Adam propped himself up, his hands on the back of a chair, and proceeded with his early morning coughing routine. Painful and exhausting, when done, he sprayed the contents of a small canister into the back of his throat, inhaled, and let the canister drop into a waiting bin where more empty canisters welcomed the new arrival.
With both hands back on the chair, his grip tightening, Adam took long, deep, breaths, eventually allowing his eyes to close. He relished the smooth, unrestricted flow of air filling his lungs. Enjoy it while it lasts, he thought. Epispray supplies were running low and just like that they could be gone for good. What was certain for now was that by nightfall the fire in his chest and throat would come roaring back along with the sensation that his windpipe was being crushed and delicate membranes were tearing with every rasping cough.
He could only take two Dust control treatments a day, one usually before strenuous activity and the other one at night to help get some uninterrupted sleep. Taking more than the recommended dose could set off a chain reaction, a storm of symptoms that permanently turned users into vacant husks. Many early Dust intolerants had found this out the hard way, ending up in the Freemech camps looking for treatment. At least there they would be well looked after.
Knowing these truths helped Adam develop a respect for his treatment routine which had become a ritual. A ritual that helped keep his thoughts on an even keel. Steer a little off course and a voluntary lobotomy suddenly seemed like an option worth considering. Steer the other way and it would be over, death's embrace a welcome gift.
He wasn't entirely sure which of the two options was the worst, but he wasn't about to let his curiosity get the better of him or let his exhausted mind entertain the thought further. That would endanger his newfound sense of altruism, which although weak and distant, was enough to keep the final decision at bay. At least for a while. If there was something he could do to change the fate of the SCELEC dwellers, then he'd be damned if his own lack of hope was to get in the way.
A low rumble shook the windows of Adam's 3rd floor apartment. He took a swig of his Vitpack, gargled and made his way to the generous balcony overlooking Independence Avenue, Washington D.C.
Icy air wrapped itself around his naked torso as he stepped out through the sliding door. He rubbed his arms like a junkie and watched his thick breath drift away in the breeze. The rumble grew louder, was approaching from the west, about to break the corner of the street. Not far from his balcony, in the other direction, a situation was brewing.
Adam's sleep-deprived eyes prepared to soak up the scene on the street below. He glimpsed the first robot silhouettes milling about under maple trees at the edge of the park. A group of Cherub class humanoids were loitering on the street corner, shifty, like a huddle of teenagers with nothing better to do. One of them, a female, had human clothes on, a one piece coverall, white with a single blue stripe down one side. The others, closing in on the female, like peacocks, proudly displayed their smooth, rubberized skins in all their colorful, synthetic glory. The slick, fluidic designs were mesmerizing, visual complexity balanced by sumptuous, organic elegance. The first rays of sunlight pouring through the urban landscape danced playfully on polished alloy rings surrounding decorative spinal ports.
Adam blinked and squinted as he tried to scrutinize the detail on the robot closest to him - a real Big Fella. Within a few heartbeats, it was clear to his trained eyes that the oversized humanoid, now fully lit under the rising sun, had not been engineered by human minds.
The source of the rumble finally made an appearance, a caravan of Rollers with their entourage of little helpers. These robo-behemoths moved through the SCELEC enclosure like giant lumbering insects foraging on the city's leftovers. The smaller units dashed around them, moving bins back and forth, eager to eat up any scraps that made their way to the ground.
YOU ARE READING
Pulse
Science FictionIn the heart of Nova York, deep inside the Blade complex, the Sentients, chosen by the Elect, wait to be uplifted to a luxurious space station where they will live forever. Beyond the tower, inside the SCELEC enclosures, Freemechs take care of the S...