Vivisepulture (15 page)

The old longboat drifted along a narrow canal, and Cale sat up on deck smoking his last dry cigar. He passed a crooked marker attached to a bobbling buoy, and smiled at the words etched there:
Welcome to Squid City
.

He guided the vessel ashore, tying it to a rusted steel stanchion that stuck out of the concrete landing pad, a flat structure that was actually the upper level of some old skyscraper, its roof pocked and pitted, and sitting at exactly the correct level to be utilised by busy traders. These remnants of the ancient world often filled him with a sense of sadness, but it never lasted for long.

A tall man helped him ashore, smiling from behind a face that was so smooth it looked sandblasted. Cale nodded, and took the man's proffered hand. It was a nice mod-job. The third arm looked genuine; in fact, it was the best Cale had ever seen. When he gripped the hand, the skin felt warm, malleable. Like real flesh.

"Thanks," he said, eyes scanning the dock.

"No bother," said the man, scratching at the mottled skin of his neck – the surgeon had not done a good job there: the leftovers from whatever kind of extreme facelift the man had undergone resembled folds of loose sacking. He examined Cale's features with interest, as if looking for flaws.

"I see it’s market day." 

"It's always market day in Squid City," said the man, laughing quietly to himself as he walked away.

Cale left the dock and entered the melee, closely inspecting stalls as he passed.  There was the usual abundance of fish and mollusc, but dotted here and there he saw tables boasting waterlogged herbs, dented tinned vegetables with handwritten labels, and even grey spongy boxes filled with second-hand drugs, surgical equipment, and the accompanying CD Rom manuals. He'd met a few people who'd carried out home-clips, or had them done by others: the results were rarely totally successful. Sometimes they were simply horrific.

"Hey, pilgrim. Looking for business?" A girl with a waist so thin that her ribcage tottered precariously above it sidled up to him, laying a nine-fingered hand across his chest. He'd heard rumours of what could be done with so many added digits, but had not yet felt the urge to experience such questionable pleasures.

"Oh, come on, captain. Let's go somewhere and party."

Cale shook his head, flashed a brief smile. The lightness of her tone was certainly attractive, but his pockets were empty. "No pay, no play," he said, shrugging his shoulders; suddenly ashen-faced, the girl scurried away.

Vendors held their wares up in the air above their heads, attempting to bring attention to whatever it was they were selling; grubby ‘noids darted to and fro, fetching and carrying stock; spicy aromas drifted like toxic clouds; small children, many of them with heavily tattooed faces, brushed past Cale as he walked the aisles, picking up a water-damaged book here, an old blues cassette there.  

Finally he reached the open space where anyone was allowed to set up shop. It was a place kept empty in case of passing trade, or to accommodate someone who’d failed to renew their license – this was a close-knit community, and people tended to band together. Cale shrugged the leather case from his shoulder and took out his instrument. He held it up to the light and watched as it sparkled like spun gold.

“What’s that, mister?” A three-armed child stood next to him, his eyes cloudy with cataracts. The boy’s complexion was pallid, like that of some nameless deep-sea creature.

“It’s a saxophone.”

“What does it do?” asked the boy, a hand tugging unconsciously at Cale’s trouser leg.

“This,” he said, and closed his eyes, putting the valve to his lips and preparing to generate the sound of bone-dry, rainless dreams.

Within minutes a small crowd had gathered, bright faces taking in the music, open eyes drinking in the tones as they wafted gently through the air. Cale played some Charlie Parker, followed by Miles Davis. He finished on an upbeat rendition of
In the Mood
, and then put away the sax. Laughter barked; the warm sound of hands clapping was its own kind of music. 

Cale smiled.

The money came slowly, but by the time he closed the case he’d collected enough for a warm meal and a hot bath. Tonight he would retire clean and satisfied, content in the fact that he would be spending money he had earned fairly and honestly.

After his audience had dispersed, Cale continued walking the sandy ground, going from stall to stall with only one purpose in mind. He recognised the man as soon as he saw him: he was leaning nonchalantly against a wooden support, smoking a pipe and showing no interest in his tatty little stall. He appeared to be selling brass pots, copper kettles, and other salvaged goods, but Cale knew better.

“I have Vee,” he said without preamble. The man took the pipe from between his lips and glanced at Cale from beneath the rim of a tall top hat. His eyes were bloodshot, the tear ducts shot to pieces. As well as being a dealer, he obviously indulged heavily in his own product.

“Come this way,” he whispered, a slow smile creeping across his face like a stain. When he stalked awkwardly towards a rundown lean-to structure with a canvas tent attached, Cale saw that the man had three legs – one of them small and stunted and virtually unusable. Another botched home-clip.

Inside the tent the man grabbed a stool and sat down at a low wooden table, tucking back his extra limb. He put away his pipe and took a roll of plaid material from a shelf near the floor. When he unfurled the package, Cale saw that it contained what he recognised as a testing kit. Fair enough, the man knew his stuff.

“Where is it from?” he asked, setting up his apparatus on the stained tabletop.

“The London Islands,” said Cale, taking the other seat without being invited to do so.

The man looked up from his work, narrowing his reddened eyes. “The gillmen?”

“Yes. I have a contact.”

“Then you’re a lucky man,” said the dealer. “Everyone I know who ever tried to do business with a gillman is dead. Sunk to the bottom of the sea.”

The gillmen cultivated the lichen known as Vee in deep caves and clefts beneath the surface of uncharted waters; they ate nothing else, existing solely on this sweet fruit of the sea. They were a tribe who’d been radically modified, and spent most of their time submerged. The artificial gills they’d had installed meant that they could breathe for long periods beneath the water, and they were feared throughout the civilised landmasses as ferocious warriors, fearless pirates, and top-flight scavengers. Few uplanders were allowed to deal directly with the notoriously private tribe, but Cale had saved the life of a gillman long ago and was respected by their ranks.

Once synthesised, Vee produced the drug known as Vapid. Cale had been selling raw material on behalf of the gillmen for years now, and knew that wherever he ventured he’d have a market. A drug like Vapid created its own demand: the high it offered could be duplicated by nothing else, and the only known side effect from overuse was burst blood vessels in the eyes.

It helped people get through the days; the nights took care of themselves.

Thirty minutes later Cale was ten thousand Euros richer. He went looking for the wasp-waisted girl from earlier that morning. He had been without the pleasures of a woman for months, and her easy banter had appealed to him in ways that he’d thought forgotten.

She was easy to find – they always were. He simply headed for the end of town that generated the most noise, and followed his instincts from there. 

Skin bars and cantinas lined the shimmering streets. Streetside serving ‘noids chattered for attention. Faulty neon signs and hand-painted posters advertised dubious after-dark delights. He was offered the chance to see a woman perform with a genetically mutated horse, or two genitally enhanced men manipulating a female dwarf. These were low times, bad times, and the level of entertainment reflected the loss of morality in the world. After the last Great War, humanity had turned in on itself, and when the Rains came the malaise had turned into a kind of self-consumption, or cannibalism of the psyche. People were eating themselves alive from the inside out. But now the Rains had stopped, and all that remained in the puddles was a tired, drenched corpse. 

Technology had advanced in great leaps since the global weather changes; mankind had adapted to the rising waters and invented means of living with the inclement conditions rather than trying to control them: turbines to generate power, basic mechanoids to work out in the wet, grand vessels for transportation. 

Society was forced to adapt, to
modify
. To evolve. But vital elements of what it meant to be human were inevitably left behind in the rush.

“Changed your mind, pilgrim?” She had come up behind him, and again her hand went to his chest as he spun around. Her fingers were overlong, the nails painted bright crimson. Nine of them. Red as fresh blood.

She led him upstairs, to a single room above a bar it amused Cale to see was called The Moby Dick. When she closed the door the lights flickered. He lay on the bed and watched her undress. That slender waist made her look like a pink sapling: her legs had been scraped, leaving only essential muscle and bone beneath a thin layer of epidermis, and the lower half of her body formed a narrow trunk. Above that, her upper torso - the bottom three ribs removed - represented the densely clustered branches.

The image stayed with him as she took off his clothes, and she had to work hard to retain his interest. He paid her extra to sleep next to him: the comfort of a stranger was sometimes all a man needed to get him by.

That and a fix of Vapid.

As she snored on top of the dirty sheets, he slipped away and into the bathroom. It was cramped in there, and the sink was stained with what looked like dried blood, but he needed little room and even less hygiene for what he was about to do. He took a tube of Vapid from his saxophone case and broke the seal. Tipping back his head, he upended the neck of the tube over his right eye.

First there came the pain, which was quickly replaced by the blissful warmth, and then the numbness. Within thirty seconds the drug had entered his system via the lacrimal apparatus and emotional equilibrium had been restored. Soon he felt able to return to the girl’s side.

He stood over the bed and watched her sleep. Her skin was so pale that it looked blue, and the veins stuck out on her arms and hideously hacked legs. He could not recall the last time he’d seen a woman that he found attractive. If it wasn’t extreme body modifications, it was deep scarifications, or clumsy cuts and burns.

Nobody wanted to look like themselves anymore.

His hands began to ache, and, slightly puzzled, he opened his fists and held them out before him. Blood ran freely from a small hole that appeared in each palm; and as he watched, the blood turned weak and watery, finally running clear.

Cale raised his right hand to his mouth, licked the moisture. It tasted salty, like tears.

He lay down next to the girl, and after what seemed like hours he finally fell asleep.

“You don’t even have a tattoo?”

He rolled over onto his side, flipping off the sheet. His exposed skin was smooth, unmarked, and her hungry gaze travelled the length of his body. Despite the bar fights he’d been in, and the numerous occasions when he had been attacked and beaten by bandits, Cale had no scars on his body. He always healed without leaving so much as a blemish. It had never bothered him; it was just who he was.

“I’ve never met…what I mean is, nobody I ever knew was
unmodified
. It just isn’t done.” She bit her bottom lip with her top front teeth.

“Don’t be ridiculous.” He leaned across her mutilated form and took her lighted cigarette from the ashtray on the cabinet by the side of the bed. It was a home-rolled job; the tobacco tasted like dried wooden pulp. “I’ve met plenty of people without mods.”

But he hadn’t. Try as he might, he could not picture the last person he’d spoken to who had been free of markings or adaptations. Mostly it was an extra finger, or perhaps a bifurcated tongue. The people of Squid City had taken the concept to extreme levels, but every tribe had its signature. Everyone needed to belong.

But Cale had never felt the urge to belong to anyone, not even to himself. And wasn’t that the real reason for his endless travels? To find himself? To discover where he fit in?

“You have to meet Given,” said the girl, pulling him from his reverie. Her nine fingers played a silent concerto across his tight belly, and her eyes and mouth promised more music to come. This time free of charge.

“Who’s Given? A local shaman?”

“Sort of,” she said, moving away from him to lie on her back. Her painfully flat stomach was almost level with the mattress, only her spine getting in the way. “He’s a seer. A visionary. He knows things. And for years he’s been telling anyone who’d listen that a man without modifications would come, a true and pure human who will lead us all to a new place. A dry place.”

Fuck
, thought Cale.
Another zealot. The damn world is full of them.

Religion had been forgotten in the tumult of the Rains. He knew from books he had read that at first people had blamed divine intervention: they said that God was sending a new flood and mankind must build a new ark. But once the oceans rose, and it became obvious that the events were the result of Mother Nature turning ferociously on her polluters, all that biblical talk was soon forgotten.

And now, almost forty years after the Rains had stopped, the concept of God had been drowned alongside those of good and evil. Things just
were
. They happened. And people adjusted, modified. They got on with things.

“Well?” she said, impatient and desperate for his answer. There was desire in her eyes, and also something that he recognised as awe. It was a thing he’d only ever seen once before, and it troubled him. But it also made him want to go further, to dig deeper.

“I’ll meet this Given,” he said, surprising himself. “Later tonight.”

“Okay,” she said, barely able to contain her excitement. “Downstairs, at midnight. Come here, to The Moby Dick.”