"Choose your weapon." I lean back against a cool concrete wall. There's a thin pair of rimless sunglasses over my eyes and a thick, quality Armani suit over my body. I have a plasma pistol bolted to my appendix. "I'm not going to lower myself to this kind of savagery," whines the man on the floor. A trickle of blood runs from his nose, and his right eye is puffed up, purple and bruised. His golden-blond hair is tousled, and his cheap suit is askew, one arm on his coat ripped open from cuff to elbow. I'm glad I'm not him. Four trained toughs form the corners of this ring; my dear Japanese friend stands with the blond at the center. That makes me the referee. The Senator reaches down and grabs our man by the hair. He half kneels down, half jerks the prisoner up to his knees; his yellow face red with fury. "Savage? You call this SAVAGE?" he bellows, spittle flying. He throws the blond to the floor, a clump of hair still in his shaking fist. "If this is savage then what do you call THE SHIT YOU DID TO MY NEKOCHAN?" The blond peels himself from the floor, another trail of blood dripping from his lower lip. "Look, I'm sorry if there's been a communication problem," he slurs, "but I don't see how beating the shit out of me is going to help bring her back." Sakurai is silent, his rage held in check for the moment. "Come on! We should be working together to find her--I want her back as much as you-" A blur. The Senator's kick catches the blond in his left kidney. Deceptively fast. He, like me, is an old man. But only on the surface. "After what you did to her, I promise you'll never see my Nekochan again!" Sakurai moves to strike him again, but I raise my hand. "Hey, cool it. Kill him with honor." He snorts. "Honor? A mongrel dog would know more of honor than this fucking bastard! I'm wasting my time lecturing to this shit!" The prisoner coughs raggedly for a long while. He is on all fours. Sakurai paces for a few minutes, waiting for our man to catch his breath. He fingers the slim handle of his family's sword; it should look awkward dangling from his suit's belt . . . but it doesn't. The katana fits him. Presently, the Honorable Senator strides over to the side of our blond. "I tire of this," he states, quietly. His wizened old fist goes around the handle of the sword. "Fuck--d-don't kill me!" chokes the coward, the monster on the floor. "Nothing you say can save you now, you filthy shit," replies Sakurai. The blond's mouth opens: "I KNOW WHERE SHE IS! I peel myself out of bed, sweating and white-knuckled. Shivering, I recall the thin red tassels hanging from the guard of Sakurai's katana. Sakurai. Senator Sakurai. Mastermind of the corporate coalition which built MegaPrime. The last calm voice of reason in a dying world. It is none other than him, the killer of the United States of America. I stand uneasily on the short carpeting of this Marsec apartment. Rawlings and Leah and I: we are all back on terra firma, back on Earth in the nuke-proof confines of the Jack Rawlings Building. Rawlings--Rawlings was entirely irate upon our arrival, issuing forth a ferocious diatribe about the lack of security at Nova Cydonia and how he'd have to install a psinet over the full extent of the launch facilities there. His manservant Glen then responded with the possibility that something may have hacked the Bounty and used one of its nukes to blast apart half of the HORDE; Rawlings, astoundingly expressive in his descriptions of what he would do to the man who blew up his personal spaceliner, retorted that if there was anything he could trust in Marsec, it was the AI. Droids and intels, he ranted, don't go on strike or, gasp, try to stab you in the back. Karwoski bowed at this compliment, upon which Rawlings stated: "I don't appreciate you enough, you know." To which Karwoski answered: "Thank you, sir." The little soldier then demanded a complete catalogue of all "jammed" hyperwave transmissions in the last six months. As our Valk slowly dipped through the Earth's atmosphere, Rawlings became progressively calmer; by the time Karwoski handed him a PDA with the appropriate data culled the Marsec intranet, he was actually smiling. "Why aren't you two sitting next to each other?" he asked, resuming whimsical demeanor. He strode over to me. "Karl," Rawlings whispered in my ear, "Kaleta promised you a babe . . ." He allows my mind to fill in the rest of his statement. "Now tell me that's cushy shit you can't handle," he oinks, moving over to Leah. The dirty old man whispers to her, also. As Rawlings returns to the crew cabin, Leah and I share a look. We both glance at his retreating footsteps and then grimace. "Babe" or not, she's Race of Man. But Rawlings, that budding geneticist, doesn't take no for an answer. I stand at the doorway of my bedroom. Rawlings placed me in a well-appointed flat bordering the massive internal jungle of the Rawlings Building. A well-appointed flat with no door locks and three refrigerators full of Kirin. A well-appointed flat with Colonel Hierro staring at the inside of her bedroom's door just ten meters from mine. Bastard. I sit down in my bed, an overstuffed king-size monster with too much the way of comforters and blankets on it. And not enough pillows. I don't really want to go back to sleep because of Sakurai and his problems. I don't want to sleep because I know that unlike wonderfully mundane nightmares, these dreams aren't fiction. They are painfully real. And I know how they end. A knock comes at my door. I look up; it slides partway into the wall. Leah's pale white face is framed by the thick mahogany- finished cydonium. Her lips are illuminated by the big neon-green LCD on my nightstand. "I can't sleep, so I'm going to see what's on Sensovision," she states. "Don't pull anything stupid . . . like trying to 'get on' me." We both laugh hysterically for a second and then stop abruptly. We frown and stare at each other in distaste. She closes the door, and a few seconds later, I hear the muted sounds of the big HDTV in the living room. Those quickly fade out as she mutes it or switches the console to direct psionic input. I lay down on my bed again and stare up at the ceiling. It's made of dark glass, wavy and wet like Buenos Aires' harbor in a foggy winter dawn. One way mirror, I hypothesize. Damn you, Rawlings. I flick off the ceiling as my muscles relax into sleep. Leah cracks open the door a few minutes later. I groan and look up. Her hair is a mess and she's sweating. "Asshole!" she rasps. "Every channel . . ." "What?" "Shameless pornography!" "Even SenseNet?" "Yes! Fuck Rawlings!" I snort and lean back. "Fuck Rawlings," she repeats. "Amen," I mumble. The dreams don't come for the rest of the night and for that, I'm thankful. When I wake up in the morning, Leah isn't in my bed--nor am I in hers--and for that too, I am thankful. After Casey, I don't think I can handle too much more of that shake-hands-and-introduce- yourself kinda sex. That's the other most popular major at Lifetree. Along with Master of Alcoholic Substances Consumption. Rawlings laughs at us through cereal in the morning, and I pitch a knife at him with half my yogurt left. He catches it and reprimands me about table manners. I swear at him. Leah glowers, and I don't say another word through breakfast. Glen and a dozen Centurions in tow, Rawlings has us scanned for armor liners. I speak up once, asking when he'll give us weapons. He oinks and says he wouldn't give a plasma pistol to a man who doesn't even know how to use the gun he's born with. I nearly take a swipe at him. By lunch time I'm in such a bad mood that I'm demanding that Marsec patch me through to the Blue Pacific Club House in Guam--a very big warning sign. The last time I called my parents was three years ago in the University when Megapol busted me and half the school newspaper for publishing how to make Molotov cocktails. I do have a sense of pride, so I usually wait for the shit to get pretty damn high before I call in the cavalry. Rawlings shuts up and signals for a pair of Centurions to flank me. I think this qualifies. "You know, maybe I'll take up Mister Kaleta's offer," I yell at him as Leah and I are "escorted" into lunch. "Vice President of Personnel Kaleta is no longer with Marsec," Rawlings states, not at all amused. "What, did you ship him out to Babylon Five?" I ask. My captors push me down into a chair. Rawlings sighs. "He's probably wishing that right about now," he states, mocking concern. "We haven't heard from him in little over a week." "Did you kill him, too?" "No," bluntly replies the soldier. "He simply decided that his talents were better employed at Megapol." "Lucky him," I mutter, egging on the old guy. Rawlings chuckles. "Unfortunately, an anonymous intranet tip revealed to Megapol the presence of strong ties between the former Vice President and the criminal syndicate known as Osiron." Rawlings bares his teeth in an evil grin. "Megapol is not in the habit of hiring Osiron cronies." Curry is served. Steaming hot slices of potatoes, carrots, and tenderized meat coated with a hot, spicy gravy. All of this on rice, real white rice, of course. It's very good, and for the moment, I ignore Rawlings. But the bastard won't leave me alone! "You know," he remarks, "I guess you two don't have to copulate any time soon. I have your DNA! I can build a kid out of your combined genetic resources!" Leah puts down her spoon. She's very pissed; I'll give her credit for her restraint. "She'll have Miss Hierro's looks, of course--no offense, Karl, but you're nearly as bleah as me. She'll get your brains but we'll have to go back to Leah for her ambition-" "Why are you doing this?" Leah asks, her hands on top of the table, very still. Rawlings immediately loses his smile. "This isn't even remotely funny!" she states, standing. Two Centurions move up behind her. "I've wasted the last week listening to nothing more than this bloody drivel, and I don't have a dollar more to make up for it! I'm sick of this and I'm sick of you!" Leah moves to leave. A quick exchange of thoughts between Rawlings and his guards; a blink of an eye. The Colonel of Race of Man marches out of the cafeteria unhindered. I stand up to follow her. "Why are you doing this?" I repeat, stressing the second word. Rawlings shrugs, miffed. "I thought it was funny." I am silent. "You're really fucked up," I slowly answer. Rawlings smiles again. "Is this news to you?" I don't answer, instead glancing over my shoulders at the two Nazis behind me. "Don't worry, she'll be back," mutters Rawlings, perhaps thinking to himself. "I'm going for a walk," I answer, warily eyeing the guards while slowly moving towards the room's exit. "You'll be back, too," portends the old soldier. I look up. Turn my head to the right. His jaw bearded. Wearing a jumpsuit. "Hap," I slur, pausing for a moment and then adding, "shouldn't you be dead?" His broad face smiles. "Yes." I push aside my third bottle of wine and swivel my bar stool to face him. Gaudin isn't tending tonight, and thus I'm holding consultation with as many liters of alcohol as I can fit into my system. "Damn, I thought you bought it . . . how many weeks ago was that?" Hap is blurry. I think he blinks and looks away. "A couple. Look, Karl, I need to talk to you in private." "Outside?" "Outside." Hap throws one of my arms over his muscular shoulders and helps me to my feet. My legs work fine, but I nearly steer us into the wall next to the rear exit. Down the long rear hallway we go, Hap silent all the while. I catch a better glimpse of his threads; he wears the jumpsuit of a janitor. "Where you working now?" I ask him. "Mineral prospecting. Saskatchewan." "Long commute." "I like to get out of town." We step out the rear doors into the parking garage behind the Purple Lotus. He releases me, and I slowly stagger over to a friendly wall. One arm out, bracing myself, I blink in the low, moaning wind that constantly sweeps these basement levels. "You're looking good," I comment. He is. Last time I saw him he didn't have a pulse. "Been better," he states, quietly. "So," I whisper, "you wanted to chat about something?" Hap doesn't waste any time. "Karl, how's Jack Rawlings been doing?" I take it in stride. "Just peachy. He's so healthy he's annoying." "When did you come back?" "Yesterday." "Was that HORDE explosion some stunt of his?" "No, he says the Unionists smuggled a nuke in there." "Hmm." "Been a lot of news about that here?" I ask. "Nothing official. Word is, though, that some people think Mars should be a separate nation; autonomy, no corporate control, that kind of stuff." "Some pretty determined people, eh?" "I'd say so." "Think it was enough to waste the HORDE?" Hap smiles wanly, as he had a tendency to do. "More than enough." Prospectors my ass. You didn't sign with any Earthside prospectors! You just picked up the red armband, didn't you? Just having a few words with one of the wicked witch's winged monkeys, aren't we? Fishing for whatever you can! Hap, a communist! "Tell your friends-" I start. I catch a tall frame in the corner of my eye. "Satan!" I shout in greeting, turning and instinctively reaching for the pistol which isn't there. Hair in a mess, suit a mess, nails probably cracked . . . "Karl!" cries Kaleta, his dark black suit rumbled and torn. There is blood on his collar and I can smell a thick stench of sewage emanating from his pores. Suits him well. He spreads his arms in a great big haggard hug. "Karl, you've got to help me!" I back away from his embrace, Hap stepping to the side. The former Vice President sees my body language, and he visibly winces, collapsing to his knees. The plastic face cracks, revealing wrinkles and smudges of dirt. His grey eyes, bloodshot and tired, seek out mine. "What the hell happened to him?" whispers Hap, dropping back into the shadows. "Karl," speaks Kaleta, "they're after me!" "Who?" I ask, drawing further away from him. "Who isn't?" moans the once pompous ass. "They all want a piece of Ken Kaleta! Megapol, Hageny, the Martians, Diablo . . . I've been in hiding for the last five days; you're my only hope, Karl!" Diablo my ass. I'll bet he's got his friends in Osiron gunning for his white butt. I am silent. Kaleta takes this as a good sign. "You've got to save me, Karl! I don't care if I have to run to the Belt! Please! Just shield me! God, I can't believe I found you, you're my only chance for survival. . ." My face goes cold. I spit on the ground before his knees. "You fucking drugged me, you son-of-a-bitch! Drugged me and fed me to a whore! Filmed the whole damn thing! You were fucking with my head, you dumb shit! And now what's this? Come crawling to me, begging me for help?" My voice cracks. I'm hyperventelating. "I hate you, Mister Vice President of Personnel. I hate you because you started all of this shit. After I got called in to your pretty little recruiting session, my life when to hell. To fucking hell! It's fucking awful down there! I hate you because you're the OPENING CHAPTER in my FUCKING book of SHIT!" I'm nearly crying. "Fuck you," I mutter, turning back towards the doors of the Purple Lotus. "Fuck all of you powermongering assholes." "I'm going home." Hap puts an arm over my shoulder. I shrug it off. "No," murmurs Kaleta, his knobby fingers interlaced in prayer. "No Karl, you can't turn your back on me! You can't-" A Popo ground cruiser rounds the far end of the parking ramp. Kaleta squeals and pulls himself up, running for the cover of parked vehicles. "KARL!" he shouts, dodging behind an autotaxi. I don't watch to see whether the Popo bother to pick up the bastard. Prying open the rear doors of the Lotus, I stumble in, Hap in tow. "What was that about?" asks Hap. "Fuck you," I reply. His brow goes overcast. "What?" "Fuck you and your communists," I slur. "Hey! Is that how you treat a friend?" "Fuck you," I repeat. Hap grabs me by my shoulders, twists me around, and pins me against the hallway wall. I smack my head on it. "Fuck you, lemme go," I cry. "Sorry about that," apologizes Hap. "Fucking assholes." Hap is silent for a moment. A nasty smear of snot rolls out my nose and down my lips. "Karl, I know it's been rough-" "You weren't the one in a vat, motherfucker." "I wouldn't say that-" "And you didn't betray your last friend on Earth." "And I won't-" "Just fucking let me go so I can get a fucking flight HOME!" I moan, shaking his grip. Hap bites his lip and embraces me. "You can't," he whispers. "Karl . . ." Something about the way he says my name this time raises my internal alarms. Adrenaline kicks in, if any more is even possible. I immediately halt my sniffling, my eyes going open, my senses suddenly primed. ". . . they got your parents." I rest in the navigator's seat of La Paloma. She wears a soft cream coat now, all traces of her mad flight from the Church of the Open Door buried with her bright red paint. The chrome grillwork is as shiny as ever and the hard plastic inner panelling is completely rebuilt. The city washes by, a smear of neon, concrete, and silicon. "How?" "Briefcase bomb. It took out the whole clubhouse." I am silent for a long time. "At least they died happy." Hap snorts. "Not really. Word is, your mom just shot a sixty-three." "On eighteen holes?" "Nine." I chuckle for a moment. "Can you raise the hatch?" I ask. "Why?" "Just do it." Hap presses the appropriate button, and the thermoplastic windscreen lifts up and rolls back. The air is cool and slams into me, ruffling what's left of my hair. I stand, bracing myself on the dash. "FFFFFFFUUUUUUUUCCCCKKK! FUCK YOU! FUCK YOU, MEGAPRIME! FUCK ALL OF THIS SHITTY CITY! FUCK YOU! FUCK YOU! FUCK YOU-" Hap grabs me by the leg and yanks me down into my seat. A crowd of slummers on a street corner break out into applause as we go whizzing by. "What the hell was that about?" he shouts, the windscreen still up. "Repressed tension," I reply. "I haven't gotten laid for the last three weeks." He rolls his eyes. "You OK?" he asks. "What the fuck do you think? My parents just got killed." "Well, I don't know. Are you OK?" I crouch down in the nav seat as Hap retracts the canopy. "Yeah, I'm OK." Fuck that! What the hell do I do now? What have I got to my name? Nothing! I'm just a damn pawn of Rawlings! So what do I do, just march back in there and resume hanging around with that fossil? Fuck no! Do I fly to Guam? Where do I go from here? Vengeance. Vengeance is always a good place to start. "Who did it?" "I'm told that Marsec Internal Security was involved." Shit . . . "You're not serious." "That's what I've been told." My parents killed off by Hageny and his crew? Why? What point would that have, killing off the party holding a five percent stake in Marsec? That's some very fucked up corporate politics . . . No. Fuck Hageny. Now I know why that grey blood was always hanging around with him and Rawlings; the man is just a puppet, another toy of the master himself--Rawlings. If Internal Security did vaporize the Blue Pacific, then it was on the orders of . . . "Makes you think, doesn't it?" I am silent, breathing slow and deep. "What are your sources?" "Their golf cart driver was a friend of mine." "Fuck you." "I'm not kidding." I turn to Hap. He keeps his eyes on the road, even though La Paloma is on autopilot and we both know it. "Why did you find me?" I ask. "To deliver the news . . . and to remind you who your real friends are." Pause. "Whose pawn are you?" Hap shakes his head, avoiding my eyes. "I'm nobody's chess piece. I'm no party to any chess game, either. I'm my own damn person now, not like back in the Free Territories." "Then who are you speaking for? Tell me that." Hap slows La Paloma, pulling up into the public garages of the Rawlings Building. "Let me just say that I speak for a little organization that is actually doing something to insure that humanity's got a future." The canopy hisses open. "Fuck you, liar," I reply. Hap snorts and looks up at me as I clamber out of La Paloma. "Open your eyes, moron! This is the end of the world! This is the apocalypse and unless some serious miracles start happening, we're all going to die!" I stand on the cold concrete of this garage. "You know what," I snarl, slowly, "you can go fly with the angels." I turn from him. "I'll take my chances with the devil." Hap slams the windscreen shut and tears away, throwing up a whirlwind of turbulence. I shake my head. I'm not really sure what I meant by that last statement, but it sounded kewler than hell. I need some time to think. An odd thought crosses my mind, and I seize upon it. Smiling crookedly, I close my eyes and enunciate one word: BEN. Why? Because two heads are better than one--even if one is a disembodied cerebrum floating in a nutrient vat in some back closet. His response is mercury-quick. "I was wondering when you'd call for me." I've been indisposed. "So much I deduced." I stagger into the lift room of the garages, eyed suspiciously by the guards. I don't display any workpass, and they move to apprehend me. "Leave him. He's a halo." I smile to the little grey blood standing behind the Marsec toughs. He salutes me. Thanks. "That wasn't any intervention on my part," clarifies Ben. "Rawlings informed the Security Division hierarchy of your VIP status." Rawlings . . . wait a second . . . you bastard! "Yes, I have known about his existence since the psinet's conception. I didn't feel that it was necessary to inform you of that because, and this I trust to you, as I am under strict orders not to converse with you. Your lack of surprise upon meeting him may have betrayed me." With all the shit he put me through, I would rather have taken the chance. "But I wouldn't have." He scanned my mind, Ben, while he was feeding me his memories. He must be aware of you. "He is not." Did Rawlings order my parents' murders? "He may have. You know his mind better than I do; you have seen how little value he attaches to life. He ordered the executions of twenty-five Mars Union members today; he did not spend one second toying with the idea of sparing them." But you don't know. "No. If he did, he did not dwell over it, he did not consciously decide their fates. Such conscious thought is the most readily intercepted; but Rawlings is capable of killing without forethought." I run my fingers through my hair, cropped short by the nanotech people on Mars. Fuck! I don't know whether to trust him or not! "Oh, he will not harm you, if that is what you worry over." I'm going to go back to my apartment and sleep. "Leah has returned." Great. What is she doing, watching "shameless pornography"? "The normal channels have been reactivated. However, while she was channel-surfing, she skipped over an ad for TextureVision Channel Sixty-Nine with deliberate nonchalance." You're terrible, Ben. "You're still wondering, though. You are a human male, after all." Not her. Not ever. "She is likewise about you. She knows your past and your political leanings, and most importantly, she saw you standing at the podium with Robert Flannery Junior on Friday, the twenty-first of March." So . . . Rawlings failed? We aren't going to suddenly leap into bed together? "At any other time you eventually would. But the general situation in-" What? You're saying that we'd- "Purely out of boredom. Or drunken abandon." That's awful, awful. "Don't fret, Karl. You will not 'get laid' by Leah Hierro." I suppose I should be disappointed. "In a strictly Freudian sense, yes." I stride down the hallway, thoughtful. Does she even want me? "Leave it be, Karl. Worry about something of importance, like your parents." I'm keeping it all inside. "There are two of us in here, Karl, and I can't find a gram of grief." I don't want to think about that right now. "Then don't. Let it fester and infect your every action and thought." Shut up, Ben. I want to mull over that one on my own. "Very well. Do you require assistance in matters of any other sort?" Yes. I want to know where Wolf and Nat are. "May I inquire why?" I don't know who to trust around here, and I want some people that I can watching my back. "I sense a problem, Karl. You may vest your loyalty in these two, but by your actions towards them, how can you possibly assume that they trust you?" I'll earn it back. "Easier said than done." I stop at the door to my apartment. Now give me some answers, Ben, or get gone. "I will be back." Don't wake me, I call after him, but his presence is already gone, his tiny avatar no longer sitting upon my right shoulder. I open the door and step through, pulling off my boots. The sounds of a woman breathing hard greet my ears. Leah is not in the common room; the HDTV is dark and unlit. The bathroom next to the entryway is likewise deserted. Which leaves two rooms unaccounted for. Walking on my toes, I slowly creep over to my bedroom door. I press its backlit pressure panel and it slides into the wall on velvet rollers. Nope. Not in here. Whatever she's doing, she's making quite the effort at it. I ponder the idea of simply calling it a night and retiring to my room, attempting to sleep with my pillow over my head. But curiosity and hormones get the better of me, and I venture back across the common room to the door of her room, my feet light on the cold floor. I hear the clang of metal on metal, Leah's breathing still deep and fast, and a variety of scenarios run through my head, none of them good. Oh hell. If she's doing what I think she is, I'll just have more ammunition against her. I open her bedroom door. There she is, sweaty and on the floor, dressed up like some Sensovision--oh wait--shit . . . Leah turns to me, setting a barbell down. "What's your bloody problem?" I decide to bluff it. "Could you please cut the racket! I just got back from an afternoon of heavy drinking and I want to weather out my impending hangover in peace, without that noisy shit going!" I use my most nasal, whiny voice available. "Look at you!" she screeches. "The bugs could be dropping in at any moment and there you are, bloody drunk off your scrawny bottom!" I retreat for my room. "I'll bet you haven't exercised for the last five years! I could damn well snap your arms like twigs!" Hey. Insults towards my lack of fitness--that's my goddamn department. I turn around. "If I throw a pail of water on you, will you melt?" I taunt. "Go get one, waterboy! I think I could use one right about now!" "Fuck you, you Nazi bitch!" "That's right, back up, you coward!" "Did they throw you out of XCOM because you were more man than woman?" Something is unsheathed in Hierro's eyes. I leap aside as a five kilogram weight flies past my head. Another one follows; I trip over the common room's couch as I dodge it. I try to roll over and spot the next ballistic projectile, but too late I realize that it's Hierro herself. "Ugh," I murmur as she jerks my right arm behind my back. "Ask me something else about XCOM, you bloody chink. Ask me about how many kills I had!" "Fu-" She yanks on my arm, and I see stars. "How many, bitch?" "Twenty four." She pauses, relaxing her grip on me. "Twenty five is a nice round number, isn't it?" "Round like your goddamn satellites, both of which are currently hanging over my neck." That--that's probably not what I wanted to say. She leans down next to my ear. "Fuck you, twigboy," she smiles. Hierro lets me go, a knee in my back as a parting gift. I lay there for a couple more seconds before rolling over. "Hey! Where's my kinky sex? Don't I get a prize?" I yell after her. She returns to her bedroom. The door slides shut with a tiny "click" that I didn't notice before. I flick off her doorway and withdraw to my room. On the way, I stub my toe on a barbell. 7/9/98
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