by Liam Clay
THE LIVE SOLDIER TRILOGY
This is a work of fiction. Similarities to real people, places, or events are entirely coincidental.
THE LIVE SOLDIER TRILOGY
First edition. April 11, 2020.
Copyright © 2020 Liam Clay.
Written by Liam Clay.
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
BOOK 1: LIVE SOLDIER
PROLOGUE
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 18
CHAPTER 19
CHAPTER 20
CHAPTER 21
CHAPTER 22
CHAPTER 23
CHAPTER 24
CHAPTER 25
CHAPTER 26
CHAPTER 27
CHAPTER 28
CHAPTER 29
CHAPTER 30
CHAPTER 31
CHAPTER 32
CHAPTER 33
CHAPTER 34
CHAPTER 35
EPILOGUE
BOOK 2: WAR STAR
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 18
CHAPTER 19
CHAPTER 20
CHAPTER 21
CHAPTER 22
CHAPTER 23
CHAPTER 24
CHAPTER 25
CHAPTER 26
CHAPTER 27
CHAPTER 28
CHAPTER 29
BOOK 3: DARK ARMY
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 18
CHAPTER 19
CHAPTER 20
CHAPTER 21
CHAPTER 22
CHAPTER 23
CHAPTER 24
CHAPTER 25
CHAPTER 26
CHAPTER 27
CHAPTER 28
CHAPTER 29
CHAPTER 30
CHAPTER 31
CHAPTER 32
CHAPTER 33
CHAPTER 34
CHAPTER 35
CHAPTER 36
NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR
REVEAL #1
REVEAL #2
THE ANTIVERSE
THE ANNOYING TEASER
BOOK 1: LIVE SOLDIER
PROLOGUE
I’ve just passed the 140th floor when the elevator dies. Its interior has been designed to mimic a womb - and so when the door melts away in rivulets of liquid steel, I feel like a newborn getting my first glimpse of the world. Then a man steps through the gap. He is armored in black, armed with a whisper stick, probably under contract with a rival cartel. It’s been a while since I’ve had to fight anyone. But for reasons I’d rather not get into, that will not be a problem.
He swings his weapon at me sidearm. Ducking the blow, I punch him in the balls on the off-chance he didn’t think to wear a cup. No such luck, though. The impact shivers up my arm and I jump back, barely avoiding a second attack. If we were lower down in the city, this guy would have shot me in the face, looted my corpse and gone for a cup of coffee by now. But up here, elevators receive the artist’s treatment and killing sprees are frowned upon. So instead of a quick headshot, I get to partake in this civilized display of hand-to-hand combat.
He eventually scores a solid hit to my right shoulder... and seems surprised when it has no effect. I hook a left into his gut and then kick him in the ankle, hard. He almost falls, re-evaluates his broader strategy, and launches himself at me. We go down together. I land on the bottom, whisper stick wedged between my back molars. But I hammer him in the oblique muscles until he rolls away, gasping for air. We regain our feet and begin to circle one another.
“How much are they paying you?” I ask, mostly to pass the time between exchanges. The man ponders my question.
“Not enough.” He replies through the voice modulator in his helmet.
“Want to call it a day, then? If anyone asks, I promise to say that you kicked my ass.”
“Really? You would do that for me?”
“Absolutely.”
“You know, I might just take you up on that. What should I tell my bosses, though? They’re expecting me to deliver a sample of that new shit you’re selling.”
“Say I didn’t have any on me.”
He nods thoughtfully, shifting his plant foot as he does so. But when he swings the whisper stick, I grab the thing and wrench it out of his hand. My first blow shatters his visor. Then I punch him square between the eyes. His limbs turn to rubber and he folds like a deck chair, slumping to the ground in a heap. For a few seconds I just stand there, breathing heavily through my mouth. Then I kneel down to deactivate the scrambler on his belt. The elevator hums back into life, and the numbers start to tick upward again.
141
142
143...
I suppose I should be pleased. An attack like this means that I’m doing something right. Making a name for myself at these levels, and so on. Try telling that to my loose teeth, though.
153
154
155...
The smart move would be to throw this guy down the elevator shaft. I could probably even make it look like an accident - not that anyone down below would care either way. But I kind of liked him and besides, murder would put me in a bad mood for the party.
165
166
167...
Now that I’m close, I can feel my personality start to shift. Up here, I have to bury my baser self. Up here, I have to become the character clients expect to meet. Up here, I have to sweat money, cry taste and bleed class.
177
178
179...
In other words, I have to act like a total asshole. Thankfully, that transformation is far easier than it used to be. The elevator reaches its destination, and I step out to ply my trade.
CHAPTER 1
If you’ve climbed this high up the spiral staircase of evolution, chances are you have a skill, a saving grace, something that will see you through life if you’re willing to leverage it. Sex is a good one. Or you might know how to lie, gamble, steal. And then there are those possessed of true intellect - or as I like to call them, bastards. Mine is to be a friend while you’re up, only to fade away when you fall, well clear of your publicized demise. You want specifics? Come now, of course you do.
I sell drugs.
Or a drug, to be specific. Other dealers have variety on offer, and that’s fine if you just want to bang out a buck in the mid-levels. But me, I’ve got loftier requirements. I may be confined to a single product, but I’m its sole brok
er, a walking talking patent. I know what this century’s true addiction is, you see. It cries out for exclusivity.
Wen shin’s party is a step up. Top floor of 180, six suites knocked into one, glass roofed with an open-air pool surmounting. A fresco of flesh watches over me as I run a circuit of the room. The skyline sprawls beyond the floor-to-ceilings, a collusion of acid etched concrete enfolded in shadows and toxic smog. Only here, in the stratosphere of the wealthy, can one escape the slow death that waits below. My soul for a view.
An old guard executive only slightly stage-left of the limelight, Wen doesn’t need holo-crowd to round out attendance. And what an attendance it is: producers, techs and talent, in descending order of importance. And where these whales swim, the social media feeder fish are never far behind. Lifestyle bloggers, product sponsorship pushers, professional reposters, profile consultants, influencers and even a few trolls for hire - they’ve all arrived at Wen’s in one vast, vapid school. I’ll often ply these latter masses to open the show, but tonight finds me on the hunt for a new Ladder. And I dropped more than a few credits on this invite (and almost got my teeth knocked out too) so now it’s fingers crossed I see a return on investment.
I find it in a quiet corner, smoking what looks like a real cigarette. Tall as me in her heels, beige mini skirt and blue mod-cotton blouse, a tumble of crawlspace black hair falling over sleek shoulders. I smile to see the golden key tattooed across her neck.
“You holding?” she drawls, freed smoke caressing rouged cheekbones. (In a city where lung capacity predicates social standing, the nicotine habit has become a rare indulgence. But that doesn’t stop it from looking cool as fuck on the right person.)
“Might be. You looking for yourself or on behalf of a client?”
“A client, high profile.” She replies a little too quickly. “I had everything lined up but my source just fell through. So, what you got?”
“A brand new product, like nothing you’ve tried before. Someone just tried to rob me for it, the stuff is so good.”
She appears less than mindblown by this claim. “You don’t say. What are we talking here: pill, powder, gel?”
“Liquid. Absorbed through the linked eye.”
This gets her attention. “It’s partially data driven?”
“That’s right.”
Frowning, she blinks out the cadence needed to bring up her chronometer. “Damn it. Alright, you’ve got yourself a deal.”
I allow myself a faint smile. “Terms?”
“Standard contra. You keep my client supplied for the evening, and we bring you along for the ride. Just don’t dose him unless I say. He’s bright and shiny new to the scene, this one - wouldn’t want to sink him on his maiden voyage.”
“Fair enough. And are we breaking the 200th floor on this little excursion?”
She responds with a sly shrug. “Can’t a girl have her secrets? Trust me, you won’t be disappointed.” Crushing her cigarette against the wall, she flicks it into the dark and walks away, calling over her shoulder as she goes. “Stay put five minutes and then come find me. He’s still a little jumpy; you’ll need to butter him up before we can make official introductions.”
I follow her after waiting the allotted time. Enroute, I pass a projection someone’s left tuned to network news. The caster is recounting a now-familiar tale: new rationing sanctions, the inevitable riot backlash, viral hysteria. A few years ago, I would have ignored the feed because it bored me, but now my disregard is more an act of will. I find the Key not much further on. She’s taken a seat in a triangular lounge arrangement, at sea amidst a vastness of polished tile floor.
I spot her Mark straight off.
He’s a tech, new indeed because I don’t recognize him, but on the rise without doubt. It’s only girls nearby so he’s either straight or with his clique, but probably the former since he looks slightly uncomfortable, like he knows that by rights there’s no place for him in this company. Which is true. Okay, stylistically he’s on message, I’ll give him that. Skinny jeans and a vintage dinner jacket, high end retcom tattoo adjacent his false eye. The problem is that he’s full white - a real faux pas in this age of boutique mixed heritage. But his entourage have the look of feeders about them, so they must sense a crack in celebrity’s glass floor. The Key has chosen well.
I thread a gap between couches and sit down beside her. As I settle in, a girl across from me stumbles to her feet and reels away, clutching at her mouth.
“Get a transplant already!” Someone shouts at her retreating back (there’s little patience for coughers at this elevation).
I have a knack for remaining unnoticed, and it’s worked again here with one notable exception. She’s older, maybe forty, and I could swear she’s never seen a surgeon’s chair, mad as that sounds. But she’s absorbing for all that. Spiked red hair swept into a curved ridge, black tights under a canary yellow sash belted in purple faux leather. She’s got eyes on me, a proper crosshairs sort of look, so intense that it takes a moment for the Mark’s words to filter through.
“...this Shion character could teach masterclasses in irony, buying up airtime to push his party’s anti-tech agenda.”
“Well he’s doing something right.” A girl pipes up, Irish accent probably affected. “If Korezon doesn’t solve the mid-levels food crisis soon, Shion’s Realists could actually make things interesting in the next election.”
The Mark’s mouth twitches downward; he probably thought his days of being contradicted were over. “The Korezon family has been in power for decades.” He says. “I hardly think some shadowy throwback with unknown funding sources is going to unseat them.
“Throwback or not, Shionic Realism is hot right now.” This from a model of the heroin chic varietal. “They say studio revenues are down half a point this quarter, first worldwide drop since O.D.”
Now it’s my turn to mask displeasure. O.D. is not a term I like to hear thrown around, never mind that she’s talking about oil decline and not overdose.
“Those statistics are unverified.” The Mark replies. “And the Realists can posture all they want - everyone knows that Opacity would die without the industry.”
My opening presents itself.
“It’s always the same with these mid-levellers.” I say with measured disdain. “They can’t break into the upper crust so they pretend not to want the filling.”
The Mark turns toward me. His cheek twitches, and then he’s blinking out a complex pattern, false eye dilating as he brings up his display. At first I think he wants to exchange social profiles, which is fine by me since mine is patently fake. But no, the classless douchebag is trying to override my retcom’s privacy settings. Whatever, let him try - I’m firewalled like Fort fucking Knox.
He’s forced to settle for basic observation in the end. Takes in the black wingtips and gray slacks, the disheveled hair, the white dress shirt unbuttoned at the collar. He becomes sure there’s a tie out there somewhere too, discarded in a fit of ecstasy triggered by the prospect of having an entire evening off work. Your standard production assistant (aka studio bitch) in short. And since PAs often double as dealers, this is exactly the impression I want to give him.
“True enough.” he acknowledges. In his head, this is doing me a serious favor: the groupies might deign to notice me now. “Easier to shun the finer things than admit you can’t afford them, yes? I hear most of them are against reclamation, too.”
Oh god, here we go. Aside from the post-human question, nothing kills a party quite like resource politics.
Ireland rises predictably to the bait. “And what’s wrong with being anti-reclamation?” she asks. “The Gulf Islands are heaps of blasted slag. Even if the reports are true and they’re not contaminated anymore, they will never yield enough crops to feed the entire city.”
I offer her a mental salute. This conversation may be dryer than Gulf Island topsoil, but by contesting the point, she is allowing me to solidify my position on the Mark’s side of t
he fence. A tailor made bonding opportunity.
“She’s right.” says Heroin Chic, throwing her hat into the ring before I can pounce. “Those islands are just another one of Korezon’s dead ends. The future is in hydroponics. Helix has promised sustainability within five years, ten tops.”
“And all we have to do in return is submit to a citywide breeding program.” Ireland sneers. “I’d rather not get told who to screw by a cabal of elitist neo-eugenicists, thanks.”
“Hold on a second.” I cut in. “If you’re against reclamation and hydroponics, then what plan do you support? Surely not artificial resoiling? We spent twenty years trying to reseed the valley, and it’s as big a dustbowl as it ever was.”
“Fuck AR, fuck hydroponics and fuck reclamation.” Ireland spits back. “Did you ever think nature might just need time to heal on her own?”
Outright laughter now, with me leading the way. “And what do you propose we eat in the meantime?” I ask once things have settled. “We can’t keep importing all our food from the Thresh and the other farming enclaves forever.”
“I don’t know. Maybe we should open communications with the Hive, see if the Designer is willing to help.”
Admitting to eating puppies with plum sauce could have induced no greater a reaction. The Mark opens his mouth and then closes it again, eyes gone wide with panicked shock. His feeders are similarly stricken. Only Red Hair maintains image: legs crossed, wrist on knee, a crystal flute full of absinthe held between thumb and index finger. Raising the glass to her lips, she downs it with practiced ease and leans forward.
“You talk a big game for someone cruising the scene at 180. You lost or something, girl?”
Ireland’s cheeks flare up. “My father brought me.” She mumbles. “He’s a casting director for one of the independent studios.”
“You hear that?” The Mark crows, earning relieved smiles from the assemblage. “Her loving daddy made her come! What’s wrong darling, acting out so papa will stop banging extras long enough to pay you some attention?”
“Take some advice from me.” Red addresses Ireland as though the Mark hasn’t spoken. “If you want to play the rebel, try becoming a Realist like everyone else does. But not one of these crusade jumpers you see up here, cancelling a few network subscriptions to shore up their decaying self-image. No, I’d like to see you embrace Realism whole hog. Give up the hormone therapies, the cosmetic ops and the organ replacements, then donate the credit you save to the less fortunate in the Slump.”