Art Bébé says, 'Fade in:'
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DR. PETER SYBER
She came to him that night. Delivered unto him.
He’d spent the evening in the heart of the canal level red zone, bar hoping, drinking as much as he could, looking for women. He wanted to bury himself and his misery. His doubts about his research had gotten the better of him.
At some point in the early morning, exiting a bar that he couldn’t even remember the name of, in no condition to make the return drive up the switchback and his return home, even in the car’s chauffeur mode, he’d thought to walk for a bit to sober himself. But the drink had suddenly got the better of him. He chose the nearest alley, and collapsed there amongst the refuse, his back against the soot-grimed wall.
When the black van began to back towards him, he’d enough sense to draw in his legs. It reversed a little further, came to a stop, and he’d then watched through the fog of his drunkenness as three men in dark suits stepped from the cabin. One opened the van’s rear doors, while the other two clambered inside, carrying a bundled gray blanket between them, and slowly, under the weight of their burden, had moved on towards a blue dumpster by the alley end, one of the few not overflowing with waste. The heavy lid of the dumpster raised, it had taken little effort to dispose of whatever was being carried over the dumpster edge. From this point, he’d dozed, and when his eyes were open again, the three men and the van were gone.
He had then to decide whether to investigate. But for some time he remained powerless, the vapor glow of the alcohol within him rewarding his own misery. And in this time, as he had allowed himself to bath in the belief of his worthlessness, it took little in the way of imagination to guess what the men might have thrown in the dumpster, the secretive activity of the three men having writ this large. But as his strength grew, if only to distract himself from the depression of his thoughts, he’d found the strength to make his slow way over to the dumpster.
The dumpster lid had been closed back. He stood for a moment leaning with one hand to the corner, and then in a final moment of resolution, heaved up the lid, swinging it back on its thick hinges. A bracketed wall lamp off to the left provided enough light to reveal that the blanket had unfolded, and that whatever had lain inside had rolled its way into the shadowed rear of the dumpster. He would have to climb inside to investigate.
He got inside. It had been a struggle, first pushing up with his arms, and then kicking with his legs, and once inside, the struggle for stability amidst the non-recyclable waste and who knew what else. He crouched down and then saw the red slop of the naked body. Very quickly the horror of it had him scramble back until he rested against the dumpster front. It was a girl, her face tipped towards him, about eight or nine years old, Pacific Islander, some Caucasian, thick, black hair. He remained still, breathing heavily, his legs stretched before him. She had to be dead. But he couldn’t be sure. He dared himself to return closer, then with shaking hand, reached out, sweeping back the bloodied strands of hair from the forehead, and saw the damage.
The skull had been caved in at this point. She’d been hit above the left eye with something hard, and with considerable violence. He felt for a pulse beneath the jawline. And as unbelievable as it seemed, there had been a weak pulse. This finally sobered him.
He hooked his hands under her armpits, tugged vigorously, and got her sitting up in the corner at the front of the dumpster. And then he saw her additional injury.
She’d been sexually penetrated with something large and blunt. Possibly the same instrument that had been used to cave in her forehead. Her pelvic region was entirely smashed in. He began to weep profusely. What did he think he was doing? Did he hope to save her?
At this point he was beginning to feel the effects of detoxification. A general nausea. The want to vomit. He could no longer think clearly. He carried on despite this. He was following his instincts. He managed to wrap the girl back in the blanket. Then he got her onto the dumpster edge, flopped over, a carcass at the butcher shop, and himself back out of the dumpster, he lowered her to the ground. He then ordered his car around.
It was morning as the car piloted its way up from the canal level and onto the Lexington Avenue eway. In the dawn light, the BAAL Tower gleamed up ahead, dominating the skyline. He’d decided to build taller than anyone else. Taller than any other corporate. Taller than Citizen Profile Security (CPS). It was an overt show of power. Perhaps a megalomania. But he hadn’t cared. Tonight he had allowed himself to doubt his powers and been presented with another chance. A new research tool.
‘Bébé telemetry disengaged, Dr Syber,’ he hears.
He is shocked awake from his reverie.
‘Peter,’ Marlene continues. ‘Miko reports unauthorized excursion. Surveillance File waiting.’
He struggles to bring himself fully awake. The main screen remains active. He stares at the graph detailing the electro-physiologically readout of a new device, what he hopes will be another breakthrough, his quantum computing brain machine interface (QCBMI). He studies for a moment, then says, 'Open to main screen, Marlene.' 'Opening, Peter.' |
Art Bébé says, 'Fade out.'
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