Burn Her!
Cyberpunk
Holograms paint desire in vivid light. Atop skyscrapers, heartthrobs—either silky smooth or rugged—sell synthbio skin, hair, and muscle mass. Pouting supermodels jut from buildings like gargoyles, while aerial drones project chiselled gods and stick-thin goddesses into the rainy haze. Sex empowers women, we pretend, while turning men into drooling dogs. And men are dogs, salivating for bitches in heat. Wherever they look breasts protrude and parted lips offer a silent promise. No wonder they merge with Reality porn; their wives cannot live up to the dream we force-feed them.
With fingers wrapped around my car’s steering wheel, knuckles whitening, I fly through a skyscraper city of mass timber and bioreactor-born plastics, all bent into architects’ surreal dreams. Below, the masses who make me rich live their tiny, automated lives with the aid of robot slaves and synthbio pets that only mimic affection. How will they react to the news I now receive from Reality, the hive mind of augmented human nodes and quintessence intelligence hubs to which we all belong…
“… I repeat, there has been an explosion in EcoSynth’s halo orbit. Gaia’s quintessence field has been destroyed. The thousands of pioneers in stasis aboard the starship Moonfire, are now without a quintessence intelligence to guide them to Dragonland…”
“… stock markets around the world are in turmoil. Shares of EcoSynth—Gaia’s creator and Moonfire’s principal investor—are in free fall. EcoSynth’s CEO, Ramsey McDonald, is being pressed for a statement…”
“… and Gaia would help humanity colonise new worlds and learn to live harmoniously with their natural environments. With Moonfire gone, how will the citizens of Earth react?…”
“… foul play is suspected. Bookmakers have listed the ecoterrorist organisation Preachers of Chaos as the odds-on favourite cause of the atrocity…”
Preachers of Chaos? Ecoterrorists? I leave the news behind. After merging with EcoSynth’s quintessence intelligence, Venter, I request information. Data, history, concepts flood in. Patterns emerge as my synbio-enhanced brain processes a sprawling mind map—instantly understood. Associations, facts, conjectures—and somewhere… truth? Who are the Preachers of Chaos?
These ecoterrorists believe the holograms that beautify our drab world somehow possess people with an obsession of self, a need to consume, and ultimately, turn them into habitat-destroying ecopaths. They rail against geoengineering, genetic editing, and especially EcoSynth’s biggest cash cow: the synthetic biological organisms and ecosystems that underpin the global circular economy. They never kill, and only attack bioreactors, synthbio ecosystems, and other assets using cutting-edge androids—manufactured by who? Some suggest a quintessence intelligence leads them. Others wonder whether any humans are involved at all. But how could a QI remain undetected by other QIs for so long? It makes no sense. Nothing does. Why sabotage Moonfire? Why destroy Gaia and leave tens of thousands of pioneers adrift in deep space? With no quintessence intelligence to geoengineer a new planet, those in stasis aboard Moonfire will perish. What do the Preachers of Chaos gain? Why kill, when they have never killed before?
Feeling unenlightened by the report, I grip the car’s wheel and rise above a network of bridges linking towering buildings. I look at the multifaceted diamond set into the car’s dashboard and say to EcoSynth’s QI, “Venter, connect me with Ramsey McDonald.” A moment passes before rainbow fire rises from the Dream Diamond and forms into the head of EcoSynth’s CEO. Ramsey speaks with a voice made smooth and pleasing by the synthetic gemstone’s audio.
“Hey, Ruby, where are you? The party has already started, you know. And he… is… here.”
Glancing at the old man’s youthful face, painted with lipstick, rouge, and mascara, I reply, “Party? Hasn’t the party been cancelled? For Christ’s sake, Ramsey, the board needs to meet—now.”
“Of course, the party has not been cancelled. Why would we cancel a flesh feast? And speaking of flesh, mine has arrived, all hard and shiny—fresh from his Genesis Womb. And guess what? He’s only wearing a sailor’s hat.”
“What? But Moonfire is lost. EcoSynth’s stock is in free fall.”
“Darling, don’t bring me down. Tonight, we party. Just put your thoughts on hold, engage auto-drive, and be flown here in comfort. And that’s an executive order.”
“But—”
“Ruby, can’t you see I’m all a rush inside? Engage auto-drive and have Venter fix you a drink. Chillax.”
“Flying helps me feel in control. And everything seems out of control. You know what the loss of Moonfire means.”
“Am I overworking you again? Stressed, are we? Poor Ruby.” Ramsey’s lip sulks momentarily, then he brightens: “Anyway, Moby is here, Moby is young, and Moby is most definitely buff. And my newly regenerated hip works better than the alloy ones ever did. No pain at all. So the night should be long—and fun-fun-fun!”
“What? Who the hell is Moby?”
“Why, my flesh feast, of course.” Ramsey’s eyes narrow like a satisfied cat. “I’m calling him Moby because he’s big and lean and muscled, and oh, did I mention he’s wearing a sailor’s hat?”
“What?”
“Sailor’s hat—as in Captain Ahab?”
“Who?”
Ramsey gives a theatrical sigh before saying, “Sailor’s hat? Captain Ahab? Moby Dick? Hmm.”
“The big white whale?”
Ramsey licks his lips. “I do hope so.”
“For Christ’s sake, Ramsey, this is no time to pump yourself full of lust. The board must meet—and not at your bloody party, either.”
“Work. Work. Work.” Ramsey sighs. “Take my advice, Ruby: work hard, party hard, and let your bloodware cook you up something illegal. It’s the only way to survive times like these.”
“Ramsey, EcoSynth’s stock is crashing. Hell, everybody’s stock is crashing. We’ve lost trillions. And who knows how the news of Moonfire’s loss will affect global consumer spending. We’ve got to prepare, not party.”
“Oh—chillax, Ruby. We’ll catch these Preachers of Chaos and throw them to the media mob. We’ll spin it as a crime against humanity and hang ’em high in The Hague. Markets will bounce back in time. There’s no need to panic. Just chill, juice up, and—”
EcoSynth’s CEO abruptly disappears as the Dream Diamond’s holographic fire morphs into the hooded head of a man. Translucent hair flows like silk from beneath his glowing indigo mushroom-cap hood, and his eyes fluoresce emerald above chiselled cheekbones. “Are you sitting comfortably?” he says.
Annoyed at the interruption, I ignore the advertisement. “Venter? What’s taking you so long? Get Ramsey back.”
EcoSynth’s quintessence intelligence does not respond, and the man’s holographic head persists. Solemnly, he says, “We need to talk, Ruby Wilcox.”
“Venter, disengage the Dream Diamond. Now.”
Again, the QI remains silent. The intruder smiles knowingly. “Sorry, Ruby, but Venter cannot switch us off. We’re here to stay.”
“Who are you? How are you doing this? Look, whatever you’re selling, I’ve already got it.”
“Selling?” the man says. “A stable climate and natural biosphere, I suppose. Though I’m afraid you’ve missed the Preachers of Chaos’ recent sale.”
Preachers of Chaos? “EcoSynth Emergency! Venter, engage auto-drive and get me out of here.”
“Get you out of here? OK.” The car dives and abruptly banks. My head thumps the side window. “Sorry,” the carjacker says. “Never did pass my test.”
“Venter! Venter, please!” EcoSynth’s QI still monitors—I can sense him through my Reality Interface. Why won’t he help? In desperation, I cry, “Take the car, but let me live. Take all my money, just don’t hurt me.”
“Money? Hmm.” The intruder chuckles. “Really? How much?”
“Half a billion.”
“Woo. That much? Surely you can do better?”
“That’s all I can transfer immediately. Please, take the car and the money. Just don’t hurt me.”
The hooded figure’s lips flatten. Drawn into his radiant eyes, I hear: “Meditate on your first response to danger. Can you buy your way out of it? Is money truly all-powerful?” Rainbow fire withdraws into the Dream Diamond, and with it the intruder.
My car plummets into the perpetual fog of the city’s lower levels, lit not by holograms but by the fire barrels of necrotic people—economic outcasts. Their grubby faces glance up as I hurtle past, banging on the window.
⟐
My car lands. Hands shaking, I look in the driver’s mirror to fix myself in the eye and steady my nerves. Mascara tears stain a pale face edged by ruby hair—just the terrified look I’m going for.
The car unlocks and the driver’s door opens. London’s stench hits me as the carjacker’s voice says, with neither threat nor malice, “Ruby Wilcox, please join the Preachers of Chaos.”
Stretching out a leg, my high-heeled shoe meets cracked tarmac. Once outside the car, the heat of burning torches oppresses as figures crowd around me. I spot the fluorescent emerald eyes and translucent hair of the carjacker. Next to him stands a bald, obese man with titanium boar tusks and facial markings that look like a circuit board from the Classical Computing Era. Both wear glowing indigo robes with mushroom-cap hoods. The others are androids wearing high-collar cloaks, their goldfish-bowl heads displaying Earth as seen from space, with all its environmental disasters: hurricanes, algal blooms, and wildfires.
“What—what do you want from me?” I quaver.
“Want?” The towering carjacker smiles. “Why, justice, of course.”
The man with titanium boar tusks gives a fat-Buddha grin. As he lifts a burning torch, I say to the carjacker, “Justice? For what?”
“For ecocide.”
The fat man nods and turns. The sea of android ecoterrorists parts, allowing me to glimpse a stake jutting from a pyre of tyres. Then, as my enhanced senses and Reality Interface detect and identify… petrol—gasoline—fuel we no longer use, the androids rush me.
Dragged screaming across a wasteland where skeletal vehicles form street-gang fortress walls, I spot another indigo-robed figure waiting atop the ramp leading to the pyre. Lithe yet busty, with an elfin face dominated by abnormally large, doleful eyes—a manga-born adolescent rendered in flesh. As the androids tie me to the stake, the girl presses her handless stump against my throat, and I see the subdermal rings running beneath her forearm—ribs meant to pleasure.
“You’re a flesh feast?”
The synthetic adolescent—grown in a Genesis Womb to resemble a manga heroine—says nothing. Instead, she flicks out her forked tongue and, with the ringed forefinger and thumb of her only hand, grips my temples.
“You don’t have to do this,” I whisper. “I can help you escape these people. Help me. We can leave together. You’ll be rich.”
The ecoterrorist cocks her head and smiles sweetly. Her huge eyes dilate as the rings hum and static lifts my hair.
“Christ!”
An electromagnetic pulse blinds me with a cascade of retinal flashes as it kills my Reality Interface. The noise of the sledgehammers and laser cutters assaulting my car becomes distant. The petrol’s benzene sweetness fades. Then the big-eyed girl releases her EMP grip as the man from the hologram preaches to his congregation in austere tones.
“C—H—A—O—S. Contamination; Habitat destruction; Avarice; Overharvesting; Synthbio organisms: the five pillars of the global economy. CHAOS has murdered millions of species, acidified the ocean, and tipped Earth towards accelerated warming. We are here to judge whether the defendant, through promoting unfettered economic growth, is responsible. Ruby Wilcox is charged with ecocide. Do you find her guilty or not guilty?”
“Burn her,” the congregation intones darkly.
“But did Ruby Wilcox hook kids on consumerism? Did she grow them fat on a diet of advertising and junk food, then peddle pills to shrink them thin? What of the miracles, born in in silico test tubes, she sold to the infirm, the old? Did Ruby engineer our lives to fit product life cycles?”
“Burn her—burn her.”
“Did Ruby blanket our oceans with algal blooms or create the Amazon Desert? Did she melt the methane clathrates, the permafrost, the ice sheets, and nudge global warming over tipping point after tipping point? And did she then charge the Earth to save Earth with doomed geoengineering solutions?”
“Burn her—burn her—burn her.”
“The world burns and EcoSynth profits. Cluster bombs rain on resource-rich lands, littering dead soil with limbs. The crippled scavenge toxic-tech dumps for last season’s prosthetic fashion and get biospliced as their corporate-backed warlord demands. Child soldiers fight until EMP bombs turn living metal into dead metal—shrapnel buried deep. And ecocidal corporations like EcoSynth profit during each phase of this life cycle of human misery.”
“Burn them all!”
“Brothers, sisters, will you damn Ruby Wilcox for the world’s spiralling misfortune? Now there is no hope with Moonfire lost—what do you say? Do we raise a knife against her as she raised an economic knife against us all? Will Ruby Wilcox suffer the fire?”
The obese man with a tattooed face and titanium boar tusks approaches, bearing a flaming torch. His eyes bulge as he gives a fat-Buddha grin, and the mob cries, “Burn her!”