Skullcrack City

by Jeremy Robert Johnson

  The media expressed interest in your work, but that could only lead to questions better left unanswered. You signed a private contract with Buddy the Brain—using his visits for micro-experiments—and retreated from public scrutiny. You wondered how the television audience would feel if they knew about the world war wet work you and Shinori had done which made Buddy’s existence possible. Would they still applaud him if they’d seen a much younger you scraping all but a millimeter of Konstantin Barsukov’s brain from his head while his mother, strapped to the table next to him, wept for her boy? Would they have given you a standing ovation back in thirty-eight, when you filled Konstantin’s head with a mixture of salt-buffered solution and his mother’s cerebrospinal fluid, allowing him to regain consciousness, open his eyes, and lift one hand before he perished?

  You had your doubts.

  You had new employers.

  The first remained anonymous, sliding a manila envelope under your door. A high gloss photo inside showed a pile of human skins spread like bearskin rugs. The lack of scars and body hair indicated that these materials had been supplied by children. A note attached read: “Arriving in one week. Opening prayer has been completed. We need your expertise—these skins must run tight against laminated staves and endure vigorous beatings. A talented young man will use your work to produce some very special music. Toughen these hides, doctor. To accept the project and receive payment, sign the attached agreement in blood (your own) and place it in this envelope. Our courier will be outside your door by midnight.”

  You returned the vellum agreement unsigned. You were a surgeon, not a taxidermist.

  A new envelope arrived. A black and white photo inside: a shot of you and Shinori from the glory days. Shinori was smiling and waving in an excited blur. You were also smiling, but could not wave as you were clutching a crucified man’s intestines, testing how quickly they might be pulled from a perforation by human force. The man looked to the sky, jaws-clenched. Who had he cried for then? You’d have to check your notes.

  Written on the back of the photo: “No one knows who you are. This can change. You’ve had a very long life because you’ve made the right choices. Sign the contract.”

  Work was work. You longed for something bigger, but signed anyway. The materials arrived—you sectioned the skins to the employer’s measurements and treated them with a microwave-bonded laminate. You even recited the prayer they requested. After all, this employer had acquired a photo you had personally burned before the end of the war—honoring their request seemed wise.

  Your second employer contacted you the very next day. You’d worked with Delta MedWorks before—ensuring the slow third-world release of a nasty measles variant for which Delta happened to be first to have the vaccine. They did, of course, wait until their virus had spread the globe. They called this “building a platform for wide release.”

  The new job was intriguing. They were working with a unique vector: a modified virus harvested from the thermophilic archaea which populated the scorching, acidic pools at Yellowstone State Park.

  The Delta exec was excited. “The resilience of this virus is astonishing. They survive in pure acid, at two hundred degrees. We’ve at least figured out how to hollow the thing out, so we’re left with the shell. That’s the best part—the way the thing is structured, it will accept almost anything for delivery. Magnetic metals full of data, DNA. Hell, both. We’ve got a nanosphere particle that will take it right through the blood-brain barrier, so the pieces are in place. We’re looking for a big stew—if we’re actually going to sell something like this we need it to have real influence and application. I’m talking about epigenetic alterations creating brand loyalty, hormone control triggering hyper-consumption. And if there’s any way we can allow the shell to receive interior data once it’s in place, that would be ideal. We’ve got a friend at Lockton who posits they could outfit drones with a stereostatic retrieval device for flyover harvests. There have already been prototype tests for the shell delivery system, but the gorillas can’t give us the more incisive test data we’re looking for. We know we’re asking for the stars, but if anybody can pull it off, it’s you. What do you say?”

  “Certain active materials will be needed.”

  “Of course, Dr. Tikoshi. Per usual, our full range of resources will be available to you.”

  “Would the Jiangsu facility be accessible for my work?”

  “We can have it ready tomorrow. You should know that the jail there is no longer operating in an official capacity. There were protests. The foreign media turned things into quite an embarrassment.”

  “And unofficially?”

  “I believe you will find materials are in ample supply.”

  You boarded the plane for China the next morning.

  You hadn’t had access to this many subjects since the war.

  You labored to deliver what Delta wanted—the undetectable control and commodification of the mind and its contents. The icosahedral viral shell they’d discovered was miraculous, and within the first year you’d created demonstrable applications of thought implantation and behavioral modification. Hundreds of subjects were lost to destructive immune responses, infections, and over-enthusiastic invasive research. No matter—the facility above you had been modified to “black jail” status, which meant the pantry was always stocked.

  Delta came to regret your being untethered for so long. You’d spent decades in restraints. That repression found release beneath Jiangsu. The breadth of Delta’s finances and the potency of the vector they’d provided gave you capabilities you couldn’t help but employ. You requested a golden, helium-propelled DuMark gene gun for DNA transfection, and an industrial meat vat. You requested gorilla cadavers and synthetic skin printers. There were no questions.

  You were certain your request for hair and teeth from the paranthropus boisei fossil at the American Museum of Natural History would be denied, but pieces of the “nutcracker man” arrived packed in thick foam.

  Delta MedWorks felt they were asking you for the stars, but all they wanted was money. You would deliver much more—a final division of the have and have nots, a new branch of man-made evolution separating the two through brutality, consumption, and data assimilation.

  You merged the efficient structure of an ancient human ancestor’s jaw with the raw PSI of a gorilla known for cranial clamp downs. You used the gene gun to deliver doped DNA from both anacondas and rats bred for muscle density. You used the meat vat and skin printer to sculpt a proboscis and a duel-exit esophagus which could differentiate between brain matter and more standard foods. You created the animus ciborium and eventually found a way for its lining to allow propagation of your viral cocktail.

  Things in the lab got a little messy—your fervor threw you into long periods of delirious experimentation.

  The smell of death floated through the prison. Even in the black jail, information migrated. When Chinese officials heard stories of the atrocities at Jiangsu might have found their way overseas, they were forced to act, regardless of Delta’s hush money. Jiangsu wasn’t supposed to exist.

  They raided the lab, found your work. No reasonable arguments could explain what they discovered. The man with the gorilla jaw sutured to the lower half of his face. The synthesized ciborium, filled with brain tissue and CSF. The human thorax running on respirator, surviving the absence of head and legs in a web of gray/black nano-scar webbing. The wasp-like ovipositor pulsing in the meat vat.

  And everywhere else: the rotting remains of materials used.

  Delta’s money barely got you out of China, and your contract stood on shaky ground. They’d already invested a monumental pile of cash, and pushed for completion. They monitored you closer in the states and made weekly visits during which you concealed the more revolutionary physical manifestations of your work.

  You sent them a video to ensure continued interest: fifteen minutes after nanosphere injection, your subject stopped crying, looked into the camera, and said, �
��I’m certain that Delta MedWorks’ investment in our future means true safety and security for me and my family.”

  You’d removed the last five minutes of the video when the man’s frontal cortex melted down and ran through cracks in his sphenoid sinus and out of his nose.

  Delta had a harder time providing subjects in the U.S so you secretly sub-contracted materials requisition with a man from the area. He’d done supply runs for you during your time in the employ of the Vakhtang.

  You’d gone too far in Jiangsu to revert back to designing some corporate shopping stimulus bug to be slipped into next season’s flu shot.

  New strands of gray laced through your hair. Whatever the Vakhtang had done to extend your life wasn’t permanent. Was this your final project? If successful, you’d alter the course of world history. You woke in sweat-soaked sheets, your nights filled with dreams of your new children: teeth tearing flesh, millions cowering under their power.

  A legacy.

  Prototype one was too human. In its awareness it found horror, and took a scalpel to its throat.

  Prototype two was too animal. In its hunger it found you. Only the skillful application of a diamond-tipped cranial drill through the creature’s forehead saved you from losing your mind.

  The set-back was important, causing you to rethink the coiled proboscis in the prototypes’ mouth. You decided your creation’s jaw must to be able to compress small enough after use to allow for proper linguistic skills. What would be the point of all that intelligence amassed in a creature which could not express itself?

  Prototype three was beautiful—bordering on feral, but functioning and ready for his first feeding. You named him Nozomi.

  You’d requested new materials from your supplier. He arrived empty-handed—his bosses noticed his moonlighting and demanded he end the side-business unless information streams were opened.

  “Anything needs this many bodies, they got a vested interest. You deal with them or it’s my head. Maybe yours too.”

  Call it containment. Call it a test drive. You set Nozomi loose for his first hunt.

  Hungarian Minor did not survive long.

  Bolstered, you began work on a fourth prototype, weeks disappearing under a wash of constant labor.

  Akatsuki took longer than Nozomi to reach full size, but he was spectacular. Larger, more cognizant, and incredibly agile. Plus, you’d finally managed to make the creature’s ovipositor functional. What it released wasn’t technically an egg, but the mucosal secretion it produced carried a massive viral load, ensuring that these creatures would not be the end of your efforts. Rather they were a culmination of your life’s work.

  Your legacy was ready for the world.

  The world, however, had become problematic.

  First Nozomi found the influx of integrated minds troubling. They’d measurably improved his speech and cognitive capabilities, but at what cost? You helped him develop the ability to submerge the voices, but his migraines and confusion amplified.

  Then a message from a compatriot at Delta arrived: “Possible breach detailing relationship. Working to contain now. Another party has assured us that suspect (S.P. Doyle) is being tracked and close to being apprehended near 45th. Will keep you updated.”

  As a failsafe, you put Nozomi on the hunt.

  Hours later he showed up on your doorstep missing an arm.

  Eager only to perform triage and repair, you were doubly aggravated when you noticed the manila envelope which had been lying under Nozomi’s devastated body.

  After tending to the wound in Nozomi’s neck and sedating away the babble of new voices, you opened your mail. “Dr. Tikoshi, I’ve included a paper copy of our prior contract. As noted in Section 2.3, ‘Maintenance as needed’ was part of our agreement. The original hides and a small container of patching material arrive in two days. We are certain that this ‘tune-up’ job will be done swiftly, and you’ll be paid well. Don’t worry about resonance or overtones, simply ensure our instruments’ functionality. No reply is needed.”

  You fumed. This skin job was hack work and you despised the way the client assumed your obedience.

  Nozomi rolled onto his side, coughed up a slug of clotted blood. His eyes opened but displayed an alarming left/right twitch.

  He croaked through his rapidly mending throat. “The voices. All at once.”

  You ran your hand over his feverish brow. “I may know of a medication that can help.”

  “Soon, please. We are known, now. The man named Doyle wants to expose Delta. Uncover our work. Vakhtang watching. Killed two. They’ll be angry. We left evidence. The voices wanted us to burn the bodies. Hide the bodies. We couldn’t. Hurt too badly.”

  “This ‘Doyle’ stabbed you?”

  “Stung us like a scared little bee. Vakhtang shot us during feeding. The bank man did this.” Nozomi lifted his still-oozing stump.

  “How much does Doyle know?”

  “Unsure. Man from the bank says ‘too much.’ Another says Doyle’s ‘full of crazy shit and junkie jibber-jabber.’ There may be a hard drive with information linking us to the bank and Delta.”

  “It seems our first order of business would be locating Mr. Doyle. You must rest. I will send Akatsuki.”

  But you did not send Akatsuki out right away because you wanted additional security in the lab. It would be best to solve this Doyle issue yourself, before anyone else knew the level of breach.

  You called in a favor with a C.I.A. friend and gained gridtracking access. You decided to stock the war chest and told Buddy the Brain he’d need expensive weekly tune-ups.

  Two shipments arrived at your door simultaneously: Boudreaux brought a dot-con doped Buddy just after a ten man goon squad wearing anti-rec masks knocked and delivered a pallet. The latter shipment was stacked with plastic-wrapped drums and a black barrel which carried the faint odor of formalin.

  Buddy was intrigued. “This looks like my friend Bobby’s drum set, doc. Can’t be though. His is custom. You get one of those Santo Marino bootleg deals?”

  “No. I’ve never taken up an instrument. But I believe these may be your friend’s. These drums are far more custom than you can imagine.” You were also intrigued—perhaps Buddy possessed information which would tell you who had sent such odd work and demanding messages. “What is your musician friend’s name again?”

  “His stuff comes out under a fake name.” Buddy ducked an unseen antagonist and looked to you and Boudreaux as if he’d had a close call. “Do you guys smell my hair burning?”

  “You were going to tell me your friend’s pseudonym.”

  “All my friends have pseudonyms. You think my name is actually Buddy the Brain?”

  Boudreaux read your exasperation. “It’s Robbie Dawn, Dr. Tikoshi. He makes R & B pop junk.”

  “Do either of you know how he acquired this set?”

  Buddy frowned. “He won’t tell me. Gets all squirrelly. He’s had those drums since he left Mode 5. Keeps them in a humidity controlled room with a guard. I can tell you this—don’t go pounding around on those things for fun. He let me join him for a studio session a few months ago, and I don’t know if it was the party favors or what, but once he started drumming I got the weirdest weight on my shoulder. Felt like I was falling backwards, on and off, for like a week after.” Buddy’s eyes rolled back in his head. “For like a weep alter. Fir like a wee holster. Four life…”

  “Come in. I think we need to perform your maintenance right away.”

  Buddy’s brain repairs went long. You barely had time to prep Nozomi and Akatsuki for their night on the town. You used gridtracking to locate a business dinner between Delta and its financiers, and digitally pilfered pharmacy records gave you a solid source for perphenadol. By morning your creations had run containment, collected info on Doyle, and solved Nozomi’s personality integration problem.

  The media dubbed your creations “skullcrackers” and barely concealed their innate fear as they spoke. One of the men consumed by
Akatsuki was a cornucopia of new information: Doyle was alive and on the run, travelling with a one-eyed woman with mercenary talents. He’d never left the city or found a media outlet for his information.

  You hovered over gridtracking searches, watching.

  Every successful skullcracker outing boosted your confidence. You started work on prototype five, your end game. You could tell—from the thinning of the skin on the back of your hands—that your deal with the Vakhtang was expiring.

  You vowed to deny death, to see the glory that you were unleashing—the portable animus ciborium would serve as your throne.

  Incorporating the living tissue of the ciborium into a carrying case proved frustrating. Abiotic decomposition was your enemy, and the barely chewed brain chunks you asked Akatsuki to regurgitate like a mother bird failed to integrate.

  Other work loomed. A note arrived—Robbie Dawn needed his instruments for a forthcoming performance. Time was tight. You outsourced, calling in Dr. Shinori to aid in the repair of the drums.

  Shinori looked young, the bastard. Was he still working with the Vakhtang? No matter—he did fine labor and within one night you’d patched and prepped the pre-pubescent skin drums. You performed the requested final prayer over the set and posted a new “Missing Cat” notice at the corner near your lab. The instruments were picked up the next day.

  Good luck fell upon you. Your portable animus ciborium pack found new life when you introduced a hygroscopic mucus coating for the exterior of the organ and a citrate preservation solution with boosted mannitol levels for the interior. You decided that on Buddy’s next visit you’d place him on support and test the functionality of his connective conduit with the pack.

  The Doyle problem remained. Nozomi stalked the streets, watching Doyle’s old haunts and tracking others who might have a line on the man. Akatsuki set out for Delta headquarters on a fact finding mission: Did they know where Doyle might be? Had they linked you to the skullcrackers? Were they planning containment of their own?

  More luck—Nozomi’s decision to piggyback bank surveillance yielded the biggest breakthrough yet: Doyle’s mother, Samantha.