The Live Soldier Trilogy Box Set

by Liam Clay

“I don't know.” I say in frustration. “Everything was confused enough before, and now that everyone thinks we're dead...”

  “How does it feel?” Amy asks suddenly.

  “How does what feel?”

  “Being alone inside your head again? Your feed is gone. No one is looking out through your eyes, or listening in on your thoughts anymore. That must be a strange feeling after all this time.”

  I lean back in my seat as this information sinks in. With the shock of my amputation and the madness that followed it, I hadn't considered the loss of my feed until now. It takes some time for my feelings on the matter to solidify. There is relief, certainly, but loss as well. I'd grown used to being connected to my place of origin, and to the people who call it home. Now we are truly alone, and with an impossible decision before us. Do we return to Opacity and try to negotiate the city's surrender, or give Delez up for lost and continue to fight the Null? I wish I knew where Peace and Tikal were. What they're doing; whether they're safe; why they left us. But we have no answers at all - just a dark basement full of half formed questions.

  “You know what I keep coming back to?” Lucy says when I stay silent. “What technology do the Null want from Opacity? If we knew that, I feel like this whole puzzle would solve itself.”

  Francis nods. “It always comes back to the tech, doesn't it? So let's go over what we know. It's something that will help the Null achieve their ever-so-secret endgame.”

  “And if the Opacians find out what it is, the Architect is afraid they might destroy it rather than let her have it.”

  “So whatever they want it for, we aren't going to like very much.”

  “That could be a million things, though. Almost any technology can be turned into something deadly. Just look at Rajani's nanovax.”

  There is a pause.

  “Does anyone know what happened to her?” Amy asks.

  “No.” Francis replies. “She stayed with Hera's Garden during the battle, but she wasn't with her when... you know what happened.”

  “So the Medgician could have escaped.”

  “It’s possible.” Lucy says. “Although she could just as easily have died earlier in the assault.”

  “That's a bad attitude to take.” Francis says reprovingly. Lucy throws up her hands.

  “So sue me, alright? I'm just stating the facts.”

  “If only we had some way to communicate with our people.” Francis laments. “We used to have the link, and Anex's feed as well. But now we're flying dark.”

  “Maybe that's not such a bad thing, though.” I say. “The link would have killed us if we'd used it much longer. And the Architect used my feed to ambush us in Medival. At least now no one can track us.”

  Beside me, Lucy sits up straight. “What about your daughter? Don't you have a comms channel set up with her?”

  I hesitate. “That's true, but what if the Architect picks up our conversations? She might be able to trace the feed back to Sophie.”

  “But she thinks we're dead! And besides, your daughter is safe in the Hive.”

  “Is she, though? I’m almost sure it was the Null who poisoned Kalana. And if they can pull off something like that, who's to say what else they could do?”

  “I know you don't want to put Sophie at risk.” Amy replies. “But if nothing else, she deserves to know you're alive.”

  “She already does. We talked after Medival, during the trip through the desert.”

  “Then what has changed?”

  “Nothing. I just wasn't thinking straight then.”

  “But this could be our only chance to find out what's happening. Please, Anex. Without more information we'll be traveling blind.”

  Reluctantly, I try to activate the microbead embedded in my ear. But nothing happens.

  “It's not working.”

  Francis turns in his seat to look at me. “Come on, now. Don't be like that.”

  “I'm serious! I hit my head when we flushed out into that supply corridor. The impact must have broken the bead.”

  Francis exhales heavily. “So we really are alone. Unless we go back to the Thresh?”

  “And risk bringing the Null down on them, too?” Lucy shoots back. “No way.”

  The conversation falls apart after that. We have exhausted our options, and there isn't much left to say. Robbed of further distraction, the pain clamps down like a vice. I give in to it, letting my eye slide out of focus until the world becomes an endless blur: half yellow, half blue. But over time, I become aware of a black dot hovering on the line between the two. With an effort, I concentrate on the spot. And utter a curse.

  The aircraft is behind and to the left of us. Its trajectory runs wide of our position - but not by much. As soon as Amy sees it, she slows the buggy to a halt.

  “What are you doing?” Lucy hisses.

  “We're decently camouflaged if we stay still.”

  She's probably right, but the wait is excruciating. As the craft comes closer, I get my first proper look at a ship of the Null airborne division. Its body is long and sleek, a black splinter of a thing. Two lightweight wings extend from either side of it, with guns slung beneath them. The ship has no visible cockpit, just a nest of cameras and sensors clustered under its nose. Overall, it bears a strong resemblance to a dragonfly. These are the vessels that lay waste to Medival, and would be doing the same to Worldpool if the Architect didn't want it intact.

  In the front seat, Francis has turned a rancid shade of green. Just hours ago, he and Lucy were defending the nanovax moat against the Null advance. And you can only stare down so much death in one day before your nerve starts to give out. The ship stops. Its sensors scan the area with insectlike movements, reinforcing the image of a dragonfly. Then it turns to face us on silent levitator fans.

  “Go.” Lucy says.

  Amy peels out in a spray of sparkling grit. The dragonfly curls in behind us, and the chase begins. We cut between two dunes and burn up the face of another. The enemy craft opens fire with its wing-mounted laser cannons, tracing lines of molten glass into the sand. It is faster than us; we are more maneuverable. But one lash of those cannons is all it will take. Me and Lucy are crouched down in the footwell between seats.

  “Help me prep the railgun!” She shouts.

  I fumble with an ammunition string, and feed it into the chamber. Lucy swivels the turret around and fires off a few rounds. I fall back into my seat, ears ringing.

  Now the chase becomes a running battle through the desert. Lucy takes out the dragonfly's left cannon, and it destroys one of our solar panels in turn. Amy is weaving around like a suicidal drunk. Francis has jumped up onto his seat, and is staring at the Null ship with a look of utter concentration. Then he hurls a grenade straight up into the air. It's a great throw: the kind of perfect effort you can only sit back and watch with admiration. The device reaches the peak of its trajectory... and falls right onto the dragonfly's back. There is a flash, and the craft's rear wings go up in flames. For a moment, I think it's going to take the hit and keep on coming. But then the ship fades to the left, nosedives, and careens straight into a dune. A barrage of shrapnel goes wide, and now we're speeding away from the wreck.

  “Wow.” Francis says shakily, dropping back into his chair. “I think you guys owe me a beer for that one.”

  Lucy laughs. “If we ever find somewhere with a bar, I'll buy you a whole keg.”

  “And that was some nice driving.” I tell Amy. “Is there anything you aren’t amazing at?”

  “Not that I know of.” She replies with complete seriousness.

  In the minutes following the attack, I keep scanning the sky for dragonflies. But the horizon stays blessedly clear. The mountains appear in the distance, gray and hazed out but growing larger all the time. Somewhere behind us, the Worldpoolers are entering deep freeze. I hope they can snatch a few more good years of life before the Architect drags them from their virtual haven. As for us, I still have no idea what we're going to do. What I really n
eed is a doctor to operate on my eye, but I can't imagine finding one out here. Fear eventually exhausts my mind, and I fall into a restless sleep.

  When I wake up, we're in the foothills fronting the mountain range. The last time we passed through this area, things were very different. I already miss those days so much it hurts. Joking around with Delez; listening to Den's crazy sex advice; spending afternoons with Tikal in our tiny room in the GTV. This is how bereaved people go insane - I know that. But I can't stop dwelling on the past any more than I can regrow my missing limb.

  Amy finds a track leading into the higher passes, and we start our ascent. This is not the same way we came last time. The summits here are loftier, steeper, wilder. Waterfalls drop over high cliffs, breaking into a fine vapor that drifts on the breeze. We even pass a horned goat at one point. I'm learning that distraction is the only way to avoid the darkness inside, and so I stare at the landscape for hours on end. As the afternoon wanes, we enter a narrow passage between two sheer rock faces. Coming out the other side, we find ourselves in a sheltered saddle nestled amidst soaring peaks. For an instant, I catch a flash of color playing across the tallest mountainside. But it vanishes immediately, and I chalk it up to my condition.

  A lush river valley is laid out below us like an old world postcard. We are parked on a jagged spur of stone that overlooks it. There is no way to drive down. But something about the place is calling to me, and I'm not alone in this feeling. Without any discussion, we remove our gear from the buggy and set out. A few minutes later, Francis hits upon an animal track that descends in zig zags from the spur's far shoulder. It's steep though, and without both arms to steady me, I need help getting down. My linked eye socket is ablaze with pain now. Every crack and crevice becomes a trap, trying to trip me or turn my ankle. But when the others suddenly halt, it isn't because of me.

  CHAPTER 3

  All three of my friends are staring down at the valley, faces frozen in shock. At first I can't tell what they're looking at. Then I take another step, and the scene changes. The river is still there, meandering through green meadows. But now a small village hugs its banks. The houses are built of alpine wood, fancifully carved to look like stars, dragons and cloudbursts. Holo-projectors have been fixed to poles on their roofs, and it is these that are creating the illusion of an empty valley - from a distance anyway.

  And there are people, too. The men wear fisherman's pants and wool coats; the women, long flowing dresses in floral patterns. From the river comes the sound of children's laughter, pure and untouched by fear or loss. And strangest of all, the villagers are watching us without the slightest hint of aggression. Amy starts down toward them. Francis follows, and Lucy helps me along in their wake.

  A man and a woman step out to meet us. Both are over 70 years of age, but they share an air of quiet authority that makes them seem younger. The woman is heavily freckled and wind-burned. Her eyes are a deep emerald green, like evergreen boughs reflected in a forest pond. The man is small and stooped. He stands with the right side of his head turned toward us, leading me to believe that he may be deaf in one ear. But something in his features suggests a slow, measured intelligence.

  “Welcome to Stonewall.” The woman says softly. “Will you take off your boots and stay a while?”

  I look down. The grass is so perfect that it seems blasphemous to sully it with my heavy combat boots. The feeling is strong enough that I sit down cross-legged to take them off. But my absent arm defeats me.

  “Let me help you.” The man says. Taking a seat before me, he goes to work. The laces are overtight, the knots fused together with dried blood. But his fingers are deft, and he has them off in no time.

  “Try now.” He says afterward. I stand up and wiggle my toes around. Beside me, my friends are doing the same thing. This is so stupid; we don't know these people. But lord, does that grass feel good, and the air smells utterly free of the creeping stain of mass humanity. The other villagers are approaching now. They form a circle around us, reaching out to touch our shoulders, our necks, our cheeks. And yet I feel no fear, and my defense response doesn't kick in. Have we been drugged? If so I'm not sure why, because the congregation drifts away before long, leaving us alone with the elderly couple once again.

  “Who are you people?” Lucy asks. The woman smiles.

  “Oh, just a bunch of old hippies who got tired of creating art for the Man.”

  “Which man?”

  “The media one.” She gestures to the retreating villagers. “We are all digital artists by trade. But the studios were stifling our creativity, so we struck out on our own.” She shakes her head. “We had no idea what we were getting ourselves into, of course. A dozen of us died before we found this place. But the last eight years have been kind, all things considered.”

  “You guys are from Opacity?” Francis asks incredulously.

  “We are.” The man confirms.

  “Us too!”

  “Yes, very good.” Amy breaks in. “Is there a surgeon here?”

  “I'm afraid not, young one. It is a serious problem for us. Just another thing we never considered before leaving the city.” The man turns to look me over. “These wounds are fresh, I take it?”

  I nod, and the world wobbles. Amy steadies me.

  “What about medical equipment? Or tools of some kind, at least?”

  The woman points to a shed situated in a leafy gully next to the river. “I dabble in metalworking. That is my studio, such as it is. You may use whatever you find inside.”

  Making a seat of their arms, Francis and Lucy carry me down the slope. The river is a thing of true beauty. Clear and cold, it runs swiftly over a bed of smoothed stones. Reeds line its banks. My friends bring me in under the shed’s eaves, and lie me down on a long bench cut from a single tree trunk. Grateful for the rest, I let myself drift for a while.

  The next thing I’m aware of is Lucy's voice.

  “Are you sure about this?”

  “No, but we have to do something. Look at his face! The infection is spreading.”

  “I know, I know. But what if you make things worse?”

  “Either we do this, or he dies. What could be worse than that? Now hold him still.”

  Weight presses down on my shoulders, and then on my legs. I don't know what is happening, exactly - but my instincts are telling me to go with it. Then something stabs into my linked eye socket, and I forget all of that. The pain is excruciating. Without meaning to, I open my good eye. Amy is crouched over me, rooting around inside my face with a pair of iron pincers. I try to squirm away, but Francis has his fingers laced over my forehead, arms bracketing my temples.

  “Breathe.” Amy says softly. “That's all you have to do. We will take care of the rest.”

  And so the torture begins. Piece by terrible piece, Amy extracts the shards of my broken retcom. I try not to scream. But before long, awful sounds are being ripped from my lungs every time she goes back for more.

  “I know it hurts.” Francis whispers into my ear. “But she has to find it all, or you won't get better.”

  I wish I would just pass out, but my brain seems intent on making me experience every second of the procedure. But at last, Amy is satisfied.

  “Bring the poker.” She says. Lucy vanishes, reappearing moments later with a glowing iron rod. This time, I manage not to flinch away. How many times have I seen this done in action movies? Just a brief bout of searing pain followed by some manly bellowing, and then it will all be over. But as usual, movies prove to be full of shit. When Amy plunges the poker into my eye socket, it feels like my head is exploding. It’s the kind of pain that returns in flashbacks and nightmares and changes you each time, just a little bit, so that you are never quite as fearless again. Only when the moment has been branded into memory am I allowed to pass out.

  There is no defined moment of return, afterward. I slip into the world and back out again too many times to count. It’s often impossible to tell if I'm dreaming or not. But sl
owly, the waking world asserts itself more strongly, until I am spending a good portion of each day in reality.

  The artists have given us a house. Built of a fragrant white wood studded with dark knots, it is functional and airy and clean. The interior consists of a main floor and a loft reached by a movable stepladder. My friends sleep up top, while I have a cot down below. Solar cells on the roof provide electricity, but it is used sparingly. This place leans heavily on rustic charm.

  I remain bedridden for almost a week. My friends spend the daylight hours outside under the sun. But when he returns each evening, Francis recounts his experiences among the villagers. They spend their lives gardening, creating art, and catching the small blue fish that swim in the river. Pacifism is their only religion. They have no desire to be anything other than what they are, or to have anything more than what they have. Francis speaks of the valley in hushed tones, as though afraid it might vanish if he startles it.

  Amy must have done her job well, because the infection in my eye fades quickly. My leg is on the mend too. By the end of that first week, I am able to shuffle around the house. A few days after that, I take my first steps into the outdoors. The cliffs around the village provide a sense of safety that, although false, is immensely comforting. It's easy to convince myself that we are beyond the world here, in a place war cannot touch. The villagers must believe it with all their souls, or they wouldn’t have welcomed us so readily. Or maybe they would have, and their sense of charity really does run that deep - I don't know.

  But although the world may be barred from this place, I’ve brought my own demons with me. The others integrate quickly into village life. Lucy takes to fishing. Francis, to the lightshows our hosts create on the rock walls at night. Even Amy finds an unlikely pastime, making weathervanes in the old woman's smithy. But I cannot get past my mutilation. Everything I do is a reminder of how much I have lost. This world was built for people with two hands and depth perception. If Tikal had stood by me, things might have been different. But in her absence, I begin to regress.