The Live Soldier Trilogy Box Set

by Liam Clay

  Then an explosion rocks the crater. A hole has been blown out of the Sun's side, about eight meters above ground level. And inside this cavity, a cannon appears. There is a sound like a power plant coming online, and then it starts to hurl laser fire into the crowd.

  “Anex!”

  Tikal is pushing her way through the crush. She gets close, and pulls me into a quick hug.

  “My god, you’re a sight for sore eyes.” She says. “Are you okay?”

  “I think so. You?”

  “Yes, but that gun is going to end us if we don't do something.”

  She's right. Battles are all about momentum, and we've lost it. Our glorious attack is about to become a desperate retreat. I cast about for something, anything, that might help us take out the gun. And while I'm doing that, my prosthetic goes dead. It becomes a lead weight at my side, throwing off my entire body. Glancing to my left, I see that Bruin has been similarly affected.

  “What's happening?” Tikal says.

  “The Hawks must have issued an override code on all prosthetics.”

  “So you can't use it?”

  “No.”

  “Shit. Here, let me try to take it off, at least.”

  But the laser is heading our way now, lashing the ground as it comes.

  “There's no time, Tikal.”

  “Yes there is! Just hold still for a... what the hell is that?”

  I follow her eyes upward. Someone is sliding down the Sun on a rope. A very pale someone.

  “Wait, why are you grinning?”

  Before I can answer, a cry goes up behind us.

  “It's the White Shade!”

  And so it is. Has the bastard been waiting for our greatest moment of need, just so he can make a grand entrance? Sounds like something he would do.

  The albino flies down the Sun's upper curve, and catapults into space at its equator. His rope goes taught, and he swings back in toward the factory's lower section, paying out line as he goes. It would serve the showboat right if he splattered himself all over the ground. But he's too good for that. His rope trick brings him right down onto the cannon's barrel. He crouches there for a moment, enjoying the adulation of the crowd, before lobbing a grenade in through the hole.

  Then the albino throws himself into space again. The rope takes him out over the canal. At the apex of his swing, the laser cannon explodes. A black cloud rises into the blazing blue sky, and the crowd loses its shit. Letting go of the rope, Nem executes a perfect dive into the canal. Both armies watch the spot where he went in, breathless and disbelieving. But he does not resurface. Tikal turns to me.

  “He seems nice. A bit dull, though.”

  “Total snoozefest. Now let's get this over with.”

  “You read my mind, baby.”

  And so we charge the slavers together, bellowing all the way. Our enemy is cornered and surrounded. But they rush out to meet us, screeching to match our own fury. My prosthetic is still dormant, so I switch the scalding sword to my human hand. Tikal is wielding a pair of butterfly knives. The slavers must have exhausted their ammo, because they defend themselves with similar weaponry. I duck and slash, parry and stab. People fall on top of me. I roll out from under them. My boots are sticky with blood, marking the ground with every footfall. Tikal is close by but turned away, facing down her own opponents. Then the crowd parts, and I see her.

  Vorashia's heavy gun is gone, and her armor is a cracked husk. But she fights like a woman possessed. Bodies carpet the ground around her, mown down by the spiked axe she wields with deadly accuracy. Our eyes meet. And although I am the one with every reason to despise her, I can't match the hatred I see there. She starts to cut a path toward me. Now would be a good time for my prosthetic to turn back on. But whatever dampening field the Hawks are employing remains in effect.

  There are only a handful of fighters between us now. One of them is a slaver woman armed with a titanium ice pick. Vor hacks her down without hesitation. Did she just kill one of her own? But there is no time to dwell on the fact, because my time has come. Vor brings her axe around in a horizontal arc. The swing comes in at waist level, making it impossible to jump or duck. Stepping inside the blade's arc, I let the haft hit me. The impact drives through my hip. Her left gauntlet has melted partly away, creating a rippled curve of steel around her palm. She punches it into my side, drawing blood. A wrist flick brings the tip of my sword up to graze her cheek. Flesh splits and she rears back, more enraged than injured. Then she comes at me all over again.

  We trade blows after that. But I can feel myself weakening, whereas she does not seem to tire. Are there no limits to this woman's strength? My parries grow slower, until one of her swings simply crashes through my guard. The axehead delves into my right pectoral muscle. Pain blooms, and I try to pull away. But she grabs my hair and drops on top of me so that our faces are just inches apart.

  “Thought you could make yourself whole again, did you Anex? But that false arm is just another crutch you came to depend on. And without it, your weakness is revealed yet again.”

  Her breath smells of hard chemicals: a concoction of speed, pain blockers, pheromones and god knows what else. It must be what’s keeping her going.

  “It is a shame to kill you.” She murmurs. “I would rather have rebroken you to my will. But I can at least make it painful.”

  Over the slaver’s shoulder, I can see Tikal fighting her way toward us. If I can just keep Vor talking...

  “You never truly controlled me. And whatever hold you had vanished when I saved your life.”

  “You saved me because of that control, not in spite of it. And given more time, my methods would have broken you permanently. You would have served me and my crew for the rest of your pitiful days.”

  “Where are they, though? Your crew. I think they’ve abandoned you.”

  “Then I will recruit a new one. They are interchangeable.”

  Tikal has almost reached us. Every ounce of restraint I possess is required not to look in her direction.

  “How does it feel?” I say desperately. “To have no one care if you live or die?”

  “How does it feel? Glorious. But enough stalling.”

  And with this, Vor pulls a miniature pistol from her belt and fires straight at Tikal. She jumps out of the way, but the move sends her sprawling into a knot of fighters. Someone raps her skull with a knife hilt, and she drops to one knee. Vor's gun tracks around until she has Tikal in her sights again. I buck and thrash, trying to throw her off balance, but nothing works. She's going to kill my girlfriend right in front of me.

  From the corner of my eye, I catch a flash of lime green. And then Ugly steps into my field of view. He is as gorgeous as ever, even smeared in the filth of battle.

  “That's my slave.” He says. And then he punches Vorashia in the face. She rolls off me and slithers to her feet. The mohawked Amateur goes after her, and now his crew surges forward as well. I see Chaste, Clutz, Blindy, Horse and a few others whose names I never learned. They jump Vorashia like hyenas on a lion, laying into her with brass knuckles and clubs. She falls under their combined weight, and I find hope. Maybe she's human after all.

  Then Clutz goes down clutching his belly. Chaste is next, forced to retreat with a gaping leg wound. Ugly barely avoids an axe blow that would have decapitated him. And now Vor is rising, an inexorable force of nature.

  “Hey bitch.”

  Vorashia turns... and Tikal shoves a butterfly knife into the seam where the woman's steel jaw meets skin. Then she wrenches the blade sideways. The entire lower half of the slaver's face is left hanging by a web of glistening tendons. Vor raises her hands and tries to force her jaw back into place. But this is too much for her drug mélange to blot out. She releases a rough, coughing shriek. Her axe falls to the ground. Hunched over and mewling, she tries to shamble away from her undoing. But Tikal will not let her go. Flowing silently forward, she cuts the slaver's achilles tendons in one smooth motion. Then she holds the blade out to
me.

  “I can show you how to drag this out, if you like. Come on, you know she deserves it.”

  I gaze upon this woman who caused me so much pain. Who shamed and degraded me, and tried to steal my humanity. But all I can see is a wounded animal. Waving off Tikal’s offer, I retrieve the ebony scaldsword. The Amateurs form a circle around me. As I lift the blade over my head, Vorashia looks up at me with fear in her eyes. She is not ready to die. But I do not hesitate. Flipping my grip, I drive the sword through her chest and out the other side.

  CHAPTER 23

  Once, when I was working for the Form Constant, she started a turf war with a rival cartel. They were bigger than us, better armed, and had stronger topside connections as well. No one thought we stood a chance in hell of winning. The Constant came out on top in the end (like she always did) but the point is that we all expected to die. And so afterward, no one knew what to do with themselves. We’d said our goodbyes, cancelled our gym memberships and cleaned out our fridges. Our lives should have been over... and yet somehow, they were still going on.

  A similar scenario seems to be occurring here. The crater is crowded with emancipated slaves. But no one is talking to each other, or celebrating. When these people turned on their masters, it was only because there was nothing left to lose. Very few of them truly believed that winning was possible, and so they never bothered to consider what would happen next. And even the ones who did look lost. All the rules they lived by, the routines and the coping mechanisms that sustained them, have been suddenly and completely invalidated. They will have to build new existences from scratch now. And that is terrifying to them - as it was for me, each time I've had to do it.

  Two hours have passed since I killed Vorashia. The slaver crews fell apart after that, and were cut down almost to the last man. The Amateurs were one of few exceptions. After the fight with Vor, Tikal told them to run and never look back. They did so without delay. A group of Hawks survived as well. They've been rounded up and locked inside the Sun, more for their own protection than anything else.

  That was my decision. In fact, the ex-slaves have been looking to me for answers ever since the battle. Which makes a fair bit of sense, I suppose. I was the most vocal champion of the revolution, and my prior fame doesn't hurt either. In many ways, I am the obvious choice. But that situation will need to change. And quickly, because we have no intention of staying in Ninetown. The Null are still out there, and having Delez back opens up a slew of new options. In other words we're back in the game, and all of us are keen to start playing again.

  Which begs the question of who will take charge here once we leave. As nice as it would be to hold a vote, that is not a realistic option at this point. The democratic process requires planning and organization, and these people are not ready. No, what's needed is a leader that everyone can get behind straightaway. And I think I know just the person. If I can find him.

  Peace is caring for Delez, and Tikal is closeted away with Arella Calendo. (I will have to meet the woman eventually, but I don’t want to just yet). Lucy, Francis and Amy are still around, though. Leaving them to run things for a while, I travel out along the canal bank. My various wounds give me some trouble, but none are life threatening. When the crater starts to slope upward, I jump into the canal and proceed by sea. The fog closes in. I have only the vaguest of descriptions to guide me - but there is really only one direction to go.

  I find Nem inside a small cave hollowed out of the canal's side. It is dry and almost cozy. Blankets cover the floor, and a portable stereo is playing opera music at low volume. The albino pulls me from the water, and lays down a towel for me to sit on. He looks as pale and alien and awesome as ever.

  “So, how did we do?” He messages casually.

  “Pretty well. All of Ninetown is ours except for the shareholders neighborhood. And it should fall within a matter of hours.”

  “Wonderful. What about the Outpost?”

  “That's a different story. Most of the slaver crews are dead, but the city itself will still need to be dealt with.”

  “Sounds like fun. When do we leave?”

  “Yes, about that. Me and my friends... have commitments elsewhere. We will have to go soon.”

  Nem looks confused. “Then who will run this place? You're the one who made all of this happen. They admire you.”

  “But I'm not available.”

  “So you're just going to abandon them? These people have no idea how to govern themselves. Most of them probably can't pee without express permission.”

  “I know. So we need to find them a leader.” I lean forward. “Someone they admire even more than me.”

  Nem looks blank for a moment. Then he throws his hands up in the air. “No way. Uh-uh. That's not the kind of fame I want. As you can see, I’m more of a mysterious vigilante type.”

  “But that's not what Ninetown needs anymore.”

  The albino turns his face to the fog, weighing up his next words.

  “Anex, you already know that I used to be famous. Well let me tell you why. I was part of a kung fu cult that had its own TV series. We never got the exposure that the Opacian shows did, but our feed was still pretty damn popular. My stage name was the Ivory Scorpion. I never communicated on camera, or used my frequency jacks. I was a cipher, an enigma, and the fans loved me as that character. But no one wants a gay, mute, blind albino as their leader. I would freak people the fuck out.”

  I take a deep breath. “First of all, you have to get me a copy of your show. That shit sounds amazing. But it also sounds fairly juvenile. I hate to say this, but it might be time to grow up, man. And as for them not accepting you, have you taken a look at me lately? I've got a hole the size of this crater in my eye socket, and a composite arm that bends all kinds of crazy ways. And then there are the virtual shunts in my neck. Oh, and have I ever mentioned that I was born in a vat? So anyway, if they're willing to accept me, they can do the same for you.”

  Nem is squatting comfortably on his haunches. But he’s begun to rock nervously back and forth, and his bottom lip is getting a good old chew as well.

  “Are you seriously asking me to be... what? The mayor of Ninetown?”

  I shrug. “That's as good a title as any. But really, I'm asking you to take care of these people until they've learned to care for themselves. Just try not to turn into a power-hungry dictator, if you can possibly avoid it.”

  “No worries there. Like I said, this is not the kind of fame I aspire to.”

  “The unsexy kind?”

  “The hard work kind. But I have no experience leading people. There is no way I could do this alone.”

  Sensing my opening, I move in for the kill. “But if we find you some deputy mayors, you'll do it?”

  “Hang on a second. I didn't say -”

  “Fantastic! Stoked to have you onboard. Now, how about we get back in there and introduce you to everyone?”

  He splutters incoherently for a while, and then groans. “I don't actually have a choice, do I?”

  “Not really.” I reply cheerfully. “Because it kind of has to be you. You've become a legend to these people, Nem. A Ninetown myth to rival the pyramid's creators - whoever they were. But it's time to cast that aside and become a fully realized, somewhat less glorified human being. Can you do that?”

  “I guess so.” He says glumly. “Can people still call me the White Shade, though? I liked that better than the Ivory Scorpion. Too many syllables.”

  “I actually think Nem is pretty cool. But I'll see what we can do.”

  .

  I eventually coax the albino out of his nook, and we start to swim back down the canal. The fog still cloaks us here. I can see the allure of remaining in this hazy nowhere, emerging just often enough to perpetuate the White Shade myth. And if Ninetown was still ruled by slavers, that wouldn't be such a bad way to get by. But now he has a chance to trade his legend in for an actual life. And I really want to see him take it.

  The fog breaks
into tattered shreds, and then fades entirely. We swim out into the open. Not far ahead of us, a middle aged woman is walking down one of the canal stairwells. She’s carrying a load of washing. Her eyes land on me first, and she stops dead. Then she sees Nem, and her laundry basket drops into the sea. Without any discussion between us, we swim over and retrieve it for her. Then we clamber up out of the canal. The woman's eyes are the size of full moons now.

  “You're... And you're...”

  “Hi.” Nem messages, sounding awkward even in written form. “Um, how are you?”

  This is too much for the poor woman. She snatches up her laundry and hightails it out of there.

  “I think we scared her.” I say.

  “You think? It’s like she expected me to start sucking her blood or something. What if everyone reacts like that?”

  “Then we'll just have to show them the real you. The blind mute albino with the heart of gold, that sort of thing.”

  “How are we supposed to do that?”

  “I'll figure something out.”

  “So you're saying you have no idea.”

  “Not as such, no. But I'm sure inspiration will strike.”

  “Something's gonna strike all right. A bunch of angry ex-slaves, striking me.”

  “I'm sure it won't come to that. They'll all be too terrified of you.”

  “Well that's comforting.”

  Despite his (quite reasonable) reservations, I convince him to continue on foot. A few minutes later, we enter the populated part of the crater. And here, it quickly becomes clear that I vastly underestimated the stir we would cause. By the time we reach the Sun, a nervous parade has accumulated behind us. Francis and Lucy are standing on the docks, arguing about something logistical. But when he sees Nem, Francis starts to squeal like a groupie. Other people mimic the sound, until the entire crowd is going nuts. Nudging Nem, I point to the stage.