Saving the Cyber Soaps by Mike Morris (fiction novels to read TXT) 📖

against the wall, watching the revelers in the smoky light. “I might have been offended a couple of months ago,” I told him. “Not now. What are we all doing down in the Warren, but feeding garbage to the yokels. Your audience at least went away feeling a little splinter of hope. All I ever did for my audience was to drug their minds. I used to think I was a good actor, when, in fact I was an obnoxious arrogant bastard. Even my fellow thespians couldn’t stand me.” I grabbed a beer and took a deep pull. “You know, they have software in the Warren that writes most of the plot, the stage directions, and even the dialog for the soaps. There’s even software that will patch in an appropriate ad-lib when you forget. Pretty soon, the programmers will tape a few scenes and gestures, and the computer will take over completely. You’ll see a virtual William L Jones spouting the same old trash forever. So much for my talents.” I finished my bourbon and chased it away with another beer. “No, Stretch, you’re a leader. You’ve saved these men, given them hope. You don’t want to be comparing yourself with the likes of me.”
I pointed to silver Olive, talking quietly to Lawrence. “You have the love of a beautiful woman.” I realized I was getting a little maudlin, but Stretch startled me.
“Leave it,” he snapped. “Don’t patronize me, I’m not a fool.” He looked across the room at the silver lady. “See the way she’s talking to Lawrence. Can you blame her?” She’ll leave with you guys and I won’t try to stop her. She deserves better than me.”
I laughed at him. “She loves you, Stretch. Don’t tell me you can’t see it. Lawrence is a third-rate actor, just like me.” I looked into his eyes. “You’re a leader, a special person.”
He stood unsteadily and glared at me. “Don’t push your luck, William. This bunch of mechanical freaks has agreed to help you because it gives us a purpose in life. Leave it at that. Don’t try to torment us, we’ve been through too much already.” He stormed away, and I wondered for a second what had come over him.
Then it hit me. I had been talking to Stretch, the man. I’d looked into his eyes and seen him as a person. I saw them all as human, a pretty tough bunch of survivors. I’d see them as human now for as long as I lived. I’d compare them favorably with any bunch of people I’d ever met, and on equal terms. Stretch and his people had accepted that they were mechanical freaks. Perhaps it was the only way they could live with themselves. I shook my head. Dr Payne should have died harder.

“No guns,” I said when they came clattering over like a platoon of soldiers that had just gone through hell and was ready for one more suicide mission. The weapons they had wouldn’t have gotten them past a couple of security guards in the Warren. Our strength lay in their fearsome appearance, and John’s arm attachment.
“How’s your arm, John,” I asked worriedly, and he told me it was a bit stiff, but ready for action.
“Half an hour,” Stretch said. “We’ll be half an hour,” and the old bus rattled into life as we crammed ourselves into its ramshackle interior. Olive drove unerringly through basements and tunnels and slime covered sewers. For a while we were in a ditch, and could see the late afternoon sun above. Then we drove down a steep ramp, skidding and screeching into the darkness. “This used to be one of your supply routes,” Stretch commented, “but it hasn’t been used in years.” Finally we fetched up against a solid steel door, huge and immovable. I looked at Stretch questioningly and he grinned. “We don’t need guns,” he told me. “We’re our own weapons.”
The wide center doors of the bus opened, and the tractor-man rolled out, landing with a thump, and causing the bus springs to groan with relief. He backed up and surveyed the door, before approaching and extending a metal arm. There was a blinding flash, and I watched with amazement as he started cutting through the thick steel. “He told me, he wants to see your engineers, not your doctors,” Stretch told me. “He’s gotten used to being a machine. He wants to be smoother, lighter, and stronger.”
“Jesus,” John muttered behind me.
“We have to smash this down when he’s done,” Stretch said.
“Won’t that make a lot of noise?” I asked nervously.
“Sure it will,” he said. “So be prepared, Mr. Actor, to talk to your people. Be prepared to convince them that we’re not invading their nice little Warren.”
I waited nervously, and Lawrence stepped up. “I’ll be there, too,” he said. “Most of the Securities will be Jonesy’s men, but there’ll be a ton of reporters. How long has it been since we’ve had news like this?” He was right. And there’d be plenty of light on us from inside the Warren. Unfortunately the cyborgs would also be on display.
The tractor had stopped and now two or three of the more beefy metal men were making an awful racket, banging and smashing at the weakened door with anything they could lay their hands on. “Tell them to take their time,” I told Stretch. We need to let the news media get here.”
“Didn’t I see a bullhorn, up in the luggage rack?”, Lawrence asked thoughtfully.
“Could be,” one of the cyborgs answered. “This used to be a tour bus.” He chuckled. “One of yours, Mole.”
By now, all the Cyborgs were out of the bus, whooping like drunken sports fans on tour. They looked like the army from hell, and I wondered what they’d look like to the Moles, fresh from the comfort of their warm, safe burrows. “Stretch,” I said. When we’re ready to roll the door back, I want you guys to move away. I’ll make a little speech, and then I want the Moles to see Lawrence and myself, and two of the least threatening of our new allies. John, are you up for this?” He nodded, and I turned to Olive. “How about you? I asked. “Will you help us?”
“No, she won’t,” Stretch said, “Let ‘em shoot at me.”
“Of course I will, William.” Olive turned on Stretch. “Thank you kindly, Stretch, I appreciate it, but you know I’m the best choice.” Her voice hardened. “And you know I always do exactly as I please.”
I felt a little ashamed. “I know it’s a lot to ask,” I told her, “and it’s not your fight, but they’re less likely to shoot at you than the others.”
“You’d better be right,” Stretch said. “If anything happens to her, You’ll pay for it.”

CHAPTER 11 – The Power of Television
We made sure that the steel door collapsed outwards, slamming down like a giant fist and wafting the warm dry air of the Warren towards us. I saw a mass of Moles silhouetted against some hastily erected TV backdrops, and a reassuring multitude of cameras, some with logos from as far as the California warrens, focused on us.
Stretch turned on the bus headlights, and the four of us were spotlighted – actors on a dark stage. I waited for bullets or stun-pellets to rip into us, but all I heard was the busy whirr of the cameras. The cyborgs were shrouded in darkness, and we held center stage.
Lawrence lifted his bullhorn and spoke in sonorous tones. “We come in peace!” he boomed and I almost laughed. “Well, what do you expect,” he muttered out of the side of his mouth. “I’m an actor, not a writer.”
“You all know me,” he continued, “Lawrence Blake, star of the soap operas.” He drew himself up. “I gave up an illustrious career to work for this meeting. For five years I’ve been an ambassador for you good Warren people. I’ve lived amongst the Topsiders, shared their hardships.” He was warming up, fired by some inner vision of political power. “What we have here,” he continued, “is a historic reunion of the two peoples of Chicago.” He went on for a long time, crafting a persuasive speech. It was obvious that Lawrence saw himself as the first Mayor of a united Chicago. He introduced me as his assistant, and John as a high-level Topside representative and John remembered to wave his good arm just in time. He spoke about the amazing strides that Topsiders had made in the past few years, and he introduced Olive Mahoney, silver and elegant, and Olive bowed to the crowd.
I could feel the Moles holding their collective breaths. Moles regarded Topsiders as little more than barbarians. Olive jerked them out of their complacency. She was a work of art, they had no idea of who or what she was, but she had walked out of the wilderness that they thought was Topside, and they started to speculate on what was going on up there.
Then Jonesy came marching through the crowd at the head of a small army of securities. I grabbed the bullhorn, shouting “here’s the man of the moment, folks, a man of great vision and courage who saw what had to be done, and went ahead, despite tremendous obstacles.” I dashed forward and grabbed the open-mouthed security chief as if he were my long-lost brother. “Smile for the cameras, you bastard,” I muttered through my TV smile, “or I’ll break your goddam ribs.” I marched him to a bank of TV mikes as if we were joined at the hip.
With all the cameras focused on him, Jonesy had no choice but to grin through his teeth. I introduced him as the brains behind ‘this historic event’, carefully describing the Underground Railroad and the secret meetings between Lawrence and the Security Chief. Then I shoved a mike in his face. He stuttered a little and modestly declared that he was only a figurehead, that the real force behind ‘this radical idea’ was Big Dee herself. His little army of securities was fidgeting uneasily in the background, unsure of what to do, so I called them up to the mike. Through the miracle of television, I announced to all the Mole cities in the United States that a joint Mole/Topside security force had been set up in Chicago to monitor the reintegration process. With my arm around his neck and shoulders and our motley army of Cyborgs just beyond the lights, Jonesy could only squirm and grind his teeth. “Tell your guys to wrap it up,” I said, and Jonesy, sensing an opening ordered his troops to clear the area, at about the same time as Stretch and his mutants moved into the limelight to give a helping claw.
I held my breath. Some of the cameramen gasped and the Chicago securities paused indecisively. “Tell them to clear the area,” I ordered Jonesy, and keep an eye on John’s shotgun arm while you’re doing it.” He nodded to his people, and, gingerly, the half-men and security moles cooperated in moving the cameramen down the corridor, where doubtless they rushed to temporary studios to report and analyze the first real news story in a couple of hundred years. “Let’s get in the bus,” I told him and he stiffened. His men surrounded us, about fifty of them now, with no cameras to inhibit them.

CHAPTER 12 – Friends and Enemies
“You’re a dead man,” Jonesy told me, and I answered him without hesitation.
“You too, Jonesy. I can shove this knife through about five major organs before they take me out.” I had no knife, the securities carried weapons far more powerful than Stretch and