The Live Soldier Trilogy Box Set

by Liam Clay

  So it wasn’t exactly true, when I said people down here tend to forget about me. They know who I am, alright: I’m the unhinged son of a bitch who tried to blow up the Kaleidoscope. What people can’t understand is why the Constant gave me a free pass. (Leniency has never been her calling card.) The upshot is that no one knows where I stand in the Underworld’s hierarchy anymore, and the easiest solution has been to avoid me like the plague.

  This also explains why the Constant sent me up the ladder. I had become a liability in these parts, and Topside must have seemed like the best place to ditch the trainwreck. Ironically, it was getting sent up that saved me. A new start, full of the potential for glamour, away from the charred husk of the life I’d known before. The chance to trade my physical mask in for one made of whispers and knowing smiles.

  So now you know why I hate the Constant. It’s because I owe her, because she’s better than me, and because she has more in common with Kalana than I do. (If it had been me in the Constant’s shoes that night, I would have shot my crazy ass in a heartbeat.) But you want to know the weirdest part? I feel more comfortable in the role of social reject than I ever did as a respected killer.

  A small delegation walks down to meet us. Kalana and the Constant come first, followed by half a dozen enforcers fingering unfired weapons. They are led by Fort, a steroid-jacked debt collector with a reputation for using excessive force. Feeling the enforcers’ eyes on me, I have to stop myself from adopting a manly limp. But I can feel their envy anyway. Kalana notices too, and rolls her eyes.

  “Oh, come off it.” She tells them as we halt facing one another. “Are you seriously jealous because he’s got blood on him and you don’t?” A few of the enforcers have the good grace to look embarrassed. “Speaking of which,” she adds to me, “you are not coming into the house looking like that. We have children up there.”

  I hook a thumb in the ginger’s direction. “Doesn’t seem to bother Jimmy.”

  “Yes, but Jimmy is... never mind. Where did you find him, by the way? We were worried sick.”

  I adopt an indifferent expression. “Oh, he was up in the jungle guarding the airlock door. Probably wanted to protect his new best friend. Sophie, I think her name was.”

  Jimmy glares pure murder at me; I flash him a grin before turning back to the others. “But forget that. We have to get out of here. You may not have noticed, but we’re getting slaughtered out there.”

  “What do you mean?” The Constant interjects, speaking for the first time. “My sources report that the Topsiders are aiming to capture, not kill.”

  “That’s true for the most part, but the attack on the Kaleidoscope is different. They blew up half the defenders at the Perfumed Canal just to gain access to the lake.”

  The Constant locks eyes with me. Whatever she sees there must be convincing, because she nods and lets out a sigh.

  “They know, then.”

  “Know what?”

  “That the Kaleidoscope has been funding Shion and the Realism movement.”

  My eyes saucer, and I’m not alone - everyone except Kalana looks stunned.

  “But that doesn’t make any sense.” I say at last. “Your whole empire is built on tech. Casino games, illegal implants, neural drugs...”

  “You don’t understand. Shion’s anti-tech platform is just a front, a deflection intended to confuse Korezon and diminish Kore Pictures incomes. We determined that it was our best chance of winning the next election.”

  “But what if Shion does win?” I ask. “His supporters follow him because they’re tired of technology ruling their lives. Won’t they be angry if he changes stance after gaining power?”

  She shakes her head. “His supporters aren’t against technology itself - not really. They’re just sick of Korezon and the big studios hoarding technology in order to maintain the status quo. In truth, Shion is just a classic democratic socialist. Once he starts to redistribute the wealth, his followers will be able to afford luxuries like organ transplants and business retcoms for the first time. Anti-tech sentiment will ebb away as quickly as we have caused it to grow.”

  “Hold on.” I say as a few pieces fall into place. “So if Korezon knows you’re funding Shion, his obvious move would be to wipe you out, yes?”

  The Constant nods. “And he is seizing the opportunity presented by the terrorist attack reprisals to do it.”

  “No, I think it’s more premeditated than that. I have it on good authority that the Topside soldiers are actually from -”

  “Why are we even listening to this basket case?” Fort interrupts. “What ‘good authority’ is he talking about, the voices in his head?”

  It probably wouldn’t help to explain that my source was in the middle of burning to death, so I try a different tack.

  “Kalana, do you remember the data packet we pulled off the Paradigm bomber’s retcom?”

  She nods cautiously. “It said she was from the Thresh.”

  “Well so are those golden assholes out there. So my guess is that your info was correct, and she is part of the same outfit.”

  “The sharecroppers?” The Constant says dubiously. “What would bring them here?”

  “Not everyone in the Thresh is a farmer.” I reply with what I feel is admirable patience. “These ones are mercenaries with surgically attached gasmasks. Who else would modify themselves like that?”

  No one can find an argument for this, and I use their uncertainty to press my advantage. “Let’s pretend for a second that I’m right, and that the woman who tried to kill Letiva is connected to the mercenary group attacking us now. Would it not then logically follow that they were hired by the same person?”

  The Constant looks thoughtful but unconvinced. “You are suggesting that Korezon hired the Threshers to kill Letiva - and probably blow up the power plant too - as an excuse to come after me? An assassin in the night would be more circumspect, and a lot cheaper too. Nor does this explain why he attacked the entire Underworld instead of just us.”

  “But what if he’s thinking bigger than that?” I counter, willing her to believe what I am only just working out for myself. “Everyone knows that Korezon hates the Underworld. To him, we are a resource drain that is dragging ‘civilized’ society into starvation along with us.”

  “Resource drain my ass.” Fort growls. “Korezon doesn’t send a thin dime our way. Helix neither.”

  “True, but your average Topsider does. And all the NGO programs their guilty donations fund - the soup kitchens, the medical clinics, the water treatment stations - divert labor and materials away from the Topside economy. So what if Korezon has finally decided to do something about it?”

  Kalana is looking at me with an expression I can’t read. “By rebranding us as a threat, you mean.”

  I nod in her direction. “Yesterday, we were like a societal representation of Tiny Tim. And now, literally overnight, we’ve been transformed into psychopaths, terrorists and worst of all, biters of the hands that so generously feed us. So Korezon wipes us out in a righteous rage, the Topsiders stop the guilty donating and eureka, no more resource drain. Not to mention that Carlel is a property junkie from way back. Just think what he could do with all this real estate!”

  “Say you’re right.” The Constant says. “This still doesn’t explain why they are capturing people instead of killing them.”

  I try to shrug, but end up shrinking into myself instead.

  “For spare parts?”

  CHAPTER 12

  The Constant has decided to adopt my theory. I’m not sure whether to be proud of my deductive powers, or saddened that she couldn’t find loopholes in what is, by all accounts, a terrifying prognosis.

  “So can we please get out of here?” I ask.

  “That won’t be necessary.” She replies. “This sanctuary is hermetically sealed and completely self-sustaining. And based on the fact that we’re listing, I think Tariq succeeded in initiating the elevator shaft’s detachment from the spire island -�
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  “- he did, yes.” I interject. “Right before he died.”

  The Constant pauses to onboard this information, and then continues.

  “- which means the pyramid should be flooding from the top down as we speak. With any luck, the Threshers will assume we’ve all drowned. They don’t know for sure that I’m even here, after all.”

  I nudge Jimmy. “Tell them.”

  “They broke the airlock door.”

  “I see.” She says calmly. “Damn it.”

  And so we leave the beach as one big, not-so-happy family. I catch sight of Sophie at one point, but choose to stay away - she doesn’t need to see me like this. And not only because of the blood, although that is reason enough. The spirals have also begun to wear off. Bouts of nausea are crashing over me, and my heart is trying to burst its way through my ribcage. This is going to be bad, very bad. But I can’t let it show; not after everyone has wagered their lives on my word.

  Thankfully (regarding this particular issue) they’ve got a lot to occupy themselves with. The casino is listing heavily now, turning the snow plain into a ski hill and the escalators into serrated cliffs. The kids in particular are having a hard time of it. But not as hard as me. I lag ever further behind until I’m staggering through the jungle, alone and forgotten. Leaning against a tree trunk, I gag once, twice, but nothing comes up. But then Kalana is there, pulling my arm over her shoulder just like I did for Five an hour ago.

  “Let’s go detective.” She says, and we push onward together.

  A flash of color reveals itself as the coy pond; a blast of cool air, the destroyed airlock door. I am able to climb the stairs unaided, collapsing only once we reach the lobby. As soon as we’re inside, Fort and his enforcers block off the stairwell using the portal door. (The one that fell down the elevator shaft with me some time ago.) I am in no state to wonder why. Everyone else is watching the Constant consult a blinking handheld. The pyramid, meanwhile, has keeled over even further, causing the first trickles of water to course down the elevator shaft into the room. A jellyfish peers in through the accent wall before moving on, indifferent to our plight. The seconds tick by.

  With a snort of disgust, the Constant tosses her handheld into a potted plant and draws a gun.

  “May I have your attention!” She says loudly. “In a few seconds, the top of the elevator shaft is going to sink completely underwater. If we’re not gone by the time that happens, this room will flood and we will all drown.”

  “But how are we supposed to get out?” Someone asks despairingly.

  “By doing exactly as I say. First, I need all the children to climb into the elevator mouth.” Her wards comply as though drilled to do so, raising some questions about the nature of the daycare program she’s been running down here. “Very good. Now, on the count of three I need those of you with firearms to empty your clips into the glass.” She points to the accent wall with her own weapon. “Alright, here we go. Everyone take a deep breath, hold it, and - one, two, three!”

  The result is not so much a noise as an aggravated assault on my eardrums. Gunfire melds with the shriek of breaking glass and the winter storm howl of a sudden pressure change. For the barest fraction of a freeze frame, the lake doesn’t seem to realize what’s happened. Then it rushes in, cold and furious, turning the lobby into a giant washing machine on spin cycle. Now I’m tumbling around like a drunken gymnast, ping ponging off walls, elevator wreckage and bodies. All is blackness until an Acid gets sucked into the fray, lighting the maelstrom with strobing bursts of lavender light. It’s all I can do not to lose my pent-up breath. A final hellish churn, and then I’m being sucked into the elevator shaft on a hydrodynamic tide.

  We shoot up the spiral like spitballs through a crazy straw. The speed is phenomenal, and before I can even begin to prepare, the tube vomits me out into stagnant Underworld air. A meteoric splashdown leaves me dazed and disoriented. But I swim toward shimmering neon lights, injured shoulder a nexus of pain, until my head breaks the surface. And there I float, reveling in the unlikely fact of my survival.

  The battle appears to be over. The skiff armada has been deployed in a circle around a sleek motor yacht, which floats at anchor alongside the remains of the entrance island. To my admittedly untrained eye, this vessel looks more like a billionaire’s plaything than a military tool. Our people are being plucked from the water by Threshers wielding aluminum lasso poles. Some struggle fruitlessly; others allow themselves to be towed in like so much dead meat. A few of them probably are.

  By fate or blind chance I’ve landed outside the skiff circle, meaning that escape is still an option. But even the thought of swimming makes my stomach convulse, and I begin to wretch uncontrollably. Just staying above water becomes a struggle. And even if I could move, where would I go? Back to Girders and risk revealing their existence to the Topsiders? Even I’m not that much of an asshole, plus there’s my family to think about. So I stay put and watch.

  With calm efficiency, the Threshers transport the last Underworlders to the waiting yacht. When everyone has been assembled, a man emerges from the forward bridge. He is tall, suited and handsome, with a helmet of corporate issue black hair. A man and woman - both of lesser stature but similar appearance - flank him. His henchpeople, I assume. The man addresses the crowd. There is a stirring in the ranks and the Constant steps forward, cradling a broken arm but otherwise unbowed. The man points to her and says a few words.

  She nods and returns to confer with her staff. Some seem to be offering arguments, while a few are openly crying. But it is clear that the decision - whatever it is - has been made. After a few last handshakes and hugs from the children, the Constant moves to stand alone: directly in front of her people, facing the corporate hairjob. No one moves for the space of five heartbeats. Then the man pulls out a pistol and shoots her in the face.

  My mind collapses in on itself.

  CHAPTER 13

  There is a first perfect moment, after consciousness returns following an extended absence, when the mind is utterly at peace. I have no attachment to a physical body. My soul is a self-contained sphere floating on a dark sea, forever silent. In the absence of a mortal shell I feel no pain, no fear, just an unencumbered awareness of being.

  This moment lasts for about three seconds. Then my brain is screaming at my nerve endings, wanting to know where I am and why I can’t see anything. My eyelids report back first. We’re closed, they say.

  Fair enough.

  The rest of my body follows suit, and I soon have a decent idea of my physical state: pretty banged up, but nothing irretrievably damaged. I open my eyes. And close them again immediately, mind reeling. Sky. I just looked up at the sky. And not some half-glimpsed shred of blue seen through banked pollution, but a limitless expanse of flat color, broken only by a blazing sun and the crisscrossed branches of dead trees.

  Dead but real.

  The Constant’s sanctuary was mindfuck enough, but this is something else entirely. This is the outdoors. A place I haven’t visited since - no, I refuse to think about the Hive. Not now. Instead I trace my memories backward, trying to uncover some clue as to how I got here.

  Most of the battle is just a drug-smeared blur, particularly the fighting inside the Kaleidoscope itself. Could the Thresh soldiers have brought me back to their homeland? No, their territory is located in a farming valley with no trees to speak of. (Although I’ve never seen any pictures of the place, come to think of it. Opacity broadcasts media, it doesn’t ingest it.)

  Steeling myself, I force my eyes open again.

  The sky is a vast, featureless pit, devoid of the spatial perspective used by the eye to gauge depth. Afraid of falling into its boundless infinity, my hands scrabble at my sides and come up with clumps of dirt. Not manicured soil like you’d find in a Topsider’s garden though, but a dry, gritty mess, full of ash and small stones. In an effort to alleviate my vertigo, I tear my eyes from the sky and glance downward.

  My bloodstained
jeans and t-shirt are gone, replaced by black coveralls with dark green sleeves. A pair of boots - also black - have been placed at my feet. An identical pair rests beside mine, with a second set of feet to accompany them. And beyond them another, and another, and many more after that. I’m lying in a field of fucking corpses! But wait: dead people don’t need new boots, or fresh jumpsuits either. Sheer confusion wins out over fear, and I raise myself onto an elbow to take a look around.

  There are hundreds of us, laid out in rows across a broad square of reddish dirt. Camouflaged tents have been erected around the area’s perimeter. I see a freshly dug trench that might be a latrine, and an open-sided mess hall with trestle tables under it. A chain link fence encloses the space, barbed wire dripping from its top, squat watchtowers at its corners. The compound’s only gate connects to a dirt road that vanishes into a dense, skeletal forest.

  What the hell.

  No one else seems to be awake yet. It makes sense that we would have been drugged for transport to whatever this place is, and if so, my heightened tolerance may have caused me to regain consciousness early. What a treat. I have the privilege of being first witness to whatever horrible thing is about to happen next.

  A sound congeals on the edge of hearing. Growing steadily louder, it resolves into the hum of a motor accompanied by the crunch of wheels over dead wood. An army jeep appears on the road not long afterward. Three transport trucks follow, their armored cabs fronting wide, canvas enclosed flatbeds. The vehicles pull up to the gate.