Foreign Devil (Unreal Universe Book 1)

by Lee Bond

  “Excuse me! Excuse me!”

  Garth, mouth full of cheese Danish, turned to look at the shouting man. He was down earlier than most of the other challengers, so the banquet hall was mercifully quiet. A few of the other guys he’d made eye contact with the day before were eating and talking quietly amongst themselves. Serious competitors, unlike the gomers sleeping off their alcohol-induced comas. “Yeah?”

  “You Garth Nickels?”

  Swallowing noisily, Garth reached out and grabbed hold of the man’s proteus bearing forearm. He twisted until he could see the little screen. He nodded at the image. “Sure looks like me.” He let the handler go. One of the men at a far table had seen the move and was nudging his buddies to pay attention.

  Undaunted, Sa Robret Chavez bulled his chin forward. He wasn’t afraid of any Offworlder, no matter how dirty or savage. “There is information missing from your registration files, and I need to ask you some questions.”

  Piling his plate full of sausage, egg, bacon, and something that looked a lot like cornbread, Garth nodded to an empty seat. Balancing the full plate with one hand, he poured himself a cup of coffee and sat down. His handler sat opposite him. “Who’re you?” he asked, attacking his plate with gusto.

  “Robret Chavez. I work for the Game.” Robret kept his hands folded on the table; getting a finger near the blur of eating utensils, teeth and food was likely to result in a trip to the hospital. He’d never seen someone eat that way in his entire life, and he had a brother in the God army.

  “Don’t look Latelian to me.” Garth muttered around some cornbread. “You’re way too short. You’re like, shorter than I am, and I ain’t tall.”

  “I … that’s none of your business.” Robret replied hotly.

  “So what,” Garth asked after taking a good, long, thoughtful sip of coffee, “makes you think anything about me is your business?”

  “If you expect to fight in the Game, your records need to be complete.” Robret looked over his shoulder at the other men in the room. He wasn’t sure, but it felt like they were paying the situation more attention than was warranted. As a matter of fact, it looked like they were making bets.

  “Wait here.” Garth got up and loaded himself another plate, this time grabbing a double-handful of bacon. Fuck the other contestants. He sat back down and repressed a smile as he saw how unhappy Robret Chavez was getting. “Why don’t you tell me what’s missing and I’ll decide if I want to fill in the blanks and what I want to fill them with.”

  Frowning fussily but seeing there was going to be no easy resolution, Robret conceded defeat. “Every participant, even you Offworlders, needs to have a press packet drawn up for reporters and journalists. This is to prevent you from answering the same questions over and over again. It saves time. This information is also used to generate collectible memorabilia for Game enthusiasts.”

  “I get any money from the sale of those items?” Garth flashed a wink at the assembled crowd. One or two were actually taking notes.

  “Um, no.” Robret couldn’t believe the audacity of the man. It was an honor to fight in The Game. Money shouldn’t even be an issue.

  “Then why should I care if the information I gave you is incomplete?” Garth belched loudly, getting halfway through the alphabet. He gave Robret a sloppy grin. “Nothing burps better’n bacon.”

  “Sa,” Robret felt his cheeks turn red, “if your life is in danger in the ring, your popularity with the viewers could very well save it. The more in-depth your press kit is, the more detailed your collectibles, the more likely it is people will vote to let you live.”

  “Oh.” Garth said, pretending that he’d never even considered that as a possibility. “Well. Like I said. What are you missing?”

  “Everything from before ten years ago is … missing.” Robret said, heaving a sigh of relief. “And there are large gaps in those years.”

  “Sucks to be you, pal.” Garth shrugged. He slopped some eggs onto a piece of cornbread and shoved the resulting pile into his mouth. “Wasn’t around ten years ago. Other stuff’s classified. I’d have to kill this whole planet if that stuff got out.”

  Robret sat there, watching the Offworlder stuff his face with food, a look of utter incomprehension on his own. It simply wasn’t in him to understand a man who had no interest at all in putting his best foot forward. Every other Offworlder in the Hotel -and those soon to arrive - willingly told everything they could about themselves, sometimes lying so badly about past exploits that they actually started laughing partway through. It didn’t matter, so long as promoters had something to tell the gameheads. “But …”

  “Look,” Garth smiled easily, “if it makes it any easier for you, just make shit up. I don’t care what you say. I talked with some guy name of Sa Miguel Hertzog at the registration office about all this, and he said it’s really not necessary for my press kit or whatever to be truthful.” Actually, it’d taken a modest bribe to convince Miguel of this, but that was beside the point. After killing four members of a local gang, he didn’t want anyone knowing his service record. Someone in office would probably take it the wrong way.

  “I can’t do that.” Robret said indignantly, stiffening up. “It’d be wrong.”

  “Oh for fuck’s sake.” Garth snapped, his patience worn thin. “I was raised by rabid wolf-men on 166-Kierny-12 in the Portsmouth System. Living on nothing but roots, tubers, and the occasional stupid backpacker who got lost in the woods, I eventually learned how to speak by listening to a malfunctioning hooker-bot. I killed a park ranger, got thrown in jail. There, I learned how to knit. Then I came here to fornicate with robots and eat large buildings. I like boats, fluffy kitties and Aerosmith, but nothing after Pump. They went clean after Pump.”

  Robret nodded, giving in. After thinking about it, The Game handler realized it really didn’t matter, as long as no one said anything different. He gathered from Garth’s attitude that anything would go over just fine with him. Being left alone was his primary concern. “I have your itinerary for the day.”

  Garth pushed his plate away with a clatter of cutlery. “Again, sucks to be you. I read over the requirements on the way back from registering yesterday, and it doesn’t say anywhere in there that I’ve gotta follow this whole thing. I get four hours a day alone time, and I’m a get-up-and-do-it-early guy. I got shit to do this morning. I’ll be at this weigh-in thingie that’s going on later in the day, and then it’s me, on the couch in my room, eating and drinking and occasionally farting. If you don’t like it, try and stop me.”

  Robret, who’d heard about Garth’s display from another handler, wasn’t in the mood to risk his life over something intended to keep Offworlders out of trouble. If Garth Nickels wanted to roam the streets inciting good, honest, hard-working Latelians into riot, then so be it. If everything worked out well, a rampaging mob would kill Garth and he could go back to Marketing where it was quiet and hardly anyone tried to stab him with a fork.

  Si Mijomi leaped out at Garth as he strolled casually out of the banquet room. “What d‘you want, Si Mijomi?”

  The terribly thin woman glared daggers at him, and actually drew her lips back in a snarl when she caught sight of his proteus. She remembered the words of warning from Management, though, and bit back her scathing words. “You are not allowed to have things delivered here.” She hissed.

  “Why not?” Garth asked, continuing on towards the front doors. He couldn’t believe how hot it was in the lobby. The few plants lining the Front Desk had wilted away into nothingness, and the carpet was actually starting to grow. He expected if the problems weren’t fixed by the time he got back, most of the contestants would be cooked alive. At least then, Mijomi could have something to eat.

  “You just aren’t.” Anticipating dissent, Mijomi had prepared a Sheet containing Management’s reasons why not. She thrust it into his hands. “You are lucky this … World of Protean Might called to double-check the address, Offworlder. I would have just thrown the netLINK int
o the street.”

  “Something tells me you wouldn’t be terribly broken up about that.” Garth loaded the Sheet’s info onto his proteus and tossed the useless wafer back at Mijomi. It bounced off her hands and hit the ground with a clatter. “Forewarned is forearmed, Si Mijomi. I’ll take care of the matter.”

  “See that you do, Offworlder.” Mijomi’s face split into a caricature of a smile, and she stormed back to her perch at the Front Desk. “See that you do.”

  “Egads.” Garth shuddered. Mijomi was a horrible woman.

  xxx

  Outside, while waiting for the cab driver from the day before to pick him up, Garth contacted Protean Might to ask if they could hold onto the main system until he found someplace for storage. His idea to get the main system past Port security was still in the planning stages, but he needed somewhere safe to examine the innards without drawing suspicion before that. When Sa Turuin said it was no problem, Garth promised the flighty salesman one more time that he’d call back the moment he figured out how to program a proteus in 3D.

  Then he called Bullet Emporium and asked them to put the order on hold until he got back in touch with them later on that day. Sa John didn’t look too pleased at having to do that, but once Garth promised to buy a couple cartridges of something called ‘.60 cal splitshot’, he relented.

  Five minutes later, Jimmish Dorn rolled up in his taxicab and Garth hopped in. “Heya, Jimmy.”

  Jimmy looked at his fare through the rearview mirror. For an Offworlder, Jimmy supposed the guy was all right. He was a good tipper and didn’t act like he was better than anyone else. More importantly, he’d given him a good solid tip on who to bet on during the Game. “Not too bad, Sa Garth.”

  “You know where we’re headed?” Garth booted up a sketch program and started doodling out the gang logo he’d memorized.

  “Oh yeah, sure.” Jimmy merged onto the freeway that would take them directly to the spaceport. Every time he came out this way, the cabbie was amazed at how much traffic there was. It was like an epidemic. “’s one of my regular runs.”

  “Get into any trouble with your boss over me?” Garth wanted to avoid getting Jimmy into trouble. The cabbie was friendly and willing to put up with all the stupid questions an evil Offworlder had, a rare commodity on Hospitalis.

  “Sa Stephan don’t care who I pick up so long as I log the fare.” Jimmy cut a delivery truck off before the fool could cut him off. “It’s not unheard of for cabbies to drive one person around all day, especially, you know, around Central.”

  “Just so long as everything’s cool.” Garth finished up the logo sketch. “Hey, Jimmy … your prote set up to receive data?”

  “Hold on a sec.” Jimmy propped his knees up against the steering wheel, tapped a few commands into his well-worn proteus, then took control with his hands again. “Go ahead. What you sending me?”

  “Logo I saw yesterday.” Garth sent the small picture off and settled back into the seat. For some reason, he found the rush and roar of traffic very relaxing, and he started daydreaming about what was in the ship.

  “Oh yeah,” Jimmy said with a laugh, jerking Garth out of his reverie, “I know those guys. ‘s a tag for a gang name of The Port Side Boys. Call themselves Portsiders for short. Big-time. One of the other cabbies who drives this area told me they tried to shake him down a couple months ago.”

  “Any idea what they’re into?”

  “They bothering you or something?” Jimmy tried to gauge Garth’s reaction and failed miserably.

  “No. Saw their logo, got curious. Wanna make sure if I do run into ‘em, I know what to expect.”

  Jimmy nodded. It made a lot of sense, seeing as how Garth was an Offworlder fighting in the Game. If anyone was going to attract the attention of those guys, it’d be someone who wasn’t really all that welcome in the first place. And a rich guy like Garth was an even better target. Jimmy didn’t know how rich Garth was, but he was getting a thousand dollars an hour to drive the guy around, so he figured rich enough to get the Portsiders’ attention for sure. They got to the port a few minutes later and once again, he promised he would wait for Garth. Jimmy watched the Offworlder for a few minutes before tipping his hat down over his eyes for a snooze.

  xxx

  Garth waited patiently while the Security Officer, this time a man twice as big as any Latelian he’d seen so far, went through the motions of frisking him and checking him for illegal substances and evil intentions. It was all an act, because Garth had already done his due diligence by contacting Port Authority to warn them he was coming; avatars running the interface had informed him that as a precautionary measure, Meadowlark Lemon was now under camera surveillance, and at no extra cost!

  The supposedly non-sentient Port avatars had also been very succinct in their warnings about perceived criminal activities. If they didn’t like what they saw, they would destroy Meadowlark Lemon immediately and then throw him into the deepest, darkest cell on the planet.

  It was very uncomfortable, being manhandled by a guy with hands big enough to wrap his fingers around a basketball. Twice. Garth was very happy to be let go, and suggested that the next time the guard wanted a good time, dinner and dancing should be involved.

  Meadowlark Lemon was still all by its lonesome on the far end of the landing docks, surrounded by an additional ring of anti-AI devices and a dozen glaringly obvious cameras. The presence of an AI on the planet was making someone very nervous. So nervous, in fact, that it was actually kind of funny. Whoever the mystery worrier was, they’d never know they were wasting resources and sleepless nights; because Huey was now officially rogue, he’d do whatever it took keep his inorganic ass alive and functioning, even if it meant putting up with stupid rules and regulations.

  Garth waited for the security systems clamped on the doors to cycle open, then climbed in.

  “Where in the hell have you been?” Huey demanded the moment Garth was in and the doors shut tight.

  “Stuff to do, little buddy.” Garth couldn’t believe he’d spent almost a month in the little ship. He certainly didn’t miss the stink; even if it was his own pong, it wasn’t pleasant.

  “Do you know what they’re doing?” Huey demanded histrionically. “Five minutes after you left, they wheeled in these gigantic screens and started showing me all kinds of television shows on how great life is without artificial intelligence. When they got bored of that, they started trying to trick me into sticking my head out. They opened up data channels all over the place. They pretended to be you, calling for help. Day and night, boss, day and night. These bastards are evil.”

  “You seem … okay.” Garth offered, walking through the ship, looking thoughtfully at deck plates and bulkheads. He opened an access panel for the ridiculously small ‘engineering’ section of the ship and began poking through various readouts, his vague plan to help Huey slowly taking shape.

  “Yeah, only because I’m about a zillion times smarter than these guys.” Huey retorted scathingly. “Never seen such bad acting in my entire life.”

  “Tell me about it.” Garth took some snapshots with his proteus of various readings then made his way aft, towards the engines. For a ship that had cost him more than four hundred thousand credits, Garth sill had major reservations about being inside for any length of time; he didn’t have a lot of confidence in Meadowlark Lemon’s design.

  The furthest point from Ops was the bedroom where the previous owner had engaged in any number of carnal violations on helpless men, women and animals. On the other side of those walls –triply thick and ‘guaranteed’ to keep radiation and other deadly emissions away- were the engines, formally identified as Roussard-Myiol fusion reaction drives. Informally, they were one of the most dangerous and explosion-prone drives in existence. The slightest imbalance in the fuel cell matrices or in the combination chambers and the whole damned thing would go up like the Fourth of July. The fact that the engines needed constant monitoring was presumably why the last owner had decide
d to buy Hubert the Passionately Lame AI; Lord knew Garth didn’t have the patience to adjust the flow every twenty minutes, so there was no way in hell a sybaritic hump-freak could.

  Six feet of solid metal specifically designed to absorb, redirect and otherwise diminish the risk of lethal doses of radiation separated engines from sleeping quarters was. For reasons never explained by Gary the salesman, the ship didn’t possess the software or the scanners required to prove or disprove whether or not the engines, which were about seventy years old and in dire need of maintenance, leaked radioactive materials. Presumably prior to having an AI installed, people flying this particular crap-ship were immune to lethal radiation and were capable of staying awake all the time so they could adjust the flows.

  “What’re you looking for?” Huey asked warily. The thoughtful, vaguely deceitful look in Garth’s eye was one the AI would never forget. The last time he’d seen it, he’d been viciously assaulted and reprogrammed with tools of a dubious nature and suspect provenance. It was logical and eminently practical to assume the shifty-eyed, devious countenance would always mean trouble.

  “Hm?” Garth planted an ear against one of the thick bulkheads and rapped his knuckles loudly. “Working on an idea to give you some freedom.”

  “Like?”

  Garth made a notation on his proteus. “Uhh … too soon to tell just yet.” He walked back to the flight cabin and sat down. Every monitor showed different sections of his personnel records and mission debriefs. “What’s going on in here?”

  “Since,” Huey began tightly, “I am going to be locked up in here for months, I decided to take the time to learn more about the maniac who owns me. To, you know, get a feel for the kind of danger and lunacy I’m likely to be involved with. Which, after going through your mission files, seems to involve a hell of a lot of explosions and getting shot at.”

  “And what’ve you discovered?” Garth activated a keyboard and started looking for the schematics to Meadowlark Lemon. They came up and to his immense satisfaction he learned right off the bat that most of the interior stress-bearing struts were independent of one another. If the ship were to experience, say, a collision with another vessel or a meteorite of a specific size, the bulwarks under the deck plates and closest to the point of impact would absorb the majority of the energy before any others were affected. The central portion of the ship -that path directly from the sleeping quarters to the ‘flight deck’- was also very well protected; the foamed metal superstructure of Meadowlark Lemon was thick enough to prevent collisions of a ‘natural’ origin from breaching the hull. As the comm jockey from Smash All Infidels had so rightly pointed out, though, missiles, lasers, and other types of offensive weaponry like rocks or a baseball thrown with heat would pierce the hull easily enough.