Marlowe Kana (Book 1 Volume 1)

by Joe Peacock

engagement metrics on the Feeds from tonight and from the past three months are any indication, I am doing the job granted me by the people of this great nation! Now, if you'll excuse me, ladies and gentlemen of the Board, I need to address the Citizens -- my employers -- about the events that have just unfolded." 

  "Steven!" Chairman Davis said, just before his Feed was cut off along with the rest of the Board members’. 

  President Steve Cook sighed heavily as the lights brightened and the wall screens faded to white. He closed his eyes and inhaled deeply through his nose. He counted to ten, and then slowly exhaled through his mouth. Centered and calm, he approached the doorway of his studio. It slid open as he walked toward it. 

  “Marcus,” he said, addressing his assistant who sat just outside the studio.

  “Sir?”

  “I need you to personally create a FeedRelease announcing an emergency CookTalk. Make it public...general admission based on the Citizen Lottery System. Doors open at nine p.m., I'll begin speaking at nine-thirty. Make the slogan something like…‘Back To The Top.’ and make sure the word ‘Top’ is underlined. Three times. The fans will love deciphering that.”

  “Yes, sir,” Marcus said. He gestured his hands upward and began typing on a light array that appeared before him. "That's a very short turnaround... Do you need me to page the writing staff?"

  “No, I've got this one. Any vital messages?” President Cook asked as he made his way briskly toward the exit.

  “Well, Chairman Davis called back the second you hung up on him, but I'm sure you expected that."

  Cook nodded. "Anything else?"

  Marcus scanned his other screen. "A few Anons claim to have information on Marlowe's whereabouts...none appear credible. One just says ‘Post your Ballsack.’ And the dancing cat GIF you liked is back again.”

  Cook rubbed his chin pensively. "Reblog the cat. Ignore the rest." 

  "Yes, sir," Marcus answered as the President left to address the nation.

  4. The Best Laid Plans...

  Marlowe felt the weight of the magnetically locked cuffs that wrapped around her wrists and ankles. She felt the heft of the cable that connected the restraints and kept her from standing completely straight. She felt the strain of every single muscle fiber in her body, both natural and augmented as they sagged, heavy from malnutrition and fatigue. She felt her head throb with every weak heartbeat. Her eyes pulsed as the capillaries expanded and contracted. 

  She could smell propellant and gunpowder on the soldiers who rode along with her in the truck -- scents that she remembered during her tours overseas in the Gaslands, fighting the many terrorist organizations that threatened the United American State’s way of life. Smells that could only come from black market weaponry used by deserters who had turned against the organization she spent her adult life serving, to rescue her from a prison sentence for a crime they believe she didn't commit. As a loyal MilSec soldier, she should despise them. But on that same token, they were the reason she was in a civilian vehicle and not sitting in a jail cell in the Citadel. Why they were helping her, she didn't know. Maybe they were terrorists, or maybe they were just an overzealous faction of her fan club. Marlowe surmised that when you're surrounded by strangers with guns, confined in binds and completely malnourished, there was very little difference between a rescue and a kidnapping. 

  But at least her ass was no longer numb.

  Her thoughts began to drift as she contemplated the events of the past few months. It seemed to her that the chaos of her current circumstances was a natural progression of her entire screwball life. Even from a young age, it felt to her like every single shortcoming of hers had been on public display. As an "illegal child" -- a child of a non-native Citizen -- adopted by a revered MilSec General and his celebrity actress wife, Marlowe faced immediate and overwhelming fame and was put on every gossip-related NewsFeed from babyhood onwards. And of course, it ensured that her childhood became a highly rated Feed show.  

  Her early draft by the UAFL at age fourteen made her a celebrity in her own right, until she was banned from the league in the middle of her third year for "undisclosed augmentations" -- which had come as a shock to her, since she'd always presumed her uncanny speed and strength were simply the gifts of talent and genetics. No one had ever thought to test her for nanofiber muscular augmentations, because no one knew that they even existed. 

  If it wasn’t for the full-body scan she was subjected to on the return trip home from an exhibition game at the island resort in Oz, they probably never would have. A measure typically used to detect terrorists and their smuggled weapons ended up nearly bankrupting the League after allegations of Marlowe's augmentations being purposely covered up for ratings ran rife. 

  To discover she was an Aug through a SportFeed press release was crippling, and not knowing how or why she acquired them made life downright debilitating. Depression and a suicide attempt kept her out of the public eye until she was eighteen, when she was finally able to enlist in MilSec,one of only a few hundred non-criminals to willingly serve, which itself was NewsFeed worthy. It was one of her father's better ideas. Her subsequent success as a soldier made all of the misery worth it, despite the fact that it kept her in the public eye. For ten years, her Feed grew from a few thousand casually curious Citizens who were curious if the General's kid could live up to his legacy, to nearly half the nation who felt she had far surpassed it. Multiple wins on Next Top Soldier and then becoming the first active-service soldier to be inducted into the MilSec Hall of Fame justified her wretched path to the top. Fame irritated her, but rubbing her success in the face of her detractors somehow made it all worth it.  

  Then the "incident" occurred.

  Thanks to an inept lawyer, a court-martial, missing evidence, and a tribunal that seemed utterly dismissive of what the most decorated and respected soldier in MilSec history had to say for herself, that high had come crashing down around her, as if it was fated. And now she found herself in a car with traitors, on the run from the service she'd spent the last ten years of her life working for -- a life that was now ruined.   

  However, she had to admit, the break from the chaos of watching her entire life erode around her -- yet again -- was nice. And despite the insanity of the past day of being carted around her hometown of Atlanta in shackles by various groups in various vehicles, and the weeks of courtroom visits, teams of lawyers, and the months of solitary confinement in the Citadel military prison...she was actually enjoying this moment. Chaos was her normal state. She wasn't locked in a box. She was still alive. And, for better or for worse, at least things were interesting again. 

  A chirp from Jacobs's FeedMeter echoed through the vehicle. 

  “Holy… ten million…” Jacobs said from the front passenger seat. “Half of the Nation is watching us!”

  “Oh for fucks' sake, blondie…” The driver said from behind the strangely camouflaged bandanna pulled over his mouth. He shook his head, and his long, dreadlocked ponytail shifted. "Quit obsessing over that shit. And besides, ten million is only a quarter of the nation, you idiot."

  “Whatever," Jacobs answered. "Can you believe it? I'm...I mean, WE are famous!”

  “No, we are not famous, and you aren’t either,” said the other MilSec soldier-turned-traitor, who was sitting next to Marlowe in the back seat. Her chin-length auburn hair spilled out from under her helmet as she lifted it from her head. She nodded toward Marlowe. “She's the famous one. We’re just along for the ride. Don’t get it twisted.” 

  “Yeah, yeah, Angel,” Jacobs answered, “Ten million people are watching us right now!” 

  The driver of the vehicle suddenly reached over and placed his hand on Jacobs’s camera, twisted it off the harness and ripped it from his chest.

  “Dude! What the fuck, Poet?!” Jacobs yelled.

  “This isn’t about your goddamn FeedMeter rank, man!” Poet said as he rolled the window down and tossed out the camera. It clattered and clanged as
it bounced along the road. "You're not even supposed to be broadcasting right now. People are supposed to find us organically."

  “But we have to get the message out,” Jacobs said.

  “Now’s not the time,” Angel shouted from the backseat. 

  "Oh, like it's your call?" Jacobs said. "You outranked me in MilSec, Corporal, but in this operation--"

  "--In this operation, we follow the plan," Angel interjected. "Don’t get ahead of yourself.” 

  "I came up with the damn plan!" Jacobs snapped. "I know what we are doing! It's my plan!"

  "Sure," Poet said from the driver's seat. "This was one hundred percent 'Operation: Jacobs's Idea,' wasn't it? Oh wait, except for the escape that I planned, or the overwatch that Angel provided, or the heavy artillery that Pariah chucked at the transport, or --"

  "Whatever!" Jacobs said. "You specialists do your specialist crap, I get it. That's your job. Mine was to make it all happen."

  "Just because you volunteered to be in the transport with the target doesn't make you the leader," Angel said as she removed her tactical gloves and stretched her