(Continued from day 1)
I'm lost in thought when the message comes through. The buzzer above the antiquated com screen set in the pod's ceiling rattles annoyingly. I hit a small green button, more to make the sound stop than to hear whatever it is whoever is calling has to say. AG's face snaps into view, elongated and fuzzy, his voice broken.
"H llo? H o?" I slap the monitor a few times and he pops into focus. Old piece of shit.
"Is that better? There. Good morning, Charles!"
"Yup. What can I do for you?"
AG starts talking, his chin flapping against his pasty yellow neck. "As you know we have had some, uh...issues with Section 37. We believe that there is a rebel cell hiding out within the perimeter walls of Section 35. Your job today is to seek and destroy that cell."
ReplyDelete"What about Point Bachir? According to the..."
"Nevermind the note!" AG interrupts. "Just do as your told. Remember - destroy it." AG licks his lips and for a split second I see his mouth open to form words that never come through - the monitor goes fuzzy and then finally dark.
I am alone. Disconnected from people through the absence of a working monitor. All the remain with me are my thoughts. Conflicts between Point Bachir and AG go through my mind. Why does it seem that everything I do revolves around death and destruction. My life is a mess, where are my pills? I need to take a break and clear my mind.
ReplyDelete"Take a breath" that's what Hank would say--that is what he always said. I always figured this was for Hank's benefit--so that he wouldn't have to be bothered with the endless broadcasting of thoughts. It was like the song in the Volvo.
ReplyDeleteRifling through my pockets I come across the vial. There is no rattle in it. No pills.
For some reason I find myself singing:
"Let me go out like a..."
Then I remember I've some pineapple gum in my pocket. I fumble with my seat belt, trying to get at it. Shit! Not that pocket - just AG's note from this morning. I go to tear it up but something catches my eye on the other side. It's a picture, hand drawn, in pencil. It's tiny. Maybe the size of my thumbnail. I bring it close up - to the light.
ReplyDeleteOh my God, I think.
A child's doodle, clear as day. A tiny Zeppelin, a shaky cigar shape only recognisable by the telltale fins on one end. Crude, but the details were all there. There was even a minuscule gondola strung underneath. The weight of what I had found crashed in upon me. Where had it come from?
ReplyDeleteIt isn't uncommon for notes and memos to be passed around these days with scraps of nonsense on the back. There is no infrastructure these days to make paper these days because no one has anything new to write on it.
All the paper we have is scrounged, most of it used. Even the glossy magazines are from before. We just collect them from "recycling" bins in the populated sectors and trash heaps in the Old City, press out the wrinkles, change the dates and put them back into the rotation. They're arranged according to styles. We release them slowly and fashion shifts accordingly. When we decide to make a style go out of fashion, we introduce the appropriate magazines. People rush to our thrift stores and abandon their clothing in favor of what's "hot," selling them to us as a fraction of their value. We then clean them, press them store them until the cycle comes around again.
Quite ingenious, really, but something like this would never have survived screening. It would have been destroyed on discovery, would have been picked out by the recyclers, locked away in classified facility in a file marked "Zeppelin." That is where all the information on Zeppelins is. Every picture. Every reference. Every memory.
It could only have been drawn after the paper was cleared, by a modern child. Once paper is brought into the populated sectors, it isn't re-screened; there's no need to. People have nothing to write that isn't already written down. The only knowledge in these areas is the knowledge we laundered and imported. And we didn't import anything about Zeppelins.
I fold up the note carefully and return it to the front pocket. Save this for later because well, you never know who might find something useful to do with it.
ReplyDeleteThe pod slows and comes to rest at the Point Bachir station the dingy cramped landing, with low ceilings and rat droppings; unused for obvious reasons. Half the city falls apart overnight and yet the only thing that still works everywhere are these cheesy pneumatic tubes the Ordinate zip around in. The positive thing about this gig is that we do have the upper hand. With the knowledge and the tech it’s no great task suppressing whatever’s on the menu. It still tries your nerves though, and then your gum runs out of flavor and just for the hell of it you throw in a couple extra sticks.
Point Bachir is an old water treatment plant unused for years except by the Ordinate as a sort of an abandoned Alamo. There’s an armory of sorts, as in all the Sector Stations, stocked with some of the most advanced “weaponry” any unit can get their hands on. One thing’s for sure, even now, men who provide arms are making a killing. There’s particle destabilizers that irritate the bonds between an object’s small bits – turn people into a poof of gas. High-frequency sonic disablers, capable of deafening a crowd for hours. The Hemloxin IV – the premier in peace keeping, a failsafe tranquilizer that will take down the most obsessive of provokers without the guilty mess bullets are notorious for. Of course guns still sell, even with the good stuff, you know how people in United America are.