All The Colors of Yesterday
by Elliot Bowers
…
"Letter" (song excerpts)
lyrics by Nora Stevens Heath; vocal by Melissa Williamson
"The Swan"
lyrics by David Lynch; vocal by Julee Cruise
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Chapter 5
…
_____It was a few hours after noon-time, getting close to the end of the city-wide work-day. Jonah didn't really care, though. Work, relaxation… It was all getting to be the same as these days just kept on in a steady going rhythm, going along, rolling along. So what about what happened to Zalem? Ah well, something like that was bound to happen some day--the death of that city.
_____The idea of an eternal city is a lie. Everything fails and falls with time. Nothing is forever. Not love, not life. Not even Zalem. Nothing is forever, and no one is forever.
_____Jonah--also known as "John-Boy!" to friends--was going to die some day and not exist anymore. He just smirked at the thought of his own death, likely to come one of these days. He smirked at a lot of things, in fact, because he thought he'd seen everything there was to see in all the decades of his life. He'd seen things come and go, seen plenty more things just go.
_____With his electromechanical body currently dressed in work coveralls, John-Boy was done with work for today: He had been driving his great big street-cleaning truck all day, and that was why the new people in charge paid him. Like Zalem, The Black Market didn't especially care if the streets were flawlessly clean, but the streets had to at least be kept clear of big trash and anything else likely to get in the way of trucks…and important peoples' cars.
_____And anything that got in the way of street-cleaning trucks was sucked up from the street--then crushed. Attached to the front of John-Boy's street-maintenance vehicle was a huge vacuum-scoop that sucked up large chunks of trash that ended up in the street…along with the occasional stray dog or small child. Once in the tough metal machinery of John-Boy's truck, the obstructions were chopped up and crushed in back--a great big sucking and grinding machine on wheels! Later, whatever chopped up stuff there was stored in back would be disposed of in waste reprocessing centers throughout the city.
_____As for children and small animals sometimes being sucked up… Well, it happened sometimes. Anyone or anything dumb enough to be in the street when a street-cleaner was at work deserved to be sucked in and chopped up by the machine. There were times when people deliberately laid out in the street and let themselves get sucked in, crunched up by John-Boy's truck. Heh-heh, sucks to be those guys!
_____Nothing surprised old John-Boy. He'd seen cyborgs tall as two-story buildings, skinless mutant-dogs with six legs ("Those things are so ugly they ought to be illegal!"), dark diseases that turned human blood into something oily while leaving the victims somewhat alive ("Run away! Don't get infected!"), and even a gigantic rusty flying machine with flames coming from its wing-engines ("How the heck is that thing flying?"). And all of that was back when Zalem was still in charge of the world's cities. Oh yeah…! John-Boy had seen it all--having lived as long as he did in the city.
_____Being a cyborg was a radical extension to one's lifespan, at least the life of the brain: So long as a cyborg didn't do anything stupid or the brain didn't starve to death, one could live almost forever--simply getting one "new" body after another. New was a relative word, since it was a long while since any really new cyborg-bodies were made. Most everyone's body was either used or made from old parts.
_____So there he was, relaxing in the front seat of his street-cleaning truck and watching daylight die its daily death, when he finally saw something he'd never…seen…before! It was enough to first make him become curious, then enough to make him sit up. "What the…?"
_____It was burning bus, driving along moving along the street as if there was nothing wrong with it. He'd seen plenty of vehicles catch on fire before--bad engines or acts of arson. But that thing was still moving. And…burning? Heck, the thing was in blazes! Flames were all over it and inside, hot burning fires gushing from the open windows and the top of the vehicle being one gigantic pyre of heat and light--the smoke billowing up to the sky.
_____There it was, all in flames and still going. As all the street traffic had stopped, the burning bus calmly drove between the lines of vehicles on the road. The vehicle was moving so normally and calmly that John-Boy had the impression that the driver may as well have been singing, Tra-la-la… It's a beautiful day! What's a little bus-fire?
_____John-Boy closed his eyes, opened them again. Yep, it was still there! But now, the thing had slowed to a stop at the sidewalk. It didn't come to a complete stop immediately because its tires were melting. Brakes applied, the tires left long and nasty looking streaks of stinking melted rubber. But the vehicle did stop. The passenger side-door opened for two seconds, letting out more flames, and then it closed again.
_____Then the blazing vehicle began to move forward again. For a frightening moment, John-Boy thought the damned thing was going to ram this truck! Instead, it steered around and went on. But for a few seconds, it was so close that John-Boy could almost--almost--see the shadowy driver of the big burning thing.
_____The traffic began moving again. John-Boy slowly edged over to this modified truck's door and climbed down. Going along the city sidewalk, he walked over to the back of this street-cleaner to see if the burning bus was… Nope, the thing was gone. He went past the front of his street-cleaner and over to where the burning bus had stopped. Indeed, there were still the thick black streaks made by the burnt rubber. And the thick stink of burning rubber was still in the air…
_____Shaking his head and still not quite believing what he'd seen, John-Boy turned around and went back to the big street-cleaning truck. Whoever was pulling a stunt like that--driving a burning bus--was either suicidal brave or psychotically insane. Being a cyborg made one vulnerable to heat: electromechanical bodies don't burn, but the brain can certainly overheat…and die! Who would be insane-brave enough to drive a burning bus? And, more importantly, who was nuts enough to take a ride on it?
…
_____Kyrie and Harrah were also done with work for today. But before heading back to their little basement-room, they decided to relax at one of Patrick's other restaurants. Both were in slacks and sleeveless blouse, wearing their long dark hair tied back with crimson-red ribbons. In addition to the drinking bar, the tables for dining, and the couches for relaxing, this place had a small stage for musicians. In fact, a blonde-haired cyborg-girl was done setting up her synthesizer… A blonde-haired cyborg-girl in blue jeans and red sleeveless top--her slender silvery arms and fine metal fingers working as she continued the setup. That done, she sat down in the seat and began her song without any sort of announcement.
_____The song began with what sounded like a piano and some other instrument, strumming out a sad and persistent backbeat. This made Kyrie and Harrah set down their news-sheets… They found themselves listening.
…
….Am I still friends with Carlene?
I'm sure that I'm still laughing…
Aren't I?
Aren't…I?
…
….Hey there to my future self,
if you forget how to smile
…I have this to tell you,
remember it once in a while
…Ten years ago your past-self
prayed for your happiness…
Ple-e-ease don't…lose hope…!
…
_____The rest of the song became more strident, though the overall tone of it was still surrounded by sadness and darkness. It brought to mind hope and struggle against sadness and darkness, against all the dark troubles and pains that came in life. It was a song that a great musician from long ago would probably have described as "tragically beautiful."
_____When it was over, there was silence for a few seconds as the last of the notes were played out. The blonde cyborg-girl stopped playing and bowed her head in the applause that followed. They really did like that song! Then she got up from the seat and went behind the mini-stage's curtain. Maybe she was getting something, or changing her outfit for another performance? Then something caught the twins' attention.
_____What? Kyrie and Harrah turned their heads to look out the restaurant window. They caught a glimpse of what looked like a little girl or something, her white gown and strands of her long pale hair fluttering in the city wind. Maybe the "little girl" was actually a petite cyborg with white-metal body and synthetic hair? They couldn't be sure.
_____After all, it was just a glimpse. It could have been anything. "Who was that kid?" asked Kyrie. She looked across the table at her sister. "I thought I saw… I don't know, someone short and with pale-blonde hair. Don't remember seeing her around here before."
_____"Well, yeah, anyone can dye their hair. Or get a new hair-set if they're like us. Cyborgs," responded Harrah. "But that girl we just saw, I'm not sure. I thought I also saw something in her eyes… Like, she was stalking us or something. Creepy."
_____While Harrah and Kyrie talked, two more customers came in. Both of them were fleshies, both in the same style of coveralls and work-shirt worn with thick-toed boots--mechanics. They even had similar facial features. But beyond their outfits and similar facial features, they were physically different.
_____One was big and wide, a large chubby face atop a broad-chested and big-bellied torso--arms and legs massively thick with both fat and muscle, his big round face having a sort of tired and serous look. His brother was thin and skinny, an active and energetic look to him. They came over to this table….
_____Hey! It's Scotch and Duct! The twins energetically waved and smiled, and the brothers ambled on over to this table with matching expressions on their faces. Scotch moved over to one seat, and his brother sat in the chair opposite--the brothers facing each other across the table. "Hi, guys!" cheered the twin girls in unison.
_____"Hee-hee-hee…! Didn't expect to run into you two in this great big city! It's changed just a teeny tiny little-bit since my brother and I were last here, but it's still the same old city! Hee-hee-hee-hee…!" giggled Scotch.
_____"Yeah, ladies… For once, I agree with my brother," added Duct. "Sorta, though. I dunno… It's the same ol' big city, but under different management--Zalem bein' irradiated an' all. My brother and I got tired of the farm, had to get away. See how the rest of the world was doin'. We got ourselves jobs at the gladiator arena under the Cinnamon Brew sponsorship."
_____"Hee-hee-hee…! Ever drink Cinnamon Brew before?" added Scotch. "It's some kind of soda-pop full of synthetic flavoring and sugar. It's got a heck of a lot of zero-waste nutrition for cyborgs, but it's just too darned sugary! Sweet is sweet, but too sweet makes me feel too hyper--like being a kid again! Hey-hey! While I'm on the subject of kids… How's Ritchie doing?"
_____The girls looked at each other, eyes going wide. The dark sadness returned--about how and when Ritchie was killed in traffic. Not all of the sadness returned, though: They had stopped crying for Ritchie weeks ago. He was gone, and he wasn't coming back. There was nothing they could have done to stop what happened.…
_____Duct saw the mirrored expressions on their faces, looks of surprise and sadness. He understood: Ritchie was dead. Indeed, the city was still the same old city: still randomly dangerous. People died all the time; it didn't matter how. Moments passed, and he thought about how to word an answer…
_____"Hmmph…" he finally said. "Oh, I see… I you girls did yer best. I've known you two since you became cyborgs. You're good people. Least, you saved him from Barabbas an' all. You kept him from dying that night, and that's good."
_____Harrah and Kyrie looked down at the wooden table-top, stared at it. They would not cry… Not cry…! "Ooh, guess what!" suddenly went Scotch, bravely trying to break the blue mood. "Hee-hee! Our sponsors got their hands on a really super-duper body dug up from somewhere! We're trying to get it working for a new gladiator, but we can't patch into the mobility systems. Hee-hee-hee…! So if you two have a free afternoon or something sometime soon, drop by the West End Arena and go up to the left-side entrance! Tell 'em the Johnson brothers sent you. We'll tell the security guys to be on the lookout for two cute cyborg-girls with long dark hair and far-out mechanical engineering skills!" He looked right and left, at Kyrie and Harrah. "It'll be like old times, only at a new place!"
_____Breaking into smiles, the twins thought it over a second. One of them answered. "Hmm… Yeah, I guess we could drop by or something in the next few days…. Right, sis?" The other twin nodded in agreement, smiling. They'd do this for old-time's sake. After all, there were almost no other familiar faces in the city…other than their own.
…
2.
…
_____Sque-e-eak…! The man-sized teddy-bear opened the wooden door for its mistress. Well, it wasn't actually a teddy-bear, and the door wasn't actually wooden. That cuddly exterior was just a cute-looking covering over an otherwise horrid-looking metal beast. Beneath the huggable brown exterior, there was a war-machine beneath--one that existed to serve the mistress.
_____Walking past the teddy bear twice her size, she looked around the control room--monitors glowing in the gloom beyond the light spilling in from the open doorway. Not enough light, apparently. "Stupid idiot! How the Hell am I supposed to see everything in all this dark gloom, huh? There's nothing in here but some CRT monitors for illumination and stuff! Turn …on…the… lights!" she yelled. For emphasis, she reared back her left foot and kicked the teddy-robot in the padded shin. Thunk-k-k! "I ought to wipe your memory and put in another O.S. core!"
_____With the sound of mechanical gears whirring, the teddy-bot stepped into the room and flicked a few heavy switches with its left hand--a bit more difficult to do as its three segmented fingers were encumbered by the thick woolen "paws." But the job was done.
_____Fwick! The lights came on. It revealed what was expected: all the monitors and control consels having been installed against the walls. The microphones were set in place, and all of the systems seemed operational. Even a copy of her big comfy leather swivel-seat was moved exactly where it was in her other station.
_____She hated going to her other station! Hated, hated, hated! The outside air was smelly there, and everything was all dirty and rusty. Of course, the rusty outside there made for good camouflage against snooping outsiders--those raggedly dressed peons! But still…! "Ha-ha-ha! Pee-ons!" she said aloud at the thought. "Pee on the peons!" Well, she'd do exactly that if she ever needed to urinate: have her robots kidnap an idiot from Scrap Iron City or someplace, tie him down, then soak him with a lot of wet yellow pee.
_____Then she'd kill him, because no one was to know of her existence. No one. If the world found out, then maybe whatever happened to her father would happen to her as well. Except, this time, it wouldn't be an accident.
_____No one on the outside would find out--ever. And if any of those peons ever came here, she'd have them killed in a loud, horrible, and thoroughly disgusting way. Boom-boom! It was as easy as that!
_____Climbing into the big leather swivel-seat, the mistress raised her fingers to one of the keyboards, typed in an electronic address, then spoke into the microphone. Of course, it would have been a great deal easier to install some kind of electronic port directly into her wrists--to connect to consoles. But the idea of metal ports in her perfect synthetic skin was icky… The mistress hated to feel icky. She liked to feel as human as possible--more than human.
_____It was starting to rain outside, the rain coming down on this palace and onto the empty avenues. She wanted to go outside and play in the rain, splash in the puddles and laugh. But she had to do this first. That kind of fun would have to wait. This kind of fun had to be done first.
…
_____It was also raining here in the city, the rain coming down on the West-Side Arena--iron-gray clouds pouring down water. The thick heavy rain made for heavy sheets of wetness that covered the hard buildings and streets in water, making truck tires splash and city people wear all kinds of raincoats--especially the cyborgs. Though most body alloys weren't likely to rust, the possibility of getting too much water between the metal segments and joints made some uncomfortable.
_____Inside Mr. Coleco's second-floor office, things were dry and comfortable--the rainy industrial city just a view outside his picture window. It was a well-decorated office, about as colorful and exuberant as Mr. Coleco's candy-colored business outfits. There were pictures and trophies all over the pedestals and in glass wall-cabinets, posters on walls where there weren't trophy cabinets.
_____However, the orange-haired Mr. Coleco himself wasn't behaving especially colorfully now. He was sitting stiffly and still, his head tilted slightly to the right and his eyes open…though his eyes seemed unfocused on anything in particular. Every so often, he would nod and mutter. He had been this way for eighteen minutes or so.
_____Then he blinked and stood up from his seat. Smiling, Mr. Coleco knew what he had to do know. Though not an especially cruel man, he would be if necessary. It was what was demanded of him right now.
…
_____Going through a hall and down an elevator brought him to one of several basement levels beneath the gladiatorial arena itself--into another and much longer hallway. Down here, a person simply knew he or she was underground. The walls were harder and more solid-looking, like the rougher floor. And the air felt different--a little heavier and colder. Sounds of tinny radio music and heavy tools could be heard coming through the few and far-in-between doors, the muffled sounds echoing along the hard corridor.
_____ A few minutes of walking brought him to the right door--Garage 3H. He opened the door and walked into a large, industrial-looking busy room: currently, the most well-equipped repair garage at this building, with at least eighteen cyborg and fleshie mechanics working on one project. There were massive machines and portable scaffolds along the concrete walls, along with plenty of tool-covered tables and spare parts. They were all working on the big thing in the middle of the room: a vicious-looking cyborg-body, mechanics on scaffolds and ladders working on parts of it. Everything was covered over with the sounds of people talking, tools clanking and someone's radio playing--the smell of metal, oils and cleaning fluids in the garage's air.
_____It was nowhere near the size of some of the bigger gladiator bodies, only ten feet tall. But what it lacked in size it made for in appearance of sheer brutality. The arms looked like construction machines, and the solid armored legs were squat and monstrous. It had been painted various colors, red and gray and with caution striping on some parts--giving it a more nasty appearance. Too bad the big broken thing was worthless.
_____Worthless, unless those new mechanics could get it working. Mr. Coleco had personally seen to it that Scotch and Duct were hired, having introduced them to Mr. Muyamoto himself. The two brothers were great at repairing and bolstering the mobility systems of every single cyborg gladiator they'd worked on so far--even fixing big old Gogam's clunky self. They must have the ability to fix the thing.
_____Looking around the busy garage space, this business-suited man sought out Scotch and Duct… Ah, there they were--standing at a parts-covered table talking to two rather pretty-looking twin girls. Dollishly beautiful, with pretty faces and long dark hair, their metal bodies sleek and feminine. If they weren't cyborgs and circumstances were different, he would have asked those twins out on dates.
_____But this was no time for making love connections. Sneering, Mr. Coleco walked over to that work-table. "Why isn't this thing working yet, huh?" he asked Scotch and Duct, who turned to face him. "I had to ask mechanics from two other teams to help you out. Ask them! After work-hours! Almost begging! And everybody knows that nobody is supposed to work after hours. With a-a-all of you busy, with a-a-a-all of this extra labor and all of this time, tell me… Tell me why you can't get this junk going."
_____By now, some mechanics over there and up there had stopped in their work and now looking in this direction. It became a little quieter save for the blasting radio. The skinny brother Scotch went wide-eyed while his big beefy brother crossed his massive arms and patiently listened to Mr. Coleco's angry ranting.
_____"See, it goes somethin' like this, Mr. Coleco," began Duct. "Your mechanics ain't seen this kind of body before, neither have my brother an' me. Some of us don't even reckon' it's a cyborg body at all. It's got no artificial life-support, and the mobility processors are too simple-like to work with a real-live human brain. We were tryin' to get it to start. But it's hard to do, seein' as it's been sittin' out in the wastelands for so long. It's like it done shut itself off… Waitin' for somethin'."
_____Then one of the twins girls spoke up. "Mr. Coleco? I would like to say something," she said. "My sister and I… We know enough about the body to make it work again. But we think…it's a little too dangerous."
_____"Because we've seen this kind of machine before," said her sister. She took up a computer circuit-card from the table. "This is just one of several independent circuit-boards from inside the big thing. We hooked it up to a computer to read the OS. It's a killing machine, not a gladiator's body--not built for a human brain. All the thing wants to do is attack and destroy until…"
_____"So what!" blurted Mr. Coleco. He felt himself losing his temper, losing control. "I want to see that bad boy fired up and ready for action! Does it even turn on? Why am I even bothering to repeat myself to you two… Get it started, or I'll have some of my Black Market colleagues make you disappear! Yes, Zalem's dead, and the only law in town now is Black Market law! We can kill brains if we want, including yours! So get the heck to work!" He reached into his jacket and pulled out a thick-looking pistol.
_____A gun… Kyrie and Harrah slowly turned, moved to comply. They slowly took up two of the circuit boards while that radio continued to play loudly. The mechanics got down from the scaffolding built around the big red metal body to let the twins install the circuit boards--everyone else's eyes on Mr. Coleco and his handgun. For the next few minutes, there was just the sound of the twins working and the radio playing…
_____Finally, the twins closed up the chest panel and came down the ladder--trailing a few cables from the big thing's chest and to a table equipped with a computer. But everything became frenzied and crazy before they even reached the table.
_____The first thing that happened was that the mighty left arm tore itself loose from the scaffolding, tools and a ladder thrown every which way. People stood stunned in fear when the thing whipped up its other arm. It kicked aside tables and began growling… Growling. The sound was a combination of diesel engine and horrible beast.
_____It was none other than the Adversary, revealed and repaired in working order. With all the scaffolding covering half the arms and work tables obscuring the feet and that bizarre paint-job, Kyrie and Harrah couldn't recognize it before. It must have put itself in a low-power mode all this time as its electronic brain calculated ways into the city to find whoever it wanted to kill and destroy. Now it was in here, in this underground garage, and there was nowhere to go.
_____Its metal hooves clomped down tables and over fallen cyborgs as its mighty claw-arm swiped over tables, smacking and cutting anything and anyone in its way. And the way it was rampaging around the garage, everyone seemed to be in the way! "R-r-r-rgh… Where is Target? Where is Target? Memory parsing error, data lost. Locate Target!" it growled.
_____Mr. Coleco's cockiness was suddenly replaced with dread and fear. He staggered back and took aim with the pistol. Crack! Crack-crack! Of course, the bullets just pinged off the Adversary's inches-thick alloy plates. It really was useless, firing the gun.
_____There were only two doors out of this garage and the big roll-up garage door. But with so many people panicking, not everyone could get out in time. Not even Mr. Coleco could get out, smacked by a swipe the great big claw-hand. He died, of course--lying still and dead with his pistol still in his hand: useless against the gigantic metal beast. Duct was killed in an especially horrible way. Not wanting to leave his brother behind, Scotch was the next victim.
_____Harrah and Kyrie could just look up as the thing stomped over to them. It was just so huge, so frightening… They couldn't run, couldn't… Fwoosh! Their metal bodies were opened up with just one cut, then stepped on by both metal hooves. No one could have survived that…
_____With a few more minutes of chaos and madness, it was soon over. The few people who managed to get out of here were long-gone and running to get some help, the sounds of their shouts echoing away down the corridor. Yet that radio was still playing… Not for long!
_____Clomp-clomp-clomp… The Adversary stomped over to the little loud radio--still playing--on a now-split metal table. It took aim with its arm cannon and let loose a hot bright blast of plasma. That done and everything destroyed to its specified analysis, it stomped over to the garage door and cut that thing open.
_____Feeling cold and getting colder, numb all over, Scotch heard the Adversary going away. He eased himself to sitting up, just to make sure… The monster was gone. And all around here, there were bodies everywhere. Cyborgs, fleshies, everyone and everything here was ruined. His friends Kyrie and Harrah were lying on their backs, looking like broken and ruined like life-sized toys mishandled by a cruel and monstrous child. His brother was right here, obviously dead. When he felt himself sinking in to unconsciousness, swooning from blood-loss and injuries to his vitals, Scotch suspected that he would probably never wake up again. He didn't care now, as everyone he cared about was dead as far as he knew. Everything faded of into a relaxing darkness as his mind floated into what felt like…a warm breeze…
…
3.
…
_____It was an unusually warm breeze blowing…along this city sidewalk, nice and relaxing. Up above, all above the buildings, the sky was a sort of reddish tone as the day was dying. With everything painted in sunset tones of crimson-orange, Scotch was feeling good and relaxed, walking along. Few things felt as good and relaxing as a nice calm walk close to sunset. And since there were no other people around here, he was free to just walk and think…
_____Now, he tried to think about how the heck he got out of that underground garage, but just couldn't remember. Did he break down a door and get out? No… How about using an elevator? Nope, he didn't do that, either. The recent memory of his escape was fuzzy and blurry, as if he was looking back through a messed-up camera lens smeared with reddish candy-sauce. And then there was the laughter. He remembered laughter... Why would he remember someone laughing at something? Ah well, he was out now. Whatever happened back there had just happened its own way.
_____Then, for no good reason, Scotch decided to cross the street. He walked along that sidewalk over there for a while…until he came to an alley that branched off to the right. It was unusually dark in that alley, as if it was already night-time in there--the dying light of this day being blocked by something unseen. But he didn't care. He just wanted to go into that alley, just because he felt like it…
_____Stepping into the darkened alley made him feel a little odd, as if invisible pressures from the two walls were pressing him. He stumbled over a few bumps and felt himself losing his balance, but Scotch kept going. Well, alleys tend to be a little messed up--especially the darkened ones. Maybe he'd just keep going along until…
_____…Until a sudden warmer breeze buffeted him. The breeze brought with it the smell of burning sulfur, probably from people burning things to keep warm during the oncoming night. Truth was, it got cold around here at night, and not everyone had nice apartments to stay in. But why start burning stuff now and waste whatever supply of burnable stuff they'd salvaged? The sun was just setting.
_____As Scotch thought this, he nearly tripped over yet another piece of clutter--the concrete beneath his feet jagged and uneven. Sometimes he lost his footing in holes, and he got the idea that there was nothing beneath. It was just so darned dark in this alley! And just then, he noticed someone: an old stranger in coveralls and work-clothes, sitting on a metal crate. He was at a low table…really a big old circle of polished wood atop a broken appliance.
_____The old stranger was playing an even stranger game. Atop the makeshift table were two sets of blurry, green-colored playing cards with funny designs tattooed to them. Two blurry cards were on the side of the old stranger; four other cards were on the other side. Blurry? Yes… It was hard for Scotch to focus his eyes on the green cards for too long; they gave him a headache.
_____Instead, he looked at the old stranger, whose beard was now a light red color for some reason--his rough and liver-spotted hands deftly rapid-shuffling more of those blurry playing cards. The old stranger and the table were easier to see because of an off-kilter light bolted to one of the alley walls, shining roughly down on the table. A person would think that such an old man's hands would be shaky and useless, especially since he was still human--a fleshie. The toxin in the air and water, along with drinking, should have ruined his nervous system by now. At that age, most people were cyborgs already. But not the old stranger… Fwip-fwip-fwip-fwip-fwip… Flick! He stopped shuffling the green cards and stared across the table.
_____There seemed to be someone else at the low makeshift table, someone obscured by the darkness and shadows. Why the heck was it so dark around here? Scotch ducked and leaned side to side, trying to get a better view of the other at that table. But it was no use; he couldn't see who else was at the table.
_____There was another whiff of something burning, from beyond this dark alley as the old stranger made his move. He raised a blurry playing card and smiled a drooling smile, then set it down in the middle of the table. The shadowy opponent growled and grumbled angrily while the old stranger took two cards from the other side of the table and slid them back over to his side.
_____Then, something else happened… Scotch thought he saw the old stranger taking two cards from the other side of the table. Instead, it turned out that he was just taking one card from the shadowy opponent. Still giving that drooly smile, the old stranger said, "Sometimes, I sing them right in my own way! This wicked game… Don't be flippant!"
_____Wham! Snarling, the shadowy opponent had slammed a dark fist on the low makeshift table, making it flip up in the alleyway air like a gigantic wooden coin. It seemed to hang in the air for a long second, turning over and over, and then it came back down with a loud clattering and battering sound…landing right where it was before. Impossible! But there it was… Even the cards on the table were still there.
_____Pondering the impossibility of this event, Scotch felt some more winds blowing through the alley. These weren't comfortable warm winds; these were hot winds--like winds from a furnace. And the winds had a horrible burning smell to them, making him want to get out of here. Yes, he had to…get out of here. Feeling weak and cold, he made how way away from the place where those two played with blurry green cards…
…
_____"Gya-a-ah!" he shouted. Scotch awakened, and everything was in sharp clarity. He was in the room of a city medical clinic, atop a white table in a generally white room: white-colored walls, white florescent lighting, white medical equipment, and the female cyborg doctor wearing white clothes. She was holding a syringe in gray hands. He stared at it, gasping for air and clutching his chest.
_____ He felt around… Felt skin, not metal. He was stripped down to his loose underwear, and there was a tight bandaged wrapped round his middle. "Hey! So you didn't make me into a cyborg. Good news!" he said aloud. "Uh, no offense about the cyborg comment, doctor-lady… It's a miracle! You know, I just had this funny dream…"
_____"Lie down, please. And don't think your troubles are over yet," said the blonde-haired female doctor, her voice square and firm. Under other circumstances, maybe her blue eyes would have been seen as pretty. But right now, they looked cold and icy. "I've given you an injection of a cardiovascular stimulant compounded with an earlier anesthetic, so you will feel fine for a while--but you are not fine! Your blood pressure was dropping, and some of your vital organs are in especially bad shape. The internal hemorrhaging was stopped, but tissue damage remains. Any other day, we'd give you a blood transfusion, but we're running low on your blood type today.
_____"Now, I've given you these injections as so would be conscious and clear-headed enough to make a decision about what you want to do now. There are an assortment of cyborg bodies available, of various types and abilities. You must consider…"
_____"Cyborg?" he shouted. "You wanna take my brain out of my body, put it through some wacky chemical alteration process, and put it in a machine? Are you nuts? I don't want to even hear about that! Where the heck is my brother? No, don't answer that question. You don't know and I don't know. Doctors know a lot but don't know everything, you know. And I know what I'm gonna do now. I'm getting out of here!"
_____"No you are not…!" she said, reaching for him. Moving with stimulant-induced speed, he knocked away her gray hand and then shoved the doctor's shoulders. Scotch was on his way to the door as she fell backwards to the floor, tangled in her white medical coat. Yeah, he was too fast for her--was even fast enough to nab his neatly piled clothes before exiting the room.
_____He was getting out of here! A quick run along the hall, down the stairs and out the front door, and he was outside. Luckily, someone had parked he and his brother's dune buggy close by. Who brought his car around? He didn't care, was just glad it was here for him.
…
_____Driving the afternoon city streets in the dune buggy, he made his way back to the bar where he'd met up with Kyrie and Harrah yesterday. He didn't want to drive back to the apartment just yet, not yet. He had to at least see if his friends, the twins, were okay. Good, there were a few open parking spaces in the side lot.
_____His vehicle parked, he realized that he was still in his underwear--and wearing a bandage around his skinny midsection. He squirmed and moved around in the front seat as he put on his coveralls, shirt and socks. Money-chips were still in the picket. The shoes came on easy. And then…
_____"Wooh…!" he went, putting a hand to his sweaty forehead, feeling a bit wo-o-ozy now. The stimulant that doctor gave him must be wearing off, and he was feeling a bit sick. Moving shakily, he made his way around to the front of the pub and heard…singing? Someone was singing, a girl… Someone nearby. The beautiful melody and the sweet voice bolstered his spirit, giving him the strength to go in.
…
4.
…
_____He entered the pub, the lights dim and afternoon sunlight coming in through the side-window--closed the door behind him. The singing was just fading down, getting quiet… And people clapped: loudly, thunderously, slamming their hands together and standing up to praise the singer on stage. Because every table was filled with customers, because all the stools at the drinking bar was occupied, because there were even customers standing along the walls, all of that clapping made for a massive sound!
_____Scotch turned to look at the source of the beautiful singing…and saw that she was as delicately beautiful as her voice. The girl was a bit below five feet in height and was slender, delicate. She had on a glowingly white gown, almost as light as her too-pale skin and her moonbeam-pale hair and skin, her round and dollish face looking lost somewhere between thirteen and a (very petite) twenty-three. The only color about her outfit was a red scarf around her slender neck, a contrast to her large green eyes. A girl…or a woman? It was hard to tell her age…
_____The girl bowed and sat on a stool, the microphone seeming large in her small hands. One of the waitresses smiled and brought her a tall glass of water. She nearly drained the entire glass without taking a breath, some water remaining in the bottom. Then she did something odd, something Scotch didn't quite understand.
_____She raised the glass and used the last of the water to wet her scarf. Bizarre… Ah well, we all have our quirks. Scotch walked over to the bar, surrounded by the din of people talking loudly about the singer. He managed to squeeze between two big guys on stools to get closer to the bar and he spoke up--trying to get the attention of the red-haired female bartender. She was busy cleaning mugs with her gloved hands.
_____"Excuse me…!" said Scotch, loud enough to be heard above the din, which got him rude looks from some here at the bar. Carlene, the bartender on duty now, looked at him. "This was where Kyrie and Harrah used to work, right?" Now his own voice was beginning to sound a little funny…another side-effect of the painkilling drugs.
_____Carlene stopped cleaning the beer mug and walked closer. She set down the towel and mug, put them down… "Used to work here…? What do you mean?" she asked. Then her eyes went wide. "Oh my… Did something happen to them?"
_____Now Scotch was really beginning to feel not-good… The effects of the stimulant must be almost done by now. Worse, the pain in his midsection was beginning to seep through. He shook his head to shake off some of the wooziness, leaned harder against the bar. "What I'm trying to say is… What I mean… Something bad happened at the West-Side Arena. An accident. We were working on a body salvaged from the wastelands, see. Or we thought it was a body. The big thing went berserk..."
_____As Scotch said this, Carlene's eyes widened. "West-Side Arena! That's where Kyrie and Harrah said they were going today! What happened to them! Where are they! They're not…" She stared, her eyes becoming angry. "What the Hell were you guys doing there?"
_____The skinny, injured mechanic felt that female bartender's angry eyes stare into him. Now he was beginning to feel himself reach the limits of his endurance. His brother was dead, and so were those twins. Here he was, his insides half-ruined, and now it looked as if this bartender wanted to kill him… He was probably going to end up a cyborg before the day was done, or he'd be dead. Nothing was going right, nothing at all.
_____"I'm… I'm sorry, lady," said Scotch as pain and sickness began to leak up from his bandage-strapped abdomen beneath his coveralls. "Sorry about…everything…" He put his left hand on his midsection, then looked down… Just as he thought: there was a patch of red wetness there, where some blood was beginning to soak through bandages, through shirt, and through coveralls front. Carlene's eye-focus followed his hand, and she stared as Scotch fell back and collapsed to the floor…
_____While Carlene went out from behind the drinking bar to help Scotch, the lights dimmed as the house crew powered up the pub's sound system for another song from the snow-haired girl on the stage. In the dimness, no one really noticed or heard Carlene kneeling on both knees ant trying to rouse Scotch. With gentle synthesizer bell-tones and other instruments for a sad back-melody, the girl's singing again filled the space…
…
You-u-u make the tears of lo-o-ove
….flow like they did when I sa-a-aw
…the dy-ing swan
The swan that died in da-a-rk-ness
….I want your smile!
…
I dreamt of your swan-smile
…and then wings moved the air!
Water-rings widened, as bells sounded
….in the ni-i-ight!
…
Then your smile died
…On the wa-a-ater
It was on-ly-a-reflect-ion
…dy-ing with
…the swa-a-an...
…
_____One of the waitresses drove a van out front, the van they usually used to transport crates of food, wine, and other restaurant supplies. Now they were going to use it for a temporary, makeshift ambulance…if there ever was a such thing as an ambulance these days. With Scotch loaded in back, one of the pub workers agreed to keep him from flopping around on the way to the clinic. Carlene could do nothing but close the doors and watch as the van went off and away.
_____She went back inside, into the music-filled dimness. Some of the customers were looking in the direction of the front door, which let in afternoon sunlight. Carlene closed the door and walked between tables to get back to the drinking bar… No, she couldn't start working again just yet; her synthetic velvet gloves were stained red with blood. With the wonderful singing still going, Carlene went through the door left of the bar and into the staff area, past the kitchen.
_____There was a small washroom back here, where she was able to take off the bloody velvet gloves and wash her hands in the hard sink. Even when the crimson stains were gone from her metal fingers and palms, she kept rinsing and rinsing…even as tears began to well up in her own eyes.
_____The truth was, Carlene lost too many people she knew to stupid things. Her parents worked at a metals reprocessing plant… Both died on different days, having fallen into the gnashing machinery and were ground to bits. Later on, she lost a nice friend who went and tried playing Motorball for money. His head was head knocked off when the action got rough. Ironically, he thought Motorball was safer than the job his father had in working in the factory-buildings.
_____She turned off the faucet, her solid gray fingers turning the silvery faucet-knob. Maybe she had to stop caring about people... Yes, maybe that was the solution. It seemed as if every other person Carlene knew was hurt or killed because of stupid things. She didn't really know the twins Harrah and Kyrie that well, but she felt sorry for them anyway. They were probably still teenagers when they were killed in that work-related accident at that arena. Why did people have to die because of so many…stupid things?
_____The wash-room door opened a little, and the waitress peeked inside. "Hey… Are you okay in there?" she asked. "You've been in there for a while. Should I take over the bar? I know how to make most of the drinks customers want…"
_____"No… No, I'm fine! Really, I am!" said Carlene, smiling and wiping tears from her synthetic face. "Yeah, I'm coming out right now. Be there in a second," she said, looking at her reflection in this washroom mirror above the sink. Her white blouse and dark vest were still crisp, and her tight-dark pants were also presentable--shoes still neat. She'd have to soak the gloves in cleaning solution later, though. Oh well, it wasn't too much of a problem to serve drinks and such with bare metal hands… The kitchen staff dealt with food; all Carlene had to worry about was handling the drinks. Still, she just didn't like to work with metal showing.
_____Another look at herself, and she left the wash-room. Carlene left the gloves next to the sink, would probably get them later or something. Some of the customers were curious, but all of them were thirsty. Soon enough, she was soon busy pouring beer from the taps, pouring wine from bottles and mixing some of the fancier drinks. It was a full house already, and the sun wasn't even setting yet. The strange new girl's singing must be especially powerful to draw in so many customers so soon.
…
5.
…
_____Most all of the customers already had bottles of drink and mugs full of various refreshments, holding them in their hands (be those hands flesh or metal) or setting them atop tables as they crowded around one particular table in the room. Carlene didn't have to serve so many people now as they were primarily distracted by the strange new girl--the singer--who had only come in here hours ago. People were asking her questions and making comments, and she responded in her light and small voice between bites of her food.
_____For someone so small and thin, she seemed to have a large appetite, eating a lot of meat. She was already on her second plate of premium meat cuts. What kind of meat? Well, nobody asks where meats come from these days: So long as the stuff tastes good and doesn't make a person sick afterward, nobody really cares. The pale-haired waif just kept eating the stuff… Maybe she was infected with some kind of intestinal parasite, or maybe her metabolism was just ridiculously high. Fleshie kids needed to eat plenty as they needed to grow…
_____Then again, the female cyborg bartender suspected that the girl wasn't so young. The slight but noticeable feminine curves beneath the girl's gown suggested she was at least coming of age. And her delicate face had a sharpness of features that bespoke someone not quite a child. There were diseases out there that stunted people's growth, mutant variations of illnesses from centuries ago. Or it could be genetic; maybe she was just meant to be small. Few people had unusually pale hair like that: pale, like fresh moonlit snow. And her eyes, they were large and emerald-green--almost inhuman.
_____Taking advantage of the slow-down in customer drinking, Carlene kept cleaning beer mugs behind the bar and listened to the crowd massed around that strange girl. They asked her where she learned how to sing, and she replied that she simply "knew" how to make music…from an early age. Just a little practice, and she was able to sing better in time… Her parents? They were far away. And that was all she knew about them. She had to earn her money singing now. Where did she come from, then? She said she came from the same place her parents did. Her gown was white and so were her little shoes… But why the red scarf? She has such beautiful skin, and to cover any of it with such a floppy scarf was a shame.
_____That was when she went silent, the flow in the questioning stopped. Carlene looked up from the mug she was currently cleaning and saw that the girl's cheeks took on a deep blushing red. Flustered, she barely answered, "I… I don't like to talk about it. Please…" The guy that asked the question seemed embarrassed, and no one else asked that question.
_____Cli-click… Click! Heads turned to look as the front door opened. In walked the broad-chested cyborg owner of this establishment--Patrick himself. Looking quickly around, he was vaguely confused for just a second. There were all of those customers over there in a corner at the right side of the main room, people at tables and standing around. Good thing was that they all had drinks with them, paying customers. But what brought all of their attention to there?
_____As the customers returned their attention to the girl, Patrick walked over to that mob and was careful not to disturb them. He was always polite and courteous to his customers and people-in-general…so long as they didn't raise trouble. Looking over shoulders and listening, he saw that the center of attention was a little slip of a girl with long pale-blonde hair and large green eyes, her voice small and delicate.
_____How the Hell a lass like that could live--could even exist--in this hard city was beyond him. As he listened to her speak and answer questions, he suspected he knew how. Sometimes, people were crazy and cruel, especially with the changeover of enforcement from a small scattered army of killer bounty hunters to a smaller group of (even more aggressive) crime lords. The girl was just so small and so pretty, so delicately polite, that it would be obscene to even think of her being hurt.
_____With an effort, Patrick walked away from the group and over to the bar--leaned over to the bar. Carlene came over and leaned forward, listening carefully. In a low and quiet voice, Patrick asked, "Who's the wee lass? Do you know her name? She seems to have the listening ears of all the regular customers…and more."
_____Shrugging blouse-covered shoulders, Carlene said, "Gee… I really don't know, Mr. Patrick. About nine minutes after Maddy drove an injured mechanic to a hospital, the girl came in and walked up. She ordered a glass of water and paid for it… Paid a little too much, I think. Then she offered to sing in thanks. So the house crew set up the stage and let her sing." Her eyes widened. "And… Wow! You should hear her sing. Better yet, you should've seen what happened after she started!" Carlene could barely keep her voice down to a whisper. "There were all kinds of customers coming in--lots of new faces." She looked around, wide-eyed. "They must have heard her from blocks away, her singing carried on the winds or something like that. Before long, this place was full. I really think we should hire her on as one of the regular singers… Unless she buys up all our premium meats!"
_____ "Hmmph…. Hire her on, eh? You really think so?" mused Patrick, looking to the right and over at that group. For some seconds, he listened to the girl's light voice as she answered questions and some people gently laughed and leaned in to better hear her words. They sipped their drinks and kept listening, all of their attention on her. There were easily over two dozen people in that group over there--and it was barely after work-hours. "If she'd be amenable to such an agreement, I'd put her on... Even give her a percentage of the extra profits she brings in. Speaking of new hires, where are my new twin mechanics? Are they back from their little business trip to West-Side Arena?"
_____Carlene looked downward, the expression on her face frozen for a moment. "The injured mechanic I told you about, the one that Maddy drove to the hospital? Well, he had a message. There was an accident. The twins were working with him and some others in trying to salvage and refurbish something found in the desert. It turned out to be a killing machine with its own mind and…" She looked away, eyes to the right. "They didn't make it, Mr. Patrick."
_____Dumbstruck, Patrick sat down on the nearest bar stool. Was there no end to this stupidity? It was bad enough that mechanics were being kidnapped all over the city and disappearing, ending up who-knows-where in working for the Black Market. He thought that he could look out for this latest pair of mechanics and keep them from disappearing.
_____Now both his latest hires were gone--killed in some stupid Arena accident. Both twins were dead, just like that. Whatever was left of their metal bodies was probably already being taken off and put in shops for re-use. There would be no one to grieve over their dead brains--probably put in bags and sold for to amateur scientists for…"experiments." Zalem was gone; people could do what they wanted to dead brains. How long had the twins been in the city… A few weeks?
_____He felt sorry for them. Speaking with a voice hoarse with sadness, he said, "There's nothing we can do about that now, can we? Maybe it's fate talking to me… I guess I'll have to learn how to make do without a mechanic." His thick shoulders in white shirt slumped, and he stared at his bar's floor. For the next few minutes, he listened to the new girl talking and entertaining the customers. He didn't want any more of his employees--current or future--ending up missing or dead… No more.
…
_____Clomp-clomp-clomp…! The Adversary stomped mightily along the street, its metal body still done up in the garish red-and-white paint-job given to it in the underground garage. That massive three-tined claw-hand gleamed with something darker than paint, though. Something that dried and left dark cinnamon-colored stains.
_____But that stuff wasn't really cinnamon, not by a long shot. Re-allocating Target Data… Potential targets being scanned, went its simple electronic mind--an electronic mind now mutilated and half-gone. Some of its AI processors had been yanked out back in that underground garage, and only one-third of them put back. Its simple little killing mind had been butchered, made deranged.
_____No matter: The Adversary's processors were simple and redundant in design. Destroy or take out one of its electronic "brains," and there were two others to back it up--along with simpler processors deep within its mighty armored midsection. It had killer minds to spare within. And it was not as if it had the brains of a genius; it only existed to find and kill particular designated targets.
_____"Stop that freakin' thing! It killed Kyle!" shouted someone. The upper-half of the Adversary's body rotated to the left and its three optic sensors focused in on the source of the voice: a male cyborg in dark business clothing. And before long, there were dozens of them all around.
_____They had guns, plentiful in quantity and variety. Some guns "fired" magnetically propelled and chemically propelled projectiles of all kinds. Some of them made for ball-shaped, ultra-hot little explosions when the struck. And some of the bullets managed to put tiny dents in the thick armor. All of the shooting made for a lot of light, heat and noise in the afternoon city street…
_____When the smoke cleared, there was a smoking crater in the street where the Adversary once stood--a crater lined with bits of metal. Stepping closer, guns still, the Black Market enforcers warily stepped closer. The crater was actually a hole in the street. As for the bits of metal, they weren't the exploded remains of the metal beast.
_____They were the distorted bullets fired at the thing. The bullets had--apparently--bounced off of the Adversary's ultra-thick alloy armor. That metal monster was now somewhere in the deep sewers, probably stomping around and already moving to come back to the surface. When it did, there would be more trouble.
