The Story

This is the story that we have so far - but it still needs work. It is by no means a 'finished product' yet:

My Name is a Number

A huge fist smacked me in the left shoulder; the world spun around me just as the mass of wet leaves on the trail came up to hit me on the face.

Pain. My world is full of pain. The room swam around; rough hands hold my arms and feet and throw me into my bunk. Someone said something about the enemy but my mind cannot focus on their words, only the pain. Just for a moment I imagine I saw Sgt 598’s face, blurred, peering at me but it wasn’t his voice. I don’t recognise the voice. It is course; it tells me to try and relax, that I’ll be fine.

Someone pulls my blanket up then there’s a sliding sound and a bright light. So bright. I cannot see anything...

*

I was brought up in a tenement building just north of the border. The building was sixty-five stories high but the top three stories are just places for the machines that operate the lifts and direct the water.

The roof is covered in ten feet of water. If there’s a fire the detectors in the top three stories empty all that water into the tenement that’s on fire. The rooms pretty well fill up but the fire goes out. It happens about once a month. I suppose that people set fires on purpose for some reason.

There’s a heli-pad sitting over the water. That’s the law. Every high-rise has to have one. Mum said that the architects complained at first because it limited their idea of ‘pretty’. They had to put up with it; it’s the law.

Mum was a whore. She supposed that she was getting to the end of her career now. She told me that age catches up with everyone in the end. Years ago the gangs had told her to do what they told her or they would kill her mother. They killed Granny anyway. For fun, I think.

I don’t remember Granny. Mum says she was really pretty but she wouldn’t go whoring for the gangs no matter what. So she was killed. Anybody who is of no use to the gangs tends to die.

I started working for the gangs when I was around ten years old. They gave me a knife and told me to go kill someone. My schoolfriend.

I told Mum. She shrugged and told me to go kill him. Either that or die.

They gave me a girl to play with after that. Just for a few hours. I didn’t really know what to do with her. I had to ask Mum. Mum explained about that so that I would know next time.

When I was fifteen I joined the Army. I thought I had escaped but I had only dodged the gangs briefly. They killed my Mum. Mum would have said it was all right; that she was too old for whoring anyway.

One day I would have to go back. The Government never let you live somewhere else. Once you were registered in the tenements that’s where you lived for ever.

*

The Army sent me out to the Colony. There were around a thousand, probably, on the transport. A thousand young souls ready to be butchered by the enemy, the Sergeant told us.

Just before we arrived at the Colony, we had a visit from a top-brass. He was a Staff Sergeant. We all had to stand in line, to attention, and salute him when he appeared.

He looked about as old as anyone could possibly be without actually dying. I had never seen anyone that old before.

He stood in front of us. Not tall but imposing. Medals and stripes everywhere, it seemed. He was the highest rank we would ever be likely to see, he told us. There were higher ranks than him but they all lived in holy places because they were all ethereal, immortal.

I wanted to be one of those and wondered how anyone would become ethereal.

The Staff Sergeant told us that we were all expendable. He informed us that we were merely numbers and that we no longer had names. We only existed as dots on some master plan in one of the holy places that we should refer to as ‘The Higher Echelons’.

None of us was expected to live very much longer. The average was three tours among the enemy before we ceased to exist; before we ceased to be.

When we landed on the Colony it was like being transported to paradise. Beyond the terminal we could see trees and grass; the air was fresh and cool; people walking around us were smiling and happy—perhaps they knew we were being sent out to die, to protect them.

Why would they care? Their lives were not at risk unless we failed. But failed at what? We had no clue about the enemy. We had never been briefed about them or their capabilities. At least among the gangs we knew whom we were up against, we knew that anybody in a Police uniform was a fair target. Now? We had no idea.

There was a list of our numbers on a large board just inside the main doors. They were in sequence as you might expect from the military mind. My number, 5794477 was one of the highest numbers. I was new. They probably expected me to be among the first to die.

After the number was a space followed by a ‘T’ and another number. It seemed that the last number was a room in the terminal. The first two digits represented the floor and the last three were the room number.

I introduced myself to the very pretty nurse in the tight white uniform. She told me that 477 would do, we were not to be so formal here.

She smiled at me. I asked her for her number but she giggled and said that all three of the nurses in that room were called ‘J’.

When she told me to undress I looked for a cubical but she chuckled and told me not to be so silly. I was just to undress and get in the box.

It looked like chest freezer that one of my Mum’s clients had; I had peeked in it when I was waiting for her, it was full of what looked like hard, featherless birds. Mum always sounded as if she was enjoying herself in these places; I hope she is enjoying herself where she is now.

‘J’ examined me minutely from top to bottom. She told me that it was always better if someone died ‘out there’ because coming back with something not working properly was much more expensive. She needed to check that everything worked properly. She sounded as if she enjoyed her work, too.

I told her that Mum had been a whore so I was used to this. ‘J’ laughed and said this was also only a professional examination. Her breathing was very heavy, she wiped a drop or two of sweat from her brow and said that she was satisfied that I was good to go ‘out there’.

Of course, I wanted to know where ‘out there’ was but she said she had no idea. It is where the box sends you. She looked down at me and ran her finger down my chest. Just for a moment there was a sadness in her eyes but it soon went.

Straight from the shower and into the box. The water on the skin helps the conductivity of the contacts on the body. All the contacts are on the base of the box so that they connect as soon as you lay down.

‘J’ kissed her finger and put it on my lips, straightened up and pressed an unseen button.

I heard a hissing noise and watched the lid of the box slide over me. For a few moments I felt claustrophobic and pushed up against the lid but found I was pushing against something else hard.

A voice complained; they told me to go back to sleep.

The next morning I showered and shaved, no mirrors. Nothing reflective anywhere. One of the other Troopers said that I must be new because I looked lost. I told him that I had just arrived from the Colony.

I received my weapon, ammunition and clothing then formed up outside. It was hot. Really hot—and sweaty.

The Room Sergeant told us that we were to patrol east. If we saw something suspicious we were to shoot it and ask questions later.

I asked him what the enemy looked like. They all looked at me as if I had committed some terrible sin. It was apparent that nobody knew.

Nobody knew anything. Where we are, why we are there, even how long will we be here? Just do as you are told and hope.

*

I’m cold. Not shivery or numbingly cold but my feet are far from comfortable. The blanket is on the floor, must have kicked it off at some point this morning.

Morning? Is it morning? Who knows? Who can tell?

A glance at the thermometer at the end of the room tells me it is registering 23°. Centigrade. Cold.

Odd that. On our tours up in the cold belt it was -15° outside. If it dropped to -20° it was a cold snap; if it rose to -12° we were having a heat wave. Sort of a local joke. Perhaps only us military people will understand that.

We kept our room heated to 17°. If we had it warmer, more comfortable, the fuel cells would run out before the end of the month when the resupply came in. No fuel for heating or cooking for a day or two.

We still had communications providing we kept the batteries warm. They had their own thermal wraps. Inside we should still have to keep our cold weather clothing on to survive. The room was insulated but it didn’t take long for the temperature to drop.

Outside the problem was the wind. Constant wind that burnt the face if you didn’t secure your mask. Of course, you had to unclip the mask to fire your rifle or risk smashing the thin plastic with the recoil of the weapon.

Then you had to clip the mask back on quickly to prevent frostbite on your nose and ears.

That clip was always a problem. We had thin tactical gloves that kept the hands warm—sweaty sometimes, but they were thick enough to hinder feel. We often told our Higher Echelons that another type of fastener would be better. ‘Velcro’, perhaps.

We didn’t need our rifles very much, to be honest. Only to practise at the target runners. I only ever fired my rifle three times in anger. Each time I had to pay for the round fired. No bodies were found so there was no evidence. “Unauthorised Expenditure of Government Ordnance”, it said on the chit that I got every time.

I remember the first time very clearly. We were on patrol in a blizzard. Close to the room; in those conditions you never went farther than the rope that secured you to the room and the next guy in line.

I saw a movement. Hazy, through the snow. Unclipped the mask and brought the rifle up, sights ‘ON’, safety ‘OFF’ and align the sights. Nothing for a few moments.

I muttered into the throat microphone, “Target 017°.”

Somebody, it sounded like Sgt 598, replied softly, “Check, identify, fire.”

The laser finder in the sight turned red just as I saw the blurred shape again. I fired. Certain that I had heard a soft thud I lowered the rifle and clipped the mask back on.

I returned the rifle to a ‘safe’ condition and confirmed ‘kill’ with the Sergeant.

“Good, Trooper 477. We will confirm when the weather clears. Let’s get in.”

It was quiet back in the room. My bunk was on the bottom of the four layers; I was still too junior to get a top bunk where it was warmer up by the ceiling.

We all knew who was junior and who was senior by our numbers. None of us had names. Maybe the Higher Echelons knew our names but nobody else did.

I was on the top bunk now. Two tours in the cold belt and three in the tropics had earned me the right to any bunk I wanted.

I looked at the thermometer again. 23°. Yet it felt cold. Because we were accustomed to 40° outside in the tropical belt.

We were surrounded by jungle. Hot and really humid jungle. Everything was wet. If you weren’t very careful you got fungus and mildew everywhere. There were stories about people dying from the mildew; they got eaten up by it. Stories. Apocryphal, no doubt.

The fence that divided North from South ran through the middle of our room—well, not inside, obviously!

They say the fence went all around the World. We don’t know. We were told to stop anyone going through it. There were 2,000 Volts in the fence. We couldn’t believe anyone would go through it. Nobody told us which direction this ‘enemy’ was supposed to come from. Just ‘stop them’ was the order.

One of our junior members slipped on one of the trails. His rifle touched the fence. He went limp. He was dead. He never sparkled or jumped around, he just went limp. We looked at him for a moment and then removed all his gear. We left the body there. The jungle needed it more than we did.

We often found animals that had bumped into the fence. Dead. Eyes staring at some distant horror. If they were small enough we threw them off the track into the jungle for the jungle to eat. We couldn’t risk eating them ourselves.

One morning we were mowing the track for the target runners. Practise time. We had found a strip between the trees that was, relatively, straight. We kept it clear of vegetation so we could use the target runners there.

A target runner is the size of a tennis ball. From the centre axle on the ball there is a rod each side, the rods are as tall as I am. They are joined at the opposite end to the ball by a horizontal bar. The periphery of the ball has four ‘legs’ a little shorter than the rods. By standing the ball on the rods the ball can be rotated to wind up the spring, letting it go means the ball will now spin the legs and go loping off at quite a high speed. The rods stop the ball spinning.

Nobody wants to be the person to set the ball going.

There is always a clever person who will take a pot-shot at it while the guy releasing the ball is still holding it.

These troopers I work with are not very bright. Some of them are mentally inert. When someone plays a really funny joke like that he finds himself lashed to the end of the bunk beds and the truth beaten into him.

People have died releasing the ball. Usually they are people who have tried the joke. We’ve lost a few troopers like that. Extra rations for us and nobody ever queries their death. Just a number to rub off the board back at HQ.

I pull up my blanket, get snug and rub my eyes. It is time to get out of bed and check my kit—clean the rifle.

Just feel a bit lazy this morning. Morning? Is it morning? Maybe. There are no windows in the room.

Who is making the breakfast today. If it’s morning we need breakfast. There was talk yesterday of beans and eggs on toast with real coffee from the Colony.

Talk. There is always talk. The World is full of rumour.

Most of it is generated by stupidity. One of the Troopers said that his number is 588167, he wondered where the other 580,000 Troopers were. I told him it was unlikely that anyone would be number one. They all looked at me as if I had just fallen out of a tree.

I take a deep breath. More of a sigh really, I suppose.

A sliding sound makes me open my eyes. I feel restrained as if I’m in a box. There’s a bright light in my eyes, I can’t see anything.

The light moves. Still I can see nothing.

“Be calm, be still,” a gentle voice tells me, “Just rest. It takes a while to adjust, 477.”

After a while I sit up and look over to Sgt. 598’s box. It was still sealed.

The young lady in the tight white uniform put her hand on my shoulder, “He didn’t make it. I’m sorry, Cpl.”

I’d been promoted, then.

She was accustomed to seeing us all naked so there was no embarrassment at watching me dress while she wrote down her findings.

“You are assigned two tours in HQ,” she told me, her hand resting gently on my chest.

I smiled back.

“First? Breakfast, please.”

She grinned, “Must make sure you are fully functional before anything else.”

This was another ‘J’. I had never seen this one before. They were all attractive, desirable.

“Not just one week in the Colony this time?” I asked her.

“No,” she told me, “HQ. Amongst the Higher Echelons.”

I was inexplicably terrified.

*

I shuffled paperwork. None of it meant anything to me. Just lists. The whole office seemed to be some sort of stores system where we recorded things consumed and things supplied.

I never found out where the ‘enemy’ were or where I had been. That all seemed to be classified. Only the ethereals would be allowed that sort of knowledge.

Occasionally I saw an ethereal in the corridor when I was going to the mess hall or back to the accommodation block. They never said anything; they never even looked at me. I never existed. I was only there because I had earned the right to be spared from death for a short while.

I tried to find out if the fence went all the way around the world but there was no answer. I only learnt that there were thousands of rooms along the fence in the tropics and around the cold belts both north and south. Ten Troopers per room plus those on leave from the enemy meant there were close to half a million men deployed out there. Only guessing. What do I know?

The resupplies went out in a constant stream. Sometimes there would be equipment but mostly it was batteries, fuel cells, food and ammunition. Huge quantities of ammunition.

What could they be shooting at? It could not possibly be all for target runners.

Now we were sending explosives. People were being specially trained in blowing things up. The war was escalating.

Where? I had never seen anything approaching an enemy other than three vague glimpses through the snow. What were we protecting out there?

My time at HQ came to an end.

I went back to see the ‘J’s and automatically stripped off. This ‘J’ was familiar, I had seen her before but I couldn’t place her exactly. She was soft and gentle, warm, yielding. Bliss.

She said I was fit for transfer, smiled and pressed the button. The lid hissed shut and I was back in the bunk.

It takes a short while to acclimatise. Even after five tours over three years it was still unnerving to be sent somewhere unknown to do something—we had no idea what it was.

The Sergeant called me over. He asked if I was the new Corporal. He instructed me to get all the Troopers fallen in outside in line.

It was raining. Cold, driving rain that soaked through everything immediately.

I asked the Sergeant where we are, this is new for me, I told him, “Aye, Lad,” he nodded, “New for you. You’ve just been on the practice camps playing with target runners, you have. This is real now.”

I turned to face the Troopers. They were all older than me, or looked it. Passed them there was a fence. In the fence was a large grill door. There were signs, they warned of high voltages.

Beyond the fence were buildings. They were sixty plus stories high.

“Atten... SHUN!” I roared.

The Troopers all came to attention. I did a smart about turn to face the Sergeant.

He coughed lightly, “Some of you know that I have been on this tour for some time. Some of you know that few of us are likely to survive a full tour. We will do our best to complete the objective.

Objective one: Destroy those vermin filled buildings behind you.

Objective two: Survive.

Objective two is hard. Why? Because the vermin are better armed than we are; they have more money to buy weapons than the Government does and because the High Echelons don’t give rat’s arse if you live or die just as long as, eventually, that lot is cleared. Then the next lot. After that? The lot behind that one until they are all gone. Until we, those that have God on our side and righteousness in our pockets are all that is left on this green and pleasant land.

The bit that is behind me is green and pleasant because that much has been cleared by our dead comrades of yesteryear, that behind you is now our job.

Good luck. I’ll see you when you get back. If you get back.”

The gate swung open, we marched through and immediately broke formation, scattering into a loose line abreast.

“Does it ever stop raining?” I asked myself and then recognised the building to my front left. It had a huge faded ‘K’ on the side. Memories of Mum flooded back.

*

‘J’ was speaking, “You will be all right now, 477. You are with us. We will bring you back to health.”

“We got them. We brought down two rat’s nests and slaughtered the gangs.”

“Now they’ve got you. Rest. When you are feeling better we will test you.”

She stroked me gently. Already I felt much better,

I dreamt of Mum and wondered how many innocents we had killed when the two tenements came down.

I bet they were grateful to us.