by Various
A desperate search of the room reveals no food, and no answers to the question of where I am. One entire wall of the room is glass, a window, and it is from behind this window that the strange lights and reflections originate.
There's only one door leading out of the room, and pressing my ear to it all seems quiet on the other side. It opens into a narrow hallway leading to the room behind the glass.
Bile rises in my throat and a painful shiver wracks my body and weakens my knees so that I have to lean against the wall for support. My nose begins to bleed and suddenly, calmly, I know that I am dying. My distended stomach aches in a deep, unnatural way, and I can feel bad things happening in my kidneys, my lungs, my brain.
Staggering into the room, I am bathed in the dancing liquid light, and enveloped in a warm, wet mist. I fall to my knees, my legs no longer able to support me. The air is thick and cloying, almost claustrophobic, but somehow, despite my failing body, comfortable and inviting. I only want to sleep. I only want to hear those voices chattering through my neural net once more before I commit myself to… to what, I couldn't even guess.
On my knees I crawl to the source of the strange lights. Twelve objects, each set beneath a lamp of its own, each tilted towards the ceiling, receptacles of some sort-I lean forward and peer into the closest one.
Wrapped in a filthy synth-fab blanket is a sleeping infant. Twelve cradles span the room. Twelve babies. But like no babies I could ever have imagined in my wildest nightmares-they are like nothing I'd ever seen or heard described in any neural news session or lesson.
The first infant is more tubes and wires than baby- a misshapen clump of muscle and exposed organs held together by electric wire and intravenous tubing. Its heart throbs in an open cavity, its lungs rise and fall with bloody, rhythmic, tidal regularity. Morbidly curious, it is all that I can do to turn away-I have never seen anything like it.
And in the next cradle-an infant with no arms or legs, just a bulbous head and under-sized torso. And there's a pinhead over there, pointed head no larger than my clenched fist.
"Please do not disturb them," a monotone, electronic voice snaps me from my inspection of the children, "Please do not touch my sugarplums."
I whirl around.
Standing behind me on tractor-tread wheels is a large mechanical woman. The color of dark tarnished brass, with a microphone-mouth and green-glass eyes, her boxy figure towers over me, segmented arms beckoning me to move away from the cradles. Multitudes of dexterous, spaghetti-thin fingers worry together with click-clacking intensity at the ends of her hands.
"Please," she implores through unmoving lips, "Do not harm the little ones. Do not hurt my sugarplums."
"What is this?" I ask. The bile again rises in my throat, and I'm unable to keep it down. Gagging, I dribble foul black ooze over my beard and down the front of my red army of salvation uniform.
"Please step away from the children," the mechanical woman pleads, then in a softer tone, "Here, let me help you." With a much gentler grip that I would have imagined, she lifts me into her arms and places me on a cot in the far corner of the room, near the window away from the babies. "You are sick," she says, matter-of-factly.
I nod. I try to speak, but another fit of heaving seizes me. A long belch followed by another spurt of bile sprays the woman, but she seems not to notice.
"Here," she pours a tall glass of ice water and places it into my hand. "Drink this."
"Who are you?" I ask, "What is this place?"
"This is the Rebirth Center," she answers. "I am MA-368. You may call me Ma." Her electronic voice betrays a compassionate warmth. In a comforting tone she orders me to finish the water and to lie back and try to sleep. "You are exhausted," she says, "Your body needs to rest."
"But the babies," I ask, "What's wrong with them?"
Ma's voice becomes firm. "Why, there is nothing wrong with them," she says in a tone that leaves no room for argument. "They are exactly as god and nature and the city and their parents have made them."
"But what is this place," I ask. "This Rebirth Center?" Already my eyes are growing heavy and the soft cot seems to suck me down into it. My mind begins to wander and drift, and I can imagine Ma smiling as she speaks.
"This is where the unwanted babies are born," she explains, "This is where the ugly ducklings and the sickly ones and the damaged children are born and where they stay until they-"
"Stay?" I mumble as I'm drifting off.
"The ones who are born in such a way that no human eye should ever have to look upon them, stay here. My little sugarplums. They stay here until they are well enough, and then they leave." I thought of Dexter, skulking in the shadows and living a life out of sight of the prying eyes of god-the thought of those all-seeing, selectively blind eyes made me remember the items in my sack. "And the ones who are too sickly live here until they die here," she finished.
"I thought you said that there was nothing wrong with them…" My weary voice sounds distant and slurred.
"There is nothing wrong with them," Ma insists. "They are exactly as god and nature and the city and their parents have made them. All of the healthy children bred in the birthing centers are returned to their parents. And the unhealthy ones-the muties, the sickies, the deformed, diseased and disfigured-remain here. Their parents are given other, healthier children.
"But healthy or not, they are exactly as god and nature and the city and their parents have made them. But no human eyes should ever have to look upon them."
"Why not?" I ask. Ma remains silent. "Why shouldn't human eyes ever have to look upon them?"
After a moment, she answers, "They never have. It is better this way." But she doesn't sound as if she believes herself. "Now sleep."--
***
Neural Log: 23:83-17-
--I dream that I am flying. Soaring majestically up through the rings of Crack City. Over balconies and under sky-bridges, cruising boldly up to and over the eyes of god, and then quickly turning and arcing down, down towards the Refuservoir, gaining speed, momentum, inertia, plummeting almost to the point of impact and then up again-past the Red Ring, past the cafeteria window, past the credit-lined sidewalks of 24-G and up, up, up through the very Crack itself and on into the dazzling, fiery heavens.
Looking down I can see that Crack City is just a glowing scarlet slash in a cold black orb, a crimson eye watching me from below, but growing smaller and smaller as I ascend, impotent and powerless to stop me…
And in my dream I am suddenly, powerfully aware that ascension is all that there is-a beautiful, natural aspect of the soul. Of every soul. In death we are all free-free of rings, free of levels, free of aspiration, free of struggle. Free of the myth of 24-G.
It occurs to me that there is no such thing in life as rising or falling, climbing or sinking-the rings and levels of Crack City are nothing more than a game of the living. The soul can never be demoted, it cannot help but to ascend, to rise, to escape, to be free. The only real demotion is for the living.
The only real demotion is for those helpless, hapless children born in such a way that no human eyes should ever have to look upon them…--
***
Neural Log: 23:85-35-
--When I awake, I know that it is for the last time. I am dying. My bloated stomach tells me this as much as the sour taste in my mouth and the throbbing in my brain. But for the first time in all of my memory, I am not afraid.
Another fit of vile retching seizes me, and when I finally catch my breath I look up to find Ma holding me in her metal arms. Warm plastic fingers stroke my fevered cheeks, comforting me, caring for me.
"What's wrong with me?" I ask, as if I don't already know.
"Nothing is wrong with you," Ma whispers softy. "You are exactly as god and nature and the city and your parents have made you."
"But I'm too sick to live," I smile. "So it looks like I'm going to die here."
"Then that is as it should be," Ma answers. "It is better this way."
> "But before that happens," I struggle to sit up-a violent pain erupts in my belly, making me gasp. "Before I die, Ma-there's something I want you to help me with, there's something that I want to do. There's a… gift I want to give."
"Gift?" Curiosity tinges her voice, "For whom?"
"For you, Ma" I smile. And then I start to laugh until the pain in my gut makes it too hard. "For everyone."
"What is it?"
I have to think about this before answering.
"Salvation," I finally tell her.--
***
Neural Log: 23:85-97-
--The components of my velvet sack are laid out neatly on the floor. Some have been taken apart, scavenged for parts, others proved altogether unnecessary. It took us the better part of the day, but with Ma's help my project is now complete.
Mounted to the corner of the ceiling, the eye of god is positioned to look directly down on the twelve cradles. Ma has removed the blankets from the infants, exposing them in all their disfigured glory.
A long wire snakes down from the eye of god and connects it to the neural implant that I'd removed from the factory conveyor below the Refuservoir. Ma holds the implant in one hand and an electric scalpel in her other, as she prepares to begin the operation that will kill me.
I feel the knife cut, slicing cleanly through skin and skull. I feel Ma's plastic needle-fingers gently lifting the bone away, then poking, prying and closing on my damaged neural implant. Carefully, she removes the broken implant and replaces it with the new one-the one which is directly linked to the eye of god.
"Are you ready?" she asks. Ready not sure, she never asks me if I'm sure.
I nod. She turns from me and flips a switch on the wall giving power to the eye and to the implant. My brain is flooded with images and voices and news and conversation and ads and prayers and decrees and instructions. It takes all my effort to tune out the cacophonic noise of the net and focus on my surroundings.
Twelve cradles fill my mind. Seen through the eye of god-twelve stark examples of all the horrors of nature, of man, of Crack City.
If ignorance is bliss and knowledge is a gift, then my gift is the knowledge of the Rebirth Center and its children-its muties, its sickies, its deformed, diseased and disfigured-Crack City's children, our children. Seen through the eye of god and through my neural implant, then out into the net and into everyone's homes.
Through the neural net and into the minds and souls of everyone in Crack City-the citizens and cyber-sluts, the workers and bosses, the mothers and the fathers, priests and politicians. Everyone from the Red Ring all the way up to the Elite on 24-G suddenly stop what they are doing, sit bolt upright, awake in horror, close their eyes and open their minds, take pause, reconsider, swallow hard, reflect, fall silent, understand-as visions of the sugarplums dance through their heads.--
SCOTT C. CARR
Scott C. Carr is writer and journalist with an insatiable curiosity for modern folklore. He has written extensively about the sociology behind the paranormal and other bizarre subcultures and has appeared as an expert on both television and radio, including recently FOX News: FOX In Focus and the film documentary The Hudson Valley Sightings. In addition, he produced and co-hosted his own radio talk show UFO Desk on 99.5 FM WBAI, NY. He's the Chief Editor of the critically acclaimed Apocalypse Fiction Magazine and the Writer and Executive Producer of the AFM/Blue Moon Movies film, The NUKE Brothers. He has written for Sony Entertainment, Artisan Films' Distant Corners Entertainment Group, and his fiction and nonfiction have recently appeared in Pulp Eternity, Pegasus Fiction, The Dream People Literary Magazine, The MUFON Journal, The Flying Saucer Gazette, and the Double Dragon Publishing anthologies Of Flesh and Hunger and The Wicked Will Laugh. A chapter from his novel Believer will appear in Sick: An Anthology of Illness. Carr's work has been favourably reviewed in both MovieLine and Heavy Metal: The Adult Illustrated Fantasy Magazine, and in 1999 he was awarded The Hunter S. Thompson Award for Outstanding Journalism.
Nightmare on 34th Street
By Paul Kane
Christmas Eve.
A time of loving, of giving. Peace on Earth and good will to all men…or should that be "persons" in this Politically Correct day and age? Yeah, right. Officer Mal Docherty hadn't seen much evidence of "Peace on Earth" recently, hadn't seen much evidence in all his years on the force come to think of it. Yes, it was true that the crime rate had gone down in New York, so the figures said. But here on the streets, down here you saw plenty. Muggings, stabbings…and shootings - there were never any shortage of those. The last one he'd seen involved a drugs case back in August. Mal and his partner, Norman Young, had provided back-up for the cops in charge of the case, and they'd witnessed the worst possible outcome of a deal gone sour. Mal could see the blood now, exploding out of the victim's chest as the bullet… He shook his head; he'd seen worse anyway. Much worse.
"Here y'go, Tee," said Harry Grable, handing over two steaming cups of coffee to Mal. "That'll keep you going for a while."
"Thanks, Harry." Mal had been coming to Harry's stall ever since it became part of his beat a few years ago. Harry made the best damned cup of java you'd ever tasted, and his hot dogs and doughnuts weren't so shabby either. The large man with salt and pepper hair and a glowing red nose that would give Rudolph a run for his money leant against his cart, grinning as Mal fished about in his pocket for change.
"No need for that, Tee. On the house tonight. It's Christmas."
Mal looked up and down the street, surveying the scene. The swell of bodies filling up the space, bobbing in and out of stores - most notably Crosby's, the biggest store on 34th Street - all doing their last minute shopping. Not too far away a Salvation Army band was playing "O Come All Ye Faithful"... Quite who the faithful were, Mal had no idea, but the bandleader was conducting the music for all he was worth in case they happened to show up. Lights glimmered in the darkness, the festive decorations illuminating the whole area. Above, giant screens advertised everything from aftershave or perfume at one end of the present scale to outrageously expensive sports cars at the other: a stocking filler for the man or woman who has everything.
"So it is," said Mal. "God bless us every one." He raised his coffee in salute, then took a sip, the liquid warming him up temporarily. It was freezing out here tonight, the weathermen - sorry, weather-people - promising snow again before the evening was out, to top up the layer that had already settled the day before last. Mal wasn't looking forward to working on Christmas Eve, of all nights. But he and Norm had drawn the shitty straw once again so he'd just have to accept the fact that he was on shift now till the wee small hours. It meant that he'd miss all the preparations that were going on back at his home. His children, Lauren (seven) and Brad (five) getting all excited, ready to put out the mince pies and sherry for Santa, Wendy helping them make out their wish lists, a tradition from Mal's own childhood. Then they'd put them under the tree in the hopes they'd be replaced with brightly-coloured packages tied up with bows the next morning. That's really what it was all about, the innocence of being a kid - their belief in the magic. Mal missed that now he was a grown up.
"You been watchin' too many old movies, Tee,' said Harry.
"Yeah," replied Mal. There were plenty on TV to choose from at the moment, the titles more of an irony nowadays: It's a Wonderful Life… Is that right? Still, better than living in the real world, he supposed. "Well, cheers, Harry. You have a good one, won't you?"
"You too, Tee. Say hello to the missus and the little ones from me."
Mal raised the coffee cups, and turned his back on the vendor. He made his way past the crowds, back to the distinctive blue and white patrol car parked on the opposite side of the road. In shop windows he saw his reflection: the dark uniform of a NY policeman, peaked cap, padded jacket and belt, with baton and gun hanging from it. Mal sometimes wondered why he'd ever joined the ranks of the boys in blue. To make a difference? To make the city a safer place for your average citizen, if such a
thing existed? To help create a decent world for his children, to give them something to believe in? At times it just felt like he was fighting a losing battle.
The lights changed as he got to them, the signal stating he was able to cross safely. Norm sat in the passenger side of the vehicle. He wound down the window as Mal approached, eager to take possession of his drink. The sounds of the radio wafted Mal's way: U2's "Angel of Harlem" playing on a non-stop X-Mas station Norm had found. Mal heard the lyrics "New York like a Christmas Tree, Tonight this City Belongs to Me…" and thought how appropriate the first part was. New York did look like a Christmas Tree tonight, with all the decorations and lights, while the real thing - a giant Tree not too far away - was attracting ever more visitors. But the city did not belong to Mal, didn't belong to anyone. It was an entity in its own right, one that shouldn't be judged by looks alone.
"About time," Norm called out through the gap in the window, "I was beginning to think you were grinding the beans yourself." He took the cup from his partner and drank a mouthful, the coffee sticking to parts of his moustache. Norm looked at Mal. "No doughnuts tonight?"
"Like I said before, Norm, you can do without them." Mal pointed to the policeman's paunch, hanging over his belt. "Save some room for that turkey tomorrow." Mal knew that even though they were separated, Norm's wife, Cynthia, would be cooking a huge spread the next day for him - Mal always got a report back about it when the pair met up again…and she made enough to feed most of the division.
"Oh I can always find room for one of Harry's doughnuts," Norm assured him.
"I'm sure." Mal drank some more of his coffee and looked back over at the crowd again, seeing the faces this time. None of the people on the streets of New York tonight seemed particularly happy, or festive. They looked stressed, impatient, irritable. Christmas had become almost a mirror of modern day society in a way. Everything had to be done in a hurry and there was more pressure than ever to get things right: to keep up. Lose your footing on the treadmill and you were a goner. The ads showed a perfect world that couldn't possibly exist, and was all but impossible to live up to. Happy families, friends, lovers, all gathered around the fire playing games and having fun. The reality? Most family get-togethers ended in rows, most parties relied on booze to kick start them - and as for those on their own at this time of year, thinking they were missing out, well there was no wonder the suicide rate rocketed between December 24th and 26th …