The Live Soldier Trilogy Box Set

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The Live Soldier Trilogy Box Set Page 66

by Liam Clay

I am crouched on a pile of furs in the corner of Vorashia's private quarters. Her men have cleaned and fed me. The chamber is an austere, tasteful creation of raw granite, red cedar and soot-blackened driftwood. Only its shape reveals that we are inside a repurposed shipping container. In another corner, a white stone plinth holds a strange device. The space possesses a personality of its own, but Vorashia's presence reduces it to dull backdrop. The slavemaker is lounging on a divan nearby, polishing her jaw with an oiled rag. She is clad in dragonscale leggings and a sleeveless shirt tailored to accentuate her elongated limbs. Something about her poised strength makes me feel small and weak.

  “I do not enjoy repeating myself.” She says when I do not answer.

  “I don't know.” I reply in a rough whisper.

  “Then I will tell you. I saved you because you showed promise, down there in the dark.”

  “How?”

  “Do you think the Aquarium is just a holding cell for prisoners? No. It is a testing ground. Ugly sells muscle suitable only for factory floors. But I provide Ninetown's elite with house servants, whipping boys and concubines. And it takes a certain type of mind to accept that kind of subjugation.”

  “I am not that type of mind.” I say, desperately trying to claw some power back.

  “Oh, but you are. Granted, you wear a brave face, but underneath it you are split to the core of your soul. And you revealed that weakness down in the pit. Even when your survival depended on it, you could not bring yourself to fight your fellow slaves.”

  “You don't know anything about me.”

  “Oh, but I do... Anex. I know everything about you.” She leans forward, obsidian eyes shining in the lamplight. “What, did you think that losing your feed would return you to anonymity? No one can escape their past so easily, least of all you. Speaking of which...”

  Rising to her feet, Vorashia moves to the stone plinth and lifts the device there. It is a half-circlet of black steel with neural spikes protruding from its inner curve.

  “Do you know what this is?” She asks. I shake my head.

  “It is called a Sift. Once it has been grafted to your skull, I will be able to access your memories and force you to relive them at will. If you are a good boy, I may decide to gift you with a happy recollection. But if you disobey me, I will choose something darker.”

  Fear grips me, and I push myself up the wall, eye roving the room. But there is only the one door, and it has a heavy lock on it. Vor pouts with mock sympathy.

  “Already trying to run away, are we? You must truly loathe yourself, to be so afraid of your own past.”

  Rage replaces the fear, and I charge the slavemaker. But she grabs my neck with both hands and lifts me into the air, until my head is almost touching the ceiling.

  “What's wrong?” She purrs. “Did you think you were the only augmented person in the world? This business has made me rich, and Ninetown's knife parlors are home to many skilled surgeons.”

  And then she presses her mouth to mine in a violent kiss. I try to pull away, but she bites down on my lower lip, drawing blood. When she’s had her fill, the slavemaker slams me to the ground. An arc of cold metal is placed against the base of my skull, and the data spikes plunge through flesh and into bone.

  When it’s done, she releases me. I crawl back to my furs and curl up in a ball. I tell myself that obedience is the smart choice; that I need to conserve my strength until I have a chance to escape. But this excuse rings hollow. Not since my aborted childhood in the Designer's labs have I felt so helpless, so overpowered and controlled.

  “What a disappointment.” Vor says to my bent back. “I thought you might pose a challenge, but amputation has unmanned you. Turning what remains into my pet will be easy enough. And who knows - you may even thank me when I'm done. Your choices hang around your neck like lead weights, but as a slave you will never have to make a decision again.”

  There is a knock at the door.

  “What is it?” She says impatiently.

  “Sorry to disturb you sir, but the next barge departure has been scheduled. It leaves for Ninetown on the Stormline in three hours.”

  “Excellent. I will be out shortly.”

  She sweeps a midnight blue cloak off a peg on the wall, and deactivates the door lock with a blinked command.

  “Open it.” She says. I do as she wishes. But when I try to return to my bed, she stops me.

  “As my body servant, you are to accompany me wherever I go. Now come, we have work to do.”

  And with these words, she sweeps out of the room. I slink along in her shadow. We pass through an empty mess hall and into an immaculate dorm, where Vor's men are packing their things in preparation for departure. Another door brings us back to the caged processing area. And then we’re outside under an iron-gray sky. The Pros aren't the only crew preparing to leave, and the area is crowded with both slavers and slaves.

  A few minutes later, my fellow prisoners exit the fortress in a chain gang. I try to hide behind Vor, but this only serves to draw their attention. I see them realize that I am not chained. That I look well fed. That I am waiting on our master's pleasure. If this moment is allowed to set in their minds, they will despise me forever. I probably shouldn't care. But I do, and so I bolt between two Pros and into the masses. Behind me, I hear Vorashia's laughter. Another five steps, and the port vanishes.

  .

  The slaver turns in my direction. But instead of attacking, he holsters his weapon and picks me up almost gently. At his gesture, a harness drops down from above. He straps me in, and I am hoisted up out of the pit. I will never forget the prisoners' eyes as they witness that ascent. There is nothing but base, animal hatred in those looks. And Timothy's are the worst of all.

  .

  He straps me in, and I am hoisted up out of the pit. I will never forget the prisoners' eyes as they witness that ascent. There is nothing but base, animal hatred in those looks. And Timothy's are the worst of all.

  .

  There is nothing but base, animal hatred in those looks. And Timothy's are the worst of all.

  .

  The moment continues to loop, ratcheting in further each time, until all I can see are Timothy's eyes, spiraling down into infinity. Then the memory snaps closed like a leviathan's jaws, and the real world floods back in. I am lying facedown on cold concrete. Drool has accumulated beside my mouth, and I've pissed myself as well. I roll over to find Vorashia standing above me.

  “Maybe you will present a challenge after all.” She says thoughtfully. “Running in front of the other slaves like that... you've seen through that part of my method, haven't you?”

  My tongue feels like a swollen slug in my mouth, but I get the words out.

  “You want to make us hate each other instead of you.”

  “Very good. I'm going to enjoy breaking you down - my own personal project. But I don't recommend running again. Your Sift is equipped with a geo-locator that is synced to my retcom. If you move more than a hundred meters away from me without my permission, it will activate automatically. Now stop groveling and get up. Our chariot awaits.”

  CHAPTER 8

  With the chain gang in the lead, we begin to weave our way through the port. But I am only half present. The other half is still down in the Aquarium, and it feels like part of me always will be. Can Vor really force me to relive every terrible moment in my life? Because I’ve got quite a number to choose from.

  And then, in the distance, I see what can only be the Stormline. Its terminus is a hulking monolith of black iron that looks like a repurposed crane. A meter-thick cable travels in from the ocean, circles around a giant wheel atop the crane, and heads back west again. Farther out to sea, the cables are supported by a pair of floating towers with an arch running between them. A second arch is vaguely visible out near the horizon.

  We draw closer, and now our mode of transportation becomes visible. The barge is just what its name suggests: a flat-topped cargo vessel devoid of engines, roof or ru
dder. Only its size is unusual. At a hundred meters wide by five hundred long, the thing is basically a floating town. Longshoremen are running ropes from its prow to a huge hook that rests on a platform just below the Stormline cable. A gangway at the barge’s mid-section connects to a low concrete building onshore.

  Ordering her men to watch over the chain gang, Vorashia strides into the building with me in tow. A wave of sounds hits us immediately. The space is full of tablescreens showing a topdown view of the barge. Sleazy looking locals sit behind them. This must be where passage to Ninetown is negotiated.

  “Vor darling! It's been too long. Come over and talk to Uncle Llama.”

  The speaker is a bald man with a long beard and a significant paunch. He is manning one of the only tables in the room that lacks a customer. Vor nods in greeting and takes a seat across from him. I'm not the only body servant in the room, and the others have taken up positions a few feet behind their masters, so I do the same. From this vantage point, I can see that the schematic of the barge is mostly blocked out in red.

  “I hear you lost your trapship.” The man continues. “That leaves you in need of a new one, so you will be looking to turn your stock into cash without delay, I assume?”

  The man has a voice like buttered silk, with a hateful undertone. But these passage brokers must hold positions of power, because Vorashia is all smiles and flirtatious glances.

  “Money is no issue.” She purrs. “But you’re right: I would like to get this batch sold so that I can focus on acquiring a new ship.”

  “Naturally. But as you can see, space on the Platypus is filling up fast. How many prisoners do you have?”

  And so the bargaining begins. Keeping one ear on the proceedings, I scan the room for any clue as to what exactly Ninetown is. But I see nothing. I look for Ugly and the Amateurs too, but there is no sign of them either. I've all but given up when a woman catches my attention. She is black haired and olive skinned, with lion’s eyes and full cheeks. She's standing just outside the building, framed within its open door; and although I can't place her, she seems hauntingly familiar.

  Then she touches her neck - an unconscious gesture - and I have it. The last time I saw that neck, it had a golden key painted across it. I am looking at Arella Calendo: Tikal's former co-pilot turned Thresh mercenary leader. If it wasn't for her, I would never have gotten mixed up in the terrorist attack on Letiva Peron. Tikal and I would never have met, and I would still have been Topside when Porter cleaned out the Underworld. Then she turns her head, and our eye(s) meet. I can't tell if Calendo recognizes me, but her instant reaction is to step out of view.

  Distracted by this incident, I am slow to notice that Vorashia's business has concluded. She clues me in with a backhand to the face.

  “I have a job for you, boy. Go find a dock agent, and tell them to drop my personal container and two standard lockups onto barge blocks 39 through 41. Here, this should cover it.”

  She thrusts a handful of metallic discs at me - coins, I realize after a moment. I have only the vaguest idea of what she wants me to do; but I doubt she is an enjoyer of excuses, so I leave the building quickly. There is no sign of Calendo, but I didn't really expect there to be. The woman has always been a ghost. Then I ask the first person I see where an agent can be found. Unfortunately, I happen to pick a slaver. He swings a riding crop at me, laughing when I dance away.

  The second time, I ask a woman walking head down, shoulders hunched into her body. She refuses to look me in the face, but does point me in the right direction. I travel along the dock until I reach a huge wheeled crane. A woman with a clipboard stands in front of it. I hand her the money and repeat Vorashia's instructions. She nods, and starts to speak into a comms pin on her collar. Then she hands me a slip of paper.

  “That's your receipt. It will take about half an hour to collect your owner's containers.” She points to an open-sided canteen located beside the transport crane. “You can grab some water and wait over there if you want.”

  Surprised, I ask, “Are you a slave too?”

  She gives me an unreadable look. “No, this is my business.”

  “Then why...” Unable to formulate the full thought, I gesture vaguely to the canteen. She seems to understand.

  “Because not everyone in this industry is a psychopath like your owner. Some of us even believe in slave rights.”

  Turning away, she climbs into the crane's cab and drives off to collect Vor's order. I watch her for a moment, and then retire to the canteen. Ten minutes later, she returns with a shipping container. It is the same color as the Pros' fortress, and may be Vor's actual quarters, lifted from the building. I follow the crane to the water's edge. The Platypus is already half loaded with containers. The agent drops Vor's quarters onto spot 41. She repeats the procedure with two blank containers, placing them on blocks 39 and 40. Then she waves goodbye and departs.

  I briefly consider trying to run again. But Vorashia can track my every movement, and render me catatonic with forced memory loops at will. As long as the Sift is in play, I am irrevocably tied to her. And there are my friends to think about too. Ugly will have booked them passage on this barge as well. So if I were to somehow escape, it would mean leaving them behind. Oh, how far we have fallen. Not so long ago, I was deciding whether to use my influence to force the surrender of Opacity and the Hive. And now I can barely blink without asking permission.

  But cataloging my problems isn't going to make them go away, so I return to the passage brokers building, where I find Vorashia waiting.

  “Took you long enough.” She snaps. But I’m beginning to distinguish between her truly sadistic moods, and the distracted petulant kind. And this was an example of the latter, so I simply nod. She has her men bring the chain gang in. Uncle Llama conducts a cursory health inspection, hands Vor her paperwork, and directs us out onto the gangway.

  We cross over to the Platypus, which is fully loaded with containers now. Many are still wet from being cleaned in the ocean, but that hasn't killed the stench. I can only imagine how bad it will get once we're at sea: hundreds of unwashed prisoners, trapped inside iron boxes under the scorching sun, shitting and fighting and dying together.

  But my fate will be different. Leaving her crew to lock up the other prisoners, Vorashia leads me to the front of the barge, where a sort of VIP area has been created. A bouncer lets us through a chain link fence and into the space, which is protected from the sun by sails strung up between posts. A crowd is gathered around a roped off square, shouting and waving pink tickets in the air. Based on the mood, they are watching a fight, but from my position I can't see the contestants. Then Vor takes my hand and pulls me forward, as though we’re lovers heading to the front row of a concert.

  Skirting the ring, we make our way to an elevated dais. A young punk is standing atop it, taking bets from the crowd at a feverish pace. She isn't as slick as Uncle Llama though, and her face betrays her thoughts when she sees Vor. I see fear and revulsion, but also deep respect and underlying it all, an unwilling attraction.

  “Hey Streak, I've got one for Nem to fight!” The slavemaker calls up to her.

  The girl looks me over, and breaks into a grin.

  “Yes, he’ll do nicely. How much are you asking?”

  “200 rounds.”

  “Why so little?” Her eyes narrow. “Have you broken him already?”

  “No, I've only owned him for a few days.”

  “Then what is this about?”

  “That is my business. Do you want him or not?”

  “Yes, yes. No one wants to pit their stock against Nem these days, but the crowd goes crazy for him.”

  “Then they will get their wish today.”

  Money changes hands, and my master turns to go.

  “Wait!” Streaks says, almost against her will.

  “What is it?”

  “I - are you...”

  Vorashia smiles to herself.

  “Block 41. Come late, and bring a fri
end. Male. Not a slave, but no one I can't hurt.”

  And now she's bulling through the crowd, using her height and strength to clear a path. One man turns angrily - and backs away when he sees Vor. Then we reach the front of the crowd, and I find out what everyone’s been betting on.

  It’s a fight between a man and a woman. The man's right leg ends at the knee. In its place is a crude prosthetic made of cheap plastic and old leather. The woman is a hunchback, stooped and twisted. They’re battling it out hand to hand, bleeding and utterly exhausted but determined nonetheless.

  This is beyond sick. I've seen some fucked up shit in backrooms at Opacian industry parties, but nothing like this. As I watch, the woman kicks out her opponent's real leg. Then she drops on top of him, shrieking and clawing at his face.

  “Why are they doing this to each other?” I ask quietly. Vor has an answer.

  “Because the house owns them, and they both know that the loser is going straight overboard. Don't worry though, I will be keeping you win or lose.”

  “Let me guess. You have buyers who like broken things, and one more busted bone won't matter to them.”

  She claps her hands together with genuine delight - an oddly childlike gesture.

  “Very good! Unless that bone is your back, of course. Oh look, it’s your turn.”

  The bout is over with the woman as victor. Across the ring from us, the crowd is parting to let a new fighter through. They’ve gone quiet as well, aside from a low hum of anticipation. The man who walks down the aisle is one of the palest people I've ever seen. An albino with stringy white hair and smoked over eyes, he approaches the ring slowly, arms held out before him. I turn to Vor.

  “You want me to fight a fucking blind guy? Why?”

  “To teach you humility.” She replies. “And the next time you talk back to me in public, I will make you relive having your arm cut off a thousand times over. Would you like that?”

  I would not. And on top of that... the more I watch my opponent, the less impaired by his condition he seems. He ducks under the ropes and starts to circle the ring, never once straying off his line. It occurs to me that I may be about to get my ass kicked. But the crowd is watching now, and my time as a reality star has conditioned me to hate disappointing large groups of complete strangers. (Plus Vorashia looks like she's getting ready to activate the Sift.)

 

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