The Terminal State

by Jeff Somers

  “Still got the thumbs, old man,” he panted at me. “You gonna break ’em with your mind? ”

  I liked this guy. I liked the troops better than the cops—the cops were all fucking attitude, dandies in their rich suits, even before they’d all been forcibly turned into avatars, Droids with digital brains. They had more metal in their brains than I liked, sure, but we all had faults. I tended to kill everyone I met, more or less by accident.

  Before I could tell him about my growing affection toward him, Remy rose up in the air and attached himself to the back of the soldier, his skinny arms locking around the grunt’s neck. Before I could even blink, he’d leaned in close like a fucking lover and bit the grunt’s ear, a savage, tearing bite.

  The guard screamed. It was a high-pitched, boyish scream. He staggered off me, his arms slapping up at Remy, and I smiled, thinking, That’s my boy.

  I straightened up and spun the shredder before me, feeling good. I kept my balance as the truck swayed and bounced under me. The gun’s ammo readout glowed red and plump, a full clip. But I didn’t want to turn the guard into a fine red mist, even if Remy got clear; he was just doing his job. Swallowing the ice ball of nausea and pain in my belly, I flipped the rifle around and grasped it by the barrel with both hands. It was top heavy, but I didn’t need it to be a good weapon. I just needed to knock him off the truck, leave him behind in the night.

  Remy wasn’t giving up easy. The grunt had both hands on the kid’s head, trying to tear him off, but Remy wasn’t going. I took three steps forward, swinging the shredder back behind me. Just as I got within range, the guard got a grip and tore Remy off of him, throwing the kid down onto the bed, where he skidded along the slick metal floor, crashing softly into the cab.

  I swung the rifle, but the guard’s arm flashed up faster than I thought possible and intercepted it, like smacking into an iron bar. He wrenched it violently and I let him have it, diving forward and using his own trick, putting my hands on his throat and pinning the gun between us. This time, I squeezed for all I was worth.

  “Sorry, chum,” I panted, winded suddenly. “The army just doesn’t suit me.”

  He grinned at me, and I fell in love with the bastard. “Fuck, man, I don’t blame you. If I’d been bought out by Wa Belling, I’d get the fuck off this truck too.”

  I froze. “What? ”

  The grunt nodded. “The CO told me. You set a fuckin’ record on the price. If a fuckin’ Gunner like Belling wanted me, I’d lie, cheat, and steal to get away, too. I heard stories about him—he’s all over our watch lists. Got a standing 909 order—if we press him, we shoot him.”

  For a moment, I was outraged. Wa Belling. He’d been a founding member of the Dúnmharú, sure, one of the original hardcases. He’d been a personal fucking failing of mine, though. He’d fucked with me in London on the Squalor case, first pretending to be Canny Orel, the most famous Gunner in history. He’d killed people when I’d ordered him not to. Then he’d pretended to be my ally in New York, killing cops because I thought it made a difference. He’d sold me out during the Plague, though, when a madman had unleashed a trillion nanobots on the world, with me as Patient Zero with Belling’s help.

  I hadn’t see him since then. I’d cooled my heels in Chengara getting fucked over by his boss, Canny Orel—aka Michaleen Garda, my bestest pal in prison, who’d lied to me and used me and left me for fucking dead after fucking me over. I’d spent the last six months contemplating revenge against Michaleen, but Belling—Belling would be a fine way to start. Wa Belling had played me for a fool for fucking years. Why not?

  “If he’s got a standing kill order,” I said, “how can he do business with you? ”

  The guard snarled. “The CO deals with anyone who can pay the price,” he spat. “Dick Marin could make him an offer and he’d make the fucking arrangements. Anners is a fucking pig.”

  His outrage was touching—a true believer. There were more of them in the System than I’d have imagined. I eased back from the guard. We stared at each other, him frowning suddenly. I held out the shredder.

  “Here,” I said. “Let’s call it a wash.”

  The soldier stared at me, the bottom of his face a mask of blood. His hands were slack on the shredder for a moment and then firmed up as he straightened up. He studied me for a moment, and then smiled. I almost thought he understood. Or maybe he was just relieved to bring in the full head count he’d been entrusted with.

  “Take your fucking seat then,” he said warily, watching me and finally toggling the rifle on. The squeamish hum was torn away by the wind and barely seemed to be there.

  Wa Belling. I turned and found my seat again. I had plenty of markers Belling could pay off, and if this truck was bringing me closer to Belling, then fuck it, I was going to ride my way to him and then shove my fist up his ass as far as it would go.

  I sat down and the two people on either side of me tried to shrink away. I looked around and saw Remy up by the cab, staring at me. I glanced at him and looked away, flushing.

  “Shut up, kid,” I whispered. “I’m working.”

  II

  WE GONNA SET THINGS RIGHT, MR. CATES

  I was being wheeled down a corridor again, fear bubbling at a low simmer. When I finally died, my life would flash before my eyes and it would just be scenes of me strapped down to something with wheels, being transported from one hell to another. I remembered being sucked into the Abbey, going after Squalor and his Electric Church, dead and suffering. I remembered being carried around like luggage by Hense and her squad during the Plague. I remembered being wheeled into the bricking labs by the German cunt, ready to have my brain sucked clean. And here I was, upright at least, strapped to a handtruck so tightly my hands and feet were numb. My bum leg, obliging as always, had spiked its familiar ache deep into my bones, and the desire to shift its position was like having ants under my skin, tunneling through nerves.

  Avery Cates the Gweat and Tewwible, I thought. He’d be a fucking scary man if he wasn’t always tied up like a side of meat.

  Corridor was the wrong word: The walls were canvas, just the outside walls of large tents set up six feet apart, with canvas stretched above for a ceiling and a pathway of rough planks laid on the dirt. The System of Federated Nations Army was a mobile force that had no permanent bases; even its processing and recruitment centers were designed to be rolled up and moved in a matter of hours. I was being wheeled by a skinny tan kid named Umali, a corporal, who was running down a report on me based on data extracted from me while I was unconscious. My new friend the Palest Man Alive marched purposefully next to us.

  “... but I’d say about fifty, based on his physical condition and stress results on bone and ligaments. Let’s see, above-average reflex reaction, excellent muscle development, excellent day-vision but night-vision is now suffering from age-related degeneration. Multiple scars on... well, just about everywhere, though few are noticeable in normal light. Including your standard-issue Plague scars on his throat and chest; man’s a survivor. Teeth are a nightmare. Several missing, the rest in various states of rot. Good balance, above-average IQ, slight chemical imbalance that looks to be natural and probably not much of a problem aside from temper and socialization difficulties.”

  I couldn’t move my head, so I rolled my eyes, trying to get a good look at them. My hands twitched as I tried to break my arms free, teach the skinny fuck a lesson in politeness.

  “Now this is interesting: He has a standard AV-79 procedure scar on the back of his head.”

  I rolled my eyes over to the officer in time to see him turn a frown on me. “What? ”

  “Clear as day. He must not have finished the process, obviously.”

  The officer stared down at me for a few more steps and then looked forward again. “Not necessarily. Word from the Mountain is they’ve got new avatar procedures, nonlethal. Though they still kill the poor fucks anyway, or so I heard.”

  Umali cleared his throat. “Yes. So, let’s see . .
. brain function is very unusual, which may be connected. Off the charts, though he tests out normal on the Amblen Rating. But every other test redlines.”

  “But he’s not a g’mp?” the officer said. It was like he spit out pieces of the words. “E’s funk’tional.”

  “Oh, yes.” Umali sounded pleased to be able to confirm this, his voice soft and gentle, not at all what I’d expected the army to have in its ranks. “For all outward appearances he’s completely normal. His brain waves are very strange, however, and we may need to prepare for unexpected reactions to augmentation and—”

  “Who gives a fuck?” I was getting used to his accent and processing it faster. “A few hours, he’s not our problem anymore.”

  “Yes.” Umali sounded annoyed, but after a moment he continued. “As for background, he’s got several dozen entries in SSF databases. Several flagged at high-level clearance; several we actually can’t even access because they’re not even on the SSF cloud at all. They’re just symbolic links to an off-line server. He’s only got two stints in holding, though one of those was Chengara Pen, which may be where he got his skull fuck.” Umali ran through the rest as if we’d arrived at the steep slope of diminishing importance. “Let’s see...quite a lot of yen in dormant haven accounts, though not worth much these days. Other than that, I find almost no record of him at all. No employment files, no logs in old Joint Council records, nothing.”

  “’Course not,” the officer said. “The man’s a criminal. Don’ matter. All that matters is someone wants his carcass, see? ”

  “Yes, sir.” Umali sounded unconvinced. I tried to force myself to relax, waiting for the moment when they took off the straps and I actually had options.

  We rounded a corner and approached a doorway formed in the walls by the expedient of cutting a long slit from top to bottom. Standing outside was a short black girl in what may have been the most expensive suit of clothes I’d ever seen. Bright green, the fabric shimmered and flickered as she shifted her weight, and against her dark skin it seemed like controlled fire, always in motion. Her face was broad and flat, and her skin was flawless. Her hair matched her suit perfectly, a bright, nauseous green, and I imagined she had an augment that allowed her to set her hair color with every wardrobe change.

  Her eyes, on the other hand, were a bright, glowing blue—a wireless data augment. I’d seen them before, though rarely. Allowed her to connect with whatever available nets were in the air and transfer data directly.

  “Colonel,” she said, her accent subtle, like she had a tiny stone in her mouth that made her curl every vowel too much.

  The officer waved a hand at her. “Not now, Mardea, dammit,” he growled. “You wan’ta talk bulk, y’wait a fucking minute.”

  She opened her mouth again, then thought better of it and nodded. “Very well, Colonel. I’ll wait until it is convenient for you.”

  She turned and strode away. She had no identification or rank on her coat, but she didn’t seem concerned or out of place. For a moment, the three of us just watched the rhythm of her walk, all of us, I thought, having the same sexual fantasy simultaneously. Then the officer grunted and they wheeled me through the slit into an adjoining tent that sported a cheap-looking plastic table and a few chairs. A tall pitcher of water was on the table, surrounded by a small farm of metal cups; my eyes latched onto it and stayed there, my mouth suddenly dry as a desert.

  Umali wheeled me to the table and made sure I was stable, and then stepped away, reappearing in my peripheral vision as he moved quickly to stand behind the officer. He appeared to be about seventeen or eighteen years old, all sinew and back-aching posture in his plain black uniform. His nose was broad and his eyes were sleepy, making him look dull and dense. The officer was the one I’d glimpsed when I’d been pressed. He slouched in his chair, flipping through a digital file with impatient, imprecise gestures. His hair was silvery in the shaky light rigged to the tent’s central pole, his nose long and thin and angled downward with a shift to the left that looked like an old break.

  I looked from him to the pitcher of water.

  “All right, Mr. . . . Cates,” he finally said, tossing the thin sheet onto the table and leaning back in his chair. “How’s it feel to be in the greatest fightin’ org’nization in history? ”

  For a few seconds we stared at each other, and then he suddenly closed his eyes, his face firming up into anger. Umali suddenly jumped as if he’d been goosed and skittered over to me and with a practiced flick of his hand unsnapped the chin strap that held my mouth shut and rushed back into position behind the officer as his eyes opened.

  “Thank you. Mr. Cates, I am Colonel Malkem Anners. We’re gonna hava little talk.”

  When helpless, it was always good policy to make idle threats. It amused everyone in the short term, and if you ever managed to cash them in, you looked like the most dangerous bastard ever known. I ran my tongue over my lips. “Tell you what, Colonel. Give me a cup of water, and it’ll go in your favor when I come back for you.”

  Anners’s smile was immediate. “Hell, sho’ you can have a drink.” Umali immediately stepped around him again, poured water into a mug, and brought it to me. He held it to my lips and expertly tipped it for me, cool, clean water pouring into my mouth in an ecstatic wave. After a few seconds, he took the mug and placed it on the table in front of me, stepping back to his position. I looked up and Anners was studying me.

  “I’m a reasonable man, Mr. Cates. The SFNA breeds reasonable men. The SFNA does not want robots or avatars or men afraid t’speak their minds. The SFNA wants intelligence, compassion, and leadership.”

  I concentrated very hard and decided to my horror that Colonel Anners was being perfectly sincere.

  “Now, you have chosen, as all good citizens of the System of Federated Nations would, to enlist in my forward unit. That speaks well of you, Mr. Cates, and you have the thanks of a grateful world.” He leaned forward and tapped a calloused finger on the table. “We gonna set things right, Mr. Cates. We’re gonna push that digital asshole and his toy cops into the fuckin’ ocean, Mr. Cates. And you chose to be part of that glorious effort. And I congratulate you.”

  I wanted to say something. I wanted to tell him to fuck himself. But I couldn’t. He was mesmerizing.

  He leaned back, putting that finger against his chin like a thinker. “It woulda been good timing, too, Cates. I’m gathering forces for a major operation at Hong Kong to cause a ruckus, and you woulda been right there in front, chargin’ into those silicone motherfuckers.”

  I forced my mouth to work. “Sounds like fun. Absorbing bullets so you and your fancy boys don’t get hurt.”

  He grimaced and paused for a moment. The outer tent flap suddenly stirred and a fourth person entered, bowing down to fit under the low entryway. She was a very tall, broad-shouldered woman with a coffee complexion and wiry, stiff-looking black hair that exploded in a wild cloud on top of her head. She was in the same black uniform as Umali, but sported two small silver pips in the broad lapels of her overcoat. Her face was round and young, with full cheeks and big, wide eyes that somehow conveyed distaste.

  I glanced back at the colonel and found him on his feet, at attention. I wondered if this was yet another asshole come to kick my balls for a few hours, for fun.

  “Sit down, Anners,” the woman snapped, waving her hand at him. “I hope I am not intruding.”

  The colonel relaxed and dropped back into his seat. “No, of course not. Just doing a postrecruit interview.” His accent had faded so suddenly I wondered for a moment which was the put-on.

  She raised an eyebrow. “You do all your PRIs in person? ”

  As she said this, she extended a hand toward the water pitcher, and it rose from the table, accompanied by a single mug. I watched them float across the space to her. Psionic, I thought. Telekinetic.

  Dolores Salgado piped up faintly in my head. We structured the army this way: one political liaison to each unit, with certain authorities over the CO.
Keep our hand in. Discourages officers from deciding their units are theirs.

  I blinked her away. I’d gotten a dose of ghosts—people’s digitized brains—when they’d tried to make me into an avatar back in Chengara Penitentiary. I’d lost most of them, but the three people I’d known somewhat in real life still lingered. Salgado had been a system undersecretary, and she had some secrets left. I wished fervently the last three would go the hell away, but so far they seemed more or less permanent, like brain damage.

  Anners shrugged. “I pull a few, Millar. These folks are gon’ be under my thumb, I like t’know a bit about them. Umie here screens ’em and feeds me the interesting ones.”

  Umali offered up a sick-looking half-grin at this as Millar took possession of the water pitcher, poured herself a dollop, and floated the pitcher back to the table. She took a sip and shrugged. “Fine,” she said, and turned away, ducking under the flap and disappearing.

  “Fuck, I hate the goddamn Spooks.” Anners exhaled softly, his accent thickening up like magic. We both turned to look at each other, and he raised a pale eyebrow at me. “Now, I jus’ lied to a superior officer, Mr. Cates. I only talk to the valuable folks who enlist in my beloved army.” He leaned back and steepled his fingers, his bicolor eyes locked on me. I wondered what the augments showed him, if I glowed with body heat or if he could see ghosts inside me, hollowing me out, if he could see the dull ache of my leg. “Some folks just don’t appreciate the army, y’see. An’ while it saddens my heart to think a ruthless piece o’ trash like you will never know the joy, companionship, and discipline of a true gatherin’ of siblings—brothers an’ sisters, see—sometimes it’s best to cull out the unfortunate few before they become a poison in my unit.”

  I smiled at him. “Way I hear it, the life expectancy of your brothers an’ sisters is measured in days.”

  Anners slapped his palm down onto the table, which promptly collapsed with a whine of cheap metal between us. He pointed a manicured finger at me. “You best watch yo’ mouth when you’re talkin’ about shit you don’t unnerstand, yes?” He slowly lowered his hand into his lap and continued to sit there as if destroying furniture and threatening recruits was all in a day’s work. This motherfucker was crazy, and I had no doubt he could order his creepy little man standing behind him to put one in my ear and no one would care, or protest. Or even think about it.