James Axler – Rat King

razor edges that could lacerate with only the most glancing of blows. The metal

that held the ring on his finger was thin compared to the other rings, but the

jewel was a prized weapon, handed down his line from the days before skydark.

Murphy relished taking out his anger on the stupe tech, but halted when the

man’s face whirled to look into his. The eyes were empty and dull, the nose

misshapen into a blob of flesh with no septum. The mouth was open, jaw slack,

drool on the receding chin.

Murphy gave a sigh of disgust, his anger temporarily retreating. The tech had to

have gotten some mutie blood in his line somewhere. The colony deliberately

stole women and some men from the outsiders in order to try to keep the gene

pool from getting too stagnant. The trouble was, the rad-blasted valley still

suffered from intense chem storms and the irradiated dust brought in by the

whirlwinds. The poison became trapped within the valley’s confines and just

circulated again and again, spraying whatever crops the outsiders could grow,

seeping through the food chain into the animals the outsiders caught and ate.

Murphy’s men tried to get clean specimens on their raids, but sometimes it was

just so hard to tell.

The only way you knew was when you got this…

“Stupe bastard, you don’t even know what I’m saying, do you?”

There was no answer. Just the empty eyes.

“I’ll just have to tell him myself, I guess.” Murphy sighed. With exaggerated

care he turned the tech so that he faced his terminal once more. He started to

tap in the nonexistent code again.

With a last look through the Plexiglas shield that separated the mechanism from

the banks of terminals, and a shudder at the sight that lay beyond, Murphy left

the tech alone with whatever thoughts went through the head of a triple-stupe

mutie bastard.

MURPHY FOUND Wallace in his office. As always. Sometimes it seemed that Gen

Wallace didn’t move outside of the office, not even to piss or shit. But if that

was the case, Murphy had no idea where he stowed his waste products.

“Sir, permission to report possible code red,” Murphy said in staccato fashion,

knocking on the door as he spoke. He clicked his heels and saluted, his arm

raised in front of him. As prescribed, he didn’t look at Wallace until his

superior spoke.

“Sarj Murphy, report received and understood. What’s the matter?”

Wallace was a big man, spilling out of his uniform, which was frayed at the

cuffs and shiny with age. For all that, it was well and regularly laundered,

like Murphy’s uniform and the tech’s white coat. The colony believed in God and

cleanliness, like it said in the good book.

Murphy, given permission to look at Wallace by the superior’s reply, directed

his gaze at the big man as he stepped into the room.

“Trouble, sir. It’s the mechanism. One of the components is finally succumbing

to obsolescence.”

Wallace steepled his fingers and stared at them. He didn’t answer for what

seemed to be a long time. Then finally he spoke.

“No such thing as obsolescence, Sarj. Recycle is the law. We have parts we can

use.”

It wasn’t a question.

Murphy pulled at his collar uncomfortably. It was too tight, his father having

had less of a bull neck. The pants, on the other hand, were too big, where his

grandfather had carried a paunch. Right now he’d like to be able to swap one for

the other. He felt blood suffuse his face.

“Sir, not so sure about the parts.”

Wallace looked at him. His eyes were cold, flinty in the shadowless glare of the

fluorescent lighting.

“You daring to argue with the good book, Sarj? You recycle. It works. Always.”

Murphy kept his jaw tight. Stupe bastard. Wallace was in command because his

father had been Gen Wallace, and his father before him. Just like Murphy’s

father had been Sarj Murphy, and his father before him. That’s the way it was.

But Murphy wondered about the strict reg on heredity. There was too much danger

of mutie blood infecting the ranks to keep it that simple. The tech was a good