“Destiny demands I walk through hell, but unlike these merchants of lies, I do it like I own the place.”
Echo kept a straight face. As head of security for Tekton Terra, the wealthiest and most powerful person in the world, he’d learned to parry the perpetual onslaught of hyperbole. Tekton’s barrel-shaped figure and towering two-metre height shielded him from the red-hot rays of the Mediterranean climate. Short-cropped ginger hair and freckled skin made life difficult in Gibraltar, especially as Tekton never missed an opportunity to mock him for the lobster-coloured tan. The boss, on the other hand, embraced the sun, his worship testament to a Greek-Egyptian heritage.
“With respect, sir, I cannot grasp the logic of journalists on our premises. It’s an unnecessary risk with rogue elements encouraged to attempt an assassination.”
“Echo, always prepared for a storm. I have absolute faith in your ability to protect the company and myself. Besides, I love to harangue these negative-story-chasing vultures. They detest me because, as they relish in darkness, I create light. Furthermore, it makes business sense. Their blind hate allows us to launch Ecila on a shoestring marketing budget,” Tekton said, the self-righteous expression a sign of how impressed with himself the CEO felt.
“Nevertheless, I propose an indoor press conference; the auditorium accommodates the invitees. Thus, we eliminate the risk of sniper and drone attacks. Or have January do it. The media loves our Chief Technology Officer, while they love to hate you.”
“Tekton Terra doesn’t cower behind women or walls!”
The deep baritone voice carried across the terrace and startled the guards poised for Echo’s instructions. Tekton allowed him a degree of freedom to challenge orders, a rare privilege. Yet, the big man had limits, and Echo never intended to cross the unspoken red lines, despite the unsavoury acts performed in the line of duty. If not for the billionaire, he’d languish in a mental institute, or worse.
Five hours later, fifty journalists sat on cream-coloured lawn chairs, squeezed together to listen to Anima Pep’s founder and CEO herald an era-defining upgrade of its world-dominant alternate reality device.
“White Rabbit 1 allowed you to watch, number 2 gave you control, and today, in holy matrimony between magic and science, Anima Pep presents edition 3. We call it Ecila, the pinnacle of our decades-long endeavour, an amalgamation of collective intelligence and individual brilliance. Even without the universal genius of late co-founder Janus Chertoff, we deliver an instrument immense in computational power yet intuitive to the point of zero friction. In truth, we fabricated an impossible product with strict adherence to soothing familiarity. Nonetheless, the technological marvel, engineering prowess, and divine aesthetics pale in significance to the moment you strap on the headset and enter worlds unknown.”
Tekton ignored a flurry of raised hands and continued the much-rehearsed speech while Echo surveyed the press with great scrutiny. The guards, or centurions as Tekton classified them, placed themselves along the perimeter and between rows of chairs.
“Have your eyes peeled for suspicious movements.” Echo’s microphone command had an immediate impact as the team turned their heads left and right, vipers scouting for prey.
The terrace, supported by massive stilts, jutted out from the old defensive castle which housed Anima Pep’s headquarters. Situated on the highest peak of Gibraltar Rock, it offered views of the Mediterranean to the east, the Atlantic to the west, and the African continent to the south. To Echo, the unobstructed vistas meant potential intruders and an open range for gunshots. He’d ordered the vegetation cleared, though giant boulders still posed irksome challenges.
“The user experience remains the same. The slimline, over-the-ear headset connects to your mind, a gateway to discovery and exploration of real-time, photo-realistic, alternate realities. These untrodden paths, a multitude of what-ifs, originate during key moments in your past and are the quintessential self-improvement techniques on the market today. Ecila, however, is next level. An opportunity to escape your bubble by admittance to major historical divergences forked from our shared history. Choose from a comprehensive list of realms, such as the Americas ruled by France or Europe conquered by China. Try a Greek empire where Alexander the Great lived to old age and engage with its present-era status. Might you have reached higher echelons in these worlds than in your current existence?”
Tekton’s fascination with the fabled Macedonian leader never ceased. Measured in power, the tycoon had surpassed his hero, Echo thought. A journalist, ten metres away, burst into a coughing fit. Echo locked onto the woman with an intense and ominous scowl. Her cheeks drained of blood before she mustered enough strength to break eye contact and turn.
“Stoicism as a response to agony is not admirable; it’s blindness to alternatives.”
Echo caught the last sentence of Tekton’s address, an appeal directed towards White Rabbit holdouts. Spica, a brown-haired journalist with big ears and an even bigger mouth, interrupted the speech. Echo’s pulse intensified. The insolent worm dared to show himself after the stunt he pulled.
“Anima Pep’s simulated realities offer infinite choice, turning the public into flowers, with no other purpose than to bloom for an ephemeral moment in the sun. Isn’t White Rabbit an addiction similar to alcohol or drugs, responsible for the societal apathy and extreme individualism?”
As the attendees settled into stunned silence, Echo advanced with clenched fists and jaw. The carnal urges blasted out of the gate like a raging bull. To embarrass Tekton in public, invited retribution.
“Our technology represents positivity and self-actualisation. A phrase alien to the press, which promotes negativity, fear, and hate as you pit people vs people and stoke the flames of destruction. Before you cast stones, consider your putrid house, which once served humanity, built on the blood, sweat, and tears of legendary champions of the free word. You maggots now crawl out of the bloated corpse, and without shame, you come to my majestic location with your swords drawn. I’ll dance with you, but I despise your masquerade, your dishonest reports, and your whole damned corps.”
Tekton ended the reprimand, bid them adieu and stepped indoors. Echo, meanwhile, readied himself for an altercation.
“Spica, a word?”
“Echo Homo Carnivorous, here to defend the honour of your exalted leader? Or is Terra a replacement father figure after Janus’ supposed demise? Their ultra-violent hound from hell, who believes loyalty earns love.” Spica chuckled and swallowed a couple of purple grapes.
“Watch your tongue.” The gravelly, low voice masked an imminent explosion. He sniffed Spica’s blood as it pulsated through visible veins near the epidermis. Similar to an irresistible pheromone, it lured him closer. A cameraman recorded the loaded exchange. Control yourself, not here, not now.
“I’m disappointed you didn’t comment on my piece the other week; no rebuttal even. Silence means you’re guilty in the eyes of the public. Or maybe your cannibalistic predilections have mushed your brain beyond its neanderthal capacity? If you can’t beat them, eat them, eh?” Spica sneered and popped another grape. Juice spritzed Echo on the cheek.
“Oh, I sprayed you.” Spica’s right index finger danced around Echo’s mouth, an exaggerated slow-motion move to wipe off the droplets. “You have the belligerent appearance suited to your role; cavernous blue eyes, chiselled jawline, bull neck, and muscles desperate to escape their fabric prison.” Spica squeezed the left biceps before Echo swatted it away.
“I don’t look back in anger because of what happened 14 years ago; instead, I focus on the present,” Echo said, pleased with the diplomacy and faux-zen state. In reality, the heart raced like a formula one car, coupled with laboured breath and severe nausea.
“Please, you can’t fool me. I exposed your horrid secret. You bit and maimed several neighbourhood kids, anointed The East End Biter by London papers at age 10.”
The topic brought dark memories to the fore, not least the shame his mother endured. After the unfortunate incidents, Janus arrived to conduct tests, intrigued by the phenomenon. For everyone’s safety, the mysterious scientist moved him to Anima Pep for further study. If Spica learned the specifics of what happened next, he’d sympathise, not mock.
“Rumours are rife of your persistent carnal appetites, atrocities covered by your billionaire protector who profits from your fright-inducing reputation. You’re a rabid dog in need of incarceration to wane yourself off Tekton’s and White Rabbit’s sectarian influence. Your mother believed she saved you by making Janus a legal guardian. A source says the regret pained her to the bitter end. Care to comment?”
The mention of June brought him over the edge, the eruption akin to a sabred champagne bottle. In an abrupt forward lunge, Echo grabbed Spica’s head with both hands and locked onto the left ear with a bite worthy of a crocodile. The crunch of broken cartilage and a fountain of blood accompanied thunderous screams of torment. Echo pulled away, only for the adjacent cameraman to zoom in on the fleshy, crimson piece of earlobe which dangled between the teeth.
“Is it too much to ask for a slice of Mortadella or Bresaola? The grub in your fridge is as stomach-curdling as the minging orange liquid you refer to as juice.”
“You gone mental, Everett? Since when do you fancy foreign fare? It’s no secret I refuse to buy food I can’t pronounce. What’s wrong with leftover jellied eel and pork pie?”
“At breakfast? For crying out loud, mum!” Echo slammed the front door, miffed at the exchange yet happy to escape the shambolic excuse for sustenance. The image made him retch, and, on instinct, he covered the mouth. Vomit cascaded forward like a desert storm, his fingers a strainer for larger remnants of undigested and pungent fish from last night’s dinner.
After a ten-minute curse-infused walk from his mother’s council flat in Hoxton, Echo arrived in Shoreditch at the ever-popular bagel shop on Brick Lane. Eaten together with tropical fruit muesli from the Cereal Killah café, Echo noted a kernel of positivity. To hell with the drizzle and grey skies.
For a month since the Spica incident in Gibraltar, which Tekton tried to suppress, Echo immersed himself in a favourite White Rabbit reality, recommended by Janus before his unfortunate disappearance. To experience life, minus the brain damage inflicted upon him, offered a semblance of normality. Moreover, he appreciated the opportunity to reconnect with the East End of London, far from the Mediterranean glitz and the pressures of employment under Tekton Terra. As a bonus, mother June still lived, having raised her boy in harmony.
Brick Lane had undergone a DNA change in the last decade and a half, with grit, grime, and lively characters swept aside by a creeping wave of gentrification. Stratospheric rents forced residents to relocate as snobby artisan bakeries, micro-breweries, and gourmet cuisine markets changed the landscape. Street graffiti, once an expression of ideals, had morphed into brand marketing towards tourists in the hunt for a ghetto thrill. Echo mourned the loss of classic pubs and Bangladeshi curries on the walk further south, replaced by a palette of meat-hating vegan, lactose and gluten-free eateries. London Light, he called it, an inferior copy of the original, stripped of its erstwhile charm.
Outside the Art nouveau style Whitechapel gallery, a constant in the disagreeable sea of change, Echo spotted Roz, a friend of his alter ego. The short, stocky, and bald figure chatted up two French girls.
“Step away from the females. We have to leg it to Canary Wharf. With the latest price hike for tubes and buses, my skint arse can’t justify the expense,” Echo said.
“I scared them with tales of Jack the Ripper. Half in there, mate.”
“It’s not a good sign when they point and laugh. Hurry; I don’t want to miss the assessment.” Uncomfortable, Echo changed the subject. 24, and zero experience of the intimate kind. Why should Roz listen to an impostor?
“I’m Hank Marvin; let’s eat and walk,” Roz replied as they headed east on Commercial Road.
“Marvin, who?” Echo asked.
“You thick, or what? My cockney rhyming slang usually has you in stitches.”
“You’re starving. Sorry, mum and I had a silly row. I raised my voice, although I swore not to. She’s in pain, and here I am, ever the yob.”
“You’ve become more nurse than son; it’s unfair to you both. Accept professional assistance.”
“I don’t have the means.”
“Everett, always the good lad, but you lost the bouncer job at the Soap Bar because of your predicament. Without income, your capacity to support ceases. Help yourself first.”
In Shadwell, Roz darted into a convenience store to grab lunch sandwiches and prawn-flavoured crisps. At the counter, he tried a line with the cashier.
“Girls in Shadwell shag well. Get it?”
Roz thrust back and forth to illustrate while Echo pulled him out. Notwithstanding an obvious lack of tact, the ethical hacker had a heart of gold.
“I better land a gig soon,” Roz said. “I need a new laptop, and mum demands rent. Says I cramp her style when she brings home dates. Hell, the old bag gets more action than I do, despite a face best described as something the neck threw up.”
“A friend of mine insists you must act as if you own the place. He’s quite successful.” Echo’s snide smile went unnoticed. “We have to keep a positive attitude.”
“The other week, I worked at one of those stores where everything cost a quid. On the last day, I pulled an 18-hour shift. I soiled my pants because the villains allowed no more than two toilet breaks. Hard to maintain positivity when the sole item in the store worth less than a pound is you.”
In silence, they continued towards Limehouse Basin, where the highrises of Canary Wharf towered in their glass and steel magnificence. The former dock area, the foundation of the British Empire, had transformed itself into a shiny financial hub, a labyrinth of underground malls, transport tunnels, and waterside walkways. Suit-clad workers hurried past as they neared a manicured garden with groomed trees amid the skyscrapers. Ten people lingered by a raised platform in a secluded section off the stone-stepped trail. A marketing banner read;
LOcal KItchen - LOKI.
“Roz, you little pissant. What you doing here? I figured you got a proper job with ’em computers.” A tattooed fellow with a broad chest and pumped biceps slapped Roz on the back.
“Deck, your school bully persona is as strong as ever, innit?” Roz turned to Echo. “I compete for work with the fool who sniffed glue in class. Shoot me.”
“You taking the Mickey?” Deck grabbed Roz by the collar and hoisted him off the ground.
“Unhand him,” Echo said without a move. Deck recognised him.
“Ah, Ginger boy. You cracked my head open a few weeks ago with your nancy tricks.”
“You accosted the bartender. Pipe down, or I’ll rip out your tongue and fry it for breakfast.” Echo’s mastery of Wing Chun, a turbo-charged martial arts form, meant few people posed a threat.
Deck straightened Roz’ collar and suppressed a plain desire to flatten the former school chum.
“Treat me with the respect I deserve,” Roz said, his nose sky high.
“You still got balls, little man. Haven’t forgotten when you bought the prossie for your fifteenth birthday. A nasty one with buck teeth wanted 20 quid for a blow-job, right? Didn’t the wench decline your mum’s credit card, despite your begging?” Deck bent over double in hysteric laughter as Roz turned cherry red.
“Gather. My name’s Simex, here to introduce LOKI, the hyper-local mobile kitchen concept. For today’s instant gratification-focused consumer, we deliver any grocery within three minutes. As delivery roamers, you’re assigned a cart with hot and cold storage, which you circle in a pre-determined route along awarded streets. I prefer robots, but the owners want to cut costs, and what’s cheaper than a bunch of unemployable losers such as yourselves?”
“Smarmy fish-eyed geezer, hope both sides of your pillow freeze tonight,” Roz said, too loud.
“Quiet, insects, or piss off.”
Echo took a deep breath, desperate to hold calm as images of Simex’ bloodied face festered.
“The winner of today’s test receives a zero-hour contract, which means no guaranteed shifts. We terminate the employment if you cost more than a robot. You’ll wear a live recording device with built-in artificial intelligence around your neck. It evaluates your conduct on speed, manners, and problem-solving creativity. Questions?”
Five people shook their heads and withdrew. Roz followed.
“What a shitshow. Let’s walk away, rebels in our ruin.”
“I can’t afford principles,” Echo said.
“Six remain. Good, we despise whiners. Your assignment, if you choose to accept, is close to mission impossible. A hedge fund executive with an itch for nose candy sits on the top floor of the 50-storey building in front of you. Who wants to break the law for their employer?” Simex waved a small, transparent bag with white powdery content, his wicked leer full of mischief.
“I’ll do it,” Echo said and grabbed the packet. Nobody dared challenge him.
“It’s not worth it, mate. You can take another path.”
Echo didn’t flinch despite Roz’ protest. Instead, a slight hum sound from within the powder prompted a closer inspection. Milliseconds later, it exploded in his face. A quick lick of the lips revealed it to be flour.
“Flim-flam bad, consider yourself had!” Simex’ exclamation came as two fake applicants exposed hidden cameras, and customised t-shirts with the line - You’re fired!
“No job for you. That’s all, folks. Another legendary prank by Simon the Jester. Please subscribe to my channel, Turpid!” The crazed clown laughter permeated Echo’s ghost-white exterior as the rage turned orgasmic.
“I had a relapse of barbaric proportions,” Echo said. He always preferred to rip off the band-aid straight away.
Echo sunk into a majlis-style sofa at the Golden Delicious club in downtown Dubai. It had required deep breaths and meditation to marshall the mental strength for the call.
“I want specifics,” Tekton replied over the secure line. The shrill noises of macaques implied he worked from the terrace in Gibraltar.
“Gouged-out eyeballs attached to the screwdrivers used to retrieve them, blood on every inch of the basement. Throat tore open, and one hand had three fingers severed...”
“Cork it. Can’t you appreciate my plate’s full? We launched Ecila, only for January to leave the company and frame me for digital privacy abuse. And with Dubai in chaos after the building collapse, your timing is less than stellar.”
Tekton’s heavy breath soundtracked flashbacks from the torture on repeat in Echo’s mind’s eye. It constituted a momentous setback and total absence of control.
“You had one job; pressure the gold trader for information on January’s whereabouts, not to treat yourself to dessert on company time. Given the mental exercises Janus taught you, I assumed you moved past extravagant behaviour. What happened? Do you suspect outside interference?”
Deranged childhood memories flooded Echo’s brain. When the urges surfaced, a perception of a foreign entity in control of the mind preceded each incident, followed by blackouts and memory loss. Living in hell, June called it and handed him to Janus. While the experiments saved others from similar fates, a life of continued sin stained his sacrifice.
“A recent experience in White Rabbit left a bitter aftertaste. It’s no excuse. Laziz, the shopkeeper, didn’t deserve it; he admitted to January’s location in the end. She fled to the Liwa Desert.” As ever, Echo both dreaded and hoped for Tekton to allow justice its due course.
“Go there at once, and we’ll discuss the matter on your return. Fear not, I’ll compensate the victim’s family, and the press won’t learn of it. I have extra leverage since I offered to pay for the cleanup of the tower site. Besides, police focus is on the terrorists we implicated.”
“My debt grows,” Echo said, heavy emptiness ready to engulf him. Anima Pep’s official statement of aid came as a token of appreciation for the heroic efforts the city had undertaken to search for the executive, January Vindler. Thought buried in the rubble, she instead moved under the guise of another protector.
“There’s more. I sense your apprehension. Spill it,” Tekton said.
“January and the journalist, Argo, got together before the pre-arranged meet-up with the authorities. Sources informed me they danced the night away at a swanky club. In an intimate fashion, no less. I’m here now, and the surveillance video confirms the story. Our Anima Pep starlet planned to usurp power.”
Echo counted on an explosive reply, and Tekton didn’t disappoint.
“Witch!”
A cacophony of shattered glass and bewildered macaques gave way to a barrage of foul language.
With laboured breath, Tekton continued. “And here I regretted my bombastic response. I should have ordered the drones to obliterate the whole god damn building, not only the floor where they met with the privacy sharks. Smart girl to liaise with the world’s most famous and respected journalist, a plague far worse than Spica. I’d sooner exhume my dead wife’s corpse as a corporate bonding exercise than tangle with Seph Argo, an uncompromising crusader for the truth.”
January’s frivolous power trip sickened Echo.
“I’ll bring Miss Vindler back into the fold, and soon Argo sleeps beneath the dunes.”
“Leave no traces. The desert reveals its secrets as the sands of time shift.”
Echo sighed as the sermon ended. The high-handed, quasi-philosophical tone grated on him. A week after the Canary Wharf prank, people still paid for his foul mood and drawn-out frustration. January better not give him any trouble. As he neared the exit, a female voice by the bar called out.
“What’s eating you?”
The woman leaned on the counter, stirring a pink drink with a finger. A tight and white tank top struggled to keep a pair of watermelon-sized breasts in place. Rosé-wine coloured hair, styled in curly bangs, bobbed from side to side as she spun and pinned him with a protracted gaze.
“I’m not hungry. I mean, nothing. Have we met?” Echo rambled, shy, and worried if the conversation with Tekton had migrated through the room.
“I recognise the countenance of exhaustion.” The smile conveyed the effortless confidence of a woman blessed with a face of perfect golden ratio. Big, green, alert eyes, slender nose, perky cheeks, full lips, and a runway model jawline; she wielded her assets like a rockstar investor who always beat the market.
“You work here?” Curious and suspicious, Echo struggled to choose between engagement or flight.
“In a way,” she replied, and licked the fluid off her pinkie.
“I have to go.” Did the sweat under his arms show?
“Did your mother warn you not to talk to mysterious women?”
“Someone did.”
“I’m Chloë. Not a stranger anymore.”
“Everett, but I can’t stay,” he said, and turned. One step later, a horrid awareness shocked him to the core. An alien presence stalked the corridors of his brain. How? Janus stopped the intrusions over ten years ago. Please, not again. Echo dropped to the floor and curled into a foetal position, the capacity to speak gone.
Chloë rushed to his side and placed her hand on the damp forehead.
“Migraine? The same affliction cripples me. Brought on by stress, no doubt.”
While familiar, the mind sensation had a novel dimension; he maintained control and lucidity, unlike the adolescent episodes. Instead, the external party left an imprint of rejuvenation in its wake, comparable to a blue sky cleared from mist and clouds. Confused, Echo found himself in speech.
“Who are you?”
“A guardian angel. Set yourself free, atone, and the urges will abate. Fight for yourself, not as a slave.” The woman rose and hurried towards the exit.
“I need a hand,” Echo said, on his knees.
Chloë turned, her face obscured by the overhead spotlight.
“First, help yourself; if the stars align, we cross paths when you’ve achieved freedom.”
The whirl of rotor blades couldn’t drown out the voice of Satis, Tekton’s reprehensible son. Echo imagined his blood pressure rising to the tune of each uttered word. Mutual hatred, spawned from their initial encounter, had turned into a puss-oozing sore. A slight stutter when he introduced himself as Everett resulted in the nickname Echo, and as payback, Satis got clobbered. Despite an incessant effort to fit in with the wealthy and cultured benefactors, the name stuck even as the disorder dissipated.
“Satis, the reason God created the middle finger. Can I ignore you another time? I have a date with the desert.”
“My father demanded I lead the search. I learned your mental stability has worsened.”
“Don’t bother. I will retrieve January before you arrive.” Echo pressed the machine gun handle tighter. Satis’ arrogant tone provoked the same discomfort as a dentist’s drill.
“Your brutish methods won’t work on January; she requires my deft touch. Besides, it’s not correct of my father to send a genetic mistake, I mean a ginger, to the scorched conditions of the Gulf. The sun will fry your few brain cells, and you’ll hallucinate your way into a prison cell.”
Satis wanted him unhinged. Echo pictured himself grinding the spoiled brat’s innards into morning sausages served with a side of mash, but reality saved Tekton’s only child. Extreme wrath-induced bloodlust instead mutated into threats and snarky comments.
“On second thought, come. I need a good laugh, and to witness your fieldwork should add years to my life.” Echo expected a nasty rebuttal, Satis’ lack of physicality a sensitive topic.
“I sense pent-up frustration. I mean, a virgin at 24? Anyway, better get used to it. Nobody wants to part with a limb for a twenty-second sheet dance.” Satis howled at Echo’s expense, aware of the reasons behind the unfortunate circumstance.
Tekton and Janus explained the risks on numerous occasions. Intense emotions of a sexual or romantic nature could trigger and destabilise the delicate balance of his mind. Meditation and martial arts had to do.
As Echo considered a suitable reply, Satis berated the butler on the other end.
“Manuel, do you understand the word fresh? The strawberry juice is from the morning. Pour it out, make a new batch and bring it to my quarters with Italian cold cuts and Provolone. Post haste.”
Echo ended the call and slammed the helicopter door hard enough for the pilot to leap out of his seat.
“Take off! Now!”
Thick fog enveloped the estate, perched at the top of a massive ridge where rolling green hillsides stretched to the sea. The chill in the air reminded Echo of winter days in London. The degrees of southern Sweden packed another punch, though. Even the magnificent dark stallion next to him wore a protective sheet. He had come with great reluctance. To hunt their own churned the stomach, especially with the failed desert chase and Satis taking advantage of the unfortunate muddle. Either way, he wanted it over and done with and called Tekton.
“I’m at the horse farm, hiding in the stables with January in my sights. She’s inside the main house, deep in a discussion with her mother. Shall I use force?”
“Wake up, Echo! January’s a thoroughbred in need of a skilled hand, not a roughshod wrangler. Say I might grant more autonomy, whatever gets her prancing back to Gibraltar.”
Parts of him wished January continued to roam as a free mare. Sadly, unbridled ambition and a desire to control Anima Pep prevented her from reaching escape velocity, forever burdened with Tekton’s legacy. In reality, the pair deserved each other. As of late, the level of bullshit had reached unbearable levels. Since when did Tekton embrace the soft Beta-male touch? And the princess of frost had never shown Echo anything but contempt. To arrive unannounced implied another ice age, not the beginning of a thaw.
“January defied you, betrayed the inner sanctum of trust. And you saddle me with velvet gloves?”
“You’re a hammer unable to distinguish a nail from a screw. With maturity, you’ll appreciate the nuance. Get it done; January belongs by my side. Unless you want Satis there to jockey the whole affair?”
Tekton’s self-indulgent laugh propelled Echo into a volcanic rage. His mind raced, terrified and elated as matters had reached a point of no return.
“If you send your coward son, an affront to the human race, I’ll feed him to the horses in lovely pre-chewed pieces. I’ve given you and the company total loyalty and devotion. Yet you treat me as the hired help with no regard for my mental state as I descend deeper into the circles of hell. My position as Anima’s guinea pig built your fortune. Without Janus’ experiments, White Rabbit would have stayed vapourware. Your lack of humility makes you fragile. First, Janus spurned you. Next, January escaped to save Anima Pep from your toxic tyranny, and today I relinquish my reluctant role as the grotesque henchman. Reality is a bitch!”
Freedom came in the form of a smashed cell phone and the telltale signs of a panic attack: dizziness, dry mouth, and uncontrollable body shakes. Simultaneously, Echo thirsted for blood, wanted to puke, and wished to apologise. The horse sensed unease and reared high, the roar equivalent to a lion. Desperate to quiet the equine, Echo launched himself around the horse’s neck with both legs and arms. The nervous pair triggered each other into a feverish, uncontrolled agitation. As the animal tried to shake him off, he thrust forward and tore flesh from the tender spot between the stallion’s nostrils.
Echo retrieved White Rabbit from the shoulder bag and let the headset perform its mind meld. He’d disabled the location function with the painstaking patience of Job. The unthinkable, a break-up with Tekton, dominated the brainwaves, on occasion interrupted by the bizarre aftermath with the horse. On top of the almighty mess, Chloë’s subversive message lingered. Ever since their encounter, a rebellious streak permeated every strand of thought. The antidote to chaos spelt home.
White Rabbit manipulated the optic synapses to present the in-eyes user interface.
Welcome back, Echo
Find New Reality
Favourites
White Rabbit Suggestion
Echo’s gaze focused on Favourites and chose the one named June, in Control mode, not content to watch the alter ego. White Rabbit lulled him into a light sleep as he entered the alternate.
The scene change occurred in an instant. Echo bathed in strobe lights while obnoxious synth music made him long for quiet nights in the castle. Roz nursed a drink, hunched over a makeshift bar of five beer crates with a coarse wooden board on top. Rainwater and sand covered the corridor floor, which circled the massive half-domed arena. A throng of people bashed delivery robots with bats and metal rods in the far corner.
“Hey, twirl, is your name Wifi? Because I sense a connection.”
The bartender gave Roz the once-over. “Sorry, I detect a weak signal and no chance to get the password.”
“Listen here, Monday Lisa, you’re no piece of art either, with your dishevelled hair and crooked grin.”
Seconds later, Roz wiped off the sticky contents of a rum and Argus Cola.
“New material, I gather?” Echo muted a smirk and patted Roz on the shoulder.
“Experiment, recalibrate and try again. Statistically, I have to catch something.”
“Venereal disease based on the quality of the clientele.” The relentless noise muffled Echo’s muttering.
“What’s that, Everett?”
“Eh, I suggested you use Rekindle, a dating service for second chances with old flames.” Antigone Temera, the founder of Rekindle, a partner to Anima Pep, had impressed Echo on a company trip to Egypt. Although the young entrepreneur spent the entire Nile cruise glued to January, she pushed Satis into the river near Aswan. The coward shat his pants after Tekton yelled, “Protect your manhood from the crocodiles”.
“Glad my misery amuses you. Everyone, look; Everett smiles!”
Echo’s hard stare stopped any unwanted attention.
“I’m flattered you assume I have an ex. I wish someone cared enough to dump me. As involuntary girl-repellant, it’s a miracle I haven’t morphed into a modern reincarnation of Jack the Ripper.”
“Stop the sad clown act and tell me why we’re here.”
“Testy. Still gutted over the prank? No need to punish yourself; I, too, fell for it. I appreciate you’re desperate for bees and honey, and since you don’t have qualms with, how shall we say, off-the-books activities, tonight is your cup of tea. My dosh is on you, karate kid.”
“There’s money in robot destruction?”
“Forget the tech-hating Luddites; they didn’t adapt to change. You come across the Korykos application?”
“I detest silly games.”
“It’s no game. Anyway, I created a profile for you.” Roz swiped the phone a few times. “Here!” An icon with a red background and a big white K crumbled as it opened to a stern headshot. The introduction read The Hoxton Mauler. The Soap Bar Brawler. I am Everett, the Benevolent.
“How poetic, yet hollow.” Echo studied the empty rows of 0-100 ratings for strength, skill, fear factor and price.
“A few fights and your score will be demonic. Top marks in each category,” Roz said.
“Fantasy sports?”
“No; it’s a fight-on-demand service, although people can bet on the outcome of the bouts. The fighters earn a cut of the action.”
Echo’s interest grew tenfold.
“I view it as a social utility, therapy for the animal within. As a Slayer, you input an order for a human punching bag, a Martyr. Specify the desired level of abuse, use of tools, gender, duration and if the poor sod can fight back. Preferences range from mundane to exotic. Martyrs accept based on their pain threshold.”
“And it takes place in public?” Echo asked while Roz swiped between Slayer profiles. Osbourne, a self-described angry young man from Fulham. Then Alex, a crazed, blue-eyed blond with a penchant for ultra-violent maimings and Foster, a sinewy ex-military with a flat-topped crew cut and a leaden expression.
“Yes, huge audiences mean big business for the organisers. There is a darker side, however. It’s a popular form of profitable suicide.”
“Death is an option?” Echo asked.
“Indeed, and supply outstrips demand. It beats train tracks or pills. Individuals with terminal diseases, and the destitute, use it to provide for their families as a last gesture.”
“What happens if participants go off-script?”
“If a Martyr defies the agreement, their ratings plummet. Unadvisable since a high rating equals a bigger slice of the betting pool. Slayers face lengthy bans.”
A voluptuous woman with bird-nest hair, black mascara, and long nails approached the bar. She came to fetch a prepared tray of drinks where smoke billowed from each glass.
“Got milk?” Roz asked and let the jaw drop.
Her right hand shot out with great speed to grab Roz’ protruding tongue.
“A lizard!” she said and pulled harder.
“I love foreplay,” Roz mumbled as Echo headed towards the combat area, Roz’ phone in tow. The abandoned multi-arena, positioned at the tip of the North Greenwich peninsula, had suffered catastrophic flooding when the Thames Barrier failed to halt higher sea levels. As a result of water damage, half of the domed roof, 365 metres in diameter, had collapsed. Designed as an inverted tent with twelve massive, 30-metre yellow pillars pointing to the heavens, it now formed a silt-laden floor under the bare sky. Fights took place between a four-pillared square ringed in by a rope.
Curious, Echo drew closer to an advertised rumble. A gentleman in a bespoke suit, cigarette in one hand and dense wads of cash in the other, exhaled blue and yellow smoke as he accepted wagers.
“The Dome of Fury summons Joad, King of the Road. Hail to our taxi driver, the autonomous revolution survivor.” The crowds exploded as a wiry individual, tattooed across the chest, jumped into the ring. The bald head sparkled from the spotlights as the Martyr mirrored their driving gestures with both hands on a fictive steering wheel.
“Tyler, an adorable pretty boy Yank!” The metrosexual flair of the American contrasted with the scruffiness of Joad. The pompadour hairstyle, salon tan, designer sunglasses and diamond-studded jeans jelled with a million-dollar smile and glistening abs. Korykos revealed Tyler paid for a fight on equal terms, without tools.
People salivated for combat. Distracted, Joad missed Tyler’s premature attack, a roundhouse kick to the chin. Amateur, Echo thought as the Martyr crash-landed on the sandy floor, face down in a puddle. Guttural heavy metal music crackled from cheap speakers, while growls and frenetic head bangs from the crowds added to the ambience.
Joad rose to the chorus of boos, spat out pebbles and brushed aside strands of wet hair. Resemblant of lightning from a clear sky, Tyler’s palms shot out and thrust fistfuls of sand in Joad’s eyes.
“Thug!” Joad jabbed in blind. Tyler blocked the feeble attacks and jumped in a straight vertical. The raised fist shattered Joad’s teeth. The chap landed on his back, Tyler quick to straddle him. He retrieved a knuckle iron from the jeans pocket and beat Joad’s face into a pulp. The organisers stood quiet as the despicable rich kid disregarded the rules.
“Call it off!”
Echo’s protest went unheeded. The hysterical hordes called for blood, and entertainment came first. Fine, he’d show them.
He advanced with impressive speed and yanked Tyler from the wounded prey. Furious, the American waved both arms in a propellor style. Echo sidestepped the attack, using his left elbow to dislocate the opponent’s jaw. In sync with a loud crack sound, the cheek rippled like rings on the water.
Dazed and enraged, Tyler collapsed into Echo’s chest. He grabbed hold of the fishnet t-shirt and ripped it to shreds. Echo responded with a head-butt across the nose. Desperate to restrain the torrent of blood, Tyler stumbled forward in the manner of a drunk sailor. A rapid series of 20 blows to the kidneys left him groaning in stereo, the blitz enough to end the contest. Echo salivated in excitement as the savage audience thundered their enthusiasm.
“Ginger! Ginger!”
Staff pulled Joad and Tyler to the side as a man in a black robe with a bushy beard, and unbrushed hair approached Echo. A small greyish pouch hung from a white string belt.
“You don’t belong here. Let me purge you from my world. I pay well, search for Nir on Korykos,” he said. The yellow eyes had a soul-piercing quality, which muted Echo’s desire to retort.
The Dome of Fury attracted a motley crew of disturbed individuals, none more than himself, Echo thought, the mind a noxious cocktail of thoughts. Without Anima Pep, he lacked a rudder, reality a black hole ready to devour him. Images of June, Janus, and Tekton flashed by with frightful frequency.
Did Tekton deserve disloyalty and entitled righteousness? While an essential cog in the creation of White Rabbit, Tekton and Janus didn’t need him to become rich or powerful. And what now? Once again a burden on his mother. In or outside White Rabbit, Echo needed a course correction before a disaster of titanic proportions ensued.
“Pink lady?”
Roz appeared with two colourful drinks, tiny umbrellas included.
“Earth to Everett. Are you in there? I appreciate you prefer your vinegar wine and water mix, but let’s go bonkers tonight.”
Echo stared at the rosy liquid, and in an instance of rare clarity, the path forward shone like an illuminated stairway to heaven. He opened the Korykos app and flipped through the profiles.
“Fine, I’ll have both,” Roz said and shrugged.
“A moment, mate,” Echo replied. “I found the perfect match.”
“At least one of us gets lucky tonight. Who’s your Slayer?”
“You’ll find out soon enough.” He grabbed the drink and downed it within seconds. The new chapter in the story of Echo demanded more alcohol.
Two hours later, Echo made a triumphant entrance to cries of allegiance from newfound fans, impressed by the chiselled eight-pack and defined pectorals. The announcer’s introduction contributed to the wild atmosphere; anticipation laid bare.
“Tonight, we offer a first in the history of Korykos. I give you, Everett, The Benevolent and Nir Denas. For the sensitive, I encourage you to leave the arena.”
The adulation sent an undeniable thrill through body and soul. Echo, stripped to his briefs, observed Nir amid a ritual where he spread white flour around the ring. He didn’t picture the cultish madman as an avid viewer of Turpid and dispelled the notion of a conspiracy.
A vocal commotion turned out to be Roz. He squealed like a pig in heat as he surged forward.
“Are you mental? Nir is a known crackpot. Why, Everett? What of June?”
“I’m at peace with my decision. Mum will understand I did it for her.”
“Stop the madness, I beg you.”
“It’s over, Roz. An apt end to the misery.”
Roz cursed the security staff as they dragged him from the impending spectacle.
Echo’s knees buckled at the sight of the three-metre-high wooden cross. A giant Christmas tree stand held it in place with a five-stepped platform ladder in front. He climbed without delay, determined not to show further weakness.
With Echo backed against the crucifix, arms stretched along the horizontal axis, Nir took to the steps. He tied each arm with a coarse rope and joined the legs around the ankles.
“Observe the demon, a heretic in our midst! He’s not alone. In greater numbers, they warp our minds to satisfy their perversions. Evil takes different shapes. Learn its disguise and root it out of the hidden depths of your being. Sacrifice your corporeal form, don’t live the life of a chimaera.”
Raucous shrieks of yes coupled with thumbs-up gestures implied an entertained crowd, fickle in their fealty.
“We face a war with powers beyond our understanding, our task arduous and long. Faith in our cause prevents doubt, even if the serpent’s extermination takes an eternity.”
The man had a few screws loose. Or he figured out the truth. The line blurred between a madman and an exalted genius, Janus a prime example.
“Mercy equals weakness, assuring our destruction. Exhibit resolve, accept reality, and never flinch from duty. Embrace your weapons, and cast them with the accuracy of a soldier without sin. The fate of one soul, indeed a million souls, is inconsequential as billions depend on our conviction. Let him live, and we are complicit in the atrocity of his existence.”
Nir descended from the perch and reached for a red bucket.
“Part from the rear and take your rightful place before the abomination.” The masses moved to the sides, many in a line behind Nir. Echo seized the opportunity to voice his truth.
“I have sinned, committed unspeakable acts of violence and deserve eternal damnation. Yet, your punishment instils no fear. You can’t comprehend the true nature of pain until you live one day in my head. Go forth, accusers.” Worthy of Tekton, Echo thought.
“End the tyranny!” The first stone struck him along the hairline. Numbness, then unfathomable agony. The smell of iron followed. A spectator stepped up and missed by the width of a bus. Echo spat in his direction.
The next two pelted him in the chest. The stones, chosen for a slow kill, reeked of dirty river.
Three hits later, a cracked nose, blood-tainted cheeks and static in the ears caused him to whimper. Ashamed, Echo sent a passionate message of defiance.
“I am no demon. I am what it fears!”
It spurred the accusers, who used extra force to create a macabre pageant of gore.
Echo laughed and cried. Ambivalence towards the life choices he’d made rose akin to bubbles in a glass. The ground spun as sweat coated the skin. Images of the tortured shopkeeper in Dubai, Spica’s bloody ear, and the enraged stallion alternated with the speed of flickering light. As a sendoff from the monster-in-residence, Echo let out a feral shriek. Moments after, the stones of hellfire rained on his mushy skull.
Echo gazed at the naked sky, and with the last ounce of energy, he cried out his White Rabbit exit word to depart reality.
“Father!”
Thank you for reading my free speculative fiction short story. A writer's best friend is feedback so please review at the bottom of the page. I'd love to hear your thoughts.
Carnal Combat - The Dissonance of Echo is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used entirely fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual companies or persons, living or dead, are purely coincidental.
Copyright © 2023 Richard Lindberg
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or used in any manner without the prior written permission of the copyright owner, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Published by Alium Res AB, Stockholm, 2023
Cover photo attribution; Stock photo and author manipulation of source photo.