by Ian R. Faulkner

Two Sims, one male and one female, lay dead in the gutter. Their synflesh ripped open; their body armour cracked and melted. Toxic fumes poured into the already noxious city air as internal organs bubbled and hissed: boiled in an irradiated stew of white, artificial blood and liquefied bio-plastics.

“Any idea what happened?” Carson asked.

From the evident level of SE progression, he guessed the two Sims had been killed a little over a half hour ago. To anyone who knew what to look for, the Scorched Earth safeguard was predictable in its destructive timeframe. It didn’t take a genius.

Carson shuddered and looked away.

There would be no rebirth for these two. The nano virus, hidden deep within their SimTec operating systems, would already be hard at work breaking down stored memory chains and destroying all hope of recovery.

“Maser blast,” Coombs said. “The coherent microwave cooks up the organics and scrambles the electronics. They wouldn’t have known what hit them.”

Delaware Coombs was only other organic in the group and Carson had taken an almost immediate dislike to the man. Unfortunately, Coombs was also the Officer in charge of the expeditionary force into camp.

“Insurgents?” Carson asked.

Around him, the Sim Infantry seemed nervous: twitchy. He assumed it was their proximity to such an obvious example of core death.

Coombs bowed his head: a strange sign of respect, Carson thought, for a man so openly anti-Sim, and then made an abrupt hand gesture.

“Move out,” he barked. “Amber formation.”

Two of the four heavy Meks moved forward and flanked the main body of the group.

Carson raised his camera and began shooting footage. He needed to capture as much as possible, especially if things were going to kick off. He pointed the cam at the heavy Meks as they clanked past and thought again how much the three-metre-tall Meks, with their huge piston powered arms, short stocky legs, and blocky body shells, remained him of a couple of massive, mechanical gorillas.

****

“Mr Carson, you have been chosen from a very select group of journalists within the free press and, as a representative of Planet Wide News, we expect you to report on whatever you may find within the Birmingham City Internment camp in a responsible and professional manner. We do not expect sensationalism or ulterior agendas. We want the truth of the situation, without gloss or spin or antigovernment propaganda.”

Carson was seated in a conference room within the True Gen Party headquarters. The Government’s London HQ was a minimalist’s wet dream, all white walls and black leatherette, clean lines and modern art. Across the smoked glass table sat four cabinet ministers, an unidentified military officer and, at the far end of the table, a Sim secretary taking notes. The man talking had been introduced as Mr. Knoll, no other explanation or title, although Carson assumed he was some sort of security minister. The other three ministers, left to right, were the Secretary of State for Health, Margaret Hutton-Armstrong; the Secretary of State for Defence, David Chadbourn; and the technologist, Sir John Bartley.

When he had been brought to the building this morning, Carson had been searched and screened before being kept waiting for forty-five minutes. His Tablet and mobile had been confiscated and, right now, he was royally pissed off.

“I understand my Job, Mr. Knoll, and I’m good at it,” he said, looking at each person in turn. “What I would like to know from you is not what you expect from me, but what your purpose is? What are your ulterior motives?”

“We have no motives, Mr. Carson,” Hutton-Armstrong answered, “other than to service the publics’ growing concern over the plight of the infected.”

“Mrs. Hutton-Armstrong,” Carson retorted, “since when has the True Gen Party cared for anyone but themselves? I mean, didn’t you lot intern them in the first place after the viral outbreak of 2246?”

“We are not, I believe, here to debate past policies or the reasoning for them, Mr. Carson,” Knoll interrupted. “We are here to map out the objectives for the mission.”

“Exactly,” said Chadbourn.

“And what exactly is the mission? That’s what I’d like to know.”

“If I may continue,” Hutton-Armstrong said, looking pointedly at both Knoll and Carson. “I can answer that before we move onto the other matters?”

Carson shrugged. “Knock yourself out.”

Knoll simply nodded, his weird violet eyes flashing.

“As I said,” Hutton-Armstrong continued, “it has come to our attention that the public are growing concerned over the plight of the infected, or, more specifically, the plight of their children.

“No one likes to see a child suffer, even an infected child, and, when the majority of the genetically true populace are unable to have the children they long for, this is even more of an anathema.”

“Right. Now I understand what this is about,” Carson said.

“Do you?” asked Bartley. “I’m not sure you do, Mr. Carson. We need to find out the truth of the situation and reassure the electorate, not fan the flames of dissent. It is the unfounded rumours bandied about in the press that have caused this problem. As Mrs. Hutton-Armstrong has said, no one here wants a single child to suffer, for whatever reason, be it squalor, starvation, or simply being in the wrong place at the wrong time during an insurgent strike.”

“And having the next generation indoctrinated into the insurgent cause has to be bad news for you as well,” Carson added.

“Yes. For once, Mr. Carson, you are correct,” Chadbourn said. “The insurgents are terrorists and they will not be tolerated. So, certainly, recruiting children into their ranks is to be abhorred.”

“So what’re the objectives? Let’s cut to the chase.”

“They are threefold,” Knoll said: “First provide an unbiased view of the internment conditions, which I believe, Mr. Carson, will be your job; second, report on population levels and growth rates, specifically on the numbers of infected children within the camp, which will be the task assigned to the Sim medic accompanying you; and third, assess the level of insurgent threat, a task belonging to Officer Coombs here,” Knoll nodded at the previously unidentified military officer.