Tides of Hysteria

by Adam J. Smith

  He breathed hard, unable to wipe his eyes through the mask.

  “Incoming!” shouted a colleague.

  Bit fucking late for that.

  He hunkered beneath his shield, eyes on the street, seeing the flashes of explosions in his periphery and hearing the blasts blow out nearby windows. Any moment, another Molotov would land on him, and he braced for the impact.

  The silver locket gleamed, within arm’s reach.

  Curious, he reached out and picked it up, just as the whirr of charging rifles roared up around him. The barrage had ceased. He looked up; those colleagues who could were aiming at the rioters. He stood – “Let’s give them a reason to fucking protest,” said Jayson – and he aimed his own rifle ahead. He squeezed and felt the familiar vibration up his arms. When the sonic blast discharged, the woman with the locket went down once more, along with many others, arms flailing, mouths screaming, the backs of legs scraping along the ground leaving skidmarks of blood.

  Nash

  If nothing was broken it’d be a wonder, thought Nash, knees and elbows poking into her back and rear. Not quite the comfortable mattress that a bed of flesh could be. She and everyone around her scrambled arms and legs, trying to gain purchase on a surface that didn’t move, to stand back up. To face down the uneducated automatons that had knocked them flat.

  Blood oozed from gashes and scrapes and the eardrums of those who weren’t wearing earplugs, but she was relatively okay. A little bruised. She touched a finger to her ear and felt the gentle shushing sound of skin on skin, as though underwater; the screaming of those around her like a distant reality, linked yet with realitysound. Then she pulled out her earplugs to the shouting of authority, defiance of protestors.

  Her friends dispersed to nurse their wounds, leaving her cold, exposed on the concrete central reservation beneath the faded light of half-crooked streetlights, where others had climbed and the metal had bent. They shouted and gestured, but ultimately, they retreated. She remained. Chill fingers crept through the gashes in her suit – even some new tears, she noticed – and spots of rain began to fall. The last of the flames dissipated as the guards reorganised themselves, straightening the line and filling any gaps. A towering concrete palisade edged the end of the avenue, connecting with the towers either side, and the occasional guard patrolled atop the wall.

  A soot-black smear hid the guard who took the locket; his shield up and rifle now tucked behind it. He had to fire. There would be no grudge if eventually he did turn. They didn’t need many. Just enough to create a few leaks in the perimeter. A few holes through which they could pour and drown anyone within who couldn’t breathe in the atmosphere of liberation. She watched for a sign; a flicker of doubt in the body language of anyone in the line. They seemed resolute but she knew that somewhere, humanity would reside. It was just a matter of how deep.

  Rickard had found his. She wished he hadn’t.

  The battle of 35th had marked the turning point. Against a blackout backdrop the largest group of rebels so far – over two hundred of them, including her – had blocked the ends of the avenue with their autocars and then disengaged the autonomy. When people realised what was happening in their neighbourhood, most retreated inside, and a few joined them. Others shouted support or dissent from the lower level windows.

  “You’re just making it worse!”

  “It’s not worth it! All you’re doing is destroying what hard-working people have spent their lives putting together!”

  “Burn it all!”

  And they tried. They poured biofuel into the tramlines until it overflowed, and the night danced with their orange-red flames bellowing like an arrow from one end to the other. Fire kicked on both sides of the avenue as they marched onwards, blazing or smashing parked autocars and other vehicles that stood in their way; commuter stops and kiosks, plastic foliage and streetlights. Drones crowded the sky, picked off by sharpshooters before the fire-response ones could douse the flames, or the security force ones could identify any of their faces or release a volley of bullets from its turret. Only the media ones were allowed to fly.

  Cameras watched them march down the avenue as the authority forces stood their ground at the other end. Watched as shots were fired and protestors began to fall.

  She hadn’t known her son would be there. And he didn’t know his mother would be at the end of his rifle. She saw his familiar size; the breadth of his shoulders and his six-foot-five stance, dressed all in black, visor raised, eyes locking. He saw his mother and her friends and something made him stop firing, just as Jeyne collapsed to the ground beside her. She fell in an eerily silent thud with no time to even scream.

  Rickard turned, arms up, waving to the rest of his crew.

  “No, no, no,” she shouted.

  “Stop!” she heard him scream. He put his hands on the barrels of his colleagues’ rifles and tried to get them to drop their aim, succeeding instead in getting a smack to the forehead. Knocked aside, he swerved his rifle around on his colleagues and squeezed the trigger, just as bullets began to ricochet on the ground around her.

  He killed four before they knew what was happening. Before they downed him. It all happened in seconds, just enough time for her to lead a charge at the dumbfounded guards. She and what remained of the other protestors overpowered them, stripping the rifles from the dead bodies and making more in turn. That was the last protest she ever left her earplugs at home – the sound of gunfire rattled the towers and could surely be heard from the rooftops.

  She held her son while the march continued, the authority’s first real defeat.

  Rickard’s face was riddled with bullet-holes, blood puckered around the edges but not leaking. Her ears rang over her crying. Alarms continued to bellow, and the tramline fires ebbed like electric fireplaces on a low setting.

  Her son was dead.

  “Nash!” someone called, pulling her back into the present. “Come on, girl! Let’s get you checked out.” She felt a tug on her arm. It was Lyam. Blood trickled from his hairline and his eyes were fierce, sharp blue.

  “I’m alright, regroup with the others.” There was blood pooled on the midsection and some on her shoes, and for a moment she recalled lifting Rickard’s head, and the gaping wound that was the back of his skull, hands painted red. “No mercy, no pity.”

  “No mercy, no pity,” repeated Lyam, retreating to the encampment beneath the overhang of the tower.

  Eventually, she followed. She saw Uly with his sons Yuri and Ely heading out to the nearside of the barrier to join the protestors there. Elsewhere, others left or joined the ranks, wearing the clothes of the elite that they had looted from Dresdon’s, Oleandor, AJ Marx and other outlets. Not before holes and slits had been sliced into the fabric. The torn material used in the Molotov cocktails. Biofuel worked best, but sometimes synesty was fine; shorter burnlife but bright blue and green in colour which was almost beautiful.

  Hollowed street barriers burned low with high-grade charcoal embers, giving warmth amongst the tents and canopies that made up the encampment. Overhead, the neon strips embedded into the concrete overhang provided a dull light. Somewhere, meat was turning black.

  She stepped out of the drizzle and into the dry, and weaved her way through the tents to the repurposed restaurant currently acting as headquarters. When did things get so organised? The Mantle was an upscale restaurant of oak timber furniture and mirrors, styled with light pastel colours. A map of Neon adorned a table to the rear, chairs stacked against the wall.

  There was no time to sit and wait.

  Only time to stand and take action.

  “You alright?” asked Ben Froome. He looked up from the map, bearded face bathed in yellow light, accentuating his thick blonde hair. Palms down, knuckles hairy and fingers thick; he reminded her of Rickard with his size, only twice the age. Grey flecks in the beard.

  “Fine. Any news?” She stood beside him and he put his hand on hers, emanating his warmth.

  “What were you
expecting?”

  “I don’t know – some kind of break?”

  “The relay hasn’t returned yet. Should be back soon. That a new graze?”

  “Sonic rifle. We Molotoved them.”

  “No mercy, no pity.”

  “No mercy, no pity,” repeated Lyam as he joined them. “Their defences look solid.”

  “It’s not by force that we will break them, anyway,” said Ben. “Did we give out any contacts?”

  “Just the one,” replied Nash. “He had a look about him.”

  Lyam’s face contorted into a grimace. “They all have that look about them when we attack.”

  “We need to be more careful,” said Ben. “Some of them are itching to use live ammunition again, whether in the media or not.” He turned his attention to the screen beside them and switched on the livecast app. A montage of video streams chequered the wall, from the iris recorders of over three-dozen protestors at various locations around the city. Combined with the media drones in ever-present orbit above them, nothing was out of the public eye. “I think we’re pushing them to the limit. At some point they’ll turn off the broadcasts as a last resort. What they’ll do to us then is anyone’s guess.”

  “I’m ready,” said Lyam. “Let them bring it.”

  Nash looked up as the sound of shouting brewed outside, bodies hustling by the window. “What’s going on?”

  “Let’s go see.”

  Ben and Lyam joined her at the restaurant exit, and then followed as she made her way to the commotion. It was still raining, cool on her face, and light bounced from raindrop to raindrop. Smoke drifted high, twisting against the night, colour of shale. The downed red-and-blue lights of a manned authority drone bounced from the puddled street.

  It lay crumpled with its rotors split and torn in half, windows shattered, the occupant folded over the dashboard, still as a painting.

  “Over there!” someone shouted, and all heads turned to the skies.

  “More of them!” someone else yelled.

  Five manned drones sped towards them, hauling nets filled with tiny CS gas dispersal bombs. Quickly, Nash charged at the downed drone and pulled at the contorted door. It freed with a squeal. She yanked the body free and held it up, hoping the man would wake and take his own weight. He groaned and she shouted in his ear. “Wake up, you bastard.” She poked him in the side until he started to struggle, at which point she breathed out, relieved. “You are one heavy son-of-a-bitch.”

  “Fuck you,” he grumbled.

  “Don’t move or I’ll shoot,” she said, pressing her finger into his side with more force. He wore his aug-glasses, complete with microphone. “You hear me? You drop those dirty bombs of yours and I’ll shoot this one.”

  The drones began to descend; they swooped low over the police barrier, rain and air swooshing about them, their rotor-noise growing.

  “You gonna test me? I wouldn’t play chicken – you killed my son. I’d have no problem killing one of yours.”

  “What are you doing?” Ben shouted over the din. “Get outta here!”

  She looked about; the street was emptying with people rushing for the safety of the tower, for even in the tents the CS bombs would not be pleasant. “You should get!” she shouted back.

  “Fuck sake, Nash. You think that will stop them!” He shook his head and glanced at the oncoming vehicles. Instead of running away, he stepped in next to her.

  “I said you should get!”

  He gave her a smile. “And I said you should give it up.”

  A cam-drone lowered itself to head height, watching them, just as the five manned drones passed overhead, cargo undropped. She stared at the camera lens, unblinking, smiling. “That’s right. Well done.” Her captive struggled and she poked him some more. Another cam-drone, this one from the media, dropped down, followed by more. Before long, she was surrounded and drowned in light.

  “Now what?” whispered Ben. She loved him, but he had no sense for the theatrical.

  “No mercy, no pity.” The eyes of the city were on her. Good job she was dressed for the occasion. She reached a hand up to the man’s face, traced it up his cheek and beneath his helmet. Then she pulled the helmet off and the aug-glasses with it, throwing them to the street. Bodies moved at the corner of her vision – people returning to the avenue – so she lifted a subtle warning hand.

  “Are you watching closely?” She cast her sight over every camera. “Are you listening? Are you awake? Because we are. And we won’t stop. We fight for the rights of everyone who has been told what to do. What to wear. Where to work. When to breed. Who to love. How to eat, sleep and breathe. They took our babies from us. They must not be allowed to continue. The time for change is now. You’re either with us, or against us. No mercy, no pity.” She jerked her captive’s head sharply, snapping the neck.

  His body made for a heavy thud on the hardtop. Rickard had not been given a second chance; she saw his face in the spotlights directed on her. Felt his touch in Ben’s arm wrapped around her side, pulling at her gently. Heard his silence in the EMP grenade that detonated above the floating drones, dropping them around her.

  “They’re coming back,” said Ben.

  “Let them come.”

  “Don’t be a stubborn idiot.” He almost lifted her off her feet to carry her towards safety. The manned drones returned and let loose their cargo, a volley of magnetised cylindrical balls clattering like hail around them, dispersing into an organised grid. They exploded and the CS gas cloud grew around them, billowing in their coughs. She wanted to shout at the eyes she could see to get inside. Instead she poked at Ben to drop her, and together, they ran for cover.

  Jen

  “Shit! What happened? That was golden.” The look on the Chief’s bulbous red face was less than golden.

  “EMP grenade would be my guess,” Jen said quietly. “Cut to Wendy.”

  The editing technician returned the feed to the studio and Wendy’s face; pale with red lipstick and bobbed, long blonde hair. The NCX logo bloomed on the screen, with the words ‘BREAKING NEWS: PROTESTORS MURDER CIVILIAN’.

  “Well there we have it, seen with your own eyes. One of the leaders of the protest movement, the self-titled Nash Neox, real name Natalia Sergeyev, just held a civilian hostage and then proceeded to murder them in cold blood. The terrorists could have released their hostage since the incoming attack of CS gas – which would not have caused harm and only serve to disperse the radical group – had already been cancelled. More details about the civilian murdered will follow. In the meantime, let’s review tonight’s action with Doctor Bremner.”

  In the control room, Jen said, “Cut to the doctor,” and glanced over at the Chief.

  “Keep it up,” he said. “And get a reserve camera on scene stat.” He gave her a nod and then left the room.

  “You heard him, find the nearest camera and get it on site. We need a shot of that gas for the retribution angle.” She paced the boards, keeping an eye on each camera feed almost without thinking, the nature second to her now. It was a small room tucked away behind the grand and opulently lit main studio, on the 86th floor of Neon’s central tower. Banks of monitors covered one wall, for quick access. Holo-displays and even the link technology that some of the other media studios used could prove ungainly, ineffective, sluggish. Sometimes the old methods were better.

  “I think it’s clear,” the doctor was saying. His brow sweat was being digitally removed for the broadcast. “There is no negotiating with these people. They have reached their breaking point, and while a few of them will have the best of intentions at heart, it’s obvious that for the majority of these terrorists, they just want to cause as much destruction and mayhem as possible.”

  Jen whispered: “And if that means killing a few innocent people in the process, so be it.”

  The doctor nodded. “And if that means killing a few innocent people in the process, so be it.”

  “And what about this Nash Neox?” asked Wendy. “She
is obviously an insidious and dangerous individual. What are the authorities doing about her?”

  “Well, hopefully they will be dealing with her in the harshest of possible terms. And not just her, of course, but anyone who has it in their mind to join the terrorists. They can be persuasive – that’s how it is with psychopaths, I should know I’ve treated a few. They like to charm. They’ll play innocent and give you a sob story. They’ll mirror you; how you act and talk, the kind of language you use, but also your psychology. They’ll make you think you’re on the same side, when in fact, she just wants to use you. Play with you. Tell you what to think and do. Turn you against your friends and family. And before you know it you’re in too deep. Before you know it you’re facing down the barrel of a sonic rifle. Or breathing the poisonous CS gas. Or who knows, maybe tonight was the tipping point. Maybe live ammunition will be reintroduced and the insurgents dealt with for good. You’ll be no good dead.”

  “Digress,” whispered Jen, arms crossed as she stared fixedly at the doctor on the monitor.

  “But I digress,” he continued. “Nash obviously has her grievances. It’s the way she and everyone else is going about their complaint that is the problem. The authority has everything under control. Insemination clinics are being set up across the city in preparation for the re-fertility process; we’re taking the names and addresses of those affected as we speak. We’re taking blood samples from the mother and father; we’re taking eggs and sperm samples, and we’re diagnosing the specific causes for each mother’s infertility. We’re finding a broad range of causes, from extreme forms of polycystic ovary syndrome, endometriosis, and other ovulation complications, to genetic issues that may have been passed down the generations, as some rumours have suggested. I think it’s important to stress that what we are seeing today is in no way a man-made complication, it simply wouldn’t be possible. More likely the freak occurrence of nature – we are after all in a bubble, what affects one affects us all. The greater issue at play here is time – each treatment needs to be personalised, which is why over one hundred clinics are currently undergoing a retrofitting regime to ensure that we manage to do what we need to do, in as quickly a timeframe as possible. After all, it’s not just our lives at stake, but the lives of future generations.”