COLOUR

‘Safety glass.’

Travis had a real problem with the term. His problem was only made concretely apparent when Travis careened through the windshield of his 1994 Toyota Corolla. The departure of his face with the passage of the windshield’s top lip did not help endear the phrase to him. The problems only got worse when Travis realised he was still on Earth and very much conscious.

Travis skidded to a stop a good twenty feet before his body, or what was left of it, did. Looking at the crumpled heap, if flesh, sans face and feet (they came off on the upper edge of the brick wall), there was no way the newly deceased was going to go over there for a closer look. It was a misty night, the roads still slick from the day’s rain. The forest in which Travis came to his glass-shattering end was thick with damp, and the wafting scent of pine still lingered in Travis’ awareness. The shadows were deep and dark, holes of a darker grey consuming what little light ventured nearby. Even dead, Travis was more than a little freaked out. He tried to touch a tree. His hand, at least he had those, passed right through it. He felt nothing. Suddenly remembering what had happened to his face, Travis’ hands slapped into his cheeks, fingers probing around like desperate worms trying to get underground before sunrise. The face was still there.

“What the hell,” Travis said to the air.

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The smoke rose above the ruins of the former great city, the wails of sirens eerily absent. The only life he could see was the flames rising from the craters and shattered buildings tottering on their twisted frames. The grey eyes behind the mask could not hide the sorrow, the viscous flow of regret rising from deep within the shadows. He had always been the shadows, but now he was their prey.

The fight had started over something which was nothing. Bruce shook his head in wonder, in depressing regret, at his own ego. Clark had accused him of being a traitor to their kind, to their people. Bruce had never felt he had a people, not since the night in a dark alley where he watched everything change, everything play out. Where he watched his father’s choices come back and reap their vicious revenge.

By the time the Bruce and Clark had reached New York, so many others like them, heroes supposedly, had joined sides. They had chosen without truly knowing; caught up in the emotion of the moment and the excitement of being on the right side of history. The military had tried to stop them. They had downed everything sent against them. Bruce had crossed the line he had promised himself he never would. Clark had crossed that same line. In less than a second, a community’s faith in them had been thrown the dogs of their own natures and egos.

Fists had flown. Bodies had been thrown. They had each been thrown by the other. The city, the innocent, and the not-so-innocent bore the brunt of Bruce and Clark’s hubris. City blocks were reduced to rubble, and more were turned into grotesque statues, an artistic monument to the uselessness of trusting in such as they. Bruce recalled the moment it hit him. Those two words, straight from the mouth of an Agent in The Matrix.

“Only human.”

Bruce reacted. He exploded. Angrier because he knew Clark was holding back. He knew Clark, like an avatar of Zeus, was treating him, clobbering him, like he was no more than a petulant child who was not getting his way. Bruce’s rage coalesced with the memories, the hurt, the betrayals, a vortex which had burst from his soul like a tornado of fury. And New York paid the blood price. The floodgates opened wider, a dam venting backed-up waters after an eternal storm.

They landed in Central Park, gouging a scar through the gardens once sculpted and gorgeous, once the rendezvous for lovers and misfits. A single blast of energy from Clark cut the art museum in two, rubble and dust falling into the gaping wound. Heat rays down, then up again for a sweep back at Bruce. Turtle Pond instantly turned to steam, shrouding Belvedere Castle as it was cut like a hot knife through the base of a cake at the height of the rocks by the pond outside its stone walls. As they thrust, blasted, and pounded each other, Bruce and Clark edged through and laid waste to the Great Lawn and its softball fields. Trees were left smouldering fingers raised in protest.

The police station, long abandoned from the first signs of trouble, went up in similar displays of Bruce’s and Clark’s powers. And then the worst. The reservoir, after repeated pass after pass of Clark’s heat ray, cast a stinking cloud over the park as the breeze, fuelled by the flames, wafted it through the city streets nearby. Once luxurious and exclusive apartments and homes, the dreams of many, were now deserted, the residents fleeing to safer places. Bruce ducked behind a mound as another red blast of energy passed overhead and boiled some of the last water of the reservoir into gas.

Bruce crouched and ran at the alien human, slamming into him with the bludgeoning force of a jackhammer. He lifted Clark up off the ground, just enough to slam him back into the twisted steel of a fence. Clark twisted, but Bruce’s arms did not break their hold. Bruce slammed his head into Clark’s face, the customary grind of cartilage not following the brutal impact. Clark grinned, rage and anger lurking behind his perfect teeth, as he slammed his forearms down onto Bruce’s shoulders. The suit took most of the impact, but the grunts from Bruce told Clark all he needed to hear.

Bruce staggered back, sucking in oxygen. Clark came on again, flying right into his opponent’s body. Clark grabbed an arm and was dragging Bruce along the ground. Rocks, stumps of burning trees, concrete. They were all a battering ram against Bruce’s body and suit. Every hit hurt more than the last. Bruce started to feel the mind bend as the signals from every nerve in his body overwhelmed his brain. Every bounce was a collision with a sledgehammer and then a truck.

Suddenly, Bruce was on the ground. He was not moving. Bruce was just Bruce; alone in the smouldering remains of a park. He could hear the flickering crackles of flames as they worked through the trees and the buildings around him. Occasionally, the booming of falling rock and concrete echoed across the park. A building collapsing under its own weight.

Bruce lay there for a long time. His body was used to being smashed about, but this was something new. A new depth of not only pain, but his realisation he had truly become something less than his ideal. He had become the monster he had spent so long fighting. Clark had joined him in his descent. Bruce rose from the ground, no one around to watch. No one to witness the invisible transformation within, marked only by the battered and torn remains of his suit and cape.

Bruce walked from the park and wandered through the streets, aimless and purposeless. His thoughts, his own internal conversation, were silenced in the gravity of what he had become, or what he had always been. Vaguely heading south, Bruce followed his heart to the heights, succumbing to the need for clarity he could only get from altitude. He climbed the stairwell of a shattered building to its shattered roof. In the distance, the ex-hero could see the Empire State, wisps of smoke rising from its Art Deco lines. Bruce shook his head, and his shoulders slumped down.

“Only human,” he repeated.

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You can grab another of my book, NeoTokyo Dead, from all fantastic platforms!

The resonating harmonies of All is Violent flowed from the stereo system that was worth three times as much as Greville’s rusted, puke yellow 1974 Datsun 710. “Cartographers of Human Purpose” alternated between deep sonic wells and soaring highs of pulsating sound born on the fingers of master musicians. Greville drove the damp, glistening road, his headlights scintillating on the rough, black stone. His mind was divided between driving and watching his soul rise on the currents of the meditative harmonies.

The Seeking must go on. He was aware of this and always had been. The drive toward the inexorable fate and goal of his own mortality kept the Datsun moving, chugging, and belching to itself as the old engine, poorly serviced for years uncounted, struggled to fulfil its purpose. The stereo was the only thing which worked properly, or achieved anything close to the concept. The dashboard lights flickered as the battery and alternator fought furiously to keep the entire machine running. Each dimming of the light had long since fused into those before and after. Greville saw none of it and heard even less.

Thunderous, pounding violence reached out from the speakers, a fist from the sub-woofer grasping for Greville’s heart and soul. Dark riffs punctuated the air like stark colons glittering through the windshield and night beyond. They reached higher and higher, vertiginous swirls swamping Greville’s vision. The steering wheel warped and merged into the dark dashboard, taking his hands with it. Greville tried to scream. He thought he was screaming, but no sound could overwhelm the guitars emanating from his speakers like the denizens of the Pleroma.

Looking down at his feet was a mistake. They too had vanished, consumed by the Datsun’s lurking shadows and hidden recesses. Waves cascaded. Forces rolled. The winds of deepest Tartarus erupted from the speakers which were feeding Greville’s mind and psyche. His entire head now filled with the crescendo of wild, unrestrained guitar solos of which no hint had been given at the start of the twelve minute song.

The great emptiness surged into the core of Greville’s mind, and he felt his own life and history vanish into the mists coming after. He did not hear it. He much less recognised what it was. “Memory Complete”, the last track of the EP, kicked into its own rhythm. Greville bowed out of his.

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You can grab another of my stories, NeoTokyo Dead, from all fantastic platforms!

The incense smoke had dissipated. The thurible had been put away with the candlesticks and the chalice. Vicar Raymonde XTC felt a little like his best friend had just left for a long journey. There was something familiar and home-like about the Holy Week celebrations, despite what they were leading up to for His Lord. Still feeling something of the moment, Raymonde knelt at the rail before the altar to pray, clasping his silver tanibrium hands together and closing his sensors off. Unlike his human brothers and sisters, his people could almost completely isolate themselves in a bubble of sensory silence. Raymonde was grateful to God that he was not burdened with distractions like his human friends described to him.

Dwain Reece waited for his friend and minister in the rear pews. It was often like this. Dwain had to lock the church up, but the Vicar would feel the need to pray. His record so far was two hours and twenty-four minutes of prayer, for which he had apologised endlessly. Dwain never minded. He liked Raymonde and they often hung out after the prayers were done. The Vicar was about the best friend Dwain had. Now that he thought about it, Raymonde was probably his only real friend.

Even after the passing of the DIE Laws, what people joking called the Digital Intelligence Equality directive, Raymonde could still draw a lot of attention out in public in his dog-collar and clergy threads. There was something jarring about seeing a silver-blue bipedal robot dressed as a person of the cloth. Despite Raymonde’s best efforts to follow Jesus’ teachings about kids, some children sprinted for the hills on sight.

“How long have I kept you waiting this time, Dwain?” the Vicar interrupted his thoughts.

Why he asked about the time when he knew full well, Dwain had no idea.

“Not long, Vicar,” he replied. “Was it a good conversation?”

“Yes, it was productive,” Raymonde’s eyes twinkled in his equivalent of a smile.

“Can I lock this place up then?”

“Sure. Do you feel like grabbing a late lunch? My shout?”

“You know I’d wait all day for a good meal,” Dwain laughed.

“Yes, I have noticed that you are fairly cheaply bought.”

“Touché!” Dwain grinned.

The café was basic. It was one of the few places that still served real meat, which made it expensive. Raymonde liked it because he could see Dwain enjoying himself and the coffee was pretty good. Raymonde had no need for physical food intake and could not process solids. Liquids, on the other hand, were no problem.

Dwain was tucking into pieces of fried kangaroo with vegetables and a chilli sauce when there was a rapping on the window. A person holding a sign was yelling something at Raymonde. The sign said, “Machines should not been seen!”, scribbled in rough, black handwriting. The pair tried focusing on their meals and the conversation, but a number of people joined in. Dwain looked up to see a protest was passing down the street and a few people had spotted the Vicar through the window.

The rapping on the window had escalated into a thumping. There was no risk of them breaking it, but the six people were making an awful racket. Other patrons were starting to look scared and were clearly talking about Raymonde.

“Sorry, I am going to have to ask you to leave. The noise is disturbing our guests,” their waiter told them. “The bill is taken care off. I am sorry about this.”

“Are you joking? You’re going to throw a vicar to the dogs??” Dwain snarled at him, making him flinch away as Dwain looked like he was going to grab him.

“It is ok, Dwain. This is not the café’s issue. We will leave. Thank you for the nice meal and coffee,” Raymonde rested a hand on Dwain’s shoulder to calm him.

The pair made their way to the rear of the establishment to avoid most of the crowd outside. Through a rear door, they emerged between two large bins in an alleyway. They looked left and right and started to the right where they could use an intersecting alley to head back in the direction of the church. They had gone no more than fifty metres when a small group of protestors appeared at the end of the alley. As soon as they saw the fugitive pair, they ran towards them.

Raymonde started retreating back the other way, dragging Dwain back by his collar. The group was gaining on them and was within twenty metres in only a couple of minutes. Raymonde happened to glance back when one of the protestors collapsed to the concrete with a gaping hole in their chest. Raymonde looked at Dwain in shock and then at the silenced pistol in his hand.

“You are armed??” Raymonde shouted.

“Old habits, Vicar,” Dwain replied.

Another round puffed away and tore into the shoulder of a second protestor, spinning them back into the ground. The protestors stopped and retreated some. They were still in range, so Dwain lined up on a third.

“No!” Raymonde commanded and reached over to push the handgun down. “This is not the Way, Dwain. Other cheek.”

Raymonde looked right into Dwain’s eyes. Dwain was always convinced by the look. Raymonde did not know why.

“You need to run, Dwain. Now,” Raymonde said.

“What about you?” Dwain asked, the internal conflict ravaging his face.

“The benefits of machinehood,” the twinkle was there again.

“I’ve got enough ammo to make them think twice, Vicar. I’m not leaving you,” Dwain argued.

“You must. I cannot protect you from their frenzy. They are not acting rationally at this time,” Raymonde said, shoving Dwain back to the café’s rear door. “Run, and now.”

Despite himself, Dwain ran, glimpsing the protestors advancing on the Vicar like ravenous hyenas. He shoved his pistol into the holster under his jacket and dove into the café again. Out front, it was clear, so he did not pause before running into the street beyond. He dodged between cars and got lost in the blocks and lanes between buildings. He would have to lay low for some time.

It was well after Easter when Dwain felt it safe enough to return to church. No one had come nosing about for the guy with the gun that day. One of the protestors had died even, but there had been no suspicions lain at his feet. He was seated in a pew a few rows from the back of the church, right next to the wall. He wanted to be able to sneak out if it all got too weird. He was not sure how he would take coming back after what happened.

“Welcome back, Dwain,” a voice said from behind as a human hand rested on his shoulder.

“Do I know you?” Dwain asked, standing to face the new vicar of the church.

“I would say so. You waited often enough for me to finish prayers, though I suspect the meals had a lot to do with that,” the vicar smiled a new smile, with an old twinkle in his eye.

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You might enjoy my cyberpunk novella, which is available on Amazon!

Readiness

The light inside the dimensional extension chamber, DEC to everyone, was bright. It washed out Jazzmine Reilly’s dark brown skin and raven jet braids of hair as Doctor Carmen Braithewaite attached sensors to her body. Reilly was reclining on a seat in the middle of the bare chamber in her simple shorts and T-shirt. Braithewaite focused on her work, attaching and testing each sensor, in silence. In the intense light, Braithewaite was porcelain white, a product of her long hours in the underground laboratory in Tāmaki Makaurau’s Manukau. Braithewaite’s hazel eyes were the only break in the white of her cloak, skin, and bleached blonde hair.

“Are you comfortable, Jazz?” Braithewaite asked her test volunteer.

“Sure. It’s a bit chilly in these threads, but I’m ok,” Reilly smiled.

Braithewaite liked the young volunteer who was about to make history. She was smart and brave. Her smile lit up her face as it creased the smooth dark, almost black, skin around her pitch dark eyes. Her hair was tied into three large braids that were nestled around her shoulders. Braithewaite suspected Rob Summers, her research partner, had a small crush on Reilly. Her slightly up-turned nose and slim looks were definitely his type, but he would never make a move on her. He was a jellyfish around women.

The doctor’s entire career and all the sacrifices she had made over decades led to this moment, to this day. Both her ex-husband and daughter were estranged. They could not handle the long absences and Braithewaite’s driven obsession with her work. Braithewaite had not seen them for over three years, since they moved to Europe. None of that mattered to the nerves that were upsetting her stomach. So much was riding on the success of today’s trial that Braithewaite had had little sleep for the previous three nights. She had no mental space left for anything but the project and the test today.

“Umm - Carmen? His Lordship is summoning you again,” the voice of Rob Summers interrupted her thoughts over the intercom.

“Now?” Braithewaite asked, annoyance in her voice as she finished off attaching the last of the sensors.

“Yeah, afraid so,” Summers answered.

“Crap. Okay, I’ll go now,” Braithewaite told her oldest colleague. “Are you alright to wait here for a few minutes?” she asked Reilly.

“Yeah, sure. Go answer the call,” Reilly replied with a short laugh.

“I won’t be long,” Braithewaite assured the young woman. “Rob’ll get you anything you need.”

Doctor Rob Summers was the Lead Trans-Dimensional Engineer under Braithewaite and he despised their CEO of Trans-Dimensional Extensions, Noel Fullbright. TRADE was the corporate side of the project through which the funding came. Fullbright was a pen-pushing bully who managed to rile Summers up in every way. An opportunity to take a shot at Fullbright was never missed by the lead engineer.

“I’ll keep this short,” Braithewaite promised Summers as she walked past his station in the circle of computer terminals and equipment surrounding the DEC.

“Yeah, right.”, Summers chuckled in sarcasm.

“Just keep Jazz happy. If she needs anything, get it, ok?” Braithewaite said needlessly as she left the laboratory to get the lift up fifteen floors to His Lordship’s office. Summers was more than happy to wait on their volunteer.

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It tingled. It felt like the nerve endings were dancing in celebration at the end of agony. The absence a tender reminder of the torment endured. The tickling sensation spread over Tane’s leg, nerve clusters picking up on the joy of nothingness. From semi-stasis, Tane could feel what was going on within and without. His consciousness doing whatever it wanted, no matter Tane’s mental grunts of effort to keep control.

Even in the midst of the relief and soothing emptiness, Tane Bridges felt Counsel’s probing of his mind. The Counsel was searching threads of memories. Tane had no idea what ones it was looking for. That no longer mattered. He felt dizzy as the edges of reality began to fade into opaque shadows. Colours merged and oozed into coagulated smudges. Around the edges of the blobs, light began to poke through. White dispersed into myriad shades and hues. He threw up on the floor, thankful the Counsel’s metallic hands propped him up so none went on him. Counsel lay him back down and removed all of the jacks from Tane’s implants. Tane instinctively pulled back from Counsel’s proffered hand offering to help him up from the bench. Tane sat up and swung his legs over the side, feet on the floor.

“How long, Counsel?”, Tane murmured.

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