Rogue World (Undying Mercenaries Series Book 7)

by B. V. Larson

  But my mom had been listed as an emigrated colonist. She wasn’t even supposed to be here on Earth. The fact that she was here didn’t seem to trouble anyone in Hegemony Care’s bureaucracy at all.

  After my channel was accepted and allowed to connect, I was surprised to see the screen on my tapper stayed dark. I’d expected it to light up with a face, even if it was one of those too-perfect virtual agents.

  But instead, it was audio-only, like something from a century back. After waiting around on hold through a dozen AI voices that didn’t help at all, I got a human to come on the line. That was a miracle all by itself, but even then the story was far from over. Getting anything useful out of a government-type was always difficult.

  “I’m very sorry sir,” the prim-sounding rep said, “but your mother has a half-share account.”

  “What the hell does that mean?”

  “It means she must wait,” he said.

  “How long?” I demanded.

  “My screen is giving me an estimate of 3.7 years. But I must caution you, these estimates are usually optimistic.”

  “Four years? She’ll be dead by then!”

  “I’m sorry sir, but care in this category is rationed for non-essential citizens.”

  I could feel myself losing it. The sensation of a complete breakdown and possibly violent fit was right there, already past my guts and half-way up my throat to my brain. I fought it back with difficulty. If there was one thing I knew about bureaucrats, it was that yelling at them rarely helped.

  “Okay…” I said, making a herculean effort to sound normal. “I want to buy up my parents’ medical to a full-share.”

  “I’m sorry sir, there aren’t enough credits in their accounts to—”

  “I’ve got credits! I’m buying up their account myself.”

  The line fell quiet for a while. I heard clicking, more quiet, then finally the agent came back on the line. It felt weird to be dealing with someone with voice-only tech. That sort of thing was antiquated in civvie life. You only ran into it when you talked to the government.

  “I’m sorry sir,” the man said, “but the enrollment period for that action has passed for this calendar year. We can’t change the nature of any service plan again until December.”

  It was July 8th. At this point, my face was getting hot, and I could feel it contorting uncontrollably.

  “Okay,” I said, “forget about the insurance. I’ll just pay for the treatment myself—with cash.”

  “That size of transaction using credit coins would be illegal in your Sector—”

  “I don’t mean literal cash! I’ll transfer the money, bank-to-bank.”

  Silence reigned again, and I heard more clicking. The guy wasn’t even bothering to tell me when he was going to ignore me for a while. He just stopped talking whenever he felt like it.

  “You’re offering to pay the entire sum?” he asked after a time.

  “That’s what I said, dammit!”

  More tapping.

  “The charge will be nearly two million Hegemony credits. That’s just an estimate, mind you. The real rate could rise depending on a wide variety of circumstances.”

  That made me gulp. I didn’t have that much.

  “That’s more than my family paid for all five of my years in high school!” I complained.

  “Considerably more, I imagine. The trouble is that once you go outside the boundaries of your subsidized Hegemony Care package, you run into commercial pricing—which is significantly inflated.”

  “All right,” I said, closing my eyes and rubbing my face. “I don’t care, I can get a few extra credits with loans—that’d be okay with you assholes, wouldn’t it?”

  “Of course it would, sir,” he said brightly. “In fact, we’re offering a special this month on long-term payment plans.”

  “Right… Let’s do it.”

  The line went quiet again, and after a while he began to read some kind of speech to me.

  “The Hegemony Care Act of 2121 requires me to inform you of certain realities,” he began. “Sometimes, when people are in this unfortunate situation, they make emotional decisions they regret later. In short, our data core AI is advising against your actions today.”

  I frowned. “What’s that mean?”

  “Well sir…” he said hesitantly. “I’m obliged to inform you that your mother’s life expectancy isn’t guaranteed to improve in this case, even if the procedure is successful.”

  “I understand all that, but I’m authorizing the payment on the chance that it will.”

  “Very well, then! You’ve been informed of the situation, and you’ve waived your rights. We’re all set. Report for processing at your nearest Hegemony Wellness Center within twenty-four hours of this call’s termination. Failure to do so will result in a recalculation of the prices currently listed on your tapper.”

  “Report for processing?” I asked. “You mean me or my mom?”

  “You, of course. You’re the one taking on the financial burden. We can’t perform this transaction online. You’ll have to go down to the Wellness Center and present your case in person.”

  My frown had been returning, and now it grew even deeper. I’d just begun to believe this part of the nightmare was over, but something in what he’d so offhandedly said had set off an alarm inside my thick skull.

  “What’re you talking about now? Make what case?”

  “The case for this scheduling change, obviously. You have to understand your payment terms aren’t the only consideration involved. Other citizens of greater stature are already in the priority queue.”

  “So what?” I demanded, unable to keep my cool any longer. My voice had finally risen into a shout. “If my mom had a full-share account she’d be getting the treatment right now!”

  “That’s not what I’m talking about, sir. There are only so many of these procedures to go around. The total number has been allotted for this year. To put your mother onto the list, someone else will have to be removed. That decision has to be made by the panel governing the Hegemony-Care Wellness Center.”

  My eyes were squinched closed by this time. He was telling me that I was offering up two million credits as a bribe to the government, and if they decided to take it, my mom would live because they’d let someone else’s mom die.

  How had Hegemony Care turned into this? Such grim life or death choices, endless government regulations and accountancy… I felt sick in my guts.

  The fight went out of me as I thought about the reality of pushing some other non-essential citizen over the cliff in favor of my mom.

  “Sir?” asked the prim man on the other end of the line. “Is there anything else?”

  “Yeah,” I said. “Cancel the whole damned thing.”

  He began talking again, but I hung up.

  I was just going to have to find another way.

  -3-

  That evening, I tucked Etta into her bed with some old story about a boy magician and waited until my parents were asleep. Then I walked down our country lane toward Waycross. It was only a few miles, and the humid air did me good.

  The fireflies were out in force as it was dusk in early June. They glowed and dimmed rhythmically in the woods beside the puff-crete strip of road just like they’d done for a thousand years or more.

  Walking in the cool darkness helped me think. A bit of solitude, and some country quiet—it was good for the soul.

  My destination was a local bar with a single pool table and a regular crowd of perhaps ten. I knew them all pretty well, even though I only ventured into town once every week or two. I needed some beer, and I didn’t want to drink alone tonight.

  My little communion with nature didn’t last long. I’d only made it a mile or so down the road toward town when a car appeared behind me.

  I tensed up, because the approach wasn’t a normal one. The local folk out here drove cheap, rattling trams with old-fashioned tires. Hovering models and outright air cars were quite rare
.

  This vehicle was too damned quiet. Trams whirred and chugged. This thing, whatever it was, glided over the puff-crete like a ghost.

  On impulse, I stuck out my thumb and walked backwards, waving for the driver’s attention as the vehicle approached.

  This gave me two advantages: One, if the car turned out to be trouble, I would at least be facing in the right direction when it reached me. Two, if they were friendly, they might give me a first-class ride.

  The vehicle slowed, and I forced a grin. The headlights played over me, blinding me. Were they checking me out, or sizing me up? I couldn’t be sure, so I kept grinning like a fool.

  “Get in the car, McGill,” a voice called out.

  A head on a scrawny neck had poked out the window. I was greatly disappointed as I recognized the snotty voice that was speaking.

  It was none other than Primus Winslade.

  I lowered my hand and retracted my thumb. Walking up to the hatch, I looked him over. He sneered back.

  Winslade was a ferret of a man. He was Imperator Turov’s butt-boy, and he seemed to enjoy the role.

  “I was hoping it was Galina herself,” I said.

  “Do not call her that, Adjunct.”

  It bugged Winslade that I’d managed to be intimate with Turov on any number of occasions, certainly more often than he had despite the fact he’d followed her around like a puppy most of his adult life.

  “I don’t accept rides from strangers,” I said, and I turned around and kept walking.

  Winslade rolled after me, his engine revving in annoyance.

  “Get in this car, that’s an order!” he shouted.

  “I’m a Legionnaire on furlough, not a hog,” I told him. “Unless you’re activating me and willing to pay, that is.”

  Legionnaires worked differently than the regular Hegemony military. While we were on active duty, we were paid handsomely. That was only right, as we tended to get killed a lot. But when we were languishing between contracts on Earth, we were paid a rather thin wage. In order to make me follow orders like a soldier, a hog had to, in effect, activate my contract.

  I was a bit surprised that Winslade didn’t fume at me. He chuckled knowingly instead.

  “Having some money troubles then, are we?” he asked. “Perhaps I can help with that.”

  Just about anyone who’s known me for long will tell you I’m slow on the uptake at times. Don’t get me wrong, in combat I have fine reflexes. But when an unexpected social situation arose, I just seemed to have trouble figuring out what was happening right off.

  But my mind went “click” when Winslade let out that sly chuckle of his.

  The whole situation seemed fishy. Not six hours after I’d found out about my mom’s condition, Winslade had arrived and tracked me down. I needed money for my mom, and he just happened to show up in my neck of the woods and mention money in a snide way.

  Now, all that could be nine kinds of coincidence—but unfortunately, I don’t believe in coincidences.

  I stopped walking and turned around toward Winslade, whose face was lit up by the green instruments inside his cockpit.

  My grin expanded on my face, and I gave him a thoughtful nod.

  “I’ll take that ride after all, Primus.”

  His ferret-like eyes narrowed for a second. Maybe, just maybe, he could sense the change in my thinking. Before, my grin had been friendly and unassuming. Now, however, it had taken on a predatory cast.

  The difference was subtle, but it was undeniable all the same.

  -4-

  The hatch on Winslade’s vehicle popped open, and I climbed inside. He gripped the wheel, and the air car suddenly vaulted into the sky with a stomach-lurching thrum of sheer power.

  “This is Turov’s baby, isn’t it?” I asked.

  “You should know it rather intimately.”

  He was right, of course. I’d taken liberties on a few occasions with Galina right here on these supple, tank-grown leather seats. In fact, the interior of the vehicle had me remembering sweet visions of revelry. I sure was wishing she’d been the one to come out and pick me up instead of sending her repulsive minion.

  “Ah, come on,” I told him. “Don’t be sour about another man’s conquests. After all, I happen to know you nailed her yourself, in that very driver’s seat.”

  He looked startled. “What are you talking about?” he snapped.

  “Don’t you remember? She told me all about it one time when we were having an afterglow drink together. The story was so vivid, it’s almost like I was there myself, peeping from the backseat.”

  Winslade’s face pinched up into a sour expression. “You’re mistaken, McGill. You’re drunk, aren’t you?”

  “What? Not a drop, I swear—but wait, you’re right. It wasn’t you Galina was talking about. It was another fella—sorry.”

  Winslade was positively pissed off now. That had been the goal of my bullshit story, after all.

  “You must stop calling her Galina, or I’ll drop you out of this air car from a mile up.”

  I gave him a booming laugh. It made him cringe a little.

  “I’d like to see you try to shove me out the hatch. Where the hell are we going, anyway?”

  “Nowhere. I came down to talk—in private. The car has been outfitted with a signal blocker.”

  I glanced at my tapper, and I saw he was right. It was blinking, and there was no repeater available for it to connect with.

  “So, talk,” I said.

  “Here’s the deal,” he began. “Drusus will summon you shortly to Central. You will go there, as you must. But you will refuse the mission he has for you. Under no circumstances will you accept his offer for a special operation.”

  “Why not?” I asked. “I need money—as you seem to know.”

  “Yes, and you will be taken care of. You’ll have all the money you need and then some. You’ll be able to pay for your mother’s treatment and buy a car like this one with what’s left over, if you want to.”

  I knew what was up at that point. He’d flat out admitted he knew about my sick momma before I’d told him a thing.

  Winslade had made a crucial error. When a man got between me and my fortune or my girl, that was one thing. But to set up a situation where he could determine whether my own momma lived or died? Well sir, that was a bridge too far in my book.

  “Well?” Winslade demanded. “What do you say? Have my words penetrated that Cro-Magnon skull of yours, or should I repeat them more slowly?”

  He glanced over at me when I still didn’t answer. He read my expression, and he knew he was in trouble.

  It’s my eyes. People tell me that sometimes I have the eyes of the dead. It’s a legionnaire thing. The look of a primitive animal ready to commit murder. That look comes over a legion man when he’s beyond angry. It usually appeared in the middle of deadly action, and it signified there were no longer any higher-level brain functions to get between a man and his hands. That way there was nothing to slow a man down when it was go-time.

  Winslade managed to tighten his grip on the steering wheel and spin it over hard to the left. We went into a spiraling dive. Warning lights flashed and alarms beeped all over the cab.

  My big hands caught him by the throat, despite the fact he managed to bite my left thumb. Soon, that same thumb was plunged two inches deep into the flesh of his throat.

  He didn’t even have time to suffocate. I’d wrecked his larynx and broken up the cartilage of his windpipe, but strangulation takes too long in my book. I closed off his carotids and the blood stopped pumping to his brain.

  Seconds later, he was out. Unfortunately, we were too damned close to the ground by then.

  On impulse, I reached out and killed the car’s engine. Some flashers were still going off irritatingly, but I ignored all that.

  It was too dark to see the trees below as they rushed up to meet us, but I could smell the pines when I popped open the cupola by tugging on the emergency loops.

 
We were still falling, spinning, and the night sky outside was full of cold, glittering stars. In the distance, I thought I could pick out the glow of Atlanta’s streetlights on the horizon.

  Damn, it was as fine a night to die as I’d ever seen. It was pretty country, and my only regret I could later recall was that my drastic action might start a forest fire. I hoped the recent rains would prevent the trees from lighting up.

  There was no point in even trying to survive the crash, so I unbuckled my belt and enjoyed the ride to the finish. I might even have whooped and hollered as we slammed down in a fiery mess somewhere in the Blue Ridge Mountains—but I don’t remember that part. I only remember the intention to do some whooping.

  By killing the air car’s power, I’d switched off whatever blocking system the vehicle had used to keep my tapper from connecting earlier. As my last conscious act, I pressed the emergency transmit button on my tapper. That caused a burst of packets to connect to the local network on the ground, and thereby update my mental state in the Data Core up at Central.

  Then, a few seconds later, I was dead once more.

  * * *

  Reviving was nothing new to me. I’d done it more times than I could count.

  I like to think every death I’d suffered had been for a good cause—even if I knew that wasn’t true. My death in the air car crash I would forever account as a good one.

  Consequently, when I came out of the oven—or the flesh-printer, or whatever the hell these alien contraptions really were—I was in an excellent mood.

  Those that were assembled to witness my rebirth, however, weren’t in such fine spirits.

  “McGill, you fuck!” Turov hissed into my ear. “Play dumb, or I’ll destroy you!”

  I couldn’t see her yet, and that was a damned shame. Galina Turov was a nightmare of a woman. She was about twenty years old physically, but at least twice that in the mind. She’d been revived young, and she’d liked it and kept the look. The result was kind of like having a prom queen with a vicious temper and a conniving attitude ordering people around.

  In short, she was just the kind of woman I found myself spending too much time with as the years went by.