Disconnection No. 9 – Self-Preservation

Posted on July 6, 2015 by Catastrophe Jones

This is Part 9 of a Serial called Disconnection.

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She woke up to a buzzling snarl in the back of her throat, felt it crawling up into her ears backwards, shitting static as it muckled through blood, chewing up eustachian tubes and laying wire instead. Munch munch. She tried to roll to the side as she retched, but something had her pinned; when she coughed up, a dripping clatter of wires and plugs was ejected from her mouth, but only went far enough to land against her cheek with a splat. She felt the rest of it lodged down past her voicebox with a ropy thread laying on her tongue, crackling and pulsing, the mass on her left cheek, running something warm and like eggwhites, over her jaw. Dripping past her ear.

She tried to scream, but couldn’t breathe, tried to swallow, but it was caught there and when she bit down to try and spit it out, there was blue fire that lit up her teeth and made her palate smoke.

The thing on her cheek hummed, warm against her skin; lights on it blinked alive, and she stared with unfocused eyes at the thing that lay there, connected to the inside of her, and couldn’t even become coherent enough to weep as she felt herself choking to death.

She did wish she could scream, however, when it opened up to reveal a maw of rotating blades. Little legs and lovely pincers, and it crawled further up her face to settle on her nose. Some sort of camera nestled in the cluster of wires and gears and silicon stared out at her, swiveling, back and forth, back and forth.

When it chose the left eye, she instinctively tried to bite down again, hoping that she would either be knocked unconscious, or that it might stop.

Neither happened.

Autorun’s self-preservation modes were never designed to account for pain; the implants were there to ensure survival — not guard against agony.

At least they were doing their job well.

She wasn’t dead, yet.

* * *

NEXT

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Disconnection No. 8 – Forsaken

Posted on July 5, 2015 by Catastrophe Jones

This is Part 8 of a Serial called Disconnection.

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* * *

“Sir? Sir! We’re getting reports of wireless dropping–”

“–fuck that, we’re getting reports of underground lines disrupt–”

“–have to get comms back up–”

“–explosions outside the southeastern walls–”

“–grids 6B through 21G have reported outages–”

“–already an uptick in reports of injuries–”

“–outages, at least four surges–”

“–already have twenty-six reported dead–”

Runig left his office and went to stand out with the rest of the crew, answering the messages piling up in his head, barking orders, wondering if the kid got the orders he sent. Run. Stop transmitting, and run.

* * *

Wake up.

Wake up.

WAKE UP.

She could taste blood, but something told her it wasn’t her own.

* * *

Sixteen hours after the signal went, Runig was still scanning every input feed, looking for some sort of sign or trace that at least one of the triad had made it out of the Silent Zone and back to some sort of haven, or even a public syncpoint where they could be picked up by any of the patrols that maintained the perimeter.

Some fifty-odd hours after that, official declarations of expiration (created the instant each cadet was affirmed as a member of the corps, a morbid reminder that the only real release from this duty was in a casket of some sort) were sent to the families of each member of the triad, with notifications that everything was being done to retrieve the bodies (a lie, but a necessary one) so that family members could have some closure.

* * *

Forsaken by Central, she lay still and silent beneath the bodies of those she’d known since childhood (which, she reflected while unmoving, was not really all that long ago) and wondered whether or not her last transmission was received.

Her last thoughts, before the scavengers came and lifted the dead from the red-soaked floor, were of words that lose all meaning when they gain capitalization (Truth, Glory, Honor, Duty) and whether or not she would live to be able to hate them.

* * *

NEXT

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Independence

Posted on July 4, 2015 by Catastrophe Jones

If I cut off
my hands for you,
if I cut myself
to pieces for you,
if I pulled myself apart
bit by bit,
if I lost
all of myself,
then I would be perfect,
I imagine,
the perfect bride
for a man like you.
What a mighty good man
to have loved me
for the beauty I was,
but not the beauty
I have become.

This body
having birthed your children,
this body
having borne their milk-suckle mouths,
their fat-fisted grabhands
around my fingers,
around my braids.

If I pull myself
in a hundred thousand
different directions
and become
motherloversisterdaughter
so you can have
everything you need of me,
perhaps I will one day
get to become
everything I need
of myself.

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Disconnection No. 7 – Silent Zone

Posted on July 3, 2015 by Catastrophe Jones

This is Part 7 of the Serial called Disconnection.

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Broadcasting live from the silent zone was just about the bravest, most amazing, and quite literally the most fatally stupid thing anyone could do.

Those connected to the main host, via any grid, long distance, wireless, physical lines, Nex or other routes observed with a freakish excitement; people hadn’t been privvy to this much potential in decades. Even the fainted woman sat up after a moment, and stared, enrapt, listening so intently she forgot all about her toast.

Quietly, all three of them stated their ID tags, and the whole listening world became exquisitely aware that this was no ordinary hijacked broadcast. They were getting information directly out of the pipeline — this was a triad, in the midst of an unauthorized strike.

In the Silent Zone — a place feared worse than Surges, where the Never Connected were rumored to engage in cannibal runs, stealing people off the street, just to eat them.

Runig wasn’t listening anymore, however, he was sending sets of operatives to pick up the triad, and hopefully eliminate the source of the broadcasted threats. Something felt itself powerful enough to say these things in a bar? Even in the Silent Zone? Perhaps it was just some drunk, but if that was the case, he could hardly imagine the triad — even a rookie one, at that — putting itself on the line like this.

And that’s when he saw the vidfeed. Oh so carefully, the com of the triad had encrypted this particular line and sent it in multiple streams along different paths at varying intervals without seeming point or pattern. Anyone watching would think them garbage. They would only reconnect when they met back at Central, and were caught by the right receiver.

No wonder this kid was the best of her class.

To make matters more interesting, he saw his own ID tag on the first one, and forgot about discipline and accountability long enough to be impressed, and immediately fed them to his internal display. He’d have put it up for Central to see, but since it came through such secure channels, he supposed the kid was trying to keep it quiet. At least for the moment.

Runig’s eyes closed, so that no one else could see the images move across them. The com had tinkered with it, splicing in other feeds, and for a moment, it was hard to figure out what the hell was going on. Runig, however, was the kind of man who understood things like that, and didn’t need to be told twice.

The source of the threats had a familiar face, and that was why the com kept it to himself.

Blake. The man who’d started the war. The man who’d been hidden for years, sending out his soldiers to kill innocents.

Blake was in the Silent Zone less than a klik from the uncontested borders of all that Main Host controlled.

It was a fair assumption to make that everyone in a ten kilometer zone would soon be dead; Blake didn’t do small.

Within only seconds, he called off his operatives, revoking the orders and sending out new ones, banning any and every op from the Silent Zone for the near future, upon penalty of dismissal from the corps. And then he sought to verify the com’s visual, before the triad were discovered. His work was quick and light and full of the trademark perfection for which his particular style was noted, in most textbooks, but he doubted it would be fast enough to save the three who were there, risking life and limb to break open the biggest discovery since Prime itself.

There didn’t have to be any more incriminating evidence, at this point; no one within all of Nex, or the main host, would believe that it had been a joke, a hoax or a staged thing — as soon as the source could be found, steps would be taken to neutralize it.

All across the grids, people waited, breath held, listening. One of the triad could be heard to say, “I think you’ve had about enough; we’ll have to roll you home.” There was laughter, and the feed kept running, as they made their cover, paid their tab and sought to extricate themselves from something they only recently understood was lethal.

Bright, drunken laughter, and the sound of clunking chairs, belches, boots stomping, drinks clinking, ice rattling, bottles opening — the com had nothing left to lose, and was letting everything pour through to all channels, rather than bother encrypting it to Runig, not bothering to filter out the bad music, the chatter all around; for a moment, people were there, in the bar, with her, with her friends. They could all but smell the booze and feel the thick heat of the atmosphere licking damply against their skin.

Only Runig watched from the viewpoint of the com herself, and felt the sharpening of the image–the sudden clarity of detail that came with an adrenaline dump. The com looked to her left, and the vidfeed stuttered as a moment was captured, the young blonde laughing, handsome features caught in a carefree grin. And then, to the right, where a red-headed young man had just outgrown his gangliness and traded it for grace. Another stutter. Another capture of an instant.

God, she knows, Runig thought, and he opened his eyes to look around the room. Central was as enrapt as the rest of them, some smiling grimly, readying themselves for the latest hunt, listening to the last best stunt this triad would ever pull.

Gunfire hadn’t really been heard in some time; there were a lot of new weapons to be used, instead, once Prime had been discovered, so the sudden sound of the shots startled everyone, including Runig, who snapped his eyes shut and inwardly railed against the fact that he couldn’t send anyone else in.

Autorun piped in over the vidfeed, explaining quite urgently that the source was damaged; silent alarms went up throughout Central, but nobody moved. The audiofeed kept on, and people held one another, staring wildly at the tuners or with their hands over their ears, listening intently, begging. Don’t stop. Don’t stop yet. In the bar, the screaming and shouting and begging kept up, and many a mother or worried father connected to the main host sent their children to bed.

Parents everywhere struggled to discern if their boys were the ones there. Many eyes wept, and many hands shook, but Central would confirm nothing for now. Runig was still working on Verification as everyone listened, breathless — the voice of the threats snarled something impossibly full of hate, something the whole world heard.

And then there were three more shots.

Audio cut out, and Central turned, as one, to look at their commander.

Verification was achieved right about the same time the signal crashed and burned.

As for Runig? He had heard what Blake said, because Blake had said it just for him.

“Coming for you and all your toy soldiers, Runig. This is only the beginning. Man wasn’t meant to be made of wires and noise. He was meant to see the world around him as it is.”

* * *

NEXT

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DeathWatch No. 62 – I Know You’re Tired

Posted on July 2, 2015 by Catastrophe Jones

This is Issue #62 of DeathWatch, an ongoing Serial. Click that link to go find ‘A Beginning’ and read from there, if you need to catch up.

Happy Reading!

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* * *

The world smelled of lavender and camphor and death. Stale air and feversweat. He drew a ragged, choking breath as he came alive within the stranger who was soon to die, and lay in the bed feeling as though he were drowning under the light linens that barely rested on his chest. His tongue tasted of fire and metal, and his eyes burned as everything around him dimmed.

Kieron shuddered, struggling to breathe, and in his movement, he caught the attention of someone else in the room, who came over, came closer, and leaned down to look at him. She was young, perhaps half his age, with fiercely red ringlets and a generous spattering of freckles against milkpale skin. He lifted a hand, reaching for her, and saw that his own hand was withered and liverspotted, the paperthin skin mottled with bruises.

He watched her, for some time, feeling a strange longing in his chest; coupled with the heaviness, it brought the focus of his world down only to her. She was beautiful. Something just outside the room caught her attention; Kieron had no idea what it was. She took his hand and held it, kissing the knuckles dryly, and he opened his palm to lay it against her cheek gently. She set that back on his chest and backed away to sit in a chair in the corner and watch him, smiling faintly.

He felt her loss keenly; the body he inhabited was woven through with familial love for the girl. He wanted to protect her. To watch over her.

Someone else came in, just then — someone who tugged at his heart even moreso. Her auburn hair was close-cropped, shorn in mourning, so it seemed according to her redrimmed eyes, but then he realized she was wearing an airman’s uniform. She knelt at his bedside and gripped his hand tightly, laying her head to his belly and sobbing. “Papa,” she pled. “You can’t go. You can’t. Who will we come home to? Who will stay when we ship out?” she begged. “Who will sing the winter holiday hymns and play the fiddle for us? Who will kiss me good morning when I wake up too early? Papa, please get better. You have to get better.”

Kieron knew if he was here, in this body with its heavy chest, with its dying breath, there was no ‘getting better’. There were only moments left. He lifted a heavy hand and laid it atop the woman’s head, petting her hair. Tati. She was Tati. He had never felt this close, this fully a part of a death. The slow suffocation was all-consuming; he wondered if the man who had grown in these limbs was still somewhere within, living out his last moments. He wondered if the man — his name was Brenneman Vernon–knew he was there. His watery eyes flicked to the girl in the chair, who watched the scene quietly, a pained smile on her face. When she noticed his gaze, her expression was apologetic.

Yana. All of nine years old and fierce as an unchecked bonfire.

She got up and put her arms around the sobbing woman, and gently led her out, saying quietly, “Mama, let’s make a tea for Dedi Vernon. You want a tea, don’t you, deduska? A nice hot tea with biscuits. The chocolate biscuits, mama. And fruit and cheese.” She looked to Kieron, a hopeful, pleading expression on her face.

He nodded, trying to look excited, and Tati’s expression wore such hope, he felt his heart break.

“You start, Mama,” his little Yana directed. “I’ll fluff his pillows so he can sit up and tea with us.”

The woman shuffled off, wringing her hands, talking quietly to herself about what she should get out and make ready for tea.

Once she was gone, Yana stood at his bedside again and clasped one of his hands, petting it gently. “It’s okay, Dedi Vernon,” she whispered, reaching up to pet his cheek. “I’ll take care of her. Mama’s strong — she just forgot. She misses her mama, and she doesn’t want to miss you, too.” She stroked his cheek and leaned in to kiss his forehead, saying, “It will be okay. You don’t have to hang on anymore. I know you’re tired, deduska,” she said, patting his hand.

And he was — oh, heavens, he was just so damned tired. Kieron nodded to her, and weakly squeezed her hand. He tried to speak with her, but he couldn’t draw enough of a breath to say anything. For a moment, there was almost panic on his face, but then Yana was there, in his field of vision. Just Yana. She kissed his forehead and stroked his cheek, saying, “It’s okay. Mama and Papa and I will be okay, Dedi Vernon. I love you.”

The sweet adoration Kieron felt came from his own heart, he was certain of it, but the heart of the dying man bore so much more love for the girl, so much fierce pride, he could not help but let it overwhelm him. So much love. So much hope.

So much fear.

My darling Yana. Never let anyone put out that fire in you. Don’t follow them into war. Fly like your babu. My beautiful Juliana. You look so much like your grandmother. Fly for yourself — not for Centralis. Kieron’s head swam with memories of a life that wasn’t his. This slipping — maybe it was the aetheris covering him. The lightning. Maybe it was just the natural extension of his power, fully coming in to itself. Either way, he felt himself settle further into the old bones holding him, and the world grew dimmer, still.

He couldn’t let her follow his daughter into the air force. If he died — if he died, no one could stay with Yana. Tati would have to stay, instead. Centralis would grant the dispensation. She would have to go on leave. Yana wouldn’t be alone. Tati wouldn’t go to the southern excursions.

He gripped her hand, knowing he had to tell her. He had to.

She looked back over her should toward the door and then turned to look at him inspecting his face. “Don’t worry, deduska. It will be okay.”

He nodded, and lifted her hand to put it against his face, pressing the palm to his lips, and letting her thumb pinch his nose shut. He held her wrist, to keep her hand there — Kieron could no longer tell if he was the one controlling the body, or if Brenneman’s memories simply insisted.

Yana stared down at her grandfather, her eyes widening. She did not try to pull her hand back, but kissed her other hand’s fingertips and pressed them to his forehead. “It will be okay,” she promised him, nodding, understanding dawning on her face. “It will be okay,” she repeated, tears shining in her eyes. “I love you,” she whispered. “I love you.”

I love you. Kieron felt his heart burning, his lungs afire. He kept his eyes open, even as the world went dark, even as everything went dark.

He could not draw breath, and everything around him began to dissolve.

He felt the cool, dry sweetness of her lips on his forehead once more, the brush of her ringlets on his cheek, and then his heart skipped a beat, slowing, shuddering once.

Twice.

Yana. My Yana. I love you. Be free.

Euphoria crashed over him, breaking waves of joy.

One last moment — her quiet, adoring voice. “I love you.”

Euphoria — then darkness.

* * *

NEXT

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