We Dare

by Chris Kennedy

  I bounded into the air and lashed out with one of my armored legs. The extended reach of the Mark One allowed me to stay just out of range of the lifter. The pirate inside apparently couldn’t compensate for the extra movement and staggered to the right as my suit’s foot connected solidly on his left shoulder. It spun but I was already moving quickly behind the lifter, bringing the Ma Deuce up to fire. I only had six shots left and needed to make each one count. I started shooting into the back of the driver’s carriage, trying to keep each shot at the same point of impact to weaken the armor.

  Unfortunately, none of my final shots penetrated the lifter. One, however, did ricochet back and impacted the helmet of the Mark One. I felt the impact above my head and winced, glad that I was shorter than normal. My ears were ringing from the bullet bouncing off my suit as dizziness threatened to overwhelm me, and I struggled to stay upright.

  The lifter must have sense my moment of weakness because the pilot managed to grab me with the lifts and the two prongs which stuck out of each arm locked into place. One had managed to grab my left arm, pinning it down to the side and rendering it useless while the other had encircled my waist. I struggled to escape but the power behind the lifter was too much. The prongs began to close shut, and the Mark One suit started to creak and groan in protest as the lifter applied more pressure.

  It was becoming difficult to breathe the more the lifter squeezed. I was enraged because if I didn’t kill the driver of the lifter, I would have failed the doctor. Her disproval would kill me more painfully than anything the stupid pirate could manage. I was running out of options, though. I was stuck, and with only one arm free there was almost no way for me to gain leverage.

  For a moment I wished I could see inside the protective case of the lifter, so I could look into the eyes of the person who was about to kill me. It was denial on my part. I couldn’t believe that I was going to die and fail Doctor Pulvere like this. Anger, confusion, and fear flooded my mind. There had to be some way I could at least take the person inside with me.

  As my fury grew, I realized that there was a raised edge on the side of the protective driver’s cover. The clamps around my waist grew tighter still, and the suit began to malfunction. I was in near agony as the forks slowly pressed in on my pelvic bone from either side. The pressure grew greater as the suit’s protection started to fail. There wasn’t much time. I had to kill him, and now.

  With the last of my strength, I managed to dig the suit’s fingertips beneath the lipped edge. I yanked it once, twice, but nothing. Howling with pain and anger, I tried one final time. It crumpled and the armored cover was torn asunder, revealing a very confused and alarmed man on the inside.

  At that same moment I suddenly felt cold all over my body. Numbness hit my entire lower half as I felt something. I couldn’t see anything below a certain point but the suit helpfully informed me that everything beneath my pelvic region had been removed and the cortex was administering neural blocks to prevent me from feeling any pain. It also told me that I was bleeding to death and had but a few minutes at most before I died. More than likely I would be dead in seconds.

  “That sucks,” I whispered as blackness began to fill the edges of my vision. I was ashamed. I would fail Doctor Pulvere. No you won’t! something inside my mind screamed. You have one chance. Use it!

  I eventually succumbed to the pain, but not before I used the last of my strength to reach out and crush the skull of the last pirate with my hand.

  * * *

  “I read your report, doctor. Very impressive. Well done that your little Imperfect eliminated that troublesome nest of political undesirables. Tell me, how did the suit perform, in your opinion?” Emperor Solomon Lukas II asked impatiently as Doctor Lucinda Pulvere finished analyzing the data on her screen. The ruler of the Dominion had only just seized the Blood Throne three years before, and with the fourth anniversary the following month, the paranoid ruler wanted something to show Parliament that it was he who controlled the empire. The mechanized infantry suits were supposed to solidify his hold on the Blood Throne and drive away any pesky contenders and claimants, most especially his older sister, Sarah.

  “The suit works just fine, Your Majesty,” Doctor Pulvere told him as she looked around the room. The emperor had insisted on absolute privacy for this meeting, yet the man who had orchestrated his grab for the throne, Lord Matthias Samuels, sat off to the side. Emperor Solomon either did not care about Lord Samuels’ presence or, more than likely, wanted him there. Doctor Pulvere had no idea why, though. “More armor might be handy, or I’d recommend that they do not engage in close quarters combat in the future. The primary weapons system operated ideally and flawlessly. The implant nodule worked well after some time of disorientation for the subject, and the cortex worked perfectly in conjunction with the suit, as expected. The patient was susceptible to all programming changes and was eager to please the more input she received. However, blind obedience might not always be the best. Perhaps just reinforcing positive behavior toward an ideology? I don’t know yet; we’ll need more tests to determine that. There might also be some flaws when the later generations and upgrades are introduced. I believe we should install some sort of loyalty subconscious programming to prevent acts of violence against the royal family. This way nobody can usurp control of them. The amount of rage the subject showed during the last few minutes of fighting allowed us to measure some very interesting patterns in her brainwave activity, sire.”

  “Such as?”

  “The angrier she became, the more effective the cortex and suit worked, Your Majesty,” Doctor Pulvere explained as she pulled up the data and transferred it to the emperor’s computer. He glanced at it in a cursory fashion, making it abundantly clear to the doctor that he did not understand what he was looking at and was waiting for her to explain. After a pause, she continued. “The brain transferred the data far faster as she fought her way into the rebel’s base. I would recommend in the future we come up with a way to test brain wave patterns to find the right fit with our Imperfects. Of course, we’ll have to figure out if these mechanized infantry suits are going to be marines or fall under Navy jurisdiction…”

  “Neither,” the emperor stated as he glanced over at the nominally quiet Lord Samuels. The Justice nodded in agreement. “We’re working an amendment into the Constitution to have them fall under direct command of the sitting ruler only. Call them a royal guard or something. Limit their numbers, but only I can command them, or someone at my behest, like a general or something.”

  “Commandant.” Lord Samuels spoke for the first time, his eyes glinting as he turned to look at the doctor. She felt insignificant under that reptilian gaze. “It has a better ring to it. Instills both confidence and fear, a wise combination in these trying days.”

  “Fine, sure, whatever.” The emperor waved him off. “Tell me, doctor…how many more of these suits can we produce?”

  “A lot, Your Majesty,” she readily admitted. “Now that the last of the cortex issues have been worked out, we simply need the go-ahead to find a contractor to build them.”

  “Excellent,” the emperor nodded and stood. Doctor Pulvere, not anticipating the move, stumbled to her feet, grabbing her carrying case and nearly dropping her computer as well along the way. She tucked it inside and secured the case. Lord Samuels was already up, which infuriated the doctor. The old lord from Corus was a slimy individual. “You’re dismissed, Doctor.”

  “Thank you, Your Majesty,” Doctor Pulvere bowed deeply at the waist and backed away. As she passed the required ten-meter mark, she turned and began to walk out. As she reached the door, however, the emperor’s voice stopped her short.

  “By the way…whatever happened to your Mark I prototype suit that the girl was wearing?”

  “Recovered, Your Majesty,” Doctor Pulvere stated. “It didn’t give up the ghost. One of the doctors on my team suggested calling it a Ghost suit, but I disagreed and thought that it was inappropriate to name it at thi
s time. The girl inside, though, didn’t survive.”

  “Ah…so your secondary project failed?”

  “Not quite, Your Majesty,” Doctor Pulvere corrected mildly, choosing her next few words with utmost caution. “Her brainwave patterns were remarkably clear, and what we dug out of the cortex is almost a completely fresh mind. We have our best scientists working on the artificial intelligence program now, using her as a template. Fifteen, twenty years and we’ll be able to create a fully functional AI. We’ve already established a lab on the world where we did the field test, Your Majesty.”

  “Very good,” the emperor nodded. He glanced at Lod Samuels before continuing. “Oh, what are you calling it? The AI program, I mean?”

  “We were thinking of naming it after the girl whose brainwaves we’re using, Your Majesty,” Doctor Pulvere answered. “Almost like a backhanded compliment, even though she was just an Imperfect.”

  “Color me curious. What was her name?”

  “Sfyri.”

  * * * * *

  Jason Cordova Bio

  A 2015 John W. Campbell Award finalist, Jason Cordova has traveled extensively throughout the U.S. and the world. He has multiple novels and short stories currently in print. He also coaches high school varsity basketball and loves the outdoors.

  He currently resides in Virginia.

  Catch up with Jason at https://jasoncordova.com/.

  # # # # #

  Bag Man by Jack Clemons

  The gentle vibrations sounded like the rattle of an insect’s wings. They pulled at me across the gulf of soft sleep, the constant buzz of plastic on the varnished wood of the bedside table. My eyes opened reluctantly as if fighting the reality of the vibrations. Reaching out by memory without opening my eyes, I grasped the thin plastic of the phone.

  I forced one eye open to view the dimly lit screen. I didn’t recognize the number, but that wasn’t uncommon for me. My thumb hovered over the screen briefly as I mentally composed myself to take the call. I rolled over onto my back among the cool tangle of sheets and blankets that made up my solo sleeping arrangement. Not that I minded sleeping alone. It was one of those things I had learned about myself in the wreckage of two divorces in 5 years. Sleeping alone is a luxury few truly appreciate.

  As I sat up in the bed, I swiped the screen to answer the call.

  “Hello,” I said, keeping my voice as neutral as possible

  “Yes, am I speaking with Mr. Drake?” the controlled female voice on the other end of the line asked.

  It was a work call, but that wasn’t surprising. The reason this phone sat next to my bed was so that I could be on call. I checked the time. Barely ten pm. I hadn’t been asleep for an hour. I briefly considered raising my fee.

  “You are. How may I help you?”

  “I was given your number by a friend at UB&W. They recommended you as a specialist in adjudication.”

  I reached over and palmed a control switch on the bedside table, bringing the lights up in the room slowly to not be too jarring. Upham, Burke, and Waingro wasn’t the name of a mid-sized law firm but it was designed to sound like one. It was a single office in the bad part of town with a secretary and a sole proprietor.

  William “BillyBoy” Goldstein was a disgraced and disbarred former corp lawyer who had been drummed out of his profession for what he called, “Getting caught doing what everyone else was better at hiding.” I had never asked him for the details, and he never felt like giving more than that. That being said, he was a man who lived enough in both worlds that he had seen the need for a niche role in helping facilitate the corporations when it came to legalities even they weren’t willing to break. To that end, he maintained a stable of various specialists. He farmed our skillset out to the highest bidder and took both a healthy finder’s fee and a flat 10% of our net profits.

  So, for “Miss Cool and Collected” to be name dropping “BillyBoy,” she was confirming her need for discretion and violence. Her timing of the call meant this was a matter of some urgency. I processed this as I rubbed my face in a movement that stretched back to the cavemen. Touching skin to try and trigger some deeper core in myself.

  “Ahh, yes. Is there a timeframe for your matter?” I asked, swinging my legs free and onto the floor.

  “I am afraid the matter is quite urgent. Are you available for a face-to-face meeting?” Her voice never wavered, strong and precise. She likely wasn’t the one with the issue, I guessed. Some corporate trouble-shooter who had probably been asleep an hour ago herself, before a more frantic call had reached her.

  “I am, where at?” I walked toward the closet, my feet moving silently through the plush carpet. “And, of course, there is the matter of my fee for such urgent meetings.”

  “I will send you an address. As to the fee, we were informed as such. Ten thousand credits have been deposited into the indicated account. We do ask that you arrive quickly, as the matter is quite timely.”

  “Of course.” That was a hefty amount. About my maximum consulting level fee, not that I thought that was where it would end. All for me to wake up and go see someone. I had done a lot worse for a lot less. “I will be on my way shortly.”

  “Excellent.” The call ended abruptly.

  I tossed the phone back onto the bed as I opened the memory plastic door of the closet. Dilating at the touch of my finger, the coded door revealed my wardrobe. I glanced at the suits briefly. Each one a bespoke masterpiece that cost more than I used to make in a month slinging cheap bootleg TriDees and Narco injectors. If this meeting had been scheduled during business hours, these suits would have allowed me to drift among the sea of corporate drones without a second glance. But, to me, these were merely a camouflage of a different sort. One of the first lessons I had ever been taught on my rise from Street Sicario to my current lofty position of Corporate Bagman.

  “You have to be able to move in both worlds, and their world won’t come naturally. So pretend, disguise, and lie. Do it until it becomes second nature. The easier it is for them to forget what you are, the better you are at your job. Just never forget yourself.”

  Instead, I dressed in a loose casual manner that would see me well in almost any environment. Dark jeans, a grey mag-sealed double breasted shirt with a mandarin collar, black running shoes that pulsed a dull red on the sole with each step, and a tan all-weather jacket. Reaching down, I pulled free one of the dark green hard plastic military cases that rested in the closet. I rarely kept all of my working supplies here, but I kept enough hardware on hand for personal use.

  I selected a thin Smith and Wesson semi-auto with a concealment holster and slipped it inside the waistband of my jeans at the one o’clock position, attaching it to my belt. A spare magazine and auto-knife went into my left-hand front pocket. While it was unlikely this meeting was an ambush, you didn’t make it in this line of work without a layer of paranoia helping you get dressed.

  I gave myself the once-over in the mirror. No matter what I did, I would never get rid of the look of being “The Heavy.” Tall and muscled but not comically so. I was glad for the long sleeves and high collar to cover the gang tattoos of a previous life and the cybernetic enhancements of this one. My dark black hair was cut in a severe near-military fade, my beard trimmed and squared off. The edging of gray was showing more and more. For some, it was a matter of self-consciousness; personally, I took pride in it. Neither my father nor grandfather had lived to see gray hair.

  I walked out of the spartan guest room I slept in and was assaulted by my curator’s garish, trending TriDee motifs. I didn’t mind the art; I just didn’t feel the need to stare at it every night before drifting off to sleep. The decorator’s name was Sarah, and we had met eight months ago at a party thrown by a friend of a friend. I had seen her across the room and immediately been infatuated. She was tall and pale, her red hair cut into a side shave to show off the intricate Celtic knotwork tattoo that writhed and moved with the beat of the music. I can still remember her sheer red dress that left
just enough to the imagination.

  That night, we fucked. Afterward, her hands traced the scar tissue and black carbon fiber of my cybernetics. She told me she could work when and where she wanted, or not, but whatever she did had to be “spiritually fulfilling.” She asked me what I did for a living, and in a haze of drugs, booze and post-coital endorphins, I told her.

  There were many names for my profession, but they all boiled down to the same thing. In earlier times, I would have been called a sellsword, ronin, soldier of fortune, or mercenary. Now the masters who hired my services preferred to dress it up in a different way: Security Executive, Conflict Adjudicator, or Contractor. The street called us Kordats, Freehires, and of course Bagmen. But it all meant the same: people of resolve for hire to the highest bidder.

  Rather than making her run off, she found it fascinating. She told me later it was our auras, something about her being wind and me being fire. I didn’t really understand it then, and I still don’t now. But the balance was there, and for now she was in my life, and we enjoyed each other. I know she’ll grow bored someday and be gone…and I would be left with an apartment full of art and a head full of memories.

  She was stretched out on the floor, nude, wearing a full body sensory harness and laying on a RealDee response blanket. Judging by the sounds she was experiencing some sort of sonic trance sequence that she had informed me was all the rage currently. I had tried it. Honestly, it had felt like dancing with a Muay Thai fighter for forty minutes while the music buzzed in my ear. It was the latest thing for the Neo-Druids in their Club/Temples, but really not my bag.

  Her lithe body twisted and turned in a way that was both erotic and religious, worshipping some goddess of fertility in a mix of synth wave and bass-boosted music. The Atlanta skyline outlined her through my floor-to-ceiling windows from thirty-seven stories up. Buckhead’s neon and LED lights mixed with what stars were powerful enough to beat the city haze.