Jimson Weed awoke to the sound of screaming and opened his eyes on pitch darkness. He switched the lights on low, but the noise persisted, so he reluctantly dialled the harsh room fluorescence up to full.
The clamour stopped abruptly. Had it been just another dream? Probably. But if he closed his eyes, Jimson could see that face as if it was burned onto the inside of his eyelids.
Slick with sweat, he went through to the bathroom and splashed his own face with tepid water from the leaky tap. The clock said 5.10am. He walked through to the comms room and checked the monitors. The speakers were off, so he must have dreamt the screaming. But there, replicated on the many screens, were the inhabitants of his nightmares. Dark shapes, either huddled in masses or sitting alone, rocking against the walls and mumbling to themselves in an undeveloped tongue.
Jimson avoided coming in here except when he needed to. To his discomfort, his presence was still required once or twice a day. He never turned the speakers on though. He had long been unable to stand the screaming, mumbling and chattering - sounds of a human zoo.
Even without sound, the images on screen sent a shiver down his spine. Some of them were clothed in the simple, white, standard issue pyjama suits, but others were only half clothed, a few even naked. Many had matted hair and cuts or bruises. Fighting was common, often over food or clothing. Occasionally a fight broke out when one of them made sexual advances on another.
At first it had amazed Jimson to see that here, among what was effectively a group of mentally retarded prisoners, nature’s preservation of a species at work. Within weeks of arriving they had somehow worked out how, and apparently needed, to fuck. A few of them spent a significant proportion of their time away from the main group, masturbating furiously, and fights often broke out when one or more of them got horny.
They were all sterile of course, but somehow, this base act made them seem more human, and was one of the reasons Jimson didn’t like interacting with them or, for that matter, even watching them on the screen.
These echoes of humanity were the reason he left the sound off too. Although none of them had ever been taught, had never been spoken too, except maybe by a breeder in a lab, or a warden like him, they somehow communicated. At first he’d watched in awe at how most of them used primitive gestures and physical threats to get their way, at how the more intelligent ones would grunt and whimper in some primeval language pre-programmed into their genes.
So the speakers remained silent and his eyes avoided looking up at the screens, lest he should form some kind of emotional attachment.
Because, he reminded himself, all they really are, is meat.
There was a niche but lucrative market for those that had the money, and the stomach, to provide for it. And because those that indulged in such pursuits always had both the money and the stomach, the less scrupulous and moral businessman could make a killing in the metaphorical sense while the customers did so literally. In a time when so much meat was synthesised and vat grown, hunting and eating human flesh was the ultimate blood sport.
Jimson made breakfast - instant coffee, a freeze dried donut and a slug of whisky - and busied himself with mundane maintenance tasks like replacing the washer on the leaky tap. Anything to avoid going back into the comms room and looking at the computer. Because he knew that blinking away on screen was a calendar entry for later today.
Avoidance was difficult however. He had to go and prepare the kitchen for a start. For the one place in the universe he thought he would have the opportunity to get away from it all, this floating tin can had turned his every thought, both waking and dreaming, back upon him and then magnified it a thousand fold to the point where it was rapidly driving him insane.
It had sounded like a great idea at first, as a petty criminal with no real prospects back on Earth, why not take the job? It wasn’t entirely legal, but the money wasn’t bad and it was only a year. A year of solitude. Except that it wasn’t really solitude, as the interviewer had suggested with a vulgar wink.
“Of course, you could always take one for company, no one would know…”
And of course, Jimson had, or at least he had tried to. When he arrived on satellite K309-HHS the station was taking a break from operating in its capacity as a meat farm. Although it had done so in the past, and he discovered that the macabre trappings of the business were everywhere to be found. He spent the first 48 hours in eerie silence, staring at the blue curve of Earth, far below. Someone had left an old skin suit in the command centre, probably one of his predecessors, but he quickly found out that the satellite comms link back to Earth wasn’t so stable as to give him a connection long enough to get himself off. There were a couple of Bambi Pornstar and Tiffany Towers discs he’d discovered among the bootlegs of latest releases from two years ago, but he’d seen them all before and besides, there’s only so many times you can go through the same routine before it becomes mundane.
So it was with a certain trepidation that Jimson greeted the arrival of the drop ship and discovered that his new charges were, at least physically, human, just like him. They were unloaded in containers, a handful or so to each pod, and then herded down into the tunnels by men with electrified prods. At this point, he hadn’t had any direct contact with them but it hadn’t escaped his attention that the vast majority were female and that despite their retardation, they weren’t all unattractive.
After those 48 hours of silence he jumped at the chance to communicate with some real people again and tried to engage the drop ship crew in conversation. But they obviously had other ideas, and with their job done they were keen to depart. And so it was as Jimson watched the drop ship shrink away towards the Earth that the moaning and wailing started.
At first he was concerned. Was he supposed to do something to stop the screaming? Perhaps they were hungry?
Jimson grabbed a prod from the charging station and unloaded a few buckets of dried kibble into a pull along trailer. Then he hit the door switch and headed into the tunnels.
There were about 20 of them, cautiously exploring their environment, and apparently aware of their fate already. That was the only way Jimson could explain the haunting tone of their howls. They shied away from him as he approached, or more accurately, they shied away from his buzzing prod, undoubtedly aware of its capabilities. But as he scooped the dried biscuits into troughs along the tunnel wall, they hesitated only briefly before surging forward to feed.
It was at this point that Jimson realised his own impotence and the uselessness of the prod buzzing in his hand. If they wanted to, they could overpower him and rip him limb from limb. So he dumped the rest of the kibble and headed swiftly back to the entrance hatch, taking care not to expose his newfound fear. He did however take note of a pretty brunette hanging back from the throng, eyeing him like a feral cat. It was her face that was to play on his mind more and more as the boredom and frustration gnawed away at his resolve.
From then on he took to arming himself with the station’s only gun as he did what he had become to call his ‘rounds’. It was a cheap polymer plastic Russian model, with only six bullets in the non-removable magazine, but it gave him a certain comfort, tucked in the waistband of his pants. And he still carried the electric prod around, more as an obvious deterrent than anything else.
After eleven days he felt compelled to give his wards a shower and reluctantly hung the prod up in order to use the retractable hose. Fortunately they ran screaming from the icy water but he still felt a twinge of panic at the bared teeth and ape-like hissing, even through the whisky fug his brain was almost constantly in. Jimson followed the shrieking crowd through the tunnel network, blasting them ahead of him with the water jet. As he paused to pull a kink out of the hose, he glanced up, and there she was - the brunette with the dark, wary eyes.
He stood stock still and stared. She’d somehow managed to get herself backed into an alcove, flattened against the wall in between the service pipes and cable ducts. After a long pause, Jimson realised he’d stopped breathing, her eyes had not left his for a second. Jimson’s own eyes flicked left to right and he swallowed hard, licking his dry lips.
The metal hose nozzle clattered loudly to the floor, setting off an echo throughout the tunnels. The girl started at the sound and backed deeper into the pipe work. Jimson walked slowly over to her, arms outstretched, palms up. She remained stock still, frozen in his stare. Up close he could smell the sweat and filth, but he could also see that she was wearing nothing but an oversized pyjama top. The urge that had been growing between his legs this past week now enthralled his mind, and he firmly gripped her shoulders, pressing her up against the rough concrete. Even as he unzipped his overalls and tugged at the waistband of his pants she remained motionless and unresisting, almost as though she had already accepted what was about to happen.
As Jimson prised her thighs apart with his knee and forced himself inside her, it crossed his mind that this same fate had already befallen her many times before. Only then it had probably been at the hands of ruthless lab assistants, feasting on the opportunities afforded by her vulnerability and fast forwarded growth.
Almost instantly his orgasm flared white against the darkness behind his eyelids. But instead of warm satisfaction, the pit of his stomach twisted with disgust and self loathing.
He backed off, almost tripping over the hose, repeating the phrase “I’m sorry,” over and over again. But she was static. The only signs of life were her uncomprehending eyes staring out at him through a matted fringe of hair. Jimson turned and ran, and didn’t stop running until he hit the wall beyond his bunk.
…
Jimson’s eyes focused on an unfamiliar face - an unshaven, pallid complexion and bloodshot eyes. He spun around lifting the kitchen knife that had appeared in his hand. The room was empty. In the shining blade, Jimson caught a glimpse of that face again, it was his own. He turned back and stared into the polished steel work surface.
“Jesus, what have you become…”
A claxon sounded throughout the station - the proximity alarm - bringing him to his senses. He hastily arranged the implements on the cutting table then ran up to the comms room to prepare for docking.
Thirty minutes later Jimson stood by the crew hatch, ready to welcome the station’s guests aboard. The doors opened on a small, pinched face man with horn rimmed spectacles and a pinstriped suit. Behind him were five stockier, older men clad in camouflaged hunting gear and fur trimmed coats.
“Thank you, but your presence will not be required,” the bespectacled man said in a clipped accent.
Jimson nodded.
“Fuck. These are fucking company men,” his inner monologue contributed as he made himself scarce.
Back in the comms room Jimson spun agitatedly in his chair, sloshing a good measure of whisky back and forth in the glass. The smell of cigars wafted through on the venting system. Jimson punched up the cameras in the antechamber. The men were obviously enjoying themselves. Although the sound was off, Jimson could imagine the guffaws and jokes amid the back slapping and testosterone fuelled posturing. They had unpacked a small arsenal of weapons - bows, rifles, shotguns, even a spear gun. They all had enormous cigars and one of them was passing around a bottle of something expensive. Another was racking up fat lines on a tabletop.
Jimson flicked off the screen and passed his free hand over his grizzled features. He took a good slug of whisky, shouted a frustrated “Shit!” to the heavens then hurled the glass against the far wall.
Back on the lower level, the doors to the antechamber slid open to reveal an empty room. The hunters had already left.
Jimson heard a polite cough and spun around to see the pinched face man standing there, hands behind his back. Only now he had swapped his pinstripe suit for a full length rubber apron and waders. Jimson stared past those spectacle lenses into cold, grey eyes. The man’s lips hadn’t moved but there was such malice in those orbs that Jimson knew he was a dead man.
“Er, I just came to see if you needed anything,” Jimson stuttered.
“No, thank you,” the man replied in that crisp clipped accent.
“OK. Well, I’ll be up in the comms room if you need me.” Jimson moved towards the door but the man stepped briskly into his path. Suddenly, gunfire erupted in the tunnel just outside the other door to the anteroom, causing the man to flick his eyes away from Jimson, who took the opportunity to slip past him.
Screaming could now be heard on the other side of the door, but it was silenced by another burst of gunfire. The door beeped as it unlocked, then slid open to reveal one of the hunters reloading a smoking machine gun. He had daubed his face with blood.
The hunter said something in what Jimson took to be Russian and gestured to the tunnel with a nod of his head. Jimson caught the start of the sentence and took the small man’s name to be Edik. The man, Edik, bowed in response to the hunter’s command, allowing Jimson time to reach for the electric prod, still hanging where he had left it. As the door whispered shut once again, isolating the two of them, Jimson brought the buzzing club down on the back of the man’s head with all his force. Edik collapsed like a rag doll, a thick purple stripe across the back of his shaved scalp.
Jimson stood, observing the inert body in a silence punctuated only by the crackle of the prod. He lifted his right hand, white across the knuckles, and forced himself to release the trigger mechanism. If there had been any sliver of doubt before, now there was none whatsoever. He was a dead man.
He cautiously unlocked the tunnel door with his proximity card and poked his head into the corridor. In the dim lighting Jimson could see four bodies. He flinched as a gunshot cracked and echoed, but this time it was further away. A reedy, haunting sound moved through the tunnels, invading every space.
Jimson braced himself against the door frame, mind ablaze. This wasn’t supposed to happen. They were going to kill everyone onboard, including him.
Shaking uncontrollably he ran back up to the comms room and began frantically punching buttons on the keyboard, firing up the camera that sat above the display, loading recording software, a peer to peer networking tool, and finally, the satellite link.
Jimson sat down in the only chair and stared at the ominous red LED above the camera lens. Onscreen he looked gaunt and pale, with lank hair and a good layer of stubble.
“This is Jimson Weed, crewman, Nexus Orbital satellite K309-HHS. It’s a Russian owned meat farm. I’m, I’m broadcasting my network address. They’re here now… they’re, they’re killing everyone…”
The last sentence had deteriorated into sobs and gasps, as Jimson slumped forward on the desk.
Minutes later the camera continued to do its job, streaming an image of an empty chair to the station’s server, where it was broken up into tiny chunks and sent into cyberspace via the peer to peer software.
Back in the antechamber Jimson saw that the man had not moved. He gingerly stepped over the body and once again unlocked the tunnel door. Only this time as the door opened he saw a humanoid shadow cast against the opposite wall of the tunnel. As the form came into view, he realised it was her. She was naked, sobbing and stumbling over the bodies of her brothers and sisters.
The door mechanism clicked, but as Jimson was blocking the way, it couldn’t close. She looked up into his eyes and caught her breath. Jimson could see a violent and uncontrollable trembling in her right leg, highlighting her fear.
A sudden rumble echoed from further down the tunnel and the left side of the girl’s face blossomed with dark spots. She took on a confused expression and staggered forward, new spots appearing and seemingly melting all down her left side. She was on her knees by the time she reached the door, and all that crossed the threshold was the top of her head. Dark eyes rolled back in their sockets, looking up at him accusingly. Her matted hair was thick with blood.
Jimson heard a shout from the tunnel network and backed up, almost stumbling over the body of the man in the rubber apron. He never once took his eyes off her own unseeing pupils. The door mechanism continued to click.
Finally Jimson turned and fled into the wet room adjoining the antechamber. He doubled over and vomited up against the wall. With his forehead pressed against the cool tiles, he gazed unseeing into the small pool that had formed from the watery contents of his stomach. Tears streamed from his eyes only to fall straight from his face into that same pool. He punched the wall, leaving a neat crack across the face of a single tile. Then as if in a trance Jimson began to unbutton his overalls.
A commotion had broken out by the tunnel entrance where the bodies were beginning to pile up. A handful of his wards - those innocent, broken creatures sentenced to a short life of horrendous abuse, followed by a brutal death - had been herded against the wall where the hunters were cruelly bludgeoning them with rifle butts and clubs.
His discarded clothing fell around him until he stood stark naked. Reflected in a tall mirror on the other side of the room, Jimson no longer recognised himself. Stripped bare, his filthy, dishevelled form looked analogous to those he had been sent to administer and on reflection, his own life had turned out little different.
So it was with a final, desperate cry that Jimson Weed rushed from the antechamber and threw himself into the fray.
