The Last Hercules

by Ron Bender

  The room has a slight scent of popcorn as the door opens.

  The tech looks up, nods at me and returns to his work.

  Picasso turns to stare at me as I walk over. He looks angry. But he always looks angry when things don’t work out. “The kid wasn’t there boss.” Straight to it. “And that tin-can looked like he’d run out of power half-way out of the building.”

  “What about you?” I ask him but I’m looking sidelong at the technician. “You good? Is he good?”

  Picasso’s grin is vicious. “As soon as this guy is happy with the numbers, I’m so outta here.”

  He hesitates as he sees my expression. “Or not…. That’s your oh-no-you’re-not face.”

  The tech clears his throat, and looks between us. “The new knees have tighter calibration than the old ones. It’s a wonder you didn’t amble around bowlegged everywhere.” He shakes his head and reaches for a sealed cylinder of nanite solution. “The custom enamel bone sheathing in both legs has a lot of hairline fractures but those are already repairing themselves.” He unhooks a cable bundle and dips the ends into contact cleaning solution. He hooks up a flow of inactive nanites into Picassos legs. “The muscle stabilization lace made hamburger out of the synthetic meat around his joints…he’ll be good enough to limp around in a few hours. I’d recommend a week before letting him play that hard again.”

  “No fucking way.” Picasso almost squirms up the length of the medical bed. His eyes are blazing orange flames. “Tell him boss. I’m not limping around gimped for week.”

  His blades, taped down for the safety of everyone around him, strain repeatedly against their bonds.

  The technician drapes power and programming mesh over Picassos legs and flips on the juice.

  “He doesn’t have a week,” I say quietly. “I need him ready by noon, latest.”

  The technician stares at me. “That’s…. It’ll a lot of eCash …”

  “Fuck yes,” Picasso mutters in the background and starts to relax, his eyes banking to coals.

  “Things are different working for me than at your dads back-alley clinic.” I smile patiently. “Don’t scrimp over kBits when it comes to fixing my people. Shortest turnaround time is more important. Spend it. I need him ready.”

  “You heard the man.” Picasso chuckles and looks at me with a nod of thanks. “Start spending already.”

  I crush him. “And hook him up for a security scan. If you start now it’ll be done by noon as well.”

  “What? A scan?” Picassos’ his eyes widen, embers becoming flames.

  “Refuse and I’ll bench you for the week, and he can stop spending.” I cross my arms. “Choose. Now.”

  He actually tosses around like he’s in physical pain, gnashing his teeth. One thing he could be counted on was uncensored displays.…

  “Fine,” he snarls. “Just…I keep a lot of personal stuff in storage.”

  The tech chuckles. “Listen, I don’t care what kind of porn you have in your mem-core. I worked a street clinic remember. Trust me, I won’t be shocked.”

  I keep my face carefully neutral during this exchange and when it sounds like its over I tell the tech, “I need a few minutes in private.”

  Picasso becomes motionless, as still as a rock.

  The technician isn’t fazed at all. He nods and leaves.

  “I want your observations about Hildebrandt’s behavior in the field.” I hook a rolling stool over with my foot. “Your professional observations.”

  He only takes a second to organize his thoughts but the shift in his demeanor is complete. “She uses flirtation as a tool to try and gain dominance, and channels some pretty deep-seated anger into enhancing, even boosting her mental control and physical performance.”

  I trust Picasso’s observations. He loves to fuck with people and to do that he has figure them out first. To further that end, he’s chipped in a lot of university level courses.

  “She handled a heavy service pistol one-handed and comfortably, I’d say she’s running with a good weapons training program. It’s almost subconscious but her movements are still a little mechanical. I never got a chance to see her fire the weapon.”

  He pauses and then moves on. “She covered a hundred twenty yards in better time than most of the team, but that could have been the fact that she wasn’t carrying a kit. And she picked up and imitated a lot of field movement techniques with only a few seconds of observation. It was like she’d been doing it for years.”

  He frowns as he hunts up a few extras. “She worries more about the appearance of control rather than actually having control. You know, a fake-it-till-you-make-it, thing going on there…”

  I ask, “Did you see anything that might indicate in or outbound signaling or communication?”

  He seems surprised. “You think she’s some kind of a fancy repeater, scooping and dumping intel constantly, subconsciously?”

  “Maybe.” The stim forces me up off the stool and I roll it back into the corner with a shove of my foot. The idea of a Raven blended with Snitch was an unhappy one.

  “How bad?” Picasso meets my eyes.

  “How bad what?”

  He pulls himself higher up the length of the bed. “How bad is the leak?”

  “We’ve ruled out David Hall, who has opted out of further participation with us. He left a half-hour ago.”

  “No surprise there. Fucking wet napkin that guy.” He grunts and adjusts himself on the med-bed. “What’s that leave us?”

  “The way that Bransen acted after he left the breakers…he knows there’s some kind of orbital tracking. But that shouldn’t be a surprise.”

  “He knows it’s us on his ass?” He nods. “So it has to be a leak?”

  “Bransen swoops in and grabs a random tribal at a crash site for a secret government LEO. He not only grabs Baylen but snags Maggie too.” I keep thinking that somehow Phil knew the government was out there prior to this, maybe even had solid proof.

  “Then Bransen tries a brain hack on him.” I prowl the room playing connect the dots in my head with all the facts. “But he’s killing time, waiting to see if Baylens’ old unit will show up. He could have killed all of Baylens’ men but instead he captures them. He figures that those men are more likely to be connected to the hidden government and its resources….” I stop at the foot of the med-bed. “Bransen figures out that Baylen doesn’t know anything so he tries to kill him. When Bransen runs, he takes the kid. But why take the kid? If he thought Baylen would survive then taking the kid would make him a target just as much as if he killed her. He takes the kid because she’s leverage over Hildebrandt. One of Phil’s agents who been in lost for a while, maybe even years. An agent who doesn’t even know she is one, an agent whose cooperation is better co-opted than forced….”

  “But if she’s a leak you can’t keep her here.” He frowns and then brightens. “You want to me to take out someplace to play a quick game of shallow grave?”

  “No.” I ignore his sudden excitement. “But I want her out of here. She may have a short-range com-link. We need her out of range of communications and I want her distracted.”

  “Why do I feel like I’m being sent to babysit?”

  “You know why. You’re the only one who can take her out if she triggers.” I stop at the foot of the med-bed and poke through his medical record. “As soon as you’re moving you’re taking her out to Baylen’s tribe.”

  “Fuck.” He flops back. “Because I’m good at my job I get to go camping with the ignorant unwashed masses?”

  “Yeah.” I get a tightly hammered down wave of fatigue that swells, breaks and recedes in a heartbeat. “Consider this as extra duty punishment.”

  “For what?” he barks.

  “I don’t appreciate the technicians being threatened into signing off on injury reports and bribing them to not running security checks on your internals. The new protocol is that all releases come from Jen’s desk to mine. And she’ll vet them through psych and medical
before forwarding anything.”

  He blusters. “I said I was sorry.”

  “To the technicians yes, yes, you did.” I go back to reading his file. “But I’m still waiting. And an apology now won’t change the new protocol back.”

  “Fuck you then.”

  I laugh. “That’s how I know you’re on the mend. I’ll forward you an Operations file as soon as you’re ready.”

  “Fine.” He sighs and lays back. “You’re an asshole though. You know that?”

  “And you know.” I make my way to the door. “I’ve heard you say that same line for years.” I stop in the doorway. “Rest up, don’t argue with the technician. Look at this as a chance to work on your soft power skills.”

  His legs buck under the nanite power and programming mesh. “Fuck.”

  The nurse hurries past the open the door. I know Picasso sees her. His prey drive will force him out of bed even faster.

  “Fucking babysitting,” he yells as the door drifts closed.

  ˜˜˜

  I’m trembling with emotional residue as Jen drops me off in the hallway leading to the rooms David and I were supposed to share. I didn’t even come back here after our argument.

  I’d left to get Maggie without even telling him I was going. I’d expected him to just wait here like a cyber enhanced puppy, waiting where I’d left him.

  And then…then in the medical ward with Baylen.

  I stand in front of the door to the suite bracing myself for the idea that he may not even be here.

  Calm. I lean my forehead against the door and try to find a steadying breath. The last twenty-four hours have been hell.

  I push down on the latch. It’s unlocked. I’m relieved that I don’t have to knock to get David to let me in.

  “David,” I call as the door closes behind me. There’s no reply.

  The lights are off and the windows shift from opaque as I walk into the suite. I enter the bedroom. The morning light streaming in shows me a bed that looks unslept in. “Shit.”

  I check every room. He’s gone.

  Loss beats on my heart, a bitter arrhythmia that weakens my knees.

  Stumbling to the sitting area, I find my dv resting in the center of the table. My purse and the other items I had with me are sitting where I dropped them after dinner.

  I wipe my eyes and struggle to even out my breathing. After a moment, I clutch my dv to my chest. If he were here, what would I say? What could I say?

  I couldn’t tell him he was right about Basillio. How wrong he was about Baylen. I couldn’t tell him how much I needed him here.

  I could say I’m sorry.

  I miss Maggie so hard. I curl up and cry myself to sleep.

  Cramping in my legs wakes me and I realize I haven’t moved. I tap the dv, the clock lights up…three hours. A message is blinking discretely in the top left corner of the screen.

  It’s from David. My fingers hover over the play option.

  ‘Nessa. I’m sorry that we fought. I’m sorry for a lot of things. After last night I wasn’t sure if you needed me here. Turns out you don’t. You still have Baylen. But Nessa, he couldn’t get Maggie back. All of AlphaTek couldn’t get her back. I get that you’re under a lot of stress. I thought about it and I can’t be here now either. I know this entire thing is a fucking mess and I’m so sorry if I made it worse. I have meetings outside our Corporate Control Zone. I’ll call you as soon as I’m able. I’ll understand if you block my call but I want you to know I’m always going to do my best for you and Maggie.’

  I can’t.

  Forcing myself into action. I use the clothes cleaner and the shower in the marble tiled bathroom.

  Most of the time I spend is letting the warm water stream over me; washing off anger, guilt, and sadness…. I scream my sorrow over Maggie and end up sitting on the shower floor.

  Then there’s Baylen….

  Baylen who like a building summer storm swept into my life, whose rain I fed off of, whose destructive path I still live with, a survivor of a hurricane long past.

  After my emotions have their way with me, I tab the control for a fast-dry cycle and then get dressed. I feel hollow but I know I can keep moving forward. I don’t have a choice.

  As I’m packing up my purse a single heavy knock on the door makes me jump. “Enter.”

  Picasso slips into the suite. I know he was injured in Texas, I saw it happen. Yet he looks rested, refreshed, like he just came off a vacation or out of a health-rejuv center.

  He checks me out. “You cleaned up. Got an all good from the doc. Let’s hit up some food.”

  He’s not asking. He narrows his eyes on me. “You don’t want to hang around here right now. Honest. The boss has dropped everything to work on this.”

  “Bullshit.” I glare at him. He has to be lying.

  “Nope, truth. He’s pissed that the mission crapped on him. He doesn’t like that when it happens.” He motions to the door. “We’ll be in the way if we stay and besides…” His eyes twinkle in an endless column of orange and crimson embers. “I know you haven’t eaten since your second round with breakfast. Let’s go.”

  Again, I understand that there are no choices in this place. I simply nod my agreement and follow him through the empty hallways back to the maglift.

  We don’t speak the entire time.

  3.15

  The Hercules Project

  It’s been less than five hours since leaving Texas when the owner of this place comes in to talk to me. He’s in a suit. He’s clean shaven, and wears an expensive watch. He’d be crisp in a uniform. He stands near the side of my bed, waiting for me to speak. “I’ve heard of you,” I finally say.

  “Most people in New White Sands have.” He drops into a chair. If he’s put off by my looks it doesn’t show.

  I’d like to know more about who is helping me. I poke a little. “I’ve heard rumors of you hanging out on street level.”

  His lips turn into a half-smile. “Not rumors. I believe in this age more than any before it, the shape of the world will be formed out there among the people rather than in some ivory tower someplace. The corporations are just a big backdrop for real life to play against.”

  “You have a military background?” I look to confirm the small talk in the military watering holes.

  “Yes, Major, I do.” He draws a breath, I see his eyes go distant, a soldier’s gaze. “I was in South Am when the bottom dropped out. I held the rank of colonel in a different man’s army. You?”

  I hesitate; I know his people saved my life. They’re working to help Maggie. He’d helped Nessa. Still I hesitate, but old habits die hard, swift trust starts to fill in the blanks. Everything about the situation goes onto the scales stacking one way or the other…. He silently lets me struggle and offers nothing to me either way.

  I make up my mind. “I was part of a special unit.”

  He nods. “I’d like to know more about that background Lee. In fact, the more I know the more I can help.”

  “How’s that?” I watch him carefully. He’s military, at least by reputation. But he feels legit. He reminds me a little bit of Nelson.

  “I can better allocate my resources and support if I understand who I’m working with.” His answer is simple and straightforward.

  “Got it,” I reply. There’s a short silence and then.

  “So?” he asks.

  I tell him about the Hercules Project. His line of questioning is clean, frank in its probing and confirmation of facts. I find myself relieved that I have found someone who understands the language I speak.

  …

  “Let’s move, people, the situation out there isn’t going to solve itself. Move, move, move.” The Lt. comes loud and clear over our helmet coms as we line up outside the main airlock.

  I file in with the rest of the men. I get into a sling couch near the center of the centrifuge launch lock. I’ve been lucky so far. If a solider wasn’t pressed in tight when the ‘payload out’ happened, he�
�d get clipped by the edge of the lock. We’d all seen guys get busted up, killed before the mission even started.

  “Twenty seconds,” Lt. barks. “Lock in. Guns up. Eyes bright.”

  I miss the lock-pad for my left boot. “Fucking hell,” I mutter. My suit com-system relays it straight to Lee.

  “Don’t make come over there and spank you, Salvo,” he chastises quietly over a private channel.

  I kick my heel back. “Sorry, sir.” The mag lock grabs my boot and I lean into the spinal skid plate. I’m yanked upright, locked into the launch tube. I check that the light over my head goes green.

  “All in, sir,” the Lt. relays to the Captain.

  The outer hatch cycles open. The endless black is picked out with distant stars. Our craft starts its seeding run.

  This is always the worst part. As the centrifuge I’m locked onto spins up to speed my suit constricts like hell, binding everything up. Only when I start to see spots does Control decide we’re on target and at speed. I close my eyes for an instant as one after another skid plates unlocked and we’re hurled out of the hatch. The acceleration and release is uncomfortable because I’m only along for the ride. Control and some computer someplace have full run of my suit. I’m aligned for approach automatically. As one, we burn in at maximum velocity toward a cargo shunt station; our target.

  A corporation built the station for slinging cargo pods out of low orbit to higher ones. Some of the pods go straight to the moon bases. The cargo pod magnetic launcher is what makes the station so dangerous.

  The whole place is basically a giant gun. Cargo pods are lined up in a docket. A robotic loader shunts the pods into the breach; the primary accelerator ring. When it goes off, massive super conducting hoops magnetically pull the pod forward faster and faster through the line of hoops until it spits out of the muzzle and zips, sans fuel, to where it’s supposed to go. On the receiving end, regenerative mag-funnels slow the pods down enough for tenders and heavy tugs grab on and pull them in to their destination.