The residents of Wardate
By Bill Cornwell
Wardate - Society for the gathering of the most evil, reviled people on Earth.
Chapter 1
This story is all about Poppy Cock… only her, absolutely no one else.
Outside, the rain was hitting the artificially lit pavement with the force of a jet wash. The wind chill factor was freezing the joints of the vermin in the over filled wheelie bins and the passing vehicles aquaplaned skilfully along the rain soaked street. However, this was completely irrelevant.
Inside, through the dirty etched windows of the Black Bull, if anyone cared to look, a young woman could be seen sitting on her own in the gloomiest corner of the empty lounge. In every respect, a pretty young woman with long blond hair and a perfect physique, tastefully covered, but this was also completely irrelevant. However this particular woman carried Poppy’s mind and soul within and that was relevant. Exactly why Poppy should choose to spend her time here, alone and withdrawn was known only to herself and the person she had become. On this particular evening the bleakness of her depression perfectly matched the mood of the weather outside... although to blame the weather for even a morsel of her misery would be a travesty.
Despite the ear splitting, repetitive melodies and monotonous flashing lights from the one armed bandit right next to her, she had effortlessly switched off all her senses and journeyed inattentively inwards.
When attentive, Poppy despised the nicotine stained walls and ceiling, the beer stained carpets, and the heavily worn brown leather furniture. She had no intention of warming to the atmosphere or socialising with the clientele but it was altogether better to be here than in her quiet, lonely, empty flat. Here she could hide from the world, be as depressed as she felt fit and avoid getting tangled up in other peoples affairs. On the list of priorities right now was to drown, inconspicuously in her sorrows. She had killed a total of four people up to now, three intentionally and one by accident. Certainly there was no feeling of remorse for what she’d done but definitely no enjoyment either. She was aware that she had changed but hoped it wasn’t into a monster; that really would be ironic. She tried so hard to hold on to her old virtues but in truth, after all that had happened to her, her grip had weakened; all she could say is that she used to be a really nice person to know.
So... why did she return to this dreadful place night after night? Surely there was more to it than just despising her flat. Perhaps she was waiting for someone, if true, she had been waiting an awfully long time. Perhaps it was a special place because it held a special memory - begging the question, exactly what, in a dump like this? Anyhow, over shadowing these minor uncertainties, there were far more pertinent questions whizzing about in Poppy’s secluded conscious. For instance, why had all this happened to her, why had she suddenly become redundant and why was she so damn hungry?
She cast her mind back to when it all began, almost one year to the day...
Chapter 2
Before Poppy was this antisocial, depressed, hungry, killer she used to love the simple things in life, things like her mobile phone for example. Certainly she was aware that it was just a small slab of metals and plastic arranged in such a way as to perform mainly as a communication device but over the weeks that she had owned it, it was something that had developed some sort of soul and therefore a friend. In its little brain it had memorised hundreds of her favourite music tracks, thousands of photos from its inbuilt camera and above all it was a telephone giving her a priceless link to home. Naturally there were other things in life that she loved; television soaps, warm sunny days, nice food, hot baths, shopping, fast cars, yoga, being centre of attention and two people: One was her mother who she thought the world of and the other was her boyfriend, Adam and what they did together – that’s another thing she loved.
What she didn’t particularly love were hot, dry countries, stuffy hotel rooms, nylon sheets, cockroaches, gunfire and being a long, long way from home but this was in her job description. In her particular profession, a foreign new correspondent, some days were more awful than others but that day in particular was really, really awful. She didn’t particularly want to remember that day because it was a day when her life changed for the worst, forever, but the memory of it was all too vivid to forget.
That day began as usual, with her mobile phone doing one of its important jobs – acting as an alarm clock. To do this, as is the way with things with souls, it was enjoying being slightly annoying. A second or two later, slightly had developed exponentially into becoming moderately. A second or two more and ‘moderately’ was insufficient as an adjective, swear word or not, sometimes there is no substitute and the word ‘fucking’ comes into its own. How can such a small device, she thought, produce such a loud, irritating, penetrating sound. An old conventional alarm clock would have been thrown across the small drab hotel room by now but certainly not her lovely, slim, pink electronic friend. The annoying noise from the alarm function coincided with a heavy banging on the hotel room door and a muffled shout from the corridor outside. She had no choice but to wake up.
‘Pops!’
‘OK, OK, I’m up.’ she shouted in a dry husky voice.
She hated the shortened version of her name, she hated the long version too but at least that was a nice red flower not a fizzy drink or a granddad. She fumbled with the impossible tiny buttons on her phone and simultaneously with the slightly larger buttons on her pyjama top. By luck more than skill, the alarm stopped, allowing the noises of the traffic, the rantings from the locals and occasional distant gunfire outside her hotel room to become prominent.
‘I don’t have to remind you, we have a date with a satellite in one hour.’ the same cheerful male voice bellowed from outside the room.
‘Yea, yea, see you down in the lobby in ten.’ replied Poppy as she drew back the thin blue and Black patterned curtains in her blue and beige sexy pyjamas in her stiflingly hot, orange and brown hotel room.
Despite the fact that she was about to go live on a TV link to England in front of millions of viewers, if needs must, ten minutes was more than enough time to make herself adequately presentable. Her dark brown eyes contrasting against her pale blemish free skin almost dispensed with the need for any make up. Her tall slender but shapely body looked good in the simplest items of clothing and a quick brush of her dark, thick straight hair rectified any defect resulting from a restless nights sleep. She wanted to wake up properly which meant sipping a cup of tea in bed, watching the breakfast news for at least an hour then doing a spot of yoga on the rug until nicely supple and refreshed but for three reasons she couldn’t – 1) she had over slept and didn’t have time 2) she had a pounding head and 3) her hotel didn’t provide tea making facilities, a television in the room or a rug on the floor.
The reason she had a pounding head was directly attributable to the night before. Her companions, Simon and Bob had collected together some unidentifiable bottles of alcohol, they assumed it was vodka as it looked like water but it wasn’t, tasted not dissimilar to high octane petrol but it wasn’t and gave off vapours which shrivelled up the hairs in your nostrils but Vicks it wasn’t. As they did not know the precise configuration of the hydro carbon molecule chain that disguised itself as an intoxicating liquid they suspected that there would inevitably be consequences. Yes, they had a good reason to celebrate; straight after the link up they would be heading home to wonderful England, away from this hell hole of a war torn township and away from this once but not now, luxurious hotel. Poppy would be going back to Minnie, her Mum and Adam, her sweetheart.
For three weeks she had being covering recent developments in this part of middle Africa.
It was part a part of the world that was dry of oil so the rest of the world’s governments left the insurmountable problems to be tackled as best as they could by charitable organisations. It was part of the world where the leader had become old and mad and employed those with no souls to be his right hand men. And it was part of the world where the amount of diseased people was disproportionate to the amount of drugs available.
So why was Poppy here? It happened to be a well paid but dangerous assignment and Poppy Cock was naturally the best one for the job. It would result in a feather in her cap that she didn’t particularly want but she was probably the most experienced news correspondent for this kind of work - she simply had to go. Undeniably she had boosted the male (and some female) viewing ratings back home by at least 25% because she literally made love to the camera. Her cheeky smile, subliminal body language and come-to-bed-eyes, travelled at the speed of light to the millions of television sets back home. True this was rather inappropriate behaviour for a country in turmoil and short of just about everything but she thought, ‘What can I do? Africa is an awfully long way away, not a place I’d choose to go on holiday to and full of people who don’t appreciate the nice sunny weather they have.’
Yes, it’s true, Poppy could be described as a shallow and spoilt little madam but it is only fair to say in her defence that Poppy’s life had not been without distress or hardship.
Now this is where a few long chapters providing an introduction to Poppy, exploring her history, character and the early years, would be expected, especially as the story is all about her and no one else. To be honest though, her life thus far in comparison to what is to come is completely insignificant and besides I need to get on, it’s a long story. However, so as not to totally dismiss this expectation, here is a whole paragraph devoted to her early life...
She was an unfortunate child, spending many months in hospital with a large spectrum of illnesses. Doctors and specialists came to the somewhat vague conclusion that she was one of two things, either a weak or just a very unlucky child. Amazingly, by the age of nine, after years of high temperatures and countless courses of antibiotics she emerged healthy, strong and almost indestructible. However that was all physical, now it was her strength of mind to take its toll. At nine and a quarter she lost her father to cancer, this left her Mother almost destitute, distraught and chronically depressed. Poppy naturally missed her father immensely but in total contrast to her mother, refused to let this inner sadness show. Her Mother was subsequently deemed unfit to care for her child and taken into care... and so was Poppy. Care inevitably meant foster parents but because of her strong, stubborn character and that she loved her Mother more than anyone else in the world, she fought her way through several sets of temporary Mums and Dads. Three years later both were permanently reunited, both were now mentally stronger. Her Mother studied, studied and studied and became a solicitor, earned pots of money which partly paid for Poppy to have the best education and grooming. Within a few years she happened to be in the right place at the right time and landed a job in the BBC.
Okay, satisfied? Let’s get on.
As previously mentioned, she hated her name but apart from changing it by deed pole and upsetting her dear Mum, there was little she could do about it. At one time she decided that her surname could be modified so as to make the ‘ck’ silent, making Cock, ‘Co’… but that was just plain foolish. No, one of the other reasons why she was so popular and well known, especially as a news correspondent, was because she was Poppy Cock. Often she failed to research properly on relevant news items or forgot her lines so she babbled incessantly about her uncomfortable hotel room, the tasteless food, her lifeless hair and her aching feet. In other words most of the time she talked a load of poppy cock - but that didn’t particularly matter as she had one hell of a reason for it - that was her name.
Chapter 3
The best place in the world to walk at night, approaching Christmas time, in crispy evening air, in someone’s arms, is the Thames embankment. London has its bad points but it also has its very good points. For once she hoped she wasn’t recognised; normally it gave her confidence a boost, signing autographs on scraps of paper but now she was in Adam’s arms. They weren’t long arms but they still wrapped around her keeping her warm and protected. She knew Adams arms would not be keeping her warm or protected for quite some time after tonight. They were not walking now as that would only require one of Adams arms. Both arms were now holding her tightly and Adams lips were warming Poppy’s lips.
‘Be good whilst I’m gone.’ said Poppy softly.
‘I will restrict myself to just one woman a night, perhaps two on a Saturday.’ said Adam as he smiled.
Poppy feigned an escape from Adam’s arms hoping he would increase his grip on her.
‘Please yourself, plenty of men where I’m going, not to mention Simon and Bob.’ teased Poppy.
‘Simon and Bob?’ brace yourself, they’re my Dad’s age but fatter and balder... and they wear cardigans!’ Adam bantered.
‘Cardigans are cool.’ replied Poppy in a matter of fact way.
‘And Hush puppies even when it’s 40 degrees in the shade?’
They decided to walk and be quiet for a while, absorbing the moment, not wanting time to move, the river to flow or mobile phones to ring but Poppy’s did, she ignored it.
‘Could have been someone important.’ said Adam maturely.
‘It was, it was Mum,’
Poppy understandably did not want her Mother in her mind at this particular moment in time. Her thoughts revolved around Adam, a double bed, soft music and chocolates. Adam was a gentleman who would never be so presumptuous although he did have a box of Milk Tray ready under the bed back in his hotel room.
Adam was some sort of electronic engineer from Bristol. Poppy, as we know, worked for television and came from Ipswich. They met at a mutual friend’s wedding, fell instantly in love with each other, got married and had twelve children. Well, apart from the latter two facts, all perfectly true. Poppy heavily tipped a fortune teller for telling them the latter two facts although not true yet, one day they would be. Maybe not twelve children, ten of the children the fortune teller foresaw were probably grandchildren. It may have appeared a mysterious arrangement, meeting either in London or Bournemouth but never in their home towns; Bristol or Ipswich but it was what they both agreed to for convenience. Adam was used to Poppy working in far off parts of the globe but the situation in the African continent was worsening daily. Every time Poppy went, it became longer, more dangerous and much better paid.
It was because of these first two reasons, the fact that he loved her and wanted to live the rest of his life with her that Adam had a question to ask Poppy linked to a little square red box in his pocket...
Chapter 4
‘Going down to the foyer, wait for you there.’ shouted the same voice from behind the hotel room door.
‘Two minutes.’ Poppy shouted back.
Adam’s proposal still made her smile every time she thought about it. How did he dare do all that one knee business in front of those passers by? The ring was beautiful - Set in white gold was one modestly large diamond, sparkling quite beautifully in the sodium street light above. Yes, he messed up the words slightly but Poppy got the gist of what he was getting at. Popping the question to Poppy should have flowed easily off his tongue but nerves slightly got in the way. She instantly agreed, primarily to get him off his knee and secondly because she loved him and wanted his babies…
Then suddenly she was ready but had absolutely no idea how she had arrived at this point. Getting showered, dressed and packed was obviously achieved in some kind of auto pilot mode.
Chapter 5
It was Madeline Bull’s first day out and on all accounts it was a beautiful April morning. The sun’s dazzling light was breaking its way through the gaps in the tree branches, not yet completely covered in leaves. She accepted the flashing effect of the sunlight not as irritation but one of life’s many delights. Today she had a simple task to do; drive to Tesco’s, buy a wholemeal loaf of bread and a one litre bottle of semi-skimmed milk.
For many, this would seem a simple act but for Madeline it would be an entirely new and substantial achievement if she could pull it off. New sights and sounds and a new independence that most take for granted would bombard Madeline’s senses like never before.
She didn’t realise it but she was being observed. Her driving skills were fine, almost text book. Maybe she should have been aware of the same car following her all the way but to Madeline, she was no car expert, one car was exactly like another. She parked perfectly in a free space as near as she could get to the store. She locked the car with the remote and then collected a trolley from the pound.
The person following her had also parked his car nearby and was relaying his observations into his mobile phone. He was clearly delighted, perhaps even excited with Madeline Bull’s somewhat apparently normal behaviour. Hastily, he got out of his car and followed her across the car park and into the supermarket.
Madeline had to find the whereabouts of the dairy products for the milk, which she did. She found the semi-skimmed milk section then selected the right size bottle, and placed it in her trolley, perfect!
Madeline was plain and not over dressed but unavoidably attractive especially to the type of men who had fallen to the ways of the world and arrived at a position where they were on their own in a supermarket. She developed an admirer who kindly asked if she needed any assistance.
‘No, thanks for asking.’ Madeline replied politely.
He continued to follow her.
‘Sure you don’t want any help... Love!’ the man was not taking no for an answer.
‘Quite sure thank you, oh and follow me any more and first I will break your pathetic little nose and then I will scream ... ok?’ the man looked at her for a second, grinned and then walked the other way.
The other man following her was delighted with her response to this potential harassment and relayed the events into his phone.
Now for the bread; the bakery section was, as usual, across the other side of the store but Madeline was quickly on the trail. Within no time she was standing in front of the various loaves of bread with trolley in hands. Wholemeal was identified as a brown bread with a fairly uniform crust and Madeline quickly located several examples.
Five minutes went buy, she was still standing in front of the wholemeal loaves. The man on his mobile observing Madeline was no longer at a distance but now standing a few feet away. He was no longer looking smug, far from it, he was looking extremely anxious. Another few minutes went by and then Madeline started to do what the man had dreaded. She started twitching her head up and down and then from side to side as if she was looking for something that wasn’t there. As the seconds went by her gyrations were getting more and more severe and now she was beginning to be noticed by the other customers. They began to stare, no one offering to help … after all what could they do?
A voice came back on the mobile, ‘We didn’t tell her what size of loaf to buy, shit! ... Bring her back.’
This was going to be tricky, if not handled correctly Madeline would at best panic, at worst collapse.
‘Madeline, we’ve decided we don’t need any bread, we have plenty.’ said the man now standing next to her.
‘Yes Mike, I understand that we have plenty of bread but do we have any wholemeal bread?’ Madeline spoke very precisely considering she seemed to be having a panic attack.
‘Yes, yes plenty of wholemeal bread.’ said the man now known as Mike.
‘But is there any particular size of wholemeal bread we don’t have?’ inquired Madeline
‘Plenty of wholemeal loaves in every size possible.’ stressed Mike.
‘Then I will leave the bread and just go and pay for the milk.’ said Madeline calmly.
This was not particularly good, Mike spoke back in his mobile phone, ‘She wants to continue her task and pay for the milk.’
‘No! Not a good idea!’ came the reply back … ‘The confusion may have corrupted her software, incapacitate her and bring her back.’
‘God, not again!’ exclaimed Mike.
He was used to carrying Madeline over his shoulder but not usually through the middle of Tesco’s.
Madeline Bull was so named because of the quintessential British-ness of the name – Bull. There were many Christian names they pondered over including Terri and Cilla, but Mad Bull naturally won the day and so Madeline Bull it was.
Chapter 6
The lobby in the hotel was delightfully cool, the only place with air-con but they weren’t there now, they were in a minibus without any form of air cooling. Opening the windows would have helped but most were jammed because of the dry, dusty environment. They had a ten kilometre drive to where they were to broadcast from. Ten kilometres on the M42 is barely worth talking about, hardly noticeable but ten kilometres in the searing equatorial desert heat on dusty un-metalled roads is 10,000,000 millimetres – an awfully long way! As there were only three of them, they all managed to get a window seat so they could enjoy the scenery and bake at the same time.
Twenty kilometres was originally thought to be a good safe distance away from the troubled areas where sanctuary could be sought and a good nights sleep could be had but now that was impractical. The troubles had expanded so much that ten kilometres had to do, nowhere was particularly safe any more.
Where they were going to was an area where the locals were beginning to stand firm and rebel against the tyrannical regime of the government. The government had imposed a police state and the police of this imposed state had permission to shoot, which meant kill, any troublemakers – to be precise, any man over twelve years of age. It was a very dangerous place to be.
The three of them said very little, they knew they had a job to do. Simon fiddled with his sound equipment and Bob cleaned the lens of his camera several times. Poppy gazed through the dusty window. How could human beings do this to one another, she asked herself? They passed several burnt out cars, burnt out homes and burnt out shrub land. Where were all the men? Yes, there were a few brave women, young boys and girls carrying pots of water and bags of food on their overworked shoulders but no husbands, no males to speak about. Occasionally a few emaciated children attempted to run alongside the minibus, a very dangerous act considering the land mine situation but they were simply desperate.
There was a UN presence in the form of remote control mine clearing machines which roamed the land for mines. They resembled scaled down chieftain tanks complete with tank type tracks for mobility. Unfortunately when these ‘robots’ found a mine they triggered it, result – a dead, dead expensive robot. Replacements sent in, were much cheaper remote control ‘big foot’ toy cars with a heavy stone strapped to the top of them for ballast. They did exactly the same job at a thousandth the cost! Poppy watched with amazement as, not army personnel as you would expect but young children flicked the switches on the hand held remote controls, skilfully steering the toy cars through the land bordering the road. To youngsters, it was great fun, if a car triggered a mine it was a result – unfortunately sometimes the mine was too close to the roadside and then it wasn’t just the toy car that got destroyed…
It seemed that pot holes were another problem on these roads; road works simply didn’t happen in this country. If the hole got too big, a car would fall in it, conveniently filling up the hole albeit a few raised bits and rough edges. Presumably, this was what they drove over as all the occupants trampolined off their seats and hit their heads violently on the hard metal roof. Poppy was convinced she had mild concussion as the interior of the minibus suddenly became indistinct and Bob and Simon developed curious glowing shadows. She wanted to go home now, not later, now! Sod the broadcast, sod this country, sod her job; seeing Adam was far, far more important. Simon snapped her out of this bout of wishful thinking.
‘Good God, look at the state of this place, I’m sure it’s worse than it was yesterday.’ he said with an element of enthusiasm.
This was a sign that they were nearing their destination. Most of the homes were in ruins, the rest were boarded up. An area where employment was almost non existent now and law and order didn’t particularly follow any international guidelines anymore. Corruption was the best anyone could expect but despite these lawless conditions many hundreds of people had gathered in the centre of the town.
The minibus stopped out of sight of the crowds, close to the town centre. Even with electronic miniaturisation, the various bits including camera and the satellite kit for relaying the broadcast back home were heavy. All the bits had to be lugged out of the minibus quickly, carefully and warily; a 3 CCD Sony pro cx3490 camera would fetch a hefty price on the African open market. Poppy was fundamentally a lady and didn’t carry heavy things, it was a good thing that mobile phones no longer had valves and handbags only had room for just a few light weight items. She stepped out into even more heat.
‘God, I’ll be glad to get back home.’ Poppy continued with her moaning.
Simon pointed to the familiar spot where they had broadcast from yesterday. It was ideal as it had a raised area where they could set up their equipment but still be very close to the hub of the crowd activity.
This was Poppy’s style, to be next to the people. Not at a safe distance but almost mingling, almost taking part in what ever the crowds of people were taking part in. They had only two minutes to satellite link up. Bob was hastily trying to locate the satellite with the mini dish even though according to the manual, it was supposed to be automatic - it clearly wasn’t. Simon was busily putting plugs in sockets, wafting flies off his face and laying cables. Poppy wasn’t busy at all, nothing rehearsed, nothing written down. She had been vaguely brought up to date with any overnight changes from a local envoy whom she met in the Hotel Lobby. Until the moment came she hadn’t a clue what she would be talking about. It was all going to be spontaneous, that’s was Poppy’s style and that’s why people back home tuned in to watch her.
Just in the nick of time Simon locked on to the Satellite signal and Poppy heard the familiar voice from morning news television back home.
‘Morning Poppy.’
‘Morning Bill.’
‘So what kind of mood are the people in this morning, we can hear and see a fair amount of commotion behind you?’
‘That’s right, an excited demonstration would be a fair description. Much the same as yesterday I’m afraid. Until the people of the area get some kind of assurance from the government that the state police will relax their barbarity they are obviously going to stay resolute, but they will...”
‘Have you heard anything yet from the government, or at least some acknowledgement of the crisis? ... Sorry please finish what you were saying.’ bill unavoidably interrupted because of the annoying satellite time lag.
‘I was going to say that they are safe as long as they stay in very large groups like this... No, nothing at all has been heard or passed on from the government. If something isn’t done soon this situation will become very ugly.’
‘Exactly what are the disruptions?’
‘Well they are far and widespread, destructive and violent but you can’t help having sympathy for the people.’
A cool London studio, a comfy velour sofa and two mugs of tea with ‘Good Morning’ written on them strategically placed on the glass table in front of Bill and Lynda contrasted severely with Poppy’s level of comfort. The sun was now beginning to blister down on them and the dusty atmosphere was interfering intensely with the backs of their throats.
‘Poppy, I believe you’re heading home after today?’ Bill asked, proving he had a total indifference to the serious subject in hand
‘... Yes Bill ... Hang on we seem to have a development.’ Bob panned the camera away from Poppy and across the heads of the crowd to a side street at the back of the square. Poppy continued. ‘It appears that some sort of fire engine is driving into the crowds.’
The vehicle proceeded forwards towards them, into the centre of the square and into the hub of the crowd of people.
‘Yes, it has a water cannon on the roof. I can hear the pump starting. Water is spraying all over the crowd.’ Poppy’s voice went up a semitone with excitement.
‘An attempt at crowd control, I assume. I think there’s a good chance we’re going to get drenched. The people are screaming. … They’re saying something … hang on … what are they saying Simon?’
‘It’s not water it’s gazoli...”
At that point the signal switched to static.
‘I’m sorry we seem to have lost the connection, we will try and return to Poppy later.’ said Bill in damp, cold, peaceful England.
As it happened, that would have been extremely difficult.
Bill was totally unaware of what awful event had just happened. It was beyond horrific, probably beyond any other atrocity that had previously befallen that town – even that country. During the next two minutes over 2000 people would perish in that town square in the most inhumane way possible.
What was assumed to be water squirting from the nozzle on top of the fire engine vehicle was in fact petrol. For a few seconds the liquid had resembled water but in the searing heat, all it took was one lit cigarette or one tiny spark to reveal the full potential of the deadly liquid. The vapour had ignited in a spectacular ball of fire almost the size of the town square. There was no escape from being burnt, very little escape from an agonisingly cruel, painful death.
No group or individual claimed responsibility for this horrifically evil event but everyone agreed that no religious sect, no revengeful group, not even any terrorist organisation could be associated with such a truly evil act. The unrest in this part of the world would certainly not improve after this event.
Chapter 7
‘Again, disappointment and failure! ... Forty million pounds and three Madeline Bulls later and what have we got now? … A shitting android who asks too many bloody questions!’
Most likely it was aerated slobber but it could easily have been mistaken for foaming at the mouth - this military dressed, bald but bearded man called Turner was clearly not amused.
‘There are simply too many variables, too many unforeseen eventualities.’ said Hogarth, defending himself and his team.
‘They’ve done it with vehicles, for fucks sake. They can cross entire deserts on their own without asking stupid questions like what speed do you want me to go? What radio station would you like me to tune into?’ Turner was continuing to be his usual nasty self.
This wasn’t the first time disappointment and failure plagued the Primacy Artificial Intelligence Droid team - ‘PAID’ for short. As it happened, this was very appropriate as it was purely because of the handsome pay that the scientists were involved in such an impossible project. Deep down, none of the scientists held out much hope for success, they knew the problems were numerous and most of them were insurmountable.
‘With respect Mr Turner, artificial human beings are a whole new ball game.’ said Constable, another of the well paid scientists, he continued. ‘Yes we could do it, but we would need Madeline to have the processing power and computing capacity at least a hundred times more than she’s got now and that obviously won’t fit in her tiny artificial head.’
‘…Well not for at least another ten or twenty years.’ added Hogarth.
‘Are you saying you can’t do it?! We’ve wasted forty million pounds on something unachievable!?’ Turner was clearly about to burst with rage.
‘We simply hadn’t anticipated the degree of complex algorithms required for a machine to behave like a human being.’ said Hogarth and then paused for a moment of careful thought. ‘We humans are simply one remarkable, unprecedented creation.’
‘We are trying to be Gods… do what Gods have done.’ interrupted Justine Constable, yet another scientist.
‘So what are you saying? Abandon the project!?’ suggested Turner, now genuinely foaming at the mouth.
A silent thoughtful pause now followed, mainly by necessity. Reynolds broke the silence.
‘There is a solution to all this, something I hinted at before we embarked on the Mad... Bull project’.
Project Madeline Bull was very ambitious to say the least. It came about mostly because of military over estimation of present day technology and most likely because they had watched far too many episodes of Star Trek on television. Understandably, it is very easy for the non-technically minded to misunderstand how computers work and come to an entirely incorrect conclusion that computers show signs of intelligence. Any computer boffin will tell you, computers are not intelligent no matter how advanced or powerful they are today. They merely follow a list of laid out instructions from the programmer. The only difference between the original 1940’s Charles Babbage computer and the latest multi core, meg this, meg that, meg the other, is speed, memory and … size!
It was a costly misunderstanding by the military: They wanted a machine with its own independent intelligence neatly housed inside a flexible mobile box - shaped exactly like a human being. They provided a large pot of money and thought if the pot was big enough the impossible would be achieved.
Even Madeline Bull (3) the most advanced android yet continued to display distinct signs of un-intelligence. True, Madeline Bull (3) could walk, talk and even drive a car through a busy town. She could easily buy certain items from Tesco’s and ward off lecherous old men. All this made Madeline Bull truly remarkable and a credit to the team. However as the trials showed, if the programming or in this case, the instructions were not 100% precise, the task would fail completely. The ‘brain’ would crash-out, seize up and piss people off.
Why did the Military want a Mad Bull? A Madeline Bull would be free of emotions and expendable. A Madeline Bull could get right up to the enemy and destroy them without necessarily having to return. Yes, it would be a costly affair to lose a Mad Bull but at least no lives would be lost. A Madeline Bull could also infiltrate and spy on the enemy and potentially stop conflicts before they began. That was their theory, anyway.
Madeline Bull had to be a very closely guarded secret known only to a few senior politicians, one high ranking military officer, namely Turner and a few hand picked scientist. This was the only way forward for such a delicate devious walking talking weapon. If anyone asked, Mad Bull did not exist, never had existed, in fact, Mad who? If ever the media found out, the project would instantly have to be destroyed and those involved, shot or sent an awfully long way from home. The way the military looked at it, the East had suicide bombers and Kamikaze pilots; the West, even though they didn’t know it, would have expendable Madeline Bulls, how good was that?
Perhaps it was fortunate that it was only a pipe dream. The team, which consisted of four scientists, three men and one woman; Spencer, Hogarth, Reynolds and Constable, all knew that there was little chance of success but what the hell, what a challenge, what good fun, what terrific pay! At the very least there would be a considerable benefit to the science of prosthetics. Many disabled people would eventually benefit from the ground breaking work done by these few people.
The place where they did this groundbreaking work was obviously top secret and below ground as all top secret places are. No daylight, no windows, no tea trolley lady and absolutely no visitors other than Mr Turner. Above in daylight, all with the luxury of windows, were other floors, nine to be exact. The first floor, conveniently and obviously by design, contained a prosthetics laboratory. This was a front for the deliveries of all the components and materials required for making artificial human beings. The people working in the prosthetics lab had absolutely no idea of what went on beneath them, they just thought it was strange how parts were delivered that they hadn’t ordered and then even more strangely, the parts would promptly disappear. Above the prosthetics lab, the other eight floors consisted of various governmental departments; departments that contain people who do things that help the world go round and help to make England the great country that English people think it is. Not one single person who worked in the building above ground knew nothing whatsoever, about the basement and its secret. To access the top secret basement was at times adventurous in itself. There was no ‘B’ for basement button in the lifts. Button one and nine had to be pressed simultaneously for three seconds and then the lift would go down further than normal. Obviously you had to be in the lift on your own or with another member of the team or you would have to act out some kind of charade and get off on the wrong floor. Once on the basement floor there was a long corridor to walk along before you were met with a hefty double door with a keypad on it. If you knew the four digit number you could gain entrance and pass through the doors to the Lab, if you didn’t, naturally you shouldn’t be there.
Only once had it ever happened; Spencer got confused between his house alarm number and the lab door number. It wasn’t as if he hadn’t been given a fair chance, three to be precise. He cocked up all of them and then the gas expelled out of the vents. Six hours later he woke up with one hell of a head banger, he wouldn’t make that mistake again.
The amazing sight of Madeline Bull lying, virtually naked on a sloping metal table was a sight for sore eyes - completely perfect, completely lifelike, just life …less.
The ‘PAID’ team consisted of the country’s top scientists; naturally their expertise went well beyond your typical white coat examples who worked for some cosmetic company. Mike Spencer was the bio-mechanic, considerably experienced in this unique field although rapidly approaching retirement age. Rob Hogarth was the programming guru, strange looking, frail, nervous and walked with a limp. Justine Constable, the only female of the team, covered advanced prosthetics. She was a highly educated university graduate with a round face, short blonde hair and big round spectacles. Finally Chris Reynolds, the artist, a man of few words, tall and bearded; the all round genius that made all this possible.
Because of the team’s credentials, most of the equipment around the room was far too technical to be recognised by anyone other than a rocket scientist. Most pieces of equipment were covered in flashing digital readouts and coffee stains. Many a wiring loom neatly linked these pieces of equipment together. There were, however, many recognisable devices around the room like pliers, screwdrivers, pens and sandwiches (although the contents of these may not have been recognisable). Despite it been a clinically cold but stuffily warm laboratory there was one light relief, a 65 inch plasma Television on the wall. Daytime TV was normally displayed - light relief from the intensity of their work, unless of course Madeline Bull was on the prowl and then it became her eyesight.
Reynolds hesitated, he didn’t know whether to go over old ground. It was clear to him and the rest of them that Madeline Bull the android would never be a reality. In the past there had been several working examples of their ultimate objective but they had only ever existed in science fiction stories alongside time travellers, shape shifters and parallel universes. At present people still dried their washing on a clothes line and took aspirin for head aches. Such a creation, for now, would only be a fantasy, although, remarkably, they had achieved a certain degree of success.
The old ground was not so much artificial intelligence but more, good old fashioned, remote control. They all knew of the problems, for instance, long range radio communication; the irritating satellite time lag of up to two seconds that is often experienced on outside broadcasts and long distant phone calls. And the signal reliability, satellites have a notorious habit of being temperamental just at the wrong moment. A seized up android would surely give the game away to the enemy.
These problems, however, paled to insignificance when compared to the problems associated with controlling the actual android. Eighty odd muscles all had to operate in unison for a realistic effect. All the senses including touch, sight, sound, pitch, yaw, movement had to be relayed to and fro. Facial expressions and body language had to be convincing enough for the enemy, and so it went on!
Reynolds’s solution consisted of amalgamating two ideas. The first idea was not, strictly speaking, his own but a very clever Professor Braugenhau’s, who had invented how to make very high frequency radio waves bend and travel around the Earth without the need for a satellite. This system reduced the time lag from two seconds to about a fiftieth of a second.
The second idea was his own so he began;
‘I have a suggestion… a suggestion and I think... a solution to our problem.’ When Chris Reynolds had something to say it was more often than not, worth listening to. Reynolds continued with a slightly lowered voice.
‘The solution, my friends, is in two parts, the first is in a bed in Cambridge Hospital, ward 8, the severe burns unit and second... professor Braugenhau’s invention.’
‘Continue.’ Turner had taken the bait.
Reynolds went on to tell his small audience about Poppy Cock and her horrific experience. He told them how she had survived but only just, mainly because she had such a will to live. He told them about her injuries, how her body was burnt down to her bones in many places. Officially she had 95% burns but this meant nothing. Her lungs were almost all burnt away as were her hair and much of her face. Her eye sight had miraculously survived although this was little compensation for the state of the rest of her body. She had many months of skin grafts, plastic surgery and various other treatments to look forward to and even then she would most likely be severely handicapped.
‘Between us, we have the knowledge and skills to solve Poppy’s problems and solve ours too.’ Reynolds paused for any feedback.
‘Ok, explain quickly I have an appointment with the PM in one hour.’ snapped Turner.
Turner really had taken the bait. Normally, if he was going to see the PM in one hour, at least 59 minutes would have been required to preen and polish himself.
Reynolds’s proposal was brilliant, ground breaking and mind numbingly complex but he knew it was perfectly possible with the scientists he had at hand. The team and to some extent, Turner, were intrigued as they listened to his description of the procedure. There would be risks, there would be buckets of blood, sweat and tears and inevitably there would have to be a considerable extension on the project budget.
‘So how confident are you that you can pull this off?’ asked Turner, unusually composed.
‘Let’s put it like this, a dam sight more confident than ever getting our present Madeline Bull working properly.’ said Reynolds.
Turner thought deeply for a moment, he was not one for lengthy deliberation.
‘Ok, do it. I will make the necessary arrangements. However, let me be clear about this, only we in this room are to know about this procedure. As far as anyone else is concerned, Mad Bull is and always will be automanous.’
With that he promptly left, he had to find a manicurist at very short notice.
So Reynolds’s proposal was the new way forward but first and foremost...
Someone would have to visit Poppy Cock.
Chapter 8
Poppy’s colleagues, Bob and Simon, perished in the human pyre along with two thousand, one hundred and fifty seven local people. A few did survive, but like Poppy, that may not have been for the best. It turned out to be an autonomous ground vehicle that had squirted out the gasoline from the roof top cannon. A vehicle on auto pilot with no driver in situ, made the horrendous act even more despicable. Whoever programmed the vehicle was clearly a monster - unless, of course, it was a tragic accident.
But how could it have been an accident? These types of vehicles were quite common in this part of the globe especially for tackling dangerous fires where explosives may be sited. Autonomous vehicles did not have a driver so the risk to life was eliminated. Of course autonomous fire engines were normally, without exception, filled with water or foam. This would usually put the fire out, gasoline certainly would not. Could gasoline for some inexplicable reason have been put in to the tanks... by mistake?? Highly unlikely - no, this was no accident; it was cold blooded mass murder.
Time went by and still no one had claimed responsibility. It could have been a single individual, a terrorist group or even, dare I say it, the military. It was most unlikely that it was anything to do with the government, as corrupt as it was - this would be a totally unacceptable way of controlling the crowds. All the signs pointed to a terrorist group or a single individual acting on behalf of a terrorist group. No ordinary terrorist group could have committed such an evil act therefore it had to be the most wicked of all terrorist groups, the most cowardly, wicked body of individuals to walk the planet.
Immediately assumptions were made, an investigation was thought totally unnecessary; a member of Wardate was more or less overwhelmingly blamed.
Wardate was the name for the planet’s most reviled organization. It embraced the most wicked, evil people from all parts of the globe and had emerged and fashioned mainly by the convenience of the internet. They are not terrorists, terrorists have a reason for what they do however misguided they are. They are not devil worshipers either, devil worshipers follow a cult, they worship the devil so as to be selected out from other people. A severe degree of evilness in mankind that qualifies one as a resident of Wardate is extremely rare, estimated at about one in ten million. Pre internet days, these usually very intelligent, unsavoury people rarely surfaced sufficiently to pose any serious threat to humanity. Although, from historical events, occasionally some of these people would find a tear in the net and wriggle through, then it would only be time before they caused carnage in their wake. Examples of such people are: Tomas de Torquemada, Vlad Tepes the Impaler, Ivan the Terrible, Mao Tse-tung, Idi Amin, Joseph Stalin, Genghis Khan, Gilles de Rais and of course, Hitler.
Thanks to the interweb, these people now collectively posed a serious threat to the world. They have an unprecedented power in numbers considering that nearly seven hundred potential Wardate residents are scattered about the earth at any one time. They crave abhorrence and catastrophe; put simply, human suffering gives them pleasure. In isolation they are usually discovered early on in life and locked away from the general public. What the internet has done, by permitting so much freedom, has linked these people together allowing them to surface as a united lump of evil. Evil enough to perpetrate the most unimaginable, the most unholy acts of suffering ever experienced on Earth.
Once it had been established that Wardate, or to be precise, a resident of Wardate was to blame, the investigations came to an abrupt end and everyone went back to their day to day chores. The worst thing about Wardate was that no one was completely sure who was a member, they could be a neighbour, a colleague or even a relation. As Wardate had protection in numbers, thanks to the world wide internet, they could hide away using the brotherhood as a shield. Admittedly it was extremely unlikely, one in ten million that there was a Wardate member living next door but there was a slim chance and that was enough to frighten everyone into doing absolutely nothing about it.
An effective way of becoming a member of Wardate would be to commit a truly evil act, the greater the evil the better. It was assumed that the human fire that Poppy experienced was most likely the actions of a new recruit proving him or her self to the brotherhood of Wardate.
Chapter 9
Justine Constable and Chris Reynolds took the bold decision and visited Poppy in hospital, it wasn’t a pleasant experience; the state of her beggared belief. She was totally unrecognisable as Poppy... totally unrecognisably as a human being. How could any person do this to another person? Did the person who did this have any remorse or guilt for the suffering he or she had imposed on so many people including Poppy?
Most people in Poppy’s state would simply want to die, would not want to know about the disfigurement, would not want to suffer the pain but Poppy had inner qualities that made Poppy who she was. Poppy was a woman whose inner strength could move planets.
Dosed on morphine, she floated less in than out of consciousness. Her dreams were muddled not knowing what was reality and what was not. Even whilst she was dreaming, her ruined body would be twitching restlessly as if an inner torment was also plaguing her. She wanted to reach out to Adam, she wanted to do so many things, her mind was over working even though her body wasn’t. The rare instances when she was conscious, or assumed to be conscious, her agonising, mutilated state encouraged her to speak to God, not that she had ever particularly been religious. Doubt crossed her mind if it was actually worth praying to be back to normal or was she too far gone even for God to fix. If she did have any future, how could she possibly look forward to it? How could Adam possibly want anything to do with her now? There was a high probability that she would lose both her arms and both her legs. Her beautiful dark, straight hair was all but gone. Her blemish free skin was now charred like an oven cooked chicken.
What she really wanted to do now was go back into her dreams; certainly the last thing she wanted at this moment in time was to be visited by two whispering strangers.
Her hearing was still as keen as ever, she heard the two people enter through the door. She knew these people weren’t hospital staff as she could clearly hear them hesitate at the threshold of the room, probably in shock at the sight that greeted them. She couldn’t see who they were as her eyes were bandaged up in hope that at least her eyesight remained intact despite having no eyelids to speak of. At the moment it was probably a blessing not being able to see herself but one day she would, and that was a day she certainly wasn’t looking forward to.
The strangers, Justine and Chris introduced themselves, dragged two chairs over, sat beside the bed and offered her, her life back. Because Poppy couldn’t talk and any movement was extremely painful, communication was challenging. All she had to do was to consent to, or refuse the offer and she was able to do that by a small amount of head movement.
Although she listened intently to what they had to say, she gave almost no indication to that effect. Naturally the offer came at a tremendous price, not only for the government but also for Poppy. Poppy Cock would have to die one way or another. If the project was successful, Poppy Cock would, in name and person, cease to exit and Madeline Bull would be born. If the project failed because Poppy’s frail body couldn’t withstand the extensive surgery required on most of her nerves and muscle functions, she would die this way too. It would be much better for her to die the former way rather than the latter but the implications were vast. All ties had to be broken. A new life meant a new life, not taking anything or anybody with her, however all this depended on her will to live. Justine explained how she would have to endure many hours of surgery, essentially to connect up her body to a machine. She would be in this machine for life. The machine would feed her, regulate her temperature, assist her breathing and automatically administer any necessary drugs. The location of this machine would not immediately be known to Poppy except to say it would be in a safe place below ground somewhere in England.
Poppy would, for ever, exist in the android body of Madeline Bull and that would be her new name... and that would be her new life.
Chris could have gone on for hours about all the technical aspects of the transition, but he had to restrain himself, be brief and as tactful as possible. After all, for the moment, all they wanted was a nod of consent off Poppy... which they got.
Naturally there were a thousand questions Poppy wanted to ask, one of them was why hadn’t Adam, her fiancé, visited her? Her Mum had done several times but mostly all she did was weep, leaving very little time for actually talking.
Perhaps she should forget about Adam especially now after the offer from the recent visitors. Clearly she had him all wrong, he was a low down shallow skunk who didn’t deserve another moments thought. ‘Love? Huh, must have been crazy!’
The truth of the matter was that Adam had been there almost every morning, afternoon and evening. He had been there, outside her room, more or less every day since Poppy was flown back to England. His time at the hospital consisted mostly of sitting, hiding and trembling. He was simply distraught, resulting in him eating very little, letting his personal hygiene go to pot and thick smelly plaque grow out of control on his normally perfect white teeth. He would have changed places with Poppy in an instant without hesitation. He had watched several people enter Poppy’s room and after a while, leave, with very disturbed looks on their faces. Poppy’s Mother did her best to persuade Adam to go in and see her daughter but his response was always the same.
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