Cyberia

By Tim Rowe

Cyberia is a virtual-reality behaviour correction system, but something has gone wrong.

Malachi Smith regains consciousness at the scene of a homicide, with no knowledge about the murdered girl's identity or how he came to be there.

Chased by police, drones and local militia, he must make crucial decisions about who to trust in a darkly dystopian futuristic world, where an amalgamation between Ebola and influenza is plaguing an overcrowded city.

As he uncovers more of the puzzle pieces surrounding his situation, the truth of what they portray is strangely disturbing.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Tim Rowe
• Release date: Mar 6, 2015
• ISBN: 9781311874603

Tim Rowe

Tim Rowe is the author of Cyberia, the Tales from the Obsidian Tower short story collection, and the forthcoming Beyond the Deep Blue Sky. He typically writes story driven literature in the sci-fi, horror or dark romance genres, often underpinned by a philosophical premise.

Book preview

Acknowledgements

Cover Art - Sue Howis

Photography - Andrada

Chapter 1: A Rude Awakening

Consciousness brought with it the full intensity of my senses. Pain exploded through my nervous system, hammering my skull like a piledriver. I was lying on the hard tiled floor of a hospital ward beside the lifeless body of a girl, her expression paralysed somewhere between rage and terror. Blood was clotted in her platinum blonde hair, staining the deathly blue skin of her once beautiful face, as she lay sprawled in a twisted and contorted manner.

Adrenaline rushed my consciousness into the moment.

I struggled to get up, but there was no strength in my limbs so, stooped and bloodless, I swayed on my feet as I attempted to assess my surroundings.

Beside the girl's body was a heavy looking piece of medical equipment, and it looked as if she'd been bludgeoned with it. Blood was smeared across the floor, and some of it was on my shoes, so I took them off and washed them in a basin in the corner of the room, turning the taps between my wrists so as not to leave fingerprints. I couldn't see the wound on the back of my head but I could feel the drying blood, and my fingers were red when I took them away.

I was standing at a murder scene, with no memory of what had happened; what would the authorities think if they found me here, with everything the scene implied? A sick feeling started to churn inside my stomach.

My head ached and I couldn't think clearly, so I switched off the light to buy myself some time. The face-recognition camera in the corner of the room was damaged; perhaps someone had broken it to cover their tracks, but at least it meant my own actions hadn't been recorded. My first priority was to escape; I could worry about the details later.

Cautiously, I peered into the corridor outside. A nurse was sitting at the reception desk, watching projected holograms perform a drama. Lifting her right hand slightly, she adjusted the solidity of the image and carried on watching with her head tilted to one side, while a robot polished the hospital floor, creeping from left to right according to its program. Edging out of the ward, I tried to shuffle with the manner of an injured patient, and my break for freedom went unnoticed.

The clatter of a trolley and the sound of voices shattered the nighttime stillness. I ducked through the closest doorway, into a changing room, where lockers ran along the wall, leading up to a first-aid cupboard and washing facilities at the end. I hid in the shower and waited.

'We need to get more morphine down to the red wing, and more bandages…,' an authoritative voice explained.

'Bandages?'

'That's right. To patch them up before we can get them treated.'

'Well, if that's what they asked for….'

The noise faded.

Sifting through the first-aid box, I found antiseptic, temporary dressings and painkillers, which I took, along with a hat and raincoat that someone had left on one of the pegs. I used the hat to cover my amateur attempt to bandage my wound. The painkillers made me feel lightheaded, but they also relieved the panic that was clouding my judgement.

Further down the corridor, I found an elevator which, on sensing my presence, started to rise. I stood and watched the digits count up to thirteen. As the doors slid open, I was startled to see a man staring at me; thin and stooped, his chest was heaving, but his eyes were intense, as droplets of sweat matted his dark hair and glistened on his skin. It dawned on me that I was looking at my own reflection, with an appearance and personality I'd forgotten - that I'd have to learn to become.

Right now, I was a fugitive.

I stepped into the lift and started my descent, but as soon as the doors closed, a feeling of being trapped built pressure to a point where it was almost overwhelming. In an attempt to distract myself, I turned my attention to a console on my wrist, which had categories of information arranged in different parts of the screen. The time was 3:27am, on Sunday, 14 July 2097, and I was at the St Mary’s hospital Botan, on the south side of the Kembar River. A name was displayed at the top: ‘Malachi Smith’ - I assumed that was me. A dampened deceleration indicated that I'd reached the ground floor. I felt apprehensive about what I'd find on the other side of the doors.

The elevator opened directly into a crowded reception, packed with injured people - slouched along benches, clutching wounds that had bled into their dusty clothes. A man in a wheelchair was flirting with the nurses at the front desk, and a security guard was standing by the door, with a pistol in his belt; his portly belly stretching the limits of his uniform shirt, which was moistened in the heat, and his cap was tilted over his face.

Lowering my head to avoid recognition, I started towards the entrance.

A blonde girl was shuffling in the opposite direction, so thin that she couldn't support her own weight and had to use a robotic frame to help her walk. She looked almost colourless, but at the same time amicable, like a garment that's been washed too many times but sits comfortably when you wear it. I shifted my attention as I noticed she was looking directly at me.

'Could you hold the lift?' she asked, in a voice that was somehow stronger than I'd thought she was capable of. 'I'll be there in just a bit.…'

I surprised myself by agreeing.

As I started towards the elevator, there was a crash behind me. An entourage of medics had slammed through the front entrance, with an injured man on a trolley. Their urgency was obvious: the man was semiconscious and had bled into his bedclothes; he looked as if he'd been shot or caught in a bomb blast.

The girl was in danger of being hit by the trolley. Making an instinctive decision, I left the elevator and rushed towards her. They tried to steer, but the momentum of the trolley carried it forwards until the back edge knocked her above the hip, throwing her sideways. I was close enough to catch her as she hit the floor, but her expression twisted in pain.

Moving slowly, so as not to hurt her, I rolled her into the recovery position. Her arms were so thin that they felt like a child's and she was taking shallow quick breaths. As I tried to get the attention of one of the nurses, I was startled to see the security guard walking towards me.

In an attempt to get rid of him, I questioned, ‘Is there anyone who can help?’

I'd intended to sneak out, unnoticed, but here I was speaking with the security guard as his singular focus of attention.

He tapped something into his console and knelt beside us, putting his thick hand on the girl's shoulder, ‘Someone will be here soon.’ Turning to me, he said, ‘You did the right thing….’

Maybe he didn’t know what to say, but he seemed kind-hearted, which somehow caught me offguard.

‘What’s your name son?’

I tried to think through all the possible consequences of my reply. ‘Smith,’ I admitted, knowing that it would be easy for him to check my identity.

‘You don’t look too well Smith,’ he stated, viewing me sideways, half with suspicion and half with concern.

I didn't know how I looked, but I felt as if I was about to collapse; I was out of breath and the droplets of sweat tickling my face and back felt like insects crawling under my clothes.

‘I’m ok,’ I stammered, trying to look confident. ‘I’ve just been released, but I’m okay; I'm just not ready for this.’

He subconsciously rested his free hand on the hilt of his gun, ‘Can I see your release chit?’ His expression was official.

A release chit? I didn’t know there was such a thing! I was too sick to even run ten steps without collapsing, and I couldn’t fight him for the same reason. Fumbling through the pockets of my coat, I explained, ‘I’m really sorry, I must have left it upstairs. I’ll go back and get it.’ I hoped this would buy me enough time to figure out another escape route; maybe walking out of the front door wasn’t the cleverest option.

His face relaxed a little, ‘It’s alright, Son, I don’t need to see it. I'll get you a taxi if you need one?’ I could tell by his expression that he was breaking the rules to help me, even though he didn't have a reason to. Perhaps it was some part of his soul clinging to a principle of humanity; a need to be good to others as a last hope in a desperate world.

I thanked him.

‘Where are you from anyway?’ his tone was conversational.

'I'm sorry, I've had a bit of concussion….' I didn’t know where I was from, I didn’t know my own address.

He nodded understandingly, but still looked at me with expectation.

‘…from out of town,’ I responded vaguely.

‘You sound like you’re from around here,’ suspicion started to creep back into his tone.

‘I used to be - I grew up here but moved away.' I pointed confidently in a random direction.

He looked thoughtful, 'Near Tulbric?'

'Not far. I live a few kilometres out of town now.' Hoping to divert his attention, I added, 'Where's the taxi?’

As I followed him outside, I lowered my face and held my hat on my head so that my presence wouldn't be detected by the cameras of any passing drones. A small bodied driver, with thinning dark hair and sleeves exposing his fleshless forearms was resting against the bonnet of a battered-looking vehicle, casually breathing vapour from a nicotube into the air.

In the hospital reception, two nurses were treating the thin girl, and the medics had escorted the shooting victim for treatment, but I'd been oblivious to the activity around me, preoccupied by my own security.

‘This is Raphael,' the security guard introduced the driver. 'He's a friend of mine. Just tell him where you want to go.’

As he opened the door, relief flooded through me. I was leaving the scene of the crime. But my attention was almost immediately diverted by a flash of lights from the main street.

The police had arrived.

Chapter 2: Day off

[Saturday 13th July, 2097 (the previous morning)]

As the morning sun illuminated his comfortable bedroom, Captain Raul Santos lay on his bed relaxing on his weekly day off, which was also his only opportunity to spend time with his family and escape from the violent life of policing.

His wife was lying beside him, with the silky sheet clinging to her slim youthful figure and her hair flowing across the pillow. He turned to face her. Women never seem to understand that they look good with messy hair: unpredictable natural hair that doesn't abide by rules or respect authority or convention - surely this is the best way for hair to be. He touched her skin beneath the sheets and her snowy white body responded. Sophie never tanned from the sun; she would only get burnt, turn red and then go back to being white again, but Raul liked her whiteness because it made her unique.

With slow comfortable movements, Sophie eased across to him, her arms embracing him. He lifted her flexible torso, and her lips touched his; hot, wet, and casually hungry. He pulled her close, feeling the bones underneath her flesh, as her urgent breath undulated against his cheek.

Her fingers explored the scar on his left shoulder, where he'd been shot three years before, and she remembered the night when she had been called to the hospital - when she didn't know whether her husband would live or die. She brushed a lock of hair behind her ear, and a sad look settled in her eye, as they lay naked, underneath the sheets, with the aphrodisiac sun smouldering into the room.

'Die, you rebel pig-fuckers!' The shrill voice of their son, Michael, shattered the atmosphere.

Sophie jolted, covering herself with the sheet, ‘Watch your language!’ she scolded.

‘You’re snatched, you're going to be carbon fuel!’

‘Michael, stop shouting like that. Go to your room!’

'Forty years of hard labour, for crimes against The Community!'

Raul intervened, ‘The government has issued special orders for Agent Michael to proceed with negotiations with the rebel leaders after bringing them a cup of tea.’

The small boy saluted, and marched out of the bedroom.

‘Why does he talk like that? He doesn’t even listen to me.' Sophie looked despondent.

‘Everyone talks like that these days… he's just playing; society is changing, people are changing. It doesn’t mean he doesn’t respect you: you're his mother! He only knows how to be like everyone else, like kids at school who he mixes with. Michael has some good qualities that we shouldn't ignore: he's loyal to The Community, he dislikes criminal activity, and he's got enough courage to stand up to an adult even though he's only six - these are characteristics that we should nurture and not try and to suppress.’

‘A chip off the old block.’ Sophie ruffled Raul’s hair and smiled at him.

He grabbed her waist and tipped her effortlessly onto the other side of the bed, pinning her arms on the mattress and kissing her rising breasts.

‘Raul, Stop!’ She pushed his chest weakly, while her hips pressed towards him. ‘Michael will come back!’

‘Let him come - he has to learn sometime!’ He wanted to consume her, to bite chunks out of her pale flesh.

‘Michael will come,’ she half whispered, holding him close. ‘We can do something later.’ She kissed his neck underneath his ear.

Reluctantly, he allowed his passion to dissipate.

‘We were only allocated one child!’ she added, thoughtfully.

‘I will get promoted, then we can have two.’

Throwing back the sheet, she danced towards the wardrobe. Raul absorbed his wife's naked figure until the sheet accidentally landed across his face, the silk tickling like his lover's touch. He pulled it away, and Sophie smiled at him as she slipped on her jeans. There was a certain elegance in her traditional style of clothes - no tech-suit or synthetic fibres, just cotton against skin. He found her tastes endearing.

Raul felt pure addiction to his wife’s elegant figure. He had to risk his life every day, trying to bring order back to a decaying society, where it seemed the only thing he experienced was violence and anarchy, but in her arms, he was able to forget the troubles he had to face, and his fear of death.

As the captain of an elite police unit, he was regularly involved in gun battles. Every man has to have a purpose and, as he'd been assigned to police duty, he'd made it his purpose to try to forge a better society, and to secure a future for his son.

The absence of fear can only amount to stupidity; true courage is the ability to control your fear: to feel the paralysing terror and still be able to function, and make logical, intelligent decisions. If Raul didn’t have his family, he wouldn’t feel any fear because existence would be a futile exercise in tolerance, but Sophie and Michael were so precious to him that he feared death intensely, and worried about how they would survive if something happened to him.

As Sophie went downstairs, Raul pulled his tech-suit over his muscular figure - it was compulsory for police officers to wear a tech-suit, even when they were off-duty. His console reported that his resting pulse was unusually high.

Downstairs, Agent Michael had brewed a pot of tea and proudly presented it, while the dissident Sophie fried eggs and sausages, her tight jeans hugging her shapely figure and her hair still alluringly messy.

After breakfast, Raul started lifting weights: 50kg, 70kg… more repetitions, until his arms felt swollen and stiff. Being a cop, he always had an underlying feeling of sadness that he couldn't shift - some kind of deep-rooted chemical depression that he couldn't talk about. Maybe it was a natural reaction to a life of aggression, but somehow, the weights made him feel less troubled.

That night, he was woken by a message on his wrist-console: there had been a murder in the St Mary’s hospital - it was a high priority case that demanded an immediate response. He hauled himself out of bed and into his uniform. Sophie watched as he strapped on his leather holster. He kissed her lips, and held her tightly for a few moments, before turning to step out into the hostile night.

Chapter 3: A Storm Brewing

The black synthetic seats inside the cab were torn in places or simply worn away, the floor was littered with an assortment of plastic packaging, and talismans hung from the rear view mirror, but my eyes were drawn to an identity badge, fastened to the dashboard, showing a younger well-groomed picture of Raphael.

'You don't look too well, Mr Smith. Are you sure you're alright?' He asked, with a certain amount of trepidation that seemed to stem more from a reluctance to take responsibility than from any genuine concern.

As the blue police lights flashed around the hospital car park, I rubbed my temples, which were throbbing. 'I'll be okay.'

He looked at me through slanted eyes, ‘Where do you want to go?’

‘I just need somewhere to stay for a while, short-term; cheap preferably - anywhere,’ I tried to disguise the tension in my voice.

‘Do you have a girlfriend, Mr Smith?’ He checked my expression in his mirror.

His question seemed out of place and caught me offguard. ‘Not at the moment,’ as far as I knew, I was telling the truth, but my sense of urgency didn't put me in the mood for gossip.

‘I'm sure that will change soon; a handsome man like you should have no problem finding a lady.’

'Let's hope so,' I couldn't tell if he was mocking me. 'Do you mind,' I added, with what I hoped was quiet authority. 'Could we get out of here?' I wiped away the sweat that was tickling the back of my neck as another police car pulled into the hospital car-park and two officers ran into the reception.

'Of course, to catch a cab, you have to pay using your wrist-console and that will give away your location to the authorities.'

I was hunched on the back seat, with my hat lowered to shadow my face, and Raphael had picked up on my predicament. In his mirror, he was scrutinising me.

Silently, I sat for a moment, as if paralysed, feeling as if the oxygen had been sucked out of the cab, as panic began to escalate through my body.

'Everyone is wanted these days,' he perused, enjoying his position of power. 'Fortunately, I've got a software patch - for a tip, I can give a false location.'

'Do it,' I grunted.

'Of course, a good deed like this could get me into trouble, so the tip will have to be generous.' He was still shrewdly watching to judge my reaction, 'how about 10,000 yen?'

Reluctantly, I passed over my console which beeped as he scanned it. A female electronic voice requested, ‘Please visit your nearest police station’, displaying a map of where to go.

Raphael tapped something into the guidance system, 'It should keep them busy for a while - until they figure it out.' With a press of a dashboard button, the vehicle whirred into life.

The journey must have lasted for about half an hour, most of it tolerating Raphael's life story, so I was happy to look out of the window and try to learn something about the city.

While edging through the network of narrow side streets, we got caught in slow traffic. Raphael hammered on the wheel, and switched on some music to lift the mood with a mix of synthetic instruments and tribal drums.

I looked out of the window at the roadside, where groups of people were sitting outside derelict homes, nailed together from wood and corrugated-iron, chatting and drinking beer. The bridges for the maglev train spanned above them, over the government propaganda screens illustrating the prosperity of the new society.

Underweight malnourished