The Live Soldier Trilogy Box Set

by Liam Clay

  So I duck through the ropes and into the ring. Nem must hear me, because he shifts his stance to accommodate for my arrival. Nothing in my fairly extensive fighting experience is comparable to this moment; and despite the complete tragedy that my life has become, I find myself drawn in by the mystery that is the man before me.

  “Hey buddy.” I say quietly. “If I let you win, will you promise to go easy on me?”

  He doesn't respond, or indicate that he's heard me in any way.

  “Ah, don't be like that! You can just break one of my pinkies or something.” I waggle one of the digits in question. “Come on, what do you say?”

  The people in the front row can hear me, and there is a smattering of laughter. But it is directed at rather than with me - and a second later I find out why, as Nem opens his mouth to reveal that he has no tongue.

  “I see. Is it too late to apologize for the ‘what do you say’ comment? Oh crap. And the ‘I see’ comment?”

  It must be, because he starts to shuffle my way, making unpredictable sideways movements as he comes. Damn it. I throw an exploratory jab, but my lack of depth perception causes a miss. My second try is better though, and I connect solidly with his forehead. Heartened (and simultaneously guilty), I execute a one-armed jab, hook, uppercut combo, just like Lucy taught me back in Stonewall. But before I can pull my fist back after the last punch, the albino grabs my wrist and yanks me off balance. Then he wraps both arms around my back, plants a leg behind mine, and takes me to the ground.

  We start to grapple. Or, to be more precise, Nem starts to grapple. I am writhing around like a madman, doing my best to keep from being turned into an oversized pretzel. After about a minute of this, the blind man succeeds in grabbing my pinky finger. Then he bends it backward, and snaps the base joint with brutal efficiency.

  “Nem, you are an absolute gem!” I shout between howls of pain. “You broke my pinky just like I asked. Why, I would french kiss you if such a thing were possible!”

  The whole crowd hears this, and now they’re laughing with me - I'm sure of it. And so is the albino, although in his case it sounds more like an engine backfiring.

  “Enough!”

  The voice is Vor's. She steps into the ring with us, and the crowd goes so quiet that it seems as though their vocal cords have been cut.

  “Since my slave has made a travesty of this fight, I shall give you another. Streak, bind my hands behind my back.”

  “Why?”

  “Just do it!”

  The punk does as she's told, clapping a set of handcuffs over Vorashia's wrists.

  “I will be your next opponent.” She says to Nem.

  The man shakes his head, and starts to repeat a sound deep in his throat. After a few moments, I recognize it as the word forbidden. Vorashia tilts her head.

  “Why - because you are a slave and I a master?”

  The albino nods.

  “But if that is so, then how dare you tell me no? My word should be law to you.”

  “Hold on now, Vor.” Streak says. “Nem belongs to this establishment, not to you.”

  “Then you would deny your customers a proper fight? What kind of sham are you running here?” She rattles her handcuffs. “And have I not done everything possible to even the odds?”

  I’ve got to hand it to Vorashia. A moment ago, I had all but won over this crowd. The barge would have been talking about my antics for days, and knowing I’d outmaneuvered her would have made me harder to break. But now, this is her story again. The crowd came here to be entertained, and its appetite is bottomless. They start to chant Vor's name, and Streak has no choice but to capitulate.

  This time, things go much differently. Before the match even begins, Vor is moving. She lopes across the ring with great, silent strides. There is an instant in which I think Nem is aware of her approach. But he doesn't move. She leaps into the air with arachnid grace, and delivers a flying kick to the albino's temple. The blow propels him through the air, and he lands at the ring's perimeter. But the slaver isn't done. Moving to his side, she lifts one of his legs and hooks it over the lower rope, which is pulled tight as piano wire. Then she lifts her heel and prepares to shatter the blind man's kneecap. But before she can, a voice blares over the barge's intercom.

  “This is your captain speaking. We will be hooking up to the Stormline in fifteen minutes, so return to your blocks and strap in. Anyone caught on deck during departure will have to swim back to port. That is all.”

  And now everyone is running. Except for Vorashia. Seeming to forget about Nem, she rounds on me. And her expression instantly confirms my suspicions.

  CHAPTER 9

  “Hera!”

  Ten paces away, the woman turns.

  “You!”

  I hold my arms out. “This isn't what it looks like. The Architect tricked us!”

  But Hera isn't listening. She covers the distance between us with lumbering steps, raises her sword, and brings it down at my head. But even now, I can't make myself believe that she will actually do it. And at the last possible instant, I see doubt enter her eyes. She tries to shift her swing's trajectory... but it isn't enough. The blade slices through my brow and into my linked eye, sending sparks flying. Then it strikes my outstretched right arm, just below the shoulder. The blow splits armor, flesh and bone with equal ease. And just like when I killed Porter, my worldview switches to snapshots. I watch as my arm is pared away from my body. As the stump sprays blood into Hera's face. As the appendage, no longer a part of me, spins in freeze-frames to the ground. And finally the meaty smack as it hits, rolls, and lies still.

  .

  The blade slices through my brow and into my linked eye, sending sparks flying. Then it strikes my outstretched right arm, just below the shoulder. The blow splits armor, flesh and bone with equal ease. And just like when I killed Porter, my worldview switches to snapshots. I watch as my arm is pared away from my body. As the stump sprays blood into Hera's face. As the appendage, no longer a part of me, spins in freeze-frames to the ground. And finally the meaty smack as it hits, rolls, and lies still.

  .

  I watch as my arm is pared away from my body. As the stump sprays blood into Hera's face. As the appendage, no longer a part of me, spins in freeze-frames to the ground. And finally the meaty smack as it hits, rolls, and lies still.

  .

  Does pain revisited ever lose its luster? Does it become a cheap imitation of itself, failing to eviscerate the soul as it once did?

  That would be a comprehensive no. Vor leaves me under for the entire night, and by morning, all thought of blatant disobedience has been purged from me. I would do almost anything to avoid experiencing that pain again. I have not been broken to her will - not yet. But I have been shown a line that I dare not cross, a punishment that I cannot handle. And that power, which Vor now wields, scares me as much as the memory of my dismemberment itself.

  I also missed seeing the Platypus get hooked up to the Stormline, which is kind of a downer. When I resurface from my night of pain, we are well underway. A leather-clad Vorashia is in the process of kicking out Streak and a traumatized young man with fresh welts across his back. The kid gives me a beseeching look as he leaves, as though he's the one curled up in the corner like a dog. But I'm too consumed in my own nightmare to give him any thought. With me firmly in hand and a night of dominatrixing under her belt, Vorashia is almost pleasant.

  “Go get yourself some breakfast.” She says. “And bring some back for me like a good boy, won't you? The kitchens are at the stern.”

  Exiting the container, I strike out across the barge. High overhead, the Stormline crosses arch after arch, carrying us along with it. The sun is shining, and seagulls surf the air currents created by our passage. If I hadn't spent the whole night getting tortured, I might even classify it as a beautiful day.

  There is no question of going to look for my friends. Vorashia can track my every move, and she will be sure to punish me if I go wandering. So I
make a beeline for the stern, using the lanes between containers that serve the barge as roads. I see other body servants like myself, but no chain gangs. They must be confined to their lockups while we're at sea.

  The kitchens consist of three containers arranged in a u-shape, with bolted down tables between them. The stainless steel buffet is nailed to the deck as well; the Stormline must be called that for a reason. It's still early, and the tables are less than half full. But the patrons are all masters, so I head inside, where a bored cook hands me a bowl of stew made from yesterday's leftovers.

  “Where can I go to eat this?” I ask him. He points to a swinging door at the building's rear. I push through it, and find myself at the foot of a shield wall that runs the length of the stern. An access ladder scales its side. I climb up one-handed, clutching the bowl of stew between my teeth. Vorashia wants me to think of myself as a worthless cripple fit only for servitude. So although the Sift prevents me from defying her openly, I can still rebel - in some small way, at least - by becoming self-sufficient. And small tasks like this one are a good place to start. When I reach the top, I am inordinately proud of myself. As I suppose I should be.

  The walltop is heavily fortified, with machine gun placements and rocket launchers every few meters. Finding a spot out of the wind, I sit down to eat my breakfast. I'm halfway through when a guttural sound makes me turn... and spit stew all down my crappy slave shirt. Nem is standing directly behind me, so close that we're almost touching. With his corpse-pale skin and hazy eyes, he barely looks human. But then, I'm not exactly your average looking joe these days either.

  At first, I'm sure the albino has come to murder me. I almost got his kneecap shattered, after all; plus he keeps making throat slitting motions across his neck. But then I realize that he's actually pointing to it, and... oh my. Glowing words are coalescing inside the hollow above the man's breast bone. I've heard of this technology before, although not in implant form. He is using a device called a Subtext. It analyzes subvocalized speech and converts it into written language. Mesmerized by the sight, I try to make sense of the words bubbling across his skin. And am rewarded with the following message.

  “You spilled stew on your shirt.”

  “How did you know that?” I ask, not sure whether to be amused or scared. “And how did you get up here?”

  “I used the ladder.”

  “Yes, but you’re... right.”

  We remain like this for a few long, awkward seconds. Then the albino sits down cross-legged, puts his chin in his palms, and says, “Dish bitch. What's it like living with Vorashia? Why, I would give my left testicle for a single night with one of her boytoys.”

  This development is so unexpected that I assume there’s been some mistake.

  “So hey, Nem, is it? I think your Subtext is malfunctioning. Because it just told me that you said 'dish bitch'.”

  “Yeah, so?”

  “I mean - it's just that... never mind.”

  “Well, don't leave me hanging. Have you gotten to watch any sweet action inside that bitch's container yet?”

  “Not exactly. She had some people over last night, but I was busy getting my arm chopped off a thousand times in a row.”

  Nem makes a mocking sound. “Oh no, did that awful Sift make poor baby sad? Well at least you’re not a blind tongueless albino. Learn to appreciate what you’ve got, is what I say, because things can always get worse. For instance, I almost had to let your master break my leg yesterday.”

  This is essentially the same advice I was giving myself a few minutes ago. But that doesn't make it any less annoying to hear.

  “So you've got a monopoly on hardship, do you?”

  “Not at all, darling. I just refuse to listen to lame whining. Especially from a strong, strapping man such as yourself. In a few months I'll bet you won't miss that arm at all.”

  “I suppose that it is a remote possibility. Can I, um, help you with anything?”

  “Not unless you can steal my frequency jacks back from my owner. No, I just came to brighten your otherwise cheerless day with my glorious presence.”

  “I'm basking in your radiance as we speak. What are frequency jacks, though?”

  “They’re extremely rare devices that emit sonic pings which allow me to see - after a fashion.”

  “Like a bat, you mean?”

  “If that helps you - yes, like a bat. My owner sent a thief boy to seduce me, and then had him steal my jacks while I was sleeping.” The albino sighs. “Little bastard wasn't even that good, either. Had no idea what to do with a delightful power-bottom such as myself.”

  “What's a power-bottom, again? Actually, never mind. Is this why you've been fighting in the VIP area?”

  “That’s right. My owner keeps saying that if I win enough bouts, he will give them back. But that’s obviously bullshit. With my jacks in, I could tear this entire barge apart and escape.”

  “I can believe that.” I reply, rubbing my broken pinky. “Speaking of escaping, do you know of a way for me to ungraft this Sift from my skull?”

  “Sorry friend, but Vorashia is the only one who can do that. If anyone else tries, it will fry your neurals. Sifts are even rarer than jacks though, so she will definitely remove it before she sells you in Ninetown.”

  “Damn it. And what is Ninetown, exactly? All I know is that it's a work camp of some kind.”

  “Ninetown makes things that move. Planes, trains and automobiles; submarines, hovercraft and helicopters. You name it, Ninetown builds it - mostly custom orders for big name clients. I don't know much more than that, though, because my owner never lets me off this barge. Fifteen runs I've made now, at three weeks each way. It's getting pretty old, let me tell you.”

  “Now look who's complaining.”

  The albino laughs inside his throat. “Fair play. Anyway, I'll let you get back to shoveling stew onto your chest now. But if you get some juicy goss on Vorashia, you come find me, okay? I sleep out past the VIP area, up on the forward shield wall.”

  Climbing gracefully to his feet, the gay blind tongueless albino moves confidently to the ladder.

  “You want some last advice, though?” He says with one foot on a rung. “From what I hear, it's not the Sift's bad memory recall you have to watch out for. It's the good stuff. Get hooked on that, and Vor will have you eating out of her hand in no time. Oh, and try not to let her fuck you while you're under either. Although I'm not sure how you could possibly stop her.”

  .

  For three days following my conversation with Nem, nothing much happens. Vorashia continues to use me as her errand boy, but she’s too busy running her business to pay me much attention otherwise. I use my forays to look for the Amateurs, but to no avail. It's a big boat though, so that doesn't mean much. On the second day, a rust-eaten pirate ship is sighted in the distance. But a single missile sends them limping away, flames rising from their engine block. On the third day, the weather turns. Clouds crowd the horizon, and a wind picks up, gusting across the deck and making it hard to get around. As the conditions worsen, everyone retreats to their containers. This puts me and Vor in a confined space together, and she uses the opportunity to continue my education (as she calls it.)

  But this time, she uses the feather instead of the stick. The albino's warning has put me on edge, but there is nothing provocative in the slavemaker's demeanor. Directing me to sit down, she blinks into her retcom, and I feel the Sift heat up as it activates. She must be accessing my memories. If I was anyone else, this would constitute a massive invasion of privacy; but millions of people used to know my every thought and emotion, so one more person won't make much of a difference.

  “This looks good.” She says at length. I'm about to ask what memory she's chosen, but the room is already sliding away.

  .

  The sun and its twin face each other across the horizon: one real, one a wave-rippled reflection. Amy and Peace are beside me, but neither speaks. After half a year traveling the Kogi archi
pelago together, we have learned the value of shared silence. Colorful birds circle the palms that overhang the shore, for no other reason than to feel the breeze under their wings. We are traveling these isles for a reason. But now, with the day’s work done, there is nothing to do but lie back and enjoy the evening. At times like these, I dream of returning here once the Architect has been defeated, and living out our lives in peace. I know that this place is not real. But rarely, if ever, have I felt the type of tranquility that this world instills in me.

  The sun merges slowly with the sea, and the heavens sink through a range of hues, finally settling on a dusky blue. Peace builds a fire by twilight. Cooking isn't necessary here, and there are no predators, so the fire has no use aside from the comfort it provides. I gaze into the flames, focusing on my breathing, until sleep cradles me in her arms.

  .

  When I return to my body it is full morning, and I feel as rested as I've ever been. Vor does nothing to break the spell of peace the Sift has given me. She goes to visit a business associate around mid-morning, leaving me outside his container to wait. The day is overcast, but that can't ruin my good mood. I am in a section of the barge I've never been to before. The containers here are stacked three high, with rope bridges running between them.

  I'm staring into space, thinking about the Kogi islands, when paint shavings start to land in my hair. Looking up, I see Nem's pale form standing on a bridge three stories up. He drops another batch of shavings - they must be scraped off the containers - and points in the general direction of a ladder. A minute of determined climbing later, I reach the roof of the uppermost container.

  And encounter an unexpected sight. Nem is reclining comfortably in what appears to be a lazyboy made entirely of scrap metal and duct tape. A young woman occupies a second chair beside his. She’s wearing a high-vis coverall that is about five sizes too big, and a med scanner that fits into her right ear and over the same eye. All in all, they make for quite the pair. Dirty stew bowls and metal cups litter the ground around them; clearly, they spend a fair bit of time up here.