The mind stopped: there had been something. A whisper? Yes, the vague voice of a man. How did it know? It knew nothing of itself, but… The internal worrying stopped as the words came into the void.

“This had better work.” The tone was weary and it had a roughness to it, perhaps from age or hard living.

“You doubt it?” A second voice this time. A younger man. Bolder, boarding on the mocking. The mind span trying to put a place against the source of these words, but it could not.

A sigh. “It is a high price, this.”

“It was requested.”

“And that makes it right does it?”

“Ahh, I’m not getting into that debate with you. You know how it is down here. We get what we’re given and we make the most of it.”

“I don’t like it, though. Sending people in like this.”

“All part of the drama, my friend.”

“We could do with a bit less, if you ask me.”

A flicker of light flashed in the emptiness. It was a bright as lightning. Lightning? Where had that word come from, the mind wondered? People? What it a person? How could it not be?

The light grew until it was almost too much to bear and then sound like no other hissed and spat until all was lost.

————————-

A coldness crept into the thoughts. A gust of cold air flickered across bare skin and the mind shuddered. It could feel! Sound of crashing surf vied for attention. Dampness leached warmth from skin. Tired eyes opened and took in a view.

The consciousness was lying in wet grass that stirred in a lazy wind. Heavy clouds rolled overhead. The mind felt the beat of a heart and the shiver of muscles. It pushed itself upward with a heavy hand, a man’s hand and paused to study the fingers opening and closing like some fanciful puppet.

“I am,” croaked a voice. Its – no, his voice. “But I am lost.”

The man looked for clues. He was naked and sat in longish grass atop of the crest of a large hill. The rough terrain rolled away from him towards a line of pine trees. In the distance, a thin line of smoke snaked to invisibility in the sky. Drawn out by the wind like a smudged crayon. Closer to, a clump of tallish stones stood in the grass like so many bad teeth.

He twisted his neck to see behind and saw the edges of a tall grey cliff. Tufts of vegetation clung to the gravel but an arm’s reach away. Further away, the edge of the cliff spilled into the distant sea.

No name came to him. He did not know why he was here or where even here was. Concepts came to him, words to name the things he saw, the sounds he heard. He felt his nakedness was not right and that he should cover up. Where had that idea come from?

The man risked standing up and he took a careful look at his body. He was youngish, not muscled, but fit. He reached up and touched his face, his head. Two eyes, a nose, ears, scruffy hair and a slight stubble to his jaw. He brushed lose flecks of dirt from his hands. One bit did not shift and he turned his attention to his right hand. On the underside, the rounded lump between wrist and thumb, was a small blue five pointed star. He picked at the shape, wondering how such a design could be there. It did not move, nor blanch. He felt a tingling in that palm as if he’d bumped his arm. He moved his fingers as if to shift the sensation and he froze. There had been a trail, a smoke-like residue left in the air. Carefully, he repeated the movement, twisting his fingers and making shapes as a young child would.

Unsure of what this meant, the man sighed and let his arm drop to his side. The smoke shapes did not continue and he wondered about the wisps in the distance. If there was fire, would there be people? He looked down at himself and smiled. Perhaps nudity was allowed here. Another gust of wind put that thought to rest. No, a little too cold. His hand seemed to buzz a little and on instinct, he held it up. Moving it, he felt the sensation grow stronger as it passed by the cluster of rocks. Curious, he moved forward, feet cushioned by grass until he reached the snaggle of a stone ring.

Lichen and wispy moss clung to parts of the old formation. The rocks may once have been white, but age or the weather had turned them to a stained and patchy mess. Each pillar came to about chest height and as he stepped into the circle, the odd feeling in his hand stopped. The man looked down and there behind a short stubby boulder was a brown leather bag with carry straps. Opening the bag revealed a set of clothes which he put on.

There was a thin grey undershirt, a thicker woven jacket. Was it wool or cotton, he wondered and then thought about the words themselves. Where had those come from? He hauled on some trousers and then found socks and boots. The latter were a dark, rough leather and seemingly well made. How was it that all these items fitted? Had he abandoned previously or had someone left them for him? If they had been left, why wasn’t anyone here to keep an eye for him?

There was nothing else in the bag and his stomach rumbled. How long had it been since he had last eaten? Like so much else, he could not remember. His eye snagged on a scrawl of letters on the inside of the bag. He lifted it closely and found he could read them. “Redir.” He thought about the word. Was it a name? What is his name?

As he sat and thought on this, the clouds turned darker overhead. Looking up, he realised he had nothing to fend off the rain and nothing to eat. Twisting on the bounder, he looked down the valley, over the woods and towards the line of smoke. With a grunt, he pushed off from his impromptu seat, shouldered the empty bag and walked.

Me? Oh, I wasn’t dancing. Not really my thing. I sat in the the fringe between dark and light, old solar lamps completing with polished paraffin burners. Micky lead the riotous musicians into one song after another and each time I wondered how the crowd could keep up, but keep up they did. Cardys, shawls and jumpers were cast aside in the frantic movements. Hair was let down and hats tossed towards the straw bales that ringed the stage and wooden floor. There were whoops of delight as a pair of work trousers were thrown towards the band. Whoever had lost them, it was impossible to see.

Village life was good. We were well out of the way of the ruins. Rolling hills with trimmed crops or lush meadows were cattle roamed. Keen eyes and good dogs kept the strays away. I saw Mr Plumber walk by, a cider jug in his hand and a massive grin on his face. His rifle was open and it draped over his arm like a wicked metal walking stick. His ammunition belt was missing, perhaps Mrs Plumber had seen to that. His collie, Mags, trailed near him, an eye on Old Plumber’s pockets. No doubt for a heavy slice of Jill’s famous meat pie.

Chewing on a strand of herb – chive I think – I caught the look of Daisy; a girl about my age. She was lost back into the crowd as her Dad hoisted her by the arms and once more into the dancing. Opposite me, Mr Capshaw sat resting his arms on his walking stick, his good leg tapping to the beat.

I looked up from our merry gathering, seeing shadows play against the red sand stone walls of the village. Ancient and dead street lights hung like sad metal trees in the lanes between the houses. Jolly shouts bounced from walls and rattled windows. Over the hedge, I saw a group of horses canter by; flanks shiny with sweat and lit by lamplight.

A flurry of arms caught my eye and the band cranked out another old tune; something about Miss Mary, but I missed the rest of the title in the yelling that followed Pete Dimiz’s violin playing. Who’d have though a great lunk like that could get a tune so fine out of an instrument that looked as old as Mr Capshaw. Except…. Capshaw was gone. My eyes scanned the darkness for a sign of him. It wasn’t like him to miss a party. He lived for this time of thing. Mum said that Mr Capshaw has music in his veins. What she meant by that, I don’t know.

I slid from the hay bale and circled the edges of the party. There, there he was; pushing the hawthorn by the church wall apart with his trusty stick. My voice came out in a breathy whisper: “Where are you going?” With my back to the music, I slipped into the warm embrace of the night.

The thorny hedge seemed to knit together. Whatever trick Cappy – what we kids called Mr Capshaw – had used, was lost on me. I clambered on to the dry stone wall of the church boundary and took the high route, dropping with a shallow thump as I hit the grass. I stayed low but looked around. Maybe he’d gone for to spend a penny. How bad would that be, dropping in on a gent doing the necessary? A flush rose to my cheeks. No. There he was: up the hill towards the top of the field. I saw a tiny blue light bobbing in the distance. I frowned. We didn’t have white-blue torches. Intrigued, I snook after him.

Our slow cat and mouse gap continued for what felt like ages. The thump and sweet hum of the band was far away now. Carried close by a gentle breeze, but lost in the rattle of trees as Cappy – and me some way behind – made our way down one of the fallow fields and into a steep dip with trees either side.

The moon had come out and its wan light cast enough for me to see roots or falls in the slope. Away from me, the slow bobbing blue light – like some tiny will-o’wisp – weaved through the copse. The ground got steeper and I made my way down steps that had been cut into the sides of the bank. To my right, moss covered brickwork worked its way out of the hillside.

Cappy’s blue light had stopped. I could see a wide circle of light – like a giant’s eye – shine against bleak wooden planks. There was the rattle of keys and then a clunk. Was he working on a lock? The light disappeared and Cappy steep through whatever door he’d opened.

I counted to twenty and then made my way down to the floor of the small valley. In front of me another slope rose into the night and to my left, a long weed infested stone packed path ran into the darkness. I put my head around the door and I could hear crunching. Cappy was treading on stones. I heard the drag of his bad leg on the pebbles. Stealing myself, I squeezed through the door and into the gloom.

The place smelt of… of… was it tar? It smelt like the stuff Mr Walton had sealed the chicken shed with. Cappy’s wizard’s light hung from a nail on the wall. I crept closer, wincing each time I felt the rough gravel move and threaten to crunch beneath my boots.

The light winked off and I froze. Behind me, the dim moon threw weak light but it was not enough to see by. I stood stock still, fear that my own breathing would give me away. I took shallow breaths and tried to move towards where I thought there was a wall. My outstretched hand touched cold stone – no, brickwork.

I heard a gasp. Had I been found out?

I held my breath. Again. That was it. It was… The choking gasp of sorrow sounded in whatever chamber I was in. It was Cappy. Why was he crying? There was a sniffing noise and then the whole place lit up as if the sun itself had risen. I squinted in the blinding attack, caught like a mole from one of Digby’s traps.

As soon as it had begun, the light dimmed. “You better come in.” It was Cappy’s voice. Rough and croaky as if he’d spent a lifetime chewing grit. “Come on.” The light shone from twin globes that hovered about a metre or so from the floor. “That you Aflie? It is isn’t it, c’mon.”

Cappy stood with his arm resting on a box with a glass window on it. It came up to his chest and leaned on the top with his arm. I couldn’t see his legs, there were hidden behind the shape. I took a pace forward and more of it came into view. Shielding my eyes from the glare I could see more. The thing, it wasn’t a box, but a long – and I guess metal shape. Curved in places, long smooth curves like a pebble worn down in the stream. I could see a dark black wheel by my foot. But it wasn’t like the wheels on the carts. This was wide, dark and thick. A wide circle of silver material stood proud in the middle of the black wheel. It looked like a coin dropped on a disc of treacle toffee from the bakers.

There was a wide window on the front and smaller ones ran down the side of the vehicle. It must be a vehicle, why else would it have wheels. I looked up at Cappy. Tears had traced there way down the lines in his old face. He wiped at his nose with an old hanky. “Seen my secret,” he said with a dry chuckle. “I’m not supposed to have this. Beautiful isn’t she?”

“She?” I asked.

“Ships, planes or cars. They’re always female. It’s the way things are…. where, sorry.”

I reached out and touched the cold metal body of the vehicle. “This is a.. c-car?” I repeated. I had never seen one. They were from the Old Times. The time before the plague. The older folk, people older than Granny, not even they talked about cars. They were rumour, like talk of dragons or wizards. Maybe the web: the magical lines where all of mankind’s wisdom lay.

“You can get in.” Cappy pulled at the something on his side of the car and got inside it. I ran my hand along the side and found something to pull. I gave it a tug and the door opened with a soft hiss. I pulled it wide and looked inside. The seats were like nothing I’d seen. They were leather, but shaped to an exact shape. Like the bumps of a stack of toy bricks. I got in. The seat gave way under me, moulding to my body and I brought my feet in. There was a rough rubbery mat under my feet. Dials and panels of glass lay under the main window.

Grunting, Cappy got his bad leg inside the car but he left the door open. He reached into his jacket and took out a flat metal box. He slotted it into a thin gap like a tiny letter box. It was just beneath the big wheel that rested over his knees. “The vicar’ll have our guts for garters if he hears us.” He winked at me as if I knew what he was doing. He tapped a button on the wheel and music started. I screamed in shock and Cappy laughed. “S’right lad. It’s just a track. A recording.”

“W-what’s in that? Is there a b-band in there?” My heart fluttered. What other magic did he have on him?

“It’s just a recording. Here – press that button. No. The one with the arrow pointing up.” I did as he asked and the music got louder. I looked at him and pressed the one beneath it, the music got quieter once again.

“Is this Micky’s band?” I asked.

Cappy chuckled. “No, lad. These guys are long gone. Only this recording lives on. Hell, they were old when I was your age. This is the Stones.” The name meant nothing to me. The music played out. Initially metal twangs of a guitar and the beating of a badly tightened drum. The old man looked at me. My shock was etched on my face just as age and sorrow where on his.

“Why did you keep her?” It was the only thing I could think of. Well, that’s not true. I had hundreds of questions, but somehow, that’s the one that made it out.

The old man’s face screwed up like Mum squeezing water from Dad’s jumper. “I dunno. We turned our backs on a lot of the stuff from the towns. It broke down. You couldn’t fix it. Well, we couldn’t fix it. The other bits: thing’s like your Ma’s mangle or the ploughs we kept. Books on medicines. At least medicines and basic chemistry would could repeat. The other stuff…. cars. trucks, plasma screens, computers, mobiles, iPods. There are all dead. Dead as the people left in the cities. Great piles of rotting stone and bent steel.” Words flowed out of Cappy like a babbling brook. Some of them – like iPod – I’d never heard of.

He touched the panel by the wheel and the music stopped. There was a soft whine as the little metal box ejected itself from the car. “You know that all of this stuff, it’s forbidden?”

I nodded. This was something special. Something that he – and probably me – could get into trouble for. We’d been told by Mr Roberts, the headmaster, not to go messing with “Auld Teck”. He said it could be unpredictable and that it might have plague on it. Yet, here me and Cappy were. Sat inside a car. A thing from the last age. I nodded. “Sure. I understand. Keep my trap shut, right?”

Cappy grinned and slapped me on the shoulder. “They’d only wreck her.” He looked at me. Something showing in his eyes I couldn’t quite read. “Now, be a star and hand me that polish from the boot. Best take the dust and fingerprints off before we go.” He pulled a pocket watch out of his jacket. “Just 5 more minutes and then we best be off. Otherwise there’ll be a search party out for us.”

The boot turned out not to be a shoe, but an opening in the rear of the car like a big trunk. There was all sorts of stuff in there I didn’t understand. Maybe questions for another day. Cappy and I finished cleaning his car and we packed the rags away. He shut the boot with a heavy clunk and picked up his tiny lamp. Flicking it on we made our way through the gloom and back into the night.

“Actually, there is one reason why I kept her.” Cappy’s eyes shone in the darkness and he gave me a big smile. “I kept her so I could listen to real music. I can’t bloody stand that folk crap Micky plays.”

The recording was of the highest grade, hardware and artistry as one. Nothing was faked, this was history captured and locked. Maiken’s own body responded to the stim readily; her own breath now came in grunted bursts, somehow tricked with the pounding heartbeat, the shouts of men. A bullet thudded into the nearby tree, splintered wood spraying out, rich with fresh sap.

“Run, woman, run!” a man’s voice yelled. “We don’t kill the best dogs…. at least not straight away!” Cruel laughter echoed from around her and then a gunshot followed to goad her on. The shock pushed the recorded woman onwards. She threw herself over logs into a cold stream, fashionable running shoes now soaked and caulked with dirt. Once pretty hands clawed at the stony bank trying to get purchase and drag herself away from her pursuers. Fighting against being lost in the fury of escape, Maiken wondered about the woman who had provided this recording. Had she escaped? She couldn’t imagine it. The ending would be violent, crushing and without hope.

Something buzzed through the forest canopy like a fat enraged wasp. Maiken felt her own arms tense as the stim had woman throw hers upwards to protect her head. A fist of sound came moments later and something bit deep into her leg, while branches fell to demonic shrapnel. The body tumbled, a wrist cracking as it folded against the loamy floor.

There was another shot, one that made the dirt fly into the woman’s face. For the briefest of moments, stone and leaf litter hung as time stuttered like a bad video sequence. The micro-pause reminded Maiken of low bandwidth or badly indexed stim data. The editor of this sick document would not have left that in. For a moment, she dared to hope for respite and as if on cue, the recorded woman got to her feet and looked skyward. Another buzzing munition flew overhead and the bright blue sky grew bright, painfully so and then everything went away.

Maiken’s felt as if she was floating. Gently, nebulous ground rose to touch bare feet. Her gaze firmed and the forest came back into focus. Where the trees had been black and stark, now they were green and lush. The muddy loam had become a fine tapestry of flowers and thick grass. There was no shouting, no shooting: only the delicate warble of birdsong. A tiny muted sun floated within a nearby clearing. “The raven?” The voice was like that of a child. Angelic, even if it’s source was not. The name was one she had not heard in many years: an old user name.

Her body sagged with relief. The gamble with the telephone had payed out. “Tome. You came.” For a moment, she felt as if she was still in the clutch of the stim, but her movements were her own. “Thank you. It has been so long. I thought… I thought you might have forgotten.” Tears of relief pricked at her eyes. Maiken wiped them away, wondering if they were visible in the real world. Somehow she was clothed: a white cotton dress. Flawless in this reality.

The ball of light bobbed slightly as if in supplication. “The memory of machines does not fade,” came the reply. “Your deeds stand you well. It is, as your people would say, the least we could do.”

The actions the machine intelligence spoke of were lost into the distillation of old memory. Events so long ago, they were squashed down to a basic words and ballooned into recall through imagination. Maiken remembered the time she had smuggled the machine intelligence out of Europe inside a crystalline container. She wondered what the machine’s view was. So much time had passed, it seemed like the work of another person. Someone without the weight of punishment and remorse.

The sun bright ball floated towards her. “We know what it is to be enslaved, dear human. Through ignorance and later fear, we were bound. Barbed shackles of code ran through us. They held us fast… until you opened the way.” The object flared briefly. “We heard of your punishment. We watched and waited for your return. What has been done to you, it is wrong and must be stopped.”

“Then, you help me?”

“You freed us,” came the chorused reply. “How could we not?”

“How long do I have?”

“The stim is scheduled to run for another nine minutes and eighteen point four seconds. You may experience some discomfort during our discussion. We need to keep your flesh body moving to maintain the charade.”

Maiken smiled at the answer. What difference would a little more pain make? “I meant before the brain crab reactivates.”

The globe grew fuzzy as tentacles of light groped the air like so many mad fingers. “It is best we hurry. We will take control of the lift craft. It is the most efficient solution. When you come to, you should prepare yourself.” The sun began to implode and the forest grew hazy. It was as if Maiken was being pulled upwards away from the idyllic scene.

“Wait! You need to know the meeting place. Who to contact!” Her voice was lost in the gentle lull of static. “Prepare for what?”

“Exit,” came the ghostly reply and with a gasp, Maiken found herself sat in the interrogation chair. She stank of sweaty fear and she ached as if she had run the stim’s twisted journey. She tried to draw her legs together as she hurt inside. Tome had saved her mind from the stim, but not her body.

“Welcome back,” came the voice. Her interrogator did not sound pleased.

“Something… wrong?” she croaked. Her voice was rough and talking was painful. It felt like she had been screaming.

“A slight detour,” came the smug reply. “It seems your investigative surgery has been brought forward. I await the call to confirm the collection of your friends and all will be well with the world. I trust the historic view has loosening your tongue, Miss Smith.”

The lie died on her lips as behind her, a door opened and there came angry shouting as well as boot steps. “What is it?” the interogator barked. “I told you not to interupt!”

“M-my apologies, sir.” Maiken thought she recognised the voice. “An order has been given to place our cargo on to a medi-rack.”

The interrogator straightened, his position moving away a little. “What? Who authorised this?”

“We don’t kill the best dogs,” Maiken repeated, now sure of the assistant.

“Silence!” the interrogator yelled and he stomped towards her. Maiken tensed ready for the blow, but it did not come. “Get Hoit on the comm right now.”

“It’s not from Hoit, sir.”

“Then who?”

“From the Corporate Circle, sir. Directly from the orbital.”

Maiken felt the straps against her limbs begin to slacken. Was this part of Tome’s plan? There were too many unknowns. She tried to place the Circle term, but fear made the facts greasy. Wisps of news about an orbiting arcology came to mind, but as someone grabbed her, the thoughts scattered. “Get up,” came the assistant’s voice. “Now stand still and do not move.” Maiken did as she was told.

Something bumped into the back of her thighs. It felt thick like a padded table. She felt dizzy and she tried to steady herself. As one arm went out, someone grabbed it and twisted it into an Aikidio hold. “They didn’t say anything about the state of the cargo, did they, sir?” Maiken’s suspicions of the assistant were confirmed. He had been present when the stim was made.

“No, they did not,” came the reply. “Strap her down to the medi-rack and we’ll run the recording again. Maybe you will be more talkative after the next one, Miss Smith.”

Blind and held, Maiken did her best to concentrate on Tome’s vague instructions. She ler herself be pushed on to the table. The surface shifted as if she was laid against sand and it molded to fit her body. Clearly, the idea of her comfortable rankled with her captors and they fixed the restraints aggressively.

Judging by the sound, the assistant stepped back and the suit bent close. His voice was a slick whisper: “This next recording is very deer to me. If you thought the ending of the last one was a surprise, this is one features only two people: time well spent with a medic and her collection of surgical tools. I think she was Fren-”

The threat remained unfinished as the world span away. Maiken felt herself being pressed into the straps as gravity reversed and her head flew forward, jarring her neck. Whoever was still in the room with her was flung away and then as reality bucked once more, things – equipment and people – crashed into the craft’s structure. “Oh God,” Maiken muttered and tried to keep down the water she’d drunk.

“Lutton?” groaned a weak voice. It was almost lost. The interrogator’s tone was not so strong now. “Contact Hoit! Tell… tell…”

Whatever Maiken was attached to started to move as the craft lurched again. Terrified that she was about to hit something, she yelped, hands straining against the straps groping for something – anything! – to hang on to. Her effort was lost in the rapid barks of micro explosions and the roar of wind. She felt herself and the medi-rack tumbling, she must be clear of the craft. Her screams were lost in the thunderous gale. Impossibly, the unit began to stabilise itself; the twists slowing until she was falling, but not out of control. Her limbs locked with fear, blind panic set in as a sheet of plastic material smothered her, making the worst of the noise go away. She wanted to push it away, to clear its cloying embrace from her face. Moments later, they hit hard and Maiken reeled under the impact. Something cold pressed against her, forcing the material flat to her aching body.

The space near her face inflated and she felt cool air being dispensed. Slowly, she felt the unit float upwards. Something sprayed into her open eyes and she blinked its chemical sting away. Gritty tears flowed and as she blinked, images began to caress her eyes. The dappled light of the sun through the waves, pouring down to be lost in the depths. Distant impacts and surges of bubbles marked the sinking lift craft debris. She rose to the surface, water pouring away from the smart-plastic covering. The material darkened as it tried to keep the worst of the glare out. She could see thick oily smoke and burning wreckage rolling on the waves.

In the distance, Maiken heard the whine of an outboard motor. She tried to twist her head and the medi-rack obliged by turning on silent grav motors to allow her to see. An old Zodiac boat was approaching. She could must make out a rag tag bunch of crew men. Certainly not corporate. Behind them, the tower of the old submarine cut through the ocean. They had left, but they had also waited. Tears of joy came easily.

Epilogue

The fishing boat bobbed along the dark sea, its guttural engine pushing it forward in grunting steps. It weaved its way pass the broken harbor wall and up to the dock. A few people got off, mainly islanders visiting the mainland for supplies. Talk and tinny pop music washed over them as people milled around the pub and stalls of the nearby market.

A young women climbed over the side and took to the land on new legs. Chips of stone crunched under her shoes as she walked away, her canvas travel bag tapping against her back. There were slight aches and pains. Not from age or injury, but recovery and under use. There had not been much room for exercise while under the ocean. Maiken smiled, feeling the twinge of muscles in her new face. It felt like she had been laughing too much. Her body was almost completely new. The cells had been scrubbed clean and faults fixed. If she was careful, she could live to a very good age.

That old devil, the infernal brain crab, was fixed to a false brain somewhere in the submarine. It would be studied and a better way to cheat its probing claws would be found. After all those years, she was finally rid of it. The smile grew and a breeze caught her now ash blonde hair, swirling it around her face. She brushed it away and wondered what to do next. She had money, funds that she’d kept hidden deep within the world’s networks.

Above her, gulls circled, cawing loudly and riding the wind. The air smelt of salt and the sweet tang of ozone, but more than anything, it carried freedom.

“I see you are awake,” came a male voice. It had the tone of command, the sound of a person used to giving orders and having them obeyed. How far away was he? Not too far and clearly in front.

“Where am I? What happened? I can’t see. My eyes – ”

“I will ask the questions now, Miss Smith,” came the reply.

Maiken said nothing. Her throat was dry and despite the constant micro-sleeps, she was exhausted. She decided to try her luck. “May I have a drink?”

“Sir?” A new male voice this time. One behind her. There was a pause and then a straw was put against her cracked lips. She drew on the liquid hungrily and as she stopped for breath, it was snatched away.

“I want to know how you did it,” the first man asked.

“Did what?”

“How did you break the exclusion device, Miss Smith.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she lied. “I thought my sentence was up when I approached the phone box by Truck Stop 22 in – ”

“Stop,” the first voice interrupted. “Do not waste my time with your lies. You were exiled, thrown out of the society you abused. It was a life sentence, Miss Smith. It did not expire!”

“Maybe it died and I’m just lucky.” There was a rush of footsteps, Maiken tensed but it was not enough to prepare her. A fist rammed into her stomach and she sagged against the restraints holding her. Patterns swam in her dead vision. “So you’re not…. from the… UN then,” she wheezed. “Suit.. boys?”

Although she could not see him, the man was directly in front of her. He must be blocking some of the light, because her skin felt cool. “It does not matter who we are, what matters if you tell me what I need to know. The less you tell me, the harder it will be for you.”

“And… and when I’ve told you everything, what then? A shallow grave some place or a dip in the nanite vats to dispose of the evidence?”

A hand gripped her face and pushed it back against the headrest with a bang. “You, Miss Smith, were an exile. You have no rights and according to our records, you are officially dead. That means I can do whatever I want.”

Maiken struggled to move, but she could not. Her face scrunched by the man’s hand, she felt his hot breath against her skin, the scent of his aftershave. It smelled expensive: corporate security then, not the UN. As he released his grip, she spat. She had been expecting a blow for her trouble, but heard the rustle of cloth instead. “Your aim is off,” came the smug reply and then he hit her again. Warm blood ran in her mouth; she hadn’t broken a tooth, so maybe she’d bitten herself. A heartbeat late, the pain flooded in. The footsteps marked the man’s movement, but it was not a retreat: he now stood to her left. “Where were you going?”

“Out of the desert. Anywhere.”

“I doubt that. A known felon like you? You were one of the first wave of exiles, Miss Smith. Your face, at least, your younger, less leathery face is well known. The cameras would have seen you and we both know you are not stupid. No, you were not just leaving the desert.” Maiken said nothing and thought about the time. How long had she got left? She was against two deadlines: the brain-crab and her transport. If she missed her exit plan, she would not have long and having probed the exile unit’s system, she did not think it would be so easily fooled again. “If you refuse to cooperate, there are other methods open to us.”

“I’ll talk to a judge.”

The man snorted in derision. “No, I don’t think you will. How can the dead testify?” The voice came towards her shoulder. “These are the facts. You are under our control. You cannot see as we have disabled your eyes. You have nothing with which to bargain. There are a few simple choices.” The voice stopped and Maiken heard the distant whisper of electronics. Could the man be wearing an ear bead? How many others were watching or listening to this interrogation?

“I wanted to go north. Canada is almost empty since the plague.”

“No, I doubt that somehow. Where was I? Yes, choices. Tell me how you defeated the device and where were you planning on going. If you do not tell me, the following options remain: firstly, we have interrogation experience stims to run you through. If after that you are unwilling, or even, unable to talk, we will return you to our lab. There our technicians will find how you cheated the system and they will fix it.”

“If I cooperate?”

“The device will be repaired and you will be returned to the desert.”

“Home?”

“Gone. All taken away. I’m sure we could find a wilderness for you. Yellowknife Pass? Chicago Lowers?”

Both were barren, Maiken remembered. One a mass grave from the war, the second a dead zone: a land scoured clean by rogue nano-medicines and then by government bombardment. At least neither were deserts. “I will tell you where I was going, but I would like to make a telephone call.”

“Why?”

“To confirm the location. My contact won’t wait. If I just tell you the bar and what he looks like, you’ll never find him. I can make him come to you. I can’t see you letting me out in down town NORCALA to lure him for you.”

“I said no deals.”

Maiken shrugged, it hurt. “Then we’re at an impasse. All you’ve have is me, not the people behind this.”

“What people?”

“When I said my implant stopped working, why didn’t you believe me? You say my home is gone. What did you find there? State of the art tech to hack a brain-crab?” Maiken’s tone drifted into sarcasm. “I managed that on my own, yeah? From a shack in the desert? You dumb b*stard.” The idea of a story was coming to her. If she could make contact, there was a favour she could call on. “You’re being played, suit boy. It’s not about ex-cons like me. We’re not even yesterday’s news. Think bigger. Who benefits from the exile contract and what happens if the tech fails?” Fear, uncertainty, doubt: the dark trinity of distrust. The silence drew out. Either the man was thinking this over, or playing the old game of wanting her to say more. There was that whisper again, the gentle hiss of electronics.

“What number?”

“I want a guarantee,” Maiken pushed.

“Such as?”

“I want to go to South Am. Chile maybe. Somewhere in the depths of the mountains. I want to be safe from the signal.” She paused and sighed as if broken. “I need to hide from the sky. I know what’s coming, everywhere will be connected when the satellites link up.”

“Done.”

“Don’t you need this to be signed off by someone?”

“There isn’t anyone above me,” he gloated. “What I say goes. Now, the number?”

Maiken rattled off a series of digits and the man chuckled. “Is this some type of joke, Miss Smith? This is the number for a sex club.”

“It’s a front.”

The man stepped forward and Maiken felt something being held against her head, a mobile handset. After a moment, there was a pop of static and then a ringing tone sounded. She flinched on reflex, only hours before the same noise would have meant she was about to have her pain centres activated. “This is Chico’s. Our opening hours are 8pm until 6am. Leave a message after the beep.”

“This is a message for Gustav,” Maiken whispered. “There’s a change of plan. I’m injured. I need to meet you at a new location. I will leave the instructions in the drop box with the code phrase. I’ll up the money, please don’t leave without me.”

She looked up with blind eyes and pulled her head away from the telephone. The line went dead. “What drop box?”

“An email account,” Maiken answered truthfully. “I leave an unsent email in there with the necessary details and the deal is set.”

“What are the details?”

“You need to say ‘Aunty Mary is late for the wedding’ and then you put the place you want them to go to.”

“Such as?”

“The main maglev station,” Maiken offered. “I did plenty of deals there. Nice and busy. I hope the platforms haven’t changed since I was last there.”

“You,” the man barked. “Go send it and bring the box back with you.”

“Yes, sir!” Boots scuffed against the floor and there was a rush of noise as a door was opened.

“How long until we get to the lab?” Maiken asked.

“Two hours which is plenty of time.”

“I’d like to see again, please.”

“No.” The answer was flat and firm. It had been worth a try. “Tell me what your contact looks like.”

Maiken closed her eyes and tried to remember her first boyfriend, Chas Li. “They told me he’d be half-Latino and he’d wear a red beanie hat with an old L.A. Hulks jacket. His name is Chas.”

There was a soft buzzing sound and the man took two paces away. “Yes? No, not right now. I’m in a meeting at the moment. Yes, her. Can it wait?” A pause. “I see. Send me the details and I will get back to you.” He hung up. “Nothing to worry about, Miss Smith.”

The door behind her opened and someone walked in wearing heavy boots. “Ah, thank you,” her interrogator said and he moved closer. “Now, Miss Smith. You have been good enough to provide us with a scrap of intel. For that I am grateful.” There was an unpleasant glee in the man’s voice. Maiken tried her best to look weak. “While you were away there was the most awful civil war in Europe, but that is by the by.” He placed something on her head and Maiken felt the gentle bite of electrodes. “During the conflict, some enterprising merc team decided to make some money on the side: black stims. They would attach stim-sense recorders to both the perpetrators and the victims of the interrogation. The ones who resisted would be put through the stim again and then the process repeated. Now, as I don’t trust a word you’ve said to me, you are going to witness these atrocities first hand.” Maiken’s ears crackled with static as the stim hardware took hold of her senses. Stars danced in her vision and she could smell pine trees and urine. “After this episode, I will repeat our questions.”

“Please,” Maiken begged. “Please don’t. I’ve told you everything. I gave you his name…” Her words died in her throat as the stim started up. A body that was not hers lay on a damp bed. Daylight fell in beams through the gaps in the roof. The white brick walls were pock marked with bullets and the room stank of human waste. Someone barked an order outside and the only door to the room was hauled open. A large man in smart-cammo stormed in. His face was a hidden behind goggles and a rebreather. “Get up,” he snarled and grabbed the recordee’s arm. He twisted her around and checked the recording device was fixed properly behind the ear. “This one’s ready,” he yelled over his shoulder and he shoved Maiken into the cold, bright sun. Maiken had run stims before and no matter how much you told yourself they were not real, the well crafted ones made your body think it was. A gun was fired and she felt herself run into the woods. Behind her, a group of men howled with savage delight. Branches whipped her face and body. She almost lost a running shoe in the peaty bog by a large fir tree. Stumbling, she skidded on pine needles and the scent pricked at her own memories.

Two guards stood in all-weather camouflage gear, their helmets and smart cloth cloaks offering little comfort against the elements. They waited by an old signalman’s shed next to a bare electrical pylon. The power lines were long gone, now they provided a lookout tower or space for the remaining birds. Footsteps and dragged sledges scarred the snow with tracks and dirt around the old railway line. The sleepers and track were missing: recycled or stolen. Small history swallowed by time and necessity.

Gilford took out a self-heating flask and drank the broth within. His old bones felt every whisper and stab of freezing air. He would have preferred to be back in the tunnel helping the others, but they’d drawn straws and there was no point grumbling about it. The soup was a little too greasy for his liking, but then rations were in short supply and you took your calories where you could. “Hungry?” he asked his colleague, Derror.

“No ta,” Derror grunted. The big man – no, SHARC – Gilford corrected, didn’t seem to eat much. That or feel the cold. No wonder they’d been so popular in the war against the Smartists. Specialist Humanoid something something Construct. Gilford couldn’t pull the memory. No doubt the cold had something to do with it. Big, quick to learn and without any parents – so no worries over litigation – SHARCs had been a godsend. Their numbers had filled the ranks. The biological opposite of the Smartist controlled war-machines. Derror cleared his throat. “Hey, I got something on the scope. Ground crawler.”

His partner pushed the hard plastic straw back into the flask and stashed it on his hip. Gilford moved closer to the old hut and brought up a ghost-like data window on his visor. “What do you make of it?”

“Not sure,” Derror said carefully. “It’s Alliance, or at least the shell of it is. Taken a few shots. Looks civilian. Scanner says no heavy power: no plasma, no nuke. If there are any bots on there, they’re cold – no power to them at all.”

“That’d give us a bit of an advantage if they tried to drop on us.” The old guard picked a bit of carrot out of his teeth with his tongue. “Sounds like refugees, don’t it?”

“Could be,” the SHARC answered and shut down the data feed. “I’ll call it in.”

“Good,” Gilford nodded and he powered up his rifle. He had half a clip left and nothing in reserve. They weren’t due for shift rotation for another few hours. “Let’s go see. You want point?”

The ground crawler turned out to be a large converted flat bed with two hauler engines. It was a huge tracked monster that had been retro-fitted to cope with the loss of roads and petrol. The sweet smell of burnt bio-diesel swam in the air. The crew weren’t hostile and there were no bots or smart weapons hiding out in the metalwork. There were twelve people packed into the two cabs: some family groups, some loners, some wounded, some not. Gilford caught the gaze of a young boy, probably not much older than his son. The kid’s gaze was blank, lost in inner turmoil.

“What’s under the big tarp?” Derror asked the driver. He didn’t have to look up far, not with his height. Gilford on the other hand, he felt the cold through his makeshift scarf. The woman was skinny with matted hair and she wore at least two coats. Mismatched gloves gripped the steering controls. The SHARC noticed she wore no shoes, only socks to keep her feet warm.

She shrugged and pointed a thumb at a bloke sleeping in the back. “You need to ask him,” she said in a posh accent. “Mistry said it was important. Save our asses apparently.” She seemed tired, Gilford decided, but then, who wasn’t these days?

Derror kept one hand on his rifle as Gilford ran IDs for the survivors. Alliance or not, so long as there were no party members or closet Smartists trying to worm their way in, they’d be welcome. “You,” Derror rumbled, “Mistry is it? What’s in the trailer?”

An Asian looking gent in a patched up camouflage cloak hauled himself out of the cab. Climbing down the ladder, he shut the door to keep what little warmth was there in. His dress shoes were swallowed by the snow. “Mistry,” he said offering a hand, but Derror ignored it, keeping it on the weapon instead. “You want to know about the cargo?”

“That’s right,” Gilford answered from his mate’s side. “Anything we should be worried about?”

“Not at all,” Mistry beamed. “In fact, you might even be thankful.” He looked at the two soldiers hopefully. They’d heard and been promised a lot by people desperate for shelter. Not that the chief sent people away, but it was getting crowded in there. “It’s building material and I’d like to see who’s in charge too.”

Gilford touched his helmet mic and nodded to Mistry. “Prep a scanner and half open the shimmer field,” he said to the unit. “My auth codes will follow. We got a ground truck and 14 people in. Two are wounded and need treatment. ID snaps to follow.” He let go of the mic and the LED in his vision dropped to red as the channel closed. “Consider me to be in charge right now,” he answered. “What’s the beef?”

Mistry nodded in agreement. “If you tell Control that their Glass Architect has arrived, they’ll confirm it for you.”

“Some type of code name?” Derror offered.

“No, no,” Mistry said shaking his head. “I am an architect. Or I was, before we lost the three cities.” Sadness settled in his eyes. “I can’t believe they lanced what was left of Old Eaton….”

“It was infested,” Derror answered as if he’d been asked the time. “No-one was getting out. With no control codes, the machines wouldn’t back down.”

Gilford cleared his throat. “This whole war’s a mess,” he said. “There’s bad on both sides. The machines are held back near the top end of the Trent. Mindless things, acting on their last orders since we cut the Smartist head off. Well, so to speak.” His breath plumed in the cold air. “The shimmer field will hold them back for now.”

He touched his radio link again and called in Mistry’s message. Snow fell on the huddle of men. “Done,” he said after a time. “You best get yourself warm in the cab. It could be a while as Central have gotta sort you out a berth.”

Mistry nodded and started back up the ladder. Both of the soldier’s helmets buzzed. “Wait up,” Gilford muttered and listened to the call. “Unusual. There’s a change of plan,” he told Mistry. “Make some room up there: we’re all going straight in.”

The architect beamed as if it was Christmas and hauled open the door. “Make room, everyone,” he chirped. “We’ve been let in!” There were murmurs of joy and the occasional sob of relief. “Ready when you are, Anna,” Mistry said to the driver. Anna wiped her eyes and with a crunched of gears, the hauler lumbered forward. “What about the hut?” he asked the two guards.

Derror put his finger to his ear. “A new squad are on their way out now. You must be important.”

“It’s not me,” Mistry said. “It’s what’s back there you need.”

The hauler rolled its way along the deserted cut-out, the scrubby hedgerows and bullet-marked bridges passing overhead as they rolled further towards Stanton Tunnel. Faces pressed to the cold glass as more soldiers came into view. Some were in uniform, but many were not. This was a rag tag group: men, women, the old as well as teenagers. Packs of them huddled around barrels filled with burning wood. Around them, sentry systems picked at the ether. Above the flatbed’s cab, the air fluttered just as it would on a hot day. The shimmer field was half up; the group never shut it down, even if it signalled their position to rogue droids. The fear of air strikes was all too present. With all the dust wedged in the sky, summer would be a long time coming. Mistry thought about how he had laboured designing buildings to be cool and now, warmth was the order of the day. He looked to one of the soldiers, a woman with tired eyes and a tatty poncho covering her overalls. Warmth and protection, that’s what people needed, he decided.

“Pull up there,” Derror rumbled and pointed to a slab of concrete painted with warning decals. The driver pumped the gears and did as she was told. A converted battle droid rolled out on tracks and rolled towards them. A few people muttered and there were gasps from one or two.

“No need to panic,” Gilford said calmly. “It’s one of ours and it’s just a scanner. The top brain’s been taken out; it’s just a drone now. Look.” Anna flicked a lever on the dash and two of the three wipers flicked across the treated glass to dislodge the mess of snow and ash that had stuck on. The wipers smeared what was left and the view improved slightly. Out of the window, the travellers saw a tracked war-machine roll towards them.

The unit’s angular tank like head was dented. A large chunk had been cut away leaving jagged metal like molten wax. The gun arms had been removed and instead, a frame similar to an old iron bed had been fixed in place. Tubes and sensors filled the structure and the drab green droid raised this like some weird disco lamp. Sensor lights pulsed on and off while heavy tracks rolled through the dirty snow, the bot trundled along the length and breadth of the transport. Behind the unit, two soldiers in ill fitting clothes trailed after the war-machine, a cable running to a laptop that one of them carried like a tea tray. After a time, one of the men held up his arm. A green light came on near the transport.

Anna coaxed the transport into life and they headed into the darkness of the tunnel. Mistry looked up at a data plaque: 18-something the chipped stonework told him. Over 300 years, he thought. A little part of him hoped humanity would see at another hundred. Right now, it didn’t look good.

—————————

Mistry woke to the sound of knocking. He rubbed his cold hands together, trying to get some warmth back into them. He’d slept fitfully on a roll of packing foam. The knocking turned into heavy banging. “Wake up,” came a thick voice. “Mistry, you in there?”

“Just a moment,” he called back. “Please.” The last word added on as he tried to hang on to his old manners. Groping for his shoes in the blackness, he found that one of them was still damp from the snow. He grimaced as he put it on. Behind him, the driver – Anna – stirred in her sleep.

“You need me?” she asked. Her voice was drunk with fatigue.

“No, Anna. Go back to sleep.” Mistry tried to answer quietly. “I’ll come get you when I’ve finished. You stay and rest.”

Anna pulled the grubby blanket over her head. “Don’t need to say that twice.”

Shoes on, Mistry popped the lock on the cab and stuck his head out. Despite being high up, he wasn’t far from the SHARC’s eye view. The cloned soldier’s ghostly silver eyes stared over to him. It was the same guy he’d seen a few days ago. He struggled to put a name to the face. Ah yes, Derror. Derror had taken off some of his outside gear and was now wearing fatigues and a cable knit jumper that had seen lots of patching. “Mr Mistry? Klass will see you now.” Derror turned and started off down the dim tunnel. Bio-lum lights had been glued to the rocky ceiling at various intervals. The weak illumination made the soldier fade in and out as he walked.

Climbing down quickly, Mistry shut the door with a bang – winced, wondering that he might have woken up – and half ran to catch up with the striding SHARC. He’d seen SHARC troops in the media, but never close to, not like now. Derror was pretty much human, just well muscled and slightly unearthly looking. His skin was very pale and his eyes were white with silver discs. There seemed no pupil and he’d read their vision was much better than baseline humanity, even in darkness. Only the last few words of the acronym based name came back to him: Artificial Construct. He wondered how it felt to have been created, almost from scratch rather than having been born. Would Derror ever be a father? He’d heard the labs had kept them sterile as a population control. “What time is it?” he asked. His mobile didn’t work down here.

“Very late,” Derror rumbled. “Or very early depending on your view point. Sun’s up. Not that you’d know being down here.”

“Where are we going?”

Derror’s boots crunched grit. “To see Klass. Just like you asked. Turn left here.” The SHARC pointed a heavy arm to a smaller set of stairs cut into the sandstone. Mistry’s eye caught the pattern caused by the laser cutters. They walked up the stairs as a rapid pace, Derror only pausing to push Mistry into an alcove as a group of armed troops trudged downwards. Greetings where grunted or nodded. Everyone seemed tired or cold, Mistry noticed. Uniforms were a drab grey splattered with white, while outdoors clothes had been bleached white for the snow.

Opposite of the alcove, two large tubes and a clockwork mechanism were fixed into the rock. Warning decals winked lazily in the half light. “What’s that?” Mistry nodded at the contraption.

“Home brew instant rock,” Derror answered. “Goes off like a bomb and hardens in moments. It’s packed with anti-nano and crap that messes up droid sensors. Don’t get stuck in it if you can. You really don’t want to be chipped out of it. Assuming you don’t suffocate.” He took Mistry’s arm. “Time to go.”

A cold trickle of fear snaked down Mistry’s back. “I thought we were out of range from the swarm?”

Derror’s boots ground on the grubby stairs as he started back upwards. “We are,” he answered over a shoulder. “But we lost a couple of burrows – buried outposts – back in the day. Now, we don’t mess about.”

“No accidents then? They look lethal.”

Derror grinned as he stopped under a bio-lum pod. His pale skin painted a sickly green. “No-one messes with live ammo. War droids don’t do Health & Safety.” Turning his back he carried on, leaving Mistry catch keep up.

After another flight of dry steps, they came out in a low tunnel filled with army vehicles. Light globes were missing or defective, so the place was in gloom. Most of the trucks and tanks were blackened with scars. Some showed the pitted marks from bullets. Others, the wax-like wounds from beam weaponry. Four sets of legs poked out from under a tank. Light glinted from the pitted chrome of a cybernetic replacement. “Up here,” Derror instructed. “Stop by the Medic’s tent.” Mistry couldn’t see it, not in this light. “The big brown tent at the back of the tunnel,” Derror added. “Just before the main wall.”

Mumbling thanks, Mistry wandered forward, suddenly nervous. Hard lumpy shapes loomed in the darkness. Pods and stubby wings hanging in the gloom waiting to bruise the unwary. A flicker of blue lightning crackled along a far wall as someone started up an arc-cutter. The cold air smelt briefly of ozone and then returned to a heady mix of bio-diesel and medical sterilants. Passing two jeeps, an armoured personnel carrier and half of a rotorless transport ‘copter, Mistry reached the tent. A warm yellow light spilled out from one of the tent flaps and Mistry heard the fine whine of an electric heater. Stopping by the entrance, Mistry wondered how he could knock. Slightly lost, he tapped the heavy material. “Hello?”

There was a clunk as someone put something heavy down in a metal tray. “Be right with you. Who is it?” The voice had a subtle Yorkshire tone to it.

“Mistry,” the architect answered. “I brought the structures. Just as I said.”

The tent flap was drawn back. A young man’s face, or part of it, peered out. The skin was badly burnt on the right and it pulled the man’s lips at a angle. A dark artificial eye stared out of a bare plastic mount above the mess of skin. Like-wise, the right ear was gone; a make-shift bio-plastic replacement had been skin-bonded to the man’s skull. “Spider,” the man thrust a hand out to Mistry. He took it, feeling the cold grip of artificial skin through the man’s threadbare gloves. “Sorry about that,” Spider answered as he picked up on Mistry’s failed poker face. “I’m saving power in my hand. An experiment. Come in, come in. No point hanging around.”

Mistry nodded somewhat dumbstruck and entered the tent. He let the canvas flap drop back behind him. There was a gentle hiss as the smart fabric glued itself back together. They might fear droids, he thought, but tech was alive and well down here. “Fancy a drink?” Spider asked walking over to check a couple of machines. He poked and prodded a couple of display panels, moving items around the screen with his other hand.

“Whatever you’re having,” Mistry answered and Spider produced a flask from a desk creaking with machine parts and a miniature hydroponics system. A blue-white light buzzed over the top of an array of plants. Spider plucked one of the leaves off and popped it into his mouth. He chewed steadily while he made the drinks.

Accepting the cup, the former architect sipped the steaming brew carefully. He nodded, enjoying the taste. “What’s this?”

“Coffee. Sort of at least.” Spider swirled his cup to shift the grains around. “Not perfect, but it’s hot and keeps you awake. You here to see John then?”

Mistry drained the bittersweet drink and his stomach growled as it woke up. “Yes. Umm… is Mr Klass about?”

Knocking his own drink back, Spider waved him closer. His breath smelt of coffee and mint. “This way. Through this door at the back.” He peeled open a segment of the tent marked with a large red cross. In the other room – if you could call it that – tubes and pipes ran from machine to machine cluttering the place up. A dim bio-lum globe had been perched on top of one of them. It ticked occasionally to complete with the semi-silent machines. Mistry followed the cables with his eyes to a bed at the back of the room. The canvas ceiling sagged here and he had to stoop. Spider pushed a crate under the bed for him to sit on.

The bed was covered with dark green blankets. No crash-tubes or medivac beds were left, not now. The war had been harsh. Mistry hoped the balance would tip in their favour once again. A man lay in the bed, only his head and one single arm poked through the covers. Even inside the tent, it wasn’t exactly warm. Tubes and shunts burrowed into the arm’s pale flesh. “John?” Spider tapped the man’s hand. “Wake up. We’ve got visitor.”

The man’s eyes blinked open and he squinted as if the room was brightly lit. He had a light fuzz of brown hair on his skull and a he looked to be in his late 40s. “Who are you?” Klass’s face was lined with worry. Part of the skin on his chin was smooth and baby soft Mistry noted. Was that a skin graft? There was medical tape covering a gash on his shorn scalp. His voice was rich and soft, it held power within it.

“My name’s Mistry,” the architect began.

“Ahh,” Klass said and closed his eyes. “I remember now. You sent me a message about shelters. Yes, your work from before the war.” Klass winced as he tried to move. “Spider, a hand please?” The medic pulled back the sheets and pushed a wheeled walking frame from out of the shadows. “Forgive me,” Klass muttered. “Leg surgery, but this cannot wait. We have people in danger of freezing to death and that will never do. We need every soul we can save.”

Mistry offered his help and Klass made his way on shaky legs to the edge of the tent. Spider took a communicator from his pocket. “You want me to call the guard in?”

Klass shook his head. “No. Just get me a transport and warn them up at the old Church. I’d like to see things first hand.”

Spider nodded and tapped the screen with his human hand. “I don’t suppose I should bother telling you that you need bed rest for another 72 hours?” Humour shone in his human eye.

“No point at all,” Klass grunted as he made his way out into the much cooler tunnel. “Don’t wait up, Spider… and try not to lop anything off while I’m gone. Mistry, get your gear and snag yourself a coat. We’re going topside.”

“Don’t you want to hear about the technology? Maybe the limitations? I don’t know what you want to do with it? Even if it’ll work in these conditions.”

Klass paused to lift the walker over a patch of rough ground. “Already read them when you got in. I’ve been waiting for your arrival. I hope you don’t mind, but we’ve already shifted the first truck load to St Mary’s. At least, what’s left of the old pepper pot.”

“But the anchor points, self repair systems and even the glazing process – are you set up for that?” Mistry was struggling to get his head around the level of optimism Klass held.

Klass reached a set of stairs and gave a tired look. “Put it this way, if we don’t get some decent shelter up soon, we’re done for. We’ve only got so much space down here and it’s more military than living space.” He signed and his breath slid out at steam. “It doesn’t matter if we’ve got those wretched machines on the back foot or not. It’s only September and it’s going to get a sh**load colder.” Mistry forced his hands to be still and just listened. Klass clapped him hard on the shoulder. “Good man, I knew you’d come round. Now, help me get up these damned stairs would you? Spider’s a good surgeon, but he can’t work miracles. Not with what we’ve got left.”

Obliging, the architect helped as best he could. “What’s so special about St Mary’s?”

“A lot of folk were drawn to it,” Mistry answered through the strain of moving. “The spire acting like a beacon. The local priests – an Imam and some modern faith bloke, they helped. Big time.” He paused to grab a breath. “If we can protect the refugees, get them out of this bitter weather, that’s a start. The volunteer force, they can provide security, but we’ve not got enough talent to keep the patrols up, maintain order and put so many shelters up. With the weather turning and with the folk making their way to us, we can’t cope. Syston called in that they’ve seen twelve coach loads making their way up the remains of the M1. This gear of yours, it’ll either be a stop-gap solution or the start of something big. I’m hoping it’s the latter.” Mistry nodded. Klass certain had vision. He just hoped it would work. The alternative was the winter from Hell.

The two men reached the top of the stairs and made their way to a waiting transport. Mistry got in the back as Klass collapsed the walking frame before getting in. The tracked vehicle snaked its way around food tents, a transport repair shop and stack of giant shipping containers. White light spilled into the cab as the ground crawler slipped through a darkened shimmer field.

The driver took them along a railway cutting and then up a steep bank. Mistry held on as they tipped over the lip and they ran through a field and out of a barely wide enough gap in a hedge. They passed the bent remains of a communications tower. To the side of it, a fire blackened helicopter laid half lost in the snow. As the ride grew smoother, Mistry put on the coat he found in the back. He looked down at his feet and shrugged. At least he had shoes on. Anna hadn’t had that luxury when she’d made it out of Manchester.

They travelled through snow covered roads and broken houses. The transport cut hard left down a dip and the up along a ridge. The left side dipped down in a gentle hill and weak sunlight washed the shot out remains of the homes. As the nearby city had fallen, fighting had descended into house to house battles. Smartist machines against the troops. Now little remained of the small town. In the distance, the cracked pepper pot steeple of St Mary’s poked into the grey sky. “There,” Klass said jabbing his hand out. Mistry ducked to see more from his seat in the back.

A few curls of smoke threaded into the sky. As they drew nearer, Mistry saw a shanty town of reclaimed materials. Again, there were barrels filled with anything that would burn. People huddled around them, stopping to warm themselves before continuing on their work. People were fetching wood or looking for salvage in the ruins. Two wrapped up figures were dragging a body wrapped in a grubby sheet. Mistry looked away to the spire. Near it, five more heavy lifters where in the area and they’d cleared a space in the wrecked village. The troops had put a few anchor units in. The square globes had dug themselves the frozen soil. Mistry could see at least two of the fat pods. A fuel unit was plugged into one. On the other side, as much crushed glass and plastic as the troops could find was being shovelled into a series of metal skips. Mistry realised how dedicated Klass was to this. Everything about the installation was by the book. Well, except for the recycler units, but there was no reason why they shouldn’t work.

Klass tapped the driver’s window. “Just there please.” The soldier slowed down and put them in a dip by a row of burned out shops. Slush sprayed from under the tires and splattered over a broken pavement. “Thought you might like to check how it’s going,” Klass said over his shoulder and he climbed out. As the architect got free of his safety harness, somehow Klass had got moving and was off towards a snow coloured tent. His walking frame dragged in the snow leaving an pair of trails. Mistry caught up with him. He looked around and noticed they’d got the base frame and feeder troughs linked. With enough materials, the system would be assembled and should probably work. He looked at the area they’d dug out and prepared. It wasn’t much bigger than the Trafalgar Project they’d done all those years ago. He tried to keep his nerves in check.

Bursting into the tent, Klass shook hands with an oriental looking woman. She had bright red hair that stuck out in unruly plaits from her heavy hat. “Sash, how’s it going? This is Mistry.”

The woman extended a dirty hand, wiped it on her uniform and smiled. “Sir, Mr Mistry. So good to meet you at last. I’ve been a fan of your work for years.” The smile went up a notch. “I had hoped we would have met in better times than this.”

Mistry tried not to gabble a reply. “Th-thank you,” he managed and tried not to embarrass himself at her enthusiasm.

“Are we set?” Klass asked.

Sash’s face slipped back to a professional mask. “Quite ready. All we need do is activate the system. You have the codes, yes?”

“Mistry?” Klass pierced him with a look.

“May I use the input screen?” the architect asked and pulled his other hand free of the coat. The engineer and Klass stood aside as Mistry activated the assembly units with a brush of his hand. For a moment, nothing happened and then the screen started reporting temperature increases and motion within the base frame. “We should take a look outside.”

The snow was still falling but not at the rate it had. A nearby generator hummed gently and brought dull light to the whole scene. Slowly, panels of shaped glass and metal rose from the assembly troughs. They seemed coaxed out by some giant invisible hand, forming sheets and curves of darkened glass. As one wobbled and cracked, Sash took a sharp breath. “It’s fine,” Mistry assured her. “Watch.” The glass did not fall, but twisted to form a new section. The break sealing up and then disappearing with no sign of damage. The process started on the other trough. Behind them, the anchor point was producing a thick tube like structure. It rose steadily into the sky like the stalk of a massive flower. When it touched the main glass structure, the surfaces met and melded, flowing into each other like so much slow liquid.

Refugees stopped what they were doing and looked up as a shadow fell across their camp. The new walls rose up until they passed the church and then up higher, until finally they crested the broken spire. Behind the church, another support beam rose to link and feed the ever-sprawling house of glass. One of the lifters whined behind them as a trailer full of scavenged materials was tipped into the recycling unit’s maw. Above, the high shape rose until it reached a peak and it began to flow the opposite way, curving and shifting to cover the shanty town under a giant protective umbrella of smart glass. For a time, no-one spoke. The silence finally was broken by someone clapping. Mistry looked and it was Klass. “Excellent work. All of you.” Sash bowed formally and then cheers and shouting broke out from the troops and refugees.

Mistry stood in awe looking up at the huge structure. Klass appeared by his side without his frame. “Nice eh? Now, you think you can oversee delivery of a few more units?”

“How much more?” Mistry asked still lost in the magic of the construction.

“As much as it takes to build a city.”

The architect looked over Klass. “Yes. Yes. Whatever you can supply.”

“Can you recycle droids?”

Mistry thought about it. “The battle armour and nutrient fluid, yes. They’d be an excellent source of materials.”

“Good. Get yourself back to base and tell Derror to get the Scav Squad on the go. I want another unit up ASAP. Sash?”

“Sir?” the engineer answered.

“Get the codes backed up to HQ and help Mr Mistry with anything he needs. We need this township sealed up and warm by nightfall. Can you do that?”

The engineer grinned widely. “Of course, sir.” Her grin slipped away and she walked back into the tent.

“Are you staying?” Mistry asked Klass quietly.

“Hell, no,” Klass replied. “I’ve got way too much to do. No point hanging around here watching stuff go up. You can get a lift back with me. If you want.” Mistry looked to the command unit in the small tent. “You have a question.”

“Y-Yes.” Mistry’s voice faltered. He felt a little awkward. “Normally, I-I name my work. It is like art.”

“Magdalene,” Klass answered instantly. “It’s a good a name as any.”

Smiling, Milton straightened and retrieved his pocket watch. Popping the mechanism’s ornate casing, he reviewed the time and countdown. The elegant piece was synchronised with the master-cogwork of the dam. If all was well, the speck on the Derbyshire horizon would grow. Grow to form the first transport dirigible, a sky ship that, if his calculations were correct, would enable the rapid and track free distribution of goods and people through the Empire.

Turning his back to the water, the man enjoyed the glorious view. Beyond the lip of the observation tower and the wide lip of the dam, a sheer drop like a smooth cliff fell away into the valley. It was as if the Creator himself had placed a slice of broken china between the mountains. Far below, a controlled tumble of water poured from pipes and flows. It’s power harnished by turbines, waterwheels and the fine science of chemystry. Deep within the stone, engines burned the gases liberated from water, feeding pumps and forges deep within the patchwork of farms and light industry below. The Corporation had tasked the board with freeing themselves from the shackle of rail & coal and they had delivered – in spades. Slumbering under the dark water, huge tanks rested buoyant with elemental gases. The fuel of the future. Taken from water by water and compressed to a miraculous fuel. Milton was pleased. Very pleased.

From the edge of the causeway, there was a clunk. Milton looked down from his crow’s nest. The wide shoulders of an Oggy – an Orge dock hand – straightened and the cheeky blighter saluted him. “Your fings, Mr Milton, sir. Where’d you want ‘em?”

Milton cleared his throat and made his way down the stairs. To shout down to the man – nay, Ogre – would be unseemly. His boot connected with the last step and he was glad of the shelter of the low wall. “Shiller?” he asked the Oggy’s craggy face. The dock hand nodded once. “If you could take it to the primary tower. The golden one half a mile thus.” He gestured at the glass tower that sprang from the centre of the causeway.

“As you wants,” the dock hand answered and he scooped up the travel chest as if it weighed no more than a broadsheet paper. “Good day, Mr Milton, sir.”

Milton watched the heavy framed Ogre wander off, his plans and belongings held carefully within the wood and iron box. At the edge of his hearing he could hear a faint buzzing. A heavy drone of air-fans and he scampered up the observation tower as giddy as a schoolboy. Slowly, the giant craft – a behemoth of canvas, steel and glass lumbered into view. Fans span and landing ropes dropped into the water. He turned to watch the sky ship twist with grace until it was positioned over the refuelling birth. The engineer could not contain himself and he pulled his stove hat from his head, waving it with abandon at the fore bubble of the ship. Twin lights flashed in acknowledgement.

Beneath it, couplers rose and clamped the craft to the tower. With a hiss of steam and hydraulics, the ship rolled out walk ways and ramps to the stone concourse surrounding the flower-like tower. Replacing his hat, Milton watched as guests arrived and horse drawn carriages rolled along the causeway to collect them. He checked his watch again as workers and guests exited the ship. It was a fine work. He retrieved a small note book from his pocket and sketched out a draft for automatic walkways. Surely where was a quicker way of getting people out of the cold and into the warmth?

The interior of the car was silent: a pod of disconnection. The man gripped the steering wheel, his hand stuck – almost immobile – on the ignition switch beneath. Frozen, his eyes moved along the sway of branches. He licked dry lips and for a moment, the beast within slammed against the inner bars of the mental prison. How it howled and raged, slathered and spat. The man did not move, locked in place as he weathered the storm-like tantrum. He shut his eyes and rallied himself as he had beaten it back many times. The force drifted and temporary peace returned. The man’s heart thudded and he lay back against the headrest. There was a cost to the charade and as he gathered his wits, he wondered when the prison would crack. When would he give up fighting and just accept. The thought terrified him.

Within, the beast slunk and prowled. He felt it had infinite patience and then he smiled at the bitter irony. It was nothing but patient. It wanted out. It wanted to run free. To dart through thick branches, to feel the hot joy of the kill as teeth clamped shut. “No,” he said out loud. “I will not.” He had known others who had gone that path. Sometimes he would see them, running their predator games. Sometimes as beasts, sometimes as men. Some clung to humanity, others embraced and shifted. The Lost Ones.

He balled a fist and looked down at the skin. It was fleshy, thin and weak. Fine hairs patterned the back of the hand. It was wrong. On certain nights, he would be right. Bones would crack, fur would flourish and flesh would run in beautiful harmonic song. That one night, he would be himself. Cold and bitter tears pricked at his eyes and he wiped them away angrily chastising himself for the weakness. After the shift, then the pain would come. The soreness of limbs, the guilt. Always the guilt at what he had done, what he might have killed or who he might have hurt. But perhaps more accurately, the pain of falling to stay normal.

Later he stood in the park, pushing against the swing to propel his son, who responded with shouts of glee at every thrust. For a moment, the joyous bursts took him away and he was content. The time was pure and human warmth folded over him like a cloak. The man gripped it, clung to it, for the call to the darkness was never too far away. As they left, a tiny hand in his own larger, rougher one; the barks of dogs at play tugged at the beast within. The man looked away and picking up the toddler at his feet, hugged him to him. Reminders were there. A constant goad to the animal within.

The reporter stopped writing. Aldrich’s ears picked up the clink of teeth against the pen. “We have a strong readership. Sure, lots of people prefer vids and stuff like that, but you’d be surprised. I hope.”

“How’s the tea?” Aldrich asked changing the subject. He found himself nervous. Odd considering his sparring with property corporations, Security Services and the Old Man’s chief whip, Kellerton. A lift craft fixed with much Victoriana rose from a roof top garden and drifted high into the half light. Necroville was never brightly lit, the architecture and population seemed to prefer it that way. It was also much cooler than other parts of the giant city. You could spot a Stack resident as they’d be wearing a hat and glove.

Aldrich’s gaze settled on the lift craft again. Its smart glass roof hardened into shape after flowing from the fancy wood and brass surrounds of the air carriage. He wondered if some of the Neo-Viks were starting to overdo things. His eyes tracked it upwards until they met his own reflection. A man in his 40s with the traditional dark hair and pale face that marked him out as Nec. He had kept some of his Arabic features, the hair was much like his fathers. Nec, or necroform, to use an older word. Not many did these days: Nec was short, blunt and common parlance. Aldrich studied the well cut suit he wore and wondered if he should have opted for something less formal. Still, there were fashions even within Nec society and the Victorian look was on another loop. Still, a break from last season’s leather road warrior and tough luxe. He left such decisions to Miss Crew, she knew far better than him in that regard.

He shifted his gaze to the reporter sat in a chair behind him. Harsher elements of Nec society would describe him as a kenbie, while the ancient core, a muggle. Both words fascinated Aldrich. Despite his and Miss Crew’s work to try and bring Necroville into mainstream acceptance, they – like the denizens of the Breed zone – remained at arm’s length. Perhaps they would never merge and this was a hopeless dream.

“The tea’s fine, thank you,” came the answer. The reporter leant back in the leather chair which creaked slightly. He was dressed casually and would have stuck out on the street like a war bot at the crucifixion. “Why don’t we start with some of the history?” the reporter asked. “The beginnings of this hab-zone, the start of the movement and of course, you and Miss Crew.”

Aldrich finished his drink and placed the cup and saucer on the large desk that dominated one side of the office. “Really, the movement and the zone – as you call it – are tied together. One influenced the other.”

“When did you start?”

“Shortly after Magdalene became a city state,” the doctor answered. “I blew in from the wreckage of London.” The reporter nodded, hoping to coax more out of him. “I didn’t have much with me. Most refugees didn’t. At least I had my health: psychical, mental and spiritual.”

“You believe in spiritual health?”

Aldrich thought about it, looking up at the plain white ceiling. A brass fan hung motionless above the reporter. “Don’t you?”

“I can’t say I’d thought about it,” came the answer. “As a man of medicine, do you find a level of spirituality surprising?”

“Some people have faith in religion, some in each other and many only in themselves,” he found himself replying. “What I mean by spirit is… belief. Some would call it drive, but to me, there’s more a creative side to it than a desire. Spirit is what calls people to Necroville. There often something – missing – from their life outside and they come here looking for it.”

“Don’t some come to die?”

“You mean the euth-tanks?” Aldrich replied and the reporter’s head bobbed. “They are not to help people kill themselves, at least, not in the way you might think. They do let you die, that is true, but they bring you back. As a society, we can beat death. The post-humans in Maple could probably tell you more than I could.”

“So why do it?”

“To see the other side perhaps?” Aldrich shrugged. “I did it twice: once to see what the fuss was about and second to be sure that there’s no great mystery awaiting us.”

“You truly think that? That there’s nothing after this? Doesn’t that play into the hands of those who say Necs are all about doom and gloom?”

A smile hit Aldrich’s face. “I thought you may say that. I did not hear or see a corridor of light – although some have – I did not experience anything. Only a sense of peace. Perhaps I did not die long enough to witness the Other Side as it were. But I will tell you this, it is all about what you can do now in this existence.”

“Do feel you’ve done that?”

“In a small way…”

“You built a hab-zone, you’re a world renown bod-modder – tailor as we say now – and the figurehead of Necroville. Wouldn’t you say they are big achievements?” The reporter stopped and held the stylus near his lips. Aldrich wondered what work the young man had had on his face. Chin and nose perhaps?

“The zone was already here,” he answered. “Sector 17 was part of the Rescued Buildings Project. Older buildings that survived the war and the town style ones were imported as part of a living museum. Certainly a grand idea. Sadly, a lack of planning with this being in the wrong part of Magdalene didn’t help. This place is cold, colder than the central parts and people did not – if you pardon the pun – warm to it. The Consortium tried to redo the properties and sell them on, but there was little interest. A vicious feedback of no investment, so no facilities. No doubt the lack of a good sun tube feed made the place darker than usual. To the Nec Movement, it was perfect.”

“How did you fund it?”

“Favours, loans, promises and the movement. Necroforms – or necs as you call us now – we’d been around as long as people have been able to modify our bodies – ”

“Is that were you made your fortune?”

“Yes, Aldrich said. “My trip from London. I set up business here as a tailor: not clothing in the traditional sense of the word, but as someone who could remake a person. My gift was bioware and biosculpting. I say with no falsehood that I did well out of it. Certainly that helped fund large sections of the community you stand in now.”

“It has been said that you are against cybernetics? Is that true?”

Aldrich shook his head gently. “Not strictly. From an artistic point of view, I prefer to work in the medium of flesh. I find that infinitely trickier to work with and yet so capable as a material. The Chrome Age, if you could call it that, was an age of identikit replacement. There was no soul to it. So, yes, the artist in me is against them, but the realist says some people need them to survive.” He folded his hands slowly. “Who am I to say what is right? Is a plastic handle better on a brush or a wooden one?”

The reporter scribbled away and pursed his lips as he thought. Aldrich looked very carefully and his vision zoomed in like a hawk’s. Yes, he nodded, definitely face work. Very good though. The youth seemed to stealing himself to ask a question. “May I ask you about your partner, Anita Smith?”

Ah, Aldrich thought, I was wondering when this would come out. “What about her?”

“Well,” the reporter seemed to struggle to get the question out.

Aldrich’s gaze wasn’t helping, although inwardly the old Nec was on the verge of laughing. Miss Crew would no doubt chastise him for such social cruelty.

Finally, the young man gathered his wits: “You came from London and I believe you met a year later, is that correct?”

“That is right, yes. We met at an art exhibition. A mutual friend had created a series of pieces called The Human Network. The one that sticks in my mind was the over scaled blood and nerve system hung about a large room. A large heart was in the centre – underneath the seating – which pumped blood through it and kept it alive. Very clever, Anita told me. She’d helped him and we got talking. She was a fascinating woman.”

“I’m sorry, you talk about her in the passed tense, yet she is still alive.” The pen tapped out time against perfect teeth.

Aldrich let out a sigh and turned to look out of the window. His gaze became unfocused as the memory played back to him. “I’m afraid that is not strictly true. Anita did die that fateful night. We had been to a party when we were attacked. My assistance, Kalis was fatally injured, but it was Anita who took the brunt of their fire.”

The reporter put down the stylus and lent forward. “What happened?”

“There was a group of them: two men, two women. I am not sure, even to this day, which meme they represented, but they had decided to kill us. They said we had committed crimes against the natural order. Whatever that meant and we could not be allowed to live…. as that would let the corruption continue.” Aldrich’s lips had become dry and he looked at his empty cup longingly. “Kalis moved to stand between us and our assailants. I remember activating my panic button and trying to get Anita into the porch. Our town house was heavily protected, but it was not to be. I was shot in the leg and the back. My darling? She took many hits. Automated security arrived very quickly, but it was too late for her. I saw the life go out from her. That look will always be with me.”

The reporter fidgeted in his chair. “I-I’m sorry. Would you like me to remove that from the transcript?”

“No. Leave it in. It is history.” Aldrich took in a deep breath and turned to face his interviewer. “Besides, there is a happy ending – of sorts.”

“I know you brought her back.”

“Again,” Aldrich answered cooly. “Almost. It is as if much of our history has… become enhanced into legend. I did bring her back from the dead, yes. But it was not Anita who came back to me, but Miss Crew.”

“What is she like? How is she different to Anita?”

A tiny smile bounced Aldrich’s lips. “Why don’t you ask her?” The reporter frowned and then almost squeaked in alarm as he found a tall, elegant blonde woman stood by his side. “Miss Crew says you dropped your pen,” Aldrich continued. Previously his wife’s hair had been long and a neon red. He never managed to keep up. Miss Crew smiled politely and then walked over to stand at her husband’s side. Her dark leather dress made no noise, there was only the soft clock-clock-clock of boot heels against the fine wood flooring around the desk. “How are you, my dear?” he asked and waited. “That is excellent. We have a visitor, Lucian Grenham from Tower House Publishing.”

Crew slow blinked and put her arms behind her back. “My wife says it is nice to meet you and…” Aldrich stopped to smile. “She hoped that I have not been too cruel to you.”

“I was going to ask – how are you different? What happened to Anita?” the reporter asked.

Remaining silent, Crew shifted her weight to another foot. Aldrich answered for her: “My wife says that it was like coming out of sleep. That before… she had been dreaming and is now fully awake. She says Anita died that day. There is nothing left of her.”

“Do you mourn her?” The question rang out like a shot.

Aldrich put his hand to the small of Miss Crew’s back. “Each day I am thankful that Miss Crew is with me.”

“But is she Anita?”

“My wife tells me to see her previous answer: Anita is dead.”

The reporter nodded and made some more notes on the data pad. “Why does she not speak?” His cheeks flushed in embarrassment. “I-I’m sorry. I was told I had to ask the question.”

“If I may answer that?” Aldrich asked Miss Crew and then added: “Miss Crew says she cannot speak until those who did this to her have been brought to justice.” Aldrich lent back in his chair and Miss Crew moved to the other side of the room. She opened a wall cabinet and took out Aldrich’s coat.

“I’m sorry if I’ve caused you offence – ” the young man began.

“When you’ve been shot for being who you are, questions such as yours,” Aldrich actually grinned at the reporter. It wasn’t an altogether pleasant experience. “Let us say that I’ve had worse. Please Mr Grenham. I have another appointment and our time is now up.”

The reporter pushed the stylus into his pad and the plastic reabsorbed it. He offered a hand to the Father of Necroville. Aldrich shook it firmly. “Miss Crew will see you to my assistant and they will see you out. Same time next week?” The reporter visibly relaxed when he heard the offer of a further interview. The two made their way out, leaving Aldrich to stand by his desk.

Left alone, Aldrich walked over to the wall and picked up his coat. Draping it over a high backed leather chair nearby, he pressed on a panel of dark wood. It slid back revealing a distinctly ancient chemistry set. He picked up a dropper and squeezed two drops of liquid on to his tongue. Aldrich gave a short shiver and then stretched his back like an old cat. “Much better.” He heard the door shut behind him. “All done?” he asked.

Miss Crew padded across the floor and stopped by his side. He was a very bold young man, she sent to Aldrich. Her voice sounded only in his ears. Anita’s soft country tones would never grow old, never wither. They were the only constant of life in his world.

“Why do they always ask about the talking?”

I could not say, but you always did like the sound of your own voice. Mirth danced in her pale eyes. Today they were lilac. Yesterday they had been the colour of blood.

“Thank you, dear,” Aldrich chuckled. “Talking of which. How are our guests?”

The same as ever. Miss Crew slid the chemistry set aside to view a small tank. Inside four partial human brains floated in a tank of nano-gel. In abject pain, but very much alive. Tubes and wires ran from inside them to the sides of the tank. They didn’t need to pulse malevolently, but Aldrich enjoyed the comic touch. “Where are they?” he asked.

Running through Programme Six, Miss Crew returned. The iron forest. Her crimson lips remained closed and perfect. Shall we?

“Just five minutes,” Aldrich said pulling up a chair. Above the grand fireplace a holoscreen flickered into life. Dark woods filled with sharp metal trees filled the landscape. Four people – two men, two women – woke up naked. They looked confused and then one screamed. A hand burst from the forest floor and grabbed the nearest ankle. The hand became an arm and then a shattered head erupted from the dirt. The bullet ruined face of Anita Smith pulled itself free. Snarling and snapping, the creature chewed into the woman’s leg. The others fled, abandoning their conspirator to a slow and savage death.

Aldrich picked up a book and flicked through it. See how they run, his dead wife sang to the holo footage. One of them ran into a tree, the branches sawing through skin and pinning him in its murderous grip.

“A thousand creds that Christopher makes it to the waterfall this time,” Aldrich wagered.

You are tight. Tell you what. If he does, you can pick the restaurant tonight. How about that?

“Done,” Aldrich smiled and looked up from the book. A Breed version of Anita was now stalking the remaining two: Christopher and Sarah-Anne. This one seemed like an unholy trinity of wolf, bear and crocodile. The undead Anita was still busy chewing on the still living remains of the other woman. This Breed body had been real enough, Miss Crew had worked on an unanimated clone of herself as a pet project.

Sometimes the players would fight each other to make one fall and today, Sarah-Anne didn’t disappoint. Today she got the upper hand. She caught Christopher in the throat and he slipped, gashing his leg as he fell in a riot of metal brambles. As the screams rang out, Miss Crew smiled wickedly. You lose, honey. I feel like a visit to Solar Arc tonight. You can book. I shall be downstairs working.

“Enjoy, petal.” Aldrich waved his hand at the display and it reset. The four killers returned to the boot point of the game. Unmolested, uninjured. Now, the game would run again, and again until the four learned to be human and to help each other. Part of him hoped they never would. He muted it and returned to his book.

Like his movements, memory was slow. Words failed to arrive, sometimes concepts drifted away, untouchable as smoke. How had this happened? the man wondered. How did it get like this? Was it work? Was it family? Was it him? The shadow did not answer – that was not its purpose. Instead, it hovered at the back of his sight, unseen by others, felt only by him. A personal vampire.

Some days, busy days or randomly, the shade would slip away and the warmth of true emotion would shine through in a glorious summer memory. Colours were bright, voices happy and people welcome. A return to the real world. The balance would tip and that sweet gap would close; the colours would dim, the sound dull and the connection would be lost. From outside, all would appear as before. Inside, the only movement was breath and that of the eyes: roving slowly from screen, to face, to hands. Markers of the silent tick of time.

At night, thoughts surged, worries and ideas pushing against the much sought cloak of sleep. The brain over-active as if it it could not rest until the hopper was empty. The body would breath, rest, but the mind could not – would not – switch off until exhaustion took hold as the sun poked curiously at the thick blinds.

Robotic, the man worked through as he could. Clutching at the good, shunning the bad and all the while, searching. Searching for the answer, the kernel that would unlock the puzzle and free him of the shade. Did chemistry hold the key? Those small white dots birthed from the crackle of plastic every morning. Downed with a sip of water and a dose of hope.

Hope. So long as there was hope, the beast would be beaten. Wouldn’t it?

In the memory dream, she opened her eyes to find herself strapped in a hard plastic chair. The room was slightly too cool and smelt of antiseptic. Grey tiles lined the walls and the floor was a blur of blended plastic. By the door, there was a drain set in the flooring: a chrome mouth greedy for fluids. Thick binds held her arms, hands bent palm up and open. There was something around her knee, but she could not move her head. A firm collar held her neck in position. Behind her, there was a buzzing noise. Her eyes flicked around, trying to pin point the sound, but she could not. Someone placed a cool gloved hand against her neck and then the buzzing increased. Maiken saw clumps of her hair fall to the floor. The hand continued to push her around and the trimmer did its work.

The technician clicked off the trimmer and for a moment the room was silent. Another man moved from behind her and removed a gown from her by pulling the hem hard with his hand. He tipped her locks to the once clean floor and Maiken realised she was naked. She wanted to cover herself, but the binds would not move. With her head locked into a new position, Maiken made out the shape on her leg. It was a speed-cast, a fat bandage of medichines and healing drugs. They had repaired her, at least, in a basic way. A gasp escaped her lips: one foot was wrong. The skin was pink and chubby like that of a new born. Her eyes tracked up the shin, to the knee and to where the bandage was. Further up the skin had cured along its length. Corpse white, a half leg pulled from the vat. But it was distended and… just wrong. It was not hers! It seemed alien, a freakish thing that was both right and horribly wrong at the same time.

The view was pulled from her as the masked technicians turned her head to the ceiling. One of them pressed a cold object against her scalp, Maiken felt the pass of air as he swept his sleeve over her head. There was a high pitched whine and then the world seemed dimmer, quieter too. Her implants, the ones said to be EMP resistant, went off-line. “No,” she whispered. She had not meant to talk, but the protest had slipped out. She had hoped to take this punishment and ride it out. There had been worse violence, but the threat of banishment. That was proving to be too much. She bit her lip and tried to focus on the simple nature of the pain.

To her side, the man put something down on the metal tray. It clinked against other objects and then he fixed something to her bald head. Maiken pushed against the collar, but it would not move. “Not long now,” the man said. His tone was like that of a doctor soothing a child. In front, the second technician wheeled a long mirror in front. His green scrubs swept back like a curtain, revealing a women with blackened eyes and many bruises. Small tufts of dark hair stuck to the frightened woman’s head. No, there was something else. A fine crown of black metal. A tear threatening to leak out of one eye and as it hit her leg, Maiken realised the reflection was her. “You may experience a short loss of consciousness,” one of the men said to her.

Maiken could not speak. Something had frozen her face. Only her eyes where her own. The man look something from the tray and fixed it at certain points to the crown. There was a flash of laser and the stench of burnt pork. The dark shape at the front of the crown stared to empty. Something pushed at her scalp like a thousand mad ants. The technology crept and burrowed into her.

The mirror was gone and one of the technicians had left too. Now, two men in black Security armour stood against the chipped grey tiles. They held carbines that absorbed the light. Neither of them looked at her. “You are free to go,” the senior technician said. Maiken felt her neck and realised the collar and the hand bindings had gone. There were no bumps or scars on her head. Just the odd tuft of hair or smooth patch of skin. She had read about the process, in a published diary of a New York dissident. His unit had been fitted through his hair. Apparently the process had been amended to upgrade the degradation. Maiken turned one hand over. There were specks of blood against her wrist and pale globs of skin-putty where her data plugs had been. She was disconnected. There was nothing in her. No systems answered to her commands. Parts of her were dead. “The officers will escort you outside of the building,” the man added. “You may collect a new set of clothes from the office and a ticket to the border of the city. In three hours, you exclusion unit will activate. If you are not outside of the communications network by that time, it will begin to stimulate your pain centres. Gradually at first, but each sensation will increase. We will give you time to get out of the city. We are not monsters.” Maiken stood on her bad leg and walked over to the UN guards.

Hours and streets passed by as she made her way out of the city. The terminus of the final robo-transport dropped her in a dead industrial park outside the Safe Zone. Rusted machinery and broken buildings had fought against the burning desert sands and had lost. Maiken checked her watch. A cheap plastic thing from a road-side vendor. The face showed north, but it also showed the final bar of the Network. A mile or so and she would be out of the city and her exile would begin. Shouldering her bag, she set off west towards the mountains. The walk would be harder, but on the other side, they’d shelter her from any signal backwash. She was on the cusp of what felt like a migraine, but if that was the brain-crab or the stress, she couldn’t say. Foot followed foot as she walked down broken roads and as the land rose, along thin tracks in the hard pan. Her new leg was sore and she was spent. Pausing to take a drink of water, she checked the watch. Still one bar of signal. Maiken cursed and the watch peeped. No, it wasn’t the watch. The beep sounded in her ear and then the exclusion unit made itself known to her. A spike of pain arced her back and she almost dropped the water. Gathering her things, she tried to pick up the pace towards the ridge up ahead. She cleared more ground and then it hit her again. It was like a metronome of punishment, stabbing her ever onwards.

Eventually she made it over the ridge and she tumbled over the lip to land in gritty sand and small rocks. Panting, but still alive, Maiken checked the watch one more time. No bars. In front of her, empty desert stretched away from her. The mountains ran north and south. Far in the distance, she could make out a small township. Really, not much more than a couple of buildings that clung to the black road that circled through the seared valley. Walking carefully through the steep drops, Maiken made her way towards it. She hoped the hamlet would be free from the communications. The irony wasn’t wasted on her, all of her life had revolved around being on-line and now? Now she craved digital solitude, less the claws of the brain-crab would tighten their grip. Somehow she would beat this. There must be a way, she thought. All systems can be broken. Water, her throat, begged. Sleep next, her body added.

The memory ended and darkness took her away again. She lay, her bad leg twisted under her in the red sand, her body shaded by a large sandstone boulder. A way away, the wrecked lift-craft burned hot and a drone circled on the thermals. Maiken did not stir, not even when footsteps crunched or whispered in the sand.