Authors: Andy Remic
Tags: #Science Fiction, #General, #Fiction, #Adventure, #Military
Toxicity (8 page)
That’s why I drink,
Tom told himself, believing it as
he believed all the other lies.
I
can take it or leave it. And I don’t
drink too much. I know I don’t drink too much. I can stop anytime, you see. But
the wife doesn’t like it, always squawking and moaning, and the kids don’t like
it, always asking, “Why are you so happy, Daddy?” and, “Why are you falling
over, Daddy?” and, “Why are you being sick, Daddy?” People say to me, it’s an
illness. People say to me, I don’t understand. Why do you drink until you’re
sick? And then start all over again? Vodka for breakfast? Brandy for lunch?
Whiskey for dinner? You’re a sick man! Better believe it.
Tom stopped, and breathed in the
cold crisp winter air. He looked up towards the Kavusco Hills, with their
peppering of snow. Behind him, far behind, a Tox Tipper droned through the sky
and Tom found himself pausing, waiting for the “dump”. It came a few seconds
later than he’d anticipated, the banging clattering rattle of junk being tipped
into an open landfill. Tom’s nostrils twitched, trying to catch the scent of
methane, of rot, of shit and crap; but nothing came. Tom’s sense of smell had
been killed decades earlier.
“Damn you, brother,” he muttered,
and glanced around before pulling out the bottle and taking a hefty swig. He
felt the cold behind his eyeballs, and lowered the bottle, spluttering, piss
whiskey warm on his lips and burning in his gullet. His ulcer stung, but he
ignored the pain. It would soon leave him, along with his sobriety.
Once, Tom would have said, “I’m
just popping out for a walk, honey.”
“Sure, no problem. I’ve put a
beef casserole in the oven. Be back by five.”
Now, he knew, she knew, they all
knew, “just popping for a walk” was a prelude to “just nipping out to drink
until I puke,” and he didn’t say the words, and by not saying the words he knew
he wouldn’t get into another argument.
She’ll leave you.
No, she won’t.
She will. She’s sick of your
drinking, falling on your face, bloodying your nose, not coming home at night,
leaving her worrying and shivering in a cold bed alone, looking after Jenny and
Saul alone, going through her life... alone.
No. She understands me. She
supports me. She loves me. Everything will be okay.
But it wasn’t okay. And Tom knew
his mother was dying. He looked into those eyes which had once sparkled so
brightly, but now were dimmed, like failing, tumbling stars. Brittle and
broken, she was. Eaten inside. Too far gone to help.
My poor mother. I can’t take it!
I’ll just have another drink...
And that’s what this was, a walk
in the hills, a drink in the hills, to get over the knowledge that his mother
was dying. Had mere days left. And he knew,
knew
he should be by her
side, holding her hand, telling her he loved her just like his brother was. But
he didn’t. He wasn’t. He needed a drink. Just a couple. To get over the
knowledge that she was leaving this mortal realm...
“Be a man,” his brother would
say.
“Fuck you, Kaylo!” he would
snarl.
“Don’t blame me for what we did,”
his brother would say.
“Go back to your evil,” Old Tom
would snarl.
“Tom. Tom. We started this
together, Tom.”
“Go to Hell.”
And Kaylo would smile, and his
eyes shone like tiny candle lights, and his face was rugged and strong and
handsome and Tom reached for his bottle, and downed another drink.
~ * ~
TOM’S
BOOTS CRUNCHED on the gravel path as he moved further up into the hills,
through forests of twisted old trees, diseased from the junk in the ground and
sporting weird and wonderful corrugated bark, a testament to some ancient
pollutant.
The whole world is poisoned,
he thought. And laughed.
My
whole mind is poisoned!
He stopped after a few more
minutes, panting, sweating, and had another drink. He spluttered, piss whiskey
burning his lips, and turned. Lights glittered through the fast-falling
darkness and the valley spread out before him: the valley of his childhood, the
valley of his adolescence, the valley of his adulthood. Kavusco. The town of
his life. He’d been born there, he lived there, and he would die there.
And there’d been so many changes.
From Beauty to Desecration.
Old Tom lowered his head and
wept...
~ * ~
I
LIVE IN a fucking soap-opera, thought Jenny as her eyes flared open. She lay
there, staring at the ghost. It was a white apparition. Shimmering. Ethereal.
It reached out a hand to her, and smiled. And, like she did every other
morning, Jenny reached out a hand to her sister. Her dead sister.
“You are sad,” said the ghost.
“Yes,” said Jenny, clutching the
covers that little bit more tightly.
“Bad dream?”
“I always have bad dreams,” said
Jenny, face neutral.
“You still full of hate?”
Slowly, Jenny’s lip curled into a
snarl and the reality of her situation and the reality of the world came
tumbling back into focus.
“Oh, yes,” she said.
The ghost of Nixa smiled.
“Then it’s time to go to work,”
she said.
~ * ~
IMPURITY5
HAD BEEN watching the Reprocessing Plant for a month, and it was quite obvious
The Company, as usual, were not doing their job. Greenstar promised 100%
recycling of alien tox. It was policy. It was what not only got them votes, and
kept them in power, but earned them a lot of money and a number of God Award
certificates from various planets, governments, and monarchies from around
Manna - and indeed, the entire Quad-Gal. As far as the members of Impurity5
could work out, the reprocessing ratio was as little as
5%.
Which meant
95% of waste being dumped direct into the ecosystem, or what
remained
of
Amaranth’s ecosystem.
In reality, it was a huge shit
pie. Quite literally. And the people of Toxicity were forced to take a very big
bite in more ways than one.
“So what happens to the other
ninety-five percent?” said Randy, running a hand through his flowing locks. “They
can’t just dump it. That would be... immoral.” His dazzling, beautiful face was
fixed on Jenny. She smiled. Damn, he looked so out of place squatting in a hole
in the ground.
“They can, and they do,” said
Jenny, and they sat in their covert hole, peering through Long Lenses as a
convoy of Super Tankers arrived, perhaps a hundred in total, like huge black
slugs buoyed on hover jets, each one as big as a thousand HG Truks. Jenny took
photographs.
“I don’t get it.” Randy was
frowning. “Those tankers, they could just be delivering more crap. What makes
you so sure they’re taking it away for illegal tipping?”
“Watch,” said Jenny. “And learn.”
They watched, as slowly the Super
Tankers rolled through high spiked iron gates, one by one.
“I think this is bullshit,” said
Randy, pouting. “There’s nothing to see here. We’re on a wild goose chase.” As
the newest member of Impurity5, Randy was prone to what the others considered
ill-thought-out
comments.
Randy was the sort of dandy who truly did
not
know when to
keep his mouth shut.
“You have to watch, and trust
Jenny,” rumbled Zanzibar. “All will be revealed.”
“Well, I know what I’d
like
to
be revealed.”
Randy was staring at Jenny, head
tilted to one side, a curious look on his face.
“Oh, no,” said Jenny. She held up
a hand. “Not here. Not now. It’s neither the time nor the place.”
“It’s always the time and the
place,” smiled Randy. He tossed back his head, and his curls bounced.
Jenny looked sideways at
Zanzibar. His dark-skinned face had gone pale.
“You vouched for him,” she said.
“What can I say?” Zanzibar gave a
narrow, straight smile, although his eyes were dark. “He came highly
recommended. You know it yourself.
You
fucking helped recruit him!”
“Hey!” snapped Randy. “Don’t talk
about me like that.”
“Like what?” rumbled Zanzibar,
turning his full attention on Randy.
“Like I’m not here, you big oaf!
All this
he came highly recommended
bullshit. As if I’m not here. As if
I’m a prat, a joker, an idiot.”
“Maybe you are?” said Jenny.
“Oh, you spear my heart, dearest
one; dearest girlfriend. We are both part of the same universe, it can be seen
nestling in our eyes, and yet your lack of poetry is anathema to my very being.”
Jenny sighed. After all, Randy
was
the newest member of the team. Yes, he looked like a popinjay, but his bomb
circuit-building was unbelievably brilliant. His bomb-making was... just
perfect. And this was to be the test. To see if they could justify it - and him
- to Cell Commander McGowan.
“Why the photos?” said Randy.
“I’ll explain later.”
When the shit hit the fan, they
had to have evidence for the media: that way, they weren’t seen as terrorists
picking soft targets, but as freedom fighters attempting to save the planet.
Which, Jenny knew in all their hearts, was what they were. It’s just sometimes
certain radical idiots got in the way. Sometimes, real bad people used “The
Fight” as a personal vendetta and things got out of hand. Innocent people died.
That wasn’t the way Impurity5 operated.
“Go on, tell me now.”
“Be quiet, dickhead, and focus on
the job in hand.”
Randy opened his mouth, but
Zanzibar gave him a stern look, and Randy closed it again. The huge Asian had a
reputation. No. He had
A Reputation.
You didn’t mess with Zanzibar. Not
if you wanted to keep a hold of your kneecaps. Or your face.
Zanzibar threw Jenny a smile and
a shrug. Jenny replied with a nod, and got back behind her Long Lens. The
tankers were almost in, now. Behind her, there came a steady
shring shring
as
Meat Cleaver started sharpening his knives.
“What now?” said Randy. He was
impatient, full of energy. Sexual energy, from where Jenny was sitting.
“We wait,” said Jenny, settling
back. She looked around, and smiled. These were the moments she liked, revered.
The quiet times. Reflective. With her squad, her unit. The people in the world
she
knew
she could trust; but more, who were fighting alongside her to
achieve a common goal...
And what’s the goal, girl?
came the voice of Nixa.
Jenny froze for a moment, as she
always did. Her eyes flickered around the group, wondering if any of them had
heard the words, or even seen her stiffen at the ghostly interruption. Meat
Cleaver was sharpening. Sick Note was smoking endlessly, a tiny smoke-extractor
on a ring on his index finger making sure no fumes escaped and gave even a hint
of their hide-hole. Flizz was seated in a corner, silent, watching, as she
always was. Randy had tried it on with Flizz first; Flizz was stunningly
beautiful, it had to be said, but when Randy persisted Flizz put a knife to his
groin and got in close and whispered, “I’ll cut it off, wide boy,” and Randy
got the message. To Randy, having a penisectomy was worse than death itself.
Randy was the sort of man who wore a Kevlar codpiece rather than a helmet. Or,
as he wittily put it, a helmet over his helmet. Nobody laughed.