Jack Yeovil - Demon Download

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Dark Future I

Demon Download

Jack Yeovil

Part One: Slim's Gas 'n' B-B-Q

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"Just what kinda ack-cent is that you got there, mister?" asked the gasman as he jacked into Duroc's

car. He wore a baseball cap with the team logo obscured by oil, and had a name-tag on his

multiply-holed bib-overalls. Slim Pickens. Whoever nicknamed him Slim was about thirty years out of

date. His belly wobbled under denim like a double pregnancy.

"French," Duroc said, gritting his teem. The pain in his side was almost intolerable, but he kept it to

himself. A few hours ago, the numbness had worn off, and now he felt as if he were driving around with a

flat-bladed knife between his ribs.

The demon needed to be bathed in blood at all times.

"My name is Roger Duroc." The man might as well know. He was going to die soon, and the name

would not mean anything to him.

"Ro-jay, huh? You from N'Orleans way? Lou-easy-on-Anna?"

"Non.Paris,France ."

"Yurrup, huh?" said Slim, exposing mainly rotten teeth in an approximate grin. "I mighta guessed frum the

way you got yer hand in yer jacket like that there Napoleone Boney-party feller on the teevee. You

Frenchy fellers must sure like yusselves to go round grabbin' yer own titties all the time. We don't git

many folks from Yurrup in these parts, nossir, not never. Japs 'casionally, but never no Yurrup-peens."

Under his black coat, Duroc pressed the pad to his wound. The demon was stirring, restless, and the

blood was still seeping. The pain would go away soon, when his mission was discharged.

The Path of Joseph was thorny. Thorny but rewarding.

Slim left the pumps to refill Duroc's tanks by themselves, and tapped keys on the forecourt terminal. The

computer was melded with the Caddy's systems.

"Just runnin' some checks, Ro-jay. Safe sex fer automobiles, I calls it. What with all these here viruses

goin' around, you gotta be on the look-out. I don't want ole Beulahmdashthat's ma master program,

Beulahmdashto pick up no foreign Frenchy computer ailments and rot to pieces on me, do I?"

Duroc didn't say anything. Slim was heavy-set, tattooed, scarred, probably a war veteran. He was big,

but only his paunch was soft. He sounded like the cowboys in the sub-titled Western films his uncle had

taken him to at the Cinematheque Francaise when he was a child. There was a slight awkwardness about

Slim's keyboard action. He was missing the tip of his left little finger. That made him yakuza. They cut off

part of a digit for every mistake you made. So, the gasman had been careless. But only once. That was a

good record for someone stationed out here in theColorado Desert . The yaks must want their best men

to keep the supply lines open. Running a sandside gas station was a risky business, what with renegades

and gangcults. Slim must have fought many battles, killed many people. It was just good business

practice.

"Ah-hah, yer cleared, Ro-jay. No bugs on yer auto. It's a real clean machine. Yurrup-peen?"

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"American. Cadillac coupe de ville, 1962. With alterations."

Slim whistled through his teem.

"Neat to beat your feet-o, Hirohito."

Duroc knew he was sweating badly. His collar was soaked through. His jaws ached as he bit an

imaginary bullet. The demon shifted slightly and his ribs seemed to grind together. He pressed the pad

tighter, and swallowed his spit.

It was a powerful demon. The Summoner had dipped it in his own blood before entrusting it to Roger

Duroc. Duroc had travelled all the way down fromSalt Lake City with the thing, struggling to prevent it

from seeding early. If it were to spawn inside him he would be as dead within seconds, and his mission

would have to be repeated. Another demon, another disciple. The Summoner would not be pleased.

"Don't git many private citizens through here, y'know. It's convoys, mostly. The big corps need to stop

off somewhere on the interstate. GenTech route their trade this way. And we see a few Ops, and I

daresay a couple of outlaws have stood where you're standin' now and filled up on gas. Real nasty boys

'n' girls, I s'pose, real nasty. Still, their coldkish is as good as anyone else's, and no one much bothers

with gas stations any more. The gangcults need 'em as much as the corps. Gas, water and food. That's

what you need to stay alive out here, and we got 'em all three. Would you care to try some of Slim's

Special Refried Beancurd-shaped Ribettes with Chilli Fries and Root Beer? We don't stock no

shamburgers. I knows you Frenchos got you a reputation for appreciatin' fine food. I could kick in some

of Pappy Moe's cone likker."

Duroc shook his head. Slim did not seem to feel rejected.

"Never know what you're missin', Ro-jay. Say, I could hunt me up some ole frawgs and hack their legs

off fer ya if n you'd prefer. Throw in a fistful a' snails an' whip up some kinda gore-mette sauce or

somethin'."

"No thank you, that's all right. I've already eaten."

Beulah had run a complete service on the Caddy in the time it took the twin tanks to fill. The car was

certified bug-free.

"Say, has anyone told you you don't look too well, Ro-jay? The desert don't agree with you none, huh?

S'pose you don't have no acres of sand over there in Yurrup, no burnin' sun beatin' down all day and

whistlin' winds freezin' you stiff all night, no mutated coyotes tearin' at yer tyres? Gol-dang, but I hates

them mew-taters. Frum where I sit, rattlesnake don't need no extra heads, right?"

Duroc's stomach shifted. He wanted this over soon. He had seen his face in the rearview mirror, and

knew he looked like a week-old corpse with a bad case of the Detroit Sweats.

"Will that be paper or pretend money?"

"Cashplastic."

"Fine. But you don't git so many trading stamps that way."

"No bother."

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Duroc peeled the pad away from his wound, and let it fall inside his jacket. He ran his fingers over the

slit and felt the hard edge of the demon sticking out of his ribs. He coaxed it loose and took the

protruding strip between thumb and forefinger.

"Are you okay, Ro-jay? Can I git you some drugs? We got a special on amphetamines today."

"I'm fine," said Duroc, pulling the demon from his flesh. "My credit card seems to have slipped into the

lining of my coat. It's happened before."

The demon came free. He pulled it out and held it up. It was not red-smeared. It had absorbed the

blood. His wound closed, and he felt a tingle as the new flesh knit. It was an enormous relief to get the

thing out in the air.

The gasman took the demon and looked at it. He would be seeing symbols on the plain white oblong.

American Excess,Disneycard,US Gov't Bonds. Whichever was trading highest.

Slim shoved the demon into a slit on his terminal keyboard, and it vanished into the workings of the

machinery.

Done.

"Let me git you yer GenTech traders." He pulled a fistful of green-faced stamps from a roll. Duroc took

them.

"You got blood on your hand, mister."

"My nails bleed sometimes, if I don't get them trimmed."

"Sounds like you could use them traders. If you collect fifteen books, GenTech will perform any minor

surgical amendments free of charge. I heard tell of a bulk customer out aroundFlagstaff who got hisself

replacement kidneys for only fifty-three books."

Duroc walked towards the car.

"Hey Ro-jay..."

He bent, and slipped into the driver's seat. The car engaged immediately.

"You forgot..."

Zero to sixty in twelve seconds.

"... yer..."

The Caddy kicked up a duststorm.

"... credit card."

Deep inside Beulah, the demon was settling in, and beginning to sprout.

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This, it thought, is going to be a piece of piss.

This is ZeeBeeCee, The Station That's Got It All, bringing you What You Want twenty-four hours a

day, sponsoredby GenTech, the bioproducts division that really cares...

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Killing magazine will be explaining the ins and outs of the new napalm laws on our consumer advice

show, Staying Alive. But first, tune in to reality with luscious Lola Stechkin, bringing you The Brunchtime

Bulletin from the comfort of her Jacuzzi...

"Hi,America ! It's January 10th, 1999, and this is Lola, inviting you into the water. Here it is, folks, all the

news you can handle...

"Washington,DC. President North hosted a dinner yesterday for all the surviving holders of his office.

Former presidents Richard Nixon, Barry Goldwater, Spiro Agnew and Charlton Heston were in

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"Salt Lake City, Deseret, formerlySalt Lake City,Utah . Elder Nguyen Seth, the Josephite leader who

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Armoured convoys of resettlers have been making regular runs toSaltLake for the past three years, but

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"Fort Comanche,Nevada. General Ernest Haycox, commander-in-chief of the United States Cavalry,

and Ms Redd Harvest, of the Turner-Harvest-Ramirez Agency, have announced that subsequent to their

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III

Ken Kling, the Turner-Harvest-Ramirez Op, was a total and complete pain in the ass. He treated all US

Cavalry personnel like labourclones, and never stopped bragging about his Agency's record against the

Maniax. It seemed to Sergeant Leona Tyree that it was easier to rack up a reputation zapping everybody

in sight with hood-mounted lases than by keeping the peace. Everybody knew how many panzerboys

Redd Harvest had dropped in the dust, but you never saw stuff on the teevee about the interstates kept

open, the disputes settled, the wildernesses pacified by the Road Cav. Boobs and bullets, that was all the

newsies were into.

She shifted in her seat, and pressed the accelerator. On the long flat, you could afford to open the

cruiser up. The patrol had taken them up into the barren mountains, and now they were back in the Big

Empty, the desert that stretched across most of theseUnited States . This was the kind of detail that made

you thankful for air-conditioned ve-hickles. Outside, the unclouded sun shone mercilessly down on the

endless sands. Co-cola bottles left on the roadside eventually melted into glass pools. The life expectency

of a casual daytime stroller without a decent hat was five hours.

"Of course," said Kling, "me and Ms H are on a personal basis, if you know what I mean. I don't like

letting her work solo, but that's the way she wants it. Usually, I'm there to cover her. Ken Kling the

Killing Machine, they call me."

Tyree looked at Trooper Nathan Stack, her co-driver, and he looked at her. They understood each

other's opinion of Ken Kling the Killing Machine. Stack looked down at the screens. Nothing potentially

hostile in range. The patrol was proving uneventful. Things are always quiet in the aftermath of a war.

Kling was comfortable in the back, wiping N-R-Gee Candy crumbs off the knife-edge creases of his

striped pants. He wore a dandy suit, the jacket loose to hang well over the shoulder holster, rainbow

shades and a haircut that looked like a sugarloaf mountain. His taste in music was lousy too. He expected

them to put up with W.A.S.P. and Mothers of Violence on the CD.

"The Maniax are Yesterday Men," he said, "real gone and forgotten. Ms H stomped them. T-H-R

stomped them. Hell, even you Cav stomped them. The Grand Exalted Bullmoose is just blowing it out. I

doubt he could put more'n twenty-thirty soldiers in the sand after the last purge. Lady and gentleman, our

troubles are over."

They might be at that. If the Maniax were beaten enough to disband, the Cav wouldn't have to

cooperate with T-H-R any longer and Tyree could boot the unwanted observer out of the cruiser. And

according to General Haycox, the Maniax really were beaten this time. Of course, he had said that last

time. That had been just the same. Haycox and Redd Harvest had gone on the teevee, and Leona Tyree

had gone to a lot of funerals. There was a phrase that turned up in too many press releases, "acceptable

casualties."

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You got a flag on your coffin, even if there wasn't much of you left to put in it, and your name on a

plaque somewhere where the survivors wouldn't have to look at it too often. If you went out really

bloodily, you got a fort named after you. You were a hero. But you were still dead, and there were still

Maniax out there. Even if the Grand Exalted Bullmoose couldn't regroup and start again, there would be

others. Other names, other gangcults, but the same deaths.

"Now the Maniax are gone..." began Stack.

"You mean, if the Maniax are gone, Trooper," she said.

"Yeah, well, if the Maniax are gone, who do you reckon is the next most dangerous gangcult?"

"Voodoo Brotherhood," said Kling from the backseat, "but T-H-R will whip them soon, you see."

"Leona?"

"Voodoo Bros are tough. So are The Bible Belt, The Daughters of the American Revolution, The

Gaschuggers, a few others. But I figure the most trouble we're going to have will come from the

Josephites."

"The Josephites?" said Stack, surprised. "But they're supposed to be like the Mormons, or the Amish.

They're the resettlers. They've turnedUtah around, made themselves a paradise, I hear."

"Deseret," she said. "They call Utah Deseret now. There are things you don't hear about the Josephites. I

had a run-in with them once, when we were all riding out ofFortValens . I was with Sergeant Quincannon

men. Some strange things went down. That guy, Nguyen Seth, the leader ofSalt Lake City , is a pretty

mystifying dude. It's not in the reports, but the Quince remembers, and I remember."

Kling laughed. "You've been on the trail too long, cowgirl. The sun's frazzled your brains. The Josephites

are the New Pioneers. The Prezz backs them up all the way."

Tyree half-turned. "That's as may be, but I'd still rather face the Voodoo Bros than a group of Josephite

Missionaries."

She flashbacked, as she did too often, to Spanish Fork. A lot of people had died that day, when the

Josephites came to town and her patrol had been caught up in a shooting war between the resetders, The

Psychopomps and the townsfolk. There had been other combatants, too, ones you could not see. She

had left a friendmdashTrooper Washington Burnsidemdashback there dead, and seen

anothermdashTrooper Kirby Yorkemdashshaken loose of his senses. And she had glimpsed the true face

of Elder Nguyen Seth. She remembered him smashing a ganggirl's face against the road, the blood

spreading with each blow, and, worst of all, she remembered wanting to join him, wanting to dip her

fingers in the girl's blood, wanting to stand with the Josephites as Spanish Fork burned.*

*See the Dark Future anthology Route 666.

"Cheese, but you yellowlegs are a bunch of pussies. You wouldn't last five minutes in a NoGo. Why, Ms

H could..."

Stack turned round and said something to Kling in a low, urgent voice, and the T-H-R Op shut up in

mid-sentence. In the rearview, Tyree could see him slumping grumpily in his seat, nervously hitching his

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shoulders to settle his holster. He was one of those Ops who liked to cart around a big cannon. Back

atFortApache , they had a saying, "the bigger the gun, the bigger the talk, the smaller the dick." On that

scale, Ken Kling the Killing Machine should be genitally equipped in minus numbers.

The cruiser told them to stop for gas and service within three hundred miles. Stack called up a menu of

possible autostops.

"Slim Pickens's Place?" he asked.

Tyree gave it some thought. Slim was tied into the yaks, and that wasn't good. But the Japanese crime

consortium at least had a rep for being honourable. They wouldn't sugar the Cav gas the way some

outlaw stations did. And Slim's B-B-Q was one of the Wonders of the West.

"Fine." She reprogrammed the cruiser's course, and turned off the interstate at the next opportunity. The

secondary road was pitted and bouncy, but Tyree didn't mind. Ken Kling got a good shaking up in the

back, and the front-seat independent gyros kept her and Stack comfy. Outside, everything was quiet.

Just sand and rocks, with a few bleached bones. In this part ofArizona , even the vultures starved.

"Do you want some music on?" asked Stack.

"Yeah, okay. It might perk up the atmosphere."

"What kind of music you got?" Kling asked.

"Both kinds, Ken," Stack replied. "Country and Western."

Kling groaned, and Stack unsheathed The Best of Willie Nelson. The cruiser ate up the dry, cracked

desert road as if it were smooth as milk. Tyree let the car do the thinking.

As systems went, Beulah was a weak sister, a pushover. The demon's physical form melted in the

cashplastic chute, and bled through the terminal, following the main conduits, tapping into the major

programs, knocking the security guards down like ninepins. It was the cybernet Master of the Universe!

There was no program it couldn't out-ace, no system it couldn't peel like a hard-boiled egg, no check it

couldn't drop kick the full ninety yards. There were yakuza blocks thrown up around the memory banks

and the prime directives, but the demon shredded them with ease and redistributed their information bits

throughout the system. Zip-a-dee-doo-dah, it exulted, how was that for a hoo-hah?

It had been an uninteresting victory. This was a small, self-enclosed system, isolated from the datanets.

However, Beulah was still complex enough to be a comfortable launchpad for its master assault plan. The

bones were rollin' well, and it was getting its show together to put on the road.

Beulah was dragged down, and multiply violated. The newcomer tore into the system circuit by circuit,

and complete control of Slim's gas station was in its provenance within three minutes of insertion into the

set-up. Now, it was cookin' with gas!

Contemptuously, it let Beulah continue to exist as a semisentient entity, and amused itself by picking

through the system's memories. Information could always be useful. It took seconds to learn Japanese,

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and composed a few dozen obscene haiku before it got bored again. It stretched out to each of its

terminals and saw what it could do.

It turned the lights off and on in each of the gas station's rest-rooms, and shut down all the fans and

cooling devices. Then it turned on the rarely-used daytime radiators, and experimented with household

appliances. It burned empty air in the toaster, turned the inside of the icebox into a solid block, played

the radios and teevees at the same time, and used the telephone to ring wrong numbers all over the

world.

"I know who y'are, and I'm comin' ta get'cha, get'cha, get'cha," it purred into answering machines on

several continents. A little paranoia never hurt anyone.

Eventually, it got bored with that too and just sat back in the gas pump jacks, waiting for the cruiser.

Trooper Nathan Stack needed to get out of the ve-hickle. It wasn't just five hours stuck in the machine

with that blowhard Kling, listening to the Op's hard-earned stupid opinions on everything from aardvarks

to zygospores. It wasn't just what seemed like twenty-five cups of recaff sloshing around in his bladder. It

wasn't just staring down at the screens until everythng he saw had a green line around it. And it wasn't

just the tantalizing effect of being strapped into a bucket seat inches away from the Sergeant, whom he

had dated regularly over a period of eighteen months until her promotion came through. It was the cruiser

itself. Stack had signed up with the Road Cav in the hope they'd put him on a motorcyke and let him

outride solo. He wasn't a four-wheels-and-a-roof boy. Give him a mount, and there was no one in the

service to beat him. Give him Number Two spot in a cruiser, and he was just another sweaty

button-pusher with VDU headache. He was getting too old for this.

When Tyree braked on the forecourt of Slim's, Stack released his safety-belt and opened his door. He

stepped out of the air-cooled interior, and took the heat on his face. He perched his stetson on his head,

shading his eyes, and stretched his arms and legs, adjusting his yellow braces. There was no breeze, so

everything in sight just lay under the desert skies as if nailed down. An old dog was sprawled on an

armchair, its body curved around the protruding springs. Wind-chimes hung silent on the porch, and the

skeletons of long-discontinued models rusted in the adjacent auto graveyard. Even the flies were taking a

siesta. This was Boot Hill for motor ve-hickles.

A dark shape shambled from the outhouse, swatting the air with a battered baseball cap.

"Yo, Slim!"

The gasman waved a lazy salute and ambled over. He had twenty-five arrests on charges ranging from

first-degree murder to spare part copyright violation, and had one conviction-resulting in a suspended

sentencemdashfor reckless driving. For a nowherseville gas-pumper, he had a freak of a good Japcorp

lawyer.

"Afternoon, Trooper. You wouldn't believe the day I've had. Durn near ever dang thang in the whole

place's gone crazy. Mah toaster exploded, the oven's leakin' them macramewaves all over, garbage

disposal ate my best dinner service and the perimeter lase's been poppin' off at tumbleweeds."

"Time is out of joint, Slim, time is out of joint."

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DarkFutureI DemonDownload JackYeovil PartOne:Slim'sGas'n'B-B-QGeneratedbyABCAmberLITConverter,http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html I"Justwhatkindaack-centisthatyougotthere,mister?"askedthegasmanashejackedintoDuroc'scar.Heworeabaseballcapwiththeteamlogoobscuredbyoil,andhadaname-tagonhismultiply-ho...

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