Akanor: Tales From Necro Box Set Page 13

  “Why do I even bother asking you anything, Anicor? You’re so full of it.”

  A knock on the door. Robert jumped, seeing his heart rate suddenly shift from a steady seventy beats per minute to one hundred and twenty. The backstage should have been empty by now, unless Denton was still here. Robert’s blood sugar level began to creep up as stress seeped into his blood vessels.

  A noise outside the door. A fast movement. Air swooshing. A piece of paper—an envelope, apparently—slid under the door.

  At the center of Robert’s iTop, a red exclamation point appeared. Anicor said, “Warning! Warning! Terrorist activity imminent! Antiterrorist Protocol Initiated!”

  “Don’t be such a drag, you machine. It’s probably just fan mail. And if it were one of those bombs the Offgridders set off on their targets, we’d be dead by now. So calm down. Don’t even bother contacting the Leukoforce.”

  He very well knew that fan mail had not come in the form of a written note since the 2070s, when paper was declared nonexistent after WWIII vaporized almost every tree. If the nuclear bombs hadn’t done the job, nuclear fallout had surely eradicated the plants. This meant the paper had to be an Old Memory.

  “Robert, I’ve gone ahead and contacted the Leukoforce,” said the AI.

  “You mean Moshi Nikamaya?”

  “How did you know?”

  “Wasn’t she obvious at the hospital? She’s my chaperone. And don’t even try denying it. Now, we’ll read this note together, you and I, like a team, for old time’s sake.”

  ‘You should wait until Moshi comes into the room.”

  “Oh, I think it’s best if I don’t.” Robert waddled to the door, his shoes plodding on the carpeted floor. Stooping over the object, Robert realized it was quite puffy for an envelope of paper. He bent down, spinal bones crackling as he picked up the paper. ZAP!

  A self-limited EMP pulse crawled over every square inch of the dressing room, like a stampede of blue, electrical arachnids. The EMP disabled the program momentarily. The OHP-I was already rebooting, the white energy bar in the center of the screen showing the status of the process.

  Robert’s sweat was cold. The room grew pitch black. He had the envelope in his hand and noticed it was warm. The paper felt delicious, his fingertips caressing the Old Memory. Paper…such a strange material. Robert opened it in spite of his fear. Curiosity pushed him onward. Like emotional cloth, the message inside began to shine with bright red letters—

  I WILL UPLOAD AN ALTERED SCRIPT ON YOUR iTOP ON THE DAY OF RECKONING.

  BE READY.

  THE CONSEQUENCES OF ITS ALTERATION MIGHT BE DIRE, BUT I’M SURE YOU AGREE THAT SOMETHING MUST BE DONE TO ‘AWAKEN’ OUR FELLOW USERS.

  I KNOW YOU HAVE THE SAME DOUBTS ABOUT THIS WHOLE ‘ACT’ WE PUT TOGETHER.

  WE CAN CHANGE THE WORLD ONE LETTER AT A TIME.

  — INGMAN GREENBERG, THE SCREENWRITER

  The paper was too thin to survive the micro-amplitude waves of heat generated by the emotional lights created by the nanobots, and it soon began to turn into dust, spewing out a single flame that died with a swirl of smoke.

  Within seconds, the whole spiel ended. The electromagnetic waves subsided, and the energy dissipated into the air, leaving no trace behind but the desire for change.

  Anicor finished rebooting. “What happened? I sensed a powerful energy field when you picked up the envelope. Paper is an Old Memory. Who would possess such an object? Explain,” commanded the AI.

  “I…” Robert was still agape and did not know how to hide what had happened from his personal AI. She couldn’t find out! Robert did what he had been trained to do for most of his life—he acted. “Oh, sweet corn! Call the Leukoforce!”

  Moshi kicked down the door. Markle popped out of his own dressing room, “My dear! Oh, my love! My tutor! Is he OK! Anicor, is he? Is he? Oh, please!” yelled the Understudy.

  Moshi stopped Markle with a slap to the face that caught him off guard, shaking his head ferociously.

  The Understudy squealed and ran away, blood dripping from his face. Robert smiled but quickly corrected himself. Markle was hurt, and feeling bad for him was the correct thing to do. Once Robert thought about what had just occurred, he didn’t understand why Moshi slapped Markle.

  Anicor must have debriefed Moshi in a millisecond.

  “Explain,” said the android. She used a demanding voice, crossing her arms and placing her weight on her right hip. Her long, straight brown hair dangled in the air. It was amazing to think her hair was actually real, grown by cultured hair follicles implanted into her skin. She was one of the newer creations by Minotaur Biotech.

  “I was attacked! You tell me what happened, you casket! Do you have a functional brain, or is it that you’re too full of corn and sweet syrup?” yelled Robert. He was trying to sound as worried as possible, forcing the flap of skin under his chin to tremble.

  “Your tone is offensive, Mr. Thorns. If you were attacked, it was obviously from an organized group, since no trace of them is left. Texalifornia has many enemies. It could be anybody.

  “The Actor must not be killed!” continued the android. “There are footprints here…These contain dirt from The Offgrid. You were most likely attacked by the Primals. You are to report any other anomaly to Anicor, understood?”

  “Primals? Whatever,” said Robert.

  “I am here to protect you. I care about you.”

  “Oh fuck off. Get out! Get out, Moshi Nikamaya!”

  Moshi blushed furiously yet obeyed the command and left the room without another word. The kicked-down door was worthless now. It would be replaced once Robert was promoted to Unification and Markle took over the role of Yulius, which would happen very soon.

  Robert’s lower lip trembled. Someone had delivered him a message from The Offgrid. And it was signed by Ingman Greenberg, The Screenwriter. Was he involved with some rebel group called the Primals?

  Robert’s pulse hammered against his chest. Something big was happening under his nose. Even in the absence of knowing exactly what was being planned, he already knew he would play a central role.

  VII

  Robert was eager to read the altered Script. What did it contain that was worth sharing to the public? It had to be some sort of ultimate message, a verbal code that would unleash a flair of emotion and thought.

  Altering the Script in any way, however, was as precarious as improvising on the stage. Notwithstanding, Robert had never heard of an Actor being punished for improvising or of a Screenwriter being scorned for altering the Script. But no one truly knew anything about previous Actors and even much less so of previous Screenwriters.

  “What is going on, Robert? You’re busy thinking in tangents. I detect that your eye movement has increased 68 percent since you woke this morning. You know you can share anything with me,” reminded Anicor.

  Robert was standing on the balcony at the penthouse of the Globus Theater Hotel. He was leaning on the steel balustrade, studying the horizon with an empty stare. The wind was thick with pollution, the sweet stink of corn syrup mixed with polymeric material that comprised most of the skeletons of the big structures. Most buildings were made by mammoth 3-D printers.

  The printer was a gigantic robot that squatted over the area where a building was desired. The mainframe of the structure would be ejected within a day. Robert had seen the machine from a distance, had heard Honest and Trust talk about it in their show Honky Dory. The printer was also used for Flash Conquests. The gigantic robot was called a Titan by most. Minotaur Biotech had created only a handful of them, as materials were scarce and expensive to harvest.

  The sky was a mantle of blackness, the norm in Texalifornia. The horizon provided nothing more than dullness. There was nothing to gaze at, really, nothing to provoke wonder or amazement. No clouds. No stars. No birds chirping or climbing the heavens.

  “I was just wondering how dark the sky is, you know? Have you ever thought about it, Anicor? The world is strange. We can’t tell n
ight from day. We don’t even know what green means—I mean true green, like plants and nature and all those Old Memories.” Nostalgia tainted his words. His voice was distorted by the emotion.

  “You were born in this city when the sky was already darkened. You have never seen the light of the sun, Robert. Why the longing for something you have never seen? What sense does that make?” argued the AI.

  “I have seen it! Well…in the pictures and videos of the Old World. Reading about sunrise and sundown makes me wonder of what it must have felt like…to be present for the dawn and the dusk, the spectra of light shining…”

  “There’s no time for philosophical inquiries, Robert. Your imagination is getting the best of you. You have an audience to please, which is more important than your own wellbeing. Remember the Good Civilian Law states that very principle.”

  “I’m an artist in its purest state,” argued Robert. “Art is all about rhyme with reason; flow with thought; to be guided by the pentagram of the subconscious.”

  “What?”

  “To understand poetry is of another realm, dear Anicor. I was thinking about that—the world we inhabit and how chaotic it is; and even though most of it is destroyed, some beauty can still be harvested from it. I understand, though, that you haven’t been engineered to appreciate human intellect to its furthest reach.”

  “Do not insult my intelligence, Robert. My makers will not be happy with the report I’m about to send them.”

  “Do whatever you want. Now please find me the most relevant information about the Primals and read it out loud while I prepare myself for my presentation.” Robert had gained an interest in the Offgridder rebel group when Moshi mentioned the footsteps outside his dressing room. How had anyone gained access to the Globus Theater, bypassed security, and still managed to get away? He had to be an insider. Had to know the ins and outs of the Theater. Had to know the super artificial intelligence’s weakness.

  “You’re suddenly interested in the Offgridders? How so?” asked the AI. She turned on the iTop and showed Robert her search progress. Various pictures and summaries popped up. Anicor was sorting through them in a flash.

  “Well, I might have been attacked by such enemy, do you recall?”

  “This is true. I have found eight thousand relevant articles about the Primals. Do you want me to summarize them in exactly seventy-eight words? Or would you prefer a trail of images to exemplify who they are and where they came from and why they are an enemy of Texalifornia?”

  “A combination of both would be perfect, thank you.”

  “You hadn’t thanked me in weeks. Are you sure you’re OK, Robert?”

  “Yes, Anicor. I’m perfectly fine.”

  Robert moved toward his dressing room. He reached into his walking closet and pulled out one of his many golden wigs. He stretched out the curls, feeling its texture. It felt like real hair. Made of spiderweb fiber, it would outlast most human hair in the long run.

  Robert sat down in front of the mirror and turned on the many lights framing it. He saw his own reflection, staggering as he recognized his fat body. Those eyes…that gaze…you’re a fucking crazy man, Robert…you know that, right? Will you have the guts to read the altered script out loud, even if it means paying the price? I’m ready…something has to change. His gaze became defeated.

  The program provided the desired information. “The Primals are the survivors from The Great Battle of Atomic Bombs. They live in the underground subway system and sewers of destroyed cities like New York and Washington. They are primitive in nature, use gunpowder-based weapons. However, they are smart and ruthless. Their sole purpose is to overthrow the Texalifornian dominion of North, Central, and South America. As the Border Wars continue to expand, the opposition and number of participants in the Primals’s band keeps growing,” said the AI.

  She continued, “And here’s the trail of images I promised.”

  Anicor maximized the screen. Although the eyepiece was only worn on one eye, a user could still concentrate 100 percent on the images since it was projected directly to the retina through narrow-wave nerve stimulation. Sound was transmitted as electromagnetic waves resonating in the cranium, thus being perceived by the auditory nerves.

  The first picture was a blazing furnace of chaos and lights, fire and blood. A platoon of Mechanized Warriors overwhelmed the scene as they marched in great numbers. Missiles. Mini-railguns piercing the soil to obliterate underground passages. Another picture showed a bearded man shouting to his followers, celebrating a vision he portrayed. Another picture showed the bearded man and his followers fighting to the death against the Texalifnornian Armed Forces. A thermonuclear bomb exploding over a buried city. A swarm of ten thousand Flagellated Pelican Ships armed with plasma repeaters into another underground city, pulverizing it as the platoon of warships emptied their salvo. War. Crime. Death. Bandits. 50,000,000,000 credits and a bionic pancreas to the man or woman who finds and brings the bearded man’s head. A mercenary earns 50,000,000,000 credits and a bionic pancreas for harvesting the bearded man’s head, but then he’s sent for processing for being a mercenary in the first place.

  “I think that summarizes it well,” said Anicor.

  “Yes…very interesting. I had no idea what the Offgridders were up to. I thought they were just a band of villains with no real consequence to our government, living in the cities that got buried,” said Robert.

  “They are savages, Robert. Never forget that. They threaten to destabilize us. They have spies among our people. It’s easy to identify these spies as they are not users, which means they do not possess an authorized OHP-I.”

  “So interesting,” said Robert as he powdered his face. The clock on his iTop read in digital numbers: 17:17. Almost time to go. Time to act.

  “I will order the beam elevator, Robert. It is time for you to go downstairs and prepare yourself for your last episode: ‘The Day of Reckoning.’ Are you ready?”

  “I’m as ready as I’ll ever be.” Robert was wearing a silk dress, which he called his pajamas. He removed it, exposing his fat body in front of the mirror. He studied his huge frame and dangling flaps of skin. Robert picked up his man boobs and flopped them around like toys. He sighed, reached out for his silk dressing gown. It wasn’t made of real silk, the stuff silkworms used to make. This was genetically manufactured cloth. But it still felt good around the naked body.

  Robert was ready to go down. He walked toward the beam elevator. A blue light appeared, and a man-sized capsule arrived shortly. A chime sounded and the machine spoke out, “You may step into the capsule now. Welcome again, Mr. Thorns. I hope you have a good day.”

  Robert yawned as the capsule was electromagnetically beamed to the lower levels. A holographic advertisement on top of a distant building was displaying Lenny Honest and Penny Trust’s show: Honky Dory. As the beam elevator went down, he could hear Honest say: “…and today will be his last play.”

  ***

  “Where’s my meal?” was the first thing Robert yelled out as he stepped out of the beam elevator. The backstage was busy as people ran to and fro preparing the scenery. Servo-crafts did their part in carrying around heavy items.

  The buzzing noise of the gathering audience was intensifying. In the past, such noise made Robert nervous when he imagined the thousands of eyes that would be gazing at him. But now that buzz was just annoying, a reminder of his career as an Actor who was truly only a puppet. He looked around, his dewlap dangling.

  “Markle!” yelled Robert. “My pre-stage dinner!” he demanded again. Robert continued to walk to his dressing room. The door was still down. Nobody had even bothered removing it. And why would they? The whole dressing room would be overhauled once Robert was promoted to Unification and Markle took over.

  The Understudy entered the dressing room, stepping on the kicked-down door. His face was a mask of anger and controlled fear. “I hope that bionic savage doesn’t come in here or I’ll…oh! I’m so angry at her. She didn’t have to
slap me, you know? Look at my face! My lovely face! I have three laser stitches right here! Oh! The pain! My loveliness is soiled! Mr. Denton Klos already replaced my role in today’s play! Your grand finale! How terrible! I’ll have to sit with the rest of the audience. How repulsive. I hope this won’t affect my soon-to-be role as Yulius…Did I speak too soon? I’m sorry, you haven’t even been promoted and I’m already talking about replacing you…”

  “Shut up. Yes, you’ll become Yulius Zezar. It’s obvious. But in the meantime, you’re still my Understudy and have to tend to all my needs. Now bring me my pre-stage meal, you imp! You insolent insubordinate!”

  Markle darted off, flushing with anger and mumbling something to himself.

  ***

  Robert stood up once he was in his black suit. Today, he was wearing his ceremonial purple tie. He studied his reflection before heading out. The funnels of his pupils harbored some intensity he hadn’t unraveled. He made a mental note to gather more information about his own gaze after today’s play. Perhaps upon being promoted to Unification he would spend countless hours thinking about the depths of life. Robert sighed again. He put on the golden wig.

  The morphing of Robert Thorns to Yulius Zezar was complete within seconds. The mirror showed him not the strength he had seen moments ago, but some weakness taking over. If he felt like a predator while being Robert, then he felt like the prey under the alias.

  Time to let go of my own will and let the master of puppets pull my strings, thought The Actor as he emerged to the bright inferno of the stage.

  VIII

  A single drop of sweat managed to pierce the inch-thick layer of makeup Robert was wearing. The drop dribbled down from his forehead, trickling slowly, passing through the ridge created between his fat cheek and his nose.