Noah closed his eyes, the pain of what happened as fresh as the moment they'd been blasted to pieces.
“You know the how, but not the why. It shouldn't have happened.”
“The why? I don’t understand. The entire unit died in the campaign. Like all the others."
Her voice trailed off, and for a second it sounded like she might disconnect.
“Can I call around? I’ll try to explain. It’s complicated, and I don’t know the full story. But it’s important, for me, for you, and most of all, for Rob."
The heavy breathing slowed, and finally Rose responded.
“Look. I have a couple of hours before I need to go to work. I took a job. You know, the Mars Museum of Archaeology, next to the Green Bank Radio Observatory. With Rob gone, I need to do everything I can. The pension is not much.”
Noah was confused.
"I...uh...I didn’t know you were into that stuff. Mars, I mean. After Rob, it must have…”
“Yeah, after he died up there I felt bad, but when the post of Curator came up, I grabbed it. I had to work, keep my mind off the…you know. Are you for real, Noah Cage? Is that really you?”
He raised his eyebrows. “I promise you, it's me."
The tension was still there, and he knew she doubted him, so he shifted tack.
"Curator? You must be good at what you do.”
“You better believe it. Although it was hard at first, I didn’t want to hear the name of that planet.” Her voice faltered, “Call around, and we’ll talk. And Noah. Thanks.”
“No sweat. I promised Rob, you know.”
“I’m not at work today. See you soon.”
* * *
He eased out of his chair and strolled out of the office, heading for his usual watering hole. Dahmer was behind the desk. The Sergeant hated the detail, and considered him to be Westbank’s one-man SWAT team. He was also a drunk. Vos sniffed the air, and across the room, Bowen smiled.
“You been drinking on duty, Sarge?”
His red face became a picture of innocence. “Me, Sheriff? No way. Who said I had?”
“Keep the booze away from the office, that’s what I’m saying. I’m going out for coffee. While I’m gone, take a look at the screen. There’s a guy I came across, and he’s got paper on him. Dead or alive, they say. Bastard ran when I took an emergency call.”
Dahmer’s lips split into an eager grin. “You’re serious? I should be out on the streets looking for him. You want me to round up the men, run him down?”
He sighed. “Just look at the picture I put on the system, and acquaint yourself with the details. No need to get excited. He’s probably long gone by now.”
Disappointment dulled his eyes. “You got it, Sheriff.”
Vos exited the office and walked the two blocks to his favorite bar. They served a good cup of Java, not like most places, even if the booze was sourced from the illegal stills scattered around the outlying areas. He sat at the bar, and without a word, a cup of coffee appeared. The barista eyed him impassively. He’d arrived in Westbank from the PanAm State of Colombia. Once known for the vast quantities of cocaine they exported to eager buyers across the American continent, the introduction of a tainted genetically modified crop had wiped out much of the coca crops. A lot of the blame had been pointed at Mars and its many agents working Earthside. Since then, they’d concentrated on two exports, coffee and people, although there’d been indications of coca making a comeback. Times were hard. People needed to earn a living.
He sipped the coffee, enjoying the rich, fragrant aroma and slouched back on the stool. Glancing around the bar, he saw movement in the dark shadows at the end of the room attracted his attention, and he squinted to pierce the gloom.
If that don’t beat all, the stupid bastard walked into my favorite bar to use the network. If there’s a god up there, thank you.
He slid out the Colt and eased off the stool. The custom walnut grips felt good in his hand, and his finger itched to pull the trigger. The iron was reassuring, in a way plastic could never be. The gomer put down the handset and walked straight into his arms, and he pointed the gun at his belly.
“You’re busted, friend. Turn around and face the wall. Hands and feet apart, I guess a guy like you knows the routine.”
The fugitive, whose name he now knew was Noah Cage, obeyed. He clicked the heavy steel bracelets on his wrists, not the plastic crap most Sheriffs used, and hauled him out the door and along the street. The guy didn’t even resist, a good sign. He dragged him inside the office, and still he didn’t struggle, didn’t say a word. Vernon put the flat metal flask away in a swift movement.
“Sheriff, I thought you’d…”
“Yeah. This is the guy I told you about, the fugitive. Take him downstairs, search him, and lock him in a cell."
Vos and Noah shared a hard look, each saying nothing and giving away nothing in the exchange. Then Voss winked and spat on the ground.
"He’s a wanted war criminal. With a fat bounty on his head."
“No shit. You want me to give him the full works?” Dahmer was grinning. Enjoying what was to come.
“He stepped closer so that the stench of the unclean soldier filled his nostrils.
"Yep, everything, and don’t go easy on him. Soften him up a bit, but don’t kill him."
He then glanced back to Vernon.
"Sonofabitch abandoned his men to the Martians, and they all died. The military want him bad, and I’m gonna give him to them. If he pulls a weapon out of his ass, or takes an overdose, you’ll be joining the employment line, Vern. I’ll be with you in a few minutes. The file said to contact Washington if we found him.”
His eyes lit up. “A reward?”
“Maybe. Get it done, while I make that call. Do it right, and we both come out of this with a fat paycheck.”
“Sure, Sheriff.”
Dahmer disappeared downstairs to the basement, pulling the prisoner along by his cuffs, and Vos went to his office.
Time to show the men in Washington, the PanAm capital, how peace officers work in areas they’ve never heard of. I’ve got my man already. Always do. One hundred percent record, yessiree!
* * *
Cage felt numb as the deputy ordered him to remove his clothes. He raised his wrists with the cuffs on. “I need these off to take my coat and shirt off.” They were the first words he’d spoken since the Sheriff grabbed him.
A chuckle. “The hell you do. They stay on until you’re restrained.” The officer took out a big knife and began slashing at his clothes. Moments later, he was dressed in nothing more than his shorts, and the remains of his shirt and pants lay on the floor, like old rags. Two of the cuts were intentionally deep, and drew lines into the flesh of his left upper arm.
"Oh, sorry about that. Just a little prick."
The deputy laughed, while staring at his arms and legs. He then squeezed one until he could feel the bone under the soft, silicone like skin.
“You're one of those robot bastards they used on Mars? What did they call them, Lifers?”
Cage shrugged. The joins where the NuSkin knitted with his own flesh at his torso were smooth and neat, but the contrast was obvious, even to a small-town deputy. His replacement limbs were almost perfect, but anybody could tell the difference between flesh and the fake stuff just by running a hand along the surface.
“Or maybe you’re one of those fancy pleasurebots you can rent in the capital."
Noah refused to speak, and the amused deputy quickly lost his patience.
"Okay, shithead, you think you're special, right? Are you one of them Lifers? Took the easy route and got yourself killed to get a fancy new body?”
Why bother giving him a reply? I’ve met the type before. The guy will work me over, no matter what I say. What is the point?
A broad grin lit up the man’s face, and he barked out an order, “Okay, you don’t want to talk to Uncle Vern. That’s fine with me. Sit yourself in the chair. I gotta way with war cr
iminals, bloody bottom feeders. Can't handle life in the real world, so off you go on your little adventures up there."
He then gestured to a wooden chair, and Cage obeyed. He’d spent three years in a Martian jail, and he knew the drill. Same stink of filth and fear, same psycho bullies in charge. All that was different was the gravity. He’d begun to get used to it, although his heart ached from pumping so much blood around his body to compensate for the adjustments. Thank God he’d taken the chance to re-energize his limbs during the months he spent hiding out on the Cycler. Otherwise he’d be as weak as a baby. He knew what he could do, and knew he had to stay calm unless he wanted this man's brains splattered over his face.
The cop snapped a leather strap over his left wrist, unlocked the cuffs, and wrenched his right wrist to strap it to the opposite wooden arm.
The cop looked his limbs up and down. They’d joined the artificial arms and legs to his body with a seamless weld of NuSkin. The faint shadow was visible where new merged with old, Human with artificial. Beneath the sub-cutaneous layer, it was different. A mesh of organic plastics supported the muscles and blood vessels, with an underlying alloy chassis. All powered by the internal rechargeable cells.
The scientists who shadowed the Lifer units went into action the instant they picked up a still-warm body from the battlefield. First, go to work on the heart, lungs, and brain, using sophisticated electronics and drug regimens to kick-start circulation, respiration, and electrical brain activity. Once back in the lab, they scraped and cut away the remains of the damaged limbs, and began preparing the stumps to receive the cybernetic replacements. One shattered leg necessitated the removal of the other. Replacements came in pairs. Arms were available as singles. Part of the Lifer contract was that you signed your body over for upgrades, the price of medical aid in combat. You got to live, and they got a stronger and better warrior with each death.
Despite the fear of creating a monster, a creature with limitless strength that could create havoc if it went out of control, the Lifer techs pushed the envelope. Cage was stronger, quicker, and faster. It wouldn’t last. The continual new life procedures took a toll, and he’d found it ironic. The repairs and modifications that brought him back to life after death on the battlefield were also killing him.
Inside, his core functions were weak. Outside, they were strong, but not strong enough to resist the next catastrophic wound. The technician had been matter of fact as he explained it to him. That was the last time they gave him new life.
“It’s the body’s organs, Lieutenant Cage. We can replace the limbs and certain organs, but each time the heart, lungs, and brain have to work harder to adapt. Already your brain is working at its limited. We've burned nerve endings and damaged long-term memory doing this. You can’t do this again. It would kill you. When you get back home, leave the military and stay out of trouble.”
“They told me the New Life program was guaranteed, no side effects.”
The man had grimaced. “That’s right. No side effects, not until it kills you. Keep out of trouble. That’s my advice.”
Two days later they sent him back into the front line.
He began to sweat and struggled to move his arms, but the restraints held him fast. The scenario was too familiar. On Mars, men came to his cell each day and strapped him to a chair, a chair like this one, in a place like this one. They didn’t want him to talk, didn’t want a confession. They wanted to torture him. His days were an unending scream of agony. Days blurred into weeks and months, until the agony became almost routine, part of his half-life of living hell. Memories of the agony were etched in his subconscious. He knew the nightmares would stay with him until death. Even the artificial limbs turned against him when they connected up the interface to their own systems, simulating all manner of terrifying conditions.
“Open your mouth, asshole, while I check for contraband. You carrying drugs inside your mouth, or anywhere on your person, gold, platinum?”
“No.”
“Is that right? We’ll take a looksee. I told you to open your mouth. Do it!”
“I…can’t.”
“Oh, but you can, my friend. Open it or I’ll use this on you.” The blade wavered before his eyes.
He’d been working on the straps. The panic added strength to micro cybernetic machinery, and he could almost hear the whine of the synthetic muscles, the hum of the titanium sheathed NuPlastic joints. The strength in his arm surged to lever the strap apart. Tough, thick leather stretched, metal bent, and the arm was almost free. He kept his mouth shut tight and looked away when the hardened oak of the chair arm began to creak. If he wanted, he could snap iron and punch through armor plate, and right now it took all of his control not to.
No more torture. I can’t take any more. Let me die. No, let me reach Rose Romero. I promised Rob. I have to talk to her about her husband. Then I’ll be ready to die. She needs the truth. She deserves it.
The deputy walked away, struggling to control his anger, and losing. He buried the point of the knife in a wooden tabletop and cursed.
“You shouldn’t have come here, asshole. Ole Vern’s gonna roast your ass. You know that. Anywhere else, you might have been safe, but here in Westbank, there ain’t no place you can hide. What were you planning? To rob a bank, was that it?”
“I just wanted talk to someone.”
He swung around, pleased to get a response. “Talk to who?”
Cage stayed silent. They may go after Rose, for whatever reason. He’d no idea why he was a wanted man, so it could be she was on some kind of a list.
The deputy loomed over him, and his lips were stretched into a ghastly semblance of a smile. “You can talk to me, shithead!”
Seconds later, the deputy lost it, wrenched the knife from the woodwork, and stood inches before his face. “You don’t wanna talk, okay, we’ll revisit that later. Right now, I’m gonna look inside the mouth of yours. Open, or I’ll cut your damned lips off and bust your teeth outta your head.”
He was back in the cell, the recycled air stale and rank. Strapped down on a table, and he’d lost count of the times he’d been a place like this.
No more!
“Open your mouth. This won’t take a minute.” He held the knife in his right hand, and his meaty fist bunched, pulled back, ready to hammer into his face.
The probe hovered, like a monstrous, artificial hand. The most effective instrument of torture the Mars technical elite could devise. Billions and billions of NewDollars spent in building wondrous new machines, transportation systems, fleets of lighters to unload the Cyclers from outside orbit, and this.
He was back in the interrogation room. The plastic clamps held him rigid, and he couldn’t stop them pushing it inside his mouth. The voice drilled through his skull into his brain.
“Tell us why you murdered prisoners of war.”
He tried to bang his head on the wall, to get rid of the voice. Useless, he couldn’t move. He wanted to die, wanted this to end. Why the endless questions about killing Martian prisoners? He’d rarely seen a Martian prisoner, their superior technology made their capture almost impossible. From the moment they landed on Mars, the battle they fought was to stay alive.
“How many of our soldiers did you murder, Lieutenant Cage?”
The pain came. He hadn’t seen them flick the switch, but it was like they’d pushed his head into a furnace. If he’d known the answer to their questions, he’d have told them, given them anything to make them stop. Find a way to end it all, to die. Four times he’d endured new life. There never was a fifth time.
Bring it on, dear God, stop the pain, and let me die!
The faces blurred, and the man ahead of him was struggling to insert the torture probe.
No!
He wrenched his arm free of the straps, and his powered arm slammed a hard punch into the face of his Martian tormentor.
Or am I back on Earth?
He didn’t know, just that he must get away from this place. T
here was something he had to do before he died, but he couldn’t remember what it was. The pain was back, dominating his brain and pushing out every conscious thought, except to run. The fog cleared, and he was back on Earth. Greater gravity. Air. Escape.
“Bastard, I’ll slice you into little pieces.”
The deputy raged, his eyes shut tight with tears of pain, and unaware he’d broken free. Cage danced toward him, his cybernetic limbs unstoppable. A single chop was enough, and Ole Vern, half blinded and nursing his injuries, keeled over and lay still. He was already racing for the stairs. Took them two at a time, and was a blur of movement as he raced past the astonished eyes of Harrison Vos. He reached the door to the street.
The Sheriff was slow to react, gaining precious seconds for Cage, as he attempted to recover from the sudden appearance of the prisoner, naked, except for his boots. A bellow of rage followed him outside, “Goddammit, the bastard’s getting away. Get him, shoot him!”
A single gunshot exploded, not a smartgun with adaptable ammunition. This one fired plain old lead rounds, but that did little to calm him as the bullet whistled past his head and vanished from view. Sensors fitted to his body calculated the firer's position and the velocity of the round, but he ignored it for now. He didn't have time to fight. He needed to run.
A Stryker, they mean to kill me.
Close, too close. The glass in the door shattered with the impact of the bullet, and then he was outside. The sole means of escape was a battered tow truck, a relic that must have been at least seventy years old. He leapt into the cab, found the key, and placed it in the retrofitted ignition assembly, alongside a universal power socket. The autogas powered generator whined multiple times and then stalled. The onboard battery showed as dead, and that meant he was going nowhere. Noah pushed the center of his palm against the socket, closed his eyes, and sent the command to dump power from his right arm. In seconds the meter showed current, and he hit the button once more. Finally, it kicked into life, but not before draining a third of the power in his limbs.
Last Life (Lifers Book 1) Page 5
