The Great Takeover of the Place

39. Thorns.

Trueman was drifting again, surfaced and found himself lying on his back, still troubled by an image of the dead soldier. He seemed to be in a wrecked building, a flat in a shattered apartment block. Nonna had cleared rubble from a small area of floor and knelt by him, studying the inflamed swellings in his leg, oozing serum, darkly centred.

The room had three remaining walls that, though holed in places, gave them some shelter from the dust filled winds that now rushed to feed the fires raging outside. Annest, two patches drawn down over her eyes, crouched before the missing wall, framed by tangled reinforcing rods strung with lumps of broken concrete. From his detached vantage Trueman was led to consider the Vollies, the volunteers, more like victims he thought, their own skins opened to expose the subtle integration of nerve and tendon, muscle and bone, wire and cable.

Images of the dead soldier floated before his eyes as though blue screened onto the demolished building. If he concentrated he could make out the pale coating of dust upon the man's visor and looking within, wide eyes, staring back at him. Were they the eyes of a man? A youth? Did they show fear, even though he held an assault rifle?

“I’m going to get these thorns out, Troom,” said Nonna.

Trueman thought she sounded somewhere distant, as though he had been removed from the situation. He remembered he had a fever, that he was in shock but this seemed incongruous, uncalled for. After all, he was a rational man, with a physically powerful and potent body. Surely this adverse reaction was grossly exaggerated and unnecessary?

He decided to get up. Nothing happened, except that the soldier appeared again, began to swing the gun barrel round towards him, his irises, olive green, contracting, the pupils becoming points. Almost Trueman could read the mind, could appreciate the hurtle of those thoughts; this man or youth could hardly believe his luck! Couldn’t quite believe that he was going to be able to squeeze a shot off, pump a round straight into Trueman’s barely helmeted head.

“I’ve put some local on your leg, Troom,” Nonna said above the blast of the wind. “You shouldn’t feel anything.”

Feel anything? He had been feeling so much! For him, anyway, and all so rapidly. After she’d made love with him, it had all come on so fast. The body was his, was him, and boy could he move! The way the women had looked at him, that Jodi, paralysed by his power. He chuckled and Nonna incised his calf, popping out a black lump of thorn and bloody pus.

Then the man was back, with his gun. Trueman looked down the barrel, observed the rifling with detached interest, glanced up at the olive green eyes hovering over the rear sight, the lids tightening, almost closing. Trueman had decided this was a young man, could imagine tha beneath the grimace of the mask, the tongue was pushed between the lips with the intensity of concentration. The lad just couldn’t quite believe it. Trueman noted the finger on the trigger tensing.

What had happened to this young man, lad, or, for that matter, to him, Trueman? Had he died? Was he now in the lucid dream of the dead, unable to wake because he had not yet realised that he was dead? Surely not!

Nonna sliced and expressed another mass of thorn and pus, turning her face away from the smell.

Trueman remembered that this wasn’t his body and let out a deep sigh.

“OK, Troom,” she said reassuringly, “Soon be done now. Not that bad.”

No, not that bad, but it wasn’t his body, his body was far away and lost to him. I'm like an operating system running on hardware not designed for me, he thought, or a software package copied across from one machine to another without the full installation and registration needed to access all the facilities. Or, remembering how back at the Little Big Farm, Learner's behaviour had been completely inexplicable, a Mesolithic mind dumped into a world and time that made no sense whatsoever to him.

His true body elsewhere, this false body inspired him with another’s thoughts, with thoughts of violence and murder. Like this soldier, this youth with the olive green eyes narrowing over the barrel of the gun, finger tightening on the trigger. Trueman at last allowed himself to remember what had happened.

A gulp of air, sufficient for an immediate and instant exhalation that drove the ensuing movement, beginning at the centre of the body as the merest twitch or flick of the spine that spiralled up and out along the right arm, the hand flicking, moving so fast as to be only a blur.

The second and third fingers of that hand touching lightly upon the cold, hard barrel with its faint roughness of surface rust, yet easily pushing it aside then the hand grasping it strongly, feeling the distinct click of the internal mechanism as the trigger is pulled, the vibration of the passage of the bullet within the metal tube, the tube that warms slightly, the muzzle flash from the corner of an eye, the deafening percussion wave in the right ear.

The inhalation, as concrete shatters behind his right shoulder, is an unstoppable force that draws all toward him, the arm, hand, barrel, off-balance youth, eyes, olive green, going wide with surprise and a dawning horror as he topples forwards towards a nightmare.

The second exhalation is accompanied by a coarse grunt, the weight is taken on the right foot, up through the torso and into the left arm and hand that strikes up at the face as it falls towards him, the heel of the hand contacting the mask at the jaw with a loud crack, the olive eyes roll upwards, disappear into the head, the young head which is thrust backwards, thrust shockingly back.

Trueman feels the vertebrae of the other's neck impacting against each other, a shuddering collision transmitted back down through his extended left arm. Trueman follows through, leaping up, hurling the already slackening corpse to the ground, and then down, as though to bury his victim with the new body. Then all is thunderous noise and confusion as he becomes his old self again and grovels there, trying to haul himself into the ground, so full of fear.

“You crying, Troom?” Nonna asked gently and wiped his cheek with a finger.

“No,” he insisted, numbly.

“Whoa there!” she held him down. “There’s no hurry, lover boy. I’ve got your thorns out. Been in there a while, haven’t they. Should’ve known you wouldn’t say anything.”

There was a scrabbling at the missing wall and Annest stepped back to allow Jodi to make her entrance, her grey brown suit further camouflaged with a layer of dust. She drew aside the face piece and glanced at each in turn, Annest first, then Nonna and last Trueman. As though satisfied as to their condition she allowed her legs to fold and twist, sinking to the floor and ending up cross legged. She sucked from a tube and swallowed.

“We’ve come too far in,” she said. “Stadium’s north of us.”

“What about the occupants?” Annest asked, raising her eye patches.

Jodi shook her head. Both the other woman looked surprised. Trueman managed to lean himself up on an elbow.

“There was over a hundred thousand people there,” he spoke awkwardly with the unresponsive tongue, “less than forty eight hours ago.”

Jodi turned to Nonna; the medic responded to the unspoken request.

“I’ve removed the source of the infection, given him some phages and a stimulant. He’s still feverish though, and in shock.”

“In shock,why?” Jodi asked, turning back to Trueman and continuing bluntly, “He's an INCO. Reputedly a multiple killer.”

“No,” he managed, “My first time.”

Annest snorted derisively but Nonna raised a warning hand.

“No matter,” said Jodi simply. “He’s right about the stadium. It would have been difficult to move so many people out so quickly without leaving some sort of trace. And there’s not a trace, because there was no one there in the first place.”

“Then the Net connection has been faked?” Annest asked, startled. “There is no festival at the World Enhanced Games stadium. Its just a massive scam?”

It was not necessary for Jodi to answer.

“So even his Vollies failed to verify the situation,” Annest was suddenly scornful, coming closer to stand over Trueman, placing her hands upon her hips.

“They are not his Vollies,” Nonna said carefully. “You know as well as any of us that he’s only an operative and severely restricted in terms of free will. He's been heavily conditioned, largely for that task, among others. And he might not even be him.”

“Not proven,” said Annest. “Possibly a trap.”

Nonna raised a hand and lightly touched Annest’s thigh.

“Can you put this aside until we make an opportunity?”

Annest swallowed, nodded.

“Can he move?” Jodi next asked Nonna but Trueman responded.

“I think so.”

“Then we should get on.”

Annest pulled an eye patch down and checked outside, leaning out through the missing wall, hanging onto a twist of rusting reinforcing rod. Jodi rose up smoothly from the floor, without the need of her hands and glided to the opening. Annest gave her a nod but Jodi waited, turned back, watching Trueman. Nonna offered him a hand up. He grasped it firmly.

“What is an INCO?” he asked, without rising.

She appeared taken aback and froze. He felt a faint twitch in her hand, as though she wished to pull away from him. Her brown eyes flickered, uncertainly. Trueman thought he could detect fear in them. He tightened his grip.

“How can you not know?” Her voice trembled.

He breathed in and with the exhalation, rose, suddenly, effortlessly, reading another twitch in Nonna’s hand as she again repressed an urge to try to break the grip. He looked down upon her, observing the growing alarm, finding, to his horror, that part of him enjoyed this feeling of power. Time condensed into a single, poised moment.

He let her go and she staggered back two steps.

From the ragged opening in the room, the silhouette of Annest slowly lowered the automatic weapon. Trueman noticed that Nonna’s free hand also held a small pistol. He shuddered, breathing deeply.

“I’m not who you think,” he tried to state plainly, the tongue garbling the words, managed a smile, "I'm Incognito."

"Incompatible," said Annest.

“Let's see,” Jodi said, stepped forward and there was a blurred movement of her leg.

Trueman found that his arm had flicked up of its own accord and stopped her boot an inch from his face. She lowered her foot and next came a straight fingered strike to the throat, guided aside with the flick of a forearm, without any thought from Trueman. Several more attacks followed, all parried, instantly. Easily, Trueman thought, smiling smugly.

“Do you see?” Jodi had turned to Annest. “I'm just triggering reflexes. He's not even seeing the real attacks.”

She threw a few more blows at him, slower this time. He blocked a kick to his groin and found her pointing finger frozen a centimetre from his right eye ball. When he parried that away she tapped his left kneecap with her right boot. She was just demonstrating, fortunately.

"Incoming!" Jodi snapped, threw a feint with her right, a punch with her left, caught Trueman's blocking arm, gave it a quick pull to get him off balance, then pushed him over. He landed ungainly on his back side.

The warrior stepped away, gave him a thoughtful look and then turned to the opening, lowering herself out. Nonna looked at Annest and something passed between them, recognition or acceptance. When the medic turned back to Trueman, she was smiling.

"Incomparable," Trueman managed.

Many thanks for reading. More to come soon.

The picture of the damaged room is by Paul Seawright of the Imperial War Museum. The other pictures are from the Public Domain.

Comments always welcome. Till next time, hwyl! Chris.