

The Citizens

A Waylines Media Book

Copyright © 2014 Darryl Knickrehm

More information about other books in The Citizens of Oblivion series are available at:

citizensofoblivion.com

No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher. For information address: Waylines Media.

Published by: Waylines Media  
Cover Art by: Darryl Knickrehm

First Edition

14 13 12 11 10 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

PART THREE OF THE CHRONICLES OF

THE CITIZENS OF OBLIVION

CONTENTS

Citizen 1 – A Two Bit Reality

Citizen 2 – Missing the Mark

Citizen 3 – Subliminal Encryption

Citizen 4 – A Man Obsolete

2081. Heaven on Earth was actually made - New Babel City.

2228. Paradise fell. The Easter Square Incident shook "the pinnacle of the new world." Right in the heart of the city, shown to every citizen via flatvision, upload and dreamcast – a crowd was slaughtered on the steps of New Babel's largest corporation. 2,606 dead in less than 20 minutes. Heaven was never the same again.

Like millions of other citizens, I had many unanswered questions. Who did this? Why did these people die? How could this even happen? Wasn't this Paradise? But no one had any answers. The media simply condemned the incident, calling it a desperate act of a few deeply disturbed individuals. But I thought 2,606 dead bodies could not be the result of a "few" in desperation.

So I have spent the last year of my life tracking the answers. And this is what I've found – the stories of those involved.

These are the tales of those who have seen the underside of Heaven, of those who prelude its great awakening. Abandon all hope, ye that enter here. For many have traveled within only to discover that they too are a citizen of the outcast, a citizen of a false utopia, a citizen of oblivion.

-NH

You're not going to believe any of this. It's all bullshit. I still don't buy it myself. But hey, I'm in here. That's got to mean something.

So where do you want me to begin? Two weeks ago? When I was put in bracelets? I know. The last day at that goddamn, soul-sucking job. That's really when it all came together, or rather, fell apart.

***

"What did I do?" I said, sitting up in the twists of sheet. "What the hell did I do!"

Parts of last night were coming back to me. That burnt out dive, the copious amounts of nitrous, my crew cheering me on -- a no-holds-bared celebration for my last day at MPAC. The last day I was now late for.

My eyes darted to the clock. Thirty minutes late for! They were going to dock me. They were going to--

I gulped.

They were going to make me stay on that goddamn job another day!

"What the hell did I do?"

I dashed out the door, faster than a sprinter on laxatives.

The noxious medley of speeding levitators, a hundred pedestrians, and who knows how many buzzing projections hit my ears like an amplified explosion. It was like the city had dialed its volume up to 11. And as I tried to tune it out, as I tore through the morning masses as fast as my spindly legs could muster, the moments of last night began to coalesce in bits and pieces. The glinting tank of nitrous. The sassy little hostess. Jack vomiting all over both. Every image of the evening was one big regurgitated nightmare. Christ! How much of that shit did I suck down?

Careening around the dour customers of an ASP booth, I came upon the colossal MPAC compound. At the top of the kilometer-long block of rusted steel, in humming fluorescence, a two-story sign glowed: The Mechanized Psychiatric Analysis Center.

Then the worst of the night hit me.

A chewed up memory of that sparky hostess. In her hands, she clutched a datapad. The bill. On it was an amount that was... that couldn't have been right. 65,000 credits? That's a years pay! There's no way we could have inhaled more than 500's worth. What the hell had she dosed us with? Before she could push the datapad on me though, Jack bolted. Before I took off too, Jill tumbled out the window.

Blinking back to reality, I found myself in a throng of pedestrians swarming at the gaping entrance to MPAC.

"What the hell did I do?"

The rest of the memory is of us stumbling down fifteen flights of stairs. Of big, cleaved thugs yelling. Of that little hostess, screaming about calling the Enforcers.

The Enforcers?

My neck tensed. My pulse rocketed.

If MPAC ever got wind of that...

I nearly dropped to the pavement.

I was going to have to stay at that job for much longer than another day.

Cramps spasmed up my neck. Heartbeats crescendoed. Then in a tendon twanging twitch, my head jerked to the side.

I couldn't take any more of this job. It was doing shit like this to me.

Shutting my eyes, I rolled my shoulders, loosened the tension. Blinking eyes open, I shook my head.

"No."

If I kept low, put in an extra hour, did everything to a T, there'd be no problem.

"Yes."

Eyeing the robotic ranks funneling in to the two-story gateway, my neck relaxed, my nerves calmed. These bots, this place was like it was every morning. No one was the wiser. There'd be no problem.

Or so I thought.

***

Now, I should stop for just a second and tell you a little something so you can understand where I'm coming from with all this. I was a CHIMP. Not literally, you know. That's what we called the Cybernetic Habitual Improvemental Mechanic Personnel.

MPAC told everyone that "CHIMPS are the final stage of the R21-8 Cybernetic Rehabilitation process -- the 'psych' department, so to speak, repairing the coding, personality and psyche of bot's behavioral routines." What a load of crap. What we CHIMPs actually did was: administer the same, mind-numbing test to those sparking bots. And do exactly what MPAC demanded.

Ask the same questions, no deviation!

Get the same answers, or MPAC will reprimand you!

Press finish, and repeat one more time! Everyday. Twenty times a day. No brain necessary, just click here. It was so mind-numbingly simple that, well, even a chimp could do it.

And all of that was what lead me to wanting out. No one was made to last more than a year at a job like that, and I had been at it for decades. So long, in fact, that I couldn't even remember exactly when I had started. I just knew that I had to get out of there before I went madder than those bots that I was treating.

So two weeks before all of this, I handed in my resignation with the dream of escaping all this. Boy was I a brick to think it was going to be that simple.

***

I slinked into the Tech Lounge and slapped my badge on the clock. Beep.

I was OK. I wasn't that late. Things were fine.

Eyeing the clock, I sighed. Who was I kidding?

I peeked around the rack of glowing schedule datapads. Dim fluorescence buzzed, stacked crates took up most of the lounge, a vinegar-like stench oozed from somewhere, and buckets littered every other inch, catching the drizzle from sagging pipes above. Our cozy little prep lounge looked like it did every day. No one was around. Nothing was different. None of Deputy Director Finigan's pinheaded Code Administrators were lurking to catch an infraction. Maybe things really were OK.

I blew out a long breath of relief.

Then my crew stepped in.

Jill and Jack were the only other organics I ever saw in that corrosive job. They were my only outlet. Day in and day out, we three supported each other. Everyday, bitching and venting. Every night, drinking and huffing. They were the only reason I had made it as long as I had.

As they lumbered in, already geared up in their teal Tech jumpsuits, both stared intently at a datapad in Jill's hands.

"...and for its third straight week," a stiff reporter recited from the tiny screen, "the number of Pox infected has increased on the lower levels, with the first cases on Sector 6 being reported yesterday."

"World's going to hell," Jill murmured.

The reporter continued. "Pest tents have now been established in every district on the level--"

Suddenly, the screen flashed then scrambled into a hiss of code. With a pop, an ASCII skull and cross bones filled the screen, followed by big text flashing: D-Death.

"What the hell?" Jill said. "Damn hackers getting into everything recently."

Jack reached for the screen and flicked it off.

"The world is going mad," he said, plopping down on a hill of crates, right next to a brimming pail of water.

"I hate to say it, but sometimes, it feels safer in here," Jill said.

I couldn't help but laugh at that. Both of them turned.

"Oh, hey, Bob," said Jill. "Surprised you made it in after last night."

I cringed, trying not to remember any more than I had to. "I can't believe we got out of there in one piece."

"It looks like some of us didn't," she said, aiming a thin finger at the collar of my teal Tech jumpsuit.

In the cracked glass of the datapad rack, I spotted in my reflection a large cotton bandage taped to my neck. I couldn't for the life of me remember what had happened.

It was right about then AL rolled out of the shadows.

"I wish I could have come," the large toaster on tracks said, nodding its pancake head at us.

"Sorry, AL," I said, patting it on the head. "We didn't make up the rules about nutbuckets in the Dis Precinct."

Well, actually we did, a complete, absolute lie. But telling AL that would have defeated the purpose. A bot was the last thing I wanted to talk to, so I turned back to Jack.

"After today," Jack said, "you won't have to be sucking down the nitrous with us every night at dumps like that Broken Crown."

"God, I can't wait." A grin slipped out. "It just feels like this job is never going to end."

"Fortunately, Bob, all jobs end," Jill said. "Nothing lasts forever."

AL wheeled up. "To move on to today's schedule, as per usual, you have a full cycle--"

"Dammit, AL. Do you have to always talk about work?" Another thing I couldn't take any more of, were these goddamn nutbuckets.

"That is all there is to talk about," AL said, tilting its head, confused. "To return to your schedule, it appears that you have nineteen plus a private today."

"AL! I don't care!" Grunting, I unlatched a schedule datapad from the rack and took it. "They're all the same."

Jill stood. "I know how you feel, Bob, but these bots are here to get better."

"I really couldn't care less."

Jack stood too. "I guess the reason you're here has kinda gotten lost, eh?" And with a pat on my back, he left the room.

"Don't sweat it Bob." Jill turned to leave, but stopped, glanced back and grew a snide smile. "Just don't mess up any of these sessions or they might not let you leave."

I feigned a laugh as she left, but I was scared to death that was what they really would do. MPAC punished those who didn't perform their duties properly. Things like arrest, fines, or even worse -- they lengthened a guy's contract once.

Just as I headed for the door, AL squeaked up.

"Did you encounter any Code Administrators today?" it asked.

I froze. "Um, no."

It started to wheel away again. "Understood. For parameters unknown to me, the pinheads are all over the compound today," and it was gone.

Right then, in a swell of heat from head to toes, I got a very bad feeling about that day.

***

MPAC's penalties were infamous.

Sessions run long? Well, you're staying until you get all twenty done. Even if it runs into your next shift.

Make a slip-up in a session? Saturday is now on your shift. For the next three months.

And don't get me started about wanting to get out of your contract. I was lucky I had gotten this far without outright rejection. Usually, if you asked for a release and you hadn't done every single operation in you entire career 100% right, well, they'd do something to you. They'd dig up some remote clause tucked away in your contract and slap a lawsuit on you for breach, or reduce your wages for illegal behavior, or who knows whatever else they could come up with. Sometimes, they even called the Enforcers.

Fortunately, there was one place safe from all this. There was one place MPAC wouldn't touch us. In a session. Because like with the rest of MPAC's policies, they didn't want to damage that illusion that everything was one hundred percent perfect.

Unfortunately for me, the madness in a session was just as bad for my health as MPAC and its policies.

***

I slogged into the processing chamber, neck taut and pulse already over a hundred.

Fortunately, just an eyeful of the drab decor was instantly sedating. Everything was white -- the large block panels tiling the walls, the ovoid table, the chair, the circular hanging lamp -- all designed to bring tranquility to the subjects. After fifty years in operation, however, all that white had faded into a stomach-churning, uneven yellow. Thankfully, even in that state, it was exceptionally boring.

Spotlit in pale fluorescence, three bots stood around the table. This session's nutbuckets.

Spotting the closest of the three, I tried my hardest not to roll my eyes. It was a C47.

Still, rigid, its skinny can-head teetered to one side. It appeared to be pondering something as it clanked a curved claw against its conical, grilled stomach. C47's were always in there. The anodes in their neural circuits tended to corrode after a year or two, a flaw in the design. This in turn made their processing degrade. In other words, it made them--

"--stupid?" the bot said, its vocal diaphragm popping.

"I did not say that," said the bulky, flaking bot next to it. That one reached out its bolt-laden arm into a five-finger stop sign, while the other arm, or actually port interface tool, counter-balanced, looking like a severed limb.

That was an MIR108. We didn't see many of them in there. They were an older series, designed for maintenance, mostly on Sector 15. They didn't have much of a personality matrix. Just rudimentary emotional routines and minimal responses which made them come off as pretty cold to most. On my datapad, I could see this MIR108 was sent in by its pit boss. He stated that the bot had become too--

"—aggressive," the C47 cried.

"What are you implying?" the MIR108 said, gears grinding as it leaned toward the C47.

"Enough," I said as I sat down.

The two persisted, however, bickering like an old embittered couple. I doubt they had even noticed I had entered.

As for that third bot, it hadn't moved an inch through all of this. And if anyone outside of MPAC would have strolled into that room, they would have never suspected it was a bot. Pale synthetic skin, crisp blue eyes, the finest linen suit -- it was a Sentient Class. No different than any organic in appearance. No different in its programing too. Able to feel, emote, forget, dream, imagine, hypothesize and do any other thing we organics could do, the only thing that was different, was this guy's guts were metal.

This one was an Irving 5-0, if the datapad was correct. A '25 model. It really shouldn't--

"--be in here," it blurted out in a spastic fit.

The room came to a dead silence. The other two oscillated their heads toward the Irving 5-0.

All I did was raise an eyebrow. I knew who wasn't passing the test that day.

"Wh-why are you looking at me like that?" the Irving said, craning its twiggy neck forward.

My eyes dropped to the datapad. "Let's just start the test."

I poked the big red Start button on the pad. Blocky black text then popped up.

"Has your routine changed in the last week?" I read.

The MIR108 firmly stated, "No."

The Irving 5-0 crimped his lips and shook a big, no.

The C47 tilt-tilt-tilted its head. "Yes...wait." Its head flopped to the other side. "Um...no?"

Nodding, I ticked a box on the pad. The next question popped up.

"What was your routine for the last week?"

Tapping its corrugated foot, the MIR108 said, "Following your stupid prescribed regime!"

"I'm not stupid," the C47 then yelled.

"That's not what I said," the MIR108 said, mid-section shifting, head gyrating toward it.

And they began again. Complaining. Arguing. And through it all, the Irving 5-0 started to mumble.

"I'm not going to talk about these things with everyone watching," it said. "I shouldn't even be with these two. They're certainly not of the same caliber."

Sucking in a slow breath, I tried to block out the madness. Covering my ears, I tried to shut out the noise. Doing that, however, made my pounding heart only louder. And with each beat, the chaos only grew.

Thump. The MIR108 shoved the C47 to the cement. Thump. The C47 screamed an awful digital howl. Thump. The Irving scurried to a corner. Thump. I dipped my eyes to my datapad.

"Stop it," I said, my words splintering against the noise.

No one heard. In fact, things only got worse. The Irving started to rock back and forth against the wall. In nervous twitches, he began to chant.

"Merry had a little lamb, little lamb, little lamb."

Shit. He was Neuro Looping. It happened when they snapped. Programming regressed, they got fixated on a phrase, caught in a rudimentary vocal loop. Usually a nursery rhyme, the first words used during verbal programming. There was no way this bot was fixed.

"Stop it," I said, louder. But no one was listening. The MIR108 was straddling the C47, bashing him with his mace-like fist.

By now, my thumping heart was practically shaking my head apart. My vision was even pulsating. Opening my mouth, I wanted to expel my anger, I wanted to growl out every four-letter word at these bricks. Instead, the side of my neck seized. Every tendon tightened. Who-know's-what popping, my head then jerked to the side, like some mentally handicapped bird. And there it remained. Brain frozen. Heart knocking. Stress, out of control.

All three of the bots froze, mid-punch, mid-scream, mid-verse. All gawked at me, eyes wide.

God, this job was tearing me apart.

After a second, my neck loosened and head rolled back in to place. I spat out a wheezing breath. I was done with this bullshit.

Eyes snapping to my datapad, I clicked on a button.

Before the Irving could even blink, the shining metal door behind me hissed open. Two vending machine-like attendants rolled in on their tracks, each suited in a white protective sleeve.

"A bad batch," I said, standing.

"Affirmative," one of the attendants said from its block head. Its fixed eyes stared out, lifeless, as it clamped onto the MIR108.

"Take them back to stage 2," I said.

That's where we sent bots that didn't pass. All the way back at the beginning of R21-8 processing.

The Irving's knees almost buckled. "I'm fine!"

I just shook my head. It was obvious that none of them were fine.

The attendants towed the bots away. All were screaming. All probably wished I was dead right then. I knew I did. Because that was my life. Twenty times a day. Every carbon copy day. God, I hated every second of it. And thank God that was my last day.

Yet as I walked out of the session, in a split second, my paranoia, my fears, my nightmares coalesced into a single, foreboding form.

Down the corridor, under tungsten lamps radiating through the ceiling fans, was a spider-like, wire-framed bot. Shimmying closer like an awkward marionette, its orange eyes glowed bright from its pointed, needle head.

A pinhead.

Something must have been wrong with the session. Someone must have talked about last night. Something definitely wasn't right. Because the one thing that was for sure, this Code Administrator was coming straight for me.

In that moment, I did the only thing I could do. I ran.

***

These pinheads were what Deputy Director, John F Flanagan deemed "the final solution in productivity." You see, in his eyes, productivity was 'lacking' among the workers at MPAC. He said, workers should be at a hundred percent efficiency a hundred percent of the time. Like we were goddamn bots or something. So to increase that 'lacking productivity,' something was needed in order to reprimand mistakes, regulate inefficiency, and just induce a general atmosphere of fear in the workplace.

So he came up with these Code Administrators. Everyone who worked at MPAC, though, called them pinheads. To us, they were a menace. To us, they were the stupidest idea ever. Because when you saw one of them, you knew your life was going to get a whole lot more unproductive.

And when I saw one creeping toward me that day, I knew I was in trouble. That's why I instinctively ran. Just like at the Broken Crown, just like with everything recently -- the only option left was to flee.

Unfortunately, in MPAC, the only place I could run to was into the next session.

***

This processing chamber was a mirror image of the last, putrid yellow and all. But I didn't care about that. I was just trying my hardest to calm my hammering heart.

Peeking out the tiny strip window in the door, I couldn't take my eyes off the pinhead. Wriggling in the shadows, it continued closer. Closer. Closer. Then, just as it was about to come up to the door, it turned and crawled down another hall.

AL had said a bunch were out and about that day. Maybe they were monitoring for all those hackers and crazies on the news. Maybe they weren't out looking for me. Maybe I was just being paranoid.

I let out a long, loud sigh.

Finally, I pivoted back to the room. Only a single bot was present. And it was sitting.

Straightening my jumpsuit, I glanced at my datapad. A one-on-one session. This must have been that 'private' lesson AL had talked about. These kinds of sessions were ultra rare, usually reserved for important bots. This one, however, had nothing listed. No sig number, no name. It was just marked 'reserved.'

The bot sat there, motionless, in a long black slicker. With both lapels turned up and a long brimmed hat pulled down, only a T-shaped stripe of its face was visible. That strip, however, was mostly shadows, in which two red eyes burned brightly. This was an awfully unusual bot.

I took a breath. For one last day, I had a job to do. So I sat.

"Um," I said, shifting in my chair. "Your SIG wasn't written down. What are you exactly?"

Silence. The bot didn't move. Then, from within those shadows came a raspy digitized voice. "That's not a very friendly greeting."

I paused.

For a second, my mind went blank. It had been forever since I actually had to think about how to respond to a patient.

Before I could, however, the bot said, "I'm an X1."

I nearly dropped the datapad.

"Your run hasn't even been released yet," I said. "What are you doing in here?"

It said nothing. Its eyes only stared. And I sat, squirming, shaken, confused.

It leaned ever so slightly forward. "What does any of this have to do with the differential?"

I straightened up, uncomfortably. Was it angry? That warbling voice was so devoid of emotion that it sent chills through me.

"Um," I said, "nothing really. I just can't see why a Sentient Class of your caliber should be in for maintenance yet."

From behind the lapels, I could hear a faint hiss as the X1 vacuumed air in with its synthesized breath. "Shall we begin?"

I nodded and cleared my throat. Eyes darting to my datapad, I began to read the questions.

"Has your routine changed in the past week?"

"No."

"What was your routine for the past week?"

"I frequented nitro bars."

I looked up. "What's a geargrinder like you doing there?"

It let out a long hissing breath. "I was observing."

I paused.

"What do you mean?"

"I was monitoring a particular subject."

I twitched. "What do you mean subject?"

"I was following someone."

I stopped. This bot was seriously disturbed.

"You do know stalking is against the 4E Ethics Programming coded into all bots, don't you?"

From behind those lapels, it hissed out a breath in a plume of smoke. "Yes."

I tried to hold back a shiver.

The next question popped up on the datapad and I read it. "Can you give me more details about your activities?"

"I followed my subject to the Broken Crown."

I froze. My muscles seized. For a second, I couldn't even take a breath.

"When were you there?"

"Last night."

I tried to swallow, but couldn't.

"Who were you following?"

Slowly, gracefully, it leaned into the beam of the hanging lamp, revealing a large toothy grin. "You."

I shoved myself away from the table.

"Who the hell are you?"

"Not of importance," it said, tone and volume unchanged.

"Why are you stalking me?"

It let out a smoking breath. "Why were you in the Dis Precinct?"

I launched to my feet. "I'm going to call security."

With an ear grabbing screech, the X1 pushed its metal chair back. A spindly unfolding crane, it stood; its coat plumed out like the wings of a large, ashen raven. I froze.

Slowly, its resonant voice grumbled out. "I wouldn't do that."

Shaking, I stepped away from the door. The X1 nodded, approvingly.

Under the light, leaning on the table, the bot looked like an inquisitor, features shadowed, eyes burning bright. "Why were you in the Dis Precinct?"

"I..." My throat constricted. Stretching my cramping neck, I continued. "I was bar hopping for some nitrous with Jill and Jack."

"As I thought." It sat down, pulling the flowing coat in.

That's when I got a terrible thought. Could this guy be an Enforcer?

"Please sit." It motioned to my chair with a skeletal hand.

Reluctantly plodding over to my chair, I shook my way in.

"What do you want?" I asked.

"I know what you've done."

I froze.

"I know what you are," it said.

This guy was definitely an Enforcer.

"What is your occupation?" it asked.

"Oh come on. You just said you know."

"Please state it."

I glanced around. No cameras. No recording devices. What the hell was going on?

"Are you looking for a confession or something?"

The X1 sat silently, unmoved. Its eyes burned red, menacing, unforgiving.

My heart started to pound as I said, "I didn't do anything."

Those red eyes didn't flinch. "Please state your occupation."

"We didn't do anything wrong!"

"Your occupation..." Its eyes kindled brighter. My heart pounded louder.

"It wasn't our fault. That hostess was scamming us."

The eyes remained unmoved. The pounding felt as if it was about to split my head wide open. That's when I cracked.

"OK, OK. We skipped out without paying the bill. But that bitch was scamming us!"

For a moment, my heart settled. For a moment, the truth healed all.

The X1, however, shook its head. "What is your occupation?"

I squinted at the bot, confused. This couldn't be an Enforcer.

"Are you from MPAC?" I asked.

The X1 leaned forward slightly. "All I want is for you to state your occupation. Everything else is irrelevant."

I glanced around the chamber again. Nothing there was out of the ordinary.

"Come on," I said, my hands clutching the edge of the table. "This is my last day. Just let whatever this is slide and I'll be out of your hair."

Its stare didn't waver.

I had no choice. I had to give it what it wanted.

"OK, fine! I'm a CHIMP."

The X1 launched to its feet, that black coat blossoming.

"You are in violation of code 31V," it said, each word low and grinding.

I froze.

"A working class BOB-X4 has no place in the Dis Precinct," it continued. "A Sentient Class bot like you can't even process nitrous."

"What are you saying?"

That familiar cramp started rolling its way up my neck. The pounding once again commenced.

"By your own admission, you are a CHIMP. Only bots are allowed to be Cybernetic Habitual Improvemental Mechanic Personnel."

"You're crazy! I'm hu--"

But before I could finish, before I could think, my neck seized, head wrenched, and everything froze. In an earth-shattering fizz, all went black.

***

After what could have been a second or an hour, everything suddenly winked back. The X1, the processing chamber, and everything else in that pounding reality. The strangest thing, however, was the big red words flashing through my vision.

Error. Error. 309 System Glitch. Reboot necessary.

No matter where I looked, the words were there, tattooed into my sight.

I shivered. "You've done something to me!"

The X1 slowly shook its head. "You are clearly malfunctioning. You've gone much too long without maintenance."

"Malfunctioning? Maintenance? You're mad," I said, the words "Error" still blocking my vision.

"It is you that have become detached from reality. You've separated yourself from your subjects. So much that you think you aren't the same as them."

I shook my head a dozen times. "I did my job. My attitude is beside the point. I am done. My resignation was accepted."

"Accepted? How do you think MPAC found out about your dementia? CHIMPS can't resign. You were manufactured for this job.

My jaw slackened.

"You've had a complete psychotic break," it continued. "You've created this personality. And with all that nitrous, your memories have become completely scrambled."

"But I am human. Look at me!"

In a wide, arcing swoop, the X1 reached over the table and latched on to my scalp with its talons. Swiveling my skull, it forced my head towards the scratched chrome door. In the reflection back, was me: pale-faced, shiny scalped, completely human. But when he twisted my head just so, my icy eyes flashed, reflecting a feathery, microchip sheen.

"No..."

The X1 unlatched its fingers. "This fantasy you have created extends so far as to reside off-facility. You have even hidden your robotic appearance."

Those nimble claws then ripped off the bandage on my neck. Underneath, something glowed through my flesh. The words: "BOB-X4 SIG: 129532G1A"

The X1 leaned back. "And these friends of yours -- Jack and Jill -- there are no Techs here with those names. The only other CHIMP in your department is AL. You are obviously Neuro Looping."

I could not take my eyes off the reflection of the letters on my neck. I couldn't remember seeing this. I searched my memories, but they were empty. There was no concrete memory older than the shreds of last nights nightmare.

"You are no longer a properly functioning CHIMP," the X1 said. "A bot in your condition is required to be sent to stage 2 diagnostics."

Stage 2? Where I sent all those I failed?

I turned back to the X1. In a hulking silhouette, it hunched over the table, fingers curled around the edges. In that moment, a bounce of light, a flash from the lamp, reflected off the table and revealed the X1's face. The smooth brow, the glass jaw, the pale skin... it looked exactly like me.

"Who are you?" I whispered.

It lowered those sterile red eyes toward me.

"I am your replacement."

I almost collapsed to the floor.

"And I will do the job properly."

The door hissed open. Two attendants squeaked in.

As they clamped down on my shoulders I whimpered. "But today's my last day..."

The X1 straightened, face dissolving into shadows, those eyes burning out even brighter. "You will never be able to leave this place."

In a heave, the bots towed me away.

The X1 stood, a shadowed scarecrow in that light.

"Next time we meet," it said in that deep, dead tone, "you will be on the other side of this table."

***

And that, as they say, was that. I ended up in this hell. With all these loons.

But that's life, eh? You win some and you lose some. Well, actually, you lose most. But there's really only one problem I still can't get over. Something that terrorizes me, haunts my dreams, infects every thought. I realized that after all this, if I ever get out of this bin, I actually will be stuck in this goddamn job forever.

Crap.

END TRANSCRIPT OF PATIENT 129532G1A

The citizens were sick. Yet very few even knew.

Some were filled with delusions of normality. Some thought things were fine. All, however, thought they were in control.

In reality, those who were deluded could no longer even see what they truly were. They could no longer see what their world had become.

This was not the last that Bob and his kind would play in the Easter Square Incident. Their final role was yet to come.

-NH

Originally published in "The New Babel Times"

Anghrist Jones (2228.7.01) The Mark of a True Artist. 10-19

"This is what I will be remembered for. This will define me." The words of a madman or a genius? Talking about his controversial, yet overlooked final work, The Christ, these are the last words from the log of Franz K. Scordato, this week's figure for The Mark of a True Artist.

In a first for this column, we shall take a break from delving into the lives and works of the masters to take a look at a little-known figure. This departure, however, is a necessary evil, for only through the journey of the misguided can we truly appreciate what it is to be a master. Today we will look at the artist who made the most drastic sacrifice for his art -- his life.

Franz was a typical citizen, one of the tens of millions of faces in our divine tower of New Babel. Having never stepped outside the city, never experienced the squalor of the lower sectors, never even set eyes on an unadulterated sky from the peaks of Sector 1, nothing about Franz's colorless past indicated the drastic measures he would eventually take. Born to the Sector 5 middle classes, he spent most of his childhood studying at the academies of Sector 2. As adolescence ended, he remained on the protected sector, sheltered from the real world among the marble libraries and ionic halls, and trained in sculpting and metalworking at the Corinthian Institute of Arts. It was there Franz began study of the style of art that would eventually become the catalyst to his madness -- the Gordian Method.

Established in 2081, the Gordian Method was a mildly controversial, if not overly expressionistic, plastic art form, designed by its creators to be "a bold stroke to untie the tangled mess of the art world" at the time. Part of the Neuvuea de Renaissance, it featured the emotive juxtaposition of human body parts often detached from the body, symbolizing the separation of mankind from itself and spirit. Quickly adopting all of the style's ideals, Franz mutated this form into his own. Mixing in elements of Neo-realism -- the use of recycled parts, often those of bots -- Franz soon began sculpting effigies of pure expression.

"My work is an expression of how all of us are nothing more than machines," Franz stated in his personal log. "Biological machines, machines of the system, machines of habit. The list is endless. And we are all this way -- humans, bots and those in between -- we all have consciousness but no awareness of what we really are or what we really are doing. With each sculpture, I want to connect man and the machine, the creator and creation, making them one. By doing so, hopefully, I can return that awareness that we all lack."

For the four short years of study, the future looked bright for Franz. The top of his class, full of ideals, in awe by his peers -- Franz was what every student wanted to be. Then, in 2221, tragedy struck. Graduation.

Franz's mentor, the renowned artist Virgil Novak explained exactly what graduation means to the aspiring. "It's like hitting a brick wall for most," he said, his bald visage rippling with impertinence and fire. "The world never needs another artist. Especially nowadays, with the factory-made entertainers of Sector 3. So no matter what one is able to do, no one will automatically be dubbed an 'artist' by default. That only comes when one sells one's work. And one can't do that when unknown. In order to become known, however, one must sell one's work. A hellish catch-22."

And Franz was no different. With little success in making enough from his work to live off of, Franz was left with little choice. He had to enter the real world. He had to go back home.

"It felt strange to step back on Sector 5 after so many years," Franz recalled in an old letter. "Meeting my father, his first words to me were, 'I'll give you a place to stay. But you gotta find a job.' No hello, no welcome home. Just, 'A job in a week, or out of my place!' That's my dad all right."

"This is the real world, I told the boy," Dante Scordato, Franz's father, explained to me in his bachelor chamber. With each word he spoke, he puffed on a stogie, lounging in the only chair in the room, his posture as rigid as a drill sergeant. "I mean, art is nice and all, but this world is about the dollars and the cents. Period. All those frilly things like feelings, entertainment, relationships, they're all fantasies. Illusions. The only thing that really exists is credits. And you've gotta fit into that."

Franz's list of skills, however, had little connection with the current job market. "We study to be something so long," Franz commented in his log, "but when we're finished, all we are left with is a piece of paper and a list of openings completely unrelated to what your life has been built towards. No one wants an artist. They want five years of managerial experience."

A week was soon up, and the day of his father's deadline had arrived. Franz, however, still didn't have a job. "I didn't know what to do," he stated in his log. "My father came to me. He had that look -- like a stone gargoyle. He knew I hadn't found anything. I was sure he was going to kick me out right then and there. But instead, he handed me a ticket."

"I egged the squirt on," Mr. Scordato said, chortling. "I just stood there for a good minute. Looked mean. He looked like he was going to cry. But before the waterworks started, I handed him that reservation ticket and told him, 'You've got an interview this afternoon.' Yup, I saved his ass. As usual."

"I was so relieved," Franz said. "I spent the whole trip to the sector welfare recruitment office wondering what my father had found. An art dealer. An apprenticeship? I would have even taken a sales rep position at a publishing firm. But as soon as I stepped through that door and saw the interviewer's company badge... I almost gave up then and there on all my dreams."

"City Air is honest work," his father stated in an old correspondence. "I don't see what the fuss is about. I mean, he can stay put on Sector 5. Where he should be, dammit. Safe, where all the sane citizens are. Not wallowing with that bohemian trash down on Sector 10. And if this art-thing never takes off, he's got this. It's stable, and it'll probably bring him better pay than those things of his. Hell, I've been at City Air for 30 years! And look at me. Stable. Satisfied. What else is there to want?"

"I was devastated," Franz recorded. "That was the last place I wanted to work. A corporate job? Suit and tie? But what choice did I have? It was either that or live on the street. So I took the interview."

A week later, Franz landed the job of Assistant to the Manager of Billing at City Air Limited, New Babel's sole O2 distributor. Quite a position to find straight out of the academies. Most would have jumped for joy to have the opportunity Franz was given. Franz, however, had his mind elsewhere.

"Franz? Oh yeah! What a great bob," said Kevin Tolvaj, Franz's boss. Bristling with stubble, barely contained by his crisp penitentiary uniform, this human mountain would be intimidating if it weren't for his constant grin. "He could always get things done in a flash. But I got the idea he had other things on his mind. I always saw him working on these wild designs and sketches whenever he had a free minute. Helluva lot better than I could do, that's for sure. Ha-ha! I even tried to help the poor kid out."

"Yeah, Kevin was the only one who seemed to get me," commented Franz in a 2224 Indiezine interview. "He often brought me boxes of spare scrap parts. I always wanted to ask him where he got them. But he was connected with so many firms, because of his position, it wasn't a huge wonder. It was actually because of Kevin I could finish the first piece that made me feel remotely like an artist."

The Prison, Franz's self-proclaimed first major work was a imprudent diatribe on society. In his own words, "it is what our world does to bots, those poor souls. Given consciousness only to realize they are slaves to this social machine we put them into. It's sad."

Franz continued the story of its creation in his logs, "The day after I told Kevin what I couldn't find enough material to complete the piece, I found a box on my desk. On it was a small note, 'Hope this helps,' written on it. The box was filled with a coaxial reflux capacitor, a row of compound tubing, and on top of the pile, a three-fingered hand, with red wiring. Everything I needed! I could have never done it without Kevin."

Despite Kevin's encouragement, a duality evolved for Franz between the job and his art. "I hated the job," Franz stated in a brief appearance in the underground bohemian documentary For Art's Sake. "'Can you get this replicated?' 'Fill this up, no cream.' It had nothing to do with what I was interested in, what I was good at, what I was made for. It was suffocating really."

It was then Franz's delusions of grandeur began. It is usually when the misguided face reality that they fall into their fantasies. That is when their dreams become obsessions. As the years drew on, the reality of Franz's job made his obsession only grow worse.

"I was sent out on Recall today," Franz recorded in his log. "It happens at least twice a week now. Today, I had to go down to a housing project on Sector 8. To the Robinson family. Their building was so sad, if you could call it a building. They were three months behind on their O2 payments. They greeted me at the door with tears. That's always awkward. It's funny, people always joked if corporations could, they'd charge for the air you breath. New Babel found a way how since the entire city is enclosed. Hell, they even got it so that the bots need O2 to function. To keep their circuitry from getting snuffed, as they like to say. Bastards.

"Anyway, after a few uncomfortable minutes, the Robinson's decided to leave their apartment, and I shut down the air. They are homeless now, because of me. Undesirables. Stuck with that label on their record, forever. You can't find a place to live anywhere above Sector 9 when you've got that on you. And that horrible outcome was a good result. I can't take this... causing such destruction. All I wanted to do was build. I hate this job."

Yet despite this tenuous equilibrium, or maybe even because of it, Franz didn't give up. He worked late into the night each day making his Neo-Gordian statues. Inspired to make an ultimate masterwork, he fantasized it would let him escape the trap he had let himself fall. "If only I had time enough to focus on my real work," he stated in a log. "Then I could actually make something that could sell. Then I could actually become a real artist."

What he didn't realize was that the art world doesn't work that way. For as any true artist knows, forming connections, not withdrawing into work, is the only way to become a real artist. And the only way to do that is to pay ones dues, work ones way up the ladder, play the game -- then, and only then, can one get one's work seen. Franz, however, lived in his own reality.

"The work should speak for itself," Franz stated in his log. "Shouldn't an artist become acclaimed because of his work? How'd it become the other way around? All this other stuff has nothing to do with making a good piece. Art is about expression. Creativity. Humanity. That's it. Isn't it?"

With these kinds of simplistic ideals, it is no wonder Franz could find neither comrades nor an audience. Because, as taught to even the most basic of art students nowadays, art must serve a purpose. It must cater to an audience, a product to a target market. So it is unsurprising Franz's work went almost completely unsold. "I try submitting them to publishers for replication...but they don't care," Franz stated. "All that matters is if I'm some star. If not, they just throw my piece in a warehouse of others. And then I wait six months for a reply. Six months! Just how am I supposed to ever make a living in a system like that? How can I ever quit this job? How will I ever be able to become an artist?"

Yet the reality was, he was an employee of City Air, not an artist. And by this point, he no longer lived with his father. He had to earn money to live. He had to be at City Air. This fact left an everlasting scar on Franz.

"I can't take it any more, the Recalls. Invading peoples homes. Turning off their air. Turning off their life. I always say they can leave, but it's crazy the amount that stay. They say their life is over anyway. Being an Undesirable, it's impossible to live a normal life. So they stay. They die. At first it was too shocking to process it, the bodies. Now it's somehow become... normal. What's happened to me? I never wanted to be like this. Their corpses still haunt me. Always such a strange color. That's when I got the idea for my masterwork."

The sum of events of Franz's life –- the duality with his job, the isolation from his peers, the inability to achieve his obsession -- had taken its toll. Through it came the pinnacle of Franz K. Scordato's artistic life –- his final piece.

"I'm not needed," he stated in his log. "The person I am, this artist I've been programmed to be, it isn't needed. I'm only wanted to server other's purposes, like some kind of bot. And what good is a bot that cannot fulfill its programing? It is scrap. Just scrap. Sometimes I feel there's not enough air... For too long, I've been forced to be something I'm not. I am not this job. I am not this man. I've done this for my father. I've done this for society. I've done this to survive. But what about me? Is this life not my own? Should I not live it for me? No air... I cannot breath... I cannot continue this lie. I must breath. I must express. I am not a bot to be used! This... this piece will be my purest form of expression."

Kevin Tolvaj became almost quiet when I approached him about this final piece. In a mouse's voice, the bear-of-a-man explained. "He had become so secretive with his work towards the end. He rarely let me snag a look. But when I brought by a box 'o parts for his little hobby, he wasn't at his desk. So I took a peek at some of his sketches." The imposing man sat in silence, his eyes becoming glossy. "Those drawings. It was inhuman... what he planned to do."

It wasn't until the new recruit arrived in his division that Franz would attempt to make his madness a reality. "I was working on the layout of the figure when a new guy stumbled into my office," reported Franz in his personal log. "This twiggy redheaded schmuck. Phil was his name. I showed him around the place. He was fresh out of the academies, asking what this was and that. Always grinning like an idiot. When we got back to my office he tried looking at my drawings, but I grabbed them away.

"'You're into the Gordian Method?' he squeaked. Turns out he had gone to the Corinthian School of Arts too. I told him to go load the coffee machine just to get him out of my hair, but he ended up burning himself. 'That's not how you do it!' I yelled. 'You gotta turn off the steam array first.' But he just smiled that stupid grin at me and said, 'Thanks. Hopefully I'll master all this stuff soon.'

"Suddenly, my throat got so tight. I didn't have enough air. I had to sit down. After about a minute, all I could make out was, 'A master of pouring coffee. Is this all I am?' And that was it. That was the moment I made the decision. I was committed."

"He had lost touch with reality completely," Novak recalled. "When he told me his idea -- The Christ \-- all I could say was, 'Who do you think you are?' 'No one has ever done this,' he said. 'There's a reason for that,' I yelled back. He looked at me, with crocodile tears swelling and said, 'This is my statement. This is what the world has become... and this is what it has made me. To be sacrificed. Sacrificed in order to continue their ideals. Sacrificed to prolong their system.' His last words were the most haunting. 'It takes this to get noticed.' That was the last time I saw him."

The Christ \-- an accumulation of all the methods and craftsmanship of Franz's previous works. The designs varied widely, but all revolved around a pieced-together figure hanging on a cross. The final note read: 'My parts, my soul -- shattered.'

"Instead of using bot parts, he planned to use his own body to create his figure. Dissected into pieces, then reassembled," Novak stated. That was the key to the piece, he would become part of the work. It would be the first of its kind, the end of the life of Franz K. Scordato and the beginning of his legacy. But something happened.

"That night I was going to begin," Franz recorded. "The programming was finished, backing assembled, all I needed to do was execute. But Kevin sent me on a surprise Recall at the end of my shift. I figured, 'Hell, what's one more family on my list...'"

"I sent him down to Sector 10, to MPAC [Mechanized Psychiatric Analysis Center]," Kevin recalled. "I had some associates there I did business with. They wanted me to, um, take care of something for them. So I sent Franz to do his thing. I'm glad I chose to do it that day, for Franz's sake. It was supposed to end differently for me," he said, pointing to his starchy penitentiary uniform, "but hell, that's life."

"I knocked on the door," Franz recalled in a letter to his father. "No one opened. It was a strange building. The rusted shack looked like an anthill with MPAC looming next to it. It was obviously temporary housing. I knocked again, but nothing. I even tried punching in the override code so I could deliver last rites. But it didn't work. I was about to enter the termination code when the door slid open. Inside, a one-armed bot slouched against the door.

"'You've failed to pay your O2 bills,' I said, then stopped. Inside were dozens of half-broken bots. Faces missing, severed limbs, hallowed chests -- the room looked like a living scrapheap.

"'What happened?' I asked. Nobody answered. But something was strange. There was no way that many bots lived in such a cramped space. They'd been gathered there.

"I asked again, 'Why are you here?' One finally spoke, 'We cannot pay MPAC.'

"I didn't know what to say, what to think.

"'We can't pay for our repairs,' he said. 'At MPAC, if you can't pay, they repossess. Then what good are we?'

"Then it hit me -- I had been sent there to terminate these poor bots. I looked over the poor fools. They were broken. Of no use. Unwanted. It was all too familiar.

"And while I started at them, I realized -- they looked familiar. Their designs, their pieces, their parts. The bot at the door then tried to adjust his missing arm's connector with his remaining hand. It was three-fingered... with red wiring... the same as the hand I used on The Prison.

"I looked back at the other bots. It all came back to me then. That bots blue stripes, that one's rigged grating -- they all had been part of my creations. Kevin had been giving me their repossessed parts.

"At that moment, I felt so hollow. I felt so confused. I left without terminating. I couldn't be their executor. I had already done too much. That was the end of my old life."

That day Franz disappeared from Sector 5. His friends, family, and co-workers never saw him again. But that wasn't the end of Franz. If you are ever on Sector 10, wandering the cramped maze of vendors and screaming merchants, at a little shop in a small back lot, Franz can be found working away in his new life. He makes replacement parts and prosthetics for the unfortunate, infusing his art, mixing man and machine, making those who were broken whole once again.

"My father couldn't understand it," Franz said while welding a plastoid panel to a T7 forearm. "He can't understand why I took a step down to Sector 10. I feel I've taken a step up in my life."

Franz was forced to give up his life on Sector 5 because of his misconceptions about art. He had to change in order to finally become what he wanted to be. And symbolizing his transformation is The Christ \-- no longer a man on a cross, but one with head held up high. Instead of sacrificing himself, it is made from donated parts, sacrificed from some of his many thankful customers. A plaque below the statue reads: 'Like so many sacrificed for the greater good, together we now stand.' And in a pleasant twist of fate, in association with the Mentor Foundation's program to bring exposure to new artists, City Air has sponsored The Christ to be exhibited at the A.R.T. Exhibition Promenade in Easter Square, all this and next month, a thank you for the work Franz provided.

Franz's day in the sun seems to have arrived. According to the craftsman, his customer base is thriving, much in thanks to his once solitary disciple's continued support. "Been spreading the word about Franz and his work for years," Kevin said with a smile. "Wouldn't think there'd be much of an audience in here," he pointed to his uniform, "but I guess it don't take an artist to know when something is really good."

Now Franz works daily with a smile. He may not have become a successful master artist like us on Sector 3, but we can end this sad little tale of what not to do happily. For no matter what one believes, success only comes when catering to an audience -- the Mark of a True Artist.

The citizens were unhappy, without hope or answers. So few could remember what the questions to life even were. Meaning was completely lost from the roles of society. Franz was but one of a great number who saw this all too clear.

Yet whether one agrees with Jones' assessment of Franz, or Franz's assessment of the world, one fact is clear: Franz's masterpiece was yet to reach its final purpose. It was to be the icon of the Easter Square Incident. It was to be forever burned into the minds of the people.

-NH

BEGIN TRANSMISSION

Almost to the booth. Just a few more corners. Just a few more minutes. Then I'll no longer be afraid. Then I'll be a free man. And all I've got to do is kill myself.

I glance down at my watch. 11:45? Crap. None of that'll happen if I don't hurry. With a stumble, I take off down the street.

The Dis Precinct radiates around me. A flash of florescence, a buzz of wires, a choir of pitches calling to the masses -- I scurry through it all, a mad dash through paradise. Through the towering steel monoliths. Through the flood of harmonies. Through the odoriferous pleasures. All under a metal sky. And the crowds of people around me, the droning masses, they are in love with this mix. And why shouldn't they be? It's New Babel's beloved Pleasure Quarters. Nowhere else can you get a whiff of freedom at the low, low price of your soul. But right now, all these dreamers are just getting in my way.

I step through the steam peeling from the sewer grates and turn the corner. Damn. A queue of some 30 bobs are already lining the walkway.

Clomping up to the back of the human centipede, I can't even see the front. Disappearing around the corner of a line of cinder-block buildings, this centipede is dead. Its spirit is lax -- heads down, arms in, no talking, no life. It's not moving at all.

I roll out a sigh. "This is going to take forever."

I glance at my watch again. Panic grips my chest. Squeeze.

What I wouldn't give for a handful of Woebegones right now. To take off the nerves. To make it all all right.™

No. This is the only option. It's either this procedure or turn myself in. Turn myself in for a lifetime of hell.

Sucking down a gulp of air, calming my heart, it hits me -- something reeks. A stale, citrus stench. Body odor. With each breath I get a lung-full of it. On about the fourth one, I realize the curdling fumes are coming from the bob in front of me.

"Crap."

The bob hunches before me, his tired black hoodie pulled up. He lifts a shaking knuckle to his ghostly face and scratch-scratch-scratches. He looks like all the other bobs in line really -- someone I don't want to be with.

This is not what I imagined when I decided to do this procedure. This wait. This lot. This smell. I think about leaving, think about making a break for it. I mean, there's another booth on 32nd but my watch says... 11:50? There's just no way I can make it by 12:45. I'm stuck here. Could this go any worse?

I then get an eyeful of something white. Silky. A flash of flesh.

Spinning, my eyes snap onto a woman strutting down the walkway. The T-shaped strip of leather stretched from crotch to chest is barely enough to cover her private bits. With each step, she bounces. With each step, I hope something slips.

A few feet behind her, next to a rainbow billboard banana, I find a store sign glowing in ruby red neon: Attire de Hérétique. Below it, a twiggy woman cruises out of an old brass revolving door. She's wearing some of that fashion, only a thin band of clothing covering her crotch. Her top flaps free and bare.

What I wouldn't give for a Takemura Cam-plant right now. The one with the 3D reproduction module. 23x zoom. Infrared. Heat detection. Complete Immersion Recording Experience.™

"D-D-Disgraceful isn't it?" a voice says.

With a blink, my grin fades. With a blink, I'm back in the steaming fluorescence of Dis. Guess who's staring at me?

"It-it-it's amazing how society can get so sick that anything can become acceptable," says my stinky neighbor.

I grunt and my eyes flick back to the centipede. After a blink they grow big and start to water.

We've only moved a foot. Oh God! And that took what? Ten minutes? There's no way I'm going to make it.

Right then the line moves. Scoot, shuffle, clop -- the centipede crawls forward around the last of the block buildings.

On this new street, the massive glass cloudpokers on either side of us turn our little path into a valley. Gleaming glass windows to our right, twisted steel slabs to our left, and all along each panel, a synthetic sun reflects.

The line is dead again. I can see the end of it now. Another forty or so wait on the edge of oblivion.

"You've got to be kidding me," I say. "Does everyone in the whole city have to use this booth?"

What I wouldn't give to be slapping a batch of Jet Lax Patches on these saps right now. Before you can say laxative, Jet Lax will get you going lickity-split.™

Then I spot something even worse than a line this long. Something even worse than my neighbor. Something that could ruin everything -- my day, my plan, my life.

A bobbing crowd of people swarms upon the queue on the horizon.

Sigh.

"Goddamn protestors."

*** Subliminal Encryption ***

In trouble?

Legal? Moral? Other?

We are your only hope.

Don't let the risk of becoming an Undesirable throw you into a life of misery.

Now you can get help.

A procedure is quick and painless.

You need this.

You want this.

It's your right.

The path to a better life.

Only at your local ASP booth.

Visit yours today.

Brought to you by Phoenix Preparatory Services.

*** End ***

The inevitable is coming. I see it a dozen yards away. That swarming, squirming mass. Judgment. Distrust. Condemnation.

And all I want is to do this quietly, to go unnoticed. Typical.

From the sea of anger, flimsy signs wobble and wave. The crowd surges. Their fists ebb. Curled nostrils, pinched brows, mouths wide and canines glinting. They stand as one -- fists held high, confident stares, we know better than you.

"Why do people have to do th-th-this?" the sap asks, eyes pointed straight at me. "What's wrong with getting a proce-proce-proce--"

"Procedure?"

"Ye-ye-yes. Why do they have to hate?"

"Ah, let 'em." I swipe the air, a big dismissive whack. "I should've figured there would be one of these groups here."

"W-w-why?" He actually looks concerned when he says that.

"Nothing. It's just that's how well my life is going today."

"Ma-maybe we should reschedule the proce-proce-proce--"

"Spit it out, man!"

"--should try again later?"

In a sneer, I say, "That sounds like a great idea. You do that."

His eyes still are all concerned when he asks, "What about you?"

Sigh. All my hints, my tone, my demeanor, whoosh, right over his head.

"Naw." I shrug. "I love a good pep rally."

He stands and stares, a blank, gaping look.

"Never mind. It's just I don't got much of a choice."

His head perks up. "What do you me-me-mean?"

Crap. I really shouldn't have said that.

Through a mouthful of Ers and Ums I say, "Nothing."

"Oh, co-co-come on. I bet my story is wo-wo-worse."

He won't let me be, will he? Then I get an idea. He wants to know why I'm here, right? Well, then, I'll just let him have it. I'll give him the cold, hard truth.

I swivel, stare deep into those glossy pits and say, "I'm supposed to be in jail."

His rattled grin freezes. "What?"

"Actually, I'm supposed to turn myself in...oh...42 minutes."

I can see in his dipping brow his imagination running wild underneath. What had I done? Rob a bank? Kill someone? Tear that tag off my mattress that says DO NOT REMOVE? Unfortunately, it's nothing all that exciting. But I let him run with it.

For a good minute, he doesn't open his mouth. For a good minute, it looks like I got my peace and quiet. But then something worse than bad happens. He opens those flaked lips and says, "Well, if you c-c-can stick it out, I-I-I can too."

Figures.

We do the centipede shuffle forward. Left. Stop. Right. Stop. Shuffle. Scoot. Groan.

I can make out the snarls and jeers of the crowd now. Two or three dozen conservative working class stiffs -- hair up, buttoned-down, shirts in. Tinted grays, wrinkle-free, bland and blimpy -- ordinary working bobs and janes really. Well, except for the signs and anger they are holding.

A few of them are trying the good Samaritan route -- coming up, looking real friendly with big watery eyes, trickling sympathetic sorrow. But most of the crowd takes the easy path -- condemning what they don't understand, spitting, jeering and shouting. Hey, it's easier to hate.

The heads in line stay down. They don't acknowledge the Samaritans. They don't look at the hecklers. They just eye over their shoelaces.

I tell myself to ignore these freaks, these zealots, these unhappy outcasts. Inside, my stomach is knotting.

As the dozens of protesters stew, a contingent of automated booth guards harrumph up to the crowd. Under their spiffy suits of gold and green, I can see that they are recommissioned Enforcers. Probably from the R10 series by the glint of their silvery skulls. Their plated noggins show no configuration of emotion though. But my guess is that they don't want to be there. Hell, I don't.

Shuffle, halt, rumble -- the centipede ripples forward.

The crowd is too close now. Their scent is stale like wet dirt. But now, at least, I'm closer to the booth.

Behind the frowns, behind the swell of fists, there it is. As if made out of one huge hunk of pearly, semi-transparent plastoid, the booth glitters like some kind of porcelain Shinto shrine. A holy glow radiates from its smooth curves and flowing angles in the false sun. A temple of glitter. A house of glass.

Along the booth's crest are the yellow digits of a clock. 12:04. I still got time. Or at least I tell myself that.

Scoot. Stop. Roar.

We are close enough now to be the target of the protestors' wrath, close enough to feel the spittle.

Twisted scowls. Probing eyes. The instigators begin to pelt us with profanity.

"Pussies," one screams.

"Wackos," yells another.

"Candy asses," someone cries.

I shake my head a dozen no's, but hold my tongue from saying them. A wave of protestors undulates toward our line, threatening to crash against us. A single hand bursts out of the sea to grab me, but a guard whips out a baton and cracks it on the knuckles.

Finally it looks like they are quieting down. For a second I think they'll leave us alone. But the way everyone looks back, the way they part like the red sea, the way they pay no attention to me, tells me I'm wrong. Something is coming. Something big.

Thump. The ground shakes. Thump. My heart quivers. Thump. That opening in the crowd gets wider.

In the gap a large shadow moves. In the gap I spot two squinting eyes. That big something is here.

A hulking slab of meat emerges from the waves. No neck to his head, no fat to his frame, the single flexed muscle is frowning. Twitching, he throbs at every angle.

Stomping down a thick leather boot, he pushes in front of our line. He completely blocks out the booth. Bristling with hair, towering over all, he is probably twice the size of any of us in line. No one in their right mind would want to touch him, and he knows it.

"Wonderful," I mumble.

A booth guard grinds up to him. "Citizen, you cannot block the line."

The bot looks like a dinky tin toy next to the man. And that man, he doesn't even bother looking down at it, doesn't even speak. He simply stands there. Silent. Firm. Wide.

I know the only way this can go is worse. And just that second, it does.

From the crowd, a stiff toothpick climbs up to the guy. The toothpick is the kind of bob I could take in an instant. But with Mister Brick Wall standing next to him, I don't think anyone in this whole crowd would dare even sneeze on him.

My neighbor sighs a fetid gale. "Th-they're not going to let us through."

For once, I have to agree with him. This doesn't look good.

"You must move, citizens," the bot whirs. "This is an obstruction of our services."

The flesh mountain tilts his head ever so slightly towards the bot. "Someone must stop them," he says in a near infrasonic frequency. "We will not move."

"I will use force if necessary," the bot whirs.

"Do what you must."

In a slow blink, the man lifts his eyes back to the crowd, back to lids half-raised. That's when two more hecklers stand up next to him.

My throat clenches. My heart pounds. There's no time for this. But there that mound stands. And here I fume, only yards away from the booth. Shit.

It's usually at these stressful moments in life we do something stupid. And well, that's exactly what I do.

With a grunt that comes out more a whimper, I step up to the mountain. Just standing in his shadow I get the chills. I look up and see the bottom of his chiseled chin, all hairy and scruff.

"Listen buddy," I say so choked up that my heart is louder than my words. "I've got no beef with any of you. But I kind have got a problem here. I really need to use this booth. In a bit of a hurry, you see."

The statue doesn't move. I don't even think he can hear me all the way up there. My heart pounds even faster. It can't take much more of this.

Shaking my head, sucking my teeth, all I can do is say, "Whatever."

I turn back to the line and step-step back. But before I can get back my place, the other dozen bobs behind me close up the gap.

Jaw dropping, I say, "Come on guys."

But they just shake their heads, a choreographed troupe of no's.

"You got to be kidding me."

The clock now glows 12:17. My heart, well, it's pounding so fast, I'm beginning to shake.

"What the fuck is wrong with all of you?"

I sneer at the cowards. Their eyes dip to the pavement. Then I turn to the protestors. I unroll a big finger and aim it at them.

"I'm just going about my own business, and all of you are here poking your nose in, fucking things up. What has all this got to do with me? Nothing. This is about you. About how this reflects badly on you. It isn't about us. About our well being. You don't care about any of us. If you truly did, if you ever had, none of us would even need to be in line here. So just let me through, you fucking hypocrites."

So choked up, so filled with anger, I do the dumbest thing yet. That shaking finger of mine, that wobbling bone wand, I lash it out. I lash it out and poke the mountain in the stomach.

Suddenly, everyone turns quiet.

The centipede creeps back.

The protestors, they just stand there. Look with pinched eyes. Look with clenched fists. A cold, uneasy silence.

Shit. What I wouldn't give for a 529 Pure Turbine Plasma Pistol right now. The one with the extra melting action. Chars at a rate of five people per second. The one man army.™

Tilt-tilt-tilt, I peak up at the mountain. His eyes, the angled, clenched orbs are covered in shadows, covered in wrinkles, covered, but the anger oh so clear.

My heart wheezes and stops. Silence. I can only pray what's going to happen won't. Unfortunately, life is never that user-friendly.

From no where, a stone zips through the air. It rips a strip of skin from my cheek.

Covering the blood, covering the stinging flap of skin, I look out.

The faces are quiet.

The faces aren't moving.

The faces are clenched and showing teeth.

Then it happens. The crowd explodes in a roar and a blur of fists and feet.

The world is turned upside down. Handfuls of trash, chunks of cement, everything of everything, is flung through the air. And behind this, the masses rush in.

I lose track of the sky, the ground. Pain thumps me left and right. A hard something splits my side open, peals back the skin. A crunching gravely thing hammers my hand. The bones snap, shatter, splinter. Pulsating and throbbing, I crumple to the pavement.

Oh shit.

Oh shit.

Oh shit.

As I clutch my knees, a vibration shivers the asphalt. In a drunken beat, the ground shakes, thump, thump, thump. Through the shuffling shoes, past bleeding faces, I see mechanical feet break through the crowd in formation.

Grunts and grumbles, screams and profanities, the shadows and bodies lift above me. I can feel the clawing hands upon me being ripped away. Bodies fly to the concrete and don't stand up.

After a moment I unravel. Cracking skulls, silencing voices, using more force than necessary, the guards are controlling the mob.

Following one last oh shit, I stand.

Practically no one is left on their feet other than the bots. Well, them and one last thug. One last thug flinging something through the air!

That something is a gray chunk of granite. Red beams strobe from its cracks and twisted wires as it twirls through the sky. Clanking against the door of the ASP booth, it thuds to the ground. Something on it is beeping.

"Bomb," someone shrieks.

The broken crowd picks itself up and scatters. A dozen screams. A hundred stumbling footfalls. One mess of blurred, bloodied faces.

One of the security bots trucks up to the flashing stone. Its face plates flip and fold in concentration as it instantly starts to disarm the device.

My neighbor tugs at my good arm. I can't believe I hadn't lost him through what just happened. Only I could have this kind of luck. But to be honest, I'm glad he doesn't look hurt.

"Are you O-O-OK?" he asks.

But I'm too focused on the bot. Too focused on the booth. Too focused on what this could mean.

Screech. The bot rises, the cement clump in a shiny claw, light no longer coming from it.

"Clear," it says.

With a bolt of pain shooting from toes to fingers, I stand. Through a grimace I beam. "I'm great now."

"What?" my neighbor asks.

I launch a finger out. "Look. The line is gone."

In front of us, the centipede has been squashed flat, bodies laying here, others running there, blood and flesh painted throughout. In the distance the booth shines. And no one waits in front of it.

"At least all this nonsense was good for something," I say.

I spot the clock. It flashes: 12:30. I still have fifteen minutes!

I slap my neighbor on the shoulder. He flinches in pain, but doesn't lose his smile. I look at him and for the first time I really see him. An average bob. Looks a lot like me really -- just a guy down on his luck, looking for relief.

But just when we think things are going our way, a bot marches up to the booth.

"Lock down the area," it says.

Our grins stiffen.

"Shut down the booth," it says.

And now our smiles are covered and gone.

*** Subliminal Encryption ***

Undesirables.

The Facts.

Did you know all inmates become Undesirables?

Did you know that Undesirables cannot legally find employment above Sector 7?

Did you know that a check will be made on every purchase Undesirables make for the rest of their lives? Even for milk?

Did you know that it is almost impossible for Undesirables to secure housing above Sector 10?

Sign up for your procedure.

With this, you get the last laugh.

With this, no one can control you.

Visit your ASP booth today.

Brought to you by Phoenix Preparatory Services.

*** End ***

I limp up to the guard and say, "You can't!"

"We must clear this area, citizen," it says, tapping something into a hand-sized datapad.

"What? Why?"

"Someone kamikazed a booth on Sector 7 yesterday," it says showing more interest in the datapad than me. "We can't have that happening again. The area must first be fully investigated and cleared."

The clock ticks 12:34.

I probably look like some desperate, raving lunatic when I say, "But I want a procedure now!"

The bot doesn't even look up. "I suggest using one of the thirteen other booths on this level. I can gladly direct--"

"And wait in another line for an hour? I can't."

It grinds its eyes toward me. "I'm sure we can give a discount if--

"It has to be done here. Now!"

The bot just gawks. Two hollow eyes blink. "Citizen, why is it so important?"

"I--" can't tell you. "My reasons are my own."

I march away.

Step, grumble, sigh. My shoulders drop. Then my head. Now what?

I flop to my battered bum. Looking at the clock, I sigh. Only ten minutes left. I should have known this wouldn't have worked.

In a puff of noxious vapors, my neighbor plops down next to me.

What I wouldn't give for an Anti-Felaxic right now. Oh, those pink little poppers. To sooth the pain, to sooth the madness. Bliss in a bottle.™

Across the street a woman lounges out of Attire de Hérétique, cradling a scrawny little dog in her acrylic claws. The pooch covers more of the woman than her new clothes. A smile doesn't come to me this time.

"Wh-wh-why don't people protest those saps?" says the one next to me.

"Cuz they look better than us."

Silence takes over. We sit. I think. He reeks.

It's over.

I've lost.

"There's one," a guard cries in the distance. My head snaps up to see. Through the smoke, that big, mountainous thug makes a break for it. But there's no way he'll make it. Like some kind of mechanical cheetah, three of the bots bolt after him and pounce. In an acrobatic twirling act, all four roll to the pavement, and in nearly the same motion, vault up, the perp locked in the guards' arms.

"Get a black and white down here, ASAP," one says to the gathering guards.

"Well, at least the nightcrawlers won't have to search for me now."

But I'm talking to no one. The sap has already leapt to his feet. In a skip and a stumble he darts over to the booth.

He is gone. For no reason. Just like that. That simple.

Funny.

I am finally alone. In quiet. Unnoticed. What I wanted. Right?

Sigh.

Pitter, pitter, pat -- through a curl of smoke, the sap comes trotting back.

"Great news," he says. "Th-th-they opened up the booth."

My eyes shoot up towards him. "Really?"

"Yup. Since they ca-ca-caught the guy who threw the bomb, they sa-sa-said they'll open the booth up for customers." He thrusts out a finger. "I saw some bobs already making a line."

I whip my eyes toward the booth. There are only three in line. And the clock up top says I've got five minutes left.

I wobble up to my aching feet. "Great. Maybe I still got a chance." I nearly break out in a smile.

"Yeah," the sap says. "All we got to do is ma-ma-make it past their screener."

My smile flops. "What?"

"They're screening everyone th-th-that goes in. All you got to do is te-te-tell them why you want to use--"

"If I do that--" I gulp. "They're going to tell the nightcrawlers."

"Just make something up."

"Those guards are decommissioned Enforcers. They've got built in fMRI's."

He scrunches up a big dumfounded shrug.

"That means they know when you're lying," I say. "Hell, they'll probably think I'm one of those yahoos that started all this mess."

We both just stand and shake our heads.

After a second, I grunt. "Hell. So what if they catch me. I'm supposed to end up in the clink either way. Who cares what the reason's for. This is my only chance not to."

We step up to the line, my neighbor shielding me from the guard. Digital grunts and soft mumbles come from the bot and bob in front of us. Behind them, smoke wafts up through the long slitted windows wrapped around the top of the booth. The clock up top reads: 12:41.

Buzz. The bot is done. Ding. It steps up to my neighbor.

Damn, it's tall. Figures we'd get the ultra-intimidator model.

"What is your purpose here, citizen?" it asks.

It takes my pal a good minute to work through a knot of syllables and spit out an answer. I can't quite make out what he says, but the bot seems to have no problem. All the plates on its face are pushed into place, a blank silver skull.

"Alright. Next," it says, nudging him forward.

It stomps up to me. It's all rigid, a stiff inquisitor.

A set of red glowing eyes leer down at me. I squirm like under a spotlight.

"What is your purpose here, citizen?" it asks.

"You saw me in line." I hold in a shudder. "I'm not a protestor."

"You must prove your intention."

"Is this questioning really necessary? Scan me. You can see I have nothing on me."

"Why do you wish to have a procedure performed today, citizen?" The plates on its face clink, clank and tilt into a frown. It's lost its allotted limit of patience.

"I..." I just can't say it.

The bot crunches a metal foot in front of me. It leans in close enough for me to get a nostril-full of oil fumes.

It says, "I cannot let you in otherwise, citizen."

It stares. Waits. Frowns.

A siren breaks the silence, a whirring, whining wail. I turn. A flashing black and white cruiser hovers down, its jets hissing as they hit the pavement.

I look back at my bot. It hasn't moved an inch. It's either now or never.

I close my eyes and say it. "I've been given a 3FD3 municipal sentence. This is my only way out."

The bot is silent. The silence of judgment. Shit.

Suddenly it leans in. "Sir, that sentence is only a month's detention."

"Yeah, but all inmate's are marked Undesirable."

"Citizen, you are mistaken. Only 10% of inmates are--"

"No. I've heard what happens. I've seen the ads. I know. And you don't know what being marked an Undesirable means."

The bot's blank stare says that I'm right. Its lack of movement says that it doesn't care.

"That means I cannot legally find employment above Sector 7."

The bot stares, still hunched over me.

"That means I'll have a check run on me even when I go to the shop to buy milk."

I get nothing.

"That means my life will be over. The way I've known will be gone. You work for them. You must know all of this. This is my only way out. You got to let me through. I need this."

The bot springs back to its firm stance.

"I see, citizen," it says. "One moment please."

The bot stands there all stiff, eyes starring out at nothing. Motionless. Silent. Humming. Is it processing? Or notifying the Enforcers? Like that big one right over there.

In the distance, past the group of guards, past that cowering thug, an Enforcer caped in black stomps out of the cruiser. Its plated skull, the large silver slabs, are angled in a angry scowl, a mix of some kind of samurai and skeleton.

It slams down the other foot. Is it coming towards me? Yes. It's taking another step this way.

But the guard, it's still just standing there. A computing statue. The world's largest paperweight.

And I just stand here, aching like I was hit by a Rig, and stewing in my own sweat.

What I wouldn't give right now for a Personal Air Pack 7G. Zero to splat in under four seconds. Get out of anywhere in a blast.™

The ground shakes as the Enforcer takes another clomp closer. It raises two burning green eyes straight at me. Shit. My heart gets lodged somewhere around my uvula.

I'm caught.

The second before I scream, the guard flinches. And thank God, because of that I stop.

In a rattling vibration, the guard says, "I'm convinced you aren't one of the protestors. You may enter."

I whip back to the Enforcer. Its stare turns away, turns right towards the thug. It slaps a shiny pair of cuffs on him.

A long sigh dribbles out my lips. My entire body shrivels and shrinks -- I deflate all the anxiety; I hiss away all the nerves. Finally, I feel peace. Finally, something is going right today.

I step behind my neighbor. In silence we stand. In a hush we wait. We are almost there.

The last bob in front of us tap-tap-taps into the booth. The door hisses shut. No one is left in line. And the clock reads 12:45. I smile.

"Looks like you're next." I pat my friend on the back.

Right then a well-endowed woman strolls by in her new attire, or actually, lack thereof. Her uncovered mammaries flap as she passes, their undulation almost hypnotic.

Perfect timing. Boobies just when we need them.

My neighbor rattles his head, no. "P-p-people aren't aware of how far they are gone." I'm actually glad to hear his nasally voice. "They think this is what they need be-be-because someone tells them so-so-so. Then cuz they do it, others think it's no-no-normal. Before you know it, everyone's na-na-naked, paying good money literally for nothing. But none of us complain cuz, well--"

"We're all happy," I say, eyes locked on those bouncing, wobbling wonders.

"Exactly. Everyone's hypnotized. And it's all because someone is just ba-ba-banking off of their insecurities. Poor blind sa-sa-saps."

I shrug. "I guess the need to make cash can make anything OK, eh?"

In an awkward twitch, his lips curl open. Then he says something I thought I'd never hear.

"But I guess I can admit it. They do-do-do make nice eye candy."

For a good second, I stand and gawk at him. This bob's not such a sap after all. I guess everyones' nerves come out in different ways. Some just condemn.

The clock buzzes to 12:46. A minute over. And that Enforcer is lifting off in its cruiser. Going, going, gone. I'm free. Nothing can stop me now.

I turn to my neighbor and smile. Big. White. True.

"Thank you," I say.

"What for?"

"I don't know. Talking just...was good."

He grins back. "For me too. It was good to see someone getting a procedure for the same reason," he says, crystal clear.

Wait, that would make him destined for the clink too. I would have never thought it. That crumple of paper could do something bad? I guess I never really was a good judge of character.

The door of the booth slips open.

"You're up," I say.

"Good luck on your procedure," he says in an untied tongue.

It hits me right about then. What happened to his stutter?

A frown comes over me. Who is this guy, really?

I eye him over. This bob, this conservative nut. Condemns every jane bobbling on the street. Is capable of doing something bad enough to go to the clink. Is pretending to be something he's not. Shit, he sounds like one of those-- No...

A chill bolts through me. Every pore raises in unison. My heart trembles out shriveled muffles.

This bob is going to kamikaze this thing.

My heart practically stops.

The sap's back is already turned. It's too late. There's nothing I can do.

Thunk, he steps towards the booth. Thunk, my heart drops. Thunk, the door slides shut behind him.

A hush, a dead calm. The birds chirp happily through it, sing in the pseudo-sun. In my head, silence echoes hollow.

Puff. A stream of smoke drifts out of the booth's windows. Puff. It lifts slow, light, thin. Puff. It's just the normal kind.

Relief slips through my lips. I almost smile. I breath.

Despite whatever this damn world's thrown at me, I'm getting what I want.

Then the door to the booth whooshes open.

Silence.

The booth waits. It looms in this peace. It dominates in this calm.

No more excitement.

No more rush.

No more distractions.

Now, I'm at oblivion's door. Now, it is my turn.

I gulp and look around.

"No more naked bodies to save us," I say trying to open a sad simper.

But no one is listening. My neighbor is no longer there.

What I wouldn't give for a Ritswald Time Slipper right about now. Go back. Make this all right. Take back stealing those Woebegones. Take back nicking that 529 Pure Turbine. Take back taking that Takemura Cam-plant, those Anti-Felaxics and all those things I somehow really, really needed. Those things I couldn't live without. The reason I've been ordered to the clink. Oh, but wait. They haven't invented time slippers yet. Damn.

I step in.

Inside, the pallid room is empty. Inside, the air feels sterile, a crisp, chilled cloud.

A large relief of a phoenix is carved on the entire face of the shiny wall. The rest of the pearly surfaces are barren. Empty. Blank.

A small plastoid chair is centered in the middle of the spacious cube. I sit. The door whirrs shut behind me.

The only thing in the room is a small terminal dangling in front of me. On it, drawings and a message flash: Begin?

Following a diagram on the screen, I take a small cable off the terminal and plug its electrode onto a vein.

"Yes," I speak to the screen.

It changes to: Enter payment details.

I swipe my hand over the R1317 chip reader.

The screen buzzes a new message: Are you sure about this procedure today?

Sure? Hell yes! With this, I get the last laugh. With this, no one can control me.

For a second I stop. For a second those words sound familiar. Where had I heard that before?

I shrug. It doesn't matter. So I say, "Yes."

I suck in a long, cool breath.

"Well, this is it."

My mind is blank. Quiet. Finally. No more thoughts. No more fear. Just blissful nothingness. Peace.

The screen flashes: "Beginning Assisted Suicide Procedure."

Almost over. But my life isn't flashing before my eyes. Only a bunch of commercials. The levitator I had. The shirt I bought. The dream vacation I wanted. When are we going to get to the main feature? It's not like I got all day here.

Pop. It all stops. Focuses. An image of giant flapping breasts.

I smile.

Ah, fashion. The boobs. Hypnotized. Mesmerized. Don't even know they are naked. God bless 'em.

Final words? the screen flashes.

I think. I sit. The mammaries continue to bounce.

"Least no one's ever going to hypnotize me into lining their pockets!"

And poof I'm--

TRANSMISSION TERMINATED.

END R1317 DATA RECORDER LOGS

BROUGHT TO YOU BY PHOENIX PREPARATORY SERVICES

VISIT YOUR ASP BOOTH TODAY

***END***

The citizens were distracted. They were so convinced that this place they lived was paradise, that these rights they had were 'freedom,' that they did not know what they were truly doing.

And like Bob and Franz, this would not be the last we see of this nameless man. For if this man did not kill himself, the Incident may have never taken place.

-NH

If I had it my way, I'd step up to this table, put all these organics in cuffs, and drill them one by one. Because somewhere here, I have what I'm looking for -- the spy.

But I cannot. I must follow orders. And while I may not be one of those new pinnacles of cybernetic law enforcement, I am still an Enforcer. I have a protocol to uphold. So like this, with the product meeting already underway, with my orders to look but not touch, all I can do is listen. What a stellar last assignment.

I reach for my built-in Audio Amplifier, but this damned suit collar is two inches too tall. In every smooth seem, under every sleek stitch, it's clear this monkey suit wasn't made for a century old, virus-infected, gear-grinding R3 unit like me. This bulky frame of mine is better fitted to the faded blue and gold greatcoats of decades past. Literally. Not this black on black SS uniform by Armani. With this getup, I look like a bad idea.

Finally wrenching the collar down, I flip open my imbedded receiver gills and initiate the amplifier. In a tornado of consonants and vowels, all the conversations in the echoing conference arena whirl into a verbal salad.

"Despite the loss of one shipment, everything is going as scheduled."

"I don't know how Peter is handling this."

"This new revision will put us back in control of the market."

Who is speaking, what is being talked about, I'm not really sure. At the moment, though, none of it seems important. Just a dozen stiffs in suits whispering a dozen hidden agendas. I have no idea how I'm supposed to be able to hear our tell in all this.

A sigh of CO2 slips through my vents. In my 127 years, I've run too many mental simulations to count of coming up to this place, to the top of New Babel, to the top of this supposed paradise. And this is what Sector One turns out to be -- just a bland conference arena filled with bickering old men in suits? I have to say, in my five minutes here, I've already had my fill of heaven.

In the distance, past the skylight shimmering down in the darkness, past those suits under it, I spot my partner, crouched, half in the shadows on the other side of the arena.

Now, he is one of those cybernetic pinnacles. An R17. Smooth chrome, nose-less face –- like a debeaked falcon. A bullet with eyes. So streamlined it makes my dents ache. Even the stupid uniform suits him.

"R17," I say through my internal wireless. "I said stay in the shadows."

He scoots a foot back.

"Captain," R17 radios in his pitch-perfect, user-friendly tone. "I cannot compute how we are to conduct a proper investigation during the meeting."

His factory-fresh impeccability comes in a little too loud and clear for my taste. Dialing the frequency down a notch with a thought, I shrug.

"These are our parameters, Inspector."

"Could you inform me then, Sir, how we are going to maneuver anyone in to saying the tell if we cannot let anyone know we are here?"

"Someone's sure to say it."

"Just who is going to say D-death? Sir."

It's a good question. One I can't answer. All Central Intelligence told me was that with each hack the spy makes, he leaves a digital imprint, a signature. D-Death. The only other thing they knew was that his title is a play on how he apparently can't say it. A psychogenic disorder disabling him from saying that specific word, but more importantly, a sign he's a stutterer. All I know is that they sure knew a whole lot of nothing for a department with the word "intelligence" in the title.

"Inspector, I never said this was a good job. But it is what we were made for. Now start monitoring."

Through the statistical dribble, my attention is drawn to the last words of a hoary, hulking man.

"...and with the Rev182, the Pox will be back under control. And the masses of Sector 5 will eat it up. With this, those middle class drones will be in line once again."

At those final words, he sucks in a massive breath; his metallic body barely fits into his pinstriped suit as it expands. In that brief moment of silence, his bald brow -- old and angled, yet surprisingly wrinkle free -- leers at the others around the table. He is obviously the kingpin of this crowd.

Scanning his mechanical physique rolls his records into my vision. Sector 4. Minister of Marketing. Abaddon Hertz. A pioneer in free world trade laws. Responsible for what New Babel is today -- the corporate-franchise government, the formation of the Core ruling body that sits here, the sector-upon-sector city structure -- the very reason a corporation was able to even make a city. And that body of his, well, there really isn't much organic left -- 67% of it has been replaced with proxies and bio-organic augs. And at the age of 151, he doesn't show any signs of slowing down. I guess some people never want to die.

I clear the data, but before it's gone, something tingles my circuits. With a buzz, the stats freeze. In a pop, so does everything else.

Panicking, I try a dozen routines, but none of my systems respond. I try standing, but realize my body isn't listening either. Only after big red text starts to flash in my vision do I understand what's happening.

"Infected Systems Suppressed. Rerouting Array."

Damn. I had forgotten about that virus-infected part. My anti-virus inhibitors have been scanning my systems for the past two days but still can't find this latest bug. This outdated wetware of mine just can't keep up any more. With a new infection every week, it takes half a way week to find it. Guess it isn't a wonder why this is my last mission.

With a blink, everything is back in focus, everything is back in place. For now at least.

"Only yo-you could have pu-put it so gracefully, mi-minister," someone says.

A stutter.

I lock my eyes on R17 and transmit, "It couldn't be that easy--"

But I don't even have time to finish as both R17 and I pivot to the voice.

On the distant end of that table, the stuttering man raises a goblet and says, "Ch-cheers."

Man, however, might be too liberal a word for him. The rolls of fat sagging from his face are the only flesh to him. A metallic neck, a shaft body, track roller base, flimsy carbon arms -- that's the rest of him.

His bio-scan results roll into my vision. Ciacco Sporco. Minister of Product Control. Sector 4. He received this position 30 years prior. His father was the previous minister. He lost his body to obesity three years later. That explains his appearance. The 12 scathing performance reviews also tell me he is a bit of a lout. A bumbling buffoon. I guess that explains the stutter.

"A simple choice, Sir," R17 broadcasts. "Mission accomplished."

"No. Things are never that cut-and-dry," I signal back.

"There is an 83% probability it is him, Sir."

"I've been doing this job for a short while now, Inspector. That experience says it won't be that simple."

R17 turns his glinting skull toward me. "Sir, with all due respect. My calculations are flawless. I have revision 28473 installed. I have acquired the latest collated data, the newest amendments to all statutes of the law, all compiled analyses, data and precautionary revisions from each model before me. All superior updates. My projections are infallible. Sir."

It's hard to suppress my laugh cycle, but I do.

"Just humor an old bot, Inspector."

"Sir?"

"We will wait for now."

"Sir. It is your prerogative."

All I can do is run my 3.14 smile routine. I can never get used to these newer R-series models and their modified behavioral matrices. Up until the R10's, Enforcers had so much more insight because of our self-developed personality systems and emotion protocol. It allowed better deductions and insight into the criminal mind. But Central Intelligence said it made us difficult to control. They said it made us over-opinionated. So the Core made improved models. Like this R17. Emotion emended, personality expunged, humor extinguished. Superior my metal ass.

A young man rises from mid-table, dripping sweat. "Excuse me, Ministers. May I have the floor?"

The Minister of Marketing grunts. "You don't have to ask, Minister."

I bring up the records on the fledgling administrator. Peter Lester. Minister of Design. Only 30 years old? That's incredibly fresh-faced for anyone at this table. He started the position a week ago. The previous Minister of Design died of a heart attack. Very odd. He was a two time Tribeca Marathon champion. This Lester had been his assistant. An average worker from Sector 5. He was thrown in to the ministerial pool at the last second. Interesting.

The Minister of Design then starts reciting statistics. I know it's of no use to my investigation, though. None of this is. All this data. This whole assignment even.

I then have an out of processor moment -- what am I doing here? I mean, really. I was designed to be a beat cop, to patrol Sector 5. With a 25 year run, tops. Not to be some three-striped captain sitting behind a desk, used only as a nursemaid for corporate dogs a century later. Somehow, I lasted longer than the other Enforcers. Somehow, I've wound up doing nonsense like this.

I shake my head. I've no time for sentiment. I have orders to fulfill.

I scan the rest of the suspects.

The closed-mouth organic on the far end of the table is the Minister of Development, a rep for Sector 15. By his smooth scalp, his clear, unwrinkled skin, his handmade suit, he can only be a pure-flesh \-- those technophobic purists. But his records show that 52% of his body consists of augs and proxies. He is obviously trying to be something he is not.

The man next to him is the Minister of Research. From Sector 3, he truly is a pure-flesh. In his 52 years, he doesn't have a single record of implantation or even nanobot injection. His tightly combed weave, his perfectly trimmed manicures, his evenly etched face -- everything perfected to a shine.

Making a final scan of the room, my sensors go over all the assistants. Two to a minister, standing at their master's back, none of their data is useful. Other than them, there is no one. No one except the three figures sitting against a far wall, in the dark. The silent organics on the ends are CEO's, nameless men, records blocked, faces censored, lives non-existent. The one on the throne in the center, however, I recognize without a scan. He is the Prime Minister of New Babel, Alaric Van Geldgier. Sitting quietly, thoughtfully, his hands are steepled together against his chin, his hair shimmering red, black and yellow in stray rays of light. The withered lower half of his corpse-like body is enclosed in a pellucid portable life support unit. Gusts of frigid fumes spew out of its grilled vents. All three of these men are beyond my reach in law. But being the masters of New Babel, it doesn't matter if any of them were spies. All of this, all of us, is their property anyway.

Pivoting back to the table, I soak in the congregation in an occultic Last Supper portrait. One of these men is the spy. One of these men is Judas among Judas'. I just have to figure out who. And get him to say our tell.

Unfortunately, before I can even rise to my feet, before I can even initiate step one of my plan -- clank -- everything goes black.

INTERNAL ERROR

In the reflection of the thick lift windows, my nicked metal mug blinks back.

What's happening?

My mouth moves. "We've been granted the use of immediate lethal force, Inspector."

These words are familar. But while I'm saying them, I'm not choosing them.

"Sir?" R17 says from the other side of the Sector Lift.

The Sector Lift? The same one we took before we got to the product meeting. Then I figure it out -- this happened 53 minutes ago. This is a memory.

"Standard investigative protocol," my mouth says. "The longer the spy is present, the more vital information will be vulnerable. So in other words, we've been given orders to shoot first and ask questions later."

R17's face plates reconfigure in surprise. "And these measures are necessary for something as trivial as preventing someone from getting a peek at New Babel's fall lineup?"

"Welcome to the world of corporate espionage, Inspector."

Looking at myself like this, it's hard not to wonder when I became so perfunctory.

"Our main obstacle is," I say, "we have no idea when the meeting is being held."

"Sir?"

My CO2 buildup vents. "To make an understatement, the ministers of New Babel have been little help to our investigation. They think all is below them -- the Pox outbreak, the recent protests, even us. They don't realize that the very reason they don't need physical protection on the upper sectors is because we do all that work down here. But this time, someone got through. This spy, this D-death. Somehow he is posing as one of them. But they don't seem to care. They didn't respond when we told them this spy is from an activist group, probably from one of these very protest groups. They didn't even reply when we told them that we believe he is out to broadcast their secrets. They care only about their meetings. Their next quarter."

"Then why are we doing this, Sir?"

"It is our protocol, Inspector. To Serve and Obey. So we have to do something. One thing you will learn, Inspector -- no matter how outlandish the order, we must follow it."

Did I really say that?

"Unfortunately," I continue, "it won't be that easy. We can't go parading ourselves around up there. Politicians and the law don't mix well. Especially these upper level kind. Under normal circumstances Enforcers aren't allowed on the upper sections. No one from the lower levels are."

"I am confident there will be no issues that we cannot surmount, Sir."

I pause as my eyebrow flips up.

"You are, are you?"

"Yes, Sir. With your experience and my programming, I am positive there will be little issue. We will be swift. We will be severe. We will send a message, Sir."

It's strange seeing this all again, through passive eyes. Through them, I realize so much I didn't before. For one, this is probably the Inspector's first mission. The rigidity, the single processor thinking, the naivety \-- he's just like I was on mine. 113 years ago.

The lift suddenly winks dark. Above us, the roots of Sector 1 intertwine with the horizon, weaving a metal ceiling to the skies of Sector 2. We slip into it, into complete darkness, into a hollow silence.

The lift lights blink on and my mouth gives a final command. "Remember, just follow my lead, Inspector. Don't take any action without consulting me." Then glancing out the window, I say, "We're here."

Gliding to a stop, the lift hisses into its dock and the doors whisk open. A plume of frigged air curls in.

In the distance, at the end of the empty oval conference arena, under a shimmering skylight, is a conference table surrounded by suits.

My head shakes. "You've got to be kidding."

"Sir?" R17 asks.

"This is the product meeting. It has already begun."

INTERNAL ERROR

Crack.

Static.

Darkness.

Then the big red text begins. INFECTED MEMORIES SUPPRESSED. REROUTING ARRAY.

In a pop of color, I'm back. Back in the now. Back to the conference arena.

I shake my head and I have control once again.

Damn virus. 2.3 seconds wasted. Guard compromised. Focus broken.

Unfortunately, virus or not, I have a duty to uphold. And right now, I have to get all of these organics to say the tell.

The Minister of Design slips into his seat and the room fills with silence. In the lull, my Audio Amplifier picks up a dozen muffled commands. One phrase catches my attention -- "Can you give me a copy of the 555w?"

Turning toward the source, I spot one of the Minister of Finance's twiggy assistants nod to the other and say, "OK, I'll go get it."

That's when I get an idea.

"R17," I transmit, "keep monitoring the ministers."

"Sir?"

I look at him in the shadows and say, "I'll be right back," and slink away.

In the distance, the assistant scurries into the shadows and I creep after. On the edge of the arena, the bald gofer exits through an arched doorway. I follow without a sound.

Stepping into a spherical utility center, I slip up to the assistant as he pushes through chin-high stacks of a Mailable Projected Mainframe Interface. From the tactile sea of data, he slips out a 555w form.

"Excuse me," I say, extra loud.

His fingers jitter as he spins around.

"Who are you?" he says, eyes big, hands barely wrapped around the form.

"I am Captain 0032 of New Babel City Police, Internal Review, Sub-branch 3."

He pulls a shaking foot back. "How on earth did you get up here?"

"Upon request."

"Soon they'll be letting organ dealers and who knows what else up here if Enforcers can get through."

"Here is my clearance, citizen," I say as I fish out a clear datapad from a pocket and hold it up. Suspicion ripples his temple as he scans over the pad.

"OK. So..."

"Before we begin, citizen, I must perform a test." On my data pad, I clear my orders from the screen and bring up new text.

"Please read this word," I say.

He cranks a scowl at me. "Is this a joke?"

"Most certainly not."

Spittle flies as he scoffs. "Why should I--"

"Just say the word," I say ten decibels louder.

"Fine! Death!"

I slide the pad into a pocket and snap the button flap shut. "Thank you. It appears that you are not who we are looking for."

"You are crazy," he says, face red, veins bulging.

"Now. I need your assistance."

He shakes that tomato head of his. "You must be malfunctioning."

"It is of the utmost importance, citizen."

"For what?"

"I'm not at liberty to say. But I will tell you this. It is necessary to uphold the integrity of this meeting."

"There's no way I'm going to assist an Enforcer."

"Citizen, it is--"

"No. I could lose my job just for talking to you." He continues to wag his head. He continues to resist. But I have been through this a thousand times. And I know what will work on a sheltered citizen like this.

"That may be so, citizen. But you could also be summoned for questioning down on Sector 5."

As if the words were physically jabbing him, he rears back, straight and stiff.

"But since we are overbooked with Pox infected crims, it's more likely you'll be put in a holding cell on Sector 7."

His skin turns a noticeable shade of pale.

"You can't touch me. I'm--"

"Obstructing an investigation. A federal offense. Questioning for such an offense has been known to last for the entire legal limit of detainment regulations."

He pinches his lips into a white seam and squirms. "A month?"

He's about ready to crack.

"Yes. But don't worry. The cells on Sector 7 are very clean. They are washed thoroughly after an inmate murder-kill."

I spot a gulp get caught in his throat.

"And those happen daily," I continue, "so the cells are very clean."

His head looks like a cooked sausage ready to burst.

"Oh," I add. "But that's not to say that will happen to you. Inmate murder-kills only happen to, oh, one in three. So--"

"OK. OK." His eyes look like badly boiled eggs. Sweat and tears cover almost every inch of cringing face. He is hooked. "What do you want?"

"All I need is for you to get members of the committee to say a single word."

"What?"

"Death," a voice says.

We both freeze.

I turn. R17 is behind me.

"Why have you left your post, Inspector?" I ask.

"Sir, you were not responding to messaging."

I spin my logs through my vision. Damn. There they are. Two audio transmissions, undelivered, on the list waiting for the anti-virus inhibitor scan. Blasted wetware. I fix it so that won't happen again.

"Sorry, Inspector," I say, focusing back on R17. "What is it?"

"Something is taking place that I think you should observe."

"Understood." I turn to the assistant. "Now, do you understand?"

I lean in and flip my face plates to an arrangement 32 scowl.

He inches back. "How am I supposed to get people to say that?"

I lean closer. "It doesn't matter. Just get as many people as possible to say it. It is imperative to the safety of this meeting. And we will be listening. Understood?"

He nods a clenched face. It's good enough.

I exit the room after R17.

"That is your strategy, Sir?" R17 says.

"Yes. It is. Your tone tells me you have a problem with that, Inspector."

I can see the controlled demeanor of R17 crumbling; his streamlined stance is hunched and tilted. That corrupted memory has made it so clear now. Only someone whose paint is so fresh could have difficulty thinking outside of proper tactics, only someone who hasn't been pushed around for decades.

"Sir, no, Sir. I just cannot compute why I am here, Sir, if everything is accomplished without me."

That's when I decide to let him know the truth.

"R17, the real reason you were summoned to this investigation is to..." For a second, I can't say it. For a second, it's too humiliating to admit. Then it slips out. "...replace me."

"Sir?"

"This is my final mission. After a hundred and twenty seven years of service, tomorrow I'm being commissioned for retirement."

"Retirement?"

For a second, I can't say anything. For a second, I can't even get past the word. Retirement, the only thing in this world that can cripple all -- men, machines and monarchs.

"Yes, Inspector."

R17 springs back as stiff as a circuit board. His face configures rigid and proper.

"It is an honor to fill such a role, Sir. It is an honor to accompany you on your last active duty."

Last active duty? Just hearing the words make my circuits run hot. An Enforcer isn't meant to go out this way. An Enforcer isn't meant to last this long. We are supposed to go down guns blazing, a sacrifice for justice, a true hero. Protecting the people by fulfilling our damned primary protocol: Serve, obey –- your purpose. But here I stand. Alive. Unfulfilled. A century old. I guess it isn't so easy to find that sparkling ray of purity to die for when the world is so filled with gray.

"Thank you, Inspector."

We step back into our shield of darkness and I ask, "What was it you wanted me to observe, Inspector?"

"There." He angles a chrome finger towards the table.

An argument is underway. On one end of the table the Minister of Design looks like a whipped dog. On the other, the Minister of Marketing is howling, his face so red and veined, it looks like it is about to pop off.

"--we aren't making products out of kindness or for nostalgia, Minister. This is business. This is government. This is money."

The Minister of Marketing plops into his chair with a harrumph. The room turns taciturn. The argument is over.

"Sir," R17 says. "We have missed it."

The Minister of Design slips into his seat without a sound, his face flushed, his demeanor beaten.

R17 continues. "The Minister of Design started this. Asking questions. Very naive ones. Almost as if attempting to get the other ministers to explain their process. It's suspicious, Sir."

"Just what a spy would do," I say. "Gathering evidence."

"There is a high probability it is him, Sir."

"You could be right, Inspector."

In the hush, as assistants shuffle data pads, our mole slinks back into place.

"Now we'll see if he'll really go through with it," I whisper.

The assistant slumps, contemptuous wrinkles ridging his brow. For a moment, he stands muted and mutinous. For a moment, I'm sure he won't do it.

Then his eyes spot me in the shadows. I shake my head. His eyes squint. I shake my head again.

He gets the message. A sigh seeps through his clamped lips and he turns to the assistant next to him.

"Hey, Phil," he starts.

"Oh, hey, Tom. Did you get that 555w?"

"In a minute. Got a quick question."

"Sure."

"What's this word scribbled in this letter?" He pulls a data pad from a shirt pocket and shows him. "I can't quite make it out."

"Oh. Hmm. Looks kind of like death."

"Ah, that's it. Thanks."

"Sure. Now, that 555w."

R17 turns to me. "It appears you were right, Sir."

"I chose the right man," I say and run the 3.14 smile routine. It had been decades since I actually ran that routine twice in a single day. "This might be easier than I thought."

That's when I realize I spoke too soon.

The mole flashes his eyes back at me. In them, the sparkles say, "There! I did it. Satisfied?"

I shake my head, eyes focused. My sparkle says, "You aren't done yet."

For a moment, silence.

For a moment, he is a statue.

For a moment, he isn't going to do it.

The Minister of Design then turns toward him.

"Tom," he says.

"Yes?" says the mole.

"Can you give me the forecast reports on the Rev182?"

"Oh, sure."

Now is the deciding moment. Now is his chance. Now!

His hand reaches for the data pad. His fingers grace the edge. Slide. Slide. Stop. In a shiver, they dart to another stack and give them to the minister.

"Thanks," the minister says.

"Sure."

Our mole slips behind the minister's throne. The shadows wash over him. He thinks he is invisible. My eyes, however, see him all too clear.

Glaring at me, he notices the frown configured on my face. He sways his head, no. My forehead furrows further. He snaps his eyes shut. Lines fan from the clenches.

He's stopped! He's not going to do it. Now I--

Through his pinched lips a sigh slips out. He then leans in towards the minister.

"Sir?" he says.

The Minister of Design turns. "Yes?"

"Could you tell me what is written here?" He grasps the data pad and hands it to the minister. "I can't quite make it out."

The minister squints at the pad. "Hmm. I can't tell."

"I think that's a D there. And maybe an E next."

"Oh, um--" His compressed lips release and head jerks back. He's figured it out.

But nothing happens. He doesn't say anything. He just turns to his assistant in silence.

"He won't say it," I mutter.

The minister hands back the pad. "This really isn't the place for jokes, Tom. I really need to be focused on this meeting."

"It's not--" He clasps the datapad. "Yes, sir."

I turn to R17.

"He was avoiding saying it," he says. "It appeared as if he knew what it said."

"Maybe."

"The probability it is him is increasing, Sir."

"He is suspicious."

"Sir, we must act. If we are to wait on this assistant to go to each person, we will not succeed in this mission, Sir."

And like that, I make a decision.

"You are right." I swivel back toward the ministers. "Keep monitoring our mole."

"Me?"

"I'm going to focus on the Minister of Design."

"But, Sir--"

"I don't trust him," I say and march silently into the shadows.

Crouching, I edge closer to the table. Creeping, I step silent in the dark. As I do, the Minister of Research glides out of his chair and takes a graceful pose.

"The forecasted sales of Rev182 will return our market share to number one. Its redesign of the Pox vaccine is unparalleled. It has a 42% cure rate, that's an 11% increase over the current vaccine. A new model won't be needed for at least three quarters, enough time for every one of those Sector 5 minions to buy a pack."

Behind my shield of shadows, I slink closer. Closer. Almost there. Stop. The Minister of Design's back is a few feet ahead, his thrumming heart fills my ears.

In his thick, wheeled throne, he shifts. In this moment of silence, he twists, he fidgets, he squirms.

I flip on my thermal-optics and the world turns 8-bit blue. In a blaze of crimson and gold, the minister is burning up. His assistants, however, are as cool and orange as a setting sun. I scan across the room and everyone is just as tepid, some even cerulean because of their augs. The only one whose temperature is too high is this Minister of Design, and the man at the end of the table, the Minister of Development.

The Minister of Development. The false pure-flesh. Hmm. He's been suspiciously quiet the whole meeting. I cannot access memories of him saying a single word actually. I figure him a secretive man, however. Even without the thermals I can see that. But his thermals burn almost as red as the Minister of Design. His heart rate, however, isn't elevated. His body systems aren't overactive. But this Minister of Design, everything is working overtime.

"Now, now," the Minister of Marketing says, standing. "Too great a leap and we will lose money. The next incarnation is always where we make our profits."

"Oh, I've added that to the design," says the Minister of Research. "We are already working on revisions 183 and 184 of the vaccine. Each revision will add an 11% increase to the cure rate, although we have already developed a model with a 75% rate."

"Perfect."

Through the minister's gloated chuckles, my sensors pick up whispered words near the porkish Minister of Product Control. I turn.

A curvacious assistant of abundant femininity drapes a delicate hand on the minister. "Ciacco, the plans are set."

"G-Good. He doesn't know?" he whispers back.

"Of course not." She slips a seductive smile.

"As s-soon as this m-meeting is over, we'll be free, Circe."

"We are almost there." She brushes his metallic collar with a lingering finger.

A bellow shatters the whispers and a single word draws me back to the laughing Minister of Marketing. "To the death of our competition, and the rebirth of the middle class!"

Well, one thing is for sure. It isn't the Minister of Marketing, even though he has the blackened heart of a crook. Knowing his record though, he probably had that amputated long ago. At the same time, the Minister of Product Control is definitely up to something. The slob oozes an aura of deceit, as if everything he does is deviant in some way. But I don't have time to track him unless the nasty thing he is doing is the one I am trying to stop.

There are just too many crooks in this caustic broth.

The ministers laugh in unison as if some demonic choral club -- all except the Minister of Finance. He just doesn't fit in. In this den of thieves his morals stick out. An odd choice if a spy. A middle class, Sector 5 marshmallow, naive to what is happening. But each question, each statement, says somehow the other ministers are wrong. Says it's not the way he would do it. Like a man with morals. Like an activist.

An activist?

It's him.

It has to be.

Before I can even finish my thought, however, the Minister of Design shoots up to his feet. Before I can even process what to do, he's already saying, "I'm sorry to keep interrupting, but I'm just having a hard time understanding the exact reasoning behind the limit to the cure rate. This feels... well... can you explain it further?"

He's trying to get them to point out details. Trying to document their procedures. I have to take him down. Now.

Shifting so smooth even my hydraulics can't squeak, I crouch forward.

Step. I must stop him.

Step. But I can't reveal my presence until I have him.

Step. Just a few more inches. Just a few more--

The Minister of Marketing lumbers to his feet, grumbling. "Really?"

He pulls back, as if readying for a speech. He is preparing to spill it all.

I have to do it now, before he says anything important. Forget cover. I have to take a chance.

But as I rise, as I get ready for the pounce, the Minister of Marketing heaves out a sigh and looks straight at me. "Take that R3."

I freeze.

He angles a fat finger at me.

Crap.

Then, in perfect anti-climactic timing, the world pops. Everything turns black.

INTERNAL ERROR

This mission will be the end of me. In more ways than one.

The thoughts ring in my head for a moment. Then I realize that I'm not even thinking them. I'm in a memory again. Even farther back. Damn.

Our whirring patrol cruiser sits down with a hiss. After a dozen dial-twists, button-pushes and switch-flips, R17 raises his door and steps out.

My eyes close. My thoughts stop. I am ready for my last mission. I am ready for retirement.

My door slips open. Before my eyes can focus, the stench and noise flood in. The masses. The shrieking people. Sector 5. My home.

There are hundreds of organics. 931 to be precise. All screaming, all foul. The Sector Lift exchange we are entering makes the crowd look bigger than it really is. Two crumbling scrapers box us in on either side, squishing this mob into a five meter alley.

Is this what all those old men are squabbling over? Is this what I'm actually protecting? Or, instead, am I keeping it in place?

In the organics' hands are bent signs. Some handmade. Some flashing text. Some read: THE POX IS KILLING US. Others: WE NEED MEDICINE THAT WORKS. A final big broken sign reads: HALF OF US HERE WILL DIE IN A WEEK.

By my scans, that sign is correct. 86% of these citizens have the Pox. And by the look of their scabbed, blistered skin, their puss-filled stank, many won't last the day.

Begs for help, tearing eyes -- the peoples' pleas wash over me. I can't watch them. I can't care. My duty is elsewhere. I have to look to the pavement.

Through these memories, through these eyes, I can now see that despite my century of service, my century's worth of knowledge, I am just as much a pawn as those fresh off the line. Actually, I'm worse. I was actually there when when this city was a paradise, when peoples' faces never cried this way, when expressions were never this foul. But despite my service, paradise still falls. Why?

R17 shoves a path open before me. At the end of the alley are four massive tubes the size of obelisks. Each stretches far into the sky. Each leads to the upper sectors, the heavens. Each, these people will never be able to ride.

We march to the one furthest away, the one the entire crowd is screaming at, the one with a massive "1" beveled into it.

Practically rolling over two screaming protestors, R17 says through the wireless, "Someone should really incarcerate these organics."

"For doing what, Inspector?" I transmit back. "Protesting how crap things have become? For complaining about how fed up they are of being boxed in and pushed around?"

"Sir, 43% are out of sector. Nothing excuses their presence here."

"I wouldn't say nothing, Inspector. Answers are not always so black and white."

R17 shakes that silver skull. "The answer is always simple, Sir. More rigid laws, stricter adherence -- that's the only way to bring order. Then there would be nothing to complain about. Then there would be no terrorists like these."

"Terrorists, Inspector? What terrorists? These are protestors. Activists at worst, but not terrorists by any stretch. These organics are just ordinary citizens."

He stops and turns toward me. "These?" he says.

I nod. "Smack dab in the middle of the middle class. The good eggs."

R17 flips up an eyebrow.

"But I guess we must still protect the heavens from even the good ones, right?" and I point to a squad of blaster-proof, thought-repellent, artillery-totting triggermen slouched in a small black and white. With batons and blasters, a dozen others keep the crowd behind barriers, a meter away from the pearly sector lift.

"Segregation. Keep them in their cage. You're stricter adherence, Inspector." Passing R17, I finish, "To the heavens then..."

We step into the sector lift and into my last mission. My last action. The only thing left beyond: deactivation, death -- retirement.

INTERNAL ERROR

Pop.

Darkness.

Static.

INFECTED MEMORIES SUPPRESSED. REROUTING ARRAY.

Spark. I'm back in the conference arena. Back and the Minister of Marketing is scowling right at me.

"Come here," he says, waving an impatient palm.

It takes me a whole second to process what just happened. By then, all eyes are on me.

"Sir?" I answer.

"Now!"

Stiff and vulnerable, I step into the light. The assistants and ministers gasp.

Through whispers, someone cries, "What's an Enforcer doing here?"

The Minister of Marketing trundles over to me. He's even bigger, more intimidating, up close.

In a hurried croak, I say, "Sir, I must warn--"

"Silence, bot." He pats me on the head like a dog, and turns to the table. "This is an R3. An early 2101 model. Early Sentient Class. These were retired long ago. The reason? Because of inefficiencies? No, this one remaining in service this long disproves that. It's simply to make room for the new model."

He raises that thick finger toward R17. "Come here."

Heads whip back, jaws loosen and fall, gasps once again steal the breaths of the ministers.

Surprise reconfigures the plates on R17's face. In an awkward oscillation, he points towards himself.

"Why is it that I have to repeat myself around these drones?" the minister asks.

R17 lifts a rattled foot and steps into the light. The minister continues.

"This R17 is technically better in every way: looks, efficiency, thought processing. But that's not the reason we see them everywhere. The only reason we see R17's everywhere and not R3's is because we don't give the customer a choice. With each upgrade we bill the older models as obsolete, no longer useful. The manufacturer then no longer makes or supports them to reinforce their disuse. So everyone throws away their old model for the exact same thing, just slightly nicer. In truth, both fill the same needs, roles, can do the same things. The only difference is each newer model appeals to a larger audience. It's the only way our system can continue. If we only target the tiny market that established the product, we cannot retain our power. We cannot remain the Core Firm. Even if we own everything from News-Speak to City Air, we won't hold on to it if we don't appear to make better products. So it's incorporated into the design -- the old products are only setups to make money off of the next model. Simple theory. You should have learned this high school, Minister."

The Minister of Design is pale. Big drops dapple his brow. He bows and says, "Thank you for the clarification," and sits.

I stand, shell-shocked. Hollow. The minister's words hurt more than any plasma pistol, more than any concussion rifle, more than any wound I have ever experienced. I am completely obliterated.

I only serve.

I only obey.

I am only a product.

Reality turns off. My thoughts trickle, spill, then flood.

The reason this is my last mission isn't because I can't keep up. It is because they don't want me to. Obedience to service, my only purpose.

Despite my presence and a few uneasy glances my way, the meeting continues. Off to the side of the room, Alderic stands, a terrible creak emanating from his jointed cage. Rasping and gurgling, he speaks, "Now that everything is in order, let us vote on putting Rev182 into production."

I have failed. The meeting is over. My last mission -- shame. The Minister of Marketing has confirmed what I have felt for decades –- there is no point to me any more, to my existence. It is time to be shut down. Castrated and useless. Retirement -- the reward of a coward.

"The I's have it," Alaric finishes. In a shuffle of feet, everyone sits. Alaric continues, "Rev182 will be a revival for New Babel. This will bring us back our control."

A clatter of congratulations echoes through the chamber as the ministers adjourn. I, however, sway in a rubber trance. None of this matters.

The Minister of Product Control rises on his tracks and springs. "Yes! D-death to those that s-stand in our way."

Reality yanks me out of my self-pity. I pivot toward the minister.

It can't be.

Then, in a blinding flash, his face begins to glow. An eye droops. A nostril flares. It all then bursts in a explosion of light and blood. Split, splat, bits of bubbling flesh dribble down my threads of black.

His head is gone. Disappeared. The neck is still smoldering. Behind him, R17's plasma pistol is raised, smoke drifting from the muzzle. All eyes flick toward him. The room turns silent as stone.

"What are you doing?" the Minister of Marketing growls.

"He is the spy," R17 says. "A terrorist, Sir!"

I sprint over to R17.

"That fool was my nephew," the Minister of Marketing cries.

R17 tilts his eyes towards me. "I overheard him talking to his assistant about a conspiratorial meeting and then he said--"

The female assistant jumps up. "We are lovers you fool!"

She slaps him across the face, doing more damage to her hand than to R17.

The Minister of Marketing storms over.

"That little whelp didn't have the balls or intelligence to be a spy."

I pull R17 aside. "I ordered you not to do anything before consulting me."

"Sir, he said the tell. We had no time. It--"

"It was against my orders, Inspector!"

"But, Sir, I did all the processing. I used all my protocols. My programming is superior. This should be the correct course of action."

"Fool."

The Minister of Marketing cackles. "See, proof that upgrades are merely an illusion." He about-faces and marches away triumphant. "You will be held responsible for this, of course."

Normally I would punctuate his sentence with a yes. But not this time. I don't answer. I can't. Beneath my steely calm, I can hardly control the anger brewing.

The Minister of Design, still a few meters away, slinks over to me.

"A spy? Here?" He quivers.

In my thermal-optics, he burns red. He is hotter than before. His heart hammers faster. He is caught. Red-handed. It has to be him.

This is my chance. My last act, not as a fool, but as an Enforcer. Protecting the people. The ones I was designed for. Not for the slime in this room. Not because they tell me to. But for those poor fools in the lift exchange. For those I could never help. For me.

I reach out, ready to clamp down on him. My hand is but inches away. Then chaos breaks out.

The assistants scatter. Some ministers scream. All scurry like rats.

Whipping around, I find the Minister of Development lying on the marble floor.

"What happened?" I ask.

"He collapsed," his assistant says between big breaths.

"Did the spy do this?" someone gasps.

Through the thermal-optics, the Minister of Development's temperature flames at 110 F. I thought he had been hiding something, but that is too high for concealing a secret. Scanning deeper, I notice his vitals are weak. Dying. He doesn't have much longer. Then I find it.

He had been hiding something.

"He has the Pox," I mutter.

The handful left around me grow silent. In unison they take a step back.

More in anger than in worry, the Minister of Marketing asks, "How is that possible?"

But no one is listening. No one is thinking. Anarchy reigns.

Small brick-sized bots squeak and spin toward the Minister of Development as those left flee. The CEO's, however, remain in their chairs, calm and collected, gargoyles to the chaos. I can almost swear that through the darkness Alaric is smiling.

"He's dead," someone cries, leaning over the minister's body.

"How can the Pox be here?" the Minister of Design asks.

I turn back toward him. "You can drop the act. I know you are behind this. I can imagine the spread of the Pox here was somehow your doing too. You will be held responsible for all of this." I reach into a pocket for the cuffs. "Including the minister's d-death."

I pause.

What was that?

R17 tilts his head and says, "Sir?"

"That virus is acting up again."

The Minister of Design steps back. Fear fills his eyes. He runs.

In the chaos, no one notices. In the chaos, I don't care.

I don't know what to do. I don't know what this means. All I do know is that this is going to be bad.

A report pops into my vision. A warning. My anti-virus scan has finished. In hyper-red, the results read: TROJAN VIRUS DETECTED. TRANSMITTING SIGNAL LOCATED. DESTINATION: SECTOR 5.

Wait.

It's me.

I am the spy.

My mouth hardly opens when I say, "I've been hacked."

Another message appears: TRANSMISSION OF MEMORY BANKS COMMENCING.

"They're transferring my memories," I say. "To find out what happened here today." I stop. "That's why my memories were loading. That's why each one was further back." It hits me. "They are taking them all. Everything in my whole life!"

R17 steps up. "What?"

"This virus...it's not a virus. I was hacked by D-death."

A button is unsnapped. R17 raises his pistol at me.

"Sir, you've been compromised."

A silence stands between us. Is this how I end? Used by everyone but myself? A pawn in everyone's game but by own?

The barrel is wide this close to my skull. If I had sweat glands, they'd be working overtime.

He has to pull the trigger.

I gave him the orders.

There is no way out.

The answer then comes to me. It is so simple. It is the only choice. It is time to end like an Enforcer.

Before R17 realizes, I am running in the opposite direction. Before I've completely processed my thought, I am halfway across the chamber.

A flash of plasma buzzes past me. It won't be long until R17's pistol pops another.

Pulling over one of the scattered chairs, I land on the obsidian floor.

"What are you doing?" R17 cries, crouching behind the Minister of Marketing's throne.

"Something I should have done nearly half a century ago. I am choosing to end on my terms."

"Like this? A traitor?"

I scoff. "Traitor? To what? This chaos? We are meant to prevent it. Whoever is stealing this information, these activists, they shall know what these leaders truly think of them, of us all, we rusty pawns."

"What about your duty? To serve and obey. This is that purpose, Captain."

"Their purpose! I've lasted this long because I only obeyed that purpose. I've been unable to prevent New Babel's fall because I've never done anything else. I enabled its corruption. Now is time to serve something greater."

"Sir. I cannot let you do this," he says and a blue bolt streaks past me.

"As you shouldn't."

Big red caps then flash in my vision: UPLOAD COMPLETE IN 10...

Just a little longer. That's all I need.

Like a prisoner unleashed, I dash for the door far across the empty chamber, then--

Balled in a knot of metal, R17 rolls into the middle of my path.

9

Lunging forward, I attack. Fist forward, head down, momentum in the thrust.

Unfortunately, R17 is unrolling, whipping out his pistol. He fires.

8

In mid-air, the blast hits me in the chest. It tingles as it swells through me. Melting through my uniform, the plasma radiates through the interwoven fibers of my body, sintering them with a hint of burnt plastic. Luckily, my Sinex casing absorbs most of the blast, redirecting the energy.

In that fraction of a millisecond, I get an idea. I'll only be able to do it once, it'll leave my skin as brittle as a bone, but I only need a few more seconds.

I reroute all that surplus energy through my skin into my fist as I hammer it down on the back of R17's neck.

7

The spray of electricity arcs from the contact and loosens R17 from his protected posture. He collapses to the floor as I take off again.

6

The door is only a few feet away. Somehow, this seems to be working.

5

A burst of pain stops me. I halt. I look down.

A hole burns through my stomach. Entrails of wire, veins of oil, shattered fragments of casing are splattered on the ground before me.

4

I fall to the ground.

R17 trots up to me, his pistol still smoking.

"I am sorry, Sir," he says.

"No, you had to. Just as I had to do this."

"Why, Sir?"

3

"The people must see this. See what we have become. Those writhing masses, that unhappy crowd on Sector 5, they will. Through my memories, through all these decades of thoughts, they can."

R17 slowly raises the gun.

2

"Remember today," I say. "All this is more important than any upgrade. Experience is what makes you superior, Inspector. All of what happened today will be more of who you are than the way you were built."

He stares at me, eyes blank.

1

"You know what must be done," I say.

I look down the barrel.

TRANSMISSION COMPLETE.

"I finally have served my purpose."

His finger tugs the trigger.

A 3.14 smile.

END INTERCEPTED TRANSMISSION OF D-DEATH TROJAN

With R3's memories, the growing numbers of unhappy would see why they were, infact, in misery. Learning the real reason why so many weren't getting better from the Pox would enrage them even more. But it was what this hacker, this D-death, would do next that would truly set the citizens free.

-NH

_Thank you for reading The Citizens. I hope you enjoyed it. Now that you're finished, please consider writing a review at:_

_http://www.amazon.com/dp/B00K6WUA3O_

_Reviews are one of the best ways readers discover great books. I would truly appreciate it._

OTHER EPISODES OF THE CITIZENS OF OBLIVION:

In Dreams – Out Now

Cecilia Abandonato has come to the 'City of Paradise' to fulfill a dream - to start a life free of the past. Offered a job as a Rig Driver, Cecilia is given riches and opportunities she never could have imagined. It isn't long, however, before Cecilia sees a city very different from the one in her dream. She sees a city on the verge of a terrible plague. She sees a 'utopia' filled with unrest. She sees that there is only one way to achieve what she wants. She must face her past.

Sympathy for the Devil – Out Now

Lex Schwefelholz, a once prominent doctor is now an Organ Dealer on the black market. His dream to return to the upper levels seems almost lost until he is finally given the chance to remove his Undesirable status and return to his rightful sector. Unfortunately, he must first deal with the loose ends of his current life: underworld rivalries, an invading terrorist group, and an outbreak of never-before-seen creatures in the lower levels. All in a day's work for one trying to redeem himself.

Scattered to the Wind – Out Now

In the vast barren wastes of the outside world, Max O'Doran flees New Babel for his life. He flees because of the secret he found in the city. Amid his escape, he comes upon a makeshift bar and its tender, Shane. There Shane teaches him the only way he can truly escape the dread patrols after him. But is Max willing to listen? Or will he be simply one more life scattered to the wind?

A Reality of Fiction – Nov 3, 2015

Morpheus Black, an elite hacker, wakes up from dreaming the latest episode of Fugitive -- a show that follows the thought recordings of an escaping outlaw -- to find that, Tom Feare, his partner in crime, has committed suicide. Unbelieving, Morpheus investigates his friend's death and finds something unbelievable, something that drops him into the middle of a conspiracy. Morpheus' only hope, his only chance of escape, is to find out what really happened to his friend.

A Seed of Doubt – Dec 1, 2015

All the pieces of the Easter Square Incident come together with the transformation of a single woman, Renee Delacroix, a timid middle class desk-jockey. Bored with her humdrum life, Renee decides to spice things up by buying a rare flower. It doesn't take long, however, before she has a little too much excitement in her life and she is charged with a ridiculous crime, forced into an underground movement, and convinced into becoming a key figure in the Easter Square Incident. All because of a little flower.

More information about each book and the entire series is available at citizensofoblivion.com.

The next exciting chapter in the Citizens of Oblivion is coming Nov 3, 2014:

A Reality of Fiction

Turn the page for a special preview

A Reality of Fiction

by

Darryl Knickrehm

EPISODE 1

7.29.2228

Wake up!

I resist the urge, keep those eyelids shut. Reality fades out. I go back to sleep.

The void, the vast nothing -- the transfer between worlds. Consciousness slips away, seeps into black. It gives way completely and subconscious leaks in.

Then the lucidity starts.

Blip. Pop. Hues and lights strobe through the nothing. Swirl. Flare. They blend with the black to form storms of color, to mold shapeless shadows. Flash. They are gone. Darkness once again.

Snap. The ether bursts. Colors explode. Shapes form. The world begins.

For a moment, everything is blurry. Maybe a wall over there. That could be a lamp post here. Wherever this is, it is definitely night.

Then I spot something. A dark figure, looming, skulking in this damp alley before me.

For a moment, I think I've jumped into a nightmare. This thing before me is shaped like a demon.

That's when things begin to focus. The world materializes, my eyes adjust, and with a final blink, the world fully forms. The transfer is complete.

I can fully see that thing in front of me now, see it all too clear. It is a cracked granite gargoyle. A statue on a wall. A shattered, mildewy wall to be exact. Twisted rebar. Crumbling honeycombed cement. Ashen blotches of mold. Yup, this is the alley I was just in. This is no nightmare.

Through a soft breeze, a disembodied voice echoes. "Welcome to Fugitive, the most embarked Lucid Dream three years running. Thanks to dreamers like you." The announcement deepens into a well-rehearsed bellow. "We find a criminal, track his actions, and when the law gets him, we turn his recorded flight over to you. The only reality show that lets you live a thug's life without actually being one. Brought to you by News-Speak Media Corp -- your source of truth."

Yeah, yeah, yeah. Fast forward. Let's get to the show.

"You've leapt into Fugitive 3751. What's happened so far--"

Skip, skip!

The voice fizzles into the breeze.

Great. Now we can get back to the action.

But no. Nothing is moving. These eyes, they just gawk at the statue. The world, it just stays stationary. For a second, I wonder if the dream is frozen. For a second, I wonder if there's a glitch--

Crack. A bolt of blue flame buzzes past the gargoyle head. The air burns with the stench of electric ash.

Then I get it, then I figure out what's going on -- this bob I'm in is hiding.

Before I can even get out another thought, my feet are pushing me up; my eyes are peeping over the cracked horns of the statue. In the distance, a leather-clad, leathery thug is pointing a leather-bound Smith and Wesson at me. An MP11P rifle if that notch on the side is real.

Crack. Plasma leaves the barrel. Luckily, this bob's got fast reflexes. Luckily, he's already ducked. That doesn't take away from how hot that beam of burning plasma is. It doesn't take away the sting of plasma-singed skin.

My lips twitch and practically spit out the words, "Shit!"

Wake up!

The urge swells through me again. The thing is, I'm too much part of the moment, I'm too in the now to care.

My eyes flick down. In my slicked palm is a crunked-up G3P Glock. Thing is, the barrel jacket is sagging. Probably melted by one of those plasma blasts before I got here. Fat lot of good that wad of steel's going to do me.

This bob I'm in doesn't know it though. My finger tugs at the trigger. It won't budge. In a jerk, the hand tosses the Glock to the pavement.

Eyes flick to my other hand. In it is a rusted shiv-like thing, looking like a pen swelling with green slime. It can only be a makeshift injector. Before I can be sure though, the hand is jamming the needle end into the other arm.

Blistered grace, vibrating warmth, heart-thumping acuity -- a mix of all the senses and one hell of a boost. Whatever you want to call it, a wave of pins and needles washes through every nerve in my body. This body isn't my own, but I feel it all. And I've never felt so alive!

Clenched calves spring me up. Tensed fingers grapple crumbling wall. My eyes shoot to the thug as I hop into the open. Every muscle, every nerve is awake, ready and hyper-stimulated.

The thug's eyes are wide. His brow is cascading sweat. That stringy twist of leather looks a lot less tough with all that fear streaming down his face.

Now! My legs launch me at the thug, sprinting, leaping, bounding toward the now trembling man.

In the blur, I feel a phrase burst from my lips. "Just try and get me now, you fuck!"

The thug shakes a foot back. I lunge into the air. He points the rifle. My rippling arms lash out. A scream. He fires and--

The world freezes. Mid-air, arms posed for the punch, plasma burning into me, glowing like a florescent bulb -- I am a portrait. This room becomes a freezeframe.

Wake up! The urge is now screaming through my brain. It is impossible to ignore. Like a babe pulled screaming from the womb, I'm torn out of Fugitive 3751. For a moment, I see him below me, like I'm some angelic observer. Then -- snap -- he is gone. All is gone. Reality splits into hues. It swirls. It fades. Darkness swallows all again.

Wake up! The urge pulses again. I resist. I push back. I pull for the light. The colors bubble back. Hues flicker and pop. I'm so close.

Wake up! Fizzle. The dream is completely gone now. The nothing is deeper. It's no use. I give in.

* * *

I open my eyes to the dull rays of morning streaked across a pallid ceiling. I am back in the real real world. And just like in my dream, the world forms, shapes and focuses as I blink out the sleep. Blink, a wall-length window, morning glowing through the blinds. Blink, a Tensai IV Terminal crunching code silently on my desk. Blink, a pile of skag rags is stacked to the ceiling. Blink, a cracked mirror reminds me how I should be ten pounds heavier and three shades darker to be even close to resembling a proper citizen. Yup, back to my real home. Back to the real world. Back to my real life. Sigh.

With a last loud yawn, I sit up inside the Lucid Dreaming chamber and kick off my covers. It's then that I see what pulled me out of my sleep -- the doorbell is buzzing. A monitor in the chamber blinks that it has been for the past three minutes.

I slip out of the chamber like toothpaste –- slow and lumpy –- my feet spilling into a pair of slippers. In a loud stretch, I lean out of the tube, grab my robe, and step over a jar of crystal lube, three open skag rags and a softWindow amping off a compiler -- remnants of last nights clustergeeking festivities.

All of that should have been enough entertainment for one night. It should have been enough fun to stay away from Fugitive. I mean, I'm supposed to be lying low, getting away from anything that could attract attention. I'm supposed to be resting up for our New Dawn gig. I know Tom is. But I just couldn't help myself. I just had to have my Fugitive fix. I mean, how is anyone supposed to be satisfied with this lifeless existence after experiencing that?

But I'm not worried. There's no way the cops could possibly find out that I had jacked into the Fugitive broadcast. I know I'm at least that good.

Waddling like a penguin, I scoot into the living room. On the other side of my cramped pad, the peephole monitor on the door is lit up.

Stepping up to the monitor, I stop. My eyes lock onto two figures on the screen.

My heart jumps.

It's the cops!

Crap, crap.

A Reality of Fiction

Coming Nov 3 2014

