by Stephen Deas
We leave New Amazonia on the next morning, and discover that GZW’s first idea of moving us about turns out to be Angel Point, a sterile shitty orbital hanging over a sterile shitty planet devoid of anything interesting whatsoever. Famous for nothing except being the closest habitation to where the Perot event supposedly happened, but boy, don’t they just make the most of it. I buy myself a Perot baseball cap and a black, one hundred percent alienskin T-shirt with Angel Point inscribed in bloody great silver letters. I figure I’m blending in. Jester figures I look like shit. Man, I want to fuck something.
Three days and five spins later we’re we make a stopover on some other butt-end world. Bryoon, and it’s like someone read what I was thinking when we left Angel Point and is having one great long piss straight in my face. Three days of Mr Cray and Mr GZW and I’m ready to take any alternative, preferably in pill form, but one look at this arsehole of a civilisation and I’m clawing my way past them back into space. No sex, no drugs– hell, water is close to being a controlled substance here– no religion, no culture, no nothing except hot dust and cold clean air. I want chaos. I want chemicals. I want the electric copulation of heaving writhing moaning hot skin, not this. I want to smash shit up but I’m fucked if I’m going to get any of that here. One look each way is all it takes: we don’t like them, they don’t like us. Eventually they let us stay in the space port quarantine zone until our spin to Szenchzuen. Eventually we leave again.
They say– whoever the fuck they are– that spinspace twists your mind, that it does weird stuff to your head. Maybe it does, but then so does the simple act of breathing. The speed of the deluge of living routinely drives people to catatonia, frozen to a coma by overload. Has a fancy Latin name but I don’t know what it is. Sensoria overloadia whogiveasfuckia or something. Whatever it is it translates literally as too much information. Only said in Latin by serious men with lots of letters after their name. Spinspace, though, that does fuck with you the other way with its great big empty full of nothing. Pale grey with black dots, like space but in reverse. I’ve seen the pictures. Different serious men with slightly different letters after their name have a bunch of equations that say why. I even read them once. But then there’s the storms and the black lightning and all those precious equations are at a loss. Throw in the Whispers, the headfuck, and they silently unravel. There are fringe cults who claim the Whispers are the voice of god, not that any can agree on which one, but I know better. The Whispers are the opposite of life. They are the anti-information, an undoing of memory. They’re the echoing ghosts of all the crap you once knew as they leave your thoughts for ever, of the tedious people you wish you hadn’t ever met, of that time in the morning you spend alone picking at the dirt under your nails, of that god-awful advertising jingle that makes you want to stab yourself in the ears until it stops, the eternal fear that somehow, tomorrow, everything will collapse. The understanding that spinspace takes away pieces of memory is something I find it reassuring. Terrifies some, but to me it’s a cleansing. Much better than the notion that the Whispers are God. Although I guess you never know. If God really is out there then I guess I know what word to expect.
Sucker.
The Whispers let me down this time. We spin down and I’m still remembering with nauseating clarity that Angel Point and Bryoon exist. Fuck, I’m actually looking forward to Szenchzuen because really, after those two, how bad can it be?
We land. It’s dark. We drive and Mr GZW finally drops us off at a place we soon start calling The Shithole. It has another name, Huehuetenango or something, too many syllables that are too hard to say when I’m drunk. The Shithole is like two different towns that happen to be in the same place. Best I can tell from the bulk of it, the government here exists mostly to give the native population a reason to emigrate. And then there’s the corporate zone where we are. In The Shithole in a luxury hotel suite on the edge with a balcony that has a fine view overlooking thousands of hovels full of starving poor people. You’d think, after all this time, after everything our species has managed to do, there wouldn’t be places like this anymore, but no, they’re everywhere, like something from the twentieth century. Or the tenth. Or the first. Not sure places like this see the difference. From time to time Jester and I stand there and play a little game: who can be the first to spot the new corpses. Jester always wins, but then my eyes don’t have serial numbers.
If you want to do something nowhere else will let you get away with, come to Szenchzuen or a dozen other worlds like it – live human test subjects free with every franchise. I guess that’s why GZW are here, why they’re so put out about what happened up in orbit. Say one thing for the Stars– they might throw rocks at your planets now and then, but they’ll stand up for you when someone starts pissing with your DNA. Well, as long as you believe in their god and the purity and sanctity of the human form and are ethnically Caucasian and are either male or a woman from Stepford. The Stars are as they ever were: comfort for conformity and please leave your culture at the door when you come in – and still, everyone in places like this wants to be a part of them, because at least then you’re not starving.
Still, I like it better than New Amazonia. There’s real people and a jungle full of real noises and the air has real smells, and at least all the bad shit going down is shit I understand. Back on New Amazonia I could never quite shake the feeling of some tangle-haired lunatic in glasses and a lab-coat lurking in the background, some crazy fucker who’d tell me he’d figured how to unravel space and time and turn all DNA-based life into chocolate while he was at it and here’s the machine and yes, it’s already running and yes, that weird feeling you have, that’s the fundamental constants of the universe not being particularly constant anymore and by the way you’re left foot just turned into cocoa. Here it’s more the usual shit that no one cares about as long as it’s not happening to them: forced drug trials, slave labour, organ harvesting, child pornography, that sort of thing.
As soon as we get back our hardware, Mr Cray locks himself into his room and cracks the GZW network in between trying to beat his high score on Iron Fist XXII or whatever. Jester goes out on to the balcony and plugs his gun into his head. I don’t actually catch him shooting anyone but I can’t shake the feeling that he’s adding to the body count. He’s a sick bastard sometimes, but no one really cares; at least, no one important. Mostly I leave him to it, which I guess makes me no better, and pass the time by finding a blonde called Melissa who happens to be staying in the same hotel. We hide in our luxury bedroom, fucking, and for two days we all have almost everything we want. Sex, violence and narrative-orientated simulations replete with more sex and violence– the essence of life in the twenty-fourth century. All that’s missing are the chemicals.
So here we are: Melissa and I are trying to break yesterday’s record for the most orgasms in a single day, Mr Cray is plugged into two computers at once, Jester is still on the balcony with his gun, talking to it, stroking it, whatever the fuck it is he does, all in our own little heavens. No one notices Mr GZW come in. When he coughs quietly, the organic part of my brain is way too wrapped up in what the organic rest of me is doing to pay attention. It’s been months and I’ve got catching up to do. The software inside my head, however, is ever vigilant. Words appear, written across Melissa’s distorted face.
‘ Shit,’ I mutter, hoping either Mr Cray or Jester will notice. Melissa opens her eyes and raises an eyebrow. Her fingernails sink into my flesh.
‘Business,’ I tell her. GZW have a pass key. Of course they’ve got a pass key. They’ve got the room bugged and cameras too. Melissa and I know this. It adds a certain something to our pleasure.
‘Oh,’ she says.
‘Mr Cray’ll see to him,’ I tell her. No he won’t.
‘Good.’
There’s a pause and then Mr GZW clears his throat again. Loudly this time. ‘Mr Constantine, I know where you are and what you’re doing. Do I have to disturb you myself?’
Melissa
giggles.‘Fancy an audience? We could be a live act.’
‘Why does he have to pick on me?’
‘I like to spoil people’s fun,’ says Mr GZW. Melissa and I exchange a glance. Clearly they’re paying more attention to us than we thought.
‘Go spoil Jester’s fun. With a bit of luck he might shoot you by mistake.’
‘I think that speaks for itself.’
‘Well, go disturb Mr Cray then.’ The conversation is annoying me. I’m losing the mood.
‘He’s playing Battleforce Mechanoid Death. In Ultraviolence mode.’
Oh. Right. Obviously that explains everything.
‘Fuck!’ There’s an appeal to simply ignoring Mr GZW until we’re done here, but I can’t shake the feeling that he’d just come right in and watch. And you know what? Sex isn’t about the actual sex. It’s about the immediate, the intimate, the total dissolution of the world beyond one tiny shell. An audience pretty much fucks that for me.
Melissa gives a sour grunt as I get up.‘You mean no fuck.’
‘This won’t take long,’ I tell her.‘I’ll be back.’
She raises an eyebrow.‘You’re such a charmer.’
I get the feeling she doesn’t mean it, but I smile back at her anyway.‘Yeah. That’s me.’
I put on the hotel dressing gown. It’s bulletproof. Why the fuck do you have a bulletproof dressing gown? Outside in the lounge Mr GZW stands just as I remember him, like his spine doesn’t bend and with his hands clasped behind his back. Everything about him is crisp and efficient. He’s even wearing the same suit.
‘Do you actually have a name?’ I ask him.
‘Of course.’
‘What?’
‘I represent the GZW corporation. That’s all you need to know.’
‘Parents had a sense of humour, huh? Bet that was tough at school.’
He gives this the contempt it deserves.‘You’ll be leaving at fifteen hundred hours.’
I check the time. Little digits appear before my eyes. Thirteen twenty three. Almost time for breakfast. I move over to Mr Cray. He’s about to stop playing Battleforce Mechanoid Death, ultraviolence mode or no ultraviolence mode.
‘Leave him,’ says GZW.
‘Why?’
‘That’s classified I’m afraid.’
I shrug. For all I know there could be billions of dollars riding on whether Mr Cray beats his high score or not. Who am I to mess with the galactic economy? I’m beginning to find that a bulletproof hotel dressing gown isn’t very comfortable.
‘Do you mind if I get changed?’
‘Yes.’
Why me? I pace around the room, waiting for GZW to say something else. He doesn’t.‘So what? We just wait until Mr Cray finishes his game and Jester runs out of bullets, do we?’
‘Yes.’
‘So you just interrupted me to be a shit?’
‘No.’
‘Screw you. I’m hungry.’
GZW casts the briefest of glances at the door. It opens and a trolley rolls in.‘Then eat,’ he says. He hasn’t moved since I came into the room, doesn’t bother watching as I walk around him.
I sigh and go to the trolley. Jester gets there before me.
‘Breakfast!’ he grins. I didn’t even see him come in,
‘A data card containing your briefing is hidden in the scrambled egg,’ says GZW. He nods sharply and leaves. I stare angrily after him.
‘You’ve got to be fucking shitting me. You spoilt my fun for this?’
Jester walks to Mr Cray, who’s sitting cross-legged in a corner of the room, covered in wires and looking intense. Jester kicks him over and laughs. For a few seconds, Mr Cray rolls around on the floor, arms and legs akimbo.
‘Fuck!’ he says, pulling the wires from his head.‘You bastard, I almost beat my high score. You’ve ruined my life, you fuck.’
‘There’s a wafer in the scrambled egg,’ says Jester.‘Go play.’
Mr Cray forgets that his life is ruined and leaps for the trolley. Melissa comes out of the bedroom.
‘I gotta go,’ she smiles.‘See ya.’ I nod as she leaves. She looks good. But I’ve been here enough times before. I don’t expect to see her again.
Gemini,‘ A study of the Human Brain’, (2313).
Gemini is an artificial intelligence officially owned and used for research purposes by The Gemini Foundation. It was one of the first true AIs ever built and passed the Turing test back in 2229. The League for Humanity would have you believe that over the last hundred years it’s evolved into something so complex that only it can understand itself, that it’s the power behind the United Stars government, is in contact with several alien civilisations and is personally responsible for the destruction of Earth. The first of those is probably true– but I guess you’d know better than I do, eh?
This paper– published as a book, it’s that long– was actually written by Gemini. It’s a study of the differences between human and AI brains. Several later papers use this as source material for more sophisticated attempts to simulate human consciousness. Creepy huh? A computer telling you what it thinks are the advantages and limitations of your brain.
Three – Worms
‘Cheese?’ I ask in disbelief.‘Fucking cheese?!’
‘Yeah. Cheese. What, your ears playing up again?’ asks Mr Cray.
‘All the way out here, two armoured hovercraft, air cover if we need it, and all for cheese,’ says Jester over the intercom. He nods the nod of a man who grasped a fundamental truth as a child and never let it go: that the world makes no sense.
‘Real cheese,’ I correct him.‘You got to admit it’s a rarity.’
‘Obviously it’s not really cheese,’ snaps Mr Cray.‘For Christ’s sake get a grip. Obviously we are talking about the sort of cheese that… that…’
Jester rolls his eyes.‘Please die soon.’
‘Fuck you!’
‘Cheese,’ I mutter again. Cheese that needs an armed escort? I’ve never seen Mr Cray’s fridge but Jester has. Was the only time I ever saw him look scared. But I’m guessing it’s not that.
We’re way out of the Shithole by now, already across the border into Stars territory, skimming down some nameless river, close to our destination and no sign of anything except jungle. Fifty miles into enemy territory we’re supposed to meet another hovercraft and pick something up. GZW’s data sheet says it’s cheese, and so I’m thinking that GZW’s data sheet is full of shit. Mr Cray is plugged into our hovercraft’s engine and I’m plugged into the gun. Ahead, on his own, Jester is plugged into everything. It’s not really Jester’s fault that he gets on with machines better than he does with people. It’s just the way he’s built.
We don’t see anything except wildlife. When we reach our rendezvous, our contact is already there– grey suit, silver shades, Mr Anonymous. None of us says a word, we just get on with it. We carry four large boxes from his hovercraft to ours– Jester first, then me and the Cray. Everything goes smooth and easy like it’s supposed to. By the time we turn back and still no one’s fucked us, Jester’s twitchy as hell. It’s too easy, like they really could have hired a few dumb-as-shit locals.
I sniff the air. Cheese it is. Very strong cheese, and not packed into biosealed boxes either. Hunger joins suspicion and vies with it for my attention.
We’re five miles from the Rim border when the bad shit starts to happen.
‘Maggots One and Two, this is Carcass.’ Mr Cray and I are Maggot Two. Jester is Maggot One. Carcass is Mr GZW. I’ll come right out and say that I didn’t suggest the names. Right now, Mr Cray is skimming us back and forth across the river, turning the hovercraft in pirouettes just because he can. I reach down and clip his ear from time to time and tell him it’s making me dizzy, but he ignores me.‘Hostile interceptors approaching your position, Maggots one and two. Carcass estimates two minutes before they reach you. Bluebottle squadron will give cover once you reach the border. Do you copy?’
I’m checking maps.‘Four minut
es to the border. You go any faster?’
‘Shit!’ exclaims Mr Cray.‘What’s on the‘scope?’
‘Nothing yet.’
‘You have turned it on, right?’
‘Maggot Two, this is Carcass, do you copy?’
‘Yeah, yeah, yeah, I copy OK?’ Mr Cray is bouncing again.‘Jesus! Four minutes? Shit fuck, fuck! We’ll be dead in four minutes.’
‘You can be dead in five seconds if you like,’ I tell him.
Two of our four minutes pass. Actually more like one and a half, but every second feels a damn sight longer than it should when you’re staring at the little light with the little label saying Missile Lock, waiting for it to light up.
‘I have Ladar activity,’ says Jester from Maggot One. He sounds calm. I make a quick check of the assorted screens littered throughout the gun-turret. I have a flickering red light with something to do with lasers written underneath. I assume it’s a bad thing.‘AF125s probably,’ says Jester, casual as though he’s some nerd spotting serial numbers at a space port. Like I know an AF125 from a tricycle…
The thought sinks into the brainweb, scurries down the wire from my head to the gunnery computer and knocks on the door. Most people go wireless but most people don’t do what I do. A way out is a way in, and I don’t care how good your encryption is, if you’ve gone wireless then there’s someone out there who can get inside your head and you really don’t want to think about what someone like me can do with a tap stuck straight into your brain.
A tiny laser writes answers into my eyes. AF125. This much thrust, that much payload, so much standard armament. All technical and precise and no use to me at all. Still might be a tricycle for all that helped.
‘What does that mean? In English.’