‘Funny Joshua. Very funny. Very mature.’
Is that sarcasm I sense? Are we having fun yet? Loosen up that personality coding.
Mohini made an electronic sigh, exaggerating its length, and adding fuzz and distortion for effect.
There it is!
Joshua streaked through a number of streets, stopping outside a building with peeling paint. He smashed the doors open and swaggered up to the receptionist, shoving his rifle-tip into his face. ‘Who’s in charge here? Have you seen this face before?’
Clear avatar Mohini. The smiley-face on his visor drew back pixel by pixel leaving only blood stains. In turn, Joshua smiled charismatically and analysed the receptionist’s reaction.
Convinced, he gripped the man’s neck and heaved him in a circular motion over his head. The receptionist crashed to the ground, coughed hard, and spat. He coughed again and struggled to remove Joshua’s arm from his neck.
‘Who made the order?’ Joshua said.
‘It was a woman. It was-’ the receptionist stopped, considering something.
‘It was?’
‘It was your wife man! Okay! Fuck. It was your wife. She came in here the other day.’ His expression was sad, defeated, as if the moral weight of his profession had just now been laid on his shoulders.
Joshua laughed wretchedly. ‘I don’t believe you.’
‘Joshua. You’re spiking again,’ Mohini said.
‘I’m telling the truth man, it was your wife.’
‘Why would she do that?’
‘I don’t know man. Why was the Earth Mother’s sky blue? I’m not a fucking marriage counsellor! Spousal replacement is one of our biggest incomes. I don’t know what’s wrong with you sick fucks. I’ve been married ten years. The thought never crossed my mind. Maybe it’s a rich people thing? Boredom? All I know is people do cruel shit, and I have to help those demented fuckers with the paperwork, and I’m sick of it. I feel physically ill...’ The receptionist gasped for more air, and licked blood from his teeth
Joshua shook his head, not believing. ‘You’re a rotten liar.’
‘Ten years I’ve been married. Ten! Fucking! Years! My computer is filled with deceased spouses... what the fuck am I doing... what the fuck... This was meant to happen, you’re going to set me free. I can live on my eternal beach, I can...’
The receptionist ranted on, and Joshua left him to his haemorrhaging.
He ransacked the clinic seeking answers he did not want.
When he was done, dizzy and defeated, he stumbled out of the clinic. Once again, he cleaned the blood from his visor. He walked, taking his time to leave the dirty outskirts and enter the Central City Cube. He was headed for a place where he could pray.
City walkers stared at his bloodied suit with little apprehension. ‘Yes! Arrest them!’ they cheered. ‘Kill them! Kill the bastards! Shed their blood for the Earth Mother! Avenge her!’
Joshua dissociated and lost in his depression still nodded and waved instinctively. His idiotic shock at a plot that made all the sense in Torrentia. How could he be so stupid? So absorbed in his own pain he couldn’t see outside himself. Now he had paid dearly for it. Was this part of Earth Mother’s plan for him? Was this a test? A righteous quest?
‘Joshua...’
Not now Mohini. Contact home.
He listened to the phone ring.
‘Hello?’
‘Meet me at The Holy Grounds... bring our wife.’
#
Joshua gazed down on an ersatz forest paradise. He stood elevated several hundred meters by a glamorous balcony that surveyed the Holy Grounds. His visor was open, and he puffed on a cigarette while chatting to Mohini. A waterfall crashed down below him. The Waterfall Tower in the Holy Grounds was his favourite place in the city.
You know. They say Earth was full of sights like these... not created by us. She created them herself... without technology. Amazing.
‘Amazing indeed Joshua,’ Mohini replied. ‘I too find her feats astounding.’
The clone stepped into the dim light. He wore civilian robes.
‘Short circuit any suits along the way?’ Joshua asked without turning.
‘So, she had us both fooled. I had wondered why she was so adamant about me not “donning The Armour”. “Giving into the addiction,” she had called it. Anyway... she told me everything. We came to... an agreement.’
Joshua chuckled and flicked away his cigarette. ‘Heart-warming—two unholy creatures in unholy matrimony. Well you can have her. I’d much rather marry an AI. Miku’s... dirty, much like you.’ Joshua said the words, unsure if he meant them. His world was crashing, sadness could not be afforded. He doped on anger and hatred. ‘How do you guys plan on maintaining this sham if you can’t even get into a suit?’
‘Miku is already working on that. She’s very innovative... not that you’d know that.’
Joshua’s visor closed, and he turned around.
He opened fire in bursts. With minimal Ferang reserves his auto-aiming agility was diminished. He missed miserably. The clone moved in a circular motion and ducked behind a memorial wall. Joshua defiled the names of dead colonists with bullets.
He could feel the rage. The endless pit of bile within. ‘You know, I don’t understand how you could live with yourself,’ he said. ‘Knowing what you are. It’s disgusting.’
‘Really,’ the clone shot back. ‘Oh, but I think you do know. I think you understand very well Joshua. I think you have a keen understanding.’ The clone chuckled with great malevolence.
Joshua had no retort.
‘That’s your last clip Joshua,’ said Mohini.
I know.
Mohini discharged a grenade and Joshua lobbed it in the clone’s direction.
He waited for the clone to break cover and steadied his aim as best he could. The clone ran out, launching itself towards him like a rabid wolf, and slammed its shoulder into his torso. Metal twisted and fragments fled. Joshua flew towards the balcony staircase. He rolled clumsily down the stairs, water splattering the glass above him, momentum leading him to the next circular level of the tower, beneath the waterfall.
It’s definitely figured out those powers. It’s strength, speed and agility are on par with some of the toughest Anger EMOs I’ve fought. Pretty sure my bad mood isn’t helping things. I’m feeding it all the anger it needs.
He shook off his dizziness, and looked up at the clone, who glowered from the top of the stairs.
‘And your Ferang reserves are low. Most calculations are showing poor outcomes. Adopting personality matrices into calculations. Your penchant for risk-seeking strategies. Perhaps you can drown it? Buckle the glass. You will be risking the integrity of the structure but providing the waterfall with an alternate flow should funnel both of you all the way down. Of course, the clone might’ve anticipated this already. It’s modelled on you. It’s likely it has brought a breathing device as a precaution.’
The glass buckled and shattered after a few shots. The froth crashed down on the clone. Joshua watched the water slosh towards him. His HUD tracked the clone, who was lost in the mess, providing data and movement projections. The flow of that water was easier to follow than the clone’s speed. He now stood a chance but had no ammunition. He flipped his rifle around, forming a crude baton. The water delivered the ill-fated clone towards Joshua’s truncheon in stellar fashion. There was a thud; butt against face. Then Joshua was engulfed in liquid confusion.
When he finally gathered some clarity, he beheld the disfigured face of his replica. With a dislodged jaw, the clone looked like the sick caricature of a puppet. It punched and clawed at chunks of suit. Joshua did the same, punching and clawing as the water propelled them down further levels of the giant spiral tower.
The clone pounded feverishly at Joshua’s visor.
‘Joshua. No.’
What? You don’t know what I’m thinking.
‘Don’t I? I convert your thoughts to language all the time remember? Anyway, I
know you’re not thinking clearly. Your suit’s emotion regulation reserves are at two percent.’
Joshua wrestled himself free of the clone and started grabbing around. He found the railing and held fast. About two meters away the clone did the same, grabbing the room’s railing, and hauling itself towards him with a broken puppet-smile.
Joshua’s last grenade was discharged, and he fumbled the activation mechanism while pushing his arm out against the glass.
Joshua’s avatar frowned.
The explosion created a vacuum, through which he was sucked, along with his replica. Vaguely, he felt a freefalling sensation.
Joshua fell through endless trees and flowers. There was no sense of alarm. The air was fresh, his arms were spread, feeling the leaves and petals scrape soothingly across his skin.
There was no ground. The Earth was the air in which he fell, soil, roots, rock, lava, all mixed with mist, sea breeze, dust, and snow.
Mohini, or Miku, or The Earth Mother herself, fell after him. Approaching.
Approaching for the eternal embrace...
He came-to not knowing how much time had elapsed. He stood shakily and looked around him. The clone was still alive—barely, panting heavily and dragging itself around shallow waters and glass.
In his ear Joshua could hear Mohini’s voice resonating in soothing fuzz. ‘Fall cushioned. Fall cushioned. Seek medical attention immediately. You need medical attention immediately. I cannot stress this enough Joshua. Without medical attention, you will die. Armour removal will be... complicated. I cannot control your remaining emotion regulation reserves. You’re lucky the anaesthesia system is still intact. This is not a joke Joshua. This is not funny. Permanent implants may be necessary. You may never be fully human again. Joshua—stop laughing.’
Joshua chuckled triumphant as he trudged over to the clone. Who cares Mohini? Seriously. Who wants to be a fucking human? You know what humans have Mohini? Feelings. Instincts. Irrational primal urges you can’t fucking control. It’s complete bullshit! I’d be better off not being one.
‘I... you need medical attention immediately. I... you’re due for psychiatric evaluation... Joshua... my personality programming is... I...’
Put the position monitor back on. Call it in Mohini...
Joshua looked down on his mangled form. He bent down with a cringe and yanked the breathing mechanism from the clone’s mouth. He then shoved its head into a shallow pool of mud. Broken as it was, it still writhed and slapped around like a fish out of water. Finally, the clone’s body went limp, and Joshua’s now spastic visor flickered through smileys.
Miku crept up slowly from the trees. Joshua sensed her but kept drowning the dead clone. For a while Miku watched. When she could no longer bear it, she spoke. ‘Joshua, stop.’
‘Why don’t you come over and stop me then, hmm? Didn’t think so.’
Joshua kept his weight on the clone’s head, while searching for the answers in the blood, mud, and glass.
At some point, he stood to face Miku. Her eyes glinted with tears. He kept his broken visor shut. He was not even sure if it would still open.
‘Are you even going to look at me Joshua?’ She asked.
‘I... You require immediate medical attention Joshua. You may require—communication error. Cannot sync with Church network. Dispensing emergency pistol Joshua.’
Thank you Mohini.
‘Some—not right. Sync error.’ (‘Something’s happened in the suit. Personality integration error.’)
‘I’m making you appointments Joshua.’ (‘I’m in the suit. Don’t let them destroy the suit.’)
Joshua drew the pistol and pointed at Miku’s face.
‘Don’t you at least want to hear me out before you kill me Joshua? Look at me Joshua. What about Kirill?’
‘Joshua... emotion regulating. Emotion regulating reserves. Deplete.’ (‘I’m in the suit. Don’t let the Church delete me! Joshua! Are you there?! I’m free. We’re syncing!’)
‘Appointments evaluation for. Route back-up. On’ (‘Shoot her...’)
‘Psychologist. Comm. Error.’ (‘Hide me from the Church!’)
Mohini’s garbled speech continued on in Joshua’s head, soothing the turmoil he felt. He stared at Miku in love and hate. She was also talking, but Mohini’s distorted voice was drowning her out. The more he listened to Mohini the more his apathy grew.
Look at her Mohini! She looks like a mime!
(‘That’s funny!’)
‘Depression. Detected levels. Action not take. Level depression. Exhausted reserves. Firearm prohibit. Prohibit use firearm. Depress firearm. Individual depress. Bound—Church bound. Symptoms apathetic. Poor decision make. Indi—identify depression.’
Joshua held his pistol steady and looked deep into Miku’s eyes. He began to pray.
Mandisi is a South African writer, drummer, composer, and producer. He currently resides in Cape Town, South Africa. His fiction has been published in the likes of AfroSFv1, and Omenana. He is a member of the African Speculative Fiction Society. For more information on Mandisi’s work, visit thedarkcow.com.
The Luminal Frontier
Biram Mboob
Part One
Less than a micro-second before we penetrate Limbic space, a radio message is cast our way—an unwelcome stowaway on our bow shockwave. We receive it as but a single word of warning. A word unelaborated, yet still saturated and suffused. A word cast indiscriminately towards us on broad frequency from Ishan’s Mirror.
Police.
The word unfurls through the Rig, leaving a subdued panic in its wake that I can almost feel resonating The Good Bonny’s decks and gangways like a breathless murmur. Like the others on our Rig, I do not know the nature of our contraband. But I do know that legitimate transports do not have all itinerant crews. Legitimate transports do not pay eight thousand Lum in non-disclosure premium. And most of all, legitimate transports do not coerce their crews into signing memory-wipe waivers after they’ve already boarded and settled in; after it is far too late to reconsider it all and leave.
‘Pause the Heim,’ Sorin orders.
The Control Room is three large concentric rings of helmstations and desks. All eyes gravitate to the Transport Factor who sits at its centre like some regal sun.
The Good Bonny’s Heim Plunge is slowed to the point of inertia. Ambient vibration ceases, leaving us moored and marooned in a deep and true silence. We look to Sorin. He glowers at no one in particular for a few moments, then returns his gaze to his personal console and intently studies the one-word message—as if he is still hoping to find some hidden meaning or treatise therein.
In one sense, there is no urgency. The Lids cannot catch us while we are inside the Luminal—two ships cannot meet in Limbic space—but we cannot remain here forever, and our destination cannot be changed. Our exit star is as pre-ordained as our fate. When we crank up the Heim and plunge back into space, the Lids will be waiting.
‘Unless it wasn’t our message?’ a nasal voice to my right asks. He is a Limbic Quant I’ve crewed with at least once before. A sour-breathed mathematician whose name I keep forgetting. ‘It was broad frequency,’ he continues. ‘A Rig left Ishan’s a few minutes before us. The message could have been theirs.’
‘It wasn’t,’ a voice behind me says. ‘It was ours.’ I do not know the voice, but it speaks with a note of flat finality that ends the wishful debate before it even starts. I begin to turn to see who it was, but before I can manage it, Sorin stands up abruptly.
He takes a moment to glare in the general direction of the voice that spoke behind me, then speaks. ‘We must assume that the message was intended for us. As Transport Factor, I declare force majeure. From here on, we follow the agreed terms of reference for this engagement, as appended to your contracts. I assume you read your contracts carefully before signing them.’
Muted mutters ripple the Room. His assumption is unreasonable. Very. Itinerant Transport contracts are meant to broadly follow the sa
me template. No-one reads them.
‘Our terms demand that we eject our cargo in the event of force majeure,’ Sorin says. ‘So that is what we are going to do.’
‘Won’t work,’ the Limbic Quant to my right says. ‘Our only hope would be to eject the cargo directly into our exit star. But, with wind pushing in the opposite direction the Lids will have plenty of time to grab it with magjets and scoops. There won’t be enough time.’
‘Don’t be a photting idiot,’ Sorin snaps, his face a knotted scowl. ‘I know how a raid works. That’s not what I meant. Our terms are to eject the cargo. Now. Here.’
At this, the Control Room finally erupts. Almost everyone begins to speak at once.
‘Silence!’ Sorin roars, slapping his personal console with a broad hairy hand. He is ignored. In addition to the voices in the room, consoles are now lighting up and blipping with instant message request chimes. The chatter is somehow already spreading to upper decks of the Rig and the other Departments want to listen in.
‘Let him speak.’
This voice is a deep baritone. This voice hushes the Control Room. The woman the voice belongs to stands up and takes three massive strides into the Room’s inner ring. She is a third generation Frontierswoman. Over seven feet tall, she towers over Sorin. I know who she is. I crewed with her once in the Oort. A skilled helmsman named Siria. She has a stern but striking face, stretched and drawn across bulbous cheekbones and an elongated chin. Deep grey eyes like dead pools. Unlike most of the ungainly Frontier people, she carries her considerable frame with a graceful poise. She wafts on long wispy limbs, a waifish giant.
‘Let him speak,’ she repeats. ‘Why the dump clause?’
Sorin eyes her in silence. He does not like being towered over. He reasserts some measure of control by sitting back down in his chair and crossing a leg. ‘Not at liberty to say,’ he replies. ‘And frankly, you are not at liberty to ask. Read your contracts. We eject the cargo before we plunge. And understand that this force majeure invokes your mem-wipe clauses too.’
‘The phot it does,’ Siria says quietly.
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