Life is a Beautiful Thing (4-Book Box Set)

by Harmon Cooper

  “Did he try and kill Castro?” I ask.

  He shakes his head. “No, nothing like that. Papo went to a punk rock concert and found out that one of the musicians was HIV positive. He bought a syringe and took some of the man’s blood and infected himself with HIV.”

  What what?

  “He injected himself with… infected blood?”

  “Precisely,” Dr. Hewman says.

  Nelly asks, “Why would anyone do that?”

  “Because, he knew that the government would leave him alone if he had HIV.”

  “But I thought you said they’d send him to a sanatorium!” She says.

  “They did, and guess what?”

  I look from Nelly to Yeshi to Tim7. Nobody guesses.

  Dr. Hewman says, “The sanatorium was actually a good place to be, much nicer than the rest of Cuba at the time. In fact, management of the sanatoriums had been taken over by the Ministry of Health and Medicine. The doctors there were quite liberal. They allowed the patients to rock out and dress however they wanted. They didn’t censor anything and they gave the patients as much as they could eat. It was quite normal to hear the music that the regime forbade playing everywhere in the sanatoriums, or for a sanatorium to host a punk rock concert, with bands like VIH or Escoria.”

  “But the patients had to have HIV to be there?” I ask.

  “Exactly. But you have to remember that at this time the post-Soviet Russians cut off all of their aid and all of their subsidies, and the US wouldn’t lift sanctions for another twenty or twenty-five years. So while the general populace was starving, people with HIV were being fed. The irony! And guess what happened next?”

  “Everyone died?”

  “No, Meme. Well yes, everyone did eventually die, but that’s not exactly what happened next. What happened next was that hundreds of frikis began injecting themselves with HIV-infected blood so they could be admitted to the sanatoriums. Soon, the sanatoriums were filled with like-minded people – punk rockers – and they were allowed to listen to whatever they wanted and live however they pleased. This very sanatorium, Santiago de Las Vegas, was where Papo the Bullet was sent, which is why I have his picture here. It is a reminder of how far some people will go to get the freedom they so ardently desire.”

  TWENTY-SEVEN∞

  Keva dove through the air with Monique and Clove close behind her. Once the jumpers were out, the Super Osprey climbed away from the area of operation to loiter relatively nearby until the reps called for pick-up.

  The airsuits were a military application of aeros tech; an aeros without all the automotive heritance that one strapped on rather than rode inside of. Airsuits were small, sleek, short duration personal flight equipment that fulfilled one of humanity’s longest held wishes – the ability to fly.

  The airfield rushed up to meet them; caliche runway, sheet metal hangar, two Comsuits across the runway from the hangar, various grounded aeros and an assortment of monster truck-type pickups. Clove and Monique executed a textbook combat drop – straight down, brake at the last possible instant, get to cover and engage the enemy immediately. Keva swooped and looped and whirled and twirled like a pollute-soaked DisNike fairy princess at an all-butterfly airshow.

  All eyes on the ground were on her; the triggermen started blasting away at the sky like it was Cinco de Mayo in the Dallas-Fort Worth Kraft Tyson PepsiCo Urboplex. One of the two Comsuits boosted immediately to engage her; the other Comsuit’s operator sprinted from the hangar.

  Clove: Can you believe this crazy Eurotrash bitch generates eight times more revenue than you and I combined?

  Monique: As long as they shoot at her instead of us, who cares?

  Monique let the second Comsuit operator gain the boarding ladder and open the armored access hatch before she vaporized him, slagging the interior with a sustained blast from her PHASR RNG8.

  Monique: These are smooth.

  Clove: They’re new, just out of prototype field trials. They should give us the employee discount and a consecutively serial numbered pair, too.

  Monique: Keep dreaming.

  The first Comsuit operator was very good, and fought his suit well, but Keva was smaller, lighter, faster, and not particularly risk-averse. He detached both his PHASRs for independent operation and doggedly tried to herd Keva into their field of fire.

  MercSecure’s top rep dodged him repeatedly and avoided his PHASRs with a casual nonchalance that made it all look insultingly easy. Then, Zap! Zap! Zap! and it was all over; what was left of the Comsuit and the detached PHASRs impacted the ground with surprisingly minor explosions.

  Clove and Monique reduced all the shooters on the airfield to drifting pink mist. With the outside secured, they continued to exchange fire with the few defenders who remained in the hangar.

  Keva landed outside the hangar’s personnel door.

  Clove: Don’t kill them all – we need a couple to interrogate.

  Keva: Vielen Danke, Vati! I got this.

  “Drop your weapons, come out with your hands up and nobody gets hurt!” Keva yelled, dropped, and rolled to the other side of the door.

  “Chingate, Yanqui Puta!” and they fired a long burst through the sheet metal wall where she’d just been standing.

  “Thought you’d say that,” she said as blasted the door open and tossed in a flash-bang.

  The flash-bang detonated and Keva bounced through the door like the Rabbit of Caerbannog. The sheet metal wall suddenly bulged outward from the impact of a thrown body; there was much manly shrieking and bursts of gunfire interspersed with Keva’s crazy laughter – then silence.

  Clove and Monique traded looks.

  Three men stumbled out of the hangar, “No disparar! No disparar!”

  A grinning, blood spattered Keva followed them out and put them on their knees, hands behind their heads. “Yoo-hoo! Clove! Monique! It’s all safe now – you can come out!” she called.

  Clove: I’m really, really beginning to dislike her.

  Monique: Black Mesa sounds better and better.

  Of the three surviving gatilleros, the one in the middle with the Zapata mustache looked to be the least beat up. “Where’d they take the MercSecure reps?” Keva asked him, in a quiet, friendly tone.

  “No hablo inglés.”

  “No me jodas, pinche puta!” she shrieked, ripped the right side of his big fancy mustache off, grabbed him by the throat and dead-lifted him one-handed. His face purpled as she squeezed; he tugged at her wrist with both his hands as a wet spot sprouted at his crotch.

  She dropped him, kicked him back to his knees, and asked him again, “Where’d they take the MercSecure reps?”

  “I will tell you,” he gasped. “I will tell you everything! Please! No more, please!” Keva carefully bagged up the flap of skin with the half-mustache attached and dropped it in her trophy pouch.

  Clove: Ever seen her take a mustache before?

  Monique: First time.

  _∞_

  Murika pressed the muzzle of the captured AK against the short chain linking Walt’s cuffs. Walt turned his head to protect his eyes; he couldn’t do anything to protect his hearing.

  The chain parted, and Walt frisked the three pendejo brothers for a handcuff key. Nozo’s pockets contained a handful of change, a disposable lighter, a pocket knife, a blister pack of Cialis and a ring of keys – none of which were to the handcuffs. Gameboy had the key on a crucifix key ring, which was just fine with Walt as he didn’t want to give Señor Scratchy’s itsy-bitsy pets a chance to jump ship if he didn’t absolutely have to.

  He unlocked Murica first, left him with the key and gathered up weapons. Murika freed Beyoncé, and she freed Rav.

  “What do you think?” Murika asked.

  “Man, if it was me, I’d ground this piece a shit pimpmobile, get my homies out, and then blow the shit out of it without ever opening the door,” said Beyoncé as she and Rav piled the three bodies against the back door.

  “That’d be the smart thing to
do,” Walt agreed, “but so far these guys haven’t been particularly smart, and they’re all wrapped up in that Latino Machismo thing. Image is everything, especially to the cartel guys. If Manuel looks weak, the other cartels will roll right over him.

  “We kicked their ass at their headquarters again, we got loose in the back of his paddy wagon and killed his three guys in with us, so odds are high that they’ll try to extract us so Manuel can do his Sharks with Frickin’ Lasers in Their Heads showy revenge thing.

  “Easiest and safest for them is to pop a gas canister in through the view port and then drag us out when we go under. When they frisked us, these gangsta wannabes were more interested in feeling Bey up than they were in actually searching us. Everybody still have a mist mask?”

  Everybody did.

  “Mask up,” Murika told them. “We’ve got two AK-309s, an AK with an underslung PHASR, and a .75 caliber Desert Vulture, for God’s sake – I’m thinking somebody had a whopping big case of little man syndrome. Soon as we ground, I expect the dance to start, so cover behind the bodies and when they open the door, start the music.”

  Rav and Beyoncé grinned at each other, fist-bumped, and checked their weapons.

  The aeros transport grounded hard, and they felt it rock as the driver bailed out.

  “Now we see how close I called it,” Walt said under his breath.

  A minute passed, and then another, and then another after that. More nothing continued to happen, and Rav, Beyoncé, and Murika stayed focused and ready. Walt had the viewing slot covered with the .75 Desert Vulture, but didn’t fire when it slid open and gas canister dropped in, spewing yellow fumes.

  “Tenofizzle 661,” Murika, his voice slightly muffled by his mask. “When they open the door, shoot.”

  The canister burned for almost two minutes; the prisoner compartment was saturated with the gas, and visibility was down to nothing.

  The door scraped and clanked as Manuel’s minions worked the locking mechanism.

  “Idiots,” Walt said, “Didn’t vent the gas the gas first. They won’t be able to see shit in here, and if they’re not masked they’ll get a faceful of this stuff. Idiots.”

  With a final clank, the locks disengaged. “Okay ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls, dying time’s here.”

  TWENTY-EIGHT∞

  Off with their heads!

  No one is guillotining around here, but most of us are ready to drop, which is why the A-Team has decided to retire for the day after a nice dinner with Dr. Hewman and company. Boy was our fricasé de Pollo a la Cubana yummy. For the visual learners among us, we are sitting in the main complex finishing up dinner at a glorified picnic table, Tim7 at one end and Dr. Hewman at the other. Nelly is across from yours truly, while Rebel is upstairs sleeping like a baby after a pacifier dipped in whiskey. Yeshi and Noah are being repaired by one of Dr. Hewman’s contacts, both getting a new application of e-skin after today’s brouhaha.

  Of course, conversation keeps going back to the FCG and whatnot, and Tim7 keeps looking to me for some input.

  “I got nothing,” I say, after I’ve finished mopping up some chicken. An alderman I am not. “It’s been a long day full of trauma, near-death and not enough pollutes. Speaking of which, I didn’t see a pollution mask in the room upstairs.”

  Dr. Hewman nods. “My home is pollute-free. That stuff rots your brain.”

  “It does what?” I ask, nearly choking on my chicken. I may not know much, but I know chicken poop from chicken salad!

  “This is a pollute-free environment,” he says. “I gave that stuff up years ago.”

  “And this is our headquarters for the foreseeable future?”

  Nelly laughs, “You are hopeless.”

  “With our sigothers gone –”

  “Noah is not my sigother.”

  “Well, with mine gone, I’ve got to do something to keep myself entertained.”

  “Why don’t you watch something informative over iNet?” Tim7 asks. “Every moment is a moment to learn something.”

  “I think I’ve seen everything there is on iNet.”

  Dr. Hewman laughs. “In all seriousness, both of you need to get some rest tonight.”

  “What about you?” I ask him. “Will you be resting?”

  “Tim7 and I need to go to Havana. We’ll be back late.”

  “So we’re here on our own?” I ask, frowning comically at Nelly.

  Me: Just you and me…

  Nelly: You wish!

  Me: A cuddle never hurt anyone.

  Nelly: But a kick in the balls does.

  “Yes,” Dr. Hewman says, “you two will be on your own. I’ve shown you around the place. Feel free to relax wherever you’d like and explore the compound. However, there is one place I’d like you to stay away from.”

  Me: He has a secret stash.

  Nelly: Wouldn’t that be convenient.

  Dr. Hewman looks up at the ceiling. “There are three rooms upstairs and a bathroom. Meme, the room closest to yours is my snail sanctuary. I’d appreciate it if you two stayed away from there.”

  “Snail sanctuary?”

  “I’m planning to transfer it to another building, once the construction is complete.”

  I clear my throat. “Did you say snail sanctuary?”

  Yes,” he says, “Cuba is famous for their many snails. It has been my hobby since the start of the year to collect them. Right now, they are in empty fish tanks in the room upstairs. Soon, they’ll have their very own building.”

  Me: Collecting snails sounds about as cool as wearing a Canadian tuxedo.

  Nelly: Those were really popular last year.

  “So why should we stay away?” I ask. “We’re not children; well at least I’m not.”

  Nelly makes a face at me.

  “You should stay away because some of the snails in there are highly toxic,” Dr. Hewman says,” specifically, the snail with the red shell. Shamans on the island have used it for centuries for its mystical hallucinatory powers and its alleged ability to open a doorway into the spirit world.”

  “How?” Nelly asks.

  “By licking the snail’s underside, known as the foot.”

  “So people lick the red snail’s ass and then they trip out?” I ask.

  Tim7 says, “Actually, the anus of a snail is inside its shell.”

  TWENTY-NINE∞

  Naked Rinchi held the soft voiced Humandroid’s severed head by its hair.

  “Before we leave, direct me to the other heads,” she said.

  “Don’t tell her, Sand,” a voice hissed.

  “The first head is at one o’clock from you, approximately 1.5309 meters away.”

  “On the shelf?”

  “Yes,” Sand said.

  She moved forward slowly, determined to make good on her promise.

  She set Sand on the floor half an arm’s length away and used the shelf unit to pull herself up onto her knees. Holding herself in place with one hand, she lightly brushed the fingertips of her other hand along the shelf until the mechanical-voiced head growled and snapped at her. In a move that Moses Harry Horowitz himself could not have executed more smoothly, Rinchi jammed two fingers and her thumb into the head’s eye sockets and nasal cavity and gripped it like an oddly misshapen bowling ball.

  To give herself more leverage, she maintained her grip on the shelf unit and twisted just enough to give her head-gripping arm all around clearance. She swung the discorporated Humandroid noggin up over her head and smashed it into the tiled floor with a gruesome, hollow thwocking sound. Then she did it again, and again after that, and then once more until she felt the braincase rupture.

  “That was certainly cathartic,” she said to Sand. “Now, who’s next?”

  _∞_

  Sauria called Lorem Ipsum and Connard Branleur back into the room. They entered, Lorem looking as worried as ever.

  “What happened?”

  “A lot has happened since we left.” The head of MercSecure looked to He
idi.

  “She stays,” Sauria said, “I trust her more than I trust you.”

  Lorem brushed his hands along the front of his suit jacket. “When Keva heard about Rinchi going MIA, she abandoned the mission off the coast of Somalia. I had to threaten our newest trainee rep’s life to get her in line.”

  “Newest trainee rep?”

  “Medya,” Ipsum said, “the Kurdish girl Keva recovered in Iraq – the one with the home-made Comsuit.”

  “I’m okay with that; you gotta do what you gotta do, sometimes. Remember what happened with Miko Hernandez?”

  Lorem nodded.

  “Good, and good work on leveraging her back on track. What’s Keva doing now? Is she following instructions again?”

  “So far she seems to be. She just arrived in Mexico to rescue Murika and his team.”

  Sauria nodded. “And who is she with again?”

  “Clove and Monique.” Lorem turned to the holoscreen. “Keva, ocular feed.” Her feed materialized onto the screen. She was in the Super Osprey heading away from the airfield. “Clove, status update.”

  Clove’s voice burst out of the room’s speakers. “We are en route to Manuel’s pit bull breeding and dog-fighting complex. The airfield has been cleared and is ready for the Recovery Team.”

  “What about Antimeria?” Sauria asked.

  “The Recovery Team will bring him back.”

  “And Murika’s team is still comm out?”

  “They’re still blocking their access to iNet.” Lorem said.

  “Got it.”

  Connard said, “So Keva and company are en route to the kennel, where there will likely be a big gunfight?”

  “Probably, if Murika and the others are still alive; they may not be.”

  “I’ll believe they’re alive until I have confirmation otherwise. Walt is one of our best, most experienced operatives,” Sauria said. “I interviewed and hired Walt myself and I have every confidence in his ability. Now, what’s the status on the tracking device?”