The Live Soldier Trilogy Box Set

by Liam Clay

  “But -”

  “This is not a negotiation. You can accept my offer, or return to your Hex empty handed. The choice is yours.”

  The American protests of course, but it’s just empty bluster. He has no leverage over the Designer - nobody does.

  “Are you finished?” She interrupts when his rant wears thin. He nods sullenly and passes her a scrap of yellowing paper. The acolyte’s eyes glint in the smoky light as she examines the list.

  “The liver transplant is a yes.” She says presently. “Bring the patient to us in three weeks; we have a vat cycling up around then. But these replacement auto-scythe blades are going to be a problem. The attachments we produce now are only compatible with our new powertrain implants. To operate them, your field hands would require upgrades you can’t afford.”

  “Typical.” The American mutters.

  “What was that?”

  “Nothing.”

  “That’s what I thought. And as for this emotional reconditioning, I’m going to need more information. What is wrong with the girl?”

  The American scratches at the rash that is creeping up his neck. “She’s a troublemaker, is what’s wrong with her. Refuses to reproduce, even after we got hit by that Creepthroat epidemic last wet season.”

  “Refuses to in general, or with you specifically?”

  He throws up his hands. “Give me a little credit, will you? This has nothing to do with me. She’s got herself a man, see, love at first sight and all that bull. Only problem is, he’s shooting blanks. Result of some contagion a few seasons back, can’t remember its name.”

  “Whiteflower fever.” She supplies.

  “Yeah, that’s the one. Anyway, we need her to ditch the dud and start pulling her weight.”

  I can tell by the set of the acolyte’s shoulders that she’s angry, but her response is delivered in a perfect deadpan.

  “Should be doable. Bring her in with the liver job.”

  “Fine.” He jerks his head in my direction. “How long to run your tests on the alien?”

  “Only a few days, but I imagine you will want to limit your trips through the quarantine zone, yes? Even for a full war party wearing contagion masks, the corridors between Hexwalls are dangerous.”

  “Can’t we just stay here until the results are in?”

  “You know the rules. 24-hour maximum stay, no exceptions.”

  “Fine.” The American says reluctantly. “See you in three weeks then?”

  The acolyte nods and flows gracefully to her feet. The American eyes me one last time - more as you would a piece of furniture than a human being - and then follows her into the press of gunmetal robes.

  When the acolyte returns, her demeanor has completely changed. Unstrapping my muzzle, she strips off her hood and collapses onto the rawhide futon she’s been using as a seat.

  “Can you believe the attitude on that guy?” She says. “If I hadn’t known you were the real deal, I would have kicked his ass into last Thursday.”

  I could tell her how much the religious Hexes fear our kind, and how they camouflage that emotion with derision. But I’m sure she already knows that and besides, my thoughts are elsewhere. Everything about the acolyte - from skin tone and bone structure to the crafted tangle of her chestnut hair - is ideal in a way that life in the Hive doesn’t usually permit. And her eyes, that gold flecked hazel... it’s as though with one glance, she has melted down eight years worth of survival instincts and sold them for scrap.

  “Congratulations are in order.” She continues, outwardly oblivious to my reaction. “You are the last member of the Genesis batch to be accounted for, alive or dead. It’s incredible, really: a vat incubated child, shunned by every refugee Hex, surviving alone for so long in the wild.”

  Raw terror finally breaks her spell over me.

  “Tell him I won’t go back.”

  It’s been a long time since I’ve spoken, but the girl must understand me because she goes very still.

  “Back where?” She says carefully.

  I tap my heel against the hard packed earth.

  “You know where. The labs.”

  “Ah... I’d forgotten that your batch remembers their time underground.” She brightens. “Well not to worry, because the last thing you need is a refurb. Not with all the gear you’ve got hidden under the hood.” To prove her point, she starts ticking specs off on her fingers. “Increased bone density, silicon carbide plating over your shins and forearms, glandular mods, enhanced soft tissue repair... do I need to go on? You are the real deal, amigo.”

  I look down at my body. I’ve always known that I was different: a bio-engineered freak to the atheist Hexes, an unholy abomination to the rest. But this is the first time I’ve heard the details.

  “But wouldn’t my - my upgrades be outdated by now?”

  “From a theory perspective, yes. But unfortunately for us later batches, most of your mods require rare materials. And when Opacity started raiding our trade routes a few years back...” She shrugs. “What we lost in post-fetal mojo, the master has tried to make up for with advanced genome manipulation. But there is still no substitute for harder-than-diamond metals and foreign biotech derivatives. But listen to me, prattling on like an idiot while you’re still tied up.”

  She gets to her feet and crosses the alcove. I try not to stare as she leans over me, but when her robe falls open to reveal the tanned skin beneath, I can’t help myself. Which is why I don’t see what she does next. But it feels like a mechanical spider has just latched onto my jugular and released its eggs into my veins.

  “I’m going to untie you now.” She says into my ear as I spasm. “But before you try to run, I should mention that I’ve just injected you with a dose of nanotrackers. They live in your blood, can’t be removed like the subdermal you tore out last time, and have a range the size of this island. Oh, and they can be used to kill you in a pinch, too. Sorry.”

  By the time I’ve recovered she’s back on her futon, cycling idly through sailor’s knots with my former bindings.

  “You’re angry.” She says without looking up. “I can understand that. But seriously, you should be fucking ecstatic. After eight years, you’re finally home. And even better, you will soon have a purpose in life beyond stealing rotten cabbage out of booby trapped compost heaps.” She points out into the crowded tent. “As you can see, a lot has changed since you ran away. We aren’t confined to a few shitty caves anymore, hiding from New Jamaica’s rasta militia like a bunch of starved rats. This entire Hex is ours now, and it’s a finely tuned machine, with every component built for a specific task. And I think we have just the job for you.”

  The child inside me, the one who still dreams of rock walls, steel tanks and scalpels every night, is willing to accept anything that will keep me above ground, out in the light and the wind. But I’m not a child anymore.

  “Whatever it is, I won’t do it.”

  She chuckles. “That’s what I said too, when my handler first assigned my calling. But we both knew I would change my tune.”

  “Because you have the trackers in you too?”

  “Sure - we all do. But even if I didn’t, the outcome would have been the same.”

  “Why?”

  “Because the Designer understands more about the human condition than anyone else on this planet. And one of the things he understands best is our need to belong to something greater than ourselves.”

  As much as I hate to admit it, she’s right. The worst part of the last eight years wasn’t the hunger, the elements or even the threat of capture. It was the loneliness, the feeling of being ostracized from the rest of the human race. And now, instead of the friendless death that had seemed my inevitable fate, I am being offered the chance to rejoin a society of people like myself. The urge to give in is almost unbearably strong. Instead I say: “And that’s supposed to be enough to make me forgive and forget?”

  Her laughter reminds me of a Chilean wind chime that hung from a tree I
used to sleep in. “Aren’t you just the cutest! The most naïve of the entire batch, in your own way. Listen, the Designer doesn’t give a shit about your forgiveness, and if he wanted you to forget, you already would have. But he also knows how deep your survival instinct goes, and that when the chips are down, you will obey almost any order if it keeps you alive.” She shakes her head. “The real problem is that you’re back in the big show now, and the rules are a little different here. Luckily, we have someone on staff who specializes in rehabbing returned Genesis kids like you.” She leans forward, and a sliver of sunshine catches the gold flecks in her eyes. “Better get used to this face, amigo, because you’re going to be seeing a lot of it.”

  .

  The Javanese Hexwall looms over me, obliterating half the midnight sky, lower reaches cloaked by shadowy stands of palm and banyan. It’s been three months since my capture. Three months of training, of education, and of indoctrination by osmosis. All leading to this moment, this mission. The wall is a modular mass of interlocking blocks that stands a full thirty meters high - as it does along all six of its 800 meter sides. For over a hundred years, it has acted as both haven and prison for the thirty thousand Indonesian refugees who live inside. A final glance skyward, and I’m pushing forward into the undergrowth.

  In my previous life I would have shimmied up a tree, thrown a crude grapple over the wall and made the climb the old fashioned way. But now? Now I have a pack full of toys. One of these is an adhesive sphere with a nail gun housed inside. When I fix the ball to the wall, it rolls upward into darkness, trailing a thin cord behind it. Thirty seconds later, the length of nylon stops it ascent and twitches twice. I brace a foot against the concrete, grip the cord in both hands and give it a pull. Servos kick in overhead, and the machine draws me upward without a sound.

  The wall top is overrun with weeds, gulls and a species of spined lizard. This being my first visit, I take a moment to survey the Hex’s moonlit geography. As usual, the poorest neighborhoods are crushed up against the enclosing wall, and near two breaches the edifice sustained during some long ago battle (before the island’s competing refugee groups depleted the explosive caches they migrated here with).

  The architecture grows more affluent toward the Hex’s center. Of particular note are the buildings’ distinctive Limasan and Joglo style roofs, which resemble miniature volcanos capped by ridged peaks. My destination, however, lies at the very heart of the Hex. It is a three-tiered pyramid roofed with crimson tiles, topped by a clay talisman that shines brightly in the moonlight. According to my handler, it is a mosque built in what is known as the Tajug style.

  Moving to the wall’s inner edge, I begin to rappel down its lichen-marked face. My soles touch the roof of a decrepit shack, and then I’m vaulting down into a yard filled with wild ferns. Although the area is deserted, an odor of rampant humanity gives the place a claustrophobic feel.

  A dirt lane runs parallel to the row of wall-supported hovels at my back. I follow it to a thoroughfare that spears straight into the Hex’s center. It too, is devoid of life. (The call to prayer is still hours away, and late night revelry is not permitted here.) I break into a run, passing a number of shadow-puppet theatres along the way.

  I keep expecting to encounter security, something that would require me to use the covert skills I’ve been taught. But the guards at the mosque gates stand aside to let me pass. I am expected. The structure’s dimly lit interior smells of newly applied lacquer. Four teak pillars rise from the carpeted floor, supporting a grid of carven crossbeams above. Drawing a blackened knife from the sheathe on my belt, I begin the hunt.

  I find the Kyai in a small courtyard near the south-eastern corner of the compound. The space’s only decorations are an ivory fountain and a wall mosaic rendered in cracked tiles. The Kyai himself is dressed just as plainly, in a simple white robe and black fez cap. He is kneeling on a prayer rug, forehead pressed to the cobbles. Before I can approach, he addresses me in flawless English.

  “Are we among the last?”

  I pause with one foot hovering in mid-air. “You knew someone would come?”

  “Certainly.” The cleric replies without breaking position. “The youth of this Hex hunger for what the Designer can provide, and my decree banning his trade emissaries has made me... unpopular. It was just a matter of time before they arranged for my removal. But I ask you again, are we among the last?”

  I should finish this and go. But a misguided sense of obligation compels me to answer.

  “Yes. 84 of the Hive’s 91 Hexes are now dependent on our technology for survival, and 75 have accepted permanent embassies. The others won’t be far behind.”

  “And of the 75, how many include a local garrison?”

  “All of them.”

  A broken sound issues from deep in the Kyai’s throat. “You are the Dutch East India Company come again, I think. What does the Designer plan to do when he achieves full hegemony?”

  “Sorry amigo, that one’s above my paygrade.” (In a bid to fit in, I’ve taken to lifting phrases from my handler’s vocabulary.)

  The Kyai shakes his head. “I doubt very much that you are compensated at all, young man. Those trapped in the lower castes of cults rarely are. Tell me, have you ever even laid eyes on your master?”

  I haven’t, of course, nor do I know anyone who has. The Designer commands his scions via a strict hierarchy, and eschews media of all kinds. The Kyai’s clairvoyance angers me.

  “You don’t know what your prophet looks like either, old man.”

  “Hmm, a fascinating comparison. Given more time, we might find much to discuss, you and I.”

  “Sorry pal, no can do. You’ve got ten seconds to make peace with your god, and then it’s lights out.”

  “So be it. But before you send me onward, please take heed. You may be one of the Designer’s so called New Humans -”

  “We call ourselves 2.0s.”

  “Do you? That is catchier, I suppose. But whatever you call yourselves, please remember that although he designed aspects of your mind and body, he does not own them. You are free to pursue your own path.”

  “That’s pretty rich coming from you.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Because your faith has a creator too, and you have dedicated your entire life to serving him.”

  The Kyai laughs. “Well argued! Your talents are truly wasted on murder. Come, let me pour us some tea. You can still be saved from -”

  With a growl, I lunge forward and draw my blade along the line of his throat. It’s so easy that I don’t think I’ve succeeded at first, until he collapses to the cobbles in a heap. The blood spreads quickly, forming a glistening pool around his head and shoulders.

  “Why are weak people always so focused on saving the rest of us?” I ask the body. “Maybe if you’d stuck to worrying about yourself, none of this would have happened.”

  I move to the fountain and start to clean my knife. But as the water turns red, a fog settles over me. I have killed before, multiple times, but always in self-defense, to survive. This, though... this was something different. Like the old man said, I’m a murderer now. The knife slips from my fingers and vanishes into the bloody fountain. Then I lurch to my feet and flee.

  .

  Eight months have passed since my return to the fold. I have completed five successful missions in that time, and am now permitted to roam freely about the Designer’s Hex (or Kingston, as it is more commonly known - a legacy from when it was controlled by the New Jamaicans). But I still feel like an outsider here. It might be my height, or the muscle mass that requires no work to maintain, but everyone can immediately tell that I’m a Genesis. And they avoid me.

  I get it, though. Most of them are doctors, engineers, agricultural biologists. Whereas I am an ugly reminder that the Designer isn’t afraid to use force to carve out his kingdom. I try to tell myself that I am used to this, that I have always stood apart. But things are different now. I have glimpsed t
he warm center of this new society, and the fact that I can’t reach it is killing me.

  My handler is an exception, in theory. But even she keeps me at a distance. Maintaining a professional working relationship, is what she calls it, using her trademark half-mocking tone. The type of relationship I want with her is anything but professional, which is exactly why she insists on it, I would imagine. So basically, I’m really fucking lonely is what I’m saying. Finding a few friends might help to take the edge off. But although the other returned Genesis batchers would be the obvious choice, we have been kept apart.

  Until today.

  There are twelve of us in total: seven girls and five boys. Each looks as wary of the others as I feel. We are standing around my - I mean our - handler in a tight circle, awaiting instructions. A hundred meters to the west, a bruised sun is setting inside the V-shaped wedge of the American Hexwall breach. The Yankees have built a wooden palisade across the ten-meter gap, but it is still the colony’s weakest point by far. I’m not surprised the Designer has chosen it as the location for our attack.

  “Okay, here’s the deal.” Our handler says. “As you know, the Columbians finally joined up last week, which means that all 91 Hexes are now part of the Designer’s socio-economic directorate.” She uses air quotes and an eye roll to tell us what she thinks of this term. “But before anyone could pop the champagne, a group of activists stormed our American embassy, killed its entire staff and declared their independence. Everyone with me so far?” We nod. “Good. Now, you will all see action on the front lines during the battle, but your primary task will be mop up duty.”

  “Rooting kids out from under floorboards, that sort of thing?” I say before I can stop myself.

  For an instant, I imagine that the acolyte’s blithe persona slips, revealing shame and anger beneath. But the façade returns before I can be sure.