I was really in the zone for this one and ended up with over 3000 words. (It's also the first time I've dabbled in science fiction - a series of firsts.) I won't cut it significantly since I'm actually quite fond of its structure as it is. Of course, this eliminates me from getting votes, but I'd like some crits, especially on how it reads as a potential first chapter. Thanks.
The Year Prince Died
Voices, whispering, tickling at his mind; so soft as to be almost unheard.
The stiff probably doesn't even know.
Thirty years off? He's close enough. Besides, it's a waste otherwise, isn't it? Only five years left 'till expiry.
Fuck off. He's junk for a reason.
Look. He's waking up.
His eyelids dragged upwards slowly only to close shut again. The light was unbearable. His skin was knit with a veneer of coldness akin to frost. Sounds rifled in on him from every direction; scratching and thudding and loud metal barks invading his mind like a hot poker. It was too much.
You dimwit. Didn't I tell you the transition was too quick?
Yeah, yeah. He'll live.
Just.
Come off it.
No, really, Liam. Worst bloody defrost I've ever seen. Poor bastard.
Strength ebbed through him slowly. He tried to move something, anything, cautiously. All the while, questions flooded through him unchecked. What were these voices? Where was he? He last remembered himself in a cluttered spacious room with a sad woman, ladling a spoon of the worst strop imaginable down his throat, compelling him - almost forcibly - to live, blast it, live. And then, nothing. A missing piece, a strand cut and unfurnished, not dissimilar to past experiences with alcohol. His toe moved, inexplicably, without warning. It seemed his efforts were not in vain. Within seconds, he lost a fight with his insides, throwing up his last meal. The last meal, maybe.
Shit. Do they all vomit?
Some. Mostly the ones who get defrosted too quick, idiot.
I thought you said he was junk?
Shut it. He's coming to for real now.
The involuntary actions involved with his generous spout of vomiting had done what his will could not. His eyes were open. It was only by a crack, but that was enough. He found himself half-sitting-up on his left side, strewn along the inside cradle of a metal enclosure specked and drizzled by the beige-colored deposits of his stomach, and gazing between half-lidded eyes at the source of all the noise in his mind. Two teenagers. White, scruffy, curious. The taller one was a girl; a brunette with long tangled hair and a hard look to her that spoke volumes. The other, the boy, looked younger, smaller, almost timid next to the girl - no, woman - beside him. At their feet, a plethora of equally scruffy and aesthetically weird electronic equipment was scattered across the floor, wires running from it to and fro across the muddy ground to the base of the metal enclosure which housed him. Beside this, a large sheet of glass was cast-off on the ground, showing few cracks from the obviously clumsy handling it had received. Straining his neck, he almost managed to see where all the wires connected.
"See. He's fine." the boy said.
His tongue came unstuck, swimming in a paltry collection of saliva, allowing him to frame what felt like his first words. "What happened?"
"Your family couldn't afford to feed another child," the young woman said, finishing hesitantly, as if reconsidering the impact of her words. "You're a stiff, been cryo'd for a long time. The idea was probably that if your family was rich enough to get you in a cryo at the time, they'd be rich enough to take care of you whenever death got beat by the scientists. Guess they were wrong."
He struggled with which question to ask first. "Death was beaten?"
"Not really. They can bring you back if nothing's damaged and you were iced. And there's more time for those who can afford it. That means you need to be rich. But, at some point, the body goes. For everyone. It's inevitable."
He had died. It was an impossible thought, but this was an impossible situation. The world was beginning to unspool before him, in shadows and splotches, beyond the two pasty white faces that watched him with an uncomfortable level of concern. What shook him about this gaze was that it was not unknown to him. Once, in the menagerie that made up his memories, on a farm struck amidst the terrain of who-knows-where, he had witnessed a farmer giving one of his pigs the same look. The pig was weakening, growing scrawny on the depleting amount of scraps the farmer could afford to give it, and so, the farmer was worried. About his next meal.
Pushing those dark thoughts away, he focused on the misshapen environment around him. A dislocated urban sprawl stretched out in every direction he could see. Eating at every window and roof and door of the many abandoned houses and buildings and factories around him was a rust that suggested at years, if not decades. A tundra of smog hid the vision of a slowly growing rain shower that softly pelted at the alcove above them - a mish-mash of torpid, broken-down machinery. Everywhere, such used-up machinery sat, bundled, stacked, chucked, over and on-top of each other. From banged-up home appliances to vaguely familiar-looking automobiles to large stripped-down devices the use of which he could not decipher. Situated above all this, a gigantic train-track ran on a metallic strip held up by a series of pylons that could be seen far into the horizon. A squealing and shaking of its rivets indicated the speedy progress of a bypassing train. It screeched forward, never for a minute stopping, carrying no passengers which could be seen inside the confines of its large windows, and continued its journey past the small suburb of disrepair beneath it. A fading nuclear sign was scrawled within a corporate advertising logo underneath the windows of one of its trailing carriages.
This was the future?
"Are you alright?"
"Where are we?" He coughed, wheezing, labouring under the task of steady breathing. "When are we?"
The boy spoke. "New Manchester. 2292."
"There was no-one on the train. Where are the people?"
"The people?" He frowned. "Who'd waste a trip on the rails down here? You're new to it, but I'm sure you want to get away already."
He did, didn't he?
"Okay. What's my name?"
"B9338M."
"What?"
"The serial number on your box. The rest got wiped off. Can't remember?"
A thick buzzing entered his mind, louder than the now-heavy rain, and he felt sweat running down his forehead, causing a stinging assault on his eyes and a salty benediction on his tongue.
"It's there. I know it is. But I can't - No, I don't remember."
The buzzing reached a crescendo. A tattoo of sheer concrete pain crashed through his mind like a drum. The young woman's face looked down on him with a light note of despair. It was not for him, but for something else. He could tell. She advanced with a needle which appeared seemingly from nowhere and reached down for his wrist. Even if he wanted to resist, he couldn't. And despite himself, he found himself trusting her need for him to live. For now.
"Alright, you need to rest," she whispered into his left ear, the needle and its contents now inside his arm. "We'll talk later."
As she rose up again, he stared into the dark steely eyes which populated her face and searched. Of course, it was useless.
*
He woke again. His chest was on fire. He was coughing, spluttering, and it was spiraling out of control. He gripped his throat with his left hand and rested his right over his left nipple, feeling for his heart-beat. It was marginally fluttery and jangly every so often despite being surprisingly even. He was in a room, on a bed, right next to a half-open window. There was no other furniture. The door on the opposite side of the room had light peaking out from underneath it, suggesting the presence of his two... saviors.
"Help!" he shouted. "Can anyone hear me? Help!"
All he heard in reply was the sound of a noisy train. This place had to be in the same crappy neighborhood as before. He waited, about to start his beseeching cries anew, when the door opened. The outline of a feminine figure approached before the lights were switched on. It was the young woman he remembered from before. Oddly, he almost wished that was a dream, like the room he remembered dying in. He wished it was all a dream.
"I'm here, darling," she said, with a mocking uplift of her lips. "Don't worry. You'll get used to the air soon."
She reached under his bed to pull out a jet-black oxygen mask. Gently cupping his head, she strapped it on.
"You anticipated this?" he asked between gritted teeth hidden by the mask.
"It's not unusual, for recent cryos or new settlers."
"The smog? They really fucked up the planet, huh?"
She looked at him pityingly. "And which planet do you think we're on?"
His coughing subsided completely. It couldn't just be the mask. The shock must have been spiking his adrenalin. "We colonized the solar system?"
"You overestimate us, B93," she said. "We colonized the moon and Mars out of necessity. Once that was gone, the usual stuff kicked in. Disunity. Corruption. Exploitation. Don't worry, darling: It might be a different world but it's the same humanity you left all those years ago."
He rolled over to look out the window. Several moons of varying sizes burned in the night sky. It was true.
"It's amazing."
"I know," she said.
He shifted himself into his original position. "Hey, the B93 thing. Don't call me that. I have a real name somewhere."
Evidently deaf to his request, she sat down on his bed and began stroking his right leg. Her fingers moved up and down his thigh. Looking down, he realized he was still naked. But his embarrassment was not given a chance to show. She began to pinch at a point in his upper thigh. It was his femoral artery. As she leaned forward, her right hand took a knife out of her back pocket.
"You're in no position to make demands, B93," she whispered into his left ear again, leaning across his chest, her body firmly pressed against his. "Remember: You had a real name and a real life. Today is different. Now, I have some questions."
"Sandra?"
It was the boy, standing in the doorway, watching them.
The young woman - Sandra - looked startled for the first time since he'd met her. "Liam? What are you doing?"
"I think I should be asking that, sis," he said, pointing at the knife.
"I'm only doing what we said we would," she said. "Asking questions and deciding if he's worth keeping around."
Liam appeared troubled, but he acquiesced with a heavy-drawn sigh. "Alright, Sandra. Go on."
She tightened her grip on his artery and pressed down even harder.
"Prince."
"Prince?"
"You don't know who Prince is? Maybe you are useless."
Her nose and his were almost touching now.
"Wait. You mean Prince the musician?" he said.
"Who else? We need a piece of his work to be validated. There's a chance we've been conned."
"So, who better than someone who lived through the period to validate a piece of art from the period? Was that your thinking when you woke me up?"
Her head slanted to the side like a curious dog. "Yes. You don't hold it against us, do you?"
"It seems like I have little choice but to accede to your every desire."
"Good, you're learning." She let up the pressure on his artery and rose off the bed. "Liam, bring the disc."
Liam left the room, visibly relaxed for the first time since entering the room.
"Have you always had this effect on people?" he asked.
She looked different when she smiled - close to a normal person. "Always."
Liam returned to the room, a CD case in-hand.
"Here it is," Liam said, presenting the case to Sandra, who checked it over.
She nodded and gave it to him. "Make me proud, B93."
"CDs? You still use them?"
"It's a nice market. For antiquity enthusiasts."
After a few moments of examination, he offered his opinion, it was really a no-brainer: "This isn't real. Prince never got in drag when he was old like the guy on this cover. At least, never to this extent and never with these type of, um, accessories."
"You wouldn't happen to know the year he died, either?" asked Liam.
"2042. I remember the day."
"I told you, sis. Kaos lied. It's worthless and we poured half our life savings into it."
"No, not even that bastard would cross us like this." Sandra's face was buried in her hands, with the tips of her fingers massaging her temples. "This stiff is lying. His answers are too clean. He's too sure. It's all fear talking. Has to be."
Shit. It wasn't so surprising. He was just the new guy and she didn't want to believe this person Kaos would rip her off like that. Whether it was because of the potential hurt of disloyalty or her disappointment that he was no longer as scared of her as he should be. He would bet on the latter. Perhaps both. But he had to try something.
"Hey, now, I'm telling the -"
"No. Give him to Wolfe, Liam. He's got to be lying. But I'll double-check with another source, just to confirm."
"Are you sure, Sandra?" Liam asked wearily.
"Wait, you're making a -"
"I'm sure."
"No, no, don't -"
For the second time that day, Sandra's needle breached his skin. This time in his thigh.
*
Fighting a spell of grogginess, he entered consciousness. Sandra had drugged him a second time, but this time was different. Light filtered into the damp room he was in through the single window placed, high above, near one of the corners. No sound reached in from outside. There was no clue as to where he was but inside an isolated building somewhere on fucking Mars. He was bound and strapped to a cold metal slab across the room from a kindly looking old man with dessicated olive skin.
"I find myself stuck lying down today," he said. "It's getting old."
"You were brought in yesterday," the old man said.
"Oh, my mistake," he said. "I presume you are Wolfe?"
"Yes, indeed. I am here to cut out your organs and give them to those in need," Wolfe said. "For a fair price, of course."
Yet another spasm of shock hit him. "You're not serious."
"Why the distaste for this particularly skewered end of yours, Mr Serial Number?" Wolfe smiled like the benevolent old saint he appeared to be and rolled up his sleeves. He delivered his sermon as he strode across the room with his hands kept inside the pockets of his drab all-white clothing, which had done a fine job - along with his sleeves - of obscuring the red gore that ran down both his arms. "I'm providing a fair service here, after all. You've already had your chance at life. A rich one to judge by your ability to purchase a cryogenic freeze. Now, with your organs, I can give all those humble creatures like myself, who've had the misfortune to encounter otherwise unsolvable illnesses while poor, the chance to live. Rich life-fulfilled cryos in, much-needed organs out. It's probably the most ethical business model you can hope for in this business, my friend."
"You sick bastard. It isn't that simple."
"Oh, but it is. If your greater sympathies lie with the greatest good, it is that simple. Perhaps, it isn't quite legal, but I will remain comfortable sleeping at night after this necessary evil."
"You're just another deluded mad man. Providing a necessary service? If you feel that strongly about it then I'm sure you're not profiteering with this racket. I'm sure everything you can spare is going right back to the sick children who need it."
"Oh, tut tut, Mr Nobody. You've already died." Wolfe's smile widened. "The second time should be easier."
"You godforsaken bastard, you miserable lonely ugly son of a bloody goat!" he screamed. "I hope you remember this moment, and every other one like this, when you die. Remember what you stole as you meet your only friend."
The throbbing was back in his mind, except this time it was a steady rhythm of words weighing on his every thought - I don't want to die, I don't want to die, I don't want to... He couldn't think, beyond mentally laughing at his earlier preliminary belief that death might be welcome again.
He whispered it to Wolfe, knowing it would make little difference, but needing the words to come out: "You're wrong, you know. It's worse this time. Because it's happened before. Because I know."
"Ah, the final stage: acceptance. I promise it'll be gentle, Mr Serial Number. The anesthetic will help." Wolfe nodded. "I'm not a monster."
The laughter leaped out of his throat like a viper, rupturing Wolfe's ethereal hold on him and his fright at his imminent death. It echoed around the cosy chamber he was trapped inside of. Wolfe looked blankly at him for a short while. He then reached out to get hold of his surgical tools. After fiddling with them absently, Wolfe brought the scalpel and retractor and clamp closer, and then hovered over the specula before thinking better of it and turning back towards his charge.
But then the old man froze, his eyes wide and engaged with something or someone behind the table his captive's nude body was bound and strapped on.
"You," Wolfe said.
Liam walked into the limited scope of vision he had from his position on the table, holding a pistol steady at shoulder-height, aimed straight at Wolfe's head. "Me," he said. "Now, let the cryo-case go."
"How did you get in here? My people -"
"Decided to reconsider whose side they were on. It tends to happen when my sister's name is mentioned," Liam said.
Wolfe's brow was furrowed. "But why?"
"Why does everyone hate you or why do I want him?"
"How gauche." Wolfe rolled his eyes. "Why do you want him?"
"He's valuable."
"Ah, but you're not your sister. You won't shoot me, boy. It's as likely a possibility as those absurd whiskers of yours ever turning into a man's beard. In which case, why would I ever let this -"
The shot rang out with brutal authority. Wolfe stared at his bloodied chest in disbelief. Red was splashed liberally across his clothing. Air left his throat with a deep rattling sound that lasted several seconds, before abruptly ending. Wolfe was at his knees, then his elbows, and, finally, he was prone and unmoving and no longer smiling.
The prisoner shook his head, wonderingly. "Why didn't you kill him from the start?"
Liam glanced nervously, perhaps even fearfully, at him. "I don't like it. I don't like to kill. Don't tell Sandra I gave him a chance, okay?"
"Deal," he said. "If you tell me why you saved me."
"We didn't want to believe you earlier because it made us look like fools, but you were right. We convinced another history expert to provide a second opinion and his conclusion mirrored yours. So, we decided that we could make use of your knowledge in the future, especially since it would be a much less demanding source to access."
He giggled, mostly in relief. "My knowledge of 21st century musical history?"
"Among other areas of historical interest."
He smiled. "And the real reason?"
"That's it." Liam tried to return the smile. "Sandra did mention how much she is looking forward to getting reacquainted."
"I can't wait."
