H - Hower locked up

Hower couldn't usually remember his dreams. Based on the one he'd
just had, it was no great loss. He'd been inside a massive cathedral, a
bit like the one off the Stimuleau advert, then he'd looked across and
there was this girl trying to hack a cherub away from one of the stone
pillars in the cathedral with a chisel. It had been the girl that
served behind the bar at the Three Baskets down Siddhatta Street. Weird
- he didn't even know her name, though he'd always had a thing for her.
A sort of a thing, anyway. In the dream he'd walked up to her and
pushed her, then forced himself on her. She'd started melting so he'd
rolled off her and rolled straight through a big black hole in the
cathedral floor, then suddenly he'd landed on a big green trampoline,
the size of a football pitch, and he was in some kind of fight or
wrestling match with a boxing kangaroo that was also on the trampoline,
and there was a crowd above them watching him and the boxing kangaroo
on the trampoline, and then the boxing kangaroo had bounced forward and
hit him with a big red glove. Then he'd woken up.

Hower tested his cranium with his hand like an amateur phrenologist.
The bump on the bottom left side of his head told him he was a fucking
dunce. He'd taken a few cosh blows to his sides during the fracas, but
those bruises would heal. The one to the back of his skull, the one Rob
had dealt&;#8230; it was seared into his flesh, like a final,
treacherous kiss.

The cell Hower had woken up in was cramped, although clean compared to
his usual lodgings. He was dressed in blue precon duds; a one-piece
boiler suit and a pair of flat-soled daps that pinched. He'd only been
zooed once before, back when he was ten. He'd strayed too far outside
the Old Town running from a couple of guys with flechette pistols who
were after his sprint money. He'd been laying low in an alleyway
between two shops when a CG patrol had come by and scooped him for
vagrancy and trespassing. The experience had been brutal and
humiliating; they'd kept him in custody overnight then kicked him out
the next morning, confiscating his cash by way of a 'spot fine'. The
Guardsmen had known where the money was from, and they knew what would
happen to Hower if he went home without it. Several nasty characters
had been expecting a slice. He'd been forced to leave all his old
contacts behind, uproot, get across the river and away from all the
drug-mutts who'd break his neck on sight.

That experience had taught him to be careful, shrewd, circumspect. Or
so he'd thought. Hower balled his hand into a fist and then punched the
wall. The surface was hard, but with a bit of give, like putty. His
knuckles sunk into it, and as he pulled them away, the wall sighed back
into shape. Things were different these days. The belt had started
proper. Once you were on it, once they had you&;#8230; by Allah, you
were fucked.

Hower knew there was no justice in the world but just the same he
prayed Rob got what was coming to him, hard and soon, the cocky,
back-stabbing little shit. Still, Rob was only a kid, a weak, stupid
twelve-year-old who wanted to make a name for himself, start earning
some fear. Hower was a fully-grown man, and he'd painted a bullseye on
his arse and let Rob take his best shot. He'd walked right into it
because he'd believed what felt better rather than what was staring him
in the face. You couldn't blame people for stepping on you if you gave
them the chance - it was evolution, a law of life.

Next to his bunk was a shallow basin and a beaker. Hower reached across
and filled the beaker with water. He took a sip, grimaced. It had a lot
less flavour than he was used to. That was probably a good thing. It
meant it wasn't contaminated with one of the thousands of diseases the
rats carried. The Old Town's sanitation system was archaic and badly
maintained. Most people stuck to beer or hooch - it was safer to drink,
and it helped you stick out another day.

Hower knew better than to try the door. There was no handle, in any
case. In one of the room's top corners, a Flyspec watched him from
behind a Caraspex sheath. Hower placed his head in hands and took
several deep breaths. It would best to avoid any more vitriolic
wall-pummelling. He'd heard that some Guardsmen were utterly sadistic.
Bishop Boone was always pumping them full of that 'divine mandate' crap
and making out they were the good guys in some holy free-for-all.

Hower was well aware of what faced him. He'd heard the propaganda, even
in the Old Town, and he'd heard what really happened. Conscription was
a sham. The spiel said they took depraved baby-eating criminals, put
them through an intensive rehabilitation course then put them into
community work where they could work out their sentences whilst gaining
a sense of purpose and self-esteem. It was all very love-thy-neighbour
compassionate bullshit. The way it actually worked, at least in Boone's
diocese, was you got the bejesus beaten out of you by a pack of
cosh-toting screws, they injected you with a cocktail of mindfuck
chemicals, then you ended up as a rock-breaker, working out the next
ten years on DeJongh construction sites with long hours, no pay, and
the threat of physical punishment if you messed up or did anything to
put a screw's nose out of joint.

"Hello!" came a muffled, tinny voice. Hower lifted his head, looked
around. He was unsettled by the voice, but not startled. It had sounded
distant, too distorted to be a Guardsman hailing him. Besides, they'd
never say hello to one of the animals. They only spoke to give
instructions. "Hello!" came the voice again. "Yoohoo! Can anybody hear
me? Hear me? Hear me?" There was something that sounded like a giggle.
"Me here! Where you? Where yoohoo?"

Hower glanced around his cell, searching for the voice's source. At the
foot of his bunk was a small, round venthole, covered with fine mesh.
He squinted at it curiously. "Hello! Don't make me come after you!" The
voice was definitely coming through the vent. Hower considered the
Flyspec for a moment then, adjusting his cuffs self-consciously, he got
off the bunk and crouched down on the floor. He cleared his throat,
then leant in towards the hole.

"What?" he said gruffly. He realised he was taking a risk. If the
screws saw him doing this on camera and decided they didn't like it,
they'd be in here in seconds. He tried to cover his mouth with his
hand, make it look like he was praying or something. Anyway, his life
was fucked already. For a few seconds, there was no reply, then
suddenly a burst of giggling. The voice was slightly effeminate, but
definitely male.

"Who are you?" it asked.

"Who wants to know?" said Hower. He shifted his arms to allow him to
get closer.

"Know? Know? Know-know's a big no-no, don't you know that?" More
giggles. "It's not what you know, it's what they know. Do they know who
you are?"

"Who's they?"

"Them," said the voice. "Them the switch-throwers, them the this and
that and this and that&;#8230; Monkeys! Monkeys is what it's all
about! I&;#8230; it's so hard to make the thoughts walk, to make
them walk in straight lines, all these monkeys won't march for
me."

"What do you mean?" asked Hower, against his better judgement. It
sounded like this was an animal who'd already had his shots.

"You must&;#8230; I'm trying to tell you you're a monkey! Can't you
see that? Don't you understand? I'm just a fly trapped in amber, and
you're one of their monkeys! Which one? Which one?"

"Have they given you any injections since you got here?" Hower might be
gabbling like that in a few hours time, for all he knew.

"Just one, just one, right here." The voice paused. "My head they
tried, they tried to break it but they couldn't before and now I can't
sleep for all these dreams. I need someone to hear me before I or they
or I don't know, I don't know!" The voice started to make snarling
noises, then rose to a scream. "I don't know the answers! There's a
hundred monkeys and they're tearing me apart with their symbols!" It
dropped from a scream to a whisper. Hower had to push his ear to the
mesh to hear. "Ting-ting-ting&;#8230; little gold discs, little
golden suns&;#8230; ting-ting-ting." Hower realised the person had
meant cymbals, not symbols. Listening to this lunatic was starting to
mess with his head.

"I, uhh&;#8230; I understand," Hower lied. "I'd better get some
rest."

"Ting-ting-ting," sung the voice. "You don't know how loud it gets in
my head. One day you'll all be like me, all with the skies and the
fires and ting-ting-ting. Everyone will hear it. I can't&;#8230; I
don't know how to&;#8230;" It giggled again, a cracked, humourless
giggle, then broke down into sobs. Hower moved his head away from the
venthole, then got to his feet. Several hours later, the sobbing
stopped.