Any form of Government is inherently stupid. A Government is not an intelligent thing. Look at history. Some are smarter then others but every smart one still makes stupid mistakes. The stupidity of a government, of course, depends on the stupidity of the people that work for it. This 'idiots in power to stupidity' ratio churns through all humyn events. We are living in the grip of the stupidity ratio even now. Oh sure, in our futuristic era people of Government take all the best smart drugs, the latest lami-to-your-head enhancements, buy the most intelligent pants, suffer the fad-est brain diets to better govern the other idiots, it makes no difference to the ratio.

Since the triple economy money is no longer a problem, yet Governments still find many ways to express their stupidity. In architecture for example, like the structure I stand in the shadow of. What is the source of the human fascination with living in huge tall cubes stacked vertically? The residents of this idiotic monstrosity don't live here because they are fascinated with elevator travel, they live here because they are the 'not poor' who have no choice. Cash your credits unwisely and you could live here in the stacks. It's not their stupidity that got them here it's the Governmental stupidity that thought the best place to put them is in tall cubed stacks.

“The zombots are loose on levels eighty five to ninety seven. We got them contained. Levels seventy five to one oh seven are quarantined zone. Floors seventy to seventy four and one oh eight to one eighteen are staging and support zones. We've cut holes between floors for better access.” Hard to make eye contact with this cop. He had a shifty look. I mean he kept shifting seven centimeters left then ten centimeters right like he was holo projecting his own image in some kind of doppelganger blink mode. He seemed to be somewhere in the middle of where he wasn't. Makes him hard to aim at I guess, though I don't think it would fool a pile of zombies; zombots, I don't know...

The other cops threw skeptical glances at Space. He looks all business in his new neon yellow anti-shark shuttle suit with the latest canine ETACs that could stun us all senseless instantly if things get iffy. Their worry: I think it's that he's still such a tiny puppy.

“The elevators only go twenty floors at a time.” Stupid. “You have to get off and board another for the next twenty floors.” So stupid. “Windows are out on the two floors where fires are burning. That section of sprinkler system was never hooked up properly.” Stupid, stupid!

“No one we know of has been eaten for the last two hours. We think they've gone dormant. It could be residual 'end of shift/recharge' mode programming. But we don't know for sure but we are going in anyway.” And how is that not stupid? I mean the way he said it: two 'but'-s in a row!

Monsieur Coiola here...” introduced by glove-less handshakes to all within reach; more stupid bacteria trading, “represents the city office that designed this row of the development”. He doesn't look stupid. He has a plan:

“I'm sure we can get in and go anywhere through the ventilation duct-works.” So often in ancient cinema this proves stupid.

To the NA army uniform wearer at my side: “You're sure she's in there?” I give the wall a nod.

“Oh yes. She was broadcasting telemetry with comments until two hours ago. We know right where she was then.”

“What? Are you no longer in contact?”

“Well, her batteries must have gone dead. Soon as she can recharge we're certain she will have coms up.”

Recharge...sure...stupid.

Traci is in this gigantic cube grid people box somewhere trying to stomp out a new kind of zombie nest; this time 'zombots'. Half biologic maid bots have been infected somehow to hijack their diet to crave human brains. Is it in their programming? Was it a virus? Digital or biological? Inevitable is what it is. Stack thousands of people like this and eventually there will be zombies. Only difference this time is the zombies are half robot.

Her coms were pinging two hours ago when she called me in orbit. It was shaky holo. My audio wasn't getting through to her, lagged out or lost. She said to get here quick. So we did.

This is not the first outbreak in the mega complex's. Domestic tech has gone rogue from time to time. The modern ambi-aide personal servants are more then half made of genetically engineered bio hardware to make them more market-ably humyn-like. Read the warranty. Accepting terms of use might exclude mutinous murderous tendencies in limited liability appliances. Strict quarantine followed by a thorough violent quanti-magnetic memory cleansing usually cuts down any vacancy period.

If it is a virus in the bio parts, that is just the thing to attract Traci.

We skip the six or seven elevators to fly up the seventy three floors in a bearcat right up to an assault platform attached to the building side at some blasted windows. The local police are well organized for action at urban altitude. Just in the wrecked living room we enter they have enough firepower to wipe out the whole city. Which is good. They might have to. A bot zombie breakout here could quickly spread across Tera. Everybody, even in cube towers has at least six of those slave machines; easy financing.

Faulty brain craving killer cleaning bots are one thing but when they can reproduce!... well, even the protos couldn't do that! One brain meal and your maidbot is creating thirty little copies of herself; small zombots that need a brain meal and corpse eating to assemble big enough to reproduce. Several thousand people were trapped on those quarantined floors, by now there could be many tens of thousands of big and small zombots waiting to burst upon the city.

“Madame Smule represents the manufacturer of many of the products malfunctioning in this area.” He waves over a sharp shuttle suited bright eyed womyn with some kind of staff on several active feeds. That's dedicated response to be here in person. Shows how much is at stake. No lawyers for the destroyed apartment dwellers lurking around yet.

“My clients built seventy three percent of the service devices applicable to the alleged malfunction. The rest are from several other sources that are defunct. The remainder home built with off the shelf parts”. Her top tech on holo takes over with a smiling goatee face:

“We think it's a worm in the brain package.”

“Like a malicious program that spreads itself?”

“No like a real worm. Vir tortille ….A wiggly one. Very tiny.”

Madame Smule nods in agreement. “Yes a swamp worm. A brain craving swamp worm.” By her smile I'm sure it is not a warranty issue.

Swamp worms huh... eighty floors up a Paris FN EU apartment stack. This makes it less stupid how?

The torn up apartments with gear scattered everywhere, the bored quarantine troops slouching everywhere, the loungi-cliners crammed against everything else, the darkened dusty shadowed spaces makes me pensive about brain worms. A Police medic techie has a solution:

“We've got a special helmet we are testing that makes it very difficult for the worms to reach the brain. It could give the wearer extra time for rescue.” It looked ridiculous. The anti-brain worm helmet was little more then a clear plastic bag tugged over the head secured around the neck with an elastic band. Frustrated worm infested zombots could watch the wearer suffocate.

“But... don't the worms attack the servi-bots and turn them into violent brain eaters?” I'm not the only one this occurs to.

“Well we're not sure. No one has survived an encounter long enough to check and report. The worms might try for us thinking we are bots also.”

“Better to wear the helmet then risk a brain worm.” This prudent person tries one on.

“But how do you breathe in that plastic bag?” If I'm gonna put one on my head there are things I got to know.

“Helmet use time limits are an issue. We are working to extend the service interval.” Which must be about three minutes. Prudent person starts a topple. Stupidity factor showing strong.

I am for gearing up. Space too. Our shuttle suit shark proof visor-ed hoods ought to detour casual brain worm exposure. Space's stun should knock out any kind of worm in range including intestinal.

I am now introduced to the leader of our group insertion. He seems a likely hero type, but... when someone yells 'BRAIN WORMS!' which way will he run?

 

It was early in the era of orbi-culture. Industrial farming in orbit included chicken satellites hosting millions of zero-G cluckers. That's where it started: chickens. Turned out chickens raised in zero-G did better if they weren't exactly alive. Actually almost completely biologically dead was the best chicken to grow. The dead chicken being already dead did not have to be protected from the diseases which usually attack only living chickens. Dead chicken did not have to be free range, which posed problems in space. Never alive chicken does not have to be treated as sentient beings and assured meaningful lives. This saves lots of money.

The market of the time, early orbi-culture, still required chicken to look chicken-like. The food industry process engineers worked hard at making the best solution cultured egg-less vat brooded space chicken meat. After awhile, the techies that ran the bots that cleaned the vats noticed lots of boneless chicken stuck to the insides of the vats. They had a culture that grew edible chicken cells on anything.

This changed tertiary farming forever. Oh, people still farm and ranch and practice animal husbandry, just no longer industrially, no longer using vast swaths of land. Hobby meat for gourmets is still big business. Dinner lives a full life before signing the waiver for the butcher. Today the really big meat is in space.

In orbit of our moon Luna.

Sheep-sats, cow-sats, chicken-sats, pig-sats, sats full of vats full of any kind-of meats anybody not a vegan or a cannibal would really want to eat. Though there are rumors...

Custom Cultures Limited Laboratory satellite factory is a huge series of jacketed tanks strapped together behind a solar collector array in an antennae forest. This place brews the soupy living milk of cells all the dead meat needs to grow. Our spacecraft mob zipping into it's orbit looked like insects buzzing a gigantic spiny corpse. The French EU Frigate a warlike hummingbird to all the mosquitoes of space of Bearcats and cubs and Katska's and handi-cabs full of lawyers.

Our assault fleet is outnumbered by the space tankers, freighters, lined up in spirals of waiting to load or unload. Vans very like the one Kermit flew to Luniplas Crater Seven line a parking ledge. The great thing about the pilot-less remote controlled Bearcub is I sit up front in the pilot seat, with the big front window to look out of. Room for me and Space, Traci and Bette, and the Librarian. How come my blue one didn't have four seats up front like this? I ask the launch tank of marstini at my hand.

The person in the shock sack laid out... well, anywhere, set the Bearcub down in the row of delivery vans on the ledge of a long oblong structure. Airlock intact we disembark in 'blast em!” mode. It is a pleasant stroll through typical space business decor to the typical space factory 'control center'. Control of this operations podule secured by already re-promoted Captain No Chaos Here who somehow beat us to control.

Here too the staff are zombies. Only two, captured with the locking hatch's by corporate security from remote. No survivors to stun.

The Custom Cultures securities have great vid of Dr Kermit stealing the van. He loaded the zombie bomb bottle into it from the handi-cab he arrived here in. He brought it in the cab from somewhere... ? How did he zombiefy these two hapless employees? Why did they let him in the podual?

Traci: “Food delivery. Zombie bomb bottle identical to the Luniplas device. Vid being analyzed.” Troops carrying with poles a bubbled bottle squeezed past us toward the door.

Librarian: “The delivery van has been sighted. Parked at a 'Stucky's Rest Satellite' halfway to Balance Station.”

Me: “Is he inside having breakfast? They make a great waffle.”

Bette: “We are dropping a bubble bag over the whole orbital. Let god sort them all out!”

Me: “'God'?”

Traci: “Our new testing protocol: G.O.D. 'good or dead'.”

The Smiling Nose by glitchy holo: “Gegenspieler was there just after the office opened for the morning brought coffee and pastries and a zombie bomb. The Seattle police are after him.” He stands no chance against their doughnut fueled persistence.

Seattle Police Deputy Chief Sorenson: “We've got him! He rents three floors of University Marina tower. The site is surrounded.” Vid shows hundreds of police in bubble suits crouched for action behind all available cover.

Me: “Lets go!” But I'm no longer in charge of my transportation. This Bearcub with the up front seating is on Traci's signature.

Traci: “Lets go!”

Me: “hey suit whats up with all the sub-titles?”

Suit: “Boop”.

George McGeorge, Ginsberg and Cohen Space Taylor's by audio only: static “Today is upgrade Tuesday.” unintelligible “Your suit is having” static “bandwidth restrictions.” Is that a dig at my waist line?. ”Perhaps if you hung it up somewhere with good ping speed.”

 The Reason ???

These zombie outbreaks are beginning to look like the result of several different motivators each using the others. I don't think voters was the primary objective. Lots of shady business can be wrung from 'secret'. So far the only thing left out of all the evil is a cult.

Is a person a semi-autonomous dust collection system? Is the ability to map a house full of furniture sentience? Is asking your intelligent doorknob to let you in and you killing it with a hammer when it refuses, murder? How many embedded humyn brain cells does it take to make a domestic maintenance product that can vote or sit on a jury? Valid questions anytime for battling liability lawyers. Now add zombies.

Why would anyone want to destabilize entire regions with zombie outbreaks? Why spend a decade building, involve hundreds of contractors, employ thousands of people, pour in billions of monets? That old investigators rule applies here: 'follow the money':

Last Bank of the Apocalypse or as it is best known L.B.A. or also Lambda Bravo Associates LLC is a religious organization as a churchy financial institution. There are lots of 'for profit' religions. Some are even banks. The for profit status makes them cut off from most government support and the subsequent scrutiny. As long as they can dodge the taxes they are left to prosper. Trading in apocalyptic futures keeps many financial institutions busy. Last Bank of the Apocalypse is founded by 'prophecy' with the intent to wring every profit possible to the very last moment of the universe, which they are betting could be any minute now. The zombie horde breeders used LBA exclusively for all monetary transactions. Many of the authorized disperser-s and receivers were also officers of either the main cathedral bank or of the many local bank branch churches.

Today is actually this banks/churches last day in the universe. It has been seized by several governments afflicted by zombies. A doom cloud of jurisdictions has descended from orbits. A veritable plague of hungry lawyers and sharp eyed accountants. Three Librarians have aimed their brigades of uniformed combat financial forensic assault documenters' directly at their ecumenism.

“The futures market is rough on apocalyptic pseudo realities. It's a big investment to survive an upturn. It takes even ever more of other peoples money to spark a bullish apocalyptic event horizon.” Combat Forensic Economic Liaison is very convincing in her unrelenting gorgeousness.

“So they are a cult of ruthless bankers bent on a profitable total 'end of the world' domination.” Not the first in history. Researchers and Librarians know historically these types eat each other through their innate treachery making them ultimately unsuccessful though sadly sometimes millions of innocent people die. Trotting out armies of zombies is a new twist.

The cathedral bank seems a rational sort of business place. Mostly room after room of softly humming faux computer stuff. My lovely liaison should be glad she's a holo image. They wouldn't let me enter without a thoroughly painful credit check. I arrived early before seizure during the brief 'open' hour for walk-in old fashioned prayer/interest before the bearcats dropped snarling the traffic for blocks at all flight levels. Helen got a great parking spot on the corner. My space tanker business with Uncle Klaus has paid off here. I'm sure they know there will be lots of scrap to sell off after any profitable apocalypse. Got to clear the ruble before building a suitable religious utopia.

My favorite chamber of the edifice was through the double doors labeled 'The Gates of Hell' where certain bank customers could cower before flames and sign the loan lami with blood samples.

We were not here to sign. Space was here to pee, which his suit aimed at the base of the fake flames holo. I was here to slap the warrants and the subpoenas on the whoever was whoever from teller to bishop. My Librarians Legion espace hits every branch not already in hell. Though there is no worse hell for any bank then to be scrutinized by the French.

Of course we find there is no living humyn person here in the cathedral. The door behind the gates of hell leads only into the alley.