Zombpunk: STEM

ZOMBPUNK

  Book 1

  STEM

  by

  Christopher Blankley

  Copyright © 2012 by Christopher Blankley

  other books by Christopher Blankley:

  The Cordwainer

  The Bobbies of Bailiwick

  Thanks to Dorothy Darrow (dorothydarrow.weebly.com)

  for editing help

  www.zombpunk.com

  Chapter 1

  It was a shit sandwich – a sandwich made of shit. The bread was stale and molding, and the meat... well, whatever it was... sat like slime between the two slices. Elder Tull poked it with a disinterested finger. It was his sandwich – his shit sandwich – and he'd have to eat it. It was all he had, the only thing to eat that day, but he took no joy in anticipating the act. If it looked bad, Elder reasoned, then how disgusting must it taste? His half-naked, bone-thin figure shuddered. He scratched his stomach through the abject filth of his t-shirt and tried to summon up a mouth full of saliva. He would eat it, he knew, but he would have to cajole his taste buds to play along.

  Mustard, Elder Tull thought, mustard. It'd definitely taste better with a little mustard...

  What could be keeping Steve and Eydie? Elder stepped away from the counter of the small kitchenette and picked a path through the soiled mattresses and garbage that littered the floor of the flee-ridden apartment. At the window, he looked through the broken glass down at the alleyway below. There was no one there. It'd never taken Steve and Eydie this long to score scran before. They should have been home over an hour ago.

  Elder steadied himself on the windowsill as a fit of retching convulsed through his body. A ball of phlegm made its way out of his lungs, and he spat it out through the broken windowpane. He'd just have to eat his sandwich without mustard, he concluded, and made his way back towards the kitchenette.

  The sandwich sat there alone on the cold counter. He had better eat it before it stood up and demanded marriage equality, Elder Tull thought, reaching for a rusty kitchen cleaver. The filling of the sandwich oozed over its sides as he sliced the sandwich in two. Elder's stomach churned.

  A slice of sandwich was paused at Elder's lips when he heard the handle to the front door rattle. Steve and Eydie! he thought, and dropped the slice back onto the counter with a wet slop. He skipped through the garbage of the apartment and fumbled with the chain to the door. Instantly, a crack in the door pushed open and the small frame of Eydie slid into the room. She didn't speak, just pushed the door closed behind her, slapping Elder's hand out of the way to reattach the chain.

  "Did you get the–" Elder asked, but Eydie wouldn't face him. She scurried off across the room, crab-like, keeping her back to Elder, until she reached her mattress by the broken window. She flopped down and pulled a threadbare blanket up and over her head, leaving only her skanky head of dark dreadlocks visible above the covers. "Eydie?" Elder began, then paused. He looked around, his addled brain slowly registering the absence of something. "Where's Stevie?" he finally asked.

  Eydie didn't reply. She didn't even stir.

  "How about the scran?" Elder asked, the pain in his stomach reminding him. "You said you knew about a guy..." He trailed off as the nest of greasy dreadlocks slowly began to shake. Eydie was crying silently into her pillow. Elder's empty, starving stomach sank. Oh God, he realized, what had happened to Steve?

  Elder crossed the room and lowered himself down beside the mattress. He held out a hand and let it hover over the blanket. He wanted to comfort Eydie, but knew better than to touch her. He satisfied himself with a cooing sound. Perhaps she'd find that soothing... Elder vaguely remembered it working with crying babies.

  Eventually he summoned up the force of will to speak again, "Eydie," he tried, "what happened to Steve?"

  But he already knew. When the covers came back and Eydie turned to face him with bloodshot, wet eyes, he already knew. They had him. How or why, Elder didn't yet understand, but the most important cold, hard fact he already knew: they had him. And that meant he was now one of them.

  "Oh, God..." Elder collapsed like the pins had been pulled out of his spine. If he'd eaten his sandwich, if there'd been anything in his stomach at all, he'd have puked it right up. But the dry heaves he could choke down. He lay down amongst the garbage of the apartment and let his head lay against the cold wood of the floor.

  Steve was gone. Steve was a Stem.

  "We–we were down on Stone..." Eydie began, pulling herself up onto her knees. "Y–You know, almost all the way down to the canal... there's this Puke... well, used to be this Puke... with a squat in an old pizza kitchen down there... anyway, you said you were jonesing for mustard..." Eydie paused as the tears began to well up again. Elder sat up and put a comforting hand on her bone-thin shoulder. "And this Puke did a trade in old spices... not much nowadays, but... I mean, he had connections, out in the sticks where things still grow... but we get there and–"

  Eydie stopped, suddenly turning sheet white. She stared dead ahead, like she could see straight through Tull, at the sight she'd seen in that old pizza kitchen.

  "Somebody had plugged the old fool," she continued. "He was laying right there on the linoleum in a pool of blood. We come in the back way, under the fence like always, and there he was, right in the middle of the kitchen."

  "Oh God..." Elder Tull muttered.

  "But the worst part is that we weren't the first to find him," Eydie blinked, then coughed, and her gaze snapped back to the present. She looked up at Elder. "We stumbled right into the middle of it: a whole fucking episode of CSI. Cops and coroners and photographers, the real deal... taking measurements, putting stuff in plastic bags... they all just stood there for the longest time, staring at us like idiots, wondering what we were doing there. All the while, we're staring back at them. Nobody's moving. Nobody's doing shit. Just Steve and me, half the Seattle PD, and a dead Puke on the linoleum, with a hole in his head.

  "Then I'm, like, thinking: this doesn't look good. Us walking right into the middle of a murder scene, and all. And for what? Mustard? Who's going to believe that shit? And I know Steve is thinking the same thing. I can sense him next to me, going all cat-like... you know, his back arching up. He's gonna run, I can feel it, and I'm, like, dude, don't you dare, 'cause these cops will pounce the second you show tail. But I'm not saying it, 'cause we're all just standing there in silence... the cops just staring at us like we're the fucking second coming of Christ or something.

  "Then the shit hits the fan. I don't know if Steve started running, or a cop just came to his senses... all I know is everyone was suddenly shouting and guns were coming out and Steve and me were back out through that door like our asses were on fire. We hit that fence and Steve pulls the chain link up for me and I'm scrambling in the dirt and by the time I'm back on my feet in the alley a cop is body-slamming Steve like a Mexican wrestler. He's all squashed up against the chain link as the cop is twisting his arm and people are yelling at me to stop were I am, and the barrels of guns are being shoved through the links...

  "So I turned and ran." She stopped, her thousand-yard stare returning. Elder realized his hand was still holding her shoulder, gripping it tight. He must have been hurting her, but she didn't seem to notice. He let go of her shoulder, his fingers leaving behind a red welt ringing her shoulder blade.

  "Oh God..." he said one final time. But it didn't do the situation justice. "Fuck," he tried.

  "Yeah, fuck," Eydie agreed.

  "Then..." Elder continued after a contemplative pause. He glanced back towards the kitchenette counter where his sandwich was waiting for him. "No mustard?"

  #

  There was nothing that could be done. If the cops had Stevie, guilty or innocent, he'd already have been stemmed.

&nbs
p; He was already dead as far as Elder Tull and Eydie were concerned.

  It wasn't like the police had much of a choice – it wasn't like they were set up to feed Pukes – but it hardly condoned the procedure of stemming each and every prisoner arrested for even the most casual of crimes. Not that there were many people left without stems. Just sad, useless Pukes like Elder, Steve and Eydie. But didn't they have their rights? Weren't they still human?

  No, not without a stem they weren't.

  It was the single greatest scientific discovery in history – that fact could not be disputed. It was the savior of mankind, the earth, and western civilization: the Whole Life Interface, the WLI, casually know to all as 'The Stem.' It was a cybernetic implant that supplanted the stomach and converted electricity into nutrients. It left only a simple electrical socket above the surface of the skin, mounted below the sternum. Plugged into an electrical power source, the stem provided its owner with almost unlimited, cheap sustenance; they could eat electricity. It meant an end to world hunger, an end to wide-spread poverty, an end to suffering...

  And an end to food.

  Clean, carbon-free fusion reactors created the electricity to fuel the stem, and without the need for humans to consume resources for survival, humanity had almost completely removed itself from the planet's ecosystem. No more hamburgers needed to feed a hungry population; no more cattle needed to be made into beef for those burgers; no field upon field of corn needed to feed that cattle; no fleet of trucks needed to haul the fertilizer to grow that corn. Without the pressure of human consumption weighing on the planet, the environment was finally able to made inroads and heal itself. Perhaps the greatest gift the Whole Life Interface had bestowed on mankind was a measurable decline in anthropological global warming. There'd been a three degree drop in global temperatures since the stem had reached a critical mass of adoption globally. The war between the environment and humanity was over and they had learned to live in peace. And it was all thanks to the stem.

  But not everyone had signed up for the brave new world.

  Small groups in all cultures resisted the new technology. Many based their antagonism on religious beliefs, others on social conservatism. A whole slew of conspiracy theories were floated in regard to Whole Life Inc. the corporate entity that developed, patented and sold the stem: that it was a form of mind control, that it stole people's free will.

  But mostly these groups remained on the fringe. In mainstream society, the stem had been quickly adopted. Not only did the stem free its owner from the burden of daily sustenance, its internal regulators and advanced software made sure that each client of Whole Life Inc. was kept in peak physical condition. There was no more overeating, no need to strain with daily exercise. Through small, internal electrical stimulation, the stem could tone muscle and burn fat while its owner slept. Suddenly, the world was thin and beautiful.

  But not the Pukes.

  Those who held out against the social pressure to be stemmed were pushed further and further towards the edges of society. The global food distribution system quickly collapsed. Grocery stores closed and restaurants vanished. Pukes quickly discovered that what food they couldn't grow for themselves was impossible to find. They were too few in number for any business to serve profitably, and far too lost in the political wilderness for any welfare state to assist. They were a problem that mainstream Stem society hoped to remove, either by stemming the last of the hold-out Pukes, or by letting them die in the gutter from self-imposed starvation.

  Those few holdouts were a squalid lot.

  Unable to hold jobs, they could do little else but forage for sustenance. They were nothing more than food junkies, scratching out what living they could, attempting to pull together enough for a simple meal. Those in rural areas initially fared better, where the fruit of the land was more easily within reach. But as the volatile whims of nature plowed under crops and the scarcity of equipment fit for farm use increased, most were forced into the city to scavenge off what affluent Stem society discarded.

  They were little more than animals, one missed meal away from death. But at least they were free, and whole as God intended. That is, until they broke a law. Then, for their own safety, they would be forcibly stemmed.

  And then all their troubles were over.

  Chapter 2

  There was a white light, then darkness. Pain, then a sensation of peace. Slowly, Steve became aware of the ceiling tiles above him. He blinked, attempting to focus, then let his eyelids close. He was tired, and something had his left arm pinned. Unconsciousness overcame him. There was nothing but darkness again.

  He awoke with a start, sucking in a large lungful of air and struggling against the bedclothes that covered his body. He sat up quickly, sending his head spinning. A wave of vertigo threw him back against a mass of white pillows. He breathed hard, pausing. He took in the room. The same ceiling tiles from before were there... a hospital bed... medical machines... IV drips... blinds covering a dark window...

  His heart was pounding. He raised a hand and laid it on his chest. His arm was a nest of tubes and IV needles. Where was he? The last thing he remembered was the backseat of a police cruiser, his hands in cuffs. No, he remembered more: dried blood on a steel gurney...

  No, no, please... Steve's hand moved down his chest. There, just below his ribcage, a cable running from under his hospital robe...

  "Good morning, Mr. Pope. How are we feeling?" a female voice spoke from inside the room. Steve convulsed with shock. He wasn't alone. He pulled himself up onto his elbows and saw a woman sitting in a chair against the far wall of the room. An attractive, young woman with long blond hair, looking at Steve with concerned eyes. Her legs were crossed and she held a lit cigarette between the first and second fingers of her right hand. A swirl of smoke curled up from its burning tip, filling the room with the smell of tobacco mixed with cannabis.

  Stem! Steve's mind screamed. Stem!

  He scrambled back against the head of the bed, up to a sitting position, and grabbed frantically at the cable that protruded from his chest. The woman was on her feet, reaching out with a comforting hand. Steve slapped her arm away and pulled his paper-thin robe free of his shoulders. He bared his chest and stared in horror at where the cable terminated: a round, plastic socket stapled awkwardly below his sternum, the cable plugged into it like a lamp plugged into the wall. The flesh around the socket was red and bloodied, sore and swollen from the incision that had implanted the device.

  Steve screamed.

  The memories came flooding back to Steve... the dried blood on a steel gurney... the police officers holding his arms... the pain... the jail nurse, bare hands covered in Steve's blood... the centipede-like device, tentacles flinching, silhouetted in the harsh light, before slowly being fed into his wound... more pain, then blackness... then waking up here...

  "Mr. Pope!" the woman yelled, taking Steve by the shoulder. "Everything is all right! Mr. Pope! Calm down. You're safe now. You're in a hospital." In her right hand, with the cigarette, she had a small remote control. With her thumb she was dialing a button. A warm feeling began to wash over Steve. He breathed hard, his heart thrumming in his chest. The terror inside him was receding, like a cloud moving away from the sun.

  "I-I-I..." Steve stammered.

  "Your name is Nathan Pope, do you remember?" the young woman asked as she rubbed Steve's bare shoulder.

  "Nathan?" Steve replied. "No one calls me Nathan..."

  "Nevertheless, isn't that your name?" the woman asked soothingly. Steve nodded. "My name is Jude. I am your court appointed therapist. You've had a terrible shock, Mr. Pope, but everything is all right. You were in jail."

  "Oh, God..." Steve's fingers danced along the length of the protruding power cable as if contemplating how to detach it from his implant.

  "Don't!" The woman let go of his shoulder and took his hand, squeezing. "Yes, while in jail, you were stemmed. But it's okay... I'm here to help you though this transition. Mr. Pope?"


  Steve couldn't pull his gaze away from the cable thrusting out from his chest. It couldn't be true, it just couldn't be. It had to be some sort of bad dream.

  #

  They called it Stem Shock. During the first twelve hours after implantation, the risk of a psychological break in a number of boarder cases had been determined to be non zero. After the initial twelve hours, almost a hundred percent of recipients had grown accustomed to the cocktail of endorphins and neural stimulants fed to them by their stem. But in those early hours, close monitoring and the presence of a therapist was required to mitigate the risk of a breakdown.

  Essentially, all a patient needed as the shock of waking and finding a foreign object implanted in your his chest hit him was some medication management and a hand to hold. These therapists had facetiously been nicknamed 'midwives,' as their role was considered something akin to assisting with a live birth. Perhaps calling it a re-birth was more accurate: from an old way of living to a new, improved form of existence.

  Jude was Steve's midwife.

  She seemed too young to be a therapist, but Stems always did. Steve would have guessed she was no more than fifteen or sixteen, but he knew that to be an illusion. Stems didn't age like Pukes, and she could have been anywhere from twenty to fifty and shown no signs of her age. As he looked at her, he realized she was one of the Stems to follow the fad of having her intestines removed surgically as unneeded bio-matter. She had the resulting impossibly thin, wasp-like waist. She was pretty; something like a life-sized Barbie.

  She had a bubbly, sorority sister charm about her as she calmly and carefully talked Steve through the events of the last few hours. He had been arrested in connection with the murder of one Samuel 'Geezip' Andrews, sent to County, and processed. He was still in recovery in the jail's infirmary when his Public Defender filed a writ of habeas corpus. The police's DNA and fingerprint samples taken at booking had come back negative – Steve wasn't their murderer – so the Attorney General's office refused to prosecute. Steve was a free man. He had been transferred to Harborview Hospital before the sedatives from his stem implantation had even worn off. That was when Jude had been called.