to the others. Dead. Multiple shots to the chest and one to the head. Looks like precision aiming to me. Whomever attacked knew their stuff. Likely a professional. I wonder who would want Pascal dead? I wonder why?

  I sneak up to the doorway and poke my head up to the window. It’s frosted, obscuring vision, so I just wait there for a while, watching. No movement from within. Seems unlikely they’d be anyone hiding if the assailants were still in there.

  Slowly, I reach towards the door handle and turn it. With a soft click, it opens and swings inward. I wait for a few moments, trying hard to keep my breathing silent, then glance inside the workshop.

  The only lights on inside are from the monitors, those attached to the harvesters, and the two hanging from the ceiling. Both show the security feed. I squint at it and see myself peering around the workshop doorway, two bodies lying at my feet. I see other cameras showing more bodies, all dead and unmoving. It seems the attackers hit the entire building, security, Drones, and all.

  I slip around the door frame and into the workshop, still moving quietly, my pistol held at the ready. My hands are shaking. It’s the adrenaline and the unwanted emotions. I can’t help but think of the monster with the cleaver. Can’t help but remember the terror.