The Unlicensed Consciousness

by Travis Borne

  Ron could feel the tremor of Abell’s charge travel up his arm and he blinked his eyes in disbelief. He was holding onto the wall and the vibration of it, compounded with the unbelievable sight, shocked him into a momentary stupor. His eyes rounded and his thin jaw dropped. He’d known Abell had been genetically modified in the past, made able to build muscle with ease, but this? He’d never seen such an explosion of power from any organic being. Of course, he’d heard others talk about Abell’s unstoppable bull charge before, but he’d always thought it was just talk.

  David lumbered to the four-foot-tall control panels split between the sliding door. He had decided to end it, assisted by his alcohol-induced false bravado, and had killed the power. But now, what? He expected the machines to be drilling, eventually—perhaps for a long, long time. His drunken reasoning was simple: no freedom if he opened it outright, they’d toss him outside the wall and he’d be dead. And yes, they would eventually get it open. So, kill the power, kill ’em all, and sit tight for who knows how long, maybe a year, maybe the machines would leave and forget about him. Yes, maybe they’d drill and cut and eventually get in, but it would still buy him more time than he’d get by giving up. But now, no, it can’t be, it’s opening!

  The door had yet to fully open but Abell timed his charge perfectly and would reach it just in time. He built up enough speed to go straight through the wall and emerge in the quarantined desert on the other side. Almost there. And he let out a deep roar, “Arrhhh Ruuurhhh!” Every muscle in his body was steel and his head was about to explode; the noise was involuntary, a release, for like a neglected pressure-cooker, something would’ve popped. Ready for impact! Now, his vision distorted at the edges like a lens; the per-square-inch pressure throughout his body was a mother-in-law’s overextended visit. He was an erupting volcano focused on one thing, with two laconic words at the forefront of his brain: NEUTRALIZE TRAITOR. And he spotted his target.

  About as fast as a heart beats, yellow light from the rebooting screens was a strobe flashing onto the walls. David heard the door but couldn’t quite force his body to cooperate. And, as he exited the supply bunker he slipped on Chang’s blood, barely managing to catch himself. He was drunk on the ancient supplies, stored whiskey and wine, but still coherent enough to realize the door was opening, and knew he was in for it. Bracing his wobble, crutch-armed above the panel, he plastered the buttons. Gotta, re-activate yellow status! But he couldn’t see clear enough to get the right combination; the system was in the reboot process and until it finished there was nothing he could do anyway. Then he heard it. The roar echoed throughout the hall. His bloodshot eyes gaped followed by two very hard blinks. Abell charging! A triple shot of panic jolted his nervous system and he took a whopping dose of sobriety no different than if he’d bit down on the line of an electric fence. No! And he fumbled with his last resort: the revolver he’d found in the storage room. Front and center, facing the enormous rage runner, David put the cold steel deep into his mouth—click, click, click. Old bullets—useless.

  Forearms crossed like the letter X, Abell blasted through the door. He shot between the flashing panels, clipping one, taking it off its mounts. The lanky drunk took his best: against the rearmost wall, cracking it, and there went most of David’s ribs.

  The hit squeezed every last molecule of air from David’s lungs and forced the gun barrel further into the back of his throat. He could only breathe out. His lungs became vacuum bags without the vacuum. The feeling, getting-the-wind-knocked-out, was escalated to a whole new level of torture. And his body spasmed and gasped. He made runty gurgles as he deep-throated the rusty steel. And his eye sockets repulsed his eyeballs.

  Abell towered over the beady-eyed wriggler. He was steel, harder than steel! His eyes were a drill and his breath blasts of hot steaming rage. Holding still for a moment, arms persisting as an X, pressing, Abell thought of Amy once more, and glared at David. Severely disgusted by the worm, his puny gasping, useless jerking and squirming, his body trying to continue to live—this organism, trying to live! It was a side of Abell that rarely, if ever, or never, came out! He was acting on pure, seemingly new hatred and focused it onto one being, one spot on the insect before him: the thin nose between David’s beady sunken eyes. Right now, David was his bête noire, and no person on earth wanted to be Abell’s bête noire.

  Now, Abell perceived David as an it, no longer deserving a name, title, or even the simple pronoun, he. And it spasmed as if to vomit, still unable to exhale a breath, then its eyeballs rolled back. It was all involuntary now, the unworthy organism discharged a spasm of attempts to overcome its moribund state.

  But before it could go limp Abell snatched the gun, grasping hand and all, its fingers still trapped around the grip, clenching the trigger. A nasty exit. The gun-barrel’s sight snapped its front teeth and slit its upper lip. The sharp pain instantly reversed the coming darkness of its fate and it finally took in some air. But Abell continued the torture. He squeezed hard, breaking its fingers around the handle.

  Ron came in. He winced at the cracking, crunching, and wheezing. It was a side of Abell he’d never imagined, couldn’t imagine, and nothing like what he’d seen from the hologram table all these years—this time he had real and highly charged emotion. He was a giant gone haywire, breathing loudly, flexing in an almost abnormal way. He was bright-red over every inch of his body and his clothes were ripping. And Ron got scared. He wanted to yell stop, but the shock, the sight of it…

  Abell twisted its wrist, spinning its hand around simultaneously then forced the limb up along its spine and shook until the now deformed fingers let the pistol fall. The gun hit the floor and discharged. Abell didn’t even flinch as the bullet grazed his leg.

  Ron instinctively hunched as the bullet ricocheted inside the control room, then he made his way around the torture, heading to the leftmost inner control panel. Still wincing and trying to turn a deaf ear, he started tackling what needed to be done.

  It finally caught another breath with a long, gurgling wheeze, but Abell wasn’t finished. He grabbed it by the back of the neck and lifted. Its legs dangled like uncooked french-fries and a shoe fell off. After its first full inhale it managed a girlish scream and spat blood. The pitch peaked when its elbow snapped. Face still beet red, Abell let out another roar and took it to the right, toward the polished steel wall next to the storage-room door. Its feet dangled like snakes, moving as if trying to run backwards, to prevent what was about to happen. It was a hood ornament on a city bus and its eyelids opened so wide the eyeballs once again began their de-socket procedure, but the wall came quickly. Complete sobriety, as unwanted as it was, arrived with the collision. The short charge was more than enough to finish its punishment.

  A crunching crack! Its face smacked the wall first and the body followed. The wind knocked out again—all cries ceased. And Abell released. It fell to the floor: a limp noodle of brokenness.

  Ron came over with handcuffs as David’s unconscious body wheezed, getting only enough air to cleave life. His cheekbone was broken. The misplaced bump that was once near his right eye… Forget it, Ron thought, no more. And he turned at the gruesome sight. Shocked, he looked up at Abell, who stood huffing, a contracting tower of muscle.

  Abell began the transformation, back to normal—if there could ever be such a thing in this mad world. Since his first login with Amy he’d noticed the changes, and realized just then, while looking down at David’s body, he would have to learn to control his new and much stronger emotions, imagination, passions—and rage.

  “Glad you're on my side,” Ron said. Abell just stood there, quiet, looking down and huffing deep, changing back into the gentle giant everyone knew him to be. His color returned and he became white once again. “Abell, can you just watch him? I need to manage some things in here.” Abell nodded.

  “Ted, can you hear me,” Ron said, calling the broadcast room. “Ted, Devon, do you—”

  “We read you, Ron,” Devon said. “You’r
e in?”

  “Yes, we’ve regained control, and power is at 100% but I’m seeing many of our defenses are down.”

  “More bad news, Ron,” Ted said. “The broadcast feed, it’s in the red.”

  “Oh, no,” Ron said slowly. He turned to the defense tracking screen. He’d been busy with other procedures and never thought, not in a—no! The shock of seeing it was a capacitor discharging into his spine and his legs became rubber bands. “No, no, no. It can’t—” He froze.

  “What, Ron?” Ted asked.

  “No better here, Ted. The perimeter ships, all of them, they’re down. And—we have incoming. Wall lasers are still operable.”

  “Nothing we can do now but lock down,” Ted said. “We’re already getting a team logged in again, but unfortunately it will take a while until the feed is back up, at least a half hour, even with our best lenders. There’s very little left in the buffer. It might drive the lasers for a while, our systems, but if it goes to zero, we’re dead forever. We’re—gonna take a beating.”

  Devon sighed, looking up at Ted, who was standing over him. Ted shook his head slowly. The twins, both, had their thin hands on their thin faces and elbows on their panels. Behind them lenders filled every bed and were trying to relax. Lower-level lenders were instructed to remain quiet and stay in the break room. Ted began sliding levers for the pairs that were ready to log in.

  78. Red Alert

  The great wall resounded the blaring alarms. It was eerily perturbing with a lingering echo. Bong, gong, tuning fork, dentist drill, satanic record, hardcore riffs. All of that played by a deaf band in a metal box, then broadcast, amplified. Continual torture. Always seeing those enormous silver horns mounted around town on tall wooden posts; the thought didn’t quite match the true reality of finally hearing their slow and rhythmic whoooooo-epp, whoooooo-epp. But the sounds were distorted like an acid-trip’s ear fuck.

  And inside and out, red lights flashed—the Jewel City Defense Center safe room, destination for all. Amid the dissonance, townspeople rushed to it. Some carried chickens, others, anything they could clasp. All hurried inside where they were promptly directed by security personnel.

  Botanist Kim Mills lugged a silver suitcase of seeds. Rob Price helped her with other essential items from the gardens; behind them three large men and one massive woman shouldered the Meat Master 5000. Some carried screens and others had various items from the library. The youngest of the town, all older teenagers now, ran ahead carrying jugs of water as instructed.

  Inside the bay three strong men pulled on the thick chain and the massive outer door began to close. They closed it part way, keeping readiness.

  Louder than the sirens, a deafening holler came from behind several layers of scrambling folks. Bertha. She blasted her way through and all made way at the sound of her train horn. Like a black bison on roids she had the front of Amy’s stretcher, two men held the rear, several nurses surrounded her, and the docs followed toting medical equipment. Hilda and Tim entered, escorting Jessie Star. Seniors carrying bundles of food, VCR tapes and magazines, doodads and gadgets, came last. The code Rico had told Ed to deliver denoted there was some time, about an hour, and instructed everyone to save what could be saved in that time frame, anything important—for there was a possibility everything else would be torched. And it looked like everyone was going to make it, being about ninety people left.

  Ed Barton and Jose Limon stood outside the door, waving people into the 100-by-100-foot bay. Mitch and new security team member Joey directed people from there, left into the more protected safe room. There was plenty of space in the ample bay area but the safe room was almost impenetrable, yet, only about half the size. Filing in like dominoes with no potential energy, they continued to pack themselves.

  And then, it caught his eye. Jose saw it first. “Ed, look!” Aghast, he raised a finger. The pointing and his shocked expression was enough to spread the word like chili powder on a windy day. One after another eyes lit like matches at what almost couldn’t be believed. The freak thunderstorm had cleared, but this was something else. A thick swarm of drones flew over the wall due west behind the gardens and slithered into town. The dark fog of snakes passed through the operational forcefield, leaving a halo of blue flashes—as if there was nothing there. They must’ve prepared with countermeasures—an anti-frequency! Perimeter-defense lasers engaged. Brilliant red laser beams fired inward from the wall-top, making a starburst that could probably be seen from space, from the moon!—yet hardly made a dent, there were far too many. The swarm divided into several branches, each slinking its way down and about, each taking a mouthful of lasers that could annihilate a city, each, as undeterred as a snake in a garden of baby rabbits. The thickest stream maintained a beeline toward the facility. Ed’s peepers bulged further than their hairy equators. Some…were not going to make it.

  “Move it people, let’s go. Let’s go let’s go let’s go!” Jose commanded.

  “Here they come, we have to shut the door now!” Ed yelled, backing up. Then he was shoved aside—and still outside the door. The remaining people panicked and flooded in. Jose, being very thin, managed to merge with the flow and slip inside. But Ed couldn’t get a window; the flow of citizens was unremitting.

  Inside, Mitch saw the threat and picked up right where Ed left off, “Shut it, shut it now. Shut it now or we’re all dead!” Tim and Hilda left Jessie alone and rushed to help fence and direct the flow of citizens. The once cold metal box was now a sweaty, steamy, panic room.

  Chickens were tossed, clothes dropped, food and water flung, whole bags of stuff—everything they were carrying. Many tripped. Many were trampled. Those winning by fighting chance ascended the living ramp, which quickly became a mountain, and dove inside.

  The three Goliaths near Abell’s size were now heaving on the chain with every iota of strength they could muster. And the thirty-by-twenty-foot steel door picked up unstoppable momentum, closing fast.

  A low wailing cacophony was hell uncorked and rapidly rising in tone. The sound of a tornado, made distinct with a ringing discordant screech; it quickly drowned out the noise from the sirens and screams and havoc. A chicken unintentionally got kicked in through the remaining sliver and flew up and over the stampede.

  BONG!

  Everything half inside was flattened or snipped, horrifically, including the blue-sleeved arm of a security officer. Gasps and screams echoed inside the now sealed bay. The horizontal steel bar came down with an ear-piercing CLANG, adding reinforcement to the door and a jolting stab to already panicked hearts.

  Inside the well-lit bay area those remaining hustled chaotically into the safe room. The flashing red-alert glow added desperation to the minds of most of the townspeople, for sadly many didn’t make it. Cries took on a ghostly howl. And the phantom cries of many still outside, pounding on the bay door. Like sheep but standing, tightly compressed, all facing outward, the red strobe gleamed like a countdown, glinting in hundreds of terrified eyes.

  The larger outer bay door would hold, but not long, as it was just known. And with the enormity of what they’d just seen—how could anything in the world stop something like that? People calmed slightly as the mentally strong assuaged the weak and screaming, and cooperatively everybody squeezed inside. Survival instincts kicked in, they wanted to hear it. Although muffled by the door, the hushed tone made it possible to hear the noise outside: a humming thunder, a crescendoing screeching hurricane.

  The docs now held Amy’s stretcher in the rear. The large men who had been holding it put women on their shoulders to make space. Other giants did the same. Bertha still had the front and they were the last inside, trying to fit the awkward shape. The same three men worked the chains, now for the safe-room door. Teens stood on the Meat Master to get a last glimpse over the crowd.

  The bay was empty now, save for a few frantic chickens, then suddenly the door to the lender facility slid open. It was Jim and, someone else. Jim saw Bertha and the docs carrying Amy,
trying to accommodate her inside the crowded room. Closing slowly, the safe-room door had ten feet to go until it sealed.

  “Bertha!” Jim yelled from across the bay. They were rotating the stretcher to get her deeper inside. Young Doc heard, acknowledged, and relayed the call. Then, like a barrage of Gatling guns all firing at once, the machines hit the outer door. The thick steel bulged and people covered their ears.

  “Bring Amy!” Jim yelled. But the pounding resonance had stolen his voice. The noise grew like human population at the turn of the millennium. Cutting and drilling and knocking like that of a million sledge hammers stifled the sound of cries, the sound of everything.

  Jim motioned widely with his arms. “Bring Amy! Over here!” Bertha turned to see him waving. She commanded the docs with a roar that rivaled the blaring cacophony and they rotated Amy. Others made a path and they ran out just in time.

  BONG! The two-foot-thick safe-room door closed behind them.

  And something else!

  Both Jim and Nelman witnessed it with desperate eyes. A small hole appeared in the outer bay door and the noise increased to level: ear-fuck, ear fist-fuck! The machines leaked in. Smaller drones entered while others worked on increasing the size of the breach, burning its edges with needle-to-the-eye welding sparks. An orange glow tinged the edges and molten red glaze dripped inside, blobbing onto the cement floor. The first were no bigger than a dinner plate and paused as a group, hovering, scanning the interior with flat red beams. Quickly they noticed the stretcher being hustled across the bay.

  The bay’s lasers initiated and targeted the drones as they neared Amy, burning them to black ash. But the defense was becoming more and more useless with every second. Other holes appeared until the door was Swiss cheese. The first large hole erupted like a volcano’s vomiting maw. Masses flooded the bay. Tire-sized attack drones forced their way through, all different, no two alike. They swirled as one, prepping a formation as if ready deliver a targeted sockdolager, then plunged toward Amy, Bertha, and the docs. Wall lasers took out the front line only to reveal layer after layer, thousands ready to die.