Rix could see the property long before he pulled up to the entrance. The high fencing was covered with lengths of faded red plastic to keep the acres of — stuff — out of sight of the road.
As he slowed to pull into the front gate, he could read the jumbled letters painted onto the plastic of the fencing: Big Fella's Motorcycle Parts.
It looked exactly the same as the last time Rix had visited.
He parked his truck on the dirt lot in front of the ranch-house-style building that served as the parts counter and office. At least, the official one. There was only one other vehicle parked in front, and as Rix looked around the yard, he could see a solitary figure out among the nearly endless rows of ancient motorcycles. People came from around the nation to hunt through these acres of discarded bikes, looking for rare parts and unexpected treasure.
Or, more accurately, very dedicated motorcycles fans came here looking for treasure. Big Fella's lot was remarkably isolated from the wider world. The business did not maintain a web page or social media listing, or even a phone connection. If you wanted old motorcycle parts, you had to travel there and search through the two-wheeled graveyard yourself. Well, you and the rattlesnakes.
Running this salvage yard was Big Fella's day job, although he never called it that. As far as he would admit, it was his primary business, and anything else was simply a "side project." He especially hated it when any of his "side project" customers would jokingly suggest it was a front operation. "My uncle established this yard thirty years ago," he would fume, "and my grandfather established the largest chain of motorcycle dealerships in the history of the state of Texas. Bikes have been the family business for almost a century. Don't tell me my yard ain't a real business."
All of which was true. It was also true that the motorcycle salvage yard had proved to be an excellent cover for his other business, the one that operated in an underground facility below the garage out back.
Rix stepped onto the porch and pulled open the screen door. The hinges and door return spring squealed in protest. He walked through, and the door banged to a close behind him.
The office looked the same as Rix remembered, not that he expected anything to be different. Bent and scratched metal signs advertising long-gone motorcycle products were mounted randomly on the walls between faded posters of old motorcycle races. There was a homemade wooden parts counter bisecting the room, anchored at either end by catalog holders crammed with vintage parts catalogs. It was defiantly old-fashioned, as if computers, not to mention the internet, had never been invented.
Big Fella Jackson was sitting behind the counter in a battered easy chair, feet propped up in front of him on a counter stool. He was engrossed in a motorcycle magazine, eyes down. His graying ponytail spilled down the back of his worn, black leather jacket.
He looked up without moving his head. Then he slowly stood, his six-foot-eleven-inch frame unfolding like some giant human pocketknife.
“Well if it ain’t the shore patrol," he said, staring down at Rix. "Screwed up your DNA yet?”
"No, but my third testicle sometimes aches."
"Haw. You always looked like the type who needed more than two. But I'm not buying it."
"Well, nuts to that. How's business?"
Big Fella raised an eyebrow. "Which one?"
"I think you know."
"Yeah, I don't guess you're here for 'cycle parts."
Big Fella turned around and gave a sort of shrug for Rix to follow. Rix went around the counter and followed Big Fella through a door at the back that led to a covered breezeway between the front office and the garage. There were two doors on this wall of the garage, and Big Fella angled toward the heavy steel door to the right. He pulled out a distinctive key, an unusual combination of metal and plastic, and placed it in a lock mounted higher on the door than the typical keyed lock. He held it still in the lock for several seconds, until the muffled sound of gears and sliding bars buried in the door finally ceased. Then he slowly pushed the heavy door open and led Rix down the concrete stairs.
As Rix followed behind he was quietly impressed with how smooth and natural Big Fella's movements were. You'd never guess he was wearing a state-of-the-art powered exoskeleton under all that leather. And the average person probably wouldn't have noticed his bionic hand right away, either. He had clearly installed another upgrade, one that was remarkably lifelike.
It still amazed Rix to see him moving so effortlessly. Big Fella had taken the hit that altered his life forever at the battle for the Strategic Petroleum Reserve. The spinal injury had left him partially paralyzed, as well as costing him the use of his hand.
But the man had connections, one of whom was Rix. The two had met during the quiet meetings between a loose affiliation of mid-level officers and senior non-comms of the U.S. military who were contemplating joining the nascent Texas Republic. Once it had become clear the United States was no longer united and would not hold together for long, an informal network of military personnel began a campaign to "call home the sons of Texas" and any other Americans hoping to join the new Republic. It had been a tense time as everyone grappled with the ramifications of choosing sides in a civil war, but also a time that formed lasting bonds.
Big Fella Jackson's military career path had led him to a post in advanced weapons evaluation. After the Breakup War had ground to a conclusion, with all the old states struggling to build new alliances and establish new nations, Big had used those military connections to acquire an advanced exoskeleton. Even amongst the chaos it was one of the hardest acquisitions Rix had ever helped put together.
The exoskeleton had been developed by a Boston research company, ProtoTech, and Big's was the first pre-production build after the prototype. Fortunately, the Atlantic States of America had been slow in forming its new government, and Big had managed to clandestinely purchase the exoskeleton and have it smuggled across the border before the ASA had clamped down on the export of such advanced technology. It was one of the first laws the new nation had passed.
It was a small miracle Big had been able to acquire it, but the war had so shaken the foundations of the economy that many frightened businesses had liquidated inventory or quietly moved valuable projects to presumed safer locations. Everything had been in flux. And the "XO," as Big called it, was an extraordinary prize. It was the first fully functional exoskeleton that not only boosted normal human strength via amplified electrical impulses to the nerves and muscles, but also could effectively allow a paralyzed human to walk again, thanks to the embedded interface with the human nervous system. The compact fuel cells that powered it were the key elements that made it all possible. They were the latest breakthroughs from the tediously named "silicon reef" of Australia.
Even so, the real reason Big was able to acquire the suit wasn't obvious until it arrived. It was hand-delivered by three of the top ProtoTech researchers, who then promptly asked for asylum. Rix smiled as he remembered that scene; nobody had the slightest clue about the asylum laws of the fledgling Texas Republic.
"Sure dudes, stay as long as you like," he'd said. "It's a free country." And that was pretty much how it had turned out. The three men were still here, and still working on advanced biocybernetics. Except instead of working in ProtoTech's advanced lab, they were working in what Big Fella had labeled the "subterranean beer garden and chop shop." Years ago Big's uncle had excavated the underground area, intending to use it for oil storage tanks for the above-ground garage. The tanks were never installed once Uncle Bradley discovered that the facility was more profitable as a chop shop for stolen cars. It was a very different sort of chop shop now.
Big and his new partners had every intention of putting the XO into production and selling it on the open market. Austin and New San Antonio were becoming hubs of Modification research and development, so the supporting infrastructure was near at hand. But for now they operated quietly, slowly refining and testing it on willing participants, until it was fully ready. So far, they had only
sold a handful of examples to other paralyzed or incapacitated people, and had not made it available to those simply looking for the latest Modification.
There was another reason to keep their efforts quiet: The ASA would never forgive the loss of the technology and the researchers. Rix heard through his network across the border that the ASA Security services felt the same way about the loss of the exoskeleton team as the Soviets felt about losing Germany's rocket scientists to America after World War II. The ProtoTech team reported that in the final days before the first shots of the Breakup War, new government agents had shown up with a pointed interest in the researchers' progress, and stern talk about diverting more resources toward developing a military application for the technology.
Big Fella's bionic hand was no less impressive, although it was easier to acquire — a completely above-board purchase from a Japanese company. But Rix had been in quiet awe of Big Fella's decision to have his crushed hand voluntarily amputated so he could have the bionic hand installed. It too was the most advanced model available, with 28 sensors tied into the nerves.
And so Big Fella Jackson had become the living embodiment of the potential benefits of artificial Modification in humans, but he had never liked the idea. He would never have voluntarily altered his body if not for the injuries he had sustained in the war. Throughout the long months of Big Fella's rehab, Rix had hinted that he knew of several new biological Modifications that could speed along the healing process, most of them mild, like the blood boosts.
Big had shaken his head. "Hardware, man. Leave the bloodware alone. Hardware." And that had been his position ever since.
Now he led Rix down the narrow hallway, which soon opened up into a wider room divided in two by walls that were mostly glass. Behind those walls was the clean room where the ProtoTech crew constructed the newest exoskeleton test units. There was a separate room in the back where the actual installations were done. Two of the men, Jonathan and Young-Soo, looked up from their work and waved as Rix and Big Fella walked past.
The facility required an enormous amount of electricity to operate, and masking the power usage had been the most difficult part of establishing this lair. And hiding such clues was vital, as the ASA security forces would always be looking for leads, regardless of the fact the war was over.
To keep his substantial power usage off-grid, Big Fella had installed solar panels at various spots on the property, the type that didn't jump out on satellite images. He also had a windmill, but one that looked like the type any "off-grid" activist might own. But it was the same Australian fuels cells that powered the XO that had also been the key to providing large amounts of reliable power without drawing noticeably from the local utility.
The subterfuge had worked remarkable well. So far.
Big Fella took Rix through another door into a conference room of sorts, although that description was being generous. The lighting was much less intense, and space was clearly also used for storage. There was a simple wooden table in the middle surrounded by three well-used metal folding chairs. Rix figured this must be the poker room Big had casually mentioned once last year.
Big Fella pulled one of the chairs out from the table, and sat down. Rix noticed this movement was not entirely smooth and natural — the first indicator of the limitations of Big's XO.
"So what's this about? You're not here to sell me male enhancement pills of some sort, I hope. 'Cause I'm large enough already."
"Yeah, that's what all the girls at the Dairy Queen tell me," Rix said, pulling out one of the chairs sitting down. "I'm actually here with a business proposition."
"You know I don't want to be a part of any trafficking in bio-Mods. Can't hardly swing a cat anymore without someone trying to sell you some garage-mixed Brazilian steroids."
"No, this is more of a, well, not exactly a law-enforcement situation. But it involves taking down some very bad people. Beyond that, it's kind of a security gig."
"Security?" Big Fella snorted. "I've got a job. I ain't walking no halls at night in a blue uniform."
"Not that kind of security, Big. We'd be a sort of 'special circumstances' team. And right now the special circumstances are more than a dozen dead bodies and stolen materials for some unusual Modifications."
Big Fella rolled his eyes. "A bodycount over Modifications. Who could have seen that coming?"
"There's more. The kind of people I'm working with could be extremely helpful for your own operation. If you really want to get this exoskeleton out into the wider world, I'm working with some very influential people. Very. Influential. The type who could help shield you when you decide to come out from underground."
Big leaned back in his chair. He fixed a level gaze on Rix. "I'm listening."
Rix started telling the story from the beginning, with the raid on the Open Sky labs, to the Red Men clue, to the apprehension at the gym, and then the counterattack on Angie 6's team followed by his personal meeting with Rohm. It was subtle, but Rix noticed Big's eyes widen slightly as it was revealed that Open Sky was the client.
"I've got KC signed on, and Marie will help as she gets her strength back. I'd like you as part of this team too," Rix said. He leaned in over the table. "These are bloody-minded people, Big, with a long reach, and I don't like them operating so brazenly in Texas and New Mexico. We'd be doing a real service for our country."
Big was silent.
"Oh, and I mentioned 'special circumstances' earlier. Here is another one of the special circumstances," Rix said, as he reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out two rolls of one-ounce coins, each tightly wrapped in a light mesh material. He gently set them down on the table — one roll of platinum and one roll of gold territorial bullion coins.
"These were minted from precious metals extracted from the Open Sky asteroids, Big. And there's lots more if we can do this job. Enough to construct a motorcycle frame out of pure platinum, if you want," Rix said with the barest hint of a smile.
"Damn," Big Fella said quietly. Rix knew that Big didn't have his head turned by money, for the most part, but all of them had suffered from the currency collapse leading to The Breakup, and the subsequent scramble for stable money as the United States dissolved into the new nations and territories scattered across North America. It had been a massive relief when the first silver and gold coins had been minted by a Texas Republic that had finally accepted that no one would trust paper money again for a long time.
The payment Open Sky was offering was powerful. Rix knew that the kind of money being discussed would allow the XO team to finance their next-stage scale-up costs without having to shake the bushes for outside investors, and thereby running the risk of attracting ASA operatives. And having Open Sky as a potential benefactor or research partner was a huge inducement.
Rix knew he had played his best card. He waited patiently while Big thought the matter over.
"Ok, I'll play. But I still won't wear a blue uniform."
"Deal," Rix said.
10
It was the scales that bothered Vinicius Cunha.
He had refused to call them scales, of course. And definitely so had everyone else in his employ. Anyway, the condition didn't really look like scales, not like on a lizard or a snake.
But he did now have patterned, lumpy skin that felt callused to his touch. This naturally bothered him. This was the first Modification that affected his physical appearance in a negative way. He could not deny his vanity — he had spent his youth strutting on the beaches of Fortaleza, after all — but still liked to think himself the master of such emotions, not the slave.
He tried to return himself to a positive mindset. If my appearance is now more fearsome, this is not a bad thing…
What was remarkable to him was how quickly it had all happened. It had taken barely 72 hours for the Open Sky drug to produce this condition. Vinicius had always known there might be unexpected side effects. That was the risk with every Modification. And the Open Sky researcher who had acciden
tally discovered the link between the Brazilian B3 steroids and Open Sky's radiation shielding treatment had not really had time to explore all the possibilities. As soon as the fool stumbled upon the unexpected properties of the combination he had immediately tried to shop it to every vendor of Modifications he could find. As the man had quickly discovered, there was really only one significant global vendor of human Modifications. And Vinicius set the terms for the deal.
The idiot had been in such a hurry to cash in. Naturally, once he had sold the information to Vinicius, he had gotten careless in his haste to start living a life of wealth and power. Making crude advances on that female co-worker right before he was supposed to deliver the key components had been unforgivable. He had forced Vinicius to conduct a raid upon the headquarters of one of the most powerful corporations on earth in order to get this extraordinary Modification.
Well, he'll hurry no more.
As he sat in the office of his estate, behind the large desk made of Brazilian Rosewood, Vinicius reflected on the risks he had taken lately. Money makes people careless, he sighed to himself. They all believe that I am getting careless. But there comes a point in any enterprise where one must take risks to achieve greatness. And I am not in a business of timid people.
He had heard the whispers and seen the looks, especially recently. As he had moved to establish his dominance, many people in his orbit apparently viewed him as some sort of maniac.
In Vinicius' mind, however, he had actually built his empire slowly and methodically, simply walking through doors that had opened before him. He'd started with a single blood farm, keeping a mere dozen Tapirapé Indios captive, chained to cots, supplying the plasma he could sell to the blood manufacturers during the first wave of mass market boost packs. Along with the new generation of steroids, the blood boost breakthrough had also occurred in Brazil, leaving him well positioned to become an exclusive supplier of biological raw materials. Within weeks he had established four more blood farms, and had shifted all his efforts and resources over to the growing market for bio-engineered Modifications.
Connor Rix Chronicles 1: Rules of Force Page 8