2.22: Lysergic Adam: Orchestrating Spin War
Sygre and Scroot were over a hundred meters downstem in the axel, and even they were garnering a sickly pinkish airbrushed quality to their visages. Syrge was watching the action through some analog binoculars made of real polished glass. They were old and the two focal points were out of alignment so he either had to close one eye or suffer blurring effects. Scroot was watching the whole thing on twelve tiny screens on his lap display. His tiny t-rex robot arms tapping away in a hyper metronomic fashion.
“Scroot, my dear friend, Vince has regained custody of Lovely Lisa. Poor Vince looks like his head is about to explode. I don’t know if you have noticed, but there are less Papal Investigation Guerilla Soldiers flowing into the theatre. We may be about to see their next move.”
Scroot rolled his head to face Syrge as a base acknowledgement, but his eyes never paused in their REM like observations of his monitor’s sub-screens. Tk tk tk tk tk tktk tk tktktk tk tk tktk. His tiny arms never ceasing.
“While we wait, I have thought of some captions for your brilliant background footage here. If you will allow me.”
Scroot’s metal arms speeded up for twelve second then stopped. The lapboard extended out and turned so that Syrge could reach it.
“Thank you sir,” he began to type, “I know how much your keyboard means to you. You are more of a brother to me than any genetic similarity could supply.”
Syrge finished quickly and relinquished control of the keyboard back to it’s owner. He quickly picked up the increasingly bloody binoculars, wiping them with a part of the back of his tie that was not covered in floating gore. The giant black wall images of The Man Who Ate Japan and the last two slum sphere culls continued to loop uninterrupted, in spite of the best techs on the station’s best efforts. Now large green lettering became visible on the screens.
“This man used technology to become this monster and destroy our planet. He still lives on this station,” scrolled across the scenes of the monster destroying the city.
“To control population size, the slum sphere is opened into space roughly every 50 years. Armies of memory erasing nanites are released into the rest of the station to erase our memories of what has occurred. All of the lowest income families from the midspheres are rendered unconscious and transported to the slum sphere to re-populate it. The next cull is due within five years,”pulsed in block letters over the scenes of corpses floating in space.
Syrge leaned back. He was braced between a girder and a sign for a slave monkey seller that read, “Must Have Moist Monkey Meat Tech! Marvel!”
“That ought to force their next move sooner than later… I know you’re a wonder my brother, but I’m honestly astounded that you’ve kept those images up there this long. Don’t ever change Scrootsie.”