Mick Farren - Dna Cb 3 - Neural Atrocity

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Mick Farren - DNA CB 3 - Neural Atrocity

CYN 256 felt one of those tiny surges from the wild, unruly, faraway depths of his mind. He didn't have a

name for the small bursts of feeling. He had heard the word rebellion, but he scarcely knew what it

meant. The only positive analysis he had of his situation was that somewhere, beneath all the layers of

orderly conditioning, was a dark sub-mind that refused to be controlled.

He had no real knowledge of this area. A few clues floated up into his consciousness like the occasional

bubbles in a stagnant pool that burst with a tiny whiff of strange, volatile gas. They told him that

somewhere there was a part of him that wasn't totally adjusted. It wouldn't accept the life that limited him

to his work cubicle, his sleep cubicle, and the bright curved corridor that he walked twice a day from one

to the other.

It was on these walks that the disturbing thought came more frequently. As he paced the familiar route

from, in this instance, work to sleep, he glanced covertly at the fellow operatives walking beside him. He

wondered if they too suffered these small but nagging disturbances. If they did, they showed no signs of

it. It wasn't a subject that he could dis-cuss at the fantasy session. If he was alone in his attitudes he

would be treated as a malfunction. That was the thing he was most afraid of.

He walked on along the corridor, looking fixedly at the grey metallic floor with its slight downward curve.

He was careful not to let his pace vary from that of the other operatives around him. He knew the

Computer monitored the behaviour of all its human operatives. It was quick to act on a deviation from

the norm. This too made him afraid.

He was acutely aware that this fear itself was by far his most serious deviation. He knew that once such

thoughts become detectable he would be removed for immediate therapy. Therapy was something else

he feared. What made this whole thought process even more disturbing was that he knew it went against

the very core of his conditioning. For as long as he could remember he had loved the Computer. It was

all powerful, all knowing and all caring. The never failing monitoring was the ultimate source of personal

safety and comfort. The small black shiny sensors that studded the corridors at regular intervals, and

unfalteringly watched over the human operatives from the ceiling of each cubicle, were his guards and

protectors. The sensors were the technological expression of the Computer's love for him.

The therapy unit was the greatest manifestation of that love. All his life it had been the ultimate point of

solace. Once in therapy all pain and abnormality would be gently washed away. In therapy he would be

cleansed, all the pain and troubles removed from his mind and body, totally forgotten.

And yet he was afraid. He knew the fear only occupied a small section of his brain. Most of him still

functioned in the same way as always. The tiny part that had changed, however, was enough to make him

reject therapy and deceive the sen-sors. He knew that in so doing, he was setting himself apart from the

Computer's merciful love, but the found he was unable to help himself.

CYN 256 came to the door of his sleep cubicle. His number was printed on the grey steel door in bold

black letters. Although all the doors that lined the corridor were identical, he didn't need to check the

number. He stopped automatically and, without thought, pressed the stud. The door silently slid open and

he stepped inside.

The interior of the little cubicle was a soft pale blue. It was a restful contrast to the hard grey of the

corridor. The sleep cubicles of C-class operatives provided no luxuries and excess space. There was a

narrow bunk, a small bench, a sanitation unit, and a small strip of floor that was just big enough to turn

round in. He opened the dispenser on the wall and, as always, there was the evening food tray. He

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removed the tray from the recess in the wall and set it down carefully on the table top next to the

styrofoam box that contained his stan-dard set of personal possessions. He was proud of the

multi-faceted lumps of coloured plastic. They were the non-functional objects that the Computer, in its

grace and wisdom, allowed its operatives to keep for their pleasure.

CYN 256 picked up the five pills from the food tray. He washed them down with a mouthful of liquid

from the beaker, and began to munch mechanically on the thick, brown-ish grey wafer. When he'd

finished the food he dropped the tray and empty containers into the disposal vent. He pulled off his

shapeless yellow coverall and stuffed it in after them. There would be a fresh coverall in the dispenser

after he had slept.

Naked, he settled on the bunk in a cross-legged squat. He knew he had only a short space of time to

think before the sleep gas was released into the cubicle. There was no way to resist the gas. Once it

came, the next thing he would know would be waking for another work period.

He tried to think his way towards an analysis of the distur-bances in his mind. It was hard. He had so

little information. He was a C-class. The C-class work function was carried out on an instinctive level

below that of conscious thought. Printouts came into his work cubicle from the feeder, he read them and

punched out other sets of figures on his console. He had no rational idea of why he did it.

He even knew very little about his environment. He knew that beneath him, four levels down, were the

living circuits of the Computer in their own world of absolute cold, moving imperceptibly in the

atmosphere of liquid nitrogen. The cold circuitry that CYN 256 always somehow imagined to be a place

of green silence was the heart of the vast, metal walled sphere that housed the various sections that made

up the entirety of the Computer.

The next levels out from the core housed the electronic and mechanical parts of the Computer. Beyond

them were the three human levels. First there was the A-class, the elite who performed complex rational

exercises, next came the B-class, who guarded, maintained and repaired all functions of the Computer,

and finally, next to the outer shell, were the C-class levels. The C-class provided unthinking link

func-tions. Of all the Computer's operatives, they were the most expendable.

Far back in its history the Computer had taken over the humans who had created it. It had rechannelled

their energies, eradicated the parts of their makeup that it con-sidered superfluous and integrated them

into its own con-struction.

CYN 256 knew nothing of this. He only had the dimmest idea of the construction of the sphere. He

knew the C-class level was immediately beneath the outer shell. He had no idea that this was a 30 cm

skin of spun thermo plastic and steel, with its own remote control weapons system for protection.

He had little idea, either, of what was beyond the outer shell. He knew there were other things. He had a

vague idea of the complex of stuff plants that supplied the rest of what existed with its material goods. He

knew that the Com-puter controlled the stuff plants, coordinating the monstrous logistics of production

and ordering. But he had no concep-tion of what that rest of existence was.

For the first time ever, his lack of knowledge caused him pain. He had no data to apply to his problem.

He knew no precedents and had nothing to relate it to. He had to struggle to stop his body revealing the

frustration. The only thing that stood out in his mind were the figures.

It had happened some ten work periods previously. He had been in his work cubicle, scanning the

printouts and instinc-tively hitting the keys on his console, when his eye had stopped at a single line of

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figures. He had broken out in a sweat, and something had knotted in his stomach. He didn't know how or

why, but there seemed to be something terribly wrong with them. He had to make a considerable effort

to go on punch-ing out the corresponding figure. It had all felt so out of place. It was after that his

disturbances had started.

CYN 256 felt helpless. It was inconceivable that the Computer had made an error. It had to be he, and

yet he didn't feel defective. He could think of no reason why he should react strangely to a set of figures.

That thought took him full circle. If it was the figures that had affected him, then the error must be in the

Computer, and it was in-conceivable that the Computer could make an error.

Before he could go any further, there was a soft hissing sound. The sleep gas was being pumped into the

room. CYN 256 lay down and prepared for unconsciousness.

A.A. Catto paced one of the high terraces of the ziggurat. It was a restless, stiff legged pacing. She

bounced slightly on the balls of her feet, giving off waves of impatient energy. Every few steps she would

clench her fists, digging her silver nails into the palms of her hands. She still looked about four-teen years

old with a slim, hardly developed body. For a long period she had maintained the appearance of a twelve

year old, but then, for a while, she had stopped using the growth retarder, and her body had matured

slightly.

It was only her face that gave away the fact that she had seen and done far more than any fourteen year

old. The large eyes had a cold liquidity that seemed capable of any-thing. Her mouth, too, had a fullness

that was at the same time cruel and sensual.

She halted and snapped her fingers at Lame Nancy.

'Cheroot.'

Nancy silently handed A.A. Catto a thin black cheroot and then lit it for her. Nancy had been standing

quietly by while A.A. Catto performed her caged animal pacing. Nancy was almost as thin as A.A.

Catto, but she looked her natural age. Her hair was bleached white and cropped very close to her head.

She wore a white, skin tight, one piece fighting suit. A.A. Catto was dressed in exactly the same garment,

except that hers was black with a discreet gold trim. Nancy's left leg was withered. It was supported by

a black steel brace decor-ated with damascened curlicue patterns.

Nancy had been a successful madame in the city of Litz until she joined A.A. Catto's headlong band

wagon. Now she was A.A. Catto's confidante, companion, lover and servant. She was consort to A.A.

Catto's absolute ruler.

A.A. Catto exhaled sharply.

'Why does it have to take so long?'

Nancy shrugged.

'Preparations always take time.'

A.A. Catto stared across the broad valley that was domin-ated by the ziggurat. A wide sluggish river

meandered through the valley. Its banks were lined with squat, dark green, amphibious assault craft.

Lines of fighting men in black suits and helmets moved slowly towards them like dark tribu-taries. Soon,

however, they would all be crowded aboard the waiting boats, and like a grim armada the fleet would

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move out towards the nothings.

The nothings were the grey drifting areas of unstable matter. Since the breakdown most of the world had

been like that. In the nothings the natural laws of energy, motion and gravity had ceased to exist. The

huge stasis generators were the only thing that maintained a tenuous normality. They provided human

beings with a few small areas on which they could live.

Quahal was one of these areas. A.A. Catto had come to it as a fugitive seeking sanctuary, but had

overthrown its previ-ous rulers and altered it to suit her own tastes and desires. In this redesigned

Quahal, where her every whim had become brutal and inflexible law, she had found the environment to

nurture her ultimate dream. Now she stood on top of the high black ziggurat and watched as her dream

became reality.

A.A. Catto was about to conquer an unsuspecting world.

Nancy moistened her lips, hesitated and then spoke.

'Shouldn't we go down to the bunker? The assault craft will be moving off soon.'

A.A. Catto dropped her cheroot and ground it out with her foot.

'In a moment.'

She turned and stared out once again at the men beneath her. The huge multiple stuff receivers had been

rigged on the plain beside the ziggurat. They crackled softly as the fighting men of A.A. Catto's custom

built army came down the beam.

Each of them was bio-tailored to A.A. Catto's specific design. She had been surprised that Stuff Central

had delivered quite such a vast order for men and equipment, but the Computer had started delivering

without comment, and had continued to do so ever since. Very soon A.A. Catto would command the

largest army that had ever existed in the damaged world.

She turned and looked at the sinister, cloud-covered moun-tain looming at the end of the valley, then she

abruptly turned and walked quickly towards the terrace entrance. Nancy fell in behind her.

Originally the interior of the ziggurat was a black stone warren of passages, ramps and stairs. A.A. Catto

had installed a system of high-speed lifts. One waited at the end of a short corridor, A.A. Catto and

Nancy stepped into it. Nancy punched out the combination for the bunker, and the lift dropped through

the many levels of the ziggurat and con-tinued deep underground.

The lift came to a cushioned stop, and the doors slid silently open. Just outside the lift stood a pair of

A.A. Catto's personal guards. They were two of the wild horsemen who had first aided her to seize

power in Quahal. They still wore their traditional winged helmets, fur tunics and armour covering their

arms. Instead of lances, however, they were now armed with deadly, full load fuse tubes.

They stepped aside to let A.A. Catto pass. Beyond them a pair of steel doors slid back. She walked

through them. Nancy followed. The doors closed behind them, and they were inside the huge

underground war room.

Even though she had supervised every detail of its construc-tion, A.A. Catto still experienced a thrill of

excitement when she entered the war room. Its floor and high, vaulted roof were made of the same black

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stone as the rest of the ziggurat. Three of the four walls were taken up by screens that gave instant

graphic representation of the state of the war.

The entire room was dominated by the big board that gave an immediate overall picture. It was flanked

by smaller screens which gave details of individual campaigns. On the floor, directly in front of the board,

sat five rows of red-suited aides hunched over individual monitors and battle control consoles.

Behind the aides, on a raised dais, sat A.A. Catto's six white-suited advisers. Their totally bald heads and

flat expressionless faces were all identical. They were the set of specially cloned superminds whose job it

was to make A.A. Catto's fantasies become reality.

In the middle of the line of advisers were two empty chairs. A.A. Catto walked briskly across the war

room, moun-ted the dais and sat down. Nancy dutifully followed. As A.A. Catto sat down the advisers

rose and bowed. Once the for-malities were over A.A. Catto's attitude became business-like. She turned

to the adviser next to her.

'Is the assault craft force ready to move?'

The adviser nodded.

'They are loaded, and waiting for the final order.'

'They're netted in with the lizards?'

Another clone answered.

'They're hooked into the net, my leader.'

A.A. Catto smiled.

'Good. Start to move them out. Once they're under way I want to inspect the lizard installation.'

She issued a fast series of orders. The advisers' fingers flew over the touch panels on the desk in front of

each of them.

'Check guidance system.'

'Checked, my leader.'

'Bring up the task force on the big board.'

A yellow arrow glowed into life beside the symbol that represented Quahal.

'Activate scanner on forward craft.'

One of the smaller screens flickered into life. It showed the view of the river from the leading assault

craft. A.A. Catto looked satisfied.

'Right, move them out now.'

The advisers' hands moved across the touch panels. The picture moved as the craft swung into the centre

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of the river. The yellow arrow began to move very slowly across the big board. A.A. Catto sighed.

'They're on their way.'

She looked round at her advisers.

'Will the air support be ready when we need it?'

The advisers nodded.

'Yes, our leader.'

She placed her hands flat on the desk and stood up.

'We'll move the second wave immediately the men have come off the beam. Now I want to check the

lizards. If they fail, we will lose everything.'

The advisers rose and bowed, and then settled back to their work. A.A. Catto, followed, as ever, by

Nancy, hurried out of the war room and into the lift. The lift dropped two more levels to the very deepest

of the underground structure.

The lift doors opened to reveal six soldiers in black fighting suits and black helmets guarding the entrance.

As A.A. Catto stepped out of the lift they saluted smartly. Two sets of thick steel doors led to a room

almost as large as the war room. The air was thick with the acrid smell of big lizards kept in a con-fined

place. The animal stench contrasted sharply with the gleaming electronic equipment that lined the walls of

the room.

As A.A. Catto entered, the dozen or so red-suited aides stopped what they were doing and came to

attention. A.A. Catto waved them back to work and walked quickly to the lizards. There were four of

them, lying on their sides apparently unconscious. A large number of electrodes were attached to their

heads. Wires led away to the various electronic units. A.A. Catto frowned. The animals' breathing

sounded laboured and uneven. She beckoned to one of the aides.

'Are these animals alright?'

The aide nodded.

'They are as healthy as can be expected.'

'What about their breathing?'

The aide pointed to the feeder tubes that were embedded in the beasts' shoulders.

'They are being fed with a mixture of nutrients, tran-quillizers and cyclatrol. The cyclatrol heightens their

way-finding ability, but the combination of the drugs does appear to impair their breathing a little.'

A.A. Catto looked at the lizards doubtfully. They were the cornerstone of her entire existence. They had

an instinctive grasp of the relationship between different places in the damaged world. They could find the

way from one point to another. They knew where they were, and humans didn't.

All, that is, except a very few random freaks who were born with the power of wayfinding. They were,

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as a rule, diffi-cult and unmanageable. Lizards were much safer.

The electrodes in the lizards' heads fed their brain pat-terns into the computer complex. There they were

analysed and finally fed to A.A. Catto's armies as they moved through the nothings in the form of detailed

course instructions. It was a crude set-up but incredibly effective. It meant that A.A. Catto could wage

war across the nothings. It meant her armies could descend on target cities with a certainty of absolute

surprise. It was vital that nothing should go wrong with the system. A.A. Catto glanced sharply at the

aide.

'What happens if one of the lizards dies?'

'If the signals from one lizard fade, the system switches instantly to one of the other animals. We only use

one at a time. In addition we have a herd of prepared beasts. We can change lizards in a matter of

minutes.'

A.A. Catto still wasn't satisfied.

'If we broke contact for even a few seconds it would be a disaster. My armies would be lost in the

nothings. What happens if all four should die at the same time?'

'The advisers have calculated, my leader, that the prob-ability of that occurring is 1 in 278 unless, of

course, Quahal itself is under attack.'

A.A. Catto looked hard at the aide.

'There must be no failure. You'd suffer horribly before you died.'

The aide bowed.

'There will be no failure, my leader.'

A.A. Catto snapped her fingers at Nancy.

'It has started. There is nothing else I can do until the army reaches Feld and is ready to attack. I shall go

to my suite. You can come with me.'

Nancy took a deep breath and smoothed down her already form fitting white suit.

'I'm coming, sweetie.'

The teacher raised his head. It was a silent signal that the period of meditation was over. The line of

black-robed monks who sat facing him, cross-legged on their rush mats, also looked up. The silence

seemed to deepen as they waited for him to speak. A mass of candles flickered in the big multiple

candel-abra. They threw a soft fitful light on the bare stone walls of the brotherhood meeting room. The

teacher took a deep breath.

'We face a very grave situation.'

The monks' faces showed no emotion. There was a certain uniformity about their features. They all had

the same promi-nent cheekbones, slightly flattened noses and large dark eyes. Their straight black hair

was trimmed just above their shoul-ders. The teacher, however, was a very different figure. He wore the

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same black robe, but his whole appearance was frail and ancient. His skin was pink and soft like a

baby's. It was terribly wrinkled, and totally without hair. Only his eyes seemed to be still young. They had

the same purposeful calm as the rest of the brothers.

'It is so grave that the very survival of what is left of the world is threatened.'

One of the monks controlled himself with a supreme effort of will. Every fibre of his being wanted to shift

uncomfortably, but he managed to remain motionless. It was only appropriate for a brotherhood

executive. His name was Jeb Stuart Ho. He sat about halfway down the row of monks. He was aware

that part of the gravity of the situation was his direct responsi-bility.

Over the centuries since the natural laws had ceased to be consistent and human life had clung to areas

where artificial stasis could be generated, the brothers had worked single-mindedly on their never ending

task. They observed and recorded the smallest event in the hundred thousand com-munities that had

survived in the grey nothings. Every-thing that happened was recorded in their graphs, from the major to

the insignificant. The graphs charted the passage of past events. They were fed to the huge bio-cybernetic

brain. From them, the brain projected the course of the future. When disaster appeared to threaten, the

brotherhood made adjustments. This was the role of the executives.

Jeb Stuart Ho had been given such a task. His assignment had been the elimination of A.A. Catto. Her

killing would have been a surgical operation to avoid a catastrophe, but Jeb Stuart Ho had failed. When

he returned to the brother-hood temple with his mission uncompleted he had expected some kind of

punishment. Nothing had happened. No one even referred to the matter. It didn't take Jeb Stuart Ho

very long to realize that his own guilt and self-reproach were the worst punishment.

'I have called thirty of you together because we must complete the task that lies in front of us. If we

should not succeed, the disaster would prove almost total.'

The teacher's expression didn't change, but Jeb Stuart Ho felt the urge to squirm increase.

'You have been trained since your birth for executive action. You have explored the deepest corridors of

your beings. You have fought and meditated. You have studied the martial skills until no man can best

you in combat. You can walk without disturbing the air, and move without being seen. Yet, the task in

front of us may even put you to an awesome test.'

The teacher paused, and a monk at the end of the line raised his hand.

'Teacher?'

The teacher slowly turned his head.

'Na Duc Rogers?'

'Has not the failure of Jeb Stuart Ho cast a shadow over our capabilities?'

The teacher smiled.

'The wise man holds his dish level after once he has spilled the soup.'

Na Duc Rogers frowned.

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'Surely we can no longer have faith in our invincibility? That could hang over us like a blight.'

The teacher's eyes twinkled.

'The humble man who dwells in the barn with his cow very quickly learns to like the smell.'

Jeb Stuart Ho could contain himself no longer. He raised his hand.

'Teacher?'

'Jeb Stuart Ho?'

'Would you outline what this task is to be?'

The teacher looked hard at Jeb Stuart Ho.

'The foolish man summons the river to come nearer so he may cross it the sooner.'

Jeb Stuart Ho silently accepted the rebuke. The teacher waited for a while, then he spoke.

'What would you do, Jeb Stuart Ho?'

Jeb Stuart Ho took a deep breath. The question was obvi-ously a test. He answered quickly without

faltering.

'The city of Feld is already under attack, and A.A. Catto's legions are moving centrewards on a broad

front. In my estimation there must be some kind of guidance system that enables her armies to move

through the nothings. I would strike at Quahal in force, and destroy this system and her whole base of

operations.'

The teacher permitted himself a discreet grin.

'That is a good analysis, Jeb Stuart Ho.'

'Thank you, teacher.'

'However, you strike at the branches, not the roots.'

Jeb Stuart Ho did his best to disguise his discomfort.

'I do, teacher?'

'You do, Jeb Stuart Ho.'

Another monk, Dwight Luang, raised his hand.

'What then is the correct mode of action, teacher?'

The teacher bowed his head.

'Young men hasten so swiftly towards their truths. They flee from ignorance as though a tiger was at their

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heels. What would you do, Dwight Luang?'

'I would suggest the same as Jeb Stuart Ho.'

The teacher looked slowly along the line of monks.

'I imagine you all think the same?'

The monks sat still and silent. The teacher nodded.

'I too would concur with Jeb Stuart Ho, except for one factor. Tell me, Dwight Luang, did A.A. Catto

raise her array among the population of Quahal?'

'No, teacher. Quahal's only inhabitants are a few hundred special function cloned servants and primitive

warriors. She ordered her army from Stuff Central.'

'A large army was delivered to her in a very short time?'

Dwight Luang nodded.

'Yes, teacher.'

The teacher looked at Jeb Stuart Ho.

'So, do you now have reason to change your analysis?'

Jeb Stuart Ho was confused.

'I'm sorry, teacher. I do not yet grasp your argument.'

The teacher nodded.

'Let us go further, then. Stuff Central provided the army without comment, is that not correct, Jeb Stuart

Ho?'

'Yes, teacher.'

'And yet this army provides a tangible threat to many of the stasis settlements. A war on this scale could

disrupt huge areas by the destruction of their generators. Our computer predicted that the loss of stable

land area could be as high as 65.79 per cent. It is inconceivable that the Stuff Central computer would

not make the same calculation on receipt of such a huge order.'

The teacher paused.

'Perhaps Jeb Stuart Ho would remind us of the Prime Term of Reference of the Stuff Central computer?'

Jeb Stuart Ho recited parrot fashion.

'The-Stuff-Central-computer-will-coordinate-the-manufacture-and-supply-of-material-goods-for-the-sur

viving-communities-to-the-benefit-and-wellbeing-of-those-communi-ties.'

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MickFarren-DNACB3-NeuralAtrocityCYN256feltoneofthosetinysurgesfromthewild,unruly,farawaydepthsofhismind.Hedidn'thaveanameforthesmallburstsoffeeling.Hehadheardthewordrebellion,buthescarcelyknewwhatitmeant.Theonlypositiveanalysishehadofhissituationwasthatsomewhere,beneathallthelayersoforderlycondition...

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