The Medida War

by Pat Mills

  No Talking Zones had been established following the Great Talk Riots four years earlier. Citizens were now forbidden to speak in city centres and had to communicate by thought only, using their Digital Angel nanochip implants.

  The law had seemed like a good idea at the time. A relief even. These DA implants, which were inserted into the bodies of every citizen at birth, had the same function as the antique mobile phone. It was on a crowded evening container that the riots first began. The commuters were starting to go crazy because they were forced to listen to other commuters' insufferably banal conversations.

  The riots swiftly spread. Anyone observed talking to themselves in a public place was likely to end up being given a "waffle sandwich" or worse. The riots seemed to bear out the health warning by the Surgeon General that talking could seriously damage your health.

  President Cobb had addressed the nation: "My friends, in the fight against fear, it is necessary to give up our right to free speech so we can win the war against Medusa and the Bioterrorists who follow her cause. So when you're in a No Talk Zone, stay mum, even if it does seem dumb."

  Green and red talk lights with illuminated signs - "Talk. Don't Talk" - became a familiar sight in Martian cities.

  The amber light with the polite warning, "Silence is golden," or, "Please finish your conversation," never really worked.

  Citizens had to go into soundproof "chatter boxes" or "yak bars" for a "chin-wag." The word "wagger"' was not a term of endearment.

  The TIA cones patrolled the streets, not just to enforce silence, but also to listen to people's thoughts that were transmitted via their Digital Angels. This was the function of the Total Information Awareness Agency: it monitored what people were thinking in order to detect possible terrorist threats. And they needed silence to do this.

  The wail of the sirens grew nearer now and Hammerstein cursed. The last thing they needed was a confrontation with the cops over Mek-Quake's destruction of a few barely sentient cones.

  SEVEN

  They could now see a number of police on horseless anti-grav saddles flying down through the air. They were G Men, identifiable thanks to the siren lights on the front of their saddles. The riders withdrew rifles from their saddle holsters and unleashed a hail of laser fire.

  Given the Warriors' available firepower, it would have been easy to blow them out of the sky. But wiping out some of Marineris City's Finest didn't seem like the best way to increase the peace.

  "What about a spell, Deadlock?" asked Hammerstein.

  "What sort of spell?" replied Deadlock irritably. He would really have preferred to fight the police; he was hungry for nourishment.

  "I don't know. You're the wizard. A spell that will stop them but not kill them."

  "Not my favourite kind of spell, Hammerstein."

  "You must have some invocation from your ancient grimoires, your secret libers, for an occasion like this."

  "Hammerstein, I've told you before, magic isn't something you can get out of books. And using pompous names, like 'book' in Latin, doesn't give it any more clout."

  With bad grace, Deadlock waved his hands in the air. Then he muttered a few words under his breath that caused the G Men to fall out of the sky.

  His spell had affected the anti-gravity motors in their saddles, so the G Men had been forced to descend rapidly rather than fatally, so it was mainly their pride that was injured when they hit the deck.

  "Oh, biol!" snarled a G Man as he landed heavily. The policemen were tangled up in their stirrups and upended saddles and while they were untangling themselves, the ABC Warriors drove off.

  Blackblood had removed the sim card from the destroyed cone. "It's this component that allows the cones to monitor human thought." He saw Hammerstein's disapproving expression. "Have you never wanted to listen to other people's thoughts?"

  They were speaking by direct mind-link to each other, as they were still in a No Talk Zone.

  "No," said Hammerstein. "That's why I use a special firewall to make sure you can't tune in to mine."

  Blackblood slid back a section of his armour plating. Inside, was a slot marked "Painworks". He inserted the sim card. "I will now have the same power as this cone. I will be able to tune into everyone's thoughts within an eighty kilometre radius, except when we are in areas of poor reception. And of course it won't read the minds of people under the influence of hallucinogenic drugs. Now the question is whose mind shall I enter?"

  "What about President Cobb or Senator Diaz?" suggested Joe.

  "Good idea," concurred Deadlock. "It will facilitate our meeting with them."

  "Yes. We should know what's going on in the mind of the head honchos," added Morrigun.

  "All right. Let's see." Blackblood scanned the cone's directory of names and identity numbers. "Ah, yes. Here it is: President Cobb. Here we go then."

  "Mek-Quake, he very interested and think that-"

  "Just concentrate on your driving, Mek-Quake."

  "Any luck?"

  "No good. The President's a 'Digital Arch-Angel. Access denied.' Diaz is the same."

  "Pity."

  "It was to be expected. Our firewalls do the same: they stop the TIA getting into our heads."

  "Let me try the general menu."

  There was a pause while he checked out a number of options.

  "Anything?"

  "Interesting. The TIA leave nothing to chance. According to this, it's also possible to tune into thoughts by subject."

  "That is appalling," said Morrigun.

  "What a world," said Joe.

  "That's no way to live," said Deadlock.

  "The ultimate thought police," said Hammerstein.

  "I know. It's great, isn't it?" said Blackblood.

  He randomly flicked through to "H". There, he scanned the list of possible subjects the good citizens of Marineris City might be thinking about that began with H. These included Hallucinations, Happiness, Hate, Heaven, Holiday, Horror, Hygiene and Hymn Singing.

  The other Warriors lost interest and left Blackblood to it.

  It came down to two possible choices for Blackblood, and he made a note to come back to Horror later.

  Another category interested him even more.

  Within seconds, he was tuning into people's hate-filled thoughts and it was no surprise that there were a lot of them. Probably more than Hymn Singing.

  A lot of their thoughts would be considered quite mundane and tedious to most, but not to Blackblood. Threats to do anatomically ambitious things to partners, bosses and next-door neighbours. He would have enjoyed hearing them all. But the thought scanner had a priority override that bypassed the detritus of every day human misery and focussed instead on real hate.

  Unpleasant hate.

  Serious hate.

  Black hate.

  And that was what Blackblood was braindropping on now.

  He picked up wonderfully fragmented vicious thoughts and voices: "Down to Bowel Town... No small change business. Those trimorphs gonna pay."

  "That Medusa bitch is trying to blaze us! She wants some, she's gonna get some!"

  "Rule the school! Put those freaks in the ghetto under heavy manners!"

  And finally, "Let's burn a large one!"

  Blackblood could feel the ferocious, xenophobic hatred burning through him.

  The programme now flashed up the identity of the haters: the Union's Biohazard Troops.

  Blackblood could figure out why. They were young, elite human soldiers, psyching themselves up as they prepared to go into the ghetto to deal with the Martian creatures known as the trimorphs.

  He repeated the conversation verbatim to his comrades and Hammerstein looked grim. "Pull over, Mek-Quake."

  The killdozer turned off into a lay-by. They hastily held a war conference.

  "President Cobb has got to be behind this."

  "Or whoever is behind Cobb."

  "We should talk to him at the Senate House."

  "Supposing he won't see us?"


  "He'll see us."

  "I think we should forget the Senate and go straight to the ghetto. Stop the troopers."

  "It will mean bloodshed."

  "It may be the only way. If they kill trimorphs, there'll be hell to pay. Medusa will go crazy."

  "This is the president's way of showing the human colonists he's finally taking measures against the planet's 'bioterrorism'."

  "But if he succeeds, Medusa will see it as an act of war."

  "Okay," said Hammerstein. "I suggest we change our plan and go for the ghetto instead."

  "Agreed."

  "Agreed."

  "Agreed."

  "Agreed."

  Mek-Quake, who had been listening attentively, intervened. "Mek-Quake he not understand. What these words mean? 'Burn a large one! Rule the school! Put those freaks under heavy manners!' These words, they are difficult for Mek-Quake."

  "Don't worry about it," said Joe.

  "But it worry Mek-Quake. Maybe they should not say 'Burn a large one!' Maybe they should say 'Burn a big one!' This would be better, Mek-Quake think."

  "Yes, but we are discussing what the Biohazard troopers said," said Hammerstein irritably. He was still annoyed with Mek-Quake for destroying the cones.

  "They do not say 'Burn a big one!' They say 'Burn a large one!' I'm sure if they wanted to, they would say, 'Burn a big one!' rather than 'Burn a large one'! No doubt they have their own reasons why they prefer large ones to big ones."

  "But Mek-Quake think-"

  "And you know, Mek-Quake, at the end of the day, who are we to interfere with the vocabulary of licensed government hooligans?"

  "Mek-Quake understand."

  "I'm so glad," said a relieved Hammerstein.

  "But Mek-Quake not understand."

  "Mek-Quake, does it matter? After all, fashions in military slang change. But it usually adds up to the same thing for the local civilian population."

  "Mek-Quake understand. He know what it add up to!"

  "And what is that?"

  "6/583-#546."

  He looked triumphantly at the rest of his comrades. Then added as an afterthought, "Point five."

  "He's getting worse," groaned Joe.

  "Mek-Quake pretty darn smart robot, huh?"

  "No, Mek-Quake, that is your serial number. But without the point five. You appear not to be able to get your own serial number right."

  "No. Is very difficult for Mek-Quake."

  "Let's get this straight, shall we? It adds up to something comparable to your own battle cry of choice: 'Big Jobs!'"

  "Ah! Big Jobs! Big Jobs! Now Mek-Quake understand."

  "Ah, the relief," sighed Hammerstein. "That is so good. I'm told this is how humans feel when they finally find a public pissoir in Necropolis."

  "But Mek-Quake still think they should use different words that are easier for Mek-Quake."

  "I'm so sorry, Mek-Quake," responded Hammerstein. "I'd completely forgotten. When you're being this stupid, how do we normally deal with it?"

  "You punch me in the face."

  "No. We give you a daily computer upgrade."

  "Yehhh."

  "Which just happens to look like a punch in the face."

  "Yehhh."

  "And you know why we do it, don't you?"

  "Yehhh. Because you care about Mek-Quake."

  "That's right. And it's why we ask you to repeat a simple daily mantra. Do you remember how it goes?"

  "Yehhh!"

  "Could you repeat it now?"

  "Every day in every way Mek-Quake, he get more and more stupid."

  "No. Nearly right, Mek-Quake. It should be 'less and less' stupid."

  "Yehhh."

  "So shall we do it now?"

  "Yehhh."

  "Lower your head then, please."

  Mek-Quake's visored head snaked down obediently to Hammerstein's level. Hammerstein clenched his huge steel fist and took two paces back. "Ready?"

  "Yehhhh."

  "Very good. Now. Hold it right there."

  Hammerstein brought back his huge metal fist and savagely punched Mek-Quake in the face.

  "Is that better?"

  "Yehhhh," said Mek-Quake with what sounded like a little more intelligence.

  "Now do you understand?" enquired Hammerstein. He wondered whether he might be forced to use the hammer on him as well.

  "Yehhh. The Biohazard Troopers gonna do Big Jobs!"

  "I fear so," muttered Hammerstein worriedly to himself. "Okay... It'll be quicker if we split up now."

  He looked at the gigantic, micro-brained robot. It seemed to be dripping water from its leering head, presumably from concealed hydraulics. It made it look as if he was slavering. "We'll drop directly down into Bowel Town. You join us there later."

  "Yehhh."

  By the time Mek-Quake had taken the road route into Bowel Town, or they had found a crane to lower him there, they would have lost valuable time. It was better this way. Mek-Quake was a very useful member of the team, able to carry additional weapons as well as a spare set of bodies, but it was at times like this he could really slow them down.

  The Warriors set off for the ghetto.

  They leapt down from one scaffolding level of Marineris to the one below, descending towards Bowel Town which was on the canyon floor, on the outskirts of the city.

  As they did so, glowing balls of light shot down from the sky; meteorites were crashing into the city.

  Clearly they were not the only ones who knew her ghetto was about to be attacked. It was Medusa's way of punishing the extra-martials who were colonising her planet. Her way of saying "EMs Go Home."

  EIGHT

  Some time ago on Mars, everything had been invented. There was nothing left to invent. And the machines that had been invented were too much for peoples' minds to handle. The pace of change had happened too fast and they went into information overload.

  Once, lost in an almost legendary past, there was a time when a machine would last a lifetime. Then it became five years. Then, astonishingly, five minutes. This accelerated range of change was all due to nanobots.

  Thanks to them, this was now the age of the disposable washing machine. You could throw the washing machine away after each wash. The nanobots who had created it also ate it and turned it into grey sludge. So machines didn't really even last five minutes.

  With their hyperfast programs that interacted with shape-changing metal polymers, they could transform a machine from one design into another in a matter of minutes. A robot gun could be converted into a robot lawnmower or into a pile of grey goo and back again. The possibilities and the mistakes were endless. The only limitation was the human mind, which wasn't designed to take on board such high-tech hi-jinks. As a result the psychiatric hospitals were crowded with people suffering from information overload, or "infolation."

  And to curb this infolation, the Chancellor of the Invention Exchange carefully introduced new inventions onto the market, from vast waiting warehouses full of them. As he did so, all current inventions became obsolete, so citizens were compelled to carry on consuming.

  But all the out of date, horribly lethal weapons and the Crazies, or "flat screeners" suffering from infolation had to go somewhere. And they did. Usually together. They went to Marineris City, down below, to Bowel Town.

  This was the very foundation of the city; it was a grimy, stinking crater that overflowed with Crazies, humpies (genetically modified humans), cyboons (genetically modified apes), and alien flotsam from every part of the solar system. And all of them were armed to the teeth with obsolete weaponry.

  All you could see when you gazed upward from Bowel Town was a vast network of massive metal girders that splayed outwards in a series of enormous webs, criss-crossing and bisecting the town. These giant girders thrust up into the heart of Marineris. The law only came here to arrest insurgents or wanted criminals; it had no interest in imposing order on the Crazies. They didn't want to be attacked by last year's robot assault tan
k or even last year's robot lawnmower. Or even a combination of both which occasionally happened when the nanobots went a bit off-message.

  You never went down into this forest of metal beams by yourself - at any time of the day or night. Not if you were decent folk. Not if you wanted to live.

  The trimorphs also lived here in a honeycomb of small ziggurats in clearings in the man-made forest. They were definitely seen as indecent. Like all of Medusa's creatures, they had three sexes: male, female and medium, or "Mit". The Mits, the third sex, were androgynous and understandably thin. This gave them a graceful, elfin-like appearance that contrasted with the burly, spiky appearance of the male trimorphs and the triple curves of the females.

  The Mits maintained harmony between the sexes. They were the go-betweens. The ties that bind. The filling in the sandwich. A sensual no-man's land and no-woman's land that the male trimorph had to cross to reach the female. Their ambient energy was a soothing balm that helped create a perfect mÈnage à trois. Mit was the "om-buddy" who sorted out disagreements, so there was always peace, peace, peace. They turned their shanty town into a shanti town. Not that it should be thought that Mits were dull or bland. They were the mustard to go with the salt and pepper. The hot, spicy chilli sauce that gave the relationships zing.

  Yet the ambient power of the Mits was so great and so calming that it had been known to soothe the fevered brows of the Crazies, even those suffering from eighty per cent or ninety per cent infolation.

  The Crazies repaid them by supplying them with neuropeptide or the Right Stuff, which had an addictive and devastating effect on their psyches. Some trimorphs, under the influence of neuropeptide, rejected their trinary roots. They went "bi" and had relationships with each other without Mits. They tried to hide their third eye or breast. Some even had their third arm or leg amputated, so they would seem more like humans. They went to bimorph clubs where fights constantly broke out between them. As they were armed with last year's weapons by the Crazies, the results were always tragic.

  However, these "bi's" were shunned by the "tri's" who religiously maintained the old ways. Led by their Marzahs, their holy men, they followed the teachings and the words of Medusa as written down in the trible.