“Beautiful,” he said to himself. The information pathways lit up before his eyes, clean and secure. “Just beautiful.” Through his E-Thing, he synched his optics to the new network.
He looked up, blinking, refocusing on his surroundings, and realized that thirty minutes had passed. He powered down the E-Thing. It was time to get cleaned up and get on the road.
****
Six hours later Rix pulled up to a curb alongside a warehouse in Fort Worth. It was still too early to start his surveillance, but this district had been developing rapidly since his last visit, and he wanted to scout the area before nightfall.
The warehouse itself was as nondescript as any, but he knew that the activities inside were far more outlandish. The warehouse was used as a training facility for traditional boxing, extreme fighting, and pro wrestling.
And recently, he knew, it had also served as a home for a new league that had formed, the Modified Fighting Organization. It was patterned after other mixed martial arts fighting organizations, and pitted Modified fighters against each other. It had heavy support from gambling interests. The fighters called themselves MoFos for short, naturally.
Rix, through the informal network he maintained to keep track of potentially dangerous MIs, had been tipped off a few months ago that Joey Pegg, one of the thirty-four known Fightin' Mad red men, had been recruited by MFO.
Made perfect sense. When your entire covering of skin is a bright shade of red, you aren't landing a job as VP at the local bank.
Rix had examined the Open Sky surveillance video enough to know that Joey Pegg wasn't the red man in the raid. But the Fightin' Mads had become a tight group over the past couple of years, trading information, testing abilities against each other. He would know who the other guy was. If Rix could get him to talk, that is.
He started his truck and pulled away from the curb. He slowly circled the block, and then turned out on the boulevard that led to the highway.
He needed to drop in on a friend before he mingled with the MoFos.
He drove south, a few minutes later taking an exit ramp that led to an older neighborhood, an established area attempting to make peace with a new community college campus. Many of the traditional businesses catering to an older clientele had given way to small independent restaurants, organic food shops, and a collection of bars and pubs — including the Night Owl Pub, KC's place.
KC. When Rix had been in the Navy she had held a similar position to his, a counterpart in the Air Force. They had worked together a couple of times on cross-service operations, bringing in AWOL Modified servicemen, and tracking down suppliers of illicit Modifications. And then he had sought her out when the Breakup War forced all members of the U.S. military to choose sides. It was during the chaos and trauma of that conflict that they had truly forged their bond.
She had a new life now, but was still deep in the Modified subculture. As Rix well knew, it was hard to stay away once you got a taste of what was possible. She regularly worked out with other MIs, and was tightly plugged in with the local Modified subculture. Rix and KC occasionally traded information and compared notes from New San Antonio and the Dallas/Ft. Worth Metroplex.
These days, she also seemed to hold down about six different jobs, including owning and running the Night Owl Pub. Since the Breakup, you took every work opportunity you could find, of course.
As was usual among secretive MIs, Rix had no clear idea of the nature of KC's Modifications, except for one. She had undergone one of the riskiest treatments to surface in recent years — the "short sleeper" modification. It had long been known that a very small number of people needed only four or five hours of sleep a night, and seemed to function normally, if frenetically. The condition had been tied to a genetic mutation, which had been isolated a few years back. Recently, a gene-targeting Modification had been developed that could replicate the characteristic in anyone.
As soon as the treatment had been announced, KC had contacted Rix seeking his opinion. She was very excited by it, surprising Rix with her enthusiasm. "Not enough hours in the day, Rix. Havta claw some of 'em back from the night," she said. She had been one of the first to undergo the treatment.
It was a Modification Rix didn't fully trust. So many new Modification procedures involved long sleep sessions for weeks afterward, while the body accepted the new alterations. He also couldn't imagine not sleeping in late on a Sunday morning, next to Marie, waking up at a leisurely pace.
He pulled into the parking lot and found a shady space under a tree. The Night Owl Pub had been described as "ramshackle," but Rix recognized it as more of a traditional Texas beer hall — corrugated metal, faded wood, beer garden in back. A comfortable place to hang out.
He walked in and scanned the room, noticing that most of the women were crowded around the bar. There was no mistaking KC. Short brown hair. Firm build. She moved with an easy assurance, deliberate, graceful. Powerful. Even a person who had never met her would know she was the boss.
She was standing in the middle of a circle of her young employees, apparently holding a brief meeting. Good-looking bunch, Rix observed, including one of those animal kids. This one had the tiger tattoos and feline optical lenses, although not the facial implants. Modifications for animal appearance had gained popularity among twenty-somethings in the past year, but not everyone could muster up the guts to take the final plunge for the reconstructive surgery. Once you had your face rebuilt to adopt features of your favorite animal, there was no going back.
Rix continued toward the bar, finally catching KC's eye. She smiled briefly and motioned him toward the back.
The Pub had roll-up garage doors leading to the beer garden. He walked through the doors and across the shallow pea gravel to a table under a large oak with low-hanging branches. He sat down and pulled out one of his silver dollars, turning it over between his thumb and fingers. He brushed some leaves off the table. The wooden tabletop surface was knobby from all the names carved into it over the years.
After several minutes KC walked outside and joined him.
"Dude. You look good, flashing all that silver. I think marriage agrees with you."
"If she ever says yes, I'll let you know. And you look pretty good too, for someone who doesn't sleep anymore."
She shrugged. "I sleep from midnight to four, then get up and fulfill orders for my online business. You know, the workout gear."
"Sounds productive."
"Plus I need the extra hours for the men in my life." She gave him a smile that was pure predator.
"No doubt they need extra sleep, not less."
"You have no idea." She motioned for one of her waitresses to come over.
"Hungry?"
"Starving."
He ordered a hot sandwich and a pale ale from one of the Austin breweries. KC got up from the other side of the table, walked around and sat next to him.
She gave him a teasing little pout. "I'll bet you didn't come up here to see me at all. I'll bet you're just here for some gossip."
"You know how it is, Kase. A man's gotta earn a living."
"You gonna let me in on it?"
"It's not that big a job right now. Short-time work. But it's a good connection. If I can wrap this up neatly, there might be a lot of work for all of us down the line."
"All of us? Big Fella too?" She smiled as she said it.
"Especially Big Fella. If I can talk him into it, that is."
"So what's up?"
"It's the Fightin' Mads. I need to see them. Is Joey Pegg still hanging out with the MoFos?"
"Joey? Is he in trouble?"
"Not him, but maybe some of his friends."
"Yeah, he's still there. But Rix — there are three of them there now."
"Three Fightin' Mads?"
She nodded.
"I need to get into that warehouse gym they use. I need to see who else is there. But I hear they're pretty touchy about who they let in. Any ideas?"
"Hang on a second." She
got up from the table and walked back into the bar. Rix noticed that a few of the conversations in the beer garden trailed off as men watched her pass by. She was easy on the eyes, no doubt about it, Rix reflected.
She came back out and walked purposefully to the table. She reached out to give him something. "Here. Take this."
He looked in his hand. A business card, bent at the corners. It had a name he didn't recognize on it and a web address, that was it.
"Show them this when you go to the warehouse gym. It should get you through the door. He's not with the MoFos, he's more on the extreme mixed martial arts side, but he's respected there. I helped him out with an, er, troublesome fighter last year, and he's been trying to employ me ever since. He also asked me to help recruit candidates, so this is legit. Sort of."
He looked up at her. "KC, for a bar owner, you sure are pretty good at the art of snooping."
"Just don't forget me when this extra work comes around. I have a lot of hours to fill, you know. A lot. Now sit and eat your sandwich and tell me all about this girl who won't marry you yet."
****
Rix was back at the warehouse shortly after dark. He parked his truck around the corner, grabbed his battered gym bag and walked to the small, unassuming door on the side of the building. A solitary light cast a yellowish glow on the metal door.
He pulled on the door handle but it was locked from the inside, as he expected. He knocked once, then a second time more loudly.
An enormous man opened the door. At least six-six, black skin, impossibly muscled. Third-generation Brazilian steroid, Rix quickly surmised. His experiences had told him you just couldn't get that big on anything less. Ever since the second-generation Brazilian steroids had been proven to deliver muscle mass without the inconvenience of heart deterioration and the indignity of shrunken testicles, their consumption had become much more common. The third-gen 'roids were even better, although they were much harder to get. The Brazilian government had quietly limited the manufacture of the "B3s," but there was also some other bottleneck in the supply. Nobody Rix had spoken with was very clear on the source.
Rix blinked his optics to life.
"Yes?" the big man said, looking down on him.
"I'm here trying to pick up some sparring work. They tell me this is the place to come."
"You look kind of small," he said, eying him up and down. "What's your stats?"
"Six-two, two-twenty."
"You Modified?"
"Yeah, I'm rigged."
"So why do you want to come get beat on? Gets pretty rough inside. Seems like a tough way to make a little coin, having some supermen pound on you all night. Tell me honest"
Rix shrugged. "I wanna see if I can get the MoFos interested in me. I'd like to get picked up by the league. I hear the money's good."
"The money's not better than going to sleep in your own bed tonight, and not in some hospital ward."
Rix pulled out the business car KC had given him and passed it to the larger man. "He's the one who told me I should look for work here. He saw some potential in me."
The man eyed the card briefly, then handed it back to Rix. "Alright. Come in and see if anyone will pay you for the privilege of knocking the snot outta you." He opened the door. "Look for Shorty. If you get hired, the gym gets 20 percent. This ain't no charity."
Rix walked through. He glanced around to get his bearings. The gym was laid out with free weight stations along one wall, with two rows of fighting rings of various sorts running down the middle. Punching bags, stationary bikes, and a couple of modern weight machines lined the other wall.
It smelled like the embodiment of human sweat, like a hundred other gyms Rix had visited. He immediately felt comfortable, despite knowing that very large men were going to start hitting him soon.
He started walking alongside the rings toward the back wall, where people were gathered. The ropes surrounding the rings appeared to be color-coded, with each color designating the workout space of the various organizations.
Judging by the men sparring in the rings, it looked like the red-roped rings were the MoFos' designated areas.
As he walked past, Rix engaged his optics and stored images of each of the men fighting in the rings. No Fightin' Mads, but plenty of noteworthy Modifieds.
Two men were standing by the wall near the far ring. One was about five-foot-ten, the other nearly seven feet tall.
Rix walked up to the taller man. "You must be Shorty," he said.
The man snorted. He looked down at his smaller companion. "For once, you owe me a silver dollar."
Turning to Rix, he said, "Yeah, I'm Shorty. What's up?"
Rix extended his hand with the business card KC had given him. "Travis Burnet," he said, using identity number four. "My friend said this was the place to go for sparring work and to try out for the Modified Fighting Organization."
The tall man took the card and eyed it. "You're rigged, of course?"
"Of course."
"Alright Mr. Burnet. Let's see what you got. Get into your sweats, tape up and come back to ring number three in fifteen minutes."
"Yes sir," Rix nodded, and headed to the locker room. There was a handful of other fighters already there, most preoccupied with changing into workout gear. They ignored him as he made his way along the row of benches. He walked to one of the end lockers where he could sit on a bench facing the wall, turned away from the others. He quickly removed his optic membranes, storing them in their secure case. They were exceedingly expensive pieces, so the case came with two different tracking devices, vastly improving the odds of recovery should they be stolen.
He finished changing, grabbed the mesh bag that held his sparring gear, placed his duffel bag in a locker and returned to the gym floor. He staked out one of the punching bags and began his warm-up.
A steady procession of fighters climbed in and out of the various rings while Rix went through his exercises. Most of the MoFos and pro wrestlers were obviously bulked up with one of the top three new-gen steroid variants and were ripped like professional body builders. He recognized a couple of them from TV. The mixed martial arts guys were solid but less bulky and much quicker.
Rix found that one of the stationary bikes was the best place to warm up and keep an eye on the most number of fighters. He couldn't remember ever seeing so many Modifieds in one place.
"Ok, Travis, come get bitchslapped." It was Shorty, looming over Rix from his right.
The bitchslap part wasn't just slang. A very large man walked up from behind Shorty. Rix recognized his sparring partner immediately from recent Modified Fighting Organization webcasts. "Bitchslap" Hernandez was a hulking six-foot-five fan favorite, one of the league's highest rated stars. And another B3 user, Rix judged. His biceps were almost comically large, cantaloupes covered in skin. His pecs looked like they were carved from oak.
"You the guy lookin' for a session?"
"Yeah, Bi…, er, man."
"It's Antonio. Call me Tony. C'mon."
They walked over to one of the rings with the red ropes and slipped through. Hernandez walked over to the opposite corner and threw a towel over the top rope. He took a swig from a water bottle and eyed Rix casually.
"So you can take a punch? A real punch? ' Cause havin' to call an ambulance really eats up my workout time."
Rix nodded. "Not to mention mine."
"Cool. Get your gear on."
Rix pulled his headgear and mouthpiece out of his mesh bag and put them on. Then he slipped on his hand pads and cinched them at the wrist. He shadowboxed for a minute to settle in.
"Ready when you are."
They moved to the center of the ring and circled each other slowly. The Modified Fighting Organization rulebook allowed for almost any style of fighting, so bouts were a jumbled combination of boxing, mixed martial arts, and pro wrestling showmanship. Because the fighters were Modified to varying degrees — some extremely so — the combatants wore protective gear during a fight, giving the
bouts the feel of an old-time football post-tackle brawl.
Hernandez went to work on Rix's ribs, throwing combinations, traditional boxing style. Rix absorbed a few blows, as a sparring partner should, but also because he wanted to gauge Hernandez's strength.
The man was strong, no doubt, Rix judged. Hernandez obviously wasn't hitting full strength, but Rix was still glad that he'd had the bone density Modification. Rix shifted back a couple steps, held up his hand pads and let Hernandez pop off a few jabs.
"Good, good," Hernandez said. "Now let's fight like MoFos."
He threw an arcing overhand right to Rix's head, which Rix deliberately let hit him full on. He staggered slightly under the clanging blow. Hernandez then dropped to the canvas and whipped around in a leg sweep. Rix saw it coming and hopped over the man's legs, then dropped down while Hernandez was still on the floor and secured him in a headlock. He only held it for a few seconds, then released and jumped back to his feet.
Hernandez popped back up instantly, and launched a series of blows. He was fast, Rix decided, but not world-class fast. Rix allowed some of the shots to hit him directly, but for most he moved just quickly enough so that the punches only landed as glancing blows. Just to keep him honest, Rix threw a fast jab to the face that Hernandez had no chance of avoiding. He stepped back and blinked.
"Nice moves," Hernandez grunted. He stopped for a moment and pulled out his mouthpiece. "Where'd you learn to fight?"
"Navy," Rix responded. He didn't offer any more information. He didn't want to leave too memorable an impression here.
Hernandez replaced his mouthpiece and moved straight at Rix, throwing jabs and following with uppercuts. He lunged at Rix's midsection in a classic shoulder tackle, taking Rix down to the canvas. Rix rolled with the fall, placing his knee between himself and Hernandez and flipped the larger man over him onto his back. Hernandez immediately jumped to his feet and began an obviously well-practiced series of punches and kicks.
Rix was trying to avoid it, but the increased pace and quantity of punches was steadily moving him into his high-speed response mode. The blood boosts already sharpened response time, but Rix's adrenal Mod, known in the underground as "Fight or Fight," was starting to assert itself. The adrenal Modification allowed great bursts of ferocity and speed. It had come in handy more than once in subduing other MIs. But once his blood was up, it was hard to control. He didn't want to display that kind of ability in this setting.
Connor Rix Chronicles 1: Rules of Force Page 3