In Dreams Page 8

  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. W
hoever 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:

  https://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 v
oice 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.