Army of Me: Fourth chapter

Now

As Alex sat in his room packing his few belongings, he might have taken the time to acknowledge just how grateful he was that his Re-Orientation was finally over had he not been so overcome with the excitement of seeing his wife again. Not that he hadn’t enjoyed the excellent food and luxurious accommodation or course. As a matter of fact, the Vault was better than pretty much every 5 star hotel in the land. Unfortunately, much like 5 star hotels, the clientele consisted almost exclusively of braying, mindless wankers who equated money with personality.

The past three days had been a hell of social manners for Alex. Whilst he recognised that the majority of the 9 other people who had been Revived on the same day as him as being of a higher class and wealthier than him, he had the nagging feeling that this in itself wasn’t enough to keep at bay the increasingly violent fantasies where he re-enacted their deaths with himself as the killer. He’d actually had a telling off on the second day, something that hadn’t happened to him since High School. He’d been sat eating his evening meal and chatting with the one Revivee who’s small talk didn’t make him want to puke blood through his eyeballs in order to provide an excuse for leaving the table. Ruth was a small framed and nervous looking lady in her mid 40s who had won the lottery some 3 years ago. Apparently one of her sons couldn’t wait for the inheritance and smashed her head in with a brick, hiding the body in a brilliant attempt to ensure his mother didn’t get revived. A superb scheme which he was fiercely proud of, it entirely failed to accommodate for the fact that her weekly D-NMA updates combined with her original DNA sample taken after winning were quite sufficient to bring her back. All things considered, Ruth was coping pretty well with the circumstances of her death. They were talking of their respective murders when, unannounced and uninvited, a nationally syndicated Radio show host plonked himself down beside Alex, and rode roughshod over the hesitant but friendly conversation that had been taking place.

“What about these Noct cunts bombing Paris again eh? Nasty little darkies eh? Dunno why we haven’t just conquered the NCT and kept the little buggers to do all our dirty job, eh?” His habit of seeking confirmation for his thought might have been endearing in other circumstance. However, judging by the lack of pauses in his flow of bile, the questions were merely implied rather than actually providing an opportunity for anyone else to talk. “Stand to reason really eh? No point in us sitting about waiting to get blown up and revived if we can just wade in and kill the bastards eh? Still, I suppose it keeps the herd thinned down eh? Country is too damn crowded anyway, maybe we should be thanking them for getting rid of some of our dead weight eh?” With that, the unpleasantly flabby man chuckled to himself and spent the next minute or so cramming a delicious and painstakingly prepared meal directly into his cavernous fat head. He did so in silence, with the chronically shy Ruth reverting to the silence it had taken Alex a day to penetrate, and Alex himself dumbstruck with the sheer charisn’tma that the man exuded with his every word.

His meal half disposed of, the vile man (who, Alex thought, resembled a volcanic red boil just prior to being lanced) let out a hearty belch and continued his one man show on the evils of Nocts and people poorer than himself. Alex wasn’t sure how long it continued for, and he’d planned to keep his head down and finish his meal so that he could get the hell away from him. This happy thought was interrupted by a nudge in the ribs from his unwanted dining companion. Evidently he’d realised that neither of them were actually listening to him, and the man’s ego demanded that restitution be made immediately.

“So, what happened to you then eh? Big business are you? Heart attack? Stroke? Too much hard work and not enough play I’ll bet eh?” He laughed rather too loudly at his own feeble joke. Even some of the more snootily inclined shitbags that Alex has studiously avoided were rolling their eyes by this point. Alex reluctantly turned from his dinner to face the human pustule next to him. “My parents set up a J-Account for me. I was murdered a couple of days ago.” He hoped the starkness of this information might embarrass the fat man into silence. He may as well have hoped for world peace whilst he was at it; that would at least have been the more realistic of the two wishes.

“Yeah? One of the herd got through the gates then eh? What about you?” As Alex was apparently not wealthy enough for him to talk to, he turned his loathsome gaze onto Ruth, who quietly replied “I’m a lottery winner, and…” She got no further. “Fucking Christ, am I sitting in the cattle pen here? Ask me, they’re letting any Tom Dick and Larry buy a clone these days eh?” The man stood, fixing both with the same expression seen on countless millions whenever they’ve stood on an unexpected dog turd and moved to leave. Absurdly, despite the prospect of imminent relief from the man, Alex found that his wounded pride was not happy at letting this ambulatory wart on the anus of humanity have the last word. He stood and took hold of the man by his shoulder, at which the man stopped and turned to face Alex.

“Well? What do you want eh?”

“What about you then? What vital and life changing work is that you do that places you on a higher plane of existence to the rest of us? A pioneering heart surgeon? A great philanthropist beloved of rich and poor alike? Or are you…aren’t you…well, aren’t you just a radio show host? In fact, aren’t you just another D list celeb who thinks high ratings give your life some sort of validation?”

The barb did its job. Such was his indignation that the man practically squealed “My ratings are number 4 in the country!”

“Oh, my apologies; number 4 in the country. It must be absolutely great to know that when the history books are written, you’ll be in there. Because all history books, well they don’t want to know about who the best is, do they? They don’t waste their time looking at the leaders in their field. No, they look in painstaking detail at those people who don’t even make the top 3. Why, every history book that ever there was just loves to spend time examining the also-rans, don’t they?”

Judging by the rising anger in his eyes and pounding vein in his temple, Alex was really hitting home. He would have left it there, but he noticed Ruth stifle a smile and that was permission to carry on in his book.

“I mean, just who the fuck do you think you are exactly? Here was me thinking you were a 10th rate shock jock whose revival was probably necessitated because of a chemical addiction to lard, but no. Apparently you’re the arbiter of world events and the worthiness of people. We should be as supplicants to your bilious teat as you squeeze endless moronic lactations for our delight.” He was getting wordy and arrogant again, a sure sign that Alex was actually quite ridiculously angry himself. “Well I’ve got news for you my friend. You’re a nothing. A no-one. No-one like you and no-one cares. Your studio figure it’s easier for you to eat and drink yourself to death then revive you later because it’s probably far less dangerous to them than trying to snatch a sandwich from your festering gob and keep your heart from bursting. Which, when it does, will probably generate the destructive energy of a nuclear fucking warhead. I mean for fuck’s sake man, is this undulating pile of flesh really you at your physical peak? You actually chose to get revived into a whale? Incredible. Now take your grand opinion of yourself and” Alex leant forward until he was nose to nose with the man who now looked deflated and upset. It lent him the appearance of a sagging skin bin bag filled with mince. “Just. Fuck. Off. Okay, eh?”

Alex had always had a talent for linguistic cruelty, and it was hugely satisfying to deploy it on so deserving a target. The man had shakily left the dining area, and later that evening Alex was treated to an informal chat in his quarters about the manners one should employ when speaking to such excellent clients as Mr Christopher, and would Alex mind awfully if he would stay away from Mr Christopher for the remainder of their Re-Orientation?

But none of that occupied his mind, which was full to the brim of thoughts of Joanna. Notions of packing to leave barely fitted into the few remaining nooks and crannies of his psyche. He found himself both excited and nervous. As far as he could recall, he’d last seen his wife over a year ago. He’d left her with promises that, no, he wouldn’t be out for a big session and yes, he’d be back by 11.30. And that was that; his last words to her were a lie. A white lie to be sure and a lie that allowed him to have an excellent night out, but a lie all the same.

But she wouldn’t remember that (or at least, he hoped not). What had happened in that year? Was she pregnant, or did they already have a squalling infant as their own? Alex rather hoped not; he had never been any good with babies. He’d always just thought of them as one might think of a pet dog that gradually learns how to talk. So it was probably a safe bet that his life would be child-free for now. But about Joanna herself? The image of her, her bobbed blonde hair and pale blue eyes, her smooth olive skin and rounded face, her body both pert and comforting to him…that image loomed large in Alex’s mind. Despite his existential angst about almost every thought that ever occurred to him, he couldn’t help but smile a big dopey grin as he thought of her. Whatever had happened in the last year, Joanna would tell him. And then they could continue to live as happily ever after as one could in a society where a person could count themselves fortunate to have more than 10 days paid holiday a year.

Not even the thought of work dislodged his grin. After all, Alex reasoned, he had 2 weeks before he had to return to work. This was a luxury that almost made it worth being killed and cloned on an annual basis had he the money.

He changed into the clothes that the Vault had provided him for on his release. They hadn’t returned the clothes he had been wearing on his death. Presumably because they had the good taste not to give Alex the knife-shredded clothing and expect him to wear it (although he mused that it could just as easily have been because red didn’t go with their walls). So he dressed himself in a plain (but reassuringly expensive) navy blue shirt, some jeans (also unremarkable and also out of his normal price range) and a pair of achingly fashionable shoes. They were the sort of shoes that had he seen anyone else wearing, he would’ve been unable to tell if they were an ultra-hip trendsetter, or one of the gays.

His briefcase and wallet, apparently having been stolen and ransacked then disposed of by his murderer, were absent. His mobile unit was there however, but as promised it had no power source. He put it in the pocket of the new jacket provided for him, quite ruining the cut of it by doing so. He’d have to remember to stop by a cash point once he was out. At least whoever had killed him hadn’t stolen his mobile; without that, he’d be unable to get money or make any transactions at all. Nor would he be able to phone anyone, or access the net, or just watch TV. He thanked heaven for such small mercies, rather ironically being as he’d have preferred the larger mercy of not having been horribly murdered.

All suited and booted, Alex took once last look at what had been a luxuriously appointed cell, and then left. He made straight for the lift and pressed the button to call it up to him. Grin still intact, he got into the lift and went down to the ground floor. Awaiting him at the front desk was the power cell for his mobile, which he gratefully took and fitted.

He then looked around the cavernous reception hall to find Joanna. He saw the throngs of people around some of the more major celebs that had been in his re-orientation. Apparently they felt their “Next of Kin” included the kind of entourage that acted as a walking advertisement of their employers’ wealth. Between three of his fellow revivees, he counted almost 70 people laughing and preening round them. They reminded him of buzzing flies round a particularly odious turd.

They also reminded Alex that he was not yet with Joanna. He walked around the hall but couldn’t see her anywhere. He did bump into Ruth who was enjoying a somewhat tense re-union with her daughter. Apparently Ruth was now rather more suspicious of her children than she had been previously, so where there should have been unfettered joy there was instead stilted conversation and defensiveness on both sides. She noticed Alex, and gave him a shy smile which Alex returned. He walked over to her and asked if she had seen Joanna at all.

Ruth frowned; “My height, blonde hair and dark skin, blue eyes, slim build you say? No…sorry Alex. Is it your sister you’re meeting?” A less pre-occupied man might have noticed the slightly hopeful note in Ruth’s voice. He would certainly have noticed her disappointment when he answered that Joanna was his wife. “Well…I hope you find her soon Alex.” A pause arose and became slightly more awkward as Alex tried to think of a way to leave mother and daughter to their private reunion. “Could I take your number?” Alex blurted out. Ruth looked dumbstruck. Her daughter merely smiled a cynical smile. “I’d like to meet up again sometime. It was really nice to meet you Ruth. I sometimes think I would’ve gone mad in Re-orientation if I didn’t have someone normal to talk to.”

Ruth, a sadder and more suspicious woman than she had been prior to her murder, had to struggle rather hard to hide her delight at the request. In the three days she’d spent in the Vault, Alex was the only one who didn’t treat her with ill-disguised snobbery due to her humble background. Although everyone was pretty much forbidden to talk about their outside life in much detail throughout re-orientation, she’d let slip to Alex that she was single. Come to think of it she’d let it slip 8 or 9 times. He was unfailingly courteous to her, and endlessly scathing about their companions. It was a combination that she’d found endearing to say the least.

“Yes, of course; have you got your mobile?” Alex nodded, and so Ruth took hers (one of the newer Nokia models), and pressed a couple of buttons. Alex switched on his (a rather older and less fashionable Sony), and saw that Ruth’s number had been added. He also noticed DS Marsh’s number as having been added a few days prior.

Alex thanked Ruth, promising that his wife and himself would definitely call her and meet for dinner sometime soon. He left the faintly perplexed Ruth to enjoy her reunion, made all the less tense by her daughter having something to tease her mother about, and continued to look for Joanna.

2 hours later, the hall was empty of everyone except Alex. He still hadn’t found her. He tried calling both their home and her mobile. There was no answer from either. In each case, the answermachine clicked in; “Hi, this is Joanna. I’m not here right now, please leave a message.”

He had checked outside the Vault main entrance a few times to see if she was waiting for him outside, but no; nothing. All he saw were the trudging, hollow eyed people making their way from work to whichever pub was their favoured locale for some serious brain cell annihilation, and later those same people whooping and cheering their way home to a drunken, black slumber.

Alex made his way to the reception desk of the Vault and asked confirmation for the fifth time that his wife had been told of his Revival. The response was the same (and just as courteously delivered as it had been the first time). Alas, Alex wasn’t in the mood to appreciate the first class customer service he was being treated to. He asked the receptionist to call him a cab to take him home.

Upset and preoccupied, for the second time in just a few days, Alex failed completely to notice the sallow faced and scowling man who had been watching him since his first brief, hopeful excursion from the Vault to the street outside. As Alex climbed into his cab, the man sighed and extinguished his 30th cigarette of the day. With a mutter of “About fucking time…” he hailed a cab of his own. To the very great regret of anyone who enjoys potboilers, he didn’t say “Follow that cab”. There was no need; he already knew Alex’s address.