“This is all that we are, all that we’ll be, nothing and everything––so just accept it.”
I must have repeated that line in my head a hundred times before killing someone as I pulled the trigger. A familiar motto all the Sweepers had drilled into their brains upon joining the force, and––probably––the only one they’d truly need, ‘cause lets face it, this is a shit job and we’re shitty people. We are the last face anyone will ever see as they are snuffed out. Why is that? Well, let me give you the quick rundown and sum it up as best I can.
Since the various countries around the world needlessly spent every bit of money they had, placing themselves into substantial and rather crippling debt, the collapse of each government was inevitable. That’s when the corporations took control. The wealthy elite stepped in, boasting themselves as ‘the saviours of Earth’, they used their own money and influence to correct the problems that were left. Bunch of assholes. What do they know about solving human problems?
Apparently, nothing it seems. You need to be human first to understand it. They don’t qualify anymore, no human would do this to another, just pricks siting behind a desk with dead eyes. Money rules this world, let’s not kid ourselves here, those heads of industry lived, breathed and shit money. Had any of them produced a spark of consciousness or compassion (for that matter), they might have inspired future generations and saved our planet a long time ago. Human kind would have lived in utopia, free of corruption, living in peace and harmony once and for all.
Instead, they resorted to same old devilry of worshiping the almighty dollar, thinking only about profits, and mainly about themselves. It was only a matter of time before some genius felt the need to get rid of poor completely, and keep the ones willing to shell out as much as they could, until, that is, they became just as poor and were removed as well. But how do you keep them in line? Or stop a rebellion or uprising? Well, there was the other thought someone had… Sweepers.
Sweepers is more of a moniker bestowed on us by the public. Probably because it means we’re ‘sweeping them under the rug’ for the Alliance. The real designation from the NCCEA is: Special Removal Division Officers. Isn’t that fucking cute? I personally don’t care what they call us. The people call us murderers and sell outs. But hey, if the job keeps me alive, and if I didn’t have it, I’d be deemed a ‘waste on resources’ just like those poor saps and be eliminated too. So fuck them. I like living as much as the next guy. That’s how one survives in this world.
All there is now is trying to remain alive or succumbing to a bitter death; we’re just rats fighting for survival on the biggest garbage heap in the cosmos. Earth was a nice place, once, or so I was told. The world once had big blue rolling oceans, lush green trees and grass. The food was plentiful and the air was fresh. Sounds nice. So where is it now? Well, that’s the problem isn’t it? No one to blame but ourselves for losing all that shit. I wouldn’t even know what a tree actually look like. Okay, sure, yah…there’s books and movies that show them. Not that there’s many of those left either. But to physically touch it or stand in front of one for real? Naw, never did that. My days growing up on this big trashy muck-ball had any of that in it. The oceans are not blue, more like grey, and trees and grass? Just folklore to my generation, concrete and dirt, that’s all we see. And the air? Well, if smelling rotting death and shit in the wind is your idea of fresh, then… welcome to the good life my friend.
* * *
Enough about the world now, I’ve given enough of the description necessary, no need to paint a picture that doesn’t deserve it. Besides, I’m focused on where I’m at right now, standing in the rain, in some dismal back alley over one of my assignments, or “removals”, if you will. The stupid fuck that thought he could hide in the old sewers, as if he could live there forever and not get found. What a twit––you can’t hide from satellite recons, robots with sensors and tech that see in the dark! Geez!
I hate trying to dig them out. They always start running, and then I’ve got to go after them. The ones that stay put and know were coming are the best in my opinion. But this guy here, scrawny little bastard, he made me run in the rain for twenty fucking minutes. Good riddance douche bag! As stood over his body, which was still twitching after I shot him in the head from my phase gun, I wondered what my life would have been like if I was them. Would I be running and hoping to get away before I could be found? Or just be one of those who would accept it?
But those kind of thoughts quickly go away. After all, I’m doing what I’m best at, better that guy then me, right? As I scan the identity of the deceased with my TR4 Foldable Pocket Tracer, a round silvery robot drone hovered down from above and unfolded behind me. It suddenly linked to my TR4 and uploaded the information. It must have been relatively close to my position to be so damn quick. Normally it takes them several minutes, time enough to frisk the body for any valuables or Bit-cards I could use to buy a drink. Course that’s frowned upon by SRD, but they’ll look away so long as you don’t violate the terms of your employment; spending it for sexual activities or extra rations of food would be an immediate removal of yourself. And yet, they let us drink till we can’t stand… interesting. Seems like a good way to keep us motivated, I suppose.
I heard that a few officers tried to buy drugs with their found wealth––I mean, sure––they’re easy to buy enough, but is it really worth becoming a liability with that and ultimately destroying your usefulness. Removal comes quick for those contract breakers. Most of the officers know how to balance it just enough to stay in the game. I don’t want that shit though. My life is complicated enough, it’s not worth throwing it away for that.
Alcohol will do the trick fine for the time being. At least it helps to blur the memory of the day and all the faces of the kills haunting me in my dreams. Yeah, I do feel pity for them and it affects my sleep. I’m not a complete monster (despite what some would think of me). So many pleas for mercy, so many haunted looks as I end them; I wonder why I just don’t pull the trigger on myself and end the suffering I’m in as well. Fuck that, I want a better life. I want to get out of here and move up to the elite status.
This tale has been unlawfully obtained from Royal Road. If you discover it on Amazon, kindly report it.
The Elite Status is the goal of many a Sweeper. After serving time and filling the required “removal ratio”, we get to ride up the huge constructed spire that connects from the surface to the orbital platform. In that haven, we get to spend the rest of our days in the lap of luxury. I’ve only known a few Sweepers that got the chance to head up that way. I don’t know how they did it, personally, only that they’re up there, on that planetary platform of happiness. Drinking tons of booze, eating as much as they could or want, and having tons of sex with the rest of the privileged rich people that live there. They’re up there, and I’m still stuck down here on this shit fest.
“Scanning complete, proceed to next phase.” The hovering robotic-dick said to me.
“Huh? Oh right…” I muttered. Must have been too busy in thought to notice it there. The gun I had was linked to the robot, so I just spoke into it. “Harding 110289, Ready for second phase.”
“Voice verified” My weapon replied in a cheerful chirp. “You have permission to commence second phase.”
I don’t know who created these pulse blasters we have, but they did a really crappy job of finding the right voice to match this thing. Not only was it the most annoyingly chipper kind, but it sounded like someone talking through a tin can. And to ask permission to activate? Come on, really? I can’t even shoot the damn gun without getting permission to do so, let alone change the setting. Probably another reason I can’t just blow my brains out. It might have protocols to prevent that just in case we get the notion. I pointed the pulse gun back to corpse and finished the job. The second phase on the gun has a bit of a kick to it. Energy weapons of this kind tend to be too powerful. I mean the first one kills for sure, the second gets rid of the corpse, but I’m not sure if I really want to see what the third final setting would do. Never really needed it.
I braced for the shot and pulled the trigger. Can you still call it a trigger anymore? Triggers are thing of the past. All it has is some stupid button where a trigger should be. Designers, man, they love simplification. I turned away after the shot incinerated the body, the smoke from it always seemed to waft my way. The smouldering after vaporization always happens,. I really hate getting that odour in my nostrils. It’s funny though, not matter how many times I’ve done it, I always find it fascinating to watch; a quick flash of fiery red and then instantly gone. I glanced up to make a comment to the robot, as if it would even acknowledge my witty observation, but it had already taken off to the sky again. Typical, they don’t hang around too long after the scan is done.
Why do we needed these floating drone-bots anyway. Other than to verify the kill, or uplink to our weapon for the settings, why are they necessary at all? Is it added insurance that their phase gun wielding Sweepers don’t try to rebel? Maybe… I guess. That’s the corporation mind for you. I gave bot my usual salute of goodbye (middle fingers are still the best), good thing they don’t get offended about human gestures, and with nothing left on my removal list, my day was done. Time for a drink. Looks like a long walk back to my vehicle.
Oh fuck! I forgot where I left it.
* * *
After searching for a few hours, trying to remember where I left the vehicle (exactly), and walking through the many abandoned old streets and side areas, I came to a section that I should have noticed right away. Once I took stock in where I was, it sparked in my brain and I cursed loudly.
“Aw Shit, I’m in Gutterville…”
Oh fuck ya, Gutterville, that’s what the locals here call the sector, and trust me, you do not want to be left alone for a second in this place. It looked exactly how it was named. Acid rain had done a great job on destroying the facade of the old stonework of the buildings, and even the old roads of the streets looked like a construction paver’s worst nightmare. It probably was impressive in it’s hey-day, and you might still think so, if you overlook the mounds of trash, and littered bricks and debris everywhere. And if you didn’t mind the noxtious odour of… well… I don’t really want to know what that is, not that I care too. But you get the point, it’s not a pretty place to hang about and certainly I for one do not want to stick around.
If you’re not fighting off the gangs trying to rob or rape you, the ones that have become full-on cannibals will pop out and see to it you’ve found a place to stay… in their bellies. A sweet treat like me would no doubt hit the spot. I made sure I stayed in the more well-lit areas and tried to remain a quiet as possible. Hopefully, everyone was still full from their last victims and sleeping it off.
Being in the outer edge of the city is more like being in your worst nightmare. The further inward you go and the more pleasant the company. I mean it is still a crappy city, everyone is in it for themselves. I can’t blame them. It is survival of the fittest out here after all. But I prefer to be the one coming out on top.
It took me awhile to remember where I parked that car, I mean, it’s always the last place you’d suspect. Geez, you’d think a vehicle with an AI brain would know I’m lost and come looking for me. But no, I have to go find it. I shouldn’t complain, most can’t afford these types of vehicles nowadays. Luckily the Sweeper force tends to provide for all that. We get a car, a gun, an apartment and even a fully stocked mini-bar. Not bad, not bad at all…
“There you are, fucker!” I said, noticing the car right away. It stuck out like a sore thumb in the dreary bleakness that surround it. But I was pleased to find it, nonetheless. This banged up black and red cruiser still worked pretty well over the years. The hover-jets sound like they need some work, but I’ll put in for a repair request when I can afford it. “Open up, sweetie, daddy’s home.”
The AI awoke and slide the door back for me. I sat in middle area in the back and put my feet up on the dash. Driver seats weren’t a requirement anymore, but they did have them there, folded in the floor if you wanted. Being in here is like your second home. It tends to fill up with personal stuff and lots of take out ration bags. But I don’t mind. It’s been ten years to the day I became a Sweeper. I was quite young actually. Like around sixteen or something. Never knew any other kind of life. They found me as a child in a house outside the city. Houses were rare since the collapse and people went nuts burning down every home they could set their sights on. The NCCEA tends to recruit children from time to time to replenish the stock of officers. They provided for my edcuation till I was around twelve, weapon trained by fifteen and then I was provided a sector to patrol by sixteen or seventeen. Can’t remember which year really… I’m just gonna round to the closest age.
Yes-sir, I was on my way and living the life of certified executioner. Can’t tell me that won’t mess you up. Well, I was just glad to still be alive and getting paid for what I do. I closed my eyes, leaned back in the seat and instructed the car to “get me the hell out of here”.