The Live Soldier Trilogy Box Set

by Liam Clay

  .

  “...how can he not be here?”

  “I don't know sir. Maybe somebody tipped him off. But - and I'm sorry for asking again - are you sure about this? Pep can barely string a lucid sentence together.”

  I open my eye. Datsel and Belinda are on the far side of the big top, just inside the flap that leads to the lockup. The slavemaster's hair is wild, and he keeps wiping his nose with the back of his hand.

  “Yes I’m sure! The man is some kind of master criminal! He might still be here somewhere, biding his time while he decides how to kill me.”

  “So you said. But there is still tonight to think about. We can't open if you won’t let the performers leave the lockup.”

  “They could be his accomplices!” Datsel makes claws of his hands - and then drops them to his sides. “I'm sorry, Belinda. You're absolutely right: the show must go on. Be a dear and fetch the staff, will you? I will apologize for my behavior, and send everyone to their opening marks. How long until doors?”

  “Five minutes.”

  “We’ll only be a few minutes late if we hurry. Now go. And Belinda?”

  “Yes sir?”

  “I couldn't do any of this without you.”

  “I know.”

  She ducks out of the tent. Datsel runs his hands down his coat, as though trying to wash off the stain of his earlier madness. Then he turns in my direction, and it all comes flooding back in.

  “No. You can't be here. Why is this happening? What have you done!”

  Pretending to have been woken by his words, I sit up - and clutch my head as though the movement was painful.

  “What happened? Sir, didn't you lose me to Master Sipholo?”

  The man hurries toward me with small, uneven steps.

  “Of course I did. So why are you back here?”

  “I - I don't know. I remember going into my pen at the Gamehouse. And then... a white face. With milky eyes floating over me, like a -”

  “- a ghost?”

  Datsel looks petrified now, so much so that I almost ruin everything by laughing.

  “Yes!”

  Behind the slavemaster, Belinda has just re-entered the tent with the entire staff at her back. At the same time, patrons start to pour through the newly opened front doors. Both groups make it partway across the floors of their respective areas, and then stop, staring at each other in confusion. Datsel and I are between them. The slavemaster looks ready to start crying right then and there. To his credit, he tries to rally, but then a thundering voice shouts his name from outside. And now Sipholo bursts into the entrance hall, followed by a small army of guards and disabled slaves. When she sees me, the Gamehouse owner stops dead, too surprised to speak for an interval.

  “Why, you sly little shit.” She says to Datsel once the moment has passed. “I didn't think you had it in you.”

  “This wasn’t my doing, Marineta. I swear!”

  She takes a step closer to us, and I see that she is holding a pistol at her side.

  “Then whose doing was it?” She asks dangerously. Silence descends over patron, playing piece and acrobat alike; everyone wants to hear Datsel's answer. And when he gives it, the words are a sweet symphony to my ears.

  “It was the ghost!”

  Pandemonium breaks out. Sipholo's lips curl back from her teeth, and then she raises her gun and fires. Belinda jumps in front of Datsel, but the bullet misses her and strikes him anyway. He goes down clutching his ribs. This sends the acrobats into a berserk rage. They storm past me and throw themselves at Sipholo's people. The patrons are scrambling for the door, except for a few who think that this is the utter height of entertainment. They are vaulting onto chairs and food stalls, trying to get a better view. Sipholo is firing wantonly into the crowd, not caring who she hits. It is the most nonsensical battle I've ever seen - no less so because of all the effort I went to setting it up.

  But now something happens that I hadn’t accounted for (although I probably should have). One of Sipholo's guards is pointing up into the patron’s trapeze. I follow his arm and there is Nem, looking ghostly as all hell. His pale skin glows red in the lamplight, eyes milky and blind and all-seeing. He is standing atop a platform directly above Sipholo. The huge woman hasn't seen him yet, but she is one of few. Everyone else is enraptured by the sight.

  I know Nem fairly well by now, and so I can see that he is enjoying the absolute shit out of himself. But to everyone else, his goofy grin probably looks like a cadaverous snarl. Then he raises a meter-long length of rebar scavenged from god knows where, and hurls it straight downward. The iron rod breaks through Sipholo's skull and keeps on going, until it has completely disappeared. Her face swells up, blood wells from her eyes, and then she topples to the ground.

  By the time I'm done being sick, Nem is long gone. With their master dead, Sipholo's guards try to flee - only to be attacked by playing pieces with unaired grievances. The acrobats chase out the survivors; except for Belinda, who is cradling Datsel in her arms. But it is the patrons who start the riot. I remember Den saying that if you involve a viewer on a personal level, you will have made a fan for life. Well, we’ve certainly done that here. The locals take to the streets, smashing as they go.

  Madness, murder and mayhem: these have become my tools. And in the past, the deaths they just caused would have haunted me. But recently, I moved past that into a different place. I'm trying to end slavery in Ninetown, and if those slaves are too afraid to help me, I will push them until they do. And maybe that makes me a monster. But frankly, I don't give a shit.

  Now would be an excellent time to leave the circus. But it looks like I've come through this without attracting blame, which provides me with some options. So I wait. And finally, a group of soldiers in black and yellow uniforms march in through the front doors. Their commanding officer is a bald man with a salt and pepper beard. He approaches Belinda - stepping over Sipholo's body on the way - and stops before her.

  “Slave, you will tell me what happened here. Now.”

  “That bitch over there shot my master.”

  “And so you killed her.”

  “No, that was the White Shade.” She speaks the words like a title, and a premonition hits me. If that name gets out, it is going to spread like wildfire. Rearing back, the bald man kicks the acrobat in the head. Or that is his intent. Instead he ends up on his ass with Belinda's leg wrapped around his windpipe.

  “You think I'm lying.” She says calmly. “And that's okay. Your disbelief will make it easier for the White Shade to kill you too.”

  The other soldiers have drawn their weapons, but the acrobat is so tangled up with their leader that they have no shot. Reaching down, she unholsters the man's sidearm, presses it to his forehead, and pulls him to his feet. Then she starts to edge around the soldiers towards the door.

  “Belinda, where are you going?”

  It's Datsel. He has risen to his feet, although he looks ready to collapse again any second. The acrobat halts.

  “I just assaulted a Ninetown security officer. My life is forfeit if I am caught. So I'm going to run.” She pauses. “And considering your part in what just started here, you should too.”

  And then she's gone, out the doors and into the riots outside. Datsel stumbles after her, still calling Belinda by name. The other soldiers follow suit, except for one young man who decides that staying put is the safer move. He picks his way over to my enclosure and peers into the big top.

  “I've always wanted to come here.” He says wistfully. “But my girlfriend would never let me. Said it was only for meathead idiots.” He turns. “So, who really did kill Sipholo? Come on, I promise not to tell.”

  I shrug. “What can I say? A ghost's a ghost.”

  Nem picks this moment to drop down from the rope he's been hanging from.

  “Boo.” He messages pleasantly. When the kid has successfully run away, the albino sits down with his back to a wallscreen (which is currently showing the battle for Medival).


  “Well, that was fun.”

  “Glad you enjoyed yourself. Just couldn't stay away, could you?”

  “Hey, my bit made it better - don't try to say it didn't. They'll be talking about that throw for years!”

  “And what if you'd missed?”

  “You're cute when you're mad. Anyway, I would say that our rebellion is well and truly started. Good work us. So, now what do we do?”

  “I think it's time we try our luck in the factory crater.”

  “I couldn't agree more. You're looking almost as pasty as me, my friend. Some sunshine would do you good.”

  “It couldn’t hurt. Hold on though, the factory crater is open to the air?”

  “Yes, and it's a pretty wild scene, too. You'll see what I mean when we get there. Now let's get a move on. It's a long way to the crater from here.”

  “I'm not coming with you.”

  Nem nods slowly. “I would say you're crazy, but it's dawning on me that you might actually be a sort of mad genius. So, lay it on me: how are you going to reach the crater?”

  “Easy. I’ll get the Ninetowners to send me.”

  CHAPTER 16

  It's the next morning. The entertainment quarter looks like a warzone. Quite a few of the venues are on fire, and ‘Fear the White Shade’ has been spraypainted across the ground every few hundred meters. The Ninetowners have made the inexcusable mistake of treating every slave in the quarter as hostile. And since they’re already being hunted, most of them have decided they might as well fight back. In short, the quarter won't be reopening for business anytime soon. I glide through the streets, avoiding everyone I see regardless of their affiliations.

  It takes an hour to reach the quarter's main entrance. Ninetown's security force (or Hornets as I've been hearing them called, because of the black and yellow uniforms) have erected a barrier here. I walk right up to it with my hands in the air. A soldier watches my approach from behind a barred gate.

  “Stop.” He says when I'm five meters away. I do as I’m told. “You seeking asylum?”

  “That’s right. The White Shade already abducted me once. I might not survive the next time, so I want out.”

  The Hornet squints at me. “Well I'll be damned, if it isn't the Live Soldier. I heard you were dead.”

  “Almost. Look, can we make this quick? I really want to get out of here.”

  “Hold your horses. We have to make sure you're not a suicide bomber first. Now strip.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Get into the buff. Show us your birthday suit. Take off your clothes. Got it?”

  I nod and oblige him. The man whistles as he takes in the full extent of my disfigurements.

  “What are those metal circles in your neck?” He asks.

  “Virtual immersion shunts.”

  “Cool. Do they always glow red like that?”

  “It's just the light reflecting off them.”

  “They’re still pretty neat though. Alright, you can come on through.”

  He slides the gate open and I pass inside, clutching my clothes to my chest.

  “You can put them back on now.” The soldier says.

  “How long?” I ask as I'm getting dressed. “Before it goes back to normal, I mean.”

  The soldier looks out over the quarter. “As it stands, we don't have enough manpower to regain control here. So my bosses have messaged the Outpost for help. They're going to hire every slaver crew they can find, and send them over on the next barge. Once they arrive, we'll go in hard and get the quarter squared away again.”

  “I hope so. It's anarchy in there right now. What's going to happen to me, though?”

  “It's back to the selling block for you. And may you bring better luck to your new master than the old one.”

  “Why, what happened to Mr. Lima?”

  “No one knows. But the battle circus burned to the ground earlier today. So wherever the fool is, he's flat broke now.”

  I do my best to act like someone who didn't burn down the circus (which of course I did). It must work, because he directs me to a holding area just off the main corridor. I walk inside and there is Bruin, still dressed in his space marine outfit. I take a seat on a bench beside him, making hushing noises as I do. But I needn't have worried; the man has no intention of calling attention to himself.

  “You've got a lot of nerve,” he says, “walking around openly after what you did.”

  The slave's voice is tightly wound, and I can't get a read on his intent.

  “What is it you think I've done, exactly?”

  “Don't play dumb with me. You started all of this. The riots, the lockdown, the whole damn thing.”

  This is the pushback I expected to receive, and I’ve already steeled myself for it. Time to double down.

  “And so what if I did?”

  “Now you listen to me, pal. I had friends die in the fighting between us and Lima's acrobats. You turned slave against slave with that little stunt.”

  “That was unfortunate, yes. I didn't realize how loyal Datsel's people would be to him.”

  “Unfortunate? That's all you have to say? Fucking unfortunate? I should rat you out to the Hornets right now.”

  “So why don't you then? I'm sure there would be a nice little reward in it for you. Like a bone to chew on, or maybe some catnip in your breakfast cereal.”

  “A pet, am I? You're the one who just called your master by his first name.”

  “Former master. I arranged to have him shot, if you'll recall.”

  “So you just get to walk in here, fresh off the Stormline, and decide it's time we all died for our freedom? You shouldn't get to make that call.”

  “I thought you'd be used to having decisions made for you by now. You've been letting it happen your whole life, after all.”

  “It's a small price to pay for survival.”

  “Really? Living in a pen is a small price to pay? Fighting for other people's amusement is a small price to pay? Your hands are a small price to pay? Give me a break, man.”

  Bruin stays silent, but he is quivering with pent up emotion now. I keep pushing.

  “Look buddy, there are other fights I should be fighting, far from here, in defense of people I love. But someone needs to end this place. And since nobody else would throw the first punch, I decided that person was going to be me. And I'm done feeling guilty for trying to do the right thing. So you can either rat me out, get onboard, or leave me the fuck alone. It's your call.”

  I sit back on the bench, drained by my arguments. Being a hardline revolutionary is tiring work. When Bruin speaks next, there is a different timbre to his voice.

  “You're a real bastard, you know that? Rubbing my nose in my own degradation. You think I don't already hate myself for letting them do this to me? Everyone here does. And then someone like you comes along and makes defiance look so easy... it's tough to take, is all.”

  “I would like to refute your use of the word easy. But other than that, I get it. Vorashia only got to condition me for a few weeks, and even that didn't go too well for her. Whereas you've had an entire life of this shit. If I was in your shoes, I would probably feel the same way. The only question is: now that the wheels are in motion, can you throw off the shackles inside your head?”

  Bruin scoffs. “The shackles inside my head? You training to be a motivational speaker or something?”

  “Sorry. I may have gotten a bit carried away.”

  “You think? But I know what you're saying.” He lowers his voice. “If I was to get onboard, what would helping you look like? Hypothetically, I mean.”

  “In a few weeks, hundreds of slaver crews are going to descend on this place to help the Hornets take back the quarter. But if we can rally enough slaves to our cause before then, we've got a shot at overthrowing the entire establishment. You could be free within a month, and back with your family and friends.”

  His eyes take on a faraway look. “Free. What does that feel like?”
/>
  “Like waking up in the morning and thinking: what am I going to do today? And having some options.”

  “Wow. I don't know, though...”

  “For now, you can help me just by providing some information. When we go back onto the selling block, where might we end up?”

  Bruin scratches his chin with a forearm. “Well, the entertainment quarter is locked down, so that's out. The Hornets have their own district back near the stadium, but they don't merit slaves. So it would be either the factory crater or the shareholders neighborhood. But with us both crippled, I doubt we'd get a look-in from the factory bosses. So I guess that leaves the neighborhood.”

  “How many slaves would you say live there?”

  “Don't know. Maybe a few hundred.”

  “That's not enough. But I heard about a new factory that is buying up slaves left and right. Maybe they would take us on.”

  He nods slowly. “Yeah, I've heard about that place too. They're supposed to be working on some top secret project - the biggest in Ninetown's history.”

  “Interesting. Alright, let's call that our plan. What will give us the best chance of being chosen?”

  “We'll just have to look as strong and healthy as we can. And showing some attitude won't hurt either - strong personalities are known to last longer at hard labor.”

  “I can do attitude.”

  A few minutes later, a squad of Hornets arrives to escort us back to the stadium. They look nervous; maybe this is their first time near the lockdown zone. There are about sixty slaves in total: all asylum seekers fleeing the violence inside the quarter. The Hornets march us down the corridor and through the engine room, which has been turned into an ad-hoc military encampment since my last visit. Then we enter the stadium. It is only half full on this occasion. We are told to wait beside the lightweight bridge that connects the stands to the suspended disc. Heeding Bruin's advice about bringing the attitude, I start to push through the crowd.

  “Hot shit, coming through!”

  The other slaves part to let me pass, and now I'm standing at the bridge’s mouth. The last time I was here, Vorashia had just spent two days torturing me. But now I'm riding high. The factory bosses would be crazy not to take me. The auctioneer is back at work, narrating the proceedings. But he sounds distracted this time, and slightly apprehensive.