The Live Soldier Trilogy Box Set

by Liam Clay

  “What did you say?” I croak.

  “I said, are you alright?”

  “Not really.” I tap my forehead against the window of the floor we’ve come to rest against, where some kind of catered event is in progress. “Shitheads didn’t invite us to their party!” For some reason we both find this incredibly funny, and our hilarity only increases when the party goers start to gawk at us.

  “Hey Anex, I think we found some more of your fans!” Peace says between peals of laughter.

  She’s not even wrong, either. People are running to the window bank in droves to press their faces against the glass. And then, over their heads, I see maybe the strangest thing I’ve encountered to date. A giant hologram of my arm occupies the left side of the room. And on the right are the party goers, seen as I’m seeing them.

  “Holy shit.” Peace breathes. “They must have skipped your feed forward to real time.”

  “So they’re watching what is happening to us right now?”

  “Yup, and having a viewing party to celebrate. Which it’s about time we crashed.” She looks down. “You guys up for some champagne and canapés?”

  We hear murmurs of assent from Delez, Amy and Tolam. But from Lucy and Fort, not a word. Craning my neck, I spot Lucy clinging to a steel truss a few meters below the others.

  “Lucy!” I call out. “You still with us?”

  “I’m here.” She replies in a muffled voice. “But Fort didn’t make it.”

  Fuck.

  “I’m sorry, Lucy.” Delez says after a pause. “But as dickish as this sounds, can we mourn him and Devin later? Otherwise we’re all going to go the same way pretty quick.”

  I see Lucy’s back straighten, and when she looks up at us, her eyes are clear.

  “Let’s go.”

  Peace nods, unclips her shear, and rakes it across the nearest window. The glass shatters and falls away into the fog.

  “Back the fuck up!” She yells at the party goers, who are delirious with excitement by this point. They give ground reluctantly, and some go back to watching the hologram of my sightline (I see more than one person checking their hair in it). In relatively short order, the six remaining members of our squad are standing in the richly appointed room. I feel exquisitely out of place amidst the finery, like a newborn baby in a morgue. (My apologies for the creepy analogy, it’s been a long day.)

  For their part, the Topsiders seem content to whisper and giggle among themselves, possibly because they know that anyone who speaks up will be doing so in front of the entire city. The situation is becoming rather uncomfortable when Delez takes charge.

  “Alright people, listen up! And not just you rich pricks in this room - I’m talking to everyone riding in at home too. As you know, we’re on our way to Kore Tower to rescue our kids. Carlel has already thrown an army of bouncers at as, and the police too. We don’t know what else he’s got up his sleeve, but we will need your help if we’re going to make it. So, who’s with us?”

  A mousy woman in a pink frock raises her hand.

  “What do you want us to do?”

  Delez grins. “I’ve got one word for you. Riot.”

  .

  Whoa - shit is really getting nuts now. We are well into the 200s, running full tilt through film stages on our way to Kore Tower. Golden savannah gives way to icy tundra, undersea grotto to apocalyptic wasteland. The Topsiders are following Delez’s instructions to the letter, and everywhere I look, actors, techs and crew members are literally chewing up the scenery. They’re fucking trashing the place, is what I’m saying, causing millions of credits in damage every second. Part of me cringes at the reckless waste - but it’s a very small part.

  The riot idea was an inspired one. These people would have been useless in a military support role, but this? This they can do. And a better cover for our approach I cannot imagine. (Every time a surveillance camera breaks, a fairy gets its wings.) Since escaping the Charleston, we have yet to encounter a single shred of resistance. Granted, we haven’t seen any sign of our allies either, but it’s best not to think about that.

  I’ve lost count of the restricted floors we’ve been given access to by spastic fans. They keep riding in on me while we’re talking so they can watch themselves, which was surreal at first but has now become highly irritating. A few minutes ago a security guard blinked into my feed, felt how annoyed I was with him, and literally begged to let us onto the stage he was supposed to be protecting.

  We’re getting close now - I’m sure of it. And this is not just a gut feeling; the buildings here get enough sun to grow green facades, and I keep glimpsing blue sky through the windows too. We have left the stages behind. In their place are private residences that make Wen shin’s apartment look like a clapboard shack. And although there are no signs to tell us for sure, I think we must be nearing the 300s. I imagine my viewers watching in fascination as we run past solariums, banquet halls, rock gardens and infinity pools, each more opulent than the last.

  And then there are the owners themselves. Mid-tier cosmetic surgery tends to render people generically attractive, whereas bastards like these can afford custom handsomeness packages. Their only shared physical trait is that they look way better than me or anyone I know. Their actions, however, mimic each other almost exactly. They don’t dare turn us away from their doorsteps (not with the whole city watching) but siding with known criminals isn’t in their best interest either, so they simply open their doors and let us pass through without a word.

  Except for one man. It takes me a while to place him without the medieval baron costume (he is wearing a purple silk bathrobe with gold tasseling on this occasion) but he greets me with such delight that I find myself smiling anyway.

  “My friend, it is so good to see you! I thought you had been killed in the Letiva incident, and so imagine my surprise when your feed was released!” His expression clouds over. “My boys were less fortunate, though.”

  “Your boys?”

  “My precious lads, my beautiful young jesters. Blown to kingdom come by that woman and her human instrument.”

  “Oh that’s right, we met on the generation ship. I’m, uh, so sorry for your loss.”

  The baron bows his head. “Thank you. But enough of this morbid talk. Like everyone else in our fair city, I have been watching your adventures with great interest! And it would be remiss of me not to aid you any way I can.”

  “Great!” Delez interjects impatiently. “We’ll just be on our way, then. Unless you know how to get us into Kore Tower by any chance?”

  The baron smiles slyly. “As a matter of fact, I do! You have the pleasure of speaking to Dorin Hame, CFO of Kore Pictures.” Then he stares directly into my linked eye. “And since I know you are watching, Carlel, let me take this opportunity to tender my official resignation.” His face becomes a bitter mask. “The Calendo woman may have flipped the switch, but it was you who ordered the bombing. And I can think of no better revenge than helping Anex take your crown for himself.”

  “What’s that now?”

  .

  Fucking Dorin. I mean yes, he is guiding us straight to Kore Tower via private corridors we never could have found on our own. But what was that shit about me taking Korezon’s crown? That is NOT going to sit well with Shion or the Silver Circle. Oh well, I suppose that’s a problem for Future Anex to worry about. I’ve got enough Current Anex issues to occupy myself with for the time being.

  On the upside, our journey has finally brought us clear of the soup. Shafts of sunlight bounce between buildings like a god-sized game of Pong, and the sky is so blue it hurts. Every skybridge crossing becomes a visual treat, and I keep my head on a swivel, trying to capture the view for posterity without ever slowing down. Then a cloud bank shifts, and Kore Tower is revealed in all its garish glory. To call it big would be like describing liquid magma as warm. A cylindrical monument made of reflective silver glass, it stands a good thirty stories higher than the city’s next tallest structure. Dorin takes a
right at an intersection in the sky, and suddenly we’re heading straight for it.

  “So what’s the plan?” Delez asks him as we hurry forward.

  “We walk straight in. Korezon has committed most of his human resources to the Charleston engagement. A skeleton crew is all that remains in the Tower.”

  “You may not have noticed, but there are only six of us.” Lucy snaps. “So even a skeleton crew is going to pose a serious problem.”

  Dorin just smiles. “Correction: there are seven of us. And I happen to have an advantage that even Carlel can’t boast.”

  “Oh yeah, and what’s that?”

  He shrugs. “Who do you think pays all of these people?”

  Lucy looks impressed. “Okay, that might actually do it.”

  And it does. Upon reaching Kore Tower, we find the doors standing open in anticipation of our arrival. Two guards in silver uniforms flank the entrance, hands clasped behind their backs. They nod respectfully to Dorin, he dips his head in reply, and we enter without firing a shot. The accountant leads us to a chamber filled with hundreds of padded holo-couches. All are empty.

  “This is the Kore Pictures central control room.” He informs us. “Every feed we produce is mastered here, and for the past few weeks it has been ground zero for the effort to scrub Anex off the net. Fortunately for you, the Silver Circle thwarted those attempts.” He frowns. “It is strange to see it so empty. The staff must either be off protecting their homes from looters, or robbing their neighbors blind. Come, it is this way.”

  He leads us to a bank of freight elevators.

  “This is where I leave you.” He says. “Korezon will have left the majority of his reserve with your children, and I am no fighter. They are on the 335th floor.”

  “Thank you for helping us.” Lucy says without the slightest trace of sarcasm.

  Dorin gives her a small bow. “It was my pleasure. Bon chance.”

  We cram ourselves into an elevator. Peace presses the button for 335, and we shoot upward at extraordinary speed. Deceleration is equally abrupt. A chime sounds, and the door opens onto an industrial kitchen. The place is deserted. Aside from the elevator there are two other exits: one large, one small. The large door, which is firmly shut, is located on the far side of the room. The other is closer and open. A stale coffee smell wafts from it.

  “That you, Jeff?” A male voice calls through the open door.

  “Uh, yes?” Delez replies after a pause.

  “Then get your ass in here and tell us the news!” The man shouts. “Did we ice that bastard Anex yet or what?”

  At Delez’s order, we advance with our guns leveled. But we’re still a few meters away when a swarthy man with a lazy eye appears in the doorway.

  “You’re not Jeff.” He says inanely, which is a shame seeing as those are his last words (unless you count gurgling). Lucy puts a couple of bullets in his neck, and then we rush the room. Inside, we find a dozen men and women in various states of repose. The firefight is quick and close. We don’t lose anyone, but Tolam is so violently ill afterward that I worry he might tear a muscle.

  “How is this our life now?” Delez complains, pinching his nose against the smell. “Never thought I would miss those good old Underworld gang wars.”

  “This isn’t a permanent thing.” I tell him firmly. “In fact, with any luck you won’t have to kill anyone else today. Or this month, even. Now let’s get this over with before the real Jeff comes back.”

  CHAPTER 34

  After a brief search, we find a key card on the swarthy man’s corpse. “Here goes nothing.” Delez says, tapping it against a reader beside the big door. We hear two beeps, and the steel rectangle swings slowly open.

  I cannot possibly describe the feeling that comes over me when I see what’s on the other side. But then, I don’t have to, do I? You, all twenty million and change of you, are emoting right along with me. In a previous life, this room must have been Kore Tower’s main banquet hall. Now it is filled with tents much like the ones we occupied on the Gulf Islands. There are kids everywhere. They haven’t exactly been behaving themselves, either - running amok, is actually the phrase that comes to mind.

  I couldn’t care less.

  The next few minutes are spent zig zagging between tents like a crazy person, yelling Sophie’s name over and over. Until a pudgy hand grabs mine. I look down and there is Jimmy, bright red hair and all. He’s frowning.

  “You owe me candy.” He says, and for some reason this is what starts me crying. I pick him up and continue my search. Groups of curious children start to follow me, until I’m leading a sort of wild parade through the tent city. Then a gap opens in the crowd and there she is. Sophie. My daughter. And like a hammerblow, it hits me that I never truly expected to see her again. Never expected to see any of them. I had assumed, in the dark core of my mind, that Korezon would kill every last one of these children rather than let us have them back.

  Sophie is looking at me with a strange expression. Catching her mood, the other children go quiet.

  “Hello, sir.” She says in her sing song voice. Something happens with my legs and I almost fall down.

  “Hi.” I manage to say.

  She brushes a strand of honey colored hair back from her forehead. “Excuse me, but do you mind if I ask you a question?”

  “Sure.”

  “You’re very kind.” She twists her toe into the carpet, looking shy but determined. “What I wanted to ask was... well, are you by any chance my father?”

  .

  “But why do you have to go?”

  Sophie and I are sitting side by side on a stainless steel prep table in the kitchen. Or I’m sitting, anyway; I couldn’t quite tell you what she’s doing. My daughter is hunkered down on the tabletop in a compact squat, fingers gripping the table’s edge so hard that her knuckles have gone snow white. She will occasionally break from this position to gnaw on one of her kneecaps, but otherwise she refuses to move.

  I try to think of a suitable response to her question. Just saying ‘for revenge’ obviously won’t do. Nor will explaining that until Korezon is dead, I will never be free of the compulsion the Designer planted in my head all those years ago. I consider telling her that he just bloody well deserves it, but somehow none of these options seem like an ideal first conversation between father and daughter. In the end, I settle for, “It’s complicated.”

  She looks unimpressed by my response. No, scratch that: she looks super pissed off.

  “Well this is just... just...”

  “Just what?” I ask gently. Unfortunately, my prompting only seems to make her angrier.

  “I’ll tell you what this is, dad. It is total bullshit!”

  “Sophie! Where did you learn that kind of language?”

  She rolls her eyes at me. “If I’m smart enough to speak intelligently, I must also be smart enough to talk like an idiot, right?”

  I try to poke a hole in her logic and fail. Which should come as no surprise, really, since everything I know about kids could fit into the tip of my pinky finger. Plus I’m crazy tired, kind of shot up, and probably suffering the first pangs of PTSD.

  “Alright Sophie, you win this round.” I say with a sigh. “So I’ll be honest with you. What I’m about to do is wrong. Badly wrong. But I’m going to do it anyway, because I’m not one of those perfect hero fathers you see on the feeds. And I won’t even pretend to be doing it for you, or your mother, or this city. The truth is, I’m doing it for myself. Because if I’m going to come through this in one piece - you know, mentally - then I need the closure.”

  The verbal avalanche stops.

  “So if you go,” she says, “will it make you a better person?”

  I turn this over in my head. “No. But it might put me in a place where I can start to work on becoming one.”

  There is a pause. And then she says, “I didn’t really understand a lot of that, but thank you for not talking down to me. Anyway it seems important to you, so I gue
ss you’d better go.”

  I look over at her. “Really?”

  “Yes.” She says, more confident now. “Before I got kidnapped, mother was teaching me about self-determination. And I think this has something to do with it.”

  “Oh. Well then...” I hop off the table, marveling at just how royally I screwed that up. I’m about to leave when she says, “You were wrong about one thing, though.”

  “Really, what’s that?”

  “You don’t have to be perfect to be a hero. I can read books already, you know, and some of the best characters in them are dumb like you.”

  “Thanks Sophie.”

  “You’re welcome. Oh, and one last thing.”

  “Yes?”

  “Please don’t die. But don’t promise me you won’t, either. I hate it when people do that in the movies. I mean, how do they know what’s going to happen?”

  .

  And so it is that Delez, Peace, Lucy and yours truly travel into the uppermost floors of Kore Tower together. (Tolam broke down as soon as the battle adrenaline wore off, so we left him behind to watch over an irate Amy.) It is a surreal journey for a number of reasons. For one thing, none of us expects to get anywhere near Korezon (except possibly when he comes to spit on our corpses). So we know that this is probably a death march. Also, I was expecting to have the place to ourselves, right up until the final showdown with Korezon’s personal guard. But word must be out that the Tower is virtually undefended, because there are looters everywhere.

  Most of these opportunists run when they see us. (Either on general principle, or because they recognize me and don’t want to get caught on camera.) But one of them marches straight up and plants himself in front of us. He’s quite the character: even taller than me, heavier by at least twenty kilos, with a thick scar circumnavigating his hairless skull.

  “Well I’ll be damned,” he shouts into our faces, “if it isn’t my new heroes! You have no idea how hard it was for me to turn off your feed and get my ass up here.” He gestures to the wealth that surrounds us. “But for a 300th story man like me, an opportunity this good might come along once in a lifetime.”