Free Ruin Nation by Dan Carver

waste-not-want-not operation,” he says. “In times gone by, we are sewing them onto the dogs at tobacco research laboratories. The dog had no opposable thumbs, you will remember. It could not be holding its cigarette in a dignified manner. But now the dog is extinct. So we are taking the arms and are grinding them up into a highly nutritious, high-protein milkshake which we are feeding directly back to the soldiers. They are needing a lot of protein. You would be needing it too, if you were trying to grow back an arm.”
    “I’ve always believed in recycling,” says Malmot. “And your success rate?”
    “Hmm,” Holubec says, “Limited for the moment. Partial regeneration in two percent of test subjects.”
    “How partial?”
    “Very Partial. Quite minimal. Almost non-existent. But we are working on a new incentive scheme and are expecting to be seeing more positive figures soon.”
    “Incentives?”
    “Yes. We understand the military mentality, you see. We are documenting its tendency toward criminality. Rather than to suppress it, we are choosing to be accepting and exploit it; to work with what we have been given. Freedom from prosecution for one illegal act. A form of getting-out-of-jail-free card for one pre-planned, pre-agreed crime for the first soldier showing indisputable signs of regeneration.”
    “And who did you arrange this with?” he asks.
    “We have an agreement with The Policing Company . We assist with their prisoner sterilisation projects and they, shall we say, do us small favours in return.”
    Malmot nods. He smiles – outwardly. The inward view's a little less rosy as our arch-conspirator considers he's been cut out of the conniving by his own coppers. Or one copper in particular. But we'll go into that later.
    “So, these crimes?” he enquires. “What sort of things do the fiends go for?” Holubec guides him through a pair of dirty-olive doors into a packed ward. He points at a sleeping soldier.
    “Well,” he starts, “cutting off the limbs is never particularly popular. Especially without permission. So you will be unsurprised to discover that the majority of their criminal intentions are aimed towards me, myself. Private Chippen, there – you see: fat, snoring man. He is simplistic mammal. Barely sentient. Chippen is wanting to beat me round the head, to my death, with my own legs. Other fellow there, with the moustache and the beady eyes – frankly, he is very sick. He requests intercourse with my mother whilst I am forced to watch.
    “And that doesn’t bother you?”
    “Hah no! My mother was cremated many years ago and now resembles the contents of an ashtray. He will experience no sexual pleasure, just gritty chafing.” 
    At the far end of the ward, shrouded in shadow, sits a lone soldier, motionless in a dirty towel dressing gown.
    “What’s wrong with him?”
    “He is dead,” Holubec answers.
    “Dead?”
    “Yes. But we do not bury him because losing part of the team is bad for morale.”
    “Isn’t it bad for morale staring at a dead body morning, noon and night?” says Malmot, displaying some form of empathy for once.
    “Oh, they do not know he is dead,” says Holubec. “We have had him embalmed and a urine-dispensing pump fitted. The others avoid him because he stinks of the wee, yes?”
    “A urine pump? Your own invention, of course?”
    “No. Strange to declare, it is, how you say, off-the-peg model. That is the joy of the Internet.”
    “Yes,” replies Malmot simply, recalling his own adventures in cyberspace. Then something catches his eye. “Blue urine?”
    “It is the agency temps,” Holubec blusters, “they have the sick sense of humour and the morals of jackals. I try to stop them but they …”
    “I don’t care,” says Malmot. “As long as the deeds you do for me deliver the results I require, you can sleep safe, knowing that your weird antics remain your own business. My soul concern is that you help me with my idiot.”Holubec