by M. K. Gibson
Reynolds just watched the demon advance on him while he held his lighter in his hand.
“You’re not going to try and fight?”
“Your people took my weapons. Plus, you never said ‘thank you’ for the cigarette.”
“Why the fuck would I show kindness to you?”
“Because some of the innocuous objects explosives were sometimes hidden in included cigars and cigarettes.”
Reynolds pressed his thumb against the side of his lighter, activating the built-in transmitter. The micro receiver in the rolled-up semtex hidden inside the cigarette’s filter activated. The detonation wasn’t huge, not much louder than a gunshot. But the controlled explosion killed the demon instantly. Considering the slaughter going on in the valley below, one more warlike sound wasn’t noticed.
Leraje’s headless body slumped to the ground. Reynolds walked over and knelt beside the body. Removing the demon’s ARCTech Nova-5 communicator from her belt, he pressed the transmit button and held it to his mouth.
“I don’t know who’s listening, and I don’t care. But the next time you send someone to double-cross me, make sure they have manners,” Reynolds said. “And the credit transfer better be real. Otherwise, I’ll make sure the human coalition knows the whereabouts of your frontier supplies and all troop movements within a hundred miles.”
Reynolds waited a moment, hearing nothing but static from the communicator. Then, the line squawked. “Mr. Reynolds, we applaud your survival instincts and ruthlessness. The credit transfer has gone through. We look forward to your return to Lemegeton.”
“Thank you.”
“But,” the voice warned, “speak to a superior being like that again and we’ll flay you alive.”
“Yeah. You can go fuck yourself,” Reynolds said as the line went dead.
Chapter Three
Karl Urban was a Beautiful Man
I opened my eyes, waiting for the pain to kick in, the room to spin and the vomit to spray. But the pain didn’t come. I didn’t spin. I didn’t puke like Linda Blair. By Thor’s giant, ginger-haired nut sack, I was alive!
I still ached, but I reckoned the Collective did a triage and head trauma came first. And I do love my head. It’s where I keep all my great ideas.
“Dobro jutro!” came a blaring, synthesized Slavic voice. I rolled my head to the side and saw T coming at me. For most people, T would be freaky sight as he clanked, wheezed, sparked, and popped. The approximately five-foot-tall, four-armed, six-legged mech came waddling in a mess of gears and sprockets all working in insane harmony.
An ultra-def panoramic camera served as a head for the mech’s most notable feature—a human head in a thick glass containment unit smack dab in the center of the chest. The head was wired into the mech’s circuitry, keeping it alive. Oh, did I mention the head was mother-freaking Nicola Tesla?
The same Tesla who triumphed over Edison in the War of the Currents. The same Tesla whose insane genius confounded brilliant men for centuries. And the same madman who defied the laws of nature and discovered a way to keep his mind alive while giving the Grim Reaper the middle finger. The first cyborg.
“Wakey wakey! Sleepy time over, little cyborg man,” T said. “No more dream of porno tapes and 8-tracks.”
“Porno tapes, sure,“ I said groggily, sitting up on the med table. “But 8-tracks were a little before my time.”
“Hmmm. You miss out, da. ‘In A Gadda Da Vida’ never sound better than 8-track.”
“Name five more Iron Butterfly songs,” I challenged him.
“Hmm . . . point to you. Asshole,” T said, and I laughed until it hurt.
“How long have I been out?”
“Mmm, few days? Da.” T moved about, hooking up a new IV line of the same brown sludge he used to patch me up. “Collective inform me head trauma pretty severe. How fast you going?”
“Dunno. A little past two hundred. Hard to remember on account of there was a guy with a freaking rocket.”
“Da, Grimm tell me. He not get good look. You?”
“I saw something,” I said, shaking my head and trying to remember. “But it all happened so fast I can’t remember exactly. To be fair, the giant fuck-all missile coming to kill me kinda had my attention.”
“Tsk . . . drama bitch. Heard it was barely rocket.”
“How would you know? You weren’t there, T.”
“Because I smart and you . . . so-so. Remember when we first meet?” T asked, and I damn sure remembered that.
“Yeah, I remember. I woke up in a hospital bed while you were patching me up and giving me upgrades I never asked for after Grimm’s nine-day torture session.”
Shortly after meeting him, T had experimented with my unconscious body, convincing my Collective to turn me into a walking generator. That and a few other upgrades and I was faster, stronger, and better than ever. Salem 2.0.
“Da. But upgrades you need.”
“You’re talking about the sensory storage and playback,” I said, and one of T’s mechanical arms patted me on the head.
“See, you learn. Like puppy. Not fast, but eventually. Good job, Puddles. Think I have treat around here somewhere.” T’s mechanical body turned, panning the camera, looking.
“Ha freaking ha. Just get the equipment ready,” I said, sitting up. I was in the underground motor pool that had been doubling for T’s lab since it had a freight elevator to the surface. After Grimm and T lost their home in a demon firebomb attack, I’d inherited them, just like the refugees of Midheim.
Seemed like my home was the haven for wayward souls. Since then, the motor pool had become T’s personal playground of mad inventions. It was also the only space big enough for his larger seven- and ten-foot mech chassis that his current one fit into, like a cyberpunk Matryoshka doll.
I found my pants, fished out my smokes and a lighter, lit one up, and rolled my shoulders, working out the kinks. I was sure if I had a mirror nearby I would have looked like a bruised mess. My balance felt a little off.
“Did you add more mass to me without asking?”
“Da,” T replied confidently.
I repressed a sigh. “Why did you add extra mass to me without asking?”
“You need extra capacitor cells to store energy. I upgrade system for better energy storage and output. Besides, you looking scrawny. Fill out t-shirts better.”
“You hitting on me, T?”
“Hmm. You wish.”
“Glad to see you up and about, boy,” the holographic projection of my father said as he flitted about, working on several projects at once.
It’s always nice seeing your dead dad happy. Long story. The short version: My mother and father exist as holographic digital projections of their former selves. Their bodies are technically alive and kept functioning, suspended in vats of nutra-fluid within a stasis pod where a supercomputer constantly maps their brain functions, converting that data into their digital selves.
Since T came here, the old man was almost alive again, working side by side with his childhood hero. It was nice to see him happy again. Of course, my dad was always happy. Part of his . . . condition.
“Thanks, Dad. But I still feel pretty wrecked. The Collective is taking its sweet-ass time.”
“Your Collective is not a miracle worker; it takes time.”
“You should know,” I said.
The source of my immortality and abilities were thanks to him. He designed the Collective of microscopic robotic nanites and injected me with them when I was eleven years old. The tiny robots made me faster and stronger immediately. In time they added neural wired pathways, dense synth-weave musculature, carbon nano-tubes of grafted skeletal bone composite, a wireless messaging burst transmitter/receiver, and a host of other kick-ass cyborg crap.
“Salem, chat with Papa later. Get in chair and open data link,” T told me, and I obeyed.
T had a special tech chair set up for me where he liked to tinker on me, trying new upgrades and testing his gadgets. My
own personal Q. I opened a non-decay link to T’s wireless network.
“OK, link established. Let’s rewind my brain and find the fucker who tried to kill me.”
A digital multi-dimensional holographic projection floated in the air before us. The memory started at the fights, with me getting smacked around a bit.
“Heh heh,” T chuckled
“Shut it. I freaking won that fight.”
“Hmm. Look like you jerk off demon.”
I frowned at the Slavic cyborg. “Just fast-forward to the highway,” I told T, and I could see the contained head smiling.
T manipulated the recording of what I saw that night, skipping ahead to the explosion itself. The light of the detonation was intense and brought back bad memories of asphalt and broken me. T slowly rewound the image, the blast shrinking back to a plasma rocket warhead itself. From there, T backed up a little more to the moment where I first saw the rocket contrails. The image paused there, and standing atop the arched highway support structure in the distance was a figure aiming the launcher. My assassin.
OK sweetheart, what’s your name?
“Zoom in, T.”
T complied, but we could barely make him out. The photo was a touch blurry since it wasn’t focused on him. He was short and stocky with a midnight blue synth-skin performance top, tactical cargo pants, and an L-shaped bandolier of holsters, pouches, and gear.
He kinda looked like a bad comic book character.
“Any idea who this fucker is?”
“No.”
“Ne.”
“Great. Might be a pro hitter,” I said.
“Good. Glad I tinker while you asleep,” T said.
“Have you ever heard that unconsciousness doesn’t imply consent?”
“Da. But in your case . . . meh?” T said, raising his four arms out with his palms up.
“What did you do to me this time?” I asked. “I thought I was your patient.”
“Da. And . . . pet project?”
“Son of a bitch, T!” I exclaimed. “What did you do to me this time?”
“Nothing, nothing. Well . . . while you sleep, I fix up all broken bits, recharge you, few other tweaks. Also, Collective and I decide that you need more protection.”
“Protection?” I asked skeptically.
“We decide you need internal shield generator. Will run off existing system. Like your energy shield deflectors in tech bracers, will create total body shield in emergency situations, pinpoint barrier when not emergency.”
“Pinpoint barrier?” I asked
“Da. Small arm fire. Blade. Usual stupid shit you do on regular basis. Think of like own personal bulletproof vest.” I couldn’t argue with him. Being me is a bitch sometimes. I was a magnet for painful events.
“So this shield works like my old density coat?”
“Like coat,” T confirmed. “Pinpoint you mobile. Total body, you immobile. Just so you know, you can control, but so can Collective.”
I knew there had to be a fucking catch.
“When can it activate the full shield? I don’t need the Collective pulling some crap when I’m in the thick of it.”
“Already think of that. Collective can monitor for pinpoint barrier, but so can you. Think of shield spot and there it be. Collective can only activate body shield when life in mortal danger. Otherwise, big no-no.” That seemed reasonable.
“Anything else?” I asked. Knowing T, he saved the best for last.
“Hmm. Da. New guns.”
Whoa. Now we were treading on some pretty thin freaking ice. My guns were my own design. Well, Dad’s design, but I built them. Genetically coded to work for me and only me.
“T, please tell me you didn’t ruin my guns.”
“No no no. Glupo Jebach. Modify. Make better. Now is new guns.”
I eyed the mad mech skeptically. “Go on.”
T placed mechanical hands on his nonexistent hips. “You need trust more.”
When I continued staring, T raised his arms in exasperation. “Decide straight ionized plasma not efficient. Using some of own ideas, I combine direct energy with plasma. Output now faster, more powerful. You supply power, guns do rest.”
“Did you just make me sci-fi blasters?”
“Eh, close enough. Use with tech bracers’ hard-light cameras now make attachments required.”
OK, that was really freaking impressive. My tech bracers were another creation of mine. A mix of Batman’s utility belt and a Swiss army knife. Blades, computer, grapple lines, and a few other tricks. Last time T tinkered on them, he added a mass inducer and installed my portable hard-light camera. It allowed me to create tactile holograms to synthesize whatever tool I needed at the time. Looks like he figured a way to get it to work with my guns. Well, if anyone could, it would be Tesla.
“Get dressed. Grimm want to know when you up and mobile so you can start investigation,” T told me.
I put my jeans and boots on. Ahh, jeans. Over three hundred years and they never go out of style. I think they’ve lasted this long because of all the movies and TV shows we’re stuck watching from pre-G-Day. Someone had taken the liberty of bringing down one of my dark gray Dropkick Murphys t-shirts I got from a concert I saw back in 2013. Great show. Best live band, period.
Well, in truth it, like all my t-shirts, was a replica. There was no way a t-shirt would last a couple hundred years. I had all of mine stored in my stasis modules, keeping them safe from the ravages of time, and used my own digital-synth replicator. Original throwback clothing like that was a hot commodity among collectors. But I would never part with my original DKM shirts.
Clicking my tech bracers into place and buckling on my blaster holsters, I felt like me again.
“Sounds good. I’m gonna find the prick who took my stuff and shove my boot so far up his ass he’ll taste laces.”
“Descriptive,” my father said.
“It’s a gift. So where is Father Spooky?”
“In the library with your mother.”
Shit.
“Thanks T, thanks Dad. For everything.”
“Is all good,” he said as we bumped fists. Well, my fist and his . . . clamp? Regardless, the gesture was one we adopted. Made him feel hip, I guess.
I paused for a moment before heading upstairs to the library. “Hey T?”
“Da?”
“Pinpoint barrier? Body shield? Adjustable guns? If I didn’t know any better, I would swear our resident mad genius had been re-watching my Robotech DVDs and the crappy Dredd for his inspiration.”
For a moment, T just stared at me with his panoramic camera, not moving.
“I see you aren’t denying ripping those ideas off,” I said.
“You no speak ill of Judge Dredd,” T said, intentionally changing the subject.
“I am the law? Meh. Now Dredd, the one with Karl Urban, was the good one,” I countered.
“Take back. Stallone Dredd is best Dredd! What? You like re-make Dredd? Karl Urban, bah!”
“Hey! Karl Urban was a beautiful man!”
“Feh.”
“Ghost Ship? Pathfinder? Doom? Chronicles of Riddick? One whole season of Almost Human?” T asked with a serious questioning tone.
“All awesome! OK, I will give you Riddick, that was crap. And you can’t blame Karl for Almost Human. That show was good. But it was on FOX, so come on.”
“Da,” T said. “Poor Firefly. OK, go on, find Grimm and get stuff back. Kill assassin. Kick ass. Usual stuff.”
“So, does the barrier actually work?” I asked.
One of T’s mechanical arms grabbed an old world .45 from his workbench and shot me center mass. The impact put me on my ass and hurt like hell. Instinctively my hand went to my chest. All there was was a deformed slug adhered to me and a massive bruise forming.
Damn. Even my shirt was fine. Nice work, T. Nice work, Collective.
//YOU ARE WELCOME HOST//
I smiled and saluted T, who waved me off as I limped upstairs with
my chest feeling like it had been mule kicked. I guess not too many other people get shot in the chest by their own personal mad doctor-slash-mechanic.
************************
Before I saw Grimm, I needed to make a call to the kingdom’s archbishop. I technically didn’t live in a sanctioned district in Ars Goetia, so no local lord or bishop. Which meant I got to go straight to the top and chit-chat. Even if the archbishop, the enforcer of the archduchess’s will, was an asshole. But the demon was a friend of mine. I got him the job, after all.
Chapter Four
A Rabid Badger Explodes From My Ass
My underground lair was an old underground R&D facility in western Maryland that my dad’s company had used for top-level government work. Completely off the grid and powered by geothermal energy, it was the perfect lair.
After the wars broke out, I reclaimed this hidden place as my own, turning it into my shrine to “before.” Before the world went to shit and demons walked the earth. Well, I guess they always walked the earth in some form.
Movie posters from my childhood hung on the walls. Some old action figures sat upon shelves next to read and re-read, taped-up paperback novels. A framed collage of concert ticket stubs hung on the wall next to a few of my own half-assed attempts at art.
No matter how many times I tried art or music in my 225 years or so, I never got any better at it. I realized early on that if I spent hours and hours really practicing something, I’d only end up average, so I quit. Sorry. It’s just my nature. If I couldn’t be good at something, I stopped doing it.
Makes me wonder why I kept trying to have sex then.
But tinkering with stuff? Building tech? That was my gift. That and random acts of destruction. I headed to my bedroom, crashed down on my bed and grabbed my vid-messenger. I tapped out a code sequence on the messenger, reaching out to Maz.
Maz’ael was my buddy—as much of a buddy you can be with a demon. He was a topsider, born after the great rise. He used to be the bishop of the Razor Bay district in what used to be the greater Baltimore region. But through my guile and fancy maneuvering, after we brought down Archduke Abraxas, he was elevated to the archbishop of the entire Kingdom of Ars Goetia under the new archduke, High Lady Bathin. It was unheard of for one not born in the Infernal Realm to rise so high so quickly. Maz was nothing if not ambitious.
