Danie Ware - Ecko Rising

Yeah right. What they’d delivered was fifty million little plastic bottles labelled “Mood Stabiliser”.

Instant contentment. Happiness in tablet form.

Yeah, it may as well have been fucking cryogenics, Ecko reckoned. At least the bastards shut in those didn’t have to work a nine-to-six.

The place stank like a week of backed-up shit. As Ecko remembered to breathe, the stink was a sharp punch in the nose. He found the room smelled of piss, unwashed skin, rotting food... It reeked like a bunch of junkies had been using it as crash space.

Ecko quelled his anger and checked again for the room’s security. Then, as wary as a black-eyed rodent, he moved to the door of the first shit-hole.

He’d had a horrible fucking idea he knew what was coming.

* * *

At last, Ecko reached the corner of the building.

Feeling the openness of the sky to his side, he hung there for a moment, willing himself to continue. His blood screamed louder than the wind in his ears.

As he eased precariously round the angle, the weather hit him like a train and he found himself scrabbling frantically for a foothold. From being plastered to his back, his cloak became a parachute, pulling at his throat, hips and elbows – its loose folds inflated and the wind shrilled through carefully seamed rents.

For an instant, it nearly ripped him clean off the side of the building.

The thing was a mass of folds and slits and loose ends of fabric... all now trying to pull him loose. Ecko twisted his back to the wind and the thing deflated like a dying animal.

His fingertips were slippery, leaving bloodstains; he could feel the palms of his hands oozing with stickiness. He didn’t dare release a hand to move onwards and the cloak was too complicated to release, so he hung, pain, fear and savage resolve all yammering for attention in his head.

Whatever you do , he told himself, don’t fucking look down.

Fucking Collator and his fucking odds, fucking Lugan and his fucking plans. You get in, you get the data stick, you get out... Yeah, right – more like, you get in, you get screwed, you end up target practise for a Takeshimi tin can that’s not even supposed to be here...

His feet slipped and skidded; his arms and fingers cramped like he’d never uncurl them. The cloak still tugged at him. He shook the cowl from his head and the wind slammed into his cheek.

The temperature was dropping – the rain was turning to sleet.

With an effort that nearly broke him, he swung his weight into motion once more – one hand then two, just a little further...

* * *

The first shit-hole wasn’t locked.

On the bed, the recumbent figure wasn’t restrained. As the door inched open, she turned her head to smile, although she didn’t sit up.

Her cupboard door stood ajar, spilling soullessly creased garments onto the carpet tiles. Her gaming console was on standby, the eyewear discarded. Beside her was a metal mug – as Ecko slipped around the door, he saw it contained puddles of white, furred mould.

Stink and revulsion flooding his system, he realised she hadn’t left the bed in days.

But – she wasn’t restrained. No one was forcing her to stay. She was lying there because... his heart cowered in his chest when the full depth of Grey’s achievement hit him... she was lying there because she wanted to.

She was happy.

Peace: a population that voluntarily incarcerated itself, that had no interest or need outside the workplace –

No passion, no fear, no desire. No anger. No frustration.

They didn’t even know to fight back; they no longer cared.

They wanted nothing. They were just content.

Stealth forgotten, Ecko stood in the centre of the little box, his blood congealed to fury. Around him, above him, across the room from him there were more boxes and more boxes...

How many people had Grey got in here – his control experiments, his gauges? Were they better than this? Were they worse?

The woman was – what – maybe thirty-five? Her well-cut suit was crumpled to a rag, her well-cut hair grown to an unruly tangle. She had clothes, food, entertainment – a door out of her box whenever she chose to take it...

But she was fine where she was.

Ecko found his face twisting round a sneer that felt like pity.

With a red flash of contempt, he wanted to make her react, to defy her own conditioning and stick one in Grey’s throat. He pulled the door from the cupboard, yanked out her garments, tore them to strips, kicked over her fridge... She followed him with her eyes, smiling at him.

He turned and snarled at her to move, to get the hell up, to say something, to cry, to curse, to fight, to beg him for help.

Her mouth moved, but it was only for a moment. She returned it to the smile.

With a short, sharp impact, he punched her in the face.

Her nose crunched, her lip split; blood splashed across her skin. She spluttered surprised red bubbles. Her hands half rose in an effort to cover her head against further blows.

But even that wasn’t enough. After a moment she fell back, arms tumbling slackly to her sides – like her fucking batteries had died.

Fight me, you fucking – !

With a surge of absolute savagery, hating the drone for being a victim, hating Grey for what he’d done, Ecko drew in a breath and exhaled.

He breathed pure fire.

It was Mom’s greatest trick, one he’d asked her to design for him. It was more a toy than a weapon – only lethal at very close range.

Like this.

The drone died without a sound, her face blackening, blistering and sloughing down into the pillow. Hell, she had to be better off. Beneath her, the unclean bedding coughed, spluttered flame and flared into life.

Ecko was just wondering if he had time to total the rest of them when he heard servo-motors, loud across the cavern’s quiet. His vision spun as he focused his telescopics in the direction Grey had taken – the other side of the room.

It was then, of course, that he’d seen the ’bot.

* * *

On the roof, the ’bot could no longer see him.

With a mouth full of terror and indignation pounding in his temples, Ecko pulled himself upwards until his forearms and elbows rested along the top of the wall.

His shoulders sang relief. He didn’t dare look at his fingertips.

Here, the stone was unbroken; here, he was shielded from the arc of attack. For a moment, he paused, feeling the sleet on his skin, the blood on his hands, the cloak flapping like a dead thing round his legs.

So much for the fucking cavalry, Lugan. The thought was a bitter one, but there was a savage sense of righteousness in doing this by himself.

What had Lugan said, after his interview with the Boss? “You get this right, mate, an’ she’s promised she’ll have Eliza fix you up proper, d’you know what I mean? No expense spared.”

Ecko responded as he’d done that morning, “What’m I, your fuckin’ bike, now? You think can customise me any which way? You fuckin’ hypocrite! You leave my cyberware alone an’ you stay the hell outta my head.”

There was motion. A door, booted feet. A clipped, military voice.

Salva.

Holding his breath, he watched.

Salva was coldly efficient, covering the shattered remains of wall and roof garden. Ecko didn’t need oculars to clock the precision in the way she scanned the area, ducked back, paused, and moved to the next checkpoint.

It’d be about sixty seconds before that checkpoint was slap-bang in his face. If he was gonna pull this off, he needed to move. Like, now.

He let the wind swing his body sideways, got one foot on the top of the wall. Not thinking about the drop below him – thinking about the ’bot, the ’bot – he rolled silently over the top and down onto the gravel.