This is the End 3: The Post-Apocalyptic Box Set (8 Book Collection)

by J. Thorn

Gerry felt around his belt and found the comforting cold steel of his revolver. How quickly he’d grown to rely on it. Looking at these augments, he wondered whether he’d even be able to fire off a single round before they would jump and slice him. Who knew what other modifications these people had? Were they even people? It was hard to tell when all you could see were gloved hands gripping shot glasses and glowing amber and red eyes.

  Below the bar floor a deep bass wave rumbled. It continued to build until it formed a pulsating rhythm right up into Gerry’s guts. It gathered speed, beating quicker and quicker. His own heart’s racing beat had now been outpaced, and then, to accompany the bass line, a synth wave wailed through the tense atmosphere.

  Then the pounding of drums.

  And just like that, the people were smiling, nodding their heads to the rhythm, shooting their shots, surrounding the bar, and ordering more of whatever it was they were drinking.

  Gerry let go of his gun, dropped his shoulders, and breathed out the tension. They weren’t so important after all. Gabe and Petal led him through the throng of animated revellers.

  The dancing crowd were dressed mostly in a matching uniform of sorts: black leather jackets, jeans, biker boots. Real old fashioned, like those his parents wore before all the new synthetic materials replaced denim and cotton. Many of them wore their hair like Petal’s: bright pinks, greens, blues. A range of Mohicans, spikes and straggly mop-tops.

  A group of eight women wearing tight, reflective trousers and pin-sharp stiletto boots stood by the cubicles and booths, assessing, recording, observing. Gerry recognised the serious and deadly body language of security. Though he saw no visible weapons, he was in no doubt they would be more than capable of handling themselves.

  One in particular had eyeballed him as soon as the party got started. Her blazing white eyes reflected off her chromed headpiece. She looked like a piece of modern art, a sculpture. Only her long-nailed fingers tapping against her hip made her seem alive—and dangerous.

  Gerry pulled his vision from her and concentrated on following Gabe and Petal through the crowd. Eventually, in spite of the tension, he found himself smiling as the music started to carry him away. Petal had already given into it. She was jumping and pogoing her way through the traffic of people. Smiling at one person, shying away from the attentions of another. Like the moving centre of a vortex, Gerry and Gabe were caught in her wake. There was something fascinating about her. He’d realised this the minute he saw her, and it seemed these people realised it too. She had a gravity of her own.

  They finally reached the bar after wriggling through rows of eager patrons.

  Gabe called over the bartender and shouted over the pounding music into her ear. Gerry guessed it was an ear. It was metallic and round with a series of holes perforating its surface. Gerry realised then that she, or it, wasn’t human. Initially it was hard to tell with all the augmentations and androgynous hairstyle and fashion. She wore a scar above and below one cybernetic eye. Probably the wound from the scar was the reason, but looking around at the others, it seemed a popular upgrade. Given the darkness of the bar and the ease with which they moved, he guessed it gave them some kind of infravision.

  The bartender nodded and lifted the bar top. She ushered them through the bar and led them down a tight set of steps. No one said a word. The desire to speak played on his lips, threatening to break the tension. He managed to hold it in, distracted by the hissing noises coming from further down the stairs.

  The three of them, plus the bartender, stopped midway on the steps. Below them: impenetrable blackness. Above them: a glimmer of grey light, which was soon snuffed out as the door closed.

  Gerry couldn’t even see his hand in front of his eyes. He instinctively thrust his arms out to the side and touched the clammy stone walls. He breathed slowly, trying to overcome the feeling of falling.

  “Follow,” the bartender said. Its footsteps rang out as metal-heeled shoes clanged against the stone steps.

  Gerry, at the back of the pack, reached out with his hand and felt the tall spikes of Petal’s Mohican. He traced his hand down until he felt her shoulder. Petal placed her hand on his softly. “Take it easy, Gez. We don’t want you tumbling down on top of us all.”

  “Would it kill anyone to bring a torch or install a light?”

  “Bilanko’s place, Bilanko’s rules,” the bartender said, its voice as neutral as its appearance: neither deep nor high, neither passive nor aggressive. Must be an animated AI of some sortGerry thought. He’d only ever seen these outside of the City. First the border guard and now this one, assuming he was correct. It made him wonder how many people inside the city were real humans and how many were AI entities: was his wife real? His kids? His colleagues?

  And then a thought that sent a shiver up his spine: was he human? Lost in these thoughts, Gerry stumbled down the last step and fell into Petal and Gabe.

  “Easy, man. Get ya shit sorted. This ain’t a place for screwin’ about,” Gabe warned in a hushed reverent tone.

  A low beep sounded, followed by the whoosh of a hydraulic mechanism. A door slid into the wall. Low, green, glowing light lit up the narrow hallway where they stood. The rhythmic hissing noise grew louder. It was coming from within the room.

  A garbled, digitised voice called out, “I sense fresh meat. Bring me the meat.”

  The bartender grabbed Gerry by the shoulders and shoved him into the room.

  Chapter 9

  Gerry stumbled into near total darkness. Only the glint of something metallic, in the far corner some five metres away, stood out from the gloom.

  Petal and Gabe shuffled in after him. Petal’s goggles glowed red like deep-sea phosphorescent creatures. They bobbed and swayed, taking in the room. Could she see in the dark with those weird eyes? Gerry wanted to ask, but there was an unspoken expectation of silence that was as tangible as any spoken order.

  Petal took his hand in hers. Hot sweat covered her skin, and she gripped him tight. Even so, he still felt the tremble as she shook. This did not help assuage Gerry’s growing unease.

  It was like the night of his youngest daughter’s birth. There were complications that night. The labour was drawn out way beyond the norm. Doctors and nurses gave him ‘the speech’ every few hours. It’s a complicated procedure. She’s doing well. Stay calm and wait. She’ll be fine.

  They were wrong. For hours Gerry stood outside the ward, trembling with fear that his daughter wouldn’t make it—that his wife wouldn’t make it. Then, two days later, Gerry hadn’t slept a wink, the doctor finally delivered his baby daughter. She was fifty percent underweight with cranial damage, which affected her brain. Even with the advanced stem cell and NanoSurgeon technology, Marcy still had learning difficulties. For some reason his wife had blamed him. Wanted him to have done more. What more could he have done?

  Standing in this dark room, with a girl trembling in his hand, he waited, trying to prevent the dread from overcoming him completely.

  A digitised voice with clipped vowels spoke. It sounded as if it came from a surround-sound speaker setup. Gerry couldn’t tell from which part of the room it originated. It only aided in his disorientation. It was like being on a boat in the middle of an ocean on a starless night. He only knew this from his experimentation at the VR labs. The sensations were accurate, however. So much so his legs grew heavy and dizziness swirled in his head.

  “Ah, Gabriel and his pet. Or should I say pets? No matter, I know why you’re here. Mr Cardle, isn’t it?” The voice didn’t give Gerry time to confirm. “You’re quite an interesting one. Why don’t you come closer so I can get a proper look at you? Observing from digital means is never quite the same as real life. One cannot get the measure of a man made from bits and pixels no matter the resolution.”

  Ten metres into the far left corner a pale cone of light illuminated an amorphou
s black… thing. It was like the bulbous tube of a carnivorous plant, sagging into a writhing sac. From its roundness, tubes and cables extended out like a web into a square metal frame. On the frame were a series of CPU racks, hologram terminal projectors, and what resembled respiratory aids—clear tubes of air containing a rising and falling diaphragm. The thing made an audible sucking and wheezing sound as the orange diaphragm made its rhythmic repetitions.

  Eventually, Gerry found its head. A nub of burnt flesh partly made from chrome and flashing LEDs. A graphite grill covered its mouth area.

  “I won’t ask you twice, Mr Cardle.” It wheezed again.

  Gerry looked at Gabe, who just nodded his head. Petal still gripped his hand. As he stepped forward, she reluctantly let him go. He looked back. Her goggles were opaque, mirrored like her face. He couldn’t read her expression.

  As Gerry approached the cyborg thing, it reached out with an articulated claw and grabbed him around the waist, pulling him in close. It smelt of smoke and oil. Its burnt flesh was glossy, clammy. He wasn’t sure if it was sweat or a cooling liquid. Perspiration beaded on Gerry’s neck and face from both the temperature of the room and the tension of the situation.

  “I’m Bilanko Barnabas, the queen of these parts, and you owe me a tithe, Mr Cardle.”

  Bilanko’s head bobbed just inches from Gerry’s face. The gelatinous folds of flab wobbled as she spoke.

  “I don’t know you. I owe you nothing.” His voice cracked, losing any authority.

  “You’re not in Cemprom now. We have a different hierarchy here: the hierarchy of information and intelligence, and in that world I’m queen. If you wish to exist here, you honour me. There is no alternative. Well, no alternative where you keep your head and body in the same plane.” The claw around his waist tightened, forcing the breath from his lungs, crushing his organs. It relented as Bilanko leaned her head so close their noses almost touched.

  “What… do you… want from me?” Gerry said between gasps.

  “Information. I always want information, Mr Cardle. It’s the currency on which this world runs. Intel is the oil that lubricates the gears of society. Those most informed are revered, and it’s my business to ensure that I remain top of the pile. Open your mind to me, Mr Cardle, and give me what you know. Then perhaps I’ll grant little Petal over there access to Old Grey, because I know that’s why you’re here.”

  “How—”

  “Intel is my reason to live. There’re few things around these parts that I’m not privy to. Messy work at the gate, by the way. You three are such amateurs.” Bilanko’s face scrunched at the edges as if she were smiling behind that device over her mouth.

  “Fine. Let Petal do her thing first; then you can snoop around.”

  “Bless. It’s quite sweet of you to think you can dictate terms. Still, I’ll grant this. I like Petal, she always brings us something… interesting to study, and I can see she’s carrying something different than usual. Old Grey will be most intrigued with her gifts.”

  A door on the opposite wall opened. A fog of moisture billowed out in thick clouds. Petal ran towards it. Gabe followed, but was halted by the bartender.

  “Gabriel, please wait for us upstairs. I wish to deal with Mr Cardle in private. Ecko here will keep you company.”

  The bartender grabbed Gabriel by the collar with one hand, dangled its wicked dagger in the other, and led Gabe back out of the room and up the stairs.

  “You harm him in any way—”

  “You’re in no position to drop threats, old man.”

  Ecko yanked Gabe away so hard that he lost his balance, but Ecko just dragged him across the floor and out of the room. The door slid closed behind him, as did the door that Petal had run through.

  A cable extended from the bulbous sac and writhed up Gerry’s body until it reached his neck. A glistening needle-thin protrusion extended from the cable. It reared back like a cobra and struck in a flash, sending the point deep into his neck port. Burning pain shot through him. He clenched his jaw, trying to absorb the pain. A wire worked its way through the cable and into Gerry’s neck. A pulse of electricity bolted through his nerves. His vision faded, and his muscles tensed. Bilanko wheezed close to his ear, “Let’s see what secrets the Family have left in you.”

  While in Bilanko’s technological embrace, Gerry dreamed of his life before Cemprom, a life before his role as lead algorithm designer. He approached it like most kids: read the data-slates given to him by his tutors, completed his homework, achieved one hundred percent in all his marks.

  One thing that was different about him and the other kids, though, were his dreams. Like now, they were about data. Bits and strings of binary floating in the vacuum of his thoughts. He built cities from small data packets. Little chunks of information of things he picked up during his day. He took these raw pieces of material and built huge memory palaces, mansions and entire cities in his mind.

  He never spoke of this ability to anyone until he first went to Cemprom as an outstanding graduate in information architecture. There they put a name to his talents.

  “You have a kind of auto-pedagogic learning mechanism,” they said. “Your brain creates order from chaos, places non-contextual information into organised structures so that the most complex of ideas or datasets are easy for you to understand. The neural pathways in your brain are unlike anything we’ve seen before.”

  “What does that actually mean, practically?” Gerry asked.

  “You have three times more neural pathways than the average graduate. Where analysis of data is a bottleneck for most people, to you it’s like a river with no dam to stop it. You can process data faster and in greater volume than most others. You’re like a living computer with a huge input and output capacity.”

  They made him undergo a number of tests. He aced them—as usual. He couldn’t understand why he was so special, or why he had this ability. He’d had the same upbringing and tuition as his classmates, as his best friend Mike Welling, and yet he appeared to stand alone with this weird brain of his. Well, weird according to others. He just went through life as if it were the most natural thing in the world. He didn’t necessarily see a direct benefit of this ability—until he worked with the algorithm.

  And that’s where he shined.

  Once involved with numbers and data, he thrived. He manipulated, analysed, and created the perfect formulas and algorithms for Cemprom’s numerous security systems, so when they got the call to develop the algorithm for the D-Lottery, Gerry was the number one candidate. Personally picked by an unnamed member of the Family to head the team.

  The data stream between him and Bilanko resembled that river. Only it was tumultuous, wild, and out of control. His usual ability to look into and find meaning in the data had left him. Now he acted like a router. Switching packets to and from, fetching requests, and storing information. Only he couldn’t tell what this information was: it was too secure. And that frightened him. Never had he taken data in without knowing what it was in some form or another. He didn’t know where to file it, so this torrent of information overflowed his perfectly designed city of organisation to create pools of unsorted data.

  A scream shattered his thought pattern.

  He opened his eyes. Bilanko had removed her interface cable and dropped him to the ground. A cold dread from the concrete floor spread throughout his skin as he watched Bilanko in her metal frame wobble away from him, shaking her deformed head. The respirator juddered up and down the tube in ragged, fast movements.

  “What? What did you find?” he asked.

  Bilanko ignored him while she wobbled into her corner. The door to Old Grey opened.

  “Get out. Fetch Petal and leave. You’ve paid your tithe, Mr Cardle. Paid it many times over.”

  “I don’t know what you mean. What have you put in my head?�
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  “Huh!” She snorted. “You should be asking yourself what you’ve put in mine. You’re not natural, Mr Cardle, there’s something very different about you. I don’t wish to know any more. I suggest you leave now … while you’re still able.”

  “What do you mean different?”

  “I’ve never seen it before, there’s, something else in you. I can’t explain any more. Leave.”

  “But—”

  “I don’t give second chances, Mr Cardle,” Bilanko shouted through the speaker system.

  Not wanting to irritate the queen further, Gerry got to his feet, brushed the dust and sweat from his face, and entered Old Grey’s room.

  Chapter 10

  Petal sat in a chair similar to the ones back at their secure room. She wasn’t strapped in, but was hooked up to a panel with a multitude of ports and cables.

  A glossy, black box that stood taller than Gerry, and twice as wide, dominated the room. Flared vents on its side emitted regular plumes of frost. A pair of LEDs on its front flickered intermittently. At its base, a boy lay crumpled in a mess of limbs. He wore black clothing similar to the bar’s patrons. He didn’t have augmented eyes, however, and his hair was shoulder length. He looked like any ordinary kid from City Earth—apart from two things: neck ports and a series of transdermal implants up his right arm.

  “Renegade hacker,” Petal said without looking up. She swiped a series of gestures across her HackSlate and sighed. Her foot tapped against the footrest spasmodically. “Couldn’t breach Old Grey’s first security subroutine. It fried his brains.”

  “We need to go. Bilanko found something weird.”

  “Weird how?” Petal stopped gesturing and looked up.

  “I don’t know. Said I’ve got something wrong in me. Something different. But it was from her! I saw it. The data stream is a real mess.”