Citizen Pariah (Unreal Universe Book 3)

by Lee

  Ute looked sideways at Huey. “He lost?”

  Huey snorted. An idea blossomed, out of nowhere, a full solution to Garth’s problem and he was actually embarrassed at how stupid and dangerous the notion was. Huey didn’t hesitate, though; wherever the idea had come from –submind, HIM, alternate-dimension superbeing- it was the only shot. “He won. Got his ass fucking handed to him. Stop talking. This is going to … uh … it might … kill him and blow the chamber up. You … you can totally leave if you want.”

  Ute stared at the chamber, listened to the sounds of pain. “I stay.”

  Huey smiled, and tears of fear that he was failing his boss, his mentor, his … his friend turned to tears of joy.

  Garth’s body was riddled with neural sheathes, tiny invisible machines comprised entirely of quadronium. Unlike the q-circuitry-and-implants the man had only just recently designed, the sheathes themselves were closer to blood cells than actual machines. Indestructible quadronium cells suffusing Garth’s body, enhancing and augmenting and limiting at Bravo’s whimsy.

  Huey started examining the concept offered up to him, attacking it from every angle. It was madness of the worst sort. In almost every way it was a complete reworking of Garth’s original designs. His friend and creator would have no idea how to use the new system, but it might save his life.

  Neural sheathes were a mechanical replication of the actual genetic connection the Kith’kin and Kin’kith possessed. Each sheath opened a microscopic gateway into ex-dee, filling the host with machine-controlled power allowing normal human beings to upgrade themselves to Harmony soldier levels. Had they been born with the ability to withstand the monumental stress, the Armies of Man would’ve won the day thirty thousand years ago.

  Sadly, even the Kith’kin and Kin’kith had been unable to withstand the brutality of the experiment and they themselves had been the hardiest beings alive, next to their predecessors. By attempting to replicate the inborn abilities of each host, the sheathes inadvertently forced each host into doing what Garth’s own tortured form was doing now: purge everything.

  The only thing keeping Garth alive and functioning during the last ten years had been his connection to Reality, a … dimensional rift turning him into a paradox in his own Universe. When he’d burned that power out transforming the decaying duronium pile into something less galactically destructive, he’d opened himself up to the possibility of being crippled by the sheathes. For while he was the ‘First Kin’kithal’, that virtue meant precisely bupkis when it came to the sheathes and the automatic resistances generated by the meat.

  Prior to the fight with Chadsik al-Taryin, the sheathes had been reset to zero, a resting state doing nothing more than preventing access to ex-dee. A rational being –which Garth was not and never would be, even, especially, if he managed to survive- would’ve left well enough alone and gone about his or her merry way.

  But not Garth. His friend had decided that the best thing to do was to use the conflicting energies generated by the sheathes and his genetic heritage to do things like shut down Central City, to protect a massive carrier from being blown up, all manner of purblind foolishness.

  Bereft of the quantum communication streaming from Bravo to the widespread intelligence net built into the framework, the sheathes had basically been trying to kill Garth every step of the way since he’d crawled out of the Museum, but things hadn’t gone really wrong until the energy pile transformation. Bravo’s operating system had completely failed to take Garth’s responses to life’s little problems into account.

  And then, of course, Garth had decided to do the un-fucking-thinkable and use a massive … implosion … to blow a hole through Chad’s chest. That had been the icing on the cake. Huey didn’t know if there was any paradox left in Garth, nor did he really care; all that mattered was that there was nothing left inside the Kin’kithal to protect him against the sheathes and their ‘ministrations’. The microscopic machines seemed eager to kill their host.

  Garth’s denouement on Chad had forced a reboot on the sheathes, and the tiny little fuckers were going apeshit inside the conversion chamber, incorrectly identifying the quadronium overlay as an attempt at removal. Unable to communicate with Bravo, the sheathes were struggling to follow whatever imperatives remained.

  The plan —originating from … somewhere- was … not necessarily stupid but … vehemently unwise.

  The neural sheathes were cells. The q-circuits were … tendrils. More or less a virus. The new plan was to … basically stab each sheath with a tendril of quadronium circuitry and force each atomic machine into a new frame, literally and forcibly reorganizing everything from the ground up. From there –if Garth didn’t puff into a pile of mist - adding the larger machinery, the actual augments to the joints and all that fun stuff, would be easy-peasy.

  “He’s…” Huey booted up the modified installation program. His mind and more than half the available free space of the HIM’s operational parameters flooded with the massively complex procedure. There was no way of knowing what Garth N’Chalez was going to become once the machine was finished. “He’s … yeah, he’s probably gonna … well, we’ll call it ‘scream’.”

  He hit ‘go’.

  The scream that burst forth from the conversion chamber rattled the walls and shook the firmament of the planet.

  Day Three: The Storm

  Chapter One

  It’s The End of the World as We Know It (Or We’re Going To Act That Way, Anyhow)

  The other worlds under Chairwoman Alyssa Doans’ control felt the bite of her words often, the whip of Martial Law even more frequently, the terror and the fear of never knowing where their next meal was coming from or if they’d see the a new dawn coming all the time. They were used to sorrow, accustomed to pain, at home with doubt.

  Those other worlds weren’t Hospitalis, those other worlds weren’t home to the Chair, and so, through the long years, they looked upon moments when they were not prisoners in their own homes with pure, joyous relief.

  They were also not stupid enough to lose their cool and start running around like hooligans when those rare moments of freedom greeted them for an hour, a day, a week. They still followed the Law. They took advantage of as few of the liberties they were granted as rarely as a man takes a sip from a bottle of hundred year old Scotch. They savored the extra twenty minute walk through the park; they reveled in the extra ration of food they got in a day. They knew the Chairwoman’s wrath could descend upon them at any moment and worked diligently to avoid grasping too tightly onto things they didn’t need.

  That was life for every other planet, every other citizen, every other man, woman and child in Latelyspace. They never forgot they lived in a Regime. Their lives weren’t truly their own and they were reminded of it on a constant, sometimes minute by minute basis. They lived and died –as Chairwoman Doans had pointed out to the people of Hospitalis- at the whim of the person who sat in the Chair. Their lives weren’t necessarily cruel or painful or even uncomfortable; what they had was a set of rules to live by, and if you followed the rules, well, everything would be fine. You might even succeed.

  But Hospitalis was and always had been different. The first planet colonized by those long-ago Latelians, Hospitalis and her citizens had always considered themselves a step above, had held themselves aloof from the rest of the system. Compounding matters were the overindulgent moods of nearly every Chair, men and women reluctant to endure the harshness of a Regime on a personal level; as the leaders acted, so to, just like children and parents, did the citizens.

  Some … perks were … permitted for good behavior. Any good system of control allowed for that, and for nearly five thousand years –excluding notable moments of civil war and insurrection here and there- Hospitalis had –in every meaning of the phrase- been a spoiled child.

  The revocation of Martial Law for the Final Game was a cool, gentle wind blowing across the scorched landscape of Hospitalis’ feelings; everywhere, every one heaved a si
gh of relief and planned to have some fun, albeit ‘fun’ with some very … loose interpretations.

  Certainly every online dictionary on the ‘LINKs would be hard-pressed to show the definitions most people were working from; every citizen loyal to the Latelian Regime under the age of sixty had never witnessed the true aspects of the despotic power the Chairwoman had at her command, and even if they had, those brief moments were isolated, relegated to actual criminals doing actual criminal things. Like Ashok Guillfoyle. That man had deserved what he’d gotten plus extra for being such a callous ass.

  Regular citizens of Hospitalis didn’t like the Regime. They never had. They’d endured the yoke willingly, bristling inside whether they knew it or not, eagerly waiting for some … moment to push them over the edge.

  And then came the day of the Final Game. The bastardized Final Game.

  Citizens woke up the morning of the Final Game, listened to the ludicrously phrased and falsely cheery message sent to every device capable of recording sound and unanimously –without once calling their friends- decided that they’d rather live in Trinityspace with a pack of savage morons who’d sleep with anything remotely resembling a human being rather than spend one more second under the brutal thumb of a woman who had transformed herself in just a few days from a wonderful leader into a brain-addled lunatic.

  The men and women of Hospitalis might very well be spoiled children, and they’d definitely had praise heaped upon them for thousands of years, had been given gifts and love and all manner of things to encourage good behavior, but they were Latelians.

  And in the heart of every Latelian living on Hospitalis, surrounded on all sides for most of their lives and for most of four thousand years by duronium of increasing purity, there rest a formula for violence, for anarchy, for chaos.

  Every man and woman under the age of sixty who listened to the Chairwoman’s recording sat back in their chair, stared contemplatively at the wall or ceiling or at nothing in particular for a few minutes before deciding that if their crazy fucking ruler tried to put them back in the box, they were going to boot stomp someone into the ground.

  Then –because your average Latelian was a natural-born early riser and thus had several hours before the Game started showing highlights from previous Games to get the crowds ramped up- they hit the ‘LINKs in search of seedier sites of ill-repute. In typical, dogged fashion, they started learning how to make weapons out of household supplies.

  Chairwoman Alyssa Doans was going to feel the bite of a new beast, a many-eyed, many-voiced, many-fanged monster if she pushed them too far.

  Could You Maybe Not Do that Anymore?

  “So, anyways, in this movie, Buckaroo Banzai is a neurosurgeon ninja who plays in a rock band… well, okay, it’s not really a rock band but some kind of weird blues funk thing, but it works well enough, and he, uh, develops this device called an oscillation overthruster that helps him drive his car through a mountain.” Garth crammed food into his mouth, an action that was nearly orgasmic; the sauce that Ute had brought back with him from Orin’s Farms was the nearest thing to actual Texas-style barbecue sauce this side of thirty thousand years.

  Garth bet if he went up to the old man –which reminded him, he still needed to figure out why the dink was talking like a Texan- and said ‘ketchup’ he’d be swimming in delicious, tangy red goop by the end of the day.

  Then he jabbed his fork into his arm. Again.

  Huey shouted, Ute bellowed, Herrig moaned miserably and Chef Charbo –who’d shown up scant hours before Martial Law had kicked in looking for a job and immediately throwing himself into Herrig’s hastily built kitchens with a passion- looked like he was going to barf.

  Garth looked at the holes in his arm. They weren’t sealing. He wasn’t bleeding –well, okay, not much- but the holes in his arm weren’t closing up. He stabbed another chunk of meat and shoveled it into his mouth to hide his disappointment.

  Being subjected to soul-flaying pain in the form of quadronium dust being hammered into every particle of your being to form circuitry and implants and not having some kind of healing power just seemed … so bullshit.

  “Why does he keep doing that?” Ute stage whispered to Huey, who had done some very brief –very brief about extremely and explicitly impossible occurrences- explaining about who he was.

  “I’m right here.” Garth considered jabbing the knife in his leg again before changing his mind. Herrig, more accustomed to his weird behavior more than anyone save Huey, still looked like he was going to throw up out of his ears. “Like, not even across the room where I could maybe not hear you, but, right here. You could whisper and I’d still hear you.”

  “He used to have an amazing regenerative ability.” Huey explained. “Super-fast. Of course,” the AI-controlled meatsuit glowered, “that was for entirely different reasons.”

  “Yes, well,” Garth shoved the empty plate away and motioned for Charbo, who’d taken to humming so he wouldn’t hear anything he rightly suspected would do him no good in the future, to hand him another pile of food, “I also used to be able lift trucks.”

  “You didn’t lift that truck.” Huey reminded, amused. “You sort of … wiggled it around a bit.”

  “I totally, totally lifted that truck. I was like Superbaby lifting that shit off Ma and Pa Kent.” Garth picked up a handful of knives and tried to throw them as fast as he could. They zipped away, clattering against the far walls. He was a bit faster, but not fast enough.

  “What’s going on?” Herrig tried not to sound like he was mired in the thick mud of absolute confusion and failed. He sighed. At least he didn’t put his head in his hands this time. He gratefully accepted a mug of coffee from Charbo.

  “Oh, uh.” Garth swallowed a half-chewed chunk of shubin, spluttered for a second, then started explaining. “I, uh, built a DIY-God soldier conversion chamber in the basement of Acme and then, in a wildly irresponsible and potentially suicidal effort to not have my entire body vaporized, I designed quadronium augmentations that would let me beat on some Goddies.”

  Garth nodded understandingly at Herrig and Charbo’s wan, faltering expressions, then continued. “I also built some seriously kick-ass weapons. Which reminds me, Huey, there is a bent sword and some killer death-darts kicking around on the rooftop somewhere that should probably not fall into the hands of the enemy.”

  Huey nodded.

  “Anyway,” Garth drank some fruit juice, marveling at how cold and sweet it was, “then, before I could figure out the design flaws, of which there were many, I, uh, got into a fight.”

  Huey snorted derisively. “Yeah, with Chadsik al-fucking-Taryin.”

  Charbo interrupted. “The … the Trinity cyborg Chairwoman Doans hired to test the loyalty of the people in the Museum?”

  Garth burst into raucous laughter that went on for a solid ten seconds before remembering that, unlike everyone else in the room, Charbo was probably the most normal citizen they’d ever encountered. He hung his head and apologized. “Sorry, sa, but yes. That guy. In truth, he was hired by a Conglomerate from Trinityspace to assassinate me.”

  Charbo had lived his whole life on Hospitalis. He’d spent the bulk of that life in Central City, catering to the whims of the rich and the powerful. A fair bit of their sensibilities had rubbed off on him and what he hadn’t picked up by association, he’d gained on his own, by being the best Chef in the solar system. Sitting in the empty cafeteria, surrounded by these strange men, he began to feel as if he’d missed the point of living. “That … that … man was … I don’t even know how to describe it.”

  “The single most powerful cyborg in all of Existence.” Huey expanded grimly. “On par with the oldest Enforcer and probably capable of conquering Galaxies. Luckily for everyone, the guy was mad as a hatter and only ever killed one person at a time.”

  Garth jabbed the fork into his shoulder this time. Still didn’t hurt, but still no healing factor. He wasn’t even especially armor-plated. He was waiting impatientl
y for some kind of operating system or something to boot up. He’d designed one. You couldn’t have implants without a neural OS running interference. “Yeah. That guy. Are you sure you all wouldn’t prefer to hear about Buckaroo Banzai? And the Red ‘Lectroids? Way more interesting.”

  “Can we get back to the part where you tried to turn yourself into a God soldier, please, sa? Because it sounds like you’ve completely lost your mind.” Herrig stared defiantly at everyone at the table. He’d been with Garth the longest; he could bloody well say whatever he pleased in whatever tone he felt necessary. “And why you decided to do it after fighting this … assassin from Trinity? Or why you even needed to do that at all?”

  “Oh, uh, yeah. The thing that made me a super awesome ninja…”

  “There are no such things as ninjas.” Ute interjected. “I looked on the ‘LINKs. As the oldest society around, there would be mention of it.”

  Garth snorted. “Super awesome ninja got turned off. I built all this to fight in the Final Games and I would have had time to get all used to it and everything but the Chairwoman decided to turn into a crazy cunt that started fucking with the rules of fair play.”

  Charbo opened his mouth to complain, but didn’t. For all the crudeness and crassness of the comment, Garth wasn’t far off. Though he himself was hardly interested in the Game, many of his friends and family were. None of them had anything good to say about what’d happened to the Final Game. The notion that one man could survive against eight God soldiers, all of them elite, was beyond absurd. It was insulting.

  “Hands off the table, guys.” Garth pressed his palms flat against the bottom of the table when the three men complied, tensed his muscles and lifted. It was shaky going, and a few glasses at the far end clattered to the ground. The table, fifteen feet long if it was an inch, weighed somewhere in the neighborhood of four hundred pounds and he was hoisting it from the middle. Not bad. He lowered the table back down.