She eased the door open, still crouched low, and softly stepped inside.
Three women slept on the floor, human detritus left in the wake of last night’s conquest. Two more spooned in the king-sized bed beside Jubber. The white stylings of the room gave the murky gray of the stormy afternoon enough ambient light to see by, and she could make out the still forms cleanly enough, along with the scores of empty liquor bottles and the packets of designer drugs.
Jubber slept on the far side, facing the windows. Rain drummed a steady beat against the glass, white caps from the Atlantic storming the beachhead and dissolving into spray.
She took her time approaching him, keeping herself low, her breathing soft and steady. The smart rifle was strapped across her back, her invisible blade in hand.
Jubber’s eyes snapped open, grabbing her wrist and pushing her backward as he flung himself out of bed. His eyes were dulled with sleep, but wide with shock. She realized in an instant that he was moving purely on reflex. Whatever edge of warrior training he’d once had had not been dulled with the pathetic, self-absorbed opulence of his life as the head of a poaching syndicate.
His movements were precise and trim, economical. As he pushed up from the bed, his hand darted beneath his pillow, finding a pistol and bringing it to bear.
Akagi brought her arm up between them before he could press the large bore muzzle into her face, blocking him with a forearm just as he pulled the trigger. The explosion deafened her and she felt the warm trickle of blood from her ear canal pooling against the inside of the chameleonic fabric. Dazed by the concussive blast, Jubber had enough time to slam a knee into her belly, knocking the wind from her lungs.
She fell back, and he was on her, landing a flurry of blows to her face, hammering her with the butt of his pistol. A large, meaty hand pawed at her face, tearing at the chameleon mask. He laughed at her, grabbing a fistful of her hair in one hand while punching with the other. Through the force of the blows and the piston-like repetition of his attack, her numb mind mentally cataloged the fact that he’d gotten synth muscle upgrades at some point. Not a part of the public record, nothing she’d been able to find in all her research on him.
Blood and snot welled in her throat from a broken nose, and she felt a cheekbone fracture before the physical status app notified her of the incurred damage.
She fought through the pain to not panic, enough to realize she still held the knife in her hand. The world was slowly coming back to her, even as the assault continued.
Jubber was intent on beating her to death.
The women were screaming, but she could still hear his laughter. She noticed a buzz of activity as the girls scrambled to gather whatever clothes they could collect off the floor and hustle out of the room.
Her status app warned her that the moisture-collecting inserts in her nasal cavity were busted and that her jaw was fractured. Two teeth missing. Blood thick on her tongue. She waited, waited for just the right moment.
Waited for the blow to land, waited for his arm to retract in perfect motion, for his elbow to touch the sky just so... and then—
She jammed the knife blade up, into his armpit, into the cluster of nerves. He howled in pain, his arm sagging and paralyzed. She twisted the blade, drawing it loose, cutting open his bicep. Then she slashed hard, opening his neck. A bib of blood splashed down on her, and his free hand went to his neck, trying, too late, to staunch the blood loss. Crimson leaked between his fingers, the color draining from his face.
She kicked her way out from under him, pushing him aside. He scrambled on the floor, trying to put distance between them, trying to retreat. Like a wounded animal who had just realized there were other, stronger, better predators in the wild.
He had dropped the gun. She held it, watching him bleed as she swiped blood away from her face. She raised it and fired, finishing him.
* * *
Kari Akagi sat in the crook of a baobab tree, a rifle in her lap, roughly twenty meters above the low-lying plains of the Kruger National Park.
She was clad in chameleonwear, her presence in the park largely unnoticed by the animals and the rangers that had once been her colleagues. If either knew she was out there, it troubled them little. They knew she was there to help, a member of their pack or tribe, even if no longer in any official capacity.
She had returned to the park to heal, both physically and spiritually. She felt at peace, comforted by the gentle giants that grazed below.
There hadn’t been a rhino killing in more than twenty-four hours. A small victory, but nothing to get cocky about. They were still far, far away from any sort of recovery. The animals were drawing closer to extinction every single day. Akagi only hoped to help make those days last, to draw them out as long as possible.
A passing squadron of three rangers earlier in the day had been talking animatedly. Apparently there were reports of more dead poachers turning up. Three in the last two days. Nearly twenty in the last three weeks. She had smiled to herself, hidden away in her tree perch.
She zoomed in on the Olifants, watching two rhinos fording the river. A male and a female, both teenagers. Perhaps they were on a date. Some distance away, she found another female grazing, and a much smaller rhino running around and beneath her. The animal was young, little more than a baby, and full of energy. If his mother could survive, the baby could have a long life ahead of it. If Akagi could do her job well enough, and make her mission succeed.
She lost herself in the tranquility of the moment, riding high on a small measure of bliss. She knew that her days, too, were numbered. There were still plenty of poachers out there, and eventually they would lead her to another link in the long line of syndicates that she would contend with.
First, she had to heal. A bone-deep ache wrapped her skull, the skin still puffy and bruised. The swelling around her eyes had lessened considerably, but her cheeks had a painful, cottony feel, her nose tender and mushy beneath the surface. The nasal implants were an irreparable loss unless she opted to leave the country. But having them fixed or replaced would raise too many questions that she wasn’t prepared to lie in response to; not yet, anyway. Not while there was still work to be done.
She popped a hydrating candy, allowing herself to linger and enjoy the fruity tang. Her eyes returned to the mother and her baby, rolling in the dirt and sending up a cloud of dust. For the first time in a long while, she allowed herself a glimmer of a smile. And then, she prepared herself for the hunt.
A Word from Michael Patrick Hicks
The impetus behind “Preservation” came from several different sources, primarily my own fascination and affection for gentle giants like the rhinoceros. Over the last year or so, I’ve been loosely following the online accounts VETPAW, Veterans Empowered to Protect African Wildlife, which employs military veterans to help train and support Africa’s anti-poaching rangers. Poaching, unfortunately, is big business, with the black market price of rhino horns exceeding the value of gold and even cocaine. As a result of these killing sprees by poaching syndicates, a research paper published in the March 2013 volume of the journal Science estimates that Africa’s remaining rhino population will be extinct within 20 years.
I can’t help but think that this is a real shame for the world, and that it’s a story that needs to be told. Ideas began percolating sometime back, but I wasn’t quite sure how to tell this story initially. When Samuel Peralta invited me to contribute to this collection of cyborg-themed stories, I felt that this story of rangers versus poachers was an element ripe for exploration within this technological realm.
We’re inching ever closer to making cyborgs a reality. The cybernetic augmentations that helped inform Kari Akagi are based on sound scientific principles that become more and more true in an applied sense every day. DARPA has long been at work developing mind-controlled prosthetics for wounded veterans. Even Akagi’s hydration implants and hydrating candies are rooted in conceptual reality, and are based off a hydrolemic system propo
sed by the Japanese design studio Takram. The DRMR technology that allows her to relive the memories of a captured poacher also takes its cue from DARPA research focused on the brain and the REMIND project.
The big question of any cyborg story is how much of the body we can replace with mechanical parts and still be human. Akagi is very much a cyborg, but she’s also very, very human. She’s flawed and emotional and combative, but she also has a great deal of care for the animals she has charged herself with protecting. She sees a problem and does her best to try and resolve it. Under all the technological artifice, there beats a very human heart, guided by a very human conscious and a particular skill set.
Although this short story, “Preservation”, is strictly a stand-alone tale, I write more about the DRMR technology in my novels Convergence and Emergence. If you’re interested in learning more about these works, as well as forthcoming titles, you can subscribe to my newsletter (http://eepurl.com/5M4z1) and visit my website at http://michaelpatrickhicks.com. There, you’ll find links to my social media platforms where you can connect and drop me a line. I’d love to hear from you, and thank you very much for reading.
Charm Bracelet
by A.K. Meek
TRUST ME WHEN I SAY THIS, the first time you die is horrible.
It’s everything you expect it to be, and worse, no matter whether it’s quick or slow. But the pain isn’t the worst part. You’d think it is, but it isn’t.
What’s the worst is the knowledge as you’re giving up your last breath. That the world will continue on. I know it sounds weird, but that’s the way it is.
At least for me.
The memories you think are forever you leave behind. And after your first death, when you realize what’s happened, you know what you once were you’ll never be again.
* * *
I’m greeted with pain. And brightness. My whole body feels as if it’s on fire.
I scream, and the pain ends instantaneously, fading into dulled drum-throbs at my temple as a comforting numbness trickles through my veins.
Now my eyes can focus.
My naked body has been strapped to a medical table in something like a surgical room. A disgusting type of gel covers my hairless body.
A metal corset has been wrapped tightly around my torso. Almost like it’s a part of me. Clear tubes run from the corset to at least four medical machines surrounding the table, red and blue flowing from my body to the machines and back into me. More intravenous tubes run from my arms, legs, and other less mentionable places in my body.
I sense the presence of someone.
A tall black man steps into view, nods his head, and smiles. The smile seems too big to be real. He’s wearing blood-red scrubs.
What a horrible color for a hospital.
“Do you know where you are?” he says in a voice that sounds like it’s more used to yelling, like he’s struggling to make himself sound pleasant.
It doesn’t work.
I can’t answer, so I shake my head.
He nods like that’s what he’d expected me to do. “Do you know your name? How you got here?”
I still don’t answer, just stare dumbly. My mouth might even be gaping.
He continues nodding and the corners of his lips curl, like the Grinch’s.
Shoes click against linoleum as someone else enters the room.
I smell her before I see her.
A woman moves into view. She pivots one of the monitor displays next to the table and studies it, biting her lower lip. Her brown hair rests on her shoulders, and she’s pretty, but not as pretty as—well, I don’t know who.
“How does this one look?” she says, enthralled with the monitor’s display of scrolling lines.
“Good. Very good,” the fake-smiling man says. “I think Rey outdid himself this time. A fine acquisition.”
“Memory?” she says as she finally looks to me. And maybe it’s me, but I think I detect a slight smile, a genuine smile.
“Neuro tests show complete mental functionality,” the man says, “except for memory. And fear. All as expected.” There’s a pause. “He wants to see him.”
“Rey? Why?” Her voice rises. “His $20,000 bonus isn’t enough?”
“It won’t hurt. Just for a minute. He’s brought us more than anyone else, by far.”
The woman doesn’t say anything else, just nods. She obviously doesn’t want Rey in here, whoever Rey is.
The man waves, motioning to someone I can’t see. A door from behind creaks open and I sense another someone approach to stand over my head.
It’s all disturbingly familiar.
“You’ve only got a minute,” she says to the mysterious Rey. “We’re not running a carnival sideshow.” She turns and steps away from him.
“This is him, huh?” an accented voice says. I know it, but don’t know why.
“Yes, Reynaldo,” the man says. “Our best one yet. A few more of these and we’ll be set for a while.”
Reynaldo moves into my field of vision. He’s a tall and wide Mexican, wearing a red and blue Dynamo EMT uniform. He stands with hands on his hips, looking over my body. “If I get a few more bonuses like this, I’ll be set for a long time.”
He rubs my bald head with beefy fingers and laughs, giving me a sly wink.
Something in my mind jogs free, but just as quickly, it’s gone.
Another week of medical checks, vitamin supplements, and pain killers. The tubes are removed and I come off the table.
No one explains what they do or what they’ve done or why they’re doing it. They just do it like it’s the most natural thing and they don’t need to explain anything to me.
The whole time my mind strains to remember who I was.
The one thing I do know is I’ve become Dynamo’s property, and they’ve turned me into a cyborg.
On one particularly cold afternoon, during one of my psych evals, I decide to find out about myself and my new reality. Up until this time I’ve been completely compliant, doing what I’m told, like a good little cyborg.
Dr. Mills sits in a dingy white chair next to my bed in the hospital room. My legs dangle over the edge and one slipper has fallen off onto the floor. The other dangles precariously from my toes.
“What did they do to me?” I ask out of the blue.
She stops typing on her virtua-tablet and studies me for what seems forever. Finally, her face lightens like she’s thought of something spectacular to say in response. “Well, we rescued you, brought you back to life. We gave you another chance.” She smiles at her answer.
I tap the metal surrounding my torso, the metal that has become a part of me. “What about this?”
“Well,” she says, shifting in her chair and clearing her throat, “your midsection was damaged quite extensively. Crushed, from what I heard. We repaired what we could, replaced what we couldn’t. You should feel proud. You’re one of only a few that can claim to be a Dynamo Cyborg.”
“I don’t feel proud.”
She stands and sets aside her tablet. “Elijah, let’s go for a walk. I’ve got exciting news for you.”
I hop off the bed and slide my foot into the slipper, then follow her out into the hall.
Like a typical hospital, ambient noise and rushing nurses and beeping machinery greet me.
“You’ve heard of Dynamo’s cyborg program, right?” she says. “You’ve seen the commercials?”
“Of course.”
“And you know why we exist?”
“For war, according to your commercials.”
“More or less,” she says as she turns a corner.
Most of the techs, the ones that haven’t already seen me, stop and stare, whispering to each other, pointing. One raises her camera and it flashes. Mills slows enough to give a stare that could kill. The girl fades into the group of onlookers.
We continue on.
“We have battles to fight. The government has given Dynamo Robotics an incredible responsibility. It’s people
like you that help us continue the fight.”
“You mean cyborgs.”
“Yes. Battles are costly. There isn’t an endless supply of bodies to support our program. We need volunteers.”
“Good luck getting people to willingly turn into cyborgs for the meat-grinder.”
She gives a slight huff. “We think our marketing program is good, but it can always be better.” She stops walking and looks deep in my eyes. “Elijah, you’d be a perfect spokesman for our program. Your injuries aren’t too expansive. For the most part, you look human. But you’re not anymore. You’re a cyborg. But you have a look people can relate to. You can bridge a gap others can’t.”
I shake my head. It all still seems so rapid, so rushed. I’m still trying to remember my life before this unfortunate event, still trying to figure out this whole cyborg thing. I don’t even know if I’ll rust if caught in the rain. “I’m not sure,” I say.
“Think about it,” she says, smiling and walking. “I think you’ll come around.”
If they want me to do this, then they need to give me something. I decide to test her sincerity. “Doc, did I have any family?” I ask, not sure if I did or not. I just want to see her reaction.
She thinks again for a few moments. “No. Sadly, you were alone.”
She’s a terrible liar.
“Never married,” she continues. “Both parents died in a house fire. All really sad.”
We walk to the end of the hall, which terminates at a set of elevators. One set of doors are partly opened, tape blocking it off and a sign stating it as ‘Out of Order.’ Beyond the doors, an empty elevator shaft looms.
“Would you like to go outside? Get some fresh air,” Mills asks. “Maybe we can talk more about you as a spokesman.”
The Cyborg Chronicles (The Future Chronicles) Page 33