The Live Soldier Trilogy Box Set

by Liam Clay

  Unlike the others, I couldn’t be happier to have my coma behind me. Being part of the 7% sucks. But reliving past events has had one (let’s go with positive) effect. It has convinced me, once and for all, that I need to tell my squad mates everything I know about the Hive. It could mean the difference between life and death for all of us. Now I just need to figure out how to do that without Porter finding out.

  My thoughts are interrupted by Francis, who is in the bed next to mine.

  “Hey boss,” he says conversationally, “I ever tell you what I did for a living back in the Underworld?”

  “Would you cut it out with the boss shit? And no, not that I recall.”

  “Care to be enlightened?”

  Our time together has shown me that behind their front of youthful simplicity, the brothers are anything but stupid. So if Francis wants to tell me about his profession, there is probably a good reason for it.

  “Sure. It’s not like I’ve got anything else to do.”

  He chuckles. “Ironic, isn’t it? Here we are with these flash new retcoms, and not so much as an infomercial to ride in on. But anyway, I’m in the revenge business. Or I was, anyway.”

  “No shit. In one of the Slump cells?”

  “Nah, nothing so corporate as all that. Me and my brother, we ran our own knockoff operation, see? Had a nice little shop over Belltown way. Morgan sourced the originals, I ran revenge on them.” He grins. “I cracked Syrek’s firewall when I was still half a kid. If you’ve watched a burned copy of one of their flicks in the past five years, you have me to thank for it.”

  “Cool.” I say, starting to guess what he’s driving at. “Ever crack any operating systems?”

  “Nah, not enough credit in it.”

  And since we’re both Underworlders, this statement closes the subject. Except that it doesn’t, really, because I’ve just been told that if we can get our hands on one of these new retcoms, Francis can reverse engineer it. Or he thinks he can, at least.

  Five days later, our new eyes have stopped itching. A surgeon pays a visit, and after conducting a round of examinations, pronounces us ready for training. Although training is hardly the word I would use to describe what follows. First, a team of techs enters the ward - one for each platoon member. The guy assigned to me would be classically handsome if not for a crippling case of hipsteritis. Introducing himself as Ethan, he starts to run diagnostics on my implant.

  “Please listen carefully.” He says afterward. “I am about to initiate a projector calibration routine on your retcom. Most of the process runs automatically, but I will need you to do one thing.” He smiles with a near-infinite degree of condescension. “Don’t worry, it’s not rocket science or anything. I just need you to picture an image in your head and hold it. Don’t use a person, though - facial features are hard to get right, and emotional attachments can alter how you visualize certain people. A stationary object or a small room is usually best. Oh, and keep your linked eye open while you’re doing it.”

  Ignoring the tech’s shitty attitude, I focus on the first thing that comes to mind. And slowly, a room takes shape in the air above me. It’s the rented Topside cubicle I lived in before fate (or one of her known associates) dragged me out here. A clinically drab room of nine cubed meters, it boasts a drop down bed, a cramped shower unit, a fold out table and two camp chairs. A flatscreen on one wall displays a feed of the building’s exterior. (Way cheaper than an actual window, and who cares anyway when all you can see is smog and the occasional passing choppertaxi?) Looking at it, I wonder absently if my landlord has tried to evict me yet.

  “Not bad for a first try.” Ethan admits grudgingly. “But hey, isn’t that the Brixton Arms?”

  “Yup. How’d you know that?”

  “My GF used to live there before she got promoted to corporate apartments.” He frowns. “Aren’t all of you supposed to be Underworlders, though?”

  “I used to be a climber.” I reply distractedly (maintaining the projected image is harder than I’d anticipated).

  “Ah, gotcha. I bought from one of you for a while - chick always had the strongest shit going. Now,” he continues in a marginally warmer tone, “it’s time to sync you up with your first nanodrone.”

  He produces one of the silver golf balls and tosses it my way. I flub the catch, but instead of falling the sphere reaches its apex and freezes, hovering in midair like a miniature sun. Meanwhile, in the next bed over, Francis has yet to create a clear holo-projection. His current effort is either a poled skiff or a polar bear drinking from a bathtub with a straw.

  “Stop trying to animate it.” His exasperated tech is scolding him. “You’re not ready for a technique that advanced yet.”

  “But the damn thing was moving when I saw it!”

  “Then use a different memory.”

  Refocusing on my nanodrone, I notice a tiny red light blinking on its side.

  “That’s the link indicator.” Ethan explains. “When the light goes solid, it means you’re connected and ready to ride in. You’ll be able to control the drone’s movements from then on as well, but we’ll worry about flying later.”

  “And how do I get the light to go solid?”

  He blinks out a two-fast, one-slow cadence. “Just repeat that routine within sight of the drone’s camera.”

  “Isn’t that a bit easy to crack?”

  “The sequence is just an activator. Once a drone has been synced to your retcom, it will only have eyes for you.”

  “Cute.” I say, repeating the cadence. The flashing light turns solid and then fades away altogether.

  “There, see how the indicator has gone dark? That’s so it won’t give away your position in the field. Now raise your hand and swipe right with your index finger.”

  I do as he says. And just like flicking between dating profiles, my vision gives way to the drone’s perspective.

  “Cool.”

  “And this is just early days. Once you’ve learned to control this one, we can start adding more. By the time we’re done, you should be able to swipe through a dozen feeds at a time.”

  I think this over. “Not to seem like I’m telling you your job or anything, but can the drone-view layer over my vision instead of replacing it? It would be embarrassing if someone walked up and stabbed me while I was looking at something a click away.”

  The tech runs ringed fingers through his sculpted beard. “The layered image would take some getting used to. But yes, I think it’s worth bringing up with management.” He smiles sheepishly. “Actually, do you mind if I pretend it was my idea? My girl’s been lording it over me on the daily since she got elevated to corporate quarters. This could be my chance to get back on even terms.”

  “Sure, why not?” I reply pleasantly. “Just between the two of us, I think another promotion might be the death of me.”

  “Thanks.” He says. And then, “Okay, I think that’s enough for today.”

  “But we haven’t established the pooled link yet.”

  Ethan’s head jerks around sharply. “How do you know about that?”

  “Porter mentioned it.”

  This appears to wrong-foot him. “The pooled link application has been scrapped.” He says at length. “There were some... bugs... in the programming.”

  “What kind of bugs?”

  The tech glances around and then edges closer.

  “If I let you in on a secret, will you promise not to tell anyone?”

  “I swear on my mother’s life.” I reply solemnly. (Since I never had a mother this doesn’t carry much weight for me, but it’s the thought that counts.)

  “Okay, you know how everyone has that one high school friend who never did anything with their life?”

  “I lack a traditional education, but I know what you mean.”

  “Well mine was a real doozy. After his parents kicked him out, he started enrolling in clinical studies for quick credit. You know, drug testing and stuff like that. Did it for years without any
serious side effects, until he joined the test group for the pooled link. Apparently it worked perfectly - but the longer the group used it, the more their personalities started to merge.” He shakes his head sadly. “I went out for a beer with him last week, and the guy was royally screwed up. I’m talking dozens of competing mannerisms, about a thousand new likes and dislikes, speech patterns all over the map. It was like hanging out with twenty people at once. And the weirdest part was that he knew exactly what was happening, but there was nothing he could do about it.”

  “Shit. Do you think it’s permanent?”

  “No one knows. But his GF is frenemies with one of my exes, and apparently she let slip that things have gotten pretty strange in the bedroom. So I decided to do a little digging, and you know what I found out? Porter and his team didn’t even build that application. They bought the source code off some traveling salesman! So long story short, you dodged a bullet on the whole pooled link thing.”

  Perhaps feeling that he has overshared in violation of his disengaged ethos, Ethan joins a line of techs already headed for the door. “Would you look at the time.” He mutters as he goes. “See you tomorrow.”

  .

  I expect the tech to be more withdrawn the next day, but to my surprise he greets me with an animated fist bump. It seems that management has accepted our overlaying proposal. He foresees it being a real feather in his cap, maybe even enough to earn him a corporate apartment. Add to this my speedy progress with the new retcom - and its projector app in particular - and I’m now firmly settled in his good books. The platoon’s overall progress must be satisfactory as well, because that evening they let us move around the ward for the first time.

  My first visitor is Kalana.

  She takes a seat on my bed, almost close enough to touch, and I feel a reflection of the glow her presence used to inspire all those years ago. This despite looking as though half her soul has been cut away.

  “How are you feeling?” She asks. Incredibly, it takes me a few seconds to figure out what she means.

  “Not bad, actually. The first few weeks of training were hell, but... to be honest, I haven’t really thought about it since they woke us back up.”

  “I find that hard to believe.”

  “I know, me too. And if things were back to normal, I think there would be more of a temptation to backslide. But with everything that’s happening, getting high just seems kind of, well, trivial.”

  She nods thoughtfully. “You took drugs to escape the life that was forced upon you by the world, and now that life has been wiped away. You’ve been set free, after a fashion.”

  “Funny, I’d say that drugs were what brought me to my place in the world, not the other way around.” Sensing a conversational crossroads, I force myself to take the steeper path. “You said yourself they were what drove you away.”

  Kalana looks down at her hands. “That was one of the things I came to talk about. To apologize for, actually. Anex, I accused you of being a drug addict because it was what you needed to hear at the time. But that doesn’t make it any less cruel.”

  “I’m sorry, what?”

  She sighs. “I knew you were about to go through withdrawals, and that your life would be in danger if you couldn’t handle the training. So I tried to provide some emotional incentive to help you push through.”

  “Then it wasn’t true, what you said about dumping me because of the drugs?”

  “Do you really want me to answer that?”

  “Want? Not really. But maybe I need to hear it.”

  “Then yes, I did mean it. But I never would have said anything if I didn’t think it was for your own good.”

  Expelling the air from my lungs, I sit, deflated, until my body begins to complain. Only when the pain has reached a climax do I breathe in again.

  “Then there’s nothing to apologize for. The truth can never be a bad thing.”

  “Of course it can.” She replies with conviction. “Look, what I’m trying to say - poorly, I’ll grant you - is that you don’t owe me anything. I know you think you do, but you’re wrong.”

  I smile gently. “It’s nice of you to let me off the hook, but-”

  “That’s not what this is!” She growls, and I’m shocked to see unshed tears in her eyes. “Anex, there is a conversation I’ve wanted to have with you for years. But... I’m afraid of what it will do to you.”

  “Kalana, I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  She wipes away the tears, and although her next words are calmer, they remain charged with some deeper meaning that I can’t for the life of me decipher.

  “I’m sorry, but I can’t explain right now. I will though, as soon as this is all over.”

  I’m about to argue, but then my eyes find hers, and with a jolt I realize why she’s holding back. Kalana was decanted with gold flecked irises. But her original retcom’s manufacturer was unable (or simply too lazy) to add that particular detail. So for years, her right eye has been just that little bit different from the left. But now they’re the same again, because Porter’s team are a bunch of shit-eating perfectionists. Perfectionists with the ability to play back everything our implants record.

  “Fine, whatever.” I say with simulated disgust. “What was the other thing you wanted to talk about?”

  “Sophie.” She says immediately. “I haven’t seen her since they woke us back up, and I need to know that she’s okay. So if your promise from before still stands, this would be a good place to start.”

  I consider bringing up my actions in the transport truck, but decide against it.

  “I’ll do anything I can. What do you need?”

  “I heard a rumor that Porter has made you platoon leader. If that’s true, I want you to use whatever influence you have to get our visitation rights back.”

  I stifle a sigh of relief - this might actually be doable. “Alright, I’ll talk to Ethan.”

  “Who?”

  “He’s the tech I’ve been working with. A hipster douchebag if ever there was one, but not so bad for all that.”

  Her mouth twitches. “I’m prepared to forgive underground ambient folk and ironically worn suspenders if he can get this done. Oh, and by the way, I think Delez is a solid option to lead the platoon. But don’t sell yourself short either.”

  And then she’s leaning over to kiss me on the cheek. Grown men aren’t supposed to get a head rush from such basic human contact, but this is Kalana we’re talking about. My only real relationship, the mother of my child, and before any of that, my rescuer.

  CHAPTER 19

  Thankfully, Kalana’s request turns out to be an easy one. When I ask Ethan about our holographic visitation rights, he tells me that our new retcoms are up to the job. We just have to learn how to use them first. My ex gives me a hug when I go to tell her the news. Then I head back to my bed, blink up my interface and get ready to start retsploring.

  As this is a newish term, it may bear some explanation.

  When people go hunting for answers to life’s big questions, they tend to look either within themselves or really far away. The temple of the soul or space, the final frontier. But with religion near death and the heavens restricted to film, these schmucks don’t have many places left to look. The temple has crumbled; the stars are beyond reach. So they’ve started turning to what is being called the penultimate frontier (after it lost the contest for top spot in a controversial coach’s challenge).

  The term retsploring was first used to describe the quest to find god within our machines. But it now applies to anyone who roams the most obscure reaches of the internet as a means of satisfying a general wanderlust. I like to think of it as spelunking for nerds. Purists wouldn’t call what I’m about to do retsploring at all, of course. My old retcom’s interface - a tastefully rendered bamboo forest - was little more than a jumping off point to the wider net, where all the true adventure was to be found. But this new interface is like a doorless room. It is a closed intranet composed of
white space and blue lines, with not a potted banzai or wifi connection in sight. But that doesn’t mean there’s nothing to do here.

  Dozens of perfectly rendered 3D icons hang suspended about the room. Each represents a data folder, and together they contain the nuts and bolts of this new technology that’s been foisted onto me. Most of it will be incomprehensible to anyone who’s not a programmer. But I’m hoping that somewhere in here, there is a directory with the pooled link application contained in it. Someone may have wiped the app off our retcoms after the program got scrapped. But since I’m probably the only one of us who even knows about it, there’s a decent chance they didn’t bother.

  I hit paydirt an hour later. The app has been dumped into the subfolder of a subfolder of a completely unrelated program, but it appears to be intact. If I can get the thing running, it may be a way of talking to the platoon without Porter overhearing. Obviously it would suck if our personalities started to merge, but at this juncture that’s a risk I’m willing to take.

  I’m pondering my next move when a red light winks on in a corner of the room. It could easily be nothing. Or it could mean that someone is watching me, perhaps curious as to why I’ve been logged on so long. Thank god I already closed the subfolder containing the pooled link. Opening a random file that turns out to be a nanodrone manual, I scan through it for a while and then sign out, feigning boredom.

  I log in every evening for eight days after that, and each time the red light is waiting. It’s impossible to tell whether they’re on to me, or if it’s just part of some tech’s job to monitor our activities. No one has actually denied me access, so I’m hoping it’s the latter. For all the good that does me. Once the app has been activated I should be able to bypass my interface entirely, but first I need to install it - something I can’t do while they’re watching. Afraid of giving away the game, I elect to stay offline for the next few days.