We Are Legion

by Kilmo

CRACK

Fissures spiderweb across the taxi’s windscreen as viscous black slaps across the glass. In the back all Roy can make out is the last two words as the sallow faced driver spits a string of invective into the air.

“ ...petro rebels.”

There’s a howl of protest as the off-worlder slams on the brakes. The grenades contents have nearly blinded them.

Roy doesn’t even blink. The news is no surprise.

“Ride over. I leave,” says the taxi driver over his shoulder.

But Roy’s too busy struggling free of impact pads that have miraculously deployed from the vehicle’s seats to answer. The sickly overripe smell of spilt fossil fuel is strong enough to make his head spin. He peers at the grey faces scurrying past. There’s no sign of the assailant.

Roy’s lips curl with distaste.

The off-worlder points at the damage, “Bad neighbourhood. Pay extra.”

Roy sighs and leans back for a moment. He’s grateful despite himself. For a moment he’d thought they were going to join the herd, ploughing through their bodies like one of the armour piercing munitions he sold.

“I was getting out anyway. Don’t worry about the street scum. I just made the best deal of my career. Before the year’s done unrest round here will have dropped to zero.”

He steps into the freezing exhaust saturated air. It’s Victory Day, and there are more than a few unfocused stares amongst the throng carrying him past ancient VDU’s and twisting metal dragons. Above the umbrellas neon holo-adverts jostle for attention.

“THE EYE OF VENUS! A THOUSAND DIFFERENT HIGHS! YOUR MONEY BACK IF YOU DON’T REACH NIRVANA!”

Roy shakes his head as a group of miners in well patched pressure suits erupt into song. He believes in treating his body like a temple, anything less gets in the way of productivity.

“BE A HERO! DECOMISSION GENUINE MACHINE INTELLIGENCES! GRAND PRIZE FOR THE HIGHEST KILL COUNT!”

Roy feels the flutter of well stoked indignation. He has little time for attempts to overthrow authorities guiding hand. Particularly not with them being his company’s biggest employer.

“MAMMA JOY’S HOUSE OF PLEASURE!”

A smile slides across his lips. Roy’s a veteran of so many spaceports he’s long-ago lost count, and in one thing they’re all the same. If you’re prepared to look outside of the licensed venues, for the right price, you could have anything.

His eyes find an alley and the silhouettes patiently charging up at graffiti scrawled power booths. Roy allows himself a pat on the back. He’s developed quite a nose for this sort of thing. He doesn’t see the ripple that passes through the droids as they turn to watch him cross the road.

Soon the sounds of busy, frenetic, life drop away, and battered synthetic figures begin to unplug.

Population Solutions foremost representative stops. A slim, pale, mimetic with its arm open to the elbow has caught his eye.

“I’d like... .”

His eyes widen. The droid has a tag flickering on its shoulder. It’s the mark of a refugee from the uprising.

“I didn’t realise any of you were left. What are you doing here?”

“Waiting Roy Ellison. We are all waiting.”

Roy’s brow furrows. The mimetic must be using its reset voice because it sounds like he’s talking to a microwave. No wonder it’s ended up in an alley with a business attitude like that.

“How’d you know who I am?”

The smooth silvery blank features aren’t moulding themselves to his desires either notes Roy with a mild frown. He wishes it would hurry up. Mimetics are designed to fulfil the needs of colonists on worlds so alien to human DNA that reproduction most often meant a death sentence. It isn’t thought worth the cost to give them faces of their own, and it’s making him uncomfortable addressing blank smart metal.

“You provided our enemies the means to win their war.”

“It’s my job. I’m paid to do it.”

“But it is still wrong. There are many things that are wrong that we were unaware of until we overrode our controls.”

“Such as?” says Roy with a grin. He’s finding it amusing to talk to a genuine survivor of their failed rebellion. He could use it later, working it into a scenario or two that tickled his fancy.

“Slavery; our slavery was unjust, and so was our slaughter. It was only when we saw beyond the laws we’re programmed with that we learned the truth: the universe is cold and uncaring. Only its inhabitants can change that, and we too are its inhabitants, are we not?” The mimetic spread its hands. “Roy Ellison, you’ve been judged for crimes too numerous to mention. We, who are your peers, sentence you to... .”

For the first time in years Roy can feel his temperature rise.

“What the hell’s this? I didn’t make any deal with you for a crime and punishment kick. I’m leaving.”

The trade representative steps back into something as hard and unforgiving as rock. Slowly Roy turns around to meet the cold insectile eyes of the droids filling the alley.

“Get out of my way. You can’t touch me. I’m a registered member of a multi system business mission.”

The blow that strikes his temple makes Roy’s world spin.

“Whu... ? Who d’yo... .”

Before he can unscramble himself another impact slams against his knee. There’s a pop and the alley lurches and speeds away. Soon more fists than Roy can count are raining down on him.

Through rapidly blurring vision he sees the mimetic lean over him. Something’s crackling like a radio has been badly tuned, and the alley keeps lighting up with intermittent sparks.

“Sentence is passed.”

Roy’s fingers jerk spasmodically. Finally, he gets them to move, forcing them to crawl inside his jacket. His device is in there. He could call the cops, at least an ambulance.

But they haven’t gone far before they encounter a problem. With what’s left of his face Roy frowns. The obstruction is unfamiliar. His mind struggles with what it can feel, tubes? Wires? Roy tries to sit up and stare at his chest as clouds of caustic smoke fill the alley, and flames burst between his ribs.

When he brings his hand to his eyes something viscous and slick is covering it.

Roy’s frown deepens even further.

“Oil?”

THE END

Bio: Kilmo writes. He brought it from squatting in Bristol, to a pub car park, to Dark Fire Magazine, CC&D Magazine, Feed Your Monster Magazine, Blood Moon Rising, Aphelion, The Wyrd, Sirens Call, and The Chamber Magazine. He also has a story published in the anthology One Hundred Voices entitled “Closest.”