by Andy Remic
The M24 carbine bucked in Sonia J’s hands like a live creature. Bullets smashed through the BMW’s rear window and left trails of tracer fire through the rain and hail, punching holes up the front grille of the lead GMC truck ...
Grimly, Sonia emptied the full magazine — and watched in confusion as the trucks suddenly fell away, veering to one side and halting in the downpour. They were quickly swallowed by the gloom, dropping away as if falling down a long, narrow shaft.
Sonia tilted her head, confused. She licked her lips as she suddenly realised they were as dry as dust.
‘What happened?’ growled Baze, glancing backwards. ‘Did we stop them?’
‘No,’ said Sonia gently. She put a fresh magazine in her M24. ‘We only fired a few rounds—only had limited impact. We didn’t stop them—they stopped themselves.’
‘Why?’
‘Who knows?’ croaked Sonia. Freezing rain spat through the shattered rear window of the BMW. ‘But we were heavily outgunned and outnumbered. Maybe this was just a gypsy’s warning. A jab to the nose, just to bloody us up a bit.’
‘But that would suggest they know who we are,’ said Baze. Sonia nodded coldly.
‘And if they know who we are ...’
‘Then we are truly compromised.’
‘I don’t believe that,’ growled Baze. He had reduced their speed now that the sudden insanity of the mad chase was over—or postponed, at least. ‘Do you really believe that they would simply leave us alone? If they knew who we were? Do you really think we would be sitting here discussing the situation? No—we’d be minced dog-meat.’
Sonia sighed. She rubbed at world-weary red-veined eyes. ‘I don’t know what to believe any more,’ she whispered as they drove through the freezing, pounding rain.
The snow fell heavily. Sonia J came awake with a start, feeling groggy, her mouth tasting of sour wine and stale tobacco. The glamour which had made her a media queen of the TV screen seemed like an echo of long, long ago.
The fire was burning low in the high-walled natural-stone hearth, allowing a steady stream of heat to fill her cosy skyscraper apartment in the suburbs of London. She turned dark-ringed eyes to the window. Watched the falling snow.
The dreams had been haunting her for a long time now, making sure she would never forget. There were several different versions, different interweaving variations on the same themes of pain, and horror, and death.
Sonia J was too afraid to go back to sleep. But finally she did, coaxing herself and drifting back in gradual stages as the snow outside continued its descent. She felt the dream creep up on her with the precision of a predator—it curled like smoke chains around her mind and she wanted to scream. But sleep whisked her away, an unwilling passenger, and she could not help herself. She just could not halt the unstoppable nightmare.
The nightmare had replayed itself, a stuttering visual monologue beginning with her miscarriage, the untimely death of her unborn child years ago, and ending with the recent murders by Nex of innocent women and children in the street. And, as Sonia J lay in the darkness, remembering the first joy of pregnancy followed by the bereavement, and the later wholesale devastation and death as the years flowed by, so the tears rolled down her cheeks and soaked into her pillows.
After a while, she rose from her bed and, wearing a thick cotton nightdress, padded to the window. The snow was still falling, huge tumbling flakes. Outside, London had become a ghost town—a desolation blanketed in white.
Sonia J shivered; she loved the snow, that sense of unreal quiet: it almost reminded her of a time before the Nex. And before Durell. Before the mass slaughter of the human race had begun ...
So many memories. So many bad, bad memories.
Sonia J sat by the window and watched a group of teenagers—four of them, aged around fifteen or sixteen. Dressed in rags, they were tearaways commonly known as ‘Skegs’, homeless children living by their wits. The Nex usually rounded them up and sent them to weapons or chemical factories to do hard labour. But most Skegs, after losing families and friends in the earthquakes and nuclear strikes, had become incredibly self-sufficient: hard and uncompromising. Cockroach children born into an unforgiving world. And if they didn’t adapt—they ended up dead.
Down below in the road, the group’s dirt-streaked faces, normally heavily lined and filled with hatred and resentment at their appalling misfortune, had broken into cracked masks of laughter. The teenagers were dancing through the snow, trailing dirt-smeared rags as they scooped up handfuls and squeezed it into white spheres. Snowballs sailed through the air and their suddenly childish laughter echoed and pealed up to Sonia’s high apartment vantage.
The Skegs disappeared down the street, the sound of their laughter fading, soon muffled by the snow. Sonia watched the falling flakes, rubbing at tired eyes still red from crying. She gave a sigh from the heart. Glancing across at the near-empty bottle of wine, she considered finishing it off. Then she shook her head, her long hair cascading around her shoulders.
A cold breeze cut past the edges of the window and Sonia J jumped down from the sill, padded back over to her bed and leaving the curtains open behind her so that she could watch the pure white snowfall.
Just as she had relaxed, she heard the Skegs again. Their boots clattered along the street. They were coming back and Sonia climbed out of bed and moved to the window once more, staring down. The teenagers were in a panic, running erratically and leaving ragged zigzag trails through the fallen snow.
What are they dodging? she wondered.
And then she saw them: Nex, running fast and carrying silenced sub-machine guns. Sonia’s mouth opened in shock as the guns coughed and one of the Skegs—a girl—was hit and sent cartwheeling against a wall where she crumpled into a heap with blood pumping out of her to stain the snow. The other three Skegs crouched together, huddled in a doorway, their eyes wide and frightened. Sonia watched grim-faced as the Nex closed in. Then the dancing fire from the barrels of their guns could be seen again ...
Blood spattered the pavement. And Sonia realised that her hands were pressed against the glass and knew that her face must be twisted into a mask of horror.
She pulled away quickly as a Nex turned and glanced around. She retreated to her bed. Her mind spun, images hammering through her brain and she knew that she had had enough. Coldly, she realised that she could take no more. The murder. The deceit. The decadence of this new world. This brave new world. Ha.
But then, hadn’t that been why she had joined the REBS?
And yeah, she had helped print leaflets, had gone out on the marches in the early days before the Nex started dragging people from their beds and executing them in dark, dank prison cells. The REBS had been forced underground but despite this their power had grown, their targets becoming more important—and all the while Sonia was climbing the career ladder of TV production and realising that this, this was a tool she could use to help destroy the Nex. TV was the medium that could show the people what was really happening, the reality behind the filter of propaganda. But even though her show was live, her hands had been effectively tied. She had been chained by her position. Manacled by rules. Incarcerated by fear.
Despite her sanctioned status as a rebel in the TV world—something that was actively encouraged by HIVE Media because it pulled in incredible ratings, higher than any other programme on their networks—that rebellion was not allowed certain outlets.
And yesterday she had overstepped the mark with Vincent Alexandra. She was in a world of shit over that gig; but hey, wasn’t that what being a REB was all about? To put your head on the chopping block and see if the axe blade was sharp enough?
She heard the rumble of engines outside. The vans had arrived to remove the bodies. The bodies of children who had grown up far too quickly, through social misdirection, through being in the wrong place at the wrong time; victims of an accelerated maturity. Children whom nobody would miss. Children who could simply be removed ... without the embarrassment of
awkward questions.
Well, thought Sonia J savagely, I have questions. I have opinions. And I have a fucking platform. I’m sick of seeing the children die. I’m sick of seeing the innocent slaughtered. I’ve had enough of watching the Nex cancer spread.
It’s time this REB used her platform of privilege, no matter what the outcome, she thought bitterly. Roll the dice, see what numbers turn up. And to hell with the consequences. It’s time this REB made a stand.
Sonia moved to her console in the corner of the room, the screen of which was glowing softly in power-saving mode. She sat down, her face a grim mask, and activated the machine. HIVE logos flowed across the monitor and Sonia moved forward, resting her hands against a keyboard.
>> HIVE MEDIA SYSTEMS
.. LOG-ON KL SYSTEMS INITIATED
.. ALL SYSTEMS PRIMED
.. TESTING MEMORY SECTORS—
.. TESTING MULTI-POINT PROCESSOR UNITS
.. TESTING ZERO-K ALGORITHMS
.. EDEN/EMPLOYEE TERMINAL ©HIVE SYSTEMS
>> PLEASE ENTER EMPLOYEE ACCESS CODES NOW—[]
With a flutter of keys, Sonia accessed the terminal. Filing systems flowed across the screen and Sonia’s brain consumed data. I have A-Rate clearance, she thought. And you want to mess with me? OK, let’s see what you really have ... let’s see what secrets HIVE Media hides—
She typed a series of complex datastreams, bypassing protection circuits and cloaking her employee number; her reference; her identity.
Now Sonia was a ghost in the system. A wraith in the machine. And a small smile crossed her lips as the glow of the screen reflected in her focused eyes. ‘Ah,’ she said softly, and scrolled across the images laid out before her. News reports that had been suppressed—hidden—and never aired on the global media network. Images of mutilation, murder and death—on a massive scale almost impossible to comprehend.
Bobby Clough was the man. The Big Man. The dude in charge not just of Quazatron productions but of HIVE Media as well. He was a tall man, athletic, and he carried about him a slightly menacing air. He had gleaming curly hair, which he oiled regularly, and a neat little moustache. But it was his eyes that set him apart from other men of his type—hard, calculating merciless eyes that had the look of tempered steel.
Clough stood at the head of the long gleaming mahogany table. The subtle lighting allowed shadows to gather in the corners of the large room. It should have been a room of busy board meetings and high-powered negotiations. On this early morning, however, with a fresh fall of snow tumbling from grey skies outside the large floor-to-ceiling blackened windows, the room had taken on the ambience of a court...
Sonia J stood, feet slightly apart, hands behind her back, waiting. She looked straight ahead, lips compressed, eyes unfocused as she awaited the words of the Big Man. He looked at her as a tiger contemplates a recently dismembered carcass.
‘Well,’ he said, his voice low. Its deceptive softness conveyed not compassion but authority. And the need to inflict pain.
Sonia J took a deep breath, realising that Clough would not break the ensuing silence—he would allow her anxiety an eternity to blossom. ‘Sir, you wanted to see me? About yesterday’s show?’
‘I do,’ he said soothingly, moving to one side of the table. It was perfectly tidy, and had nothing on it but a tiny silver digital organiser. ‘After your ... performance ...’ Clough allowed the word to linger, like a bad smell. The Big Man had the ability to crucify his subjects with simple vowels and consonants. ‘ ... We have had, shall we say, a cascade of complaints.’
‘Sir, but I...’
Clough did not meet Sonia’s gaze. He merely held up a single digit. Sonia’s gaze fixed on that finger, neatly manicured, soft-skinned, and yet capable of pulling tight the noose on her career—and the course of action that she had now planned to follow.
‘One citizen,’ he said, his voice still dangerously soft, ‘even had a complaint plastered onto the side of an old double-decker bus. It read “Get On Board With The Double-Deckers—Ban Pussy_live! NOW!” Can you believe the lengths some people will go to?’
Clough waited. Sonia opened her mouth to speak, then caught the glance from his steely eyes. She realised with a cold sinking feeling: this was a telling-off. There were no words which could excuse her. Sonia was, to all intents and purposes, shafted.
‘Vincent Alexandro’s business partners forwarded us a thirteen-million-dollar donation—so that Mr Alexandro would have a platform from which to launch phases of his modified Nex Enhancement Programme initiative.’ Clough’s voice suddenly rose a little as he moved forward, polished shoes treading the thick pile carpet with the eerie silence of a stalking predator. ‘But you fucked it up.’ He turned his back on Sonia.
Bobby Clough seemed to be breathing deeply. He turned around to face the ChainTV presenter. ‘We have—thankfully—a second chance. The Nex are sending one of their top men, Mace, who will attempt to recover the situation. You will play along with him. You will cooperate one hundred per cent. Or I will have your fucking balls on a platter.’
‘Balls?’
He glanced down at Sonia J’s crotchless yellow and green lycra suit. Then he met her gaze. ‘You know what I mean,’ he said. ‘You will go out there, meet Mace and there will be no fuck-ups. Do I make myself absolutely clear?’
‘Yes, sir,’ she mumbled.
‘Now get out. Before I really lose my temper. And remember—your TV future depends on what happens later today. Do not—and I repeat, do not—screw it up.’
[ON AIR]
SCENE: A large airy studio tastefully decorated in orange and blues. Three long settees lie at slight angles to one another around a central table fashioned from a single slab of onyx, on which stands a purple jug and crystal glasses which catch the studio lights and glitter. The rear of the studio is taken up by a huge plasma screen.
ENTER Sonia J to ecstatic applause.
SONIA J: Welcome to the latest funky in-your-face episode of Pussy_live! In which we take famous members of the establishment and ask them to—
AUD [volume enhance 5.8]: Prove they’re not a Pussy!
PROMPT: Audience laughter.
SWITCH/CAM3 [wide pan/pull back]: Full studio including front three rows of audience and clusters of JT8s in black uniforms.
SONIA J: Now, today we have bagged you yet another real treat! [Sonia J winks] After our successful staged comedy interview with Vincent Alexandro, in which I tried my hardest to upstage him for a bet (all money donated to a charity chosen by those wickedly funny guys the Nex, of course) we finally have a real interview for you! Mace is one of the top guys, Durell’s left-hand man, so to speak: Head Prime of the Technology Division, Director of WarFactory Productions and the instigator of the brand new Eden Community Project. Mace has never before been interviewed on any show. Here we have him for your delight. Please welcome, Nex and proud of it, Mr Mace!
CAM6 [dropping and pulling back]: Mace enters, dapper and neatly dressed, shaved head gleaming slightly under studio lighting. He walks down the steps and sits on the middle settee, hands folded in his lap, his back ramrod straight.
EARMIC: That’s just great, Sonia, just foo-king brilliant. Now, hold that pose—yes, yes, we’re going for the zoom—gleaming, feminine, BRILLIANT. Now, you’ve got the retina transcript, so just make sure you stick to it. OK? No, don’t even answer that. Just do your job and we can all go home as happy people.
SONIA J: Mr Mace. Welcome to our show. As everybody out there knows, we normally attempt to make guests prove they are not a Pussy! But in a most serious break from tradition, we will today seek to give you a fair trial. Did I say trial? I meant platform.
CAM5: Mace glares at Sonia J, then seems to remember that he is on TV. He smiles sardonically.
MACE: Thank you for your eloquent introduction, Miss J. I am flattered to be held in such high regard by the population and by the illustrious echelons of HIVE Media. You all have my greatest thanks.
SONIA J: Yes
. Now. Well. I believe you would like to explain to us a little about the Nex evolving processes, which also take in the most wonderful and exciting activity of turning a normal human being into the evolved personage of a Nex...
MACE: Yes. Well, to look at me, you might not guess that once I was nothing more than a sickly child. I had a bone-wasting disease and was destined to die. But then I was introduced to the Nex ... I chose to join their ranks, and I was healed. I was given a second chance at life!
SONIA J: That must have been incredibly exciting! Transcendental, even, as Nex evolution gave you a second chance to lead a full life. And also awesome: with the subsequent Nex transformation you were given almost superhuman powers.
MACE: Yes, Sonia, to become a Nex is to become so much more than human! It is the next natural stepping stone of progress for our species. You take on superior characteristics—an enhanced immune system, resistance to pain and disease and chemical, biological and nuclear weapons. But then, the population know these things. As they know that they can earn their freedom ... [looking straight into camera] when you become a Nex, you earn your freedom from HATE!
SONIA J: But what of your own deformity?
MACE [slowly, with growing confusion]: How do you mean?
SONIA J: Well, just look at you, with your copper eyes and your twisted face! I am a God-fearing person, I believe in the process of natural evolution and I say that you are a fucking abomination against God, a deviation of normal genetics that deserves no other place than under the microscope—and the scalpel—and I can today reveal here on live-TV that Mace, and his superior, Durell, and a million other Nex-deformed abhorrences are, in fact, the Nex scum who claim to—