by Rick Jones
“Worm?” Ton asks. “I’d hardly call that a disturbance. Looks more like a parade.”
“There has not been a sanctioned parade in exactly six years, three months, and fourteen days, Lieutenant, due to the risk of bacterial contamination with large crowds,” Worm replies. “What you are seeing is a general protest.”
“I’m guessing by the alert they don’t have their permits in order?”
“No, Lieutenant,” Worm replies.
“Any news on what they are protesting?”
“I am sorry, Lieutenant, but again the answer is no,” Worm states. “No news on the open channels. I will search internal communications to see if there has been anything reported.”
“You do that,” Ton frowns. “From the glow of all the StatShields, I’d guess close to a thousand are down there.”
StatShields- the Clean Nation citizens’ technological defense against the spread of bacteria. A full body, thin layer of static electricity that sterilizes all molecules before they pass on to the wearer.
Ton reaches out and presses his hand against the view screen, shifting the angle and focus of the view. With a few swipes, he has increased the magnification so it is as if he is floating only a few feet above the massing crowd, not a hundred stories up.
“Shit,” Ton grumbles. “That’s not a protest. That’s a riot.”
A small window flashes to life in the top left corner of the screen.
“Hey, LT,” Sergeant Milo Kailua nods. “You watching this crap?”
“What are they pissed about now?” Ton asks.
With the dark featured face filling the whole screen, Ton can’t see Milo shrug, but he knows the man well enough to guess that’s exactly what he’s doing.
“Wages, rations, housing, free movement credits,” Milo says. “Pick a reason, any reason, LT. Could be one, could be all.”
Ton sighs and closes the street view with a swipe of his hand, but leaves the window of Milo’s face up.
“How’s my girl doing?” Ton asks.
“Loving life,” Milo smiles. “I just took all three bug hounds down to the treadmills. We got a couple miles in and now they’re crashed out on the floor. Tequila is snoring by my feet while your Snorts is wedged against the door, waiting for your ass to come pick her up.”
“Three?” Ton asks.
“Gorge is here too,” Milo says. “I guess Blaze got lucky last night. Said he may not be back for her until later. No worries, more the merrier, I say. Not like I have any humans to talk to other than Zebra squad’s sorry asses. You want me to bring Snorts to ya?”
“No, no, I’m on my way. Let me grab a sonic first and then I’ll be right there,” Ton replies, stretching, yawning then scratching at the hair on his chest that pokes out from the low neck of his beige tank top. “Ten minutes?”
“No hurries, no worries, LT,” Milo grins. “I’ve got a new book on my IRIS, so I’m good.”
“Cool. Thanks, Milo,” Ton says then swipes the window closed.
Rolling his neck, he takes a deep breath as the vertebrae pop, and walks over to the wall by his bed. He waves his hand across a sensor and the bed withdraws into the wall, being replaced by a large cylinder made of tight mesh. Stripping off his tank top and boxers, Ton steps into the cylinder and waits for the mesh to conform to his body.
“Worm, how about a gentle rain today, okay?” Ton asks.
“Certainly, Lieutenant,” Worm replies.
The mesh begins to vibrate and Ton sighs as the feeling of a warm, gentle rain caresses his skin, despite there not being a drop of water touching him. Made of a sound wave conducting alloy, the sonic is a waterless shower designed to remove any and all unwanted particles, especially bacteria and microbes. The device reduces water consumption while also insuring that no cross contamination can occur in the plumbing system.
“Will you be needing me for the next two minutes, Lieutenant Lane?” Worm asks. “If not, then I would like to take 120 seconds to perform routine maintenance on your PSC.”
“Everything okay?” Ton asks.
“Yes, Lieutenant,” Worm replies. “A software patch has been uploaded to the mainframe and I need to download and install. It will repair the communication glitches the personal satellite chips have been experiencing lately. Control has been worried that individuals’ data has not been updating properly. It is a citywide protocol.”
“Then by all means, download and install,” Ton says. “Wouldn’t want my PSC to glitch and not report my bowel movements to Control.”
“Speaking of, Lieutenant,” Worm says. “You have not voided your bowels this morning. Will you be doing so after your sonic?”
“Let’s keep that one up in the air,” Ton says. “I hate to be too predictable, Worm.”
“Regular bowel movements are key to proper health and wellbeing,” Worm says.
“An impacted colon can be one of the first signs of bacterial imbalance,” Ton says, as if by wrote. “I know the drill, Worm. I’m not impacted or even constipated, just had a liquid diet last night.”
“You have a liquid diet every night, Lieutenant,” Worm responds.
“It’s a figure of speech,” Ton says. “One I’ve explained to you several times.”
“Yes, of course. I will also check my language files, specifically idioms, while performing maintenance.”
“You do that,” Ton says.
“Going offline now, Lieutenant, I will return in 120 seconds precisely.”
“Looking forward to it as always.”
Ton waits a couple seconds. “Worm? You there?” He smiles wide. “Thank God. Two minutes of peace.”
As an AiSP, Worm is just one of thousands of different programs designed to do everything from monitor and support GenSOF squads to cleaning up the Clean Nation city streets. The AiSPs keep everything in check and report all data back to Control, a massive domed facility isolated in the Sicklands where the research war against the Strains is conducted.
A quiet ding sounds and the sonic withdraws from around Ton. He steps out and a drawer slides open, revealing a fresh set of boxers and a tank top. The ones on the floor have been removed to the incinerator automatically. Another drawer slides open and Ton pulls out a pair of black pants and a long sleeved black shirt. He gets dressed and then waits.
“Worm? I need my boots, please.”
There is no response.
“Worm? 120 seconds are up. You there?”
Still no response.
Then a high-pitched noise screeches in his ear, forcing Ton to his knees. It’s gone almost as fast as it arrives, and is replaced by Worm’s voice.
“My apologies, Lieutenant,” Worm says. “The download was problematic. All is well now, though.”
“Except I am partially deaf,” Ton says, getting to his feet as he shakes his head. “That’s another figure of speech, Worm. You don’t have to perform a hearing test.”
“Already done and you do have a 3% loss of aural efficiency, Lieutenant,” Worm responds. “However, I do not scan any permanent damage and you will be back to 100% within the hour.”
“Good to know,” Ton says. “Now how about those boots?”
“Of course,” Worm replies and a drawer slides from the wall over next to the door.
“Thanks,” Ton says as he slips his feet into the boots. They automatically cinch up around his ankles without him having to touch them. He gives the wall a kick with his left foot then his right. “Tighter on the left down by the heel please, Worm.”
The adjustment is made and Ton kicks the wall once more.
“Perfect. Thanks.”
“My pleasure, Lieutenant,” Worm says. “Will you be leaving your quarters to retrieve Canine Unit Snorts?”
“Yep,” Ton says, waiting by the door. “Open up so I can go get my bug hound.”
The door slides open and Ton steps into the hallway. The door slides closed behind him and a thick mist fills his quarters, sterilizing every inch of the metal surfaces.
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br /> 2
A tail-wagging, mass of black hair and muscle greets Ton as the door to Milo’s quarters slides open.
Canine Units, or bug hounds to GenSOF operators, are trained military dogs, designed from the genes up to sniff out deadly bacteria, while also protecting their individual operator. They will kill anything to keep their operator safe, or die trying.
A genetic soup of dog breeds, bug hounds are clones that pull their quick intelligence from the German Shepherd, their single-minded determination from the Pitbull, their undying loyalty, as well as quiet stealth and thick fur, from the Chow Chow, and their unquenchable work ethic and problem solving ability from the Border Collie. With a little of this and that thrown in for genetic stability and health.
All pitch black fur with black tongues, black eyes, and even black teeth, a CU is impossible to spot in the dark. Their only distinguishing individual feature is the infrared ink muzzle tattoo that each has listing their name and squad number. But for an operator, it’s no problem telling them apart. Just as one person knows their own hand from another person’s.
“Hey, girl,” Ton smiles, crouching down to rub behind Snorts’ ears. “How’s my hundred pound killing machine?”
“She’s got gas,” Milo says from the corner of his quarters. “Or that could be me.” He lifts a glass of purple liquid. “Probably me.”
GenSOF Sergeant Courier Class Milo Kailua is seated cross legged in a form fitting chair that’s connected to the wall where his bunk was earlier that morning. Wearing only a tank top and boxers, his muscled bulk of 265 pounds looks out of place in the cramped space. An identical dog to the one Ton loves on sits next to Milo, his eyes watching the lieutenant and his bug hound.
Milo reaches out and scratches the dog’s ears and he lies down, but his attention never leaves the man and dog by the door. While Milo may be facing Ton and Snorts, his attention is on what is being projected directly onto his retinas via his IRIS- Intraocular Retinal Infrared Screen. His eyes are completely black and he’s busy swiping the air with one hand while taking reluctant sips from the glass with the other. From Milo’s perspective, he sees the pages of the latest mystery novel by superstar author, Coretta Belfour.
“Good book?” Ton asks. “Something I’d like?”
“Hold on,” Milo says. He swipes the air one more time, continues reading until he finishes the page, and then shakes his head. “IRIS off.”
The images leave his vision and he blinks a couple of times to orient himself.
“What? Oh, the book? Nah, not your stuff,” Milo says. He stands and the chair slides back into the wall, replaced by two smaller chairs next to each other. “Grab a seat, man. You look like shit. I thought the whole point of me watching Snorts was so you could sleep in.”
“Worm had other ideas,” Ton says. “Apparently my bacterial count was off ratio due to my alcohol intake last night.”
“The proper-” Worm starts.
“Shut up,” Ton scolds.
Milo smirks and motions to the chair again.
“Nope, can’t stay,” Ton says. “Gonna go make sure the rest of the squad is up in case we get called on to deal with that crap down there.” One of the chairs slides back into the wall.
“CCPD has it already locked down,” Milo says. “It was about free movement credits after all. Looks like the Mayor’s office has reduced the amount of people allowed on the street at one time. Folks are getting stir crazy.”
“Well, fuck them,” Ton says. “Try being GenSOF. We go from barracks to transport, tower to Sicklands, and back. They’d go even crazier if they weren’t allowed any movement.”
“But we get the Sicklands all for ourselves,” Milo smirks. “Scorched earth, dead trees, Cooties trying to kill us. Eden, man, Eden.”
Ton stumbles a bit as Snorts shoulders against him, pushing towards the door.
“Okay, we’re going,” Ton says. “Has she eaten?”
“Yeah,” Milo says, nodding to the identical mass of black hair and fur lying in the opposite corner. “Almost finished Gorge’s food too.”
Ton looks at a third dog that is curled up like an unmoving lump in the corner. He shakes his head. “That dog never eats unless Blaze feeds her.”
“Whereas yours will eat anything in sight,” Milo laughs. “But Worm scolded her and she backed off.”
Snorts gives a low growl.
“Worm? Are you scolding my dog now?” Ton asks.
“Meals are precisely calibrated for optimal health,” Worm replies. “Whether for humans or Canine Units, proper nutrition, in correct proportions, is essential to survival.”
“Proper nutrition speech?” Milo asks, looking at Ton. “He’s not in my ear.”
“Exactly.”
“Want some of my proper nutrition?” Milo asks, holding out the glass. “I can’t drink anymore of this crap.” Milo pauses then sighs as he cocks his head.
“Worm scolding you now?” Ton smiles.
Milo rolls his eyes then taps his left ear. “What was life like before we had a babysitter in our heads?”
“Peaceful?” Ton wonders. “Got mine at eighteen. That’s twenty years of AiSP voice. I don’t even remember what an empty head was like.”
“Almost makes you envy the civvies down on the street,” Milo says then waves at Ton. “Get going before I rip another one, man. It’s gas from the Purple. You really don’t want to be here.” Tequila sniffs then glares up at Milo. “See? I’m pissing off my own dog, man.”
“Thanks for the warning,” Ton says. “We still on for tonight?”
“You know it,” Milo replies. “Poker?”
“What else am I gonna do with her?” Ton laughs then walks from the room, the door sliding shut behind him. He looks down at Snorts. “Ready?”
The dog gives a quiet huff and the two move down the hallway, their blurry reflections shining from the gleaming metal walls.
AntiBio is available from Amazon here
