Subtropolis Three
by
Jean Clarke
Copyright by Jean Clarke 2012
Smashwords Edition
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places or incidents are either a product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to real names, persons, products, ideologies or incidents are not intentional.
Cover design by the author
CHAPTER 1
The white, ovular room was empty save for a similarly white body-conforming lounge that rose from the smooth floor, raised at its uppermost end to elevate the lounger’s torso and head. The walls of the room were pearlescent and seemed to pulsate with a soft energy as an unmarked section opened and slid silently to one side, revealing Alpha Ram. He was male, but gently so, his complexion pale and unflawed under a white gossamer robe, his bright turquoise eyes purposeful beneath geometrically cropped red-gold hair. He was utterly beautiful, and so perfect of form that one might believe him artificially created.
Alpha Ram removed his robe, revealing a flawless body of twenty-seven or so earth years, lying on the lounge, closing his eyes as immediately a soft lavender mist emanated from the curved walls and began to fill the room. He inhaled deeply, a smile tilting the corners of his exquisitely formed lips.
An electronic, female-simulated voice intoned, “Inducement drug effective. Beginning stimulation.”
Dancing points of light twinkled within the mist and began to pulsate with increasing intensity as, from the ceiling, a flexible tube descended. If we had found ourselves standing behind the raised lounge we would have seen only the back of Ram’s sunset-hewed hair as the tube dropped below our sightline to his groin, attaching itself to the appendage it found.
Ram’s shoulders flinched only slightly as from his lips a soft moan escaped. The light pulsations continued to escalate. His breathing became staccato as he rode the pulsing rhythm upward to ecstasy. And as he did so, his lips formed a soundless word. He began to repeat it in cadence with the pulsating lights.
Then the word became audible and began to fill the room, rising to a crescendo: “Spend. Spend! Spend! SPEND! SPEND!!”
Ram reached sexual climax, screaming through his release: “SPENNNNNNND!!!”
Then he collapsed, unconscious.
CHAPTER 2
Ram, refreshed and on his feet again, exited to Reception where a fiber-optic sign over the room he left identified it as the SPERM DEPOSITORY. His form was covered now, by his full-body Alpha Skimmer, form-fitting as an onion skin, his hair completely hidden beneath a scarlet colored scull-cap.
He moved to the desk, where he received a rejuvenating drink from the cyber receptionist, its electronic voice addressing him: “Thank you for regenerating. Your contribution is appreciated.” Ram downed the drink and handed the vial back to the cyborg. “No thanks necessary. I’m always happy to help strengthen the Fed.” And at that moment young female, dressed identically to Ram, entered Reception and moved toward a room titled OVUM BANK. She was gender identifiable only by her smaller stature and slightly more rounded body. Ram headed for the exit, his steps light. In a daring moment one might even have described his stride as jaunty.
Outside in the Alpha Level corridor, the pearlescent walls softly gleamed, dimmed for evening as a multitude of male and female Bionoids, resembling Ram in his pristine beauty and dressed also in Skimmers, went about their business with pleasant if bland expressions, reflecting the sterility of their environment. Pocket doors slid soundlessly open and closed along the broad hallway as they entered or exited their Living Pods, keying themselves in with a set of colored metal rings that hung from chains around their necks.
Breaking the icy severity of their white surroundings, a digital message streamed along the walls. In bright red letters it radiated the command: SPEND FOR THE FEDERATION. DO YOUR PART!
As Ram made his way along the corridor a female Alpha fell into step with him. “Permission?” she asked of him.
He nodded yes and with this, a holographic ‘screen’ opened above his eyes. Another opened in the forehead of his companion. Their images somberly filled the screens.
The female’s mind-image asked Ram’s, “You regenerated tonight? I’m tomorrow. Will you join me in assimilating NutriMents?”
“That would be pleasant,” answered Ram’s mind-image.
“You remember my Living Pod? I’m Sector Five.”
“I remember,” his image said.
Their Mind-Screens closed and they continued along the corridor.
CHAPTER 3
At the uppermost level of the Subtropolis was a vast, dark and malodorous underground cavern. Filling its dank, seeping bowels was an enormous root system fed from aboveground by some vast, invisible vegetation. Here, rotted vegetation was compressed, stored and converted to energy to power the Subtropolis.
This dirty-work was accomplished through the efforts of Drone Clones, as hairy, ugly and stupid as Bionoids were beautiful and intelligent. Drone Clones were supervised by Managers, a mid-level sub-biological species. Of a higher order than their charges, they were nevertheless evil tempered and vulgar as their cruel, ruby-eyed faces revealed. Clad entirely in black, they were incited to violence by the slightest suggestion of malingering; a goldbricking Drone was in line for an afternoon of torture.
At the moment, two Managers were eyeing a particular Drone with interest.
“Take a good look at the smaller one. Something amiss with that one.”
“Religious Federationists claim that OMNI is incapable of error.”
The other laughed malevolently. “Can you look at these sons of biomorphs and truly believe that?”
“That one’s female, I’m sure of it. An ugly little rat, but—”
“Don’t be an idiot. Drones are gender-neutral.”
“Then what are those bumps on its torso?”
“Warts! Or carbuncles. Keep your distance; the thing may be contagious.”
His workmate salivated, “I’m just waiting for a false move. Then I’ll put that dung-brained malcreation in its place, never fear!”
The Drone lowered its gaze and put some muscle into its root chopping. Nothing gained in attracting attention. No sense getting tortured or killed. Its small, dirty-but-hairless hands sported blisters and it was slighter in build than the others. But it had more than these to hide from the Managers. If they had been willing to brave the stench and approach it they would have seen, in eyes dark as the cavern walls, the unmistakable stamp of intelligence.
CHAPTER 4
Inside the white domed module that was Ram’s Living Pod, he was entertaining his friend. The two Alphas sat side by side (determinedly not touching) on a bench-like outcropping which, like the lounge in REGENERATION, was molded out of the wall. As they conversed, they munched on obstinate wedges of an indeterminate material. The female claimed, “These root proteins are quite palatable.”
Ram brightened, but carefully, so as not to alarm her. “How you were able to find them is beyond me.”
“I obligated for them at Fuel Depot West.”
“Always meant to get out there,” he answered. “Nice variety?”
“Very. Every bit worth the distance.”
Ram told her, “I’ll be Spending this weekend. Perhaps I’ll have a look at it.”
“You won’t be disappointed.”
She rewarded him with a sincere but vapid smile. He nodded acknowledgement. They returned their gazes to the opposite wall, chewing methodically.
#
The following morning Ram woke earlier than usual, from a fitful sleep. Rolling from his suspended Sleep Hammock, he was clad as always in his Skimmer, though his scarlet scull-cap had been removed. With a slightly sour expression he pulled it over his head and moved into the Pod’s living area. Then peering through one of his Color-Rings, he faced a smooth, empty stretch of wall. A small alcove appeared. From it, he removed breakfast — a bionic cube as unappealing as the root proteins he had ingested the previous night. He popped it into his mouth, closed the alcove and proceeded to another stretch of wall. With a second Color-Ring he commanded forth a computer monitor and keyboard as a stool rose, simultaneously, from the floor.
Ram sat and punched in a code. A computer-generated image filled the screen. It was SIR, a genial, effervescent Elder with a hairless skull and spiked corona that crackled with static energy as he spoke.
“Good morning, Alpha Ram. And greetings from the Federation, which hopes you rested well.”
“Thank you SIR, but not entirely.”
SIR appeared concerned. “Perhaps you’ve become unbalanced. Have you scanned yourself recently?”
“No, SIR. I suppose I should have done that, before I—”
“No rush,” SIR replied, with a broad smile. “Take care of it after we’ve spoken.”
“I will, SIR. But this is . . . something unusual, I believe.”
“Unusual, Alpha Ram?”
“I keep checking my Function Level and coming up normal. Yet—”
“If you are functioning, Alpha Ram, you are normal.”
“You’re correct, SIR, as always. I know I must be normal, but—”
SIR said brightly, “Then you are!”
“That’s true. But then why don’t I feel . . . quite certain of that?”
“Perhaps you’re in need of some R&R. What is your Responsibility for the weekend?”
“I’ll be Spending, SIR.”
“Ah, yes. A most entertaining and useful occupation.”
“I would ordinarily be looking forward to it. I’ve worked up a Liability of almost two million Obligations. With increased Spending, my paycheck shouldn’t make a dent in my debt to the Fed . . . uh, pardon me . . . the Federation.”
“Bravo, Alpha! I shall enter a positive note in your Accountability Report.”
“Kind of you, SIR. As you know, I like to do my part.”
“Precisely why you’re an Alpha, Alpha Ram. And a tribute to your intelligence level. You can attain no higher acuity, as you know, than Alpha. Until, of course, you Extinct and reincarnate as a Mechanoid.
“I’m not sure I’m evolved enough for Automo-Bionics SIR, but I am looking forward to reincarnating in some future time, as a machine.”
“And well you should, Alpha Ram! Think of it. A body no longer dependent on NutriMents, not required to Regenerate, invulnerable to the elements . . .”
“’Elements’ SIR?”
SIR cleared his ‘throat’. “An, uh . . . archaic expression describing . . . let me see . . . I know I have that somewhere . . .”
“It’s not important.”
“Probably not,” said SIR.
“May I mention, SIR, that you’re an inspiration as always?”
“Why thank you, Alpha Ram. We try.” SIR’S image luxuriated a moment, in the compliment. Then continued humbly: “Downward, ever downward, Alpha. And don’t you forget it!”
“I won’t, SIR. It’s a lofty ideal.”
Says SIR with a bountiful smile: “Have a productive day, Alpha Ram!”
“Thank you. I’ll do my very best.”
With that, SIR’s image faded and the setup disappeared into the wall. With a sigh, Ram moved to another room where he opened a large closet-like enclosure. When he stepped inside, another simulated voice announced: “Operational. Prepare for BioScan.” Ram rotated slowly. The voice continued, “Function Level optimum. Proceed with activities of daily living.”
Ram stepped out. Muttering to himself, “Optimum. Impossible!”
The screen in his forehead opened and his mind-image appeared once more, assuring him, “Come now, we’re just a bit out of sorts. No need to work ourselves into a goulash. Goulash? Or is that a—?”
Ram was disgusted with himself. (Both of his selves) “It doesn’t make sense. I mean, were you paying attention to how we slept last night?”
His mind-image answered, “When I wasn’t cleaning up that garbage heap you call a subconscious.”
“And after Regenerating! But everything checks out. I’m supposed to be fine.”
“If you’re supposed to be, then you are.”
Ram was doubtful but, “You’re probably right.”
“Of course I’m right. I’m an Alpha brain.”
“I wish I could listen to something else sometimes. Something besides—”
“Me?”
“You. Me. It’s all the same.”
“Not at all. I’m the better part of you. Your Higher Self.”
“I wonder,” said Ram.
“Sounds to me like you need to get out a bit. Do some Spending.”
“That’s just it! I’m getting . . . something . . . with spending. Sometimes I wish there were other things . . .”
His image was perplexed. “What in the Subtropolis would it be? What could bring so much pleasure while at the same time . . .”
“. . .creating a stronger Federation,” Ram finishes.
“You’ll feel much better when you’ve driven up your debt.”
“Alright,” said Ram. “I’ll Spend more. Tonight, after work.”
Ram’s image smiled. “Spend till you bend! Do you a world of good.”
Ram nodded, disheartened. His Mind-Screen closed. He straightened his proud Alpha back, lifted his elegant chin in as arch an attitude as was possible for an elite, perfectly formed genius, and began his superior day.
CHAPTER 5
The Alpha Level mall was an enormous plaza with scores of shops — an orgy of futuristic gadgetry — the penultimate marketplace. A brighter level of artificial light than the evening before, was all that let one know it was daytime in this windowless subterranean world, while flashing metronomic imagery nudged Bionoids toward a sense of urgency. Everywhere, bright red streaming letters commanded: SPEND! FOR THE FEDERATION.
Alpha Levels moved in and out of stores, frenzy-buying, robotic carts following behind with their purchases while at strategically placed intervals an electronic ALL-SEEING-EYE tracked their movements.
In one emporium, Ram inspected a futuristic bicycle while a salesman in a green scull-cap — indicating his lower, Gamma Level existence — gave him the pitch. The salesman straddled the bike and it levitated, quickly out of control and zooming into a display pyramid of gourmet ground slugs. Man and bike hung in midair for a second, then crashed to the floor.
Ram eyed it doubtfully. “Maybe something a little easier to handle.”
A salesgirl dashed over, fuming. “I spent all morning stacking those slugs!”
“Sorry. The acceleration’s a little sensitive.”
“So am I!” She stomped off furiously, after tossing over her shoulder, “Up your BioDuct!”
“So,” the salesman attempted once more. “Will you be adding the Aerocycle to your Obligations List? Trust me, it won’t be here tomorrow.”
“I, uh . . . I’ll have to think about it.”
“Think about it? Come now. You can never be too deeply in debt.”
“True,” Ram agreed.
“Lay-Away, perhaps. I can promise you’ll pay more than twenty Obligations a month interest.”
“Sweet deal, but—”
“I’ll just write it up for you. I see you’ve left home without your cart, but not to worry; we deliver.” He snapped his fingers, signaling an inert robot-cart, which came to life and rolled toward them.
Ram felt panicky. “No, I . . . I’ll have to get back to you . . .”
He ran from the store as the salesman gaped. An Alpha hesitating to spend? But, spotting another potential customer, the Gamma forgot his frustration and rushed to the new, anxious-to-spend Alpha as Ram dashed headlong through the plaza, close to hysteria with confusion and fear.
He stopped, finally, near a luminescent wall on the periphery of the mall, leaning against it, disoriented, panting. What in the Subtropolis was the matter with him? Running out of a store like that, unsure of himself, unable to make a decision. He was an Alpha, for OMNI’s sake. Such embarrassing and inappropriate behavior! He glanced about, surreptitiously. No Coppers in sight. If one had seen him, witnessed his un-Alpha-like behavior, he’d be on his way to the Balance Asylum for sure. And he’d heard the rumors — tales of enforced abstemiousness . . . virtual reality torture . . . physical labor! — it made him shudder just thinking of it.
Readjusting his scull-cap, taking a calming breath, Ram made his way, slowly and deliberately, back to his Living Pod.
CHAPTER 6
Up on Drone Level in the common eating space, (another huge, squalid cave), day-shift Drones gathered round a fire-pit while the night-shift trudged to work. On a rusty spit were snakes, groundhogs, rabbits and other subterranean fare, sizzling over the flames. As the food seared and aromas filled the air, Drones howled in anticipation. The beasts lunged and clawed, competing for position around the fire. In the fracas, several Drones were knocked into the pit. They shrieked and flailed — on fire themselves and setting co-workers aflame. Soon it was chaos as fighting, biting, singed and hairless Drones beat one another to hell, mistaking their fellows for food, lurching off to corners with chunks of each other, contentedly chowing down.
On a nearby ledge, wedged into the cave wall and almost hidden from sight was the smaller, intelligent Drone, watching the others with disgust. Who were these disgusting things and what was she (Yes, ‘she’. Recognizing herself as gender-specific) doing among them? She was not them — not like them — not hairy or smelly (as smelly as they were, anyway) and certainly smarter. She had a name as well, though she didn’t know who had given it to her. She was Dara. Dara the Drone, but not a Drone. What then? What was she, and how might she find her real purpose?
She crept farther along the ledge to where she’d discovered a small rivulet, leaking through the mud and between stones. There, she washed herself, careful not to reveal too much hairless flesh. She needed to appear as much as possible like the others, to avoid detection till she could make a plan — to somehow escape — though to where, she hadn’t a clue. She believed only that the way would show itself. If she was vigilant, if she used the good sense (something) had given her . . .
It was torture for her each evening, waiting for the others to eat their fill and crash into fitful, farting, sleep. But she forced herself. Only when the last ugly Drone fell into coma-like somnolence did she slip from her sleeping perch and find her special hidey-hole where she kept . . . the books.
She had been ‘reading’ for a long time now, ever since she had discovered them, wrapped to protect them from dampness and seepage, hidden by someone or something from ‘Above’ — that place which everyone spoke of as Hell — a place where only the Harvesters went, to clear it of the demons that were said to reside there, unspeakable monsters who had to be destroyed lest they infiltrate the Subtropolis and attempt to descend into Heaven.
But if these ‘monsters’ had created the books, they couldn’t possibly be evil. She found these glued-together sheets of information miraculous and longed for the world they came from, yearned to see if it existed as it was so pictured, a place of color and texture and light — a world at the other end of the spectrum from what she had always known — RECAPTURE, with its stink and mud and danger.
She lifted one now, from its protective animal skin and placed it in her lap, laying her flat palm on a random page. And thus she ‘read’, a picture forming in her mind’s eye: a Viking ship in an Atlantic gale, it’s virile crew challenging the sea. And then another: the Greek Olympiad. Runners, muscled bodies agleam, thrilling a cheering crowd. She moved her palm over another page — a herd of wild mustangs thundered over a prairie. A sun set behind a white beach . . . a condor soared from its aerie . . . beings who seemed not unlike herself swam naked under a waterfall . . .
She shuddered with awe and delight. And yearning! What were such things and where and when had they existed? Did they exist even now — somewhere, in some alien land? Could it be that all of this took place in Hell? She would go there, she decided — someday, somehow. Someday she would sneak upward, up and out into Hell and see this for herself. If there were demons there, she wanted to meet them. They appeared so much more vital than Managers and Drones. Maybe they could tell her what sort of creature she was. Maybe there would be others like her. Maybe she could wash away the grime and show her clean, smooth face without being tortured. She would try. And it would be soon.
CHAPTER 7
Ram was back in his Living Pod, seated again at his monitor. On the screen, an electronic image addressed him — a female figure — her voice at once soothing and authoritative as she announced: “Activated. Universal Knowledge Stream at your disposal. Please enter subject and time frame.”
Ram tried to collect his thoughts, to form a question, but he was in a quandary. “I’m not entirely sure what it is I want to kn—”
“Please state your subject and time frame,” the image repeated flatly.
“Just a moment. If you will.”
“Please state your subject and time frame.”
“Subject . . . feelings.”
“Subject, feelings,” the image repeated. “Which specific feeling, please? Elation, Obligation or Responsibility.”
“Something . . . other than.”
“There are no feelings other than the three heretofore stated.”
“But there must be. I . . . I mean, I think I’m feeling something besides . . .”
“The Alpha consciousness is programmed with all known feelings. One: Elation — having to do with, or as a result of, Spending. Thereby creating the second known feeling, Obligation. The third and final feeling is Responsibility — that is, the recognition of Obligation and the desire to repay on a continuing basis.”
“Are you sure? I mean, that there are positively no other feelings that might . . . exist in Alpha consciousness?”
“Am I to understand you are questioning the Voice of Wisdom?”
“Well. Sort of.”
“Again. There are three feelings indigenous to Alpha consciousness . . .”
Ram punched a few keys. “Maybe I should rephrase . . .”
“Requested information not available at Alpha Level.”
“That’s impossible. We know everything!” He punched in still another command.
The flat voice intoned: “Prepare for re-entry of data. Beginning HypnoSynthesis.
Ram drew another frustrated breath. Then finally, in resignation, punched in the letters: P-R-E-P-A-R-E-D.
He heard: “Please acknowledge and commit to memory The Golden Rule. ‘Spend for the Federation so that it may give to you. It is better to receive Obligation than to toil for no purpose. Heavy debts make healthy Alphas. Amen.”
Ram slipped into a trance-like state. The image in the monitor smiled beatifically. The screen went blank.
CHAPTER 8
In Drone living quarters, Managers were rounding up day-shift beasts, encouraging haste with electrically charged prods. The air was alive with outrage as the howling Drones were forced into line then herded from the cave through an earthen corridor to begin their day’s labor. Dara did her best to blend in as usual, choosing her tools and making an effort to shovel slop, but it was clear her heart wasn’t in it. It was becoming more and more difficult to accept her place in the established order. Her large dark eyes held a haunted look, a visage of longing. She felt more than ever the need to escape — along with the utter futility of the desire.
Then suddenly, by an act of providence, she was given her chance. A fight broke out between two Drones. A pair of managers, stationed at the cave entrance, prepared to enjoy the brawl, breaking as it did the monotony of their job. Until, that is, one of them moved too close to the fight and took a shovel to the jaw. The Manager lay gasping on the cave floor as the other went for help and the offending Drone whimpered in fear. He seized his tools and began working in a frenzy, just as the light in the Manager’s mean red eyes faded to blackness.
A cadre of Managers approached the killer Drone, brandishing their Stunning Rods. His eyes filled with gross, stupid terror as he was fired upon, paralyzed, then dragged away by his hairy feet, shrieking.
“We’ve been waiting for this excuse, you sub-bionic bilge-head!”
“Yes!” agreed the others, “Let the games begin!”
As his tormentors dragged the poor Drone toward the torture cavern and their colleagues reestablished order in the cave, the downed Manager was quite forgotten and the entrance to RECAPTURE left unguarded.
This was Dara’s chance! In the blink of an eye she shot toward the dark passageway. But not before snatching the slain Manager’s Color-Keys.
#
At the end of the black, sodden passage, Dara found a pair of metallic doors set into the granite walls. She peered through the stolen Color-Keys, trying one after another till, on the last try, she hit the correct key and the doors swung open. To her surprise she found herself facing a large, empty elevator car. Floor levels were indicated by colored buttons corresponding to the keys.
She quickly stepped in as an electronic voice announced, “Substratum One: Omega Level. (Brown) RECAPTURE, dungeons and torture facility. Substratum Two: Epsilon Level. (Black) Management. Substratum Three: Delta Level. (Copper) Police force. Substratum Four: Gamma Level. (Blue) Boinoid Hoi Polloi. Substratum Five: Beta Level. (Green) Commerce. Substratum Six: Alpha Level. (Red) The Elite. Please state your destination.”
Well, Dara thought. Why advance in small measures? Why not go straight to the bottom. “Alpha Level, please.” The doors closed. The car plummeted downward. Then suddenly stopped. At Copper Level. Dara held her breath. This is what ambition got you.
The doors slid open again and Dara found herself face-to-size-twenty-boot with two eight-foot Coppers, clad in brawn-hugging amber body suits, matching metal helmets, weapons at their belts. The doors closed and they whooshed downward, the Coppers temporarily stunned. A Drone in the elevator?? Did their lethal, amber-hued eyes deceive?