First Chapter: @tsudohnimh/red-doll-old-school-cyberpunk
-=+=-
“AMENDMENT 2 SUB 3 – The MAJOR AGREEING PARTIES – henceforth identified as the UNITED STATES OF AMERICA and the UNION OF SOVIET SOCIALIST REPUBLICS – will be permitted to resettle no more than ten (10) million refugees each in the COMMONWEALTH OF AUSTRALIA.....”
Agreement on settlement of refugees, Treaty to end aggression between the East and West (the Treaty of Hobart), 1987
1
The dream was always the same.
She was in her tank, driving through the mountains. It was summer; it should have been warm, and yet their was a chill in the air. The American radio transmissions were saying it was because of dust blown in the atmosphere.
They had just passed through Vukova, the city long abandoned. Galina was driving, while Valentina dozed in the gunners seat. Despite everything that had happened, the destruction wrought on their homeland, on all of Europe, they were in high sprits. They were alive; that was enough to be happy about.
Then, the sound. The sound of rotors. She almost dismissed it as friendly; they were well behind the advancing AA units, no enemy helicopter could reach them here, right?
If only they knew.
The black shape appeared above the trees, a spectre riding on wild winds. She remembers the sounds of rockets, Colonel Adonins tank brewing up. She rememebrs Galina screaming in panic.
Then she remembers flying. She remembers pain.
Images drift in and out. Darkness beckons.
Then she hears the voice.
“Zlata Ivanovna Mikhaylov”
The voice is metallic, without feeling, cold.
“Oh, Zlata Ivanovna, I will make you beautiful again. No, more beautiful....”
Then she remembers marching through Anatolia, the head of a wave of red death. Village after village, town after town, they left nothing in their wake, no survivors.
She remembers the crying children, the screaming women. The sound of gunfire, of artillery, bombs and blasts. She hears a sound in the distance, a rthmyic noise, a beep, beep, beep....
BEEP! BEEP! BEEP! BEEP!
Zlata rose with a start, the sharp shrilling startling her from her slumber. She cursed her internal clock, wondering why she had it on such a high volume, before she realised with annoyance that she had not set an alarm today. Today was supposed to be her day off.
She searched fro the source, and found it: her pager. She groaned internally, Picking up the damned device.
THEIR RIOTING IN NEW PITTSBOURG
Zlata looked at the message. She had expected something like this, they all had; ever since she had made the arrest, brought that bastard Screaming Eagle down, she knew his buddies would be wanting blood.
Honestly, if this was all Craig wanted to say, he could have the decency to wait till a more savoury hour. It was only 7am.
She plugged the beeper into its slot and typed out a reply. EXPECTED. Then she flopped back onto the bed, hoping to gain a few more minutes of sleep. Preferably free of past memories.
The Beeper buzzed again. THE BOSS WANTS YOU IN.
Zlata groaned again. She was afraid this might happen; she had told the DCV she wasn't afraid of the Eagles, but maybe the riot had spooked them.
I DONT NEED A BABYSITTER.
NOT ABOUT THAT
WHAT THEN?
NEW TASK. SOMETHING WITH THE DAC.
The DAC? The freak show? What could they want with here. Zlata sighed; she didn't want to, but if the boss was calling, she had to obey.
IN SOON.
She pulled herself from the bed and made her way to the bathroom, flicking the TV on along the way.
“GOOD MORNING MELBOURNE! With your host, Gabrielle Luis!”
She turned on the shower, letting it uselessly warm up.
“Good Morning Melbourne! I'm Gabrielle Luis. Today on GMM, prominent APIAS researcher Dr. Willard Batta will be speaking. But first, today’s headlines...”
She felt the water play over her body. Or did she? Sure, her body registered that water was there, each and every impact, but did she feel it?
“Riots have broken out across New Pittsburgh following the arrest of Screaming Eagles terrorist David Cassadiy White. White, wanted on the deaths of 27 soviet refugees and 7 Australians, was arrested early Wednesday morning in a surprise raid by ANP officers....”
For that matter, why did she even shower? Nothing stuck to her body; its antibacterial coating ensured nothing ever grew on her. Mud and grime just slipped away.
“The Association of Asian Nations today logged another appeal to the UN to have the Australian Government report on the location of its Strategic Cyborg Forces after Southern Cross was deployed to stem a North Korean attack on the Korean peninsular late yesterday....”
Why did she wear clothes? She felt no cold, only sensed it, registered it. Why did she sleep in a bed? She could just a well sleep standing. Why did she do any of these things?
“Researchers at the Canberra Institute of Computational Intelligence today are celebrating a milestone, after their Simulation of Sapient Intelligence system spoke its first sentence....”
Because, she reminded herself, as she reminded herself every morning, every day, Zlata Ivanovna Mikhaylov did those things. And I am Zlata Mikhaylov.
“Today’s temperature will be a balmy 15 degrees. Radiation is expected to be in the mid to high twenties with an expected high of 29....”
In her mind, her minds eye, she still looked like Zlata. Her short brown hair, those grey blue eyes, the freckles she always thought ugly.....
In the mirror was the doll.
Those Blank, red ceramic eyes; those red ceramic lips, forever locked in a pout; Her red ceramic body, glistening from the wet.
It was not the body of a person, it was a statue, a memorial.
Her own walking tombstone.
The Australian Federal Plaza building had once been the tallest in Melbourne; indeed, it poked out the top of the Melbourne dome. But, like many of the once mighty skyscrapers that had once filled cities the world over, the change in the times had rendered it obsolete; no one wanted to live up high anymore, not closer to the radiation.
It was this reason that most of the more important offices were located in the sub sub basement. Zlata always had an internal smile about that; what was once regarded as a dungeon, fit only for steam pipes and the IT department, was now the prime office space.
Of course, that was for the higher ups; those lower on the food chain had to contend with sunlight and radiation. The fifth sub basement was executive central. All the major wheeler dealers and power brokers in the regional government had fought for ground space here; Governor Kennot and his various lackeys and followers had half the floor to themselves. With all that political power being thrown around it wasn’t a surprise that the DCV's office was tucked into a corner.
The secretary looked up as Zlata approached. “Their expecting you, Ma'am” the young woman said. “Oh, and congratulations on the arrest!”
“Thank you,” Zlata replied, walking straight into the office. Their were three men inside, having from the sound of it a serious conversation; they turned to watch her enter.
“Zlata!” Sir Walter Reedman, Deputy Director (Victoria), greeted her as she entered. “Thank you for coming on such short notice. I apologise for having to cut your holiday short.”
“It is no problem, sir,” She replied, glancing at the other two men. One she immediately recognised: Arnie Smithton, the Assistant Director. He had a look of almost unconcealed disapproval on his ruddy face; he and Zlata did not get along.
The other man was not someone whom Zlata had met before, although he looked familiar. Tall, Dark haired turning grey, probably middle aged, he looked like just about any of the other senior detectives. He had an oddly easy going demeanour too him, and even as Zlata regarded him, he regarded her with all the same curiosity one reserved for flipping through a magazine. Zlata didn't know whether to be offended or not.
“Now, I'm sure your wondering about why we called you in,” Reedman continued.
Zlata nodded, a sharp, mechanical movement. “Yes sir. If this is about the riots, I can assure you, I have no fears for my safety. I don't believe I require....”
“While your actions may have be a, contributing, factor to these damned riots,” Smithton said suddenly, “Its not about that.”
Reedman gestured to the other man. “ I'd like you to meet Detective Superintendent McNally”
The man extended his hand. “David McNally. Its an honour to finally to meet you.” It seemed he genuinely meant it.
Zlata shook his hand. “Thanks.”
“McNally here is the head of the Department of Abnormal Crimes,” Reedman said. “They've requested some assistance on a new case they have.”
“Yes, particularly in a field your very familiar with,” McNally explained. “I assume your familiar with the activities of the DAC?”
“Yes, I’m aware of them,” she replied. The freak show, where all the weird stuff gets sent. Were they finally getting rid of her.
“Ah good,” McNally replied. “While the DAC has many dedicated officers;” she heard Smithton snort; “we often call upon members of the other sections to serve in an advisory role if our investigation takes us into a field their familiar with.”
“A just what field would that be?”
“In this case, Murder.”
Reedman tapped his fingernails on his desk. “Now, I want you to know Zlata, this isn't a punishment; we aren't trying to hide you or anything. McNally and the DAC genuinely want your assistance on this case.”
McNally looked at his watch. 'A case I have to get rolling now. If you would excuse us, sir, I have a team to assemble and a crime scene getting cold.” He smiled at Zlata. “Coming?”
McNally moved briskly towards the elevator, Zlata following close behind. Despite Reedmans assurances, she still felt like this was some kind of exile; hidden away with the freakshow until the heat blew over. Or worse.
“I can see the rumours are true,” McNally said as he called the elevator.
“Oh?” Zlata replied. Their were a lot of rumours about her: that she was actually a soulless robot, that she was actually a communist spy. That she was actually a man... she wondered which one had been proven right.
“Smithton really doesn’t like you,” he replied, a smile on his face. “Don't worry; were in the same boat. He's not a big fan of us either.” He stepped onto the elevator. “Waste of resources, waste of money, always chasing shadows. What is it all you normal cops call us?”
Zlata never would have regarded herself as “normal”, but she understood where he was coming from. “The freak show,” she said, in her mind looking embarrassed even saying it. Her doll face remained still. “If you don't mind sir, I’d like to know more details about the case I’m to work on.”
“Oh, of course,” He said, pulling a thin file from his jacket. “The case is a murder, as I stated before; apparently the guy is, er, was some kind of big shot body-builder. That’s the easy part. Were we come in is we believe this crime is related to...”
The elevator doors dinged and a young constable stepped on, carrying a tray of coffees. He looked up, recognition on his face.
“Oh, good morning Sir,” he said to McNally. He glanced at Zlata. “D-Detective.”
“Ah, good timing,” McNally said. He gestured from Zlata to the constable. “Detective Mikhaylov, meet Constable Robert Thomas, the youngest member of our little family.”
“N-nice to meet you ma'am,” Thomas stuttered out. He stood next to McNally. “I have your coffee right hear sir, t-third from the left. Ah, I would have g-got you something ma'am, but I didn't know what kind of coffee you drink. Or if you cou-could even drink coffee.”
McNally patted the young constable on the back. “Robert here is our own little assistant. Anything you need, papers, coffees, ammunition, don't be afraid to ask.”
Zlata looked at the young man curiously. Besides his stuttering entry, he seemed rather...agitated? Zlata knew her appearance could be intimidating, but this boy was positively quivering in his boots. He stood as far away from her as the confines of elevator allowed, trying very hard not to look at her. Sweat poured off him.
In her mind, she raised an eyebrow. Had she meet him before?
Somehow able to pick up on her curiosity, despite her emotionless shell, Constable Thomas spoke up. “I'm so-sorry if my behaviour appears a-a little, eh, weird, ma'am. I'm just having a little attack of the Uncanny Valley jitters.”
McNally let out a grunt. “Ah, yes. Unfortunately, Constable Thomas happens to suffer from Acute Prosthetic Identification Anxiety Syndrome.”
“Oh, I understand,” Zlata replied. Poor guy; His body was literally afraid of her.
“Ple-Please don't think your responsible, ma'am,” Thomas said. “My anxiety was already triggered by an, uh, another encounter.”
McNally shook his head. “ That cyborg girl from traffic again? What was her name, Woodhouse?”
“Woodrose, sir,” Thomas replied with a sigh. “And y-yes, sir.”
“Christ, you think she would get the point?”
“She's really a sweet girl, sir,” Thomas said. “Although she d-does have an annoying laugh.” he took a deep breath. “Wow, this elevator is taking forever!”
As if good was being merciful to him, the elevator pinged. Thomas exited quickly, disappearing into the maze of office partitions.
“Make sure everyone's ready to go in five minutes!” McNally called out after him.
Zlata looked at the floor number. “60th floor? Guess I finally have made it to the top.”
“Yep, they've pretty much packed us right up in the attic,” McNally said. “When you get a chance, have a look out the window; the view of the domes is fantastic.”
They walked into the almost abandoned office space, where she saw what she assumed were the other members of the DAC: two men and a teenage girl. Constable Thomas was delivering each a coffee.
“Chai Latte, soy milk,” he said to the teenage girl. She had Asiatic features; Zlata guessed ether Chinese or Korean.
"Thank you, Rob,” she said, accepting the cup. “ By the way, where’s Wyatt? He didn't come home last night.”
Thomas shrugged his shoulders. “I dunno, Eun. I think he mentioned something about heading to the crime scene straight out when he spo...” the young man stopped mid sentence, obviously realising he had said something wrong, then turned away. “Vince! Got your coffee!”
The Asian girl, Eun, pouted, crossing her arms in an angry manner.
“Everyone!” McNally called out. "Everyone out here please! We don't have a lot of time so we have to make these introductions brief!” He gestured to the Asian girl. “Detective Mikhaylov, meet Detective Eun Jeong.”
“Detective?” Zlata said, in her mind wincing at how questioning her tone was; Her doll face remained still. Still, this was quite unusual; Zlata knew many Asiatics often looked younger than they actually are, yet the girl still couldn't be far out of her teens. For anyone that young to make detective, let alone an Asian girl...
“Nice to meet you,” Eun replied. Zlata couldn't detect any malice or ill will on her voice; if she was upset about Zlata's tone, she didn't show it. Rather, Zlata felt that she was, worried? Distracted?Concerned about something at least; she wondered if it was about whomever this “Wyatt” person was.
Next was one of the men, a rather dashing looking gentleman Zlata guessed was in his early thirties. “This is Detective Sargent Vince Flynn ,” McNally introduced. “He's a relative newcomer at the DAC too; you two will likely be working together a lot on this case.”
Flynn offered his hand. “I'm looking forward to working with you, Detective.” The feeling Zlata got, however, was that he was disappointed. In something at least.
Zlata shook his hand. “Likewise.” She didn't know how sincere that was either.
McNally seemed to be in a rush, constantly looking at his watch. “And finally, Detective Sergeant Jack Hogue,' he said, introducing the final member.
Zlata froze. She had not had a good look at this Hogue fellow when she entered; he had been sitting behind a partition, only the top of his head visible; but now she saw him, she prepared herself for a possible issue.
Hogue was a cyborg, like herself, although not to the same extent. He still had most of his original body; His left arm was artificial, and from the way he walked she guessed his left leg as well. But it was his eyes that stood out the most: he had none. In their place, a ring of micro cameras circled his head, like a halo that had fallen down.
The fact he was a cyborg was not the problem; their were plenty of rebuilds in the ANP, and Zlata never had any trouble with them. No, the problem was Zlata had seen cyborgs like him many times before; the same model arms, the same model legs, the ring of eyes. The ID codes and Unit markings had been painted over, but she saw that one symbol remained, one that she knew quite well. A tombstone, surrounding by a ring of flame.
The First Reconstructed Infantry Division, United States Army. The Suicide Division.
“Wonderful to meet you,” Hogue said, with a mild American accent. He held his hand out too her.
The last time she had seen an SD was on the battlefields of Turkey. The Americans answer to those like her; the sick, the crippled, the wounded, those who had lost their bodies in the bombings, those who had lost everything else. Fitted with cheap cybernetics, they were turned on the Soviet forces, a wave of screaming souls seeking death against the tide of red men. She could recall it so clearly: the war cries, gunfire, artillery blasts....
Klepin....
She grasped his hand. “Thank you, detective. Its nice too meet you too.” She watched him closely, her intentions hidden behind her red mask. Would he hate her? Would her presence stir up some long hidden patriotism, some long hidden rage?
No. rather, she felt a sense of gladness, a sense of relief. Even happiness. Jack Hogue, who once may have been her enemy, seemed to be sincere in his welcome, even happy to see her.
“Its good to finally have another War vet here,” he said, still smiling. “These Aussies, kids really; they don't know anything!”
“Hey, just because we were smart enough not to play with nukes,” Flynn interjected.
“Eh, that was probably for the best,” Hogue said with a laugh. He turned back to Zlata. “Still, its good to have someone of your calibre on board, Detective; you've done some impressive work over the last few years, especially with that White case.”
“Thank you,” she replied, still sensing he was sincere. She watched Hogues face again. Yes, he was sincere, but...holding something back. Yes, she could sense it. Deep down.
Sadness.
“I'm looking forward to working with all of you,” she said, tearing herself away from her thoughts. “Although I wish I knew exactly what we were working on.”
“Wait,” Flynn said, “The Boss didn't tell you?” he shot a look at McNally. “What the hell, Dave?”
McNally was busy shoving a pile of papers into a suitcase. “We don't have a lot of time,” he said, not even looking up. “The coroners probably already there, so we need to go now; we don't know how long this guys been dead. Standard isolation load out ; you know the drill.”
And apparently they did, for a soon as McNally spoke those words the various member’s of the DAC broke away, each diving into a different container or locker.
“Remote Camera?”
“Give it to Rob.”
“Audio sensors.”
“Give it to Rob.”
“Extra Ammunition?”
“Give it to Rob.”
“Do we want the sledgehammer?” Flynn asked, holding up a large tool.
“And the Axe. Give them to Rob.”
Zlata just stood there as the whirlwind of activity blew around her, not sure what exactly, if anything, she could do. Then, like entering the eye of the storm, the hustle stopped, and the DAC members walked past her, heading for the elevator. She noticed Constable Thomas was now carrying a very large backpack.
“Coming, detective?” McNally asked.
“Ah, yes, of course,” She replied, quickly stepping after them. “If you don't mind me asking sir...”
“David, please. Or Dave; I’m pretty easy.”
“Right, David. I'm still not certain of what the case is, beyond the fact its a murder. In fact, I don't even know where were going.”
“ASI stadium, in the Richmond dome,” David replied, as they entered the elevator. He pulled the file from his jacket. “Again, I’m sorry for the rush; I promise to give you a full brief once were on scene.” He handed her the file. “For the moment, read this; its all we have on the current case.”
She looked at the file; it was a standard manilla envelop, the same that were used to hold documents all over the world. The front was marked “Confidential,” and bore the title “ONGOING CASE FILE 67A-91 – ORGAN & LIMB THEIF MURDERS”
Below that, written in brio, were the words “DIRECT TO THE FREAKSHOW”
Third Chapter: @tsudohnimh/red-doll-a-murderer