The Training of Socket Greeny
Tony Bertauski
Smashwords Edition
Copyright © 2010 by Tony Bertauski
All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form.
This book is a work of fiction. The use of real people or real locations is used fictitiously. Any resemblance of characters to real persons is purely coincidental
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Dedicated to those who are lost.
* * * * *
PART I
When the student is ready, the teacher will appear.
Buddhist proverb
Weapons are forged in fire.
The hotter the flame, the sharper the edge.
Pon
* * * * *
Killing Mother
The narrow alley was filled with cups and newspapers, empty cans and bottles. It was sandwiched between two-story buildings with grimy windows glowing with yellowish light. One window was open on the second story where curtains occasionally waved from an oscillating fan while I hid behind the lone dumpster.
I should’ve finished this mission by now.
Get to the window and save the victim, that’s all it was. I was good at that. But nothing was that simple. Not anymore.
I was through the window on my first attempt and saw my mother tied to a chair with a faceless enemy behind her. I hesitated, only 0.04 of a second, plenty of time to watch him drag the sharp edge of his hand over her throat. You lose, Socket. Try again.
Control your emotions, Pon always preached. Action must be decisive and pure. Never hesitate.
Pon, the mentor of all mentors. With him, there’s always a lesson. Even when you’ve watched your own mother choke on her blood a hundred times, there was a lesson.
Pon taught me how to think, how to move. And when the situation demanded it, he taught me how to kill. He designed my daily missions. In the beginning, they were simple, but now there were subtle traps, and traps within traps. Mind games. The solution wasn’t straight forward. Not anymore.
Brute force is always the weakest response. Another lesson.
This mission wasn’t about outmuscling an opponent, even though it looked like it on the surface. It was more about performing regardless of the situation. It was about focusing and seeing the course of action. It was about serving life. It was easy saving someone I didn’t know. Saving my mother, that was like walking a tight rope. One wrong thought, and it was a thousand feet down.
Still, I should’ve been done hours ago.
The back of my arm was sticky and hot. A sharp slit ran down the back of my sleeve. I felt my skin flap open. A deep gash went through the muscle. One of the duplicates caught me on the last attempt. I disposed of the thing quickly – its generic head toppled down the steps – but it slashed on the way down and got me. Bastard.
Duplicates were human imitations. They did everything a human did – eat, sleep, shit, whatever – only they weren’t human. At one time, they blended into society intent on killing every last one of us. Now they were gone. But for some reason, I was still fighting duplicate mock-ups in training sessions; only now they were faceless.
They can look like you, me, or your mother, Pon would tell me. The enemy has many faces.
I pulled the wound open, probing for poison tips that sometimes broke off and slowly shut down the nervous system. I’d be laid up for weeks if that was the case, but the wound was clean. I put a medical patch over it, sealing the skin shut. The patch dispensed microscopic nanomechs that mimicked white blood cells. They would reattach muscles, rebuild skin cells and dull nerve endings. Basically a high-tech Band-Aid. In most cases, an imbedded device at the back of my neck would directly release nanomech cells, but I couldn’t take the chance on it being slow. The patch was insurance I’d be good for tonight. If I ever finished.
Chute and Streeter were expecting me. I wondered if Chute would have her hair pulled back this time. The last time she had her hair down and wavy and even had on a little make-up.
I shook my head. Focus. My enemy was getting smarter. They learned from every attempt. They knew my tendencies, strengths and weaknesses. If my last attempt almost worked, it was guaranteed not to come close the next time. I was running out of options.
I pulled my aching legs under me. Another breath. Focus. Allow thoughts to fall away. Distractions to dissolve. The solution was in the moment. All that was needed was the space to allow it to be present.
Allow the unbroken circle, Pon would say. I wasn’t sure what the hell that meant, but visualizing a circle calmed my mind. When there was nothing but the city sounds of distant traffic, I opened my eyes.
The moon was brighter.
The air was stiller.
I flicked open my gloved hand. A three-dimensional image of the alley illuminated in my palm. I hardly needed mapgear to know what was behind me, but preparation required vigilance and discipline. Battles are won or lost before the first strike. If I could note one more detail, it could make the difference.
A rat scurried from one building to the next. The enemies were on the roof, in the shadows and doorways. It wasn’t realistic, duplicates weren’t into guerilla warfare. When they existed, they were more about infiltration and deception, but Pon designed these missions. Don’t question the master.
I stared at the mapgear image. Nothing new. I closed my eyes. Breathe in. Out.
Less is more. Pon repeated that one like a goddamn mantra. The solution is always simple.
Look at it from another angle. See all the possible solutions. If brute force is not the answer…
I reached for the evolver clubs on my belt. They unfolded – inside-out – and wrapped around my hands and forearms like thin transparent gloves, fusing with my nervous system like a thousand needles, awaiting thought-command.
The enemy didn’t know I was behind the dumpster, but they knew I was coming. They’d be expecting me to approach engulfed in a bubble shield, because that’s what I’d done all day. If I didn’t, they’d just shoot me on sight. With the shield, they had to engage me hand-to-hand. If they couldn’t beat me that way, they’d just execute the captive.
I needed to be faster. Unpredictable.
Less is more.
With a thought, a translucent strand emerged from my fingertip. It snaked between the wall and dumpster, slithering to the far end of the alley where the shadows were darkest in a broken doorway. Sweat stung my eyes. The evolver was stretched to its limits and shifted on my hand. Hundreds of nerve fusions broke away. I strained to maintain the thought-transmission.
I imagined a lanky form. Short and wiry. Bristly hair. Suspicious eyes. The tendril plumped in the doorway, taking a human shape. It occurred to me I was building Pon’s body. Would it strike extra fear in the enemy’s heart? Or did that just happen to me?
Weakness poured down my back like icy water. Indecipherable voices warbled in my head. I strained against the distraction. Is that the enemy’s thoughts, sending them out like static to distract me? Of course, they were l
earning. They knew the distraction was as much a weapon as a dagger. I braced against the intrusion until the random thoughts subsided.
I redoubled my efforts, grinding my teeth. I focused on the end of the strand, held the image in my mind until a body stood at the far end of the alley.
I took a moment to focus. I had to be quick. If this didn’t work, it was going to hurt.
Breathe in.
Out.
A tranquil moment settled inside me; the silence a warrior experiences before certain death, the complete acceptance of the present moment filled me. Live or die, Pon says, it does not matter when you serve the present moment. Embrace life and death.
I was never quite sure if I could actually die during training. It could hurt like hell, but death? They wouldn’t let me die, would they?
I focused some more.
In that silence, the evolver ripped from my arm and snapped down the alley toward the figure. Trash scattered in its path. The alley stirred to life. The enemy emerged from hiding, climbing from the roof and out of the shadows, strategically hemming the possible attacker into the corner.
My timing had to be perfect. I waited behind the dumpster, gripping my lone evolver-wrapped hand. I waited for the precise moment.
The figure in the doorway picked up the evolver club that slid to its feet. It glowed softly, illuminating the figure’s aggressive posture. The enemy was careful. They stayed near the ground and climbed down the smooth walls like insects, watching. The figure would not escape, but they had to confirm its identity. My attack would be useless the moment they discovered it was a decoy. The figure slumped against the doorway, sliding to the ground like a drunk. The enemy reached for its face—
A bright whip blasted from my evolver-wrapped hand like a serpent’s tongue and smacked around the railing outside the second story window. It yanked me off the ground. Wind rushed into my face.
I twisted to avoid colliding with the railing and swung through the window, ripping through the curtains and careening over my mother’s head with her captor’s hand to her throat. I smashed into the far wall.
The whip released the railing and returned to my outstretched hand, immediately recoiling like a stiff-pointed lance. The sharpened tip pierced the enemy’s forehead with a dull ffthmp. His head kicked back.
The enemy was colorless. Blue circuit fluid drained from the hole in its forehead. Its body crumpled like an empty sack. A red line appeared across my mother’s throat.
But she didn’t fall.
The line didn’t gush, didn’t drain her life. They had opened her throat a hundred times that day, but this time it didn’t cut deep enough. Finally, she lived.
I fell over, couldn’t breathe. A shifting in my back meant cracked ribs. Mother put her hands on me. Her expression of concern was accurate and realistic, but her touch was cold. In the distance, a wailing police siren faded.
A single curtain blew in the open window, then fell on the floor and melted. The walls turned white. The image of my mother melted like wax into the floor, followed by the walls. In seconds, I lay in the center of an ordinary white room.
“Mission complete,” the room reported.
Home Aches
The floor was spongy and sterile, but the smell of the rotting dumpster was still hanging around. Pain spread across my ribs like claws. Not tonight. I can’t be laid up, tonight.
The room was empty, except for the faceless enemy lying next to me, a gaping hole between the eyes. I touched the thing’s forehead. I could mentally scan the thing, but direct touch would allow me to experience its thoughts while I drained its life force. It wasn’t real, so it wasn’t murder.
Those things were just fabrications of the training room, designed to be exactly like a duplicated human. A duplicate of a duplicate. I always touched them when a mission ended to get insight into their motivation. Why did they want to live? Because they were copies of humans? Because they were self-centered? But each time I drained one, all I saw was programming to destroy humans and multiply. Was there anything else? Did they just want to feel real?
A six-foot silver humanoid walked into the room, his plum-colored overcoat waving around his knees, his physique chiseled. He was similar to a duplicate, thinking with artificial intelligence, but he served the Paladin Nation. It contradicted our mission, but I wasn’t going to argue. If humans were more like Spindle, the world would be a better place.
“Congratulations, Master Socket!” Spindle had no face, just a textured surface with a single eyelight. “You have completed the mission with near perfection. The diversion was effective and your elimination of the abductor flawless. Trainer Pon will be very pleased.”
Spindle’s naked foot was a perfect replication of a human foot dipped in molten silver. He slid his hand over my ribs, his fingertips emitting healing vibrations. Warmth seeped beneath my skin.
“You have fractured two ribs. I will stimulate healing to assuage your discomfort, but I recommend we go to the infirmary for deep penetration—”
A pair of boots stepped quietly next to Spindle. Pon was no taller than me, slightly lanky. His skin was brown, his hair a shore of stubble. A thin scar curved beneath his jaw, starting at his left ear and curling under his chin. Some Paladins say he destroyed twenty enemies in hand-to-hand, that he cheated death by holding his throat together while he finished the last one. But no one knew for sure. No one knew anything about Pon.
I struggled to my hands and knees, stifling a groan.
“It is highly recommended you rest before standing,” Spindle said.
My vision blurred, but I stood anyway. Pon watched Spindle press his hand against my ribs. The spot was already feeling better. The bright eyelight that rotated on his featureless faceplate focused on the medical patch oozing on my arm. Dark blue sparkled on his face.
“That needs medical attention,” Spindle said.
“It can wait,” I replied.
I felt like I’d survived a stampede. I stopped breathing to avoid wincing but hiding pain from Pon was pointless. I could pretend like it didn’t hurt all I wanted, smile like I was top-notch, but he would know just by looking at me. I let my breath rattle out and grimaced, stopped pretending.
Pon paced around me while Spindle’s hands radiated warmth. I wanted to shake him off, but it felt too good. I needed it. Pon intentionally let his almond-shaped eyes fall on my bandaged arm, a slight curl on the corner of his lips.
“Well done, cadet,” he said. “You saved your mother on the 135th attempt.” He stopped in front of me and let the smile spread to the other side of his mouth. “Well done, indeed.”
“Trainer Pon,” Spindle said, raising his hand, “the exercise was completed faster than any previously recorded attempt—”
It only took a look and Spindle stepped back. Pon’s presence spoke clearly.
“I want a fully detailed synopsis of each attempt,” Pon said. “All 135 of them. Have it done in full animated re-enactment with an analysis of each failure. You will walk me through each one.”
“I have a break tonight. I’m going home.”
Home? He didn’t have to say it, the expression did it clear enough. It was the tension along his jaws. But I was going home whether he liked it or not. I hadn’t been there in months. He could put a stop to it, could make me stay, require me to analyze every goddamn failed attempt so I could learn, learn, learn and train until my ass was chapped. But if he made me stay, he’d have to deal with my mother. An assassin like Pon knew how to pick his battles.
He looked to the floor, began the pace again. “Would your father failed to have saved your mother?” he asked. “Would he have failed 134 times?”
“I’m not my father.”
“That doesn’t answer the question.”
I met his stare as he came around. “I am who I am.”
“You don’t know who you are, cadet.”
He locked his hands behind his back, awaiting a response. I gave him a response, but not in words.
I was fully present, centering my awareness in the core of my stomach. I could not make myself be anything but what I am. But who am I? I showed him. I am now.
He narrowed his eyes. The atmosphere intensified. He sucked his breath between his teeth. Perhaps he was considering a discussion with Mother, after all; have me train another three months before going home. Hell, if he got his way I’d never see home again. The guy lived for this shit. Not me. I still had a life and a home I wanted to see. I had Chute.
He stopped in front of me. “The synopsis is due in forty-eight hours.”
I nodded. He nodded back, just a slight tip of his chin. A slow blink. He paced behind me and then his quiet footsteps fell silent. The tension in the air suddenly evaporated. I turned. Pon was gone, leaving as mysteriously as he appeared.
I pulled at the bottom of my shirt, felt my ribs shift. “Help me with my shirt, will you, Spindle?”
“It is advisable to cool down.” He put his hand on my forehead. “Your energy levels are near exhaustion. You have been in this mission for over seven hours and you have not eaten nor rested.”
“I’ll grab a snack on the way.”
“You cannot maintain this schedule, Master Socket.”
“So far, so good.” I tugged on my shirt. “A little help?”
Spindle pulled the shirt over my head. I wiped my sweaty face with the shirt, threw it over my shoulder and started for the dim archway on the wall. While Pon got around through some mysterious network of hidden tunnels, the rest of us still used the leapers.
“If I may ask,” Spindle said, marching with me, “what are your plans for tonight?”
“I don’t know.” I stopped at the archway. “You coming?”
Socket 2 - The Training of Socket Greeny Page 1
