by Liam Clay
Crap.
“Fine, you got me. Your life is a rich tapestry of mental anguish that I can wholly relate to. But you will forgive me if I’m a little preoccupied with other issues right at the moment. Some fuckers just gassed my ass and tied me to a gurney, you see.”
He shakes his head sadly. “You should really try to stop using humor as a crutch - someone might kick it out from under you one day. But never mind that. Despite what you obviously think, I am not telling you this just to hear myself talk. I am trying to explain why we brought you here.”
My ears perk up. “Explain away then.”
“Thank you. My point is that most Topsiders are like me. We can afford to coast, to settle, to take the easy way out. Sure, playing it safe may bother some people, but a zero risk, predictable reward existence is hard to pass up.”
He aims an exquisitely manicured finger at me. “But Underworlders have no such cushion. You have to seize every opportunity that comes your way, because in your world of highly finite resources, only the top performers survive. And that is why we need you. If we asked our fellow Topsiders to fight in the coming conflict, some of the ambitious types would volunteer, smelling the chance for advancement. But the vast majority wouldn’t consider it for a second. It’s true!” He exclaims as if I’ve contradicted him. “Your average Topsider believes that he deserves the life he has, that it is his basic right. And this attitude breeds complacency. It kills the fighting spirit. And it makes him impractical as a soldier.”
“So the Topsiders get off scot free because they’re a bunch of soggy shits?”
“More or less.”
“Hmm. Doesn’t seem very fair.”
“Life rarely is.”
“You’ve got me there. So, who are we supposed to be fighting?” I’m pretty sure Peace has already given me the answer, but it would be nice to know for sure.
“That I can’t tell you. But I can let you in on another secret, one that has to do with our plans for you and Alpha platoon.”
“And what’s that?”
Porter rolls his chair closer, and his next words are delivered in a stage whisper.
“Korezon can deny it all he likes, but the truth is that Opacity has no idea how to fight a war. We produce CGI explosions, not real ones.”
“No shit.” I reply. And then, just to see what he’ll do, I add, “Why don’t you get your Thresher buddies to help you? They’ve obviously fought a battle or two in their day.”
Porter hesitates - clearly surprised that I know the mercenaries’ place of origin - and then smiles.
“They have withdrawn their services, unfortunately.” He sketches a seated bow in my direction. “Apparently we undersold the quality of resistance your people would put up. They were quite upset about it, actually.”
“So you’re on your own.”
“So we’re on our own. You are in this just as deep as we are. Deeper really, since you will be the ones doing the fighting.”
“Right... about that. Are you sure sending us into battle is such a great idea? You can train us all you want, but no amount of yoga or pilates is going to turn us into soldiers.”
Porter smirks. “You would be surprised what people can accomplish, given the right tools and incentives.” The smirk gives way to a sort of haughty pride. “But you don’t have to worry about any of that. I have a grander future planned for you and Alpha platoon.”
“If by grander you mean deader, then I believe you implicitly. And how did you get to be such a big deal, anyway? You look more like a salesman than a general to me.”
“When this operation started, Korezon’s plan was to have the Thresh mercenaries lead you into battle. But after they broke their contract, an alternative was required. So he put out an urgent request for proposal.”
“On a war?”
He raises an eyebrow. “That surprises you? War is a business like any other - one of the oldest in fact, right after prostitution and... I don’t know, hunting? Regardless, my employer submitted the winning bid, we stepped in, and here I am.”
My eyes narrow. “Who exactly do you work for, Porter?”
He glances away, and the penny finally drops.
“You’re a goddamn studio brat, aren’t you?” His silence is all the confirmation I need. “Well fuck me sideways. Which one is it: Syrek, Pythagorean?”
This gets his back up. “In my present capacity? A conglomerate comprised of six studios. But I am a Helix man, born and raised. I was a producer specializing in war epics before taking this position.”
So Helix and Kore are in bed on this. No wonder Korezon absolved the eugenicists of wrongdoing in the attack on Letiva. And out loud: “Jesus, you make being a Helixer sound like a higher calling. But aren’t you guys all supposed to be hulking supermen or something?”
He lets out a long-suffering sigh. “A common misconception. We are bred holistically for aesthetics and intelligence, yes, with a few minor gene edits made to weed out common diseases. But that’s it. Helix is strongly against all more radical forms of DNA tampering.”
“You don’t say. And what about Menta and Voranez - are they producers too?”
He looks scandalized. “Of course not. They are just a couple of method actors looking to get some experience ‘in the trenches’, as they put it.”
“Wonderful. But none of this explains how you, a soft-as-kittens movie producer, plan to turn us, a bunch of petty thugs and drug dealers, into unbeatable killing machines.”
“It does, actually. Do you want to know why our bid won? Because we played to our strengths.”
“Which would be?”
“In a word, information technology.”
“That’s two words.”
“Shut up. I’m talking about cutting edge tech here, innovations that are still years away from hitting the market. But instead of monetizing their respective work, my employers are dumping their combined patents into - as you so eloquently put it - a bunch of petty thugs and drug dealers.”
“Why would they do that?”
“Honestly? Because with realism on the rise the studios are scrambling to diversify, and war has always been a bull business.” He shrugs. “I suppose the smell of credit has put them in a risk taking mood.”
This sounds surprisingly plausible, and I can feel my interest grow. (High or low, no Opacian can resist the lure of new tech.)
“Alright, lay it on me. What’ve you got?”
Porter grins - one of the first genuine reactions I’ve seen from him. “Well, as a first order of business, every member of Alpha platoon will be getting a brand new retcom.”
“Thanks, but I’ve already got one.”
He taps my temple disdainfully. “This piece of trash? That’s like comparing the Wright Brothers plane to an X-wing fighter. Don’t worry though, we will port your network ID over to the new rig when the time comes.”
“And what do these newfangled gadgets do that’s so special?”
He smiles again. “For starters, they are the first retcoms to feature built-in projector technology.” His expression takes on a wistful cast. “That was one of ours. I even wrote the tagline for the model we were working on. Your Dream, the World’s Reality. Pretty good, huh?”
“Inspired. Please continue.”
“Just think about it! Retcom projector technology has literally dozens of military applications. Disguise your own face as someone else’s. Scatter ten versions of yourself over five square meters of ground, all of you at a dead run. Project a fake bridge over a long drop, or an impassable wall where there is none. And best of all, the imagery is drawn entirely from your brain. Whatever you can imagine, the retcom can project.”
“Holy shit.”
“Exactly. And that is just the beginning.” Reaching into his pocket, he holds up what looks like a perforated steel golf ball. “Meet the nanodrone. This little guy can hover over battlefields, recon enemy positions, you name it. And once it has been synced to your neurals, you will be able to s
ee everything it does. It’s like having a dozen extra eyes, all of them airborne. They also house projectors that can be used to expand the reach of your retcom's holo.”
He lets the awesomeness sink in before continuing.
“And last but not least, these retcoms can be networked to form what we are calling a pooled link. Once a pool has been established, your entire platoon will be able to communicate in real time. But this goes far beyond simple audio/visual exchange. Imagine a hardwired, unhackable online forum where thoughts and emotions underpin sensory data.” He lifts his chin proudly. “Make no mistake, these retcoms are going to change the nature of warfare. And your group has been chosen, out of the entire Underworld, to be the first to receive them.”
I hold my peace for a while, staggered by the sheer scope of these advancements.
“Why are you telling me this?” I ask eventually.
“Because if you don’t get onboard with the training regime we have planned, this is never going to work. I want you to understand how much we have invested in you, and how dedicated we are to ensuring you succeed.”
“That’s not what I meant. I’m asking why you personally are telling me this, and not one of your lackeys. Or have you been waking us up one by one to pitch this little plan?”
“Certainly not. I am here because I want to make you Alpha platoon leader.”
“Are you serious? Why?”
Porter looks up at the ceiling and blinks. “Because of this.” He says as the screen comes to life.
It’s not clear what he’s showing me at first. I see a concrete wall, heads peering over it, the soup acting as backdrop. Then the shot reels in to focus on a golden hand clutching a green cylinder. My arm - or so the viewpoint makes it seem - rears back to throw, but the screen shakes violently before I can. A masked figure watches from the parapet as I sink beneath red tinted water.
Switch to a close up of the same concrete facade. I gain the wall top, only to find myself staring down the barrel of a handgun. There is a slight jarring as the trigger is pulled to no effect. The same masked adversary smashes the gun’s butt against my skull. I fall.
Now I’m in a rubble filled room filling quickly with smog. I turn just as a bloodied length of silver darts snakelike into my chest. Drugged eyes swim large as I slump to the ground. The same man shoots me with an assault rifle moments later. The viewpoint shifts a few feet to the left, allowing him to shoot me again.
“Stop!” I shout before the next image appears. “Why are you showing me this?”
Porter blinks the screen dead. “You asked why I want you as platoon leader. This is me presenting my case.”
“What the fuck are you talking about?”
“I’m talking about combat effectiveness, Anex. The Thresh mercenaries are paid based on a range of key performance indicators, so everything they do is recorded by helmet cams. Their booking agent sold us the footage before she decamped, and I just played back a selection of your kills as seen by the victims.” He claps me on the shoulder. “You topped the charts in that category, my friend - a real accomplishment! And it wasn’t just the flashy stats where you excelled, either. A lot of your advanced combat analytics were best-in-battle as well.” He hesitates. “Except for a few residents of the Prison, that is, but they don’t count. Add your strong fitness scores - once you cleaned up, anyway - and the fact that your daughter should keep you honest, and we have ourselves a perfect candidate.” He frowns. “You seem upset.”
He’s right, I am upset. Watching myself kill those people... it was like seeing the darkest corner of my soul, flipped over and exposed to the light for all to see. Never mind that I was doing some of it to protect Five.
“I’m not your guy.” I say tiredly. His frown deepens.
“You seem to be operating under the assumption that you have a choice. So let me put it to you this way. Either you do what we tell you, and to the best of your motherfucking abilities, or we kill sweet little Sophie.”
Screw this.
“I would stop leaning on the ‘killing the kids’ crutch if I was you. Someone might kick it out from under you one day.”
Porter’s fist connects solidly with my temple, scattering thought. I grasp at his voice as a steadying point, but the words are less than comforting.
“Some defiance is good, Anex - it means you can still make decisions independently. But despite what I’ve just told you, don’t think for a second that you aren’t 100% expendable.” He brushes a lock of hair out of my eyes, an intimate gesture meant to highlight my vulnerability. “Now, back to business. The implantation procedure for these retcoms is more... rigorous than the traditional method. So as a safety precaution, you will be kept in an induced coma for a full week following surgery. And according to my techs, you are among the 7% of patients who can expect to experience intense flashbacks during that time.”
Returning vision reveals Porter’s thousand-watt grin. An orderly stands at his shoulder, an anesthesia mask dangling from his white gloved hand.
“Sweet dreams, Anex.”
.
A brief word, at this juncture, on how Opacians view surgery. Most procedures are now so common, and boast such a high success rate, as to have completely shed the fear once associated with them. People talk openly about the minutia of facelifts, tummy tucks, botox injections and a host of other, more obscure operations that you’ve probably never heard of. These conversations fall into the category of water cooler talk, sharing time with celebrity gossip, sports and the weather. (A term we now use to describe smog density levels.) In short, going under the knife has lost its stigma.
Except when it comes to retcom implantation.
Why, you ask? Because people die during retcom surgery. Not often, but it happens. Also, people are just weird about their vision in general. I suppose they take issue with having their real eye scooped out with a melon baller and replaced by a flesh-toned sphere packed full of legally gray hardware. Add the fact that patients need to be kept partially conscious during the procedure, and you get real, honest to god fear.
As a result, discussing retcom surgery is not a done thing. It is considered rude verging on morbid, to such an extent that the procedure’s practitioners are viewed with distrust. They are bogeymen, these pushers of dubious technology, allowed to exist only because retcoms are so useful - nay, necessary - to our many media related addictions.
All of which flashes through my mind as Porter has me gassed yet again. What comes next would make your average nightmare seem like a wet dream. I loiter near the edge of consciousness, devoid of pain but aware of movement, sound, and most disturbingly, of smell. Salt blood, metallic tang, disinfectant and rubber, clotting on the recycled air, each a memory trigger. Fragmentary visions cleave the fog only to be torn away, one after another. Time twists and peels back, revealing glass cases filled with dusty recollections. One of the oldest cases stands open. Gravity shifts, and into it I fall.
CHAPTER 17
Seams of sunlight illuminate eddies of camphor incense. Hot coals glow in cast iron braziers. And yet the sprawling tent remains a place of swiftly moving shadows. Muzzled and bound to a driftwood chair, I watch as the American prepares to sell me back to my makers.
“A tricky bastard, this one.” He tells the acolyte seated across from him in the alcove. “Been nesting up in our windyard for months now, a different turbine each night. Was stealing water from our cisterns too, we’re pretty sure, and root vegetables from the slave farms. Me and the boys would take pot shots at him sometimes, but he knew to stay clear of our elevated blinds.”
“If he’s really so elusive, how did you catch him at all?” The acolyte’s tone is faintly mocking, causing the American to steal a nervous glance at the hushed crowds out in the tent proper.
“Happened on a raid, if you can believe it.” His laughter is overloud, a compensation. “Found him near the Mexican Hexwall breach with a backpack full of stolen ghost peppers. Killed two of our boys barehanded, and broke
another’s arm before we could take him down with tranqs.”
The acolyte shifts inside her hooded gunmetal robes. “He travels through the quarantine zone?”
“Looks that way. And not only to rip off the wetbacks, neither. We found a couple heads of bok choy on him, too. Genuine Chi Hex produce by the look of it.”
“Interesting. And what makes you think he’s one of ours?”
“Just look at him!” The American exclaims. “A fleshed out 6’6 on a thief’s diet, and I’ll be damned if I can tell which refugee wave he washed in on. Could be a Vietnamese flood survivor, a windburned Russian draft dodger or even one of those Maori neo-samurai that escaped the Nipponese cultural cleansing. Only the Designer’s ilk are so hard to pin. But if you want real proof, all you have to do is look in a mirror. Why, he could be your younger cousin! A lot uglier, to be fair, but a couple years living in the wild will do that to anyone.”
“Older.” The acolyte says absently, turning to study me from the depths of her hood.
The American blinks. “Come again?”
“If this boy is what you claim, then he was part of the Designer’s first successful batch of acolytes.”
“The ones that escaped the labs, you mean.”
“Yes. They were bred before my master developed his accelerated growth technique. A product of the Genesis batch would be fourteen now, whereas I am nine.”
“Whatever you say, boss.” The American replies. “So, do we have a deal? You’ve been hunting these things for years, after all.”
The acolyte (who looks about twenty to me) shakes her head. “Until we run the necessary tests, any statements about his origin are mere conjecture. But he is young and appears healthy, so I can offer the standard rate of trade for a Hexless alien right now.”
“The hell you can! Everyone knows what the Designer does with zoner trash, and I want my merchandise kept intact. Until I receive full payment, anyway - then you can chop him up and serve him to your chihuahua for all I care.”
The acolyte sighs. “You would be amazed how often the things ‘everyone knows’ are completely wrong. But if it makes you feel better, I can guarantee we won’t touch him until the test results come back. Then, if he checks out as a true Genesis, we will compensate you appropriately.”