Revenge of the chickens, p.18
Revenge of the Chickens, page 18
part #3 of Blocks Series
“Yes, Jonah,” Barry said.
Stuff turned to see where Barry was looking. It was at an older man who was sat back in his chair, legs stretched out looking relaxed, or maybe a little drunk. He was dressed like he might have come directly from a building site, in mud-caked tan boots, multi-pocketed loose trousers, plaid shirt and a heavily worn brown leather jacket.
“Pills kill all your memories, I prefer booze,” Jonah said, sat up straight and leaned forward in his chair. “Anyway, who says they’re not real. Seem damn real enough to me.” Jonah paused, as though he was waiting for someone to challenge him. No one spoke. He dropped his gaze. “I had a bad one yesterday, just popped into my head out of nowhere. Something had me by the ankle, like a black snake, but it wasn’t no snake. It lifted me clean off the ground. I was just dangling there, upside down, hanging by one ankle. That’s all.” Jonah shuddered, then seemed to force himself to resume his nonchalant pose. His eyes weren’t relaxed. They darted around the room as though he half expected the snake to appear and grab him.
It had to be a Crawler that the man was remembering; Stuff couldn’t think of any other explanation. It was as if Eva’s white paint of fabrications covering the Ark inhabitants’ black history was starting to blister and flake.
“Darren?” Barry prompted.
A man around Stuff’s age, wearing a smart suit, was holding up his hand.
“There’s some new research come out about FMS. Seems it only started about five years ago with just a few cases and now there’s thousands. That they know about. This new study thinks we might be allergic to something in the Ark. Maybe it’s spreading. I don’t know. It’s really scary. Every year, more random shitty images, not even like whole scenes just arrive in my head. On the way here I had this flash of a big warehouse and the floor was covered in… eyeballs. It’s obviously not real. How could it be real? And so, anyway, I’m thinking of moving Outside. They say it’s not so bad out there. And if it’s something in the Ark, then it makes sense. Doesn’t it? That’s all.”
Darren was wringing his hands and compulsively tapping one foot throughout his speech. It was obvious to Stuff, and probably everyone else, that he was looking for some kind of validation, some direction, some way to escape his FMS.
“Sheila.”
The woman dropped her raised hand into her lap where it lay listlessly, fingers uncurled. She looked unremarkable, mid-forties, dowdy. “Don’t be an idiot Darren. Outside’s got real monsters, real horrors. Believe me, you’re better off with FMS nightmares. They won’t bite you in half and plant their babies in your bloody corpse. That’s all.”
Stuff was surprised by the vehemence of Sheila’s outburst. She looked like someone who wouldn’t venture beyond her hometown. What did she know about the Outside?
Barry asked the question. “You’ve been Outside, Sheila?”
“Lost my husband and my two boys Outside. Afterwards, I came back in. FMS will never be worse than that. For me anyway. That’s all.”
The thought of Sheila’s horribly murdered family unsettled Stuff. He was planning to send his wife and nine-year-old kids Outside. He forced himself to remember why. Stuff recalled the terrible childhood memories of running through the Yard, chased by dog-sized mosquitoes. Seeing the pink glop running down the symmetrical tree trunks to drop into the pits below Block Seven.
The meeting went on for another hour. The talk was always about the same three things. Recounting the latest FMS attack. Trying to find a cause or at least what the unwanted visions signified. And the latest speculations about a cure.
Stuff sat through it all just listening; at times struggling not to stick his hand up. He was tempted to explain everything. And he knew that even if they believed him, the truth would be unbearable. The truth wouldn’t fix anything; it wouldn’t set them free.
At the end, some looked a little cheerier, others looked worse. A few made jokes and talked about the wine bar around the corner. Most wandered off, alone. It was late. Stuff wanted to get home. He pulled on his hat and coat and was about to leave when he saw Barry waving him over. He was standing with Mary and Donald in one corner.
“Well Steven, think this is for you?”
His first inclination was to politely say ‘no’ and never come back. It had been a miserable couple of hours. And what was the point? There was only one reason he could think of, and maybe it was enough. He’d get a chance to tell little bits of the truth, a truth he’d kept hidden for twenty-nine years; and maybe he could help these people. The whole business was sad, but it didn’t press down on him. It felt like a comforting embrace at a funeral. It was a sadness he needed to share. It made him feel real. “Yes. If you’re happy I’d like to keep coming.”
Chapter Fourteen – Back
Truculent felt as if he had only blinked. His personal AI informed him otherwise. Two cycles had passed. Last time, it had taken only a cycle to reach this remote backwater in his old Sector. This time was different. The Three factory was much slower than any Regulator class vessel, but he wasn’t willing to abandon it. Not yet.
His Guardians were still clustered around his upright stasis tube exactly as they’d been when his eyes had closed. He’d considered remaining conscious for the entire journey back to the Three planet. There were no compelling reasons he could think of. It was disappointing that Thumper hadn’t woken him with news of a breakthrough in the Tuned or Channel research, but that was always unlikely. The AI had made all the easy discoveries. Any new insights would have to be dragged into the light. It was going to be a slow process. Now that he was awake there was only one thing he wanted to know. Silently he asked, and the AI calmly poured poison into his ear. Truculent beat away the feeling of being strangled. There was still hope, there had to be.
The others would be waiting for him on the bridge of the Royal Barge, looking for a sign that their crusade hadn’t already failed. He summoned garments and put on the outer semblance of a confident and undefeated Emperor Cardinal. Truculent stepped through a portal and onto the bridge, gloriously attired. Golden silk robes rose in a dazzling cone from the floor to the nape of his neck. The collar and cuffs were trimmed with purple fur. His face was garlanded by a cascade of braided blue locks that escaped from underneath his furry white domed headgear. It made it appear that he was wearing a living Channel as a hat. The traditional crown of an Emperor Cardinal.
Canker, Grind and Pain bowed low. They looked worried. Truculent confidently strode to the main view screen, studied the data and stared out into space. His features contorted and twisted as he suppressed the desire to scream in frustration and rage. Fortunately, his three companions were behind him and he had not commanded them to raise their heads. The view that was so distressing, was of nothing, nothing at all. Only trace gases and microscopic debris floated in the space where the Travel Way should have been. Truculent kept staring, as though the more intense his gaze, the more likely that the Travel Way would spontaneously re-appear.
His hands were tightly clasped in front of his body and he was standing rigidly upright. Truculent could not stop himself from peering at the curved view screen. The display filled one soaring wall of the bridge. Truculent was in shock. Leaning as far forward as his rigid uniform permitted, and with his hands resting on the console, he tried to look deeper, as though something more might be discerned if he was closer to the screen. Only the slightest movement of his head, accentuated by a wobble of his bulbous headdress, suggested it was Truculent manipulating the image, zooming in and out, swooping and panning across the star-field.
A muffled cough broke the spell. His loyal lieutenants were still bowed and probably beginning to worry about his reaction to the absence of the Travel Way. Truculent took a moment to soften his face and breathe before turning away from the screen and facing his bowed companions. “Please, be comfortable. I was lost in thought for a moment.”
The General and Admiral stood upright and assumed relatively relaxed military poses, their legs slightly spread and with their hands behind their backs. They were both wearing richly decorated martial uniforms of purple and black. Their tight creased expressions suggested that Truculent’s outward show of calm had not reassured them. Canker fidgeted with a long jewelled necklace of blue stones. They perfectly matched the colour of the long flowing gown she was wearing. Truculent thought the dress was far too tight and excessively amplified her curves. He still found her youthful look distasteful. “Report.”
Canker didn’t wait for her colleagues, “Emperor Cardinal, there’s nothing left. How do we find Eva now?”
Truculent acknowledged her question with the slightest nod, but didn’t answer. Rushing would give the wrong impression. He signalled for Grind and Pain to speak.
Grind exchanged a glance with Pain and stepped forward. Truculent understood, Grind would be speaking for both. “Emperor Cardinal, by necessity we have been focused on Harder.”
Truculent was being showered with nothing but bad news, even if it was expected. “That dog is still following us? We shall have to deal with him.”
A brief smile of satisfaction passed across Grind and Pain’s faces before their usual stern martial expressions were restored. Truculent could almost hear them think it – finally.
“Indeed, Emperor Cardinal. We have prepared a number of battle strategies for your consideration. Of course, sacrifices must be made but we are confident of ultimate victory.”
“Good. I’ll consider those shortly. Now. Eva.”
Canker stopped fiddling with her necklace. Grind and Pain stiffened as though they felt that they should snap to attention at the sound of the demon’s name.
“The factories Eva took were old. They had only basic janitors with a limited operating range beyond a factory. She had allies on the blue planet nearby. They’ll have the journey log. Even if we don’t, they’ll know where Eva is.”
Canker clapped her hands and smiled, “Wonderful Emperor Cardinal, we must search for them immediately.”
Grind and Pain exchanged tense glances that suggested more bad news was coming. It was Pain’s turn to deliver it. “Respectfully, Emperor Cardinal. We recommend dealing with Harder first. Re-positioning and deploying resources to facilitate the thorough search of such a large planet will compromise our defences. We will be vulnerable.”
Canker clasped her elbows tightly and frowned. Truculent felt the same, but he could be patient for a while longer. “Very well. I shall pay my respects to the Tuned and then meet with you in the war room.”
Truculent stepped through a portal. The last thing on his mind was being anywhere near a Tuned, cloned or real. Thumper was waiting for him when he emerged in the laboratory he’d secretly moved to the Three factory. “Report.”
“Emperor Cardinal, the two lines of research, communicating with the Shard and natural Channel breeding have continued in parallel while you were in stasis.”
Thumper was saying this as if he might have forgotten what he’d ordered the AI to do. It was probably because she had very little else to tell him. Otherwise, he’d have been woken from stasis earlier. The laboratory had changed. There were no Tuned being spun, dipped or dissected. Nothing seemed to be going on, it was largely empty. “Where are the Tuned?”
“That research can now be carried out at the sub-atomic level or via simulations. With the exception of the Tuned in the Central Shrine, the physical Tuned are no longer inhabited by the Shard. Their bodies have been placed in stasis.”
“Communication?” He still clung to the possibility of negotiating an end to Channel infertility directly with the Shard. If only he could reach out to them.
“No significant progress.”
Truculent scowled, more bad news. Again, he wasn’t surprised. Finding a way to talk to the Shard directly was always unlikely. Thumper smiled. Truculent tensed, he felt like hitting it.
The android continued its report, “However, we have discovered a tangible link between the Channel breeding and the Tuned.”
If nothing else, Truculent thought, this part might be amusing. Every little insight into the Channel’s biology was building up a blurry picture of what went on inside the dumb white balls of fur, and it was all crazy.
“We have discovered that the organ at the Channel’s core, which can generate a weak magnetic field, when stimulated with neutrinos, subtle cell division is induced. This may be associated with reproduction.”
Truculent’s eyes widened. At last, some good news. “You can get them pregnant, without a Tuned?”
“Intensifying the stimulation causes the Channel to spontaneously combust. Research has only indicated two stimulation states: there is either a negligible response or combustion. There does not appear to be a compromise position between the two states.”
Truculent couldn’t help himself, he raised clenched fists and groaned out loud. He just knew that the Shard had discovered how to stroke the mysterious Channel organ in just the right way to induce conception. “Will you be able to do what the Tuned do?”
“Ultimately, yes. Now that we know it’s possible and have an understanding of the relationship between the Channel life cycle and the Tuned signal, it is merely a matter of finding the correct mechanism.”
“How long?”
“It will require a fundamental breakthrough in particle physics. The technology is beyond us at present.”
“How long?”
“Unknown. Research continues. Such breakthroughs in the past, such as the Travel Way technology, took millennia from this equivalent stage of knowledge.”
Truculent stayed calm, there was one final strand of research that might save him. “Natural Channel birth?”
“Obviously, the Channels must have a natural procreation cycle and of course they do, but in all aspects it is unhelpful with regards to solving the issues at hand.”
Truculent took his head in his hands and yelled an obscenity at the floor. “Tell me.”
“Left to their own devices they will eventually breed naturally viaparthenogenesis. Without any external interference and given the right conditions. They require the degree of isolation we have previously discussed. At least a hundred kilometres separating one individual from another. Under these circumstances, they will breed, roughly, once every hundred cycles.”
Truculent raised his eyebrows and smiled. Farming on an industrial scale would be logistically impossible, but he could create a private farm that would keep him and his allies stocked with Three HIQ indefinitely. “What’s wrong with that? Set up a farm, here in the factory. Immediately.”
“We can, and the Channels would breed, infrequently and sparsely. Unfortunately.”
There was more bad news coming. He started to growl as he searched the bare laboratory for something to beat the android with. There was nothing.
“The Channels will not naturally feed on blood, of any kind. Their afterbirth will not yield HIQ.”
Truculent howled and kicked Thumper. He only succeeded in bruising his toe and falling over. Everything pointed in the same direction. He had to find Eva. Before that, he must deal with Harder.
Truculent stepped through a portal and landed in the war room. He joined the others intently studying a two-metre square table-top simulator. Standing on his left, his loyal Regulator Admiral Grind, to his right, Defender General Pain. They were both completely focussed on the battle simulation being played out before them.
Grind waved his hand over the display, “As you can see Emperor Cardinal, a hit-and-run campaign will ensure your safety, protect the Tuned and gradually weaken Harder until he is forced to break off or be crushed.”
“Excellency, I must concur. The strategy is optimal given our circumstances,” Pain added, with a nod to the display.
The Emperor Cardinal’s battle room, buried inside the Royal Barge, was in deep gloom. Only the glow of the displays illuminated their immediate surroundings. The reflected light cast flickering highlights and shadows on to the faces of Truculent, Pain and Grind. The dim, upward glow, made them look faintly mechanical, emphasizing sharp angular features, their eyes dimly glinting from sunken sockets.
Truculent wrinkled his nose. “The factory?” he asked, noting it was not represented on the display.
Grind coughed and looked to Pain, who raised his eyebrows but didn’t speak. Grind’s mouth tightened, the blood left his lips. He swallowed, before continuing. “To secure your ultimate safety the factory must be abandoned. Possibly, a token number of Channels and perhaps any favourites you might have amongst the natives could be transferred to a Regulator.”
Truculent didn’t respond. He leaned on the table and studied the little explosions and beams of weapons fire.
Pain cleared his throat, “The factory has no combat facilities of note, drags down the overall manoeuvrability of the fleet and commands inordinate military resources to protect.”
Truculent didn’t look up from the sparkling brightly coloured icons flying through the air above the screen. He kept Grind and Pain waiting for what, to them, must have seemed long moments. “Luckily for you, I know that not only devotion to my office but HIQ ensures your loyalty. Otherwise, I might think you’d switched sides,” Truculent whispered, without lifting his gaze.
The room was silent as Truculent considered the unwelcome recommendations. Reluctantly, he accepted that the factory was currently nothing more than a burden. The Three it produced was worthless without Channels to feed and breed on it. Yet, it could be priceless again, if he found Eva and destroyed her farms.
His Admiral and General only promised a powerless, nomadic survival while they battled Harder. It could take many cycles to defeat him. And while they ran and skirmished he couldn’t search for Eva.
Truculent paced up and down the long room in semi-darkness, weaving between the row of table screens aligned down the centre. Each was capable of instantly displaying different aspects of a real battle and now, at his unspoken command, simulate different scenarios for his confrontation with Harder. The war room was as solid as a planetary bunker. Its walls were lined in dark brown studded skin. It had been stripped from some long dead species who had challenged the Vigilance purposely enough to be awarded the honour. Its low oppressive stone ceiling urged the occupants to keep their heads bowed and focused on the screens. The intricately carved wooden floor, with its skeleton designs for great Regulator ships of the past, spoke to the endurance and longevity of the Empire, his Empire.
