Pew! Pew! - Bad versus Worse

by M. D. Cooper

  Kerry stepped forward again, face slack, and hit Cayo again. And again. And again. As her final strike knocked the enforcer to the ground, she paused, mouth open, eyes empty.

  “Very good, Kerry,” said Austin. He got to his feet, kicking Cayo’s weapon away. He retrieved his Glock. “My invention needs hard link contact to upload without bandwidth constraints,” he said, standing over Cayo. “It’s how you do things quick and fast. But if you don’t need to be fast? If you’ve already hacked someone’s link architecture? You can just trickle the code in over time.” He sniffed. “I’ve been uploading this… Complier code to Kerry’s subsystems for the past ten minutes.” The Complier. A good companion to the Decider. He lined the Glock up on Cayo’s head, and pulled the trigger.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  The new lair was fabulous. Austin had garnered support from a few angel investors, and the new corporate facility was, top to bottom, decked in the sleek lines of glass, polished metal, and attractive staff. He was ready to give his first press release. He was ready to change the world.

  Austin stood in front of the podium, a set of eager faces staring at him. They were, for the most part, reporters. That didn’t mean they were impartial; far from it. Reporters were easier to buy these days than police. The good part was that these were ones he’d paid for. There would be a series of glowing reviews for upcoming products that would rain money on his new corporation, like mana from heaven.

  The lesser part of the crowd were reps from other syndicates, trying to get a lean-in on the new tech. Olivia had done her job by making sure they were a) identified to Austin, and b) here in the first place. No publicity was bad publicity. When you were trying to change the world, you needed to use incentives, positive and negative. You needed to set a shining example, and also teach people fear. It was, basically, carrot and stick.

  Now, the carrot and the stick were baked into the tech. The stick was something no one would be seeing at this press conference. The Complier was a technology that could override link systems, turning people into mindless zombies. The efficacy of that technology was limited. No one would pay to have themselves zombified, and they certainly wouldn’t buy something that had an inherent risk like that inside it. So Austin wouldn’t tell them.

  No, he was leading with carrot today. He looked past the crowd, seeing Ruby by the doors, leaning in a manner that said casual but ready to fuck shit up. Her arms had been fixed, spine replaced, a little more unnecessary meat replaced by metal. She didn’t seem to mind, since the upgrades came with extra performance. She was now the head of Austin’s corporate security. She seemed to like the job; certainly, the benefits package was excellent. It wasn’t limited to medical. It came with a great deal of cash.

  Olivia was close by her, watching all. As the head of Austin’s Marketing division, she also drew a salary that would make a sultan uncomfortable. She knew the play. She knew the game. Together, Olivia and Ruby were also (in a way) carrot and stick. You’d start with Olivia, and if that didn’t work, you’d wind up with Ruby. A great circle of life.

  Salaries came from somewhere, and that place was Austin’s new company: Human Energetics. Or: HumanE in the logo; it was nice to lead with a bit of corporate speak, telling people—not so subtly—that your products were humane. Safe. Better for everyone.

  He cleared his throat, the room falling quiet by degrees. “Thank you for coming,” he said. “As you know, Human Energetics—the world’s most humane company—is going public today.” He raised his hand to stall questions. “We don’t need the cash. Trust me! We are fine without the money. But we want the rest of the world to feel like they can buy a little piece of hope. A slice of the future. For a better tomorrow.” He paused, taking in the room, the temperature of it. Yep, people were still happy. Still smiling. Still eating his shit. “We hope our new product line will help with this. I know as a busy executive,” and here, he gave a deprecating laugh, shared by the people in the room, “that sleep is important. It’s with that we’re launching Baby Be Easy.”

  The screen behind him flicked over to display a happy, smiling baby. “New parents are often sleep deprived. Install our new basic link architecture—a tiny stub that can easily be expanded into a full link system as your child grows—and you can install Baby Be Easy. It will help your child be happier. Healthier. And, as a result, quieter. Because happy babies don’t cry.” That last was true, but the rest was a pure fabrication. The Decider would nudge the child to happiness, and if that didn’t work, the underlying darkness of Austin’s Complier would just silence the damn brats like turning off a speaker. The two combined were Consensus: a new technology foundation for a more compliant world.

  Yes, Human Energetics was off to a very good start. Austin didn’t need Reed stock options. In a couple of years, HumanE would be bigger than Reed, especially considering the waterboarding his previous employer’s stock price had taken after Seattle.

  They said the best revenge was living well. With the Decider to nudge people in the right direction, and his Complier for more forceful coercion, Austin Ainley was going to be living very, very well indeed. It was time for planetary Consensus.

  THE END

  — — —

  Want to read more by Richard Parry?

  Want to jack in some cyberpunk? Dying to know what happened to Reed Interactive in Seattle? Filled with great dialogue and heart-pumping action, Upgrade is the gateway drug you need.

  Upgrade

  Would the man who has it all ever need to change?

  Mason Floyd’s job is simple: company asset protection and acquisition, no questions asked. An augmented company enforcer, he’s known for taking the straightest path to the objective. Sometimes that’s climbing over bodies, and sometimes it’s blowing up the evidence. Just another day in the syndicates.

  He’s good at what he does. It’s given Mason the best looks money can buy, the spacious apartment that only comes with knowing the right people, and top shelf bionics from Apsel Federate. He’s at the top of his game when a gate between worlds opens, spilling a man who can control minds into Seattle. This master of coercion rips away everything Mason holds dear. A world bought by corporate interest turns against him.

  Hunted and fresh out of friends, Mason learns that living in the soft line between incentive and crime was always the easy path. Making the right choices could save the world – and his soul. It’ll only cost him everything he’s ever wanted. Can Mason learn what it means to be truly human?

  http://amzn.to/2z8iWnb

  About the Author

  Richard is the author of the Night’s Champion trilogy, the Tyche’s Journey trilogy, and a huge liar. Previously he worked as an international consultant in one of the world’s top tech companies, which felt like a facegrater simulation. His debut novel Night’s Favor and its sequel Night’s Fall have been shortlisted for the Sir Julius Vogel Award “Best Novel” category.

  His first trilogy about the Night’s Champion are supernatural thrillers about an alcoholic bitten by a werewolf, who then saves the world through action scenes and clever dialogue. His standalone cyberpunk novel Upgrade is a gripping techno thriller set in a believable near-future world. His Tyche’s Journey trilogy is a space opera where sword-wielding blaster-shooting heroes save not just Earth, but the entire universe through—again—action scenes and clever dialogue. Why break up a winning formula?

  Richard lives in Wellington with the love of his life Rae. They have a dog, Rory, who chases birds. The birds, who have the power of flight, don’t seem to mind.

  If you want to grab some free stories, check out:

  http://hit.mondegreen.co/freebooks

  Connect with Richard Parry:

  Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/therealrichardparry/

  Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/parryforte/

  Twitter: https://twitter.com/ParryForte

  Website: http://www.mondegreen.co

  Dodging Fate 4: Attack of the Blagrooks: A Holiday Spectacu
lar

  by Zen DiPietro

  The holidays can be tough. But when you’re a redshirt, all those festivities and expectations are bound to converge into something truly spectacular.

  The holidays are approaching, and the Second Chance is alive with celebration. Charlie’s got a lot to learn about pancultural festivities, but he’s ready to jump right in with the egg nog drinking, sea shanty singing, and blagrook whacking.

  That last one isn’t technically a seasonal festivity, but after this adventure, it will be. In between narrowly-avoided disasters, Charlie needs to solve the problem of the perfect gifts for Pinky, Greta, and Nana. He’s also hoping to perform a Christmas miracle—ending up beneath the mistletoe with the girl of his dreams.

  Chapter 1

  The holidays are coming. Are there four worse words in all the known universe?

  If it were all about the joy and the togetherness, that would be dandy. I’m all about joy and togetherness.

  But no. What the holiday season actually means is that a guy has to run around, searching for the perfect gifts for those he loves. If he fails to perfectly condense his entire relationship with someone down into one material object that he can wrap up in shiny paper and top with a bow, he will have ruined the entire holiday and possibly his relationship.

  It’s a lot to live up to, and frankly, I’m not built for that kind of stress.

  I’m not someone who shines in emotionally fraught situations. I would absolutely freaking love to be the guy who has the answers, knows what to do, and springs into action. The kind who saves busloads full of children and can make a woman stop crying with a few witty words. You know, the hero type.

  That’s just not me. I’m the kind of guy who arrives on a planet with six others and is somehow the only one who walks by an eyeball-high flower that sprays deadly poison just as he’s inhaling for a big sneeze.

  Or maybe it’s a people-eating plant. But never mind the botany. That’s just a means to an end. The fact is, if there’s an unlikely scenario that will probably lead to death, that’s what happens to a redshirt like me.

  Every year, the holidays roll around and I start to think of all the people I won’t be celebrating with. All those dead Kenny relatives of Christmases past. I don’t have visions of sugarplums when I sleep. I have nightmares about yeti-gators, fatal rutabaga missions, and those darn metal teeth at the top and bottom of escalators.

  I really hate those things. They always seem poised to catch my toes and pull me in, like a meat grinder.

  So, yeah. The holidays are a particularly tense time for me. I’ve been having nightmares, actually.

  There’s this particularly disturbing recurring dream that’s plaguing me. In it, Greta keeps insisting her drink glass is empty. When I look inside, it’s a black hole with a yeti-gator in the middle, trying to suck me in.

  I’m having that dream again, right now.

  Dammit.

  I wake up, rubbing my eyes, blinking away the disturbing images. Then I become aware of a tickling sensation at the side of my neck.

  It was probably the thing that woke me up.

  I groan. I’m glad to break free of the dream, but not thrilled about the reason.

  “Nana, you’ve got to stop trying to assimilate me. You don’t have the right tools or equipment, and you know I don’t want to be a cyborg.”

  Nana sits up straight, looking stricken. “Oh, dear, was I doing that again? I came in to collect your laundry to send it out for you, and the next thing I knew, you were telling me to stop assimilating you. I’m sorry, Charlie. Again.”

  I give her metal hand a squeeze. “It’s okay. But please, stop breaking in here, for any purpose. I can send out my own laundry, and although waking up to a cyborg trying to assimilate me is no longer a shocker for me, it still freaks me the hell out.”

  “Just as it should, dear.” Nana pats my cheek and straightens from her creepy, hovering-over-me position. “By the way, I still need your Christmas list.”

  In accordance with tradition, I mentally scream the cry of the damned. There is no winning this battle. A list of desired gifts will be required, as per the yearly protocol, in strict adherence with the gift-giving ritual.

  Knowing an argument is pointless and that I’m effectively struggling while standing in a pit of quicksand, I say, “You don’t have to spend any money on me, Nana. I know your finances are tight due to the cyborg union cutting your allowance. Oh, and don’t forget, we’re celebrating the universal holidays, not just Christmas. So we can focus on that instead of the presents.”

  Most planets have some sort of celebration going on in the December or January part of the year. Since we live aboard the Second Chance, zooming from system to system, we’re embracing a new-wave sort of celebration combination that includes a bunch of holidays all at once. It’s a shame that nearly half of them involve gift giving, but I figure at least it cuts down the gift-giving occasions to one multipurpose celebration.

  It makes logical sense, and as a statistician, I dig that.

  “I don’t forget things, Charlie. My hard drive just got upgraded before we left Earth, and I remember absolutely everything.” She smiles at me in a very grandmotherly way, with her one red, cybernetic eye glowing.

  “That’s great, Nana. Do you want to have breakfast with me at Pinky’s?”

  She makes a tsking sound. “Now, you know I don’t have breakfast at a bar. It’s just not proper. I’ll catch up with you later, but thanks for the invitation, all the same.”

  After she leaves, I change out of my pajamas. I don’t take it personally that Nana tries to assimilate me, really. It’s an instinct that was built into her with her own assimilation. If she had access to any power tools, I’d be concerned, but until then, I’m determined to see this as an amusing personality quirk. Like Pinky’s love for pranks and Greta’s gross eating habits.

  Ah, Greta. Lovely, golden Greta.

  She, Pinky, and I have agreed to teach one another about our holiday celebrations. In this way, we can learn about each other, become more cosmopolitan—because no one likes a sectarian rube—and help each other celebrate.

  Most importantly, I’m going to get my chance to kiss Greta, thanks to the old teach-you-about-the-mistletoe-tradition-of-my-people cliché.

  We did share a smooch not long ago, but it was a mere peck on the lips. Between you and me, I’m hoping to orchestrate something a little more advanced. Something that’s a little less “nighty night, Grandma” and a little more “hello, sailor.”

  As far as my Christmas list goes, that’s the only thing that’s on it. I’ll do whatever it takes to make my holiday miracle come true.

  ***

  While I dig into a plate of biscuits and gravy, Greta decimates a muffin, reducing it to barely more than crumbs. Only once it is a deconstructed pile does she begin eating.

  “I keep meaning to ask,” I say in a carefully casual tone. “Why do you eat that way?”

  Greta peers at me, puzzled. “What do you mean?”

  I point at the former muffin, which looks like it’s been reduced to rubble by a tiny, tiny bomb. “Why not just take bites of it? Why tear it up first?”

  Pinky finished off the drink she was mixing and edges closer, leaning against the bar. Apparently, she wants to hear the answer, too.

  Greta stares down at her plate. “You mean just mash my face against the whole thing and bite it?”

  “Yeah. That’s how my people do it,” I tell her. “Muffins, apples, sandwiches. We just bite off the piece we want to chew.”

  “I’ve seen people doing that.” She sounds doubtful. “Where I’m from, it’s polite to put something in your mouth whole or to reduce it to small pieces first.”

  “It’s weird, and you look weird doing it.” Pinky is not one to waste time with tact. “Nobody else does that. Just you Garbdorians.”

  “Oh.” Greta looks crestfallen. “I guess I should do it like everyone else, since I’m the Chance Fleet’s brand
ambassador. If you’re sure it’s really what most people do.”

  “Positive,” I say.

  “Nobody wants to watch you eat muffin-colored dirt,” Pinky adds.

  “Why didn’t you say something before?” Greta asks.

  Pinky pulls the rag off her shoulder and begins wiping the bar. “If I point out all the weird-ass things you two do, I’d never get anything else done. Besides, I’ve found that people rarely like to be told that they’re strange. It’s bad for business.”

  “It’s not like she’s paying,” I point out. As the fleet’s brand ambassador, Greta lives on the Second Chance entirely free. Pinky does, too, as the bartender. Of the three of us, I’m the only one who pays. I don’t mind that distinction. I’m just glad my job as a statistician allows me to work from anywhere. It’s a lucky break that allowed my life to become actually enjoyable.

  No, not just enjoyable. Fun. Adventurous. Even exciting.

  Such things are anathema to my people. And yet here I am, thanks to Greta’s unique luck, and Pinky’s unique…well, everything. As a pink, seven-foot-tall, Mebdarian mutant, there’s no one in the entire universe to compare her to.

  “I like Greta, though,” Pinky assures us. “You too. And my understanding of friendship is that if you want people to stay friends, you don’t point out all the things about them that are annoying.”

  She returns to mixing drinks. This early in the day, the bar isn’t too busy, but the dining room does big business in breakfast cocktails.

  Greta and I stare at each other, and I can tell that she feels the way I do. That Pinky just gave us both a ringing smackdown by explaining how much she has to rein herself in order to remain friends with us.