The Terminal State

by Jeff Somers

  He grinned. “Very good. All systems seem to be a go. Although your communication systems won’t operate once you’re mustered out; you have to be in-unit in order to communicate silently. You’re scanning out green and you’ve adapted to the implants remarkably fast. Now, listen up. I doubt anyone’s going to take time to answer questions once I deliver you to your new owners, so I’d take notes if I were you. I’m going to skip most of the script here because you’re mustering out, so why bother. You won’t get the full effect of the augments. You’ll notice better vision, better hearing, more stamina and strength, and your augments will have some automatic effect on your perception, but generally you might not even notice them.”

  I studied his smiling face. “Anyone ever get tired of your shtick, doc? ” I asked. “Knock you down? ”

  He nodded. “At least once a day. But I have this.” He held up the small black square.

  I studied it. “Okay, I give. What is it? ”

  “Your remote control.” He turned it around in his hand as if he admired it. “Tuned to your CO—your commanding officer—or whomever it needs to be tuned to—it’s a pretty simple piece of equipment. It has, basically, three functions. You’re not going to like any of them.”

  “I haven’t liked anything in twenty years, doc.”

  He smiled. I liked his smile. It looked like he was really amused. “One, this thing can make you feel the most intense pain you’ve ever felt. I’m not kidding when I say that. It’s been calibrated. Take the worst thing you’ve ever felt, then imagine it all over your body. Worse by far. Whoever’s got your remote can inflict that on you whenever they want. And your CO will do it a lot, at first.” He shrugged. “They like to make sure you know who’s in charge.” He paused and looked down at his clipboard again. “Whoever’s buying you will get it. It’s also used to set the anti-frag settings.”

  I smiled. “In case I get ideas about slitting throats? ”

  Gupta didn’t smile or look up. “You think any officer would survive a week out there with all of you pissed-off shitkickers if they couldn’t fuck you?” he whispered. “The AF setting means you can’t get within a perimeter of your CO or you’ll be terminated. Just like that. Cross the line into the red zone and the implant in your brain goes pop. The actual distance is a custom parameter the commanding officer can set—some of them like a lot of room around them, but it can go as close as they want, or even zero if they’re feeling lucky. It also sets a minimum distance, in case you decide to desert. I’ve got it toggled off right now. Makes examinations kind of awkward when I have to stay a foot away all the time.”

  This kept getting better. Suddenly the System Pigs with their robot bodies and regular, old-fashioned beatings didn’t seem so bad.

  “The remote can also invoke your Berserker Mode.” He looked up at me again. “I advise you to avoid that if at all possible.”

  I tested out the uniform, seeing how it moved and stretched. The holster at my side was empty, and there was no other gear attached. I wanted to move. I wanted to run and jump and climb shit. I wasn’t naked any longer, but unless I was going to use Gupta’s clipboard to very slowly bludgeon everyone to death, I wasn’t noticeably less screwed than I’d been a few moments before. I paused. “What the fuck—”

  “Berserker Mode puts the subject into an artificial state of consciousness. Your heart rate skyrockets, your brain dumps adrenaline and dopamine, your muscles’ pain receptors are turned off, and aggression is maximized. For a short period of time, the combination of all this makes you pretty fucking badass. Your reflexes will approach avatar levels, you won’t be fazed by any injury that does not cripple you, and you won’t feel tired no matter what you’re doing.”

  I felt exhausted just listening to that shit. “And? ”

  Gupta raised both eyebrows. “And you pay a price, Mr. Cates. Go into Berserker Mode more than twice within, say, six months, and I think you’ll probably die from internal stress. Stroke out. Have a heart attack. Kidney shutdown. Get me? If your CO puts you into BM, he’s basically taking decades off your life each time.”

  “You sure got a great benefits package here, doc,” I growled. I made a show of stretching out one arm, then suddenly leaned forward, gave Gupta a little shove that put him off-balance, and snatched the little black square from his hand.

  Immediately there was a roar in my head and a lance of sharp, burning pain shot up my forearm. My hand snapped open and the remote dropped to the floor. My whole arm had gone numb and throbbing, and I clutched it with my free hand, struggling again to control my breathing. My HUD flashed, streaming data about my injury.

  Gupta didn’t seem bothered. “Won’t work,” he said, bending down to retrieve it and then holding it up in front of me. His fingernails were clean and trimmed neatly. I suddenly felt stupid and dirty standing there. “It’s attuned to whoever’s your CO. Right now, I’m your CO. In a moment, I’ll transfer it to your owner, and it’ll only work for them.”

  I hesitated. The pain was already gone, like it had never happened. But if Belling got my remote, if he was made my CO—shit. I felt like I could run all fucking night and break Gupta in two with my bare hands, but if Belling got my remote, I wasn’t going anywhere.

  “All right,” Gupta said as if this shit happened to him all the time, and gestured at his clipboard in a declarative, final manner and it went dim with a soft chime. “You ready? ”

  I looked around again. The kid across the room still hadn’t moved, and I weighed the risk of trying something against the probability that it wasn’t Remy. My options hadn’t gotten any longer since I’d stood up, so I shrugged. “You’ve got the fucking button, doc.”

  “This way.”

  He took off down the aisle between cots and I lurched after him, feeling energy vibrating under my skin, my joints oiled and smooth. As I passed his bed, I turned my head to stare at the dark mass of hair four beds from the entrance. The kid never turned, but I kept my eyes on him and just before Gupta led me out into the maze of canvas corridors, the little box blazed up in my HUD again.

  EVENS O. REMY, PRIVATE (1), SMALL INFANTRY.

  I stopped, letting Gupta exit the room. I stared at the kid’s back, hands twitching at my sides. I didn’t know what to do. I was unarmed and I wasn’t even sure where I was, and the kid had been implanted with tiny, invisible strings just like me—if we left the camp, would we just end up stroking out after a mile? A half mile?

  Gupta reappeared, frowning, my remote held up by his chest. “Private Cates, I do have a schedule to keep.”

  I’d reached the end of Gupta’s humanity, and with effort I turned and followed him out of the tent, back into the weird canvas hallways. Kill Belling, I thought. Kill Belling before there was any official transfer and then worry about the kid, if you could. After just a few seconds of walking, he turned left and we entered another of the large tents. This one might have been the one that Anners had interviewed me in; it had the same cheap table, the same cheap chairs, the same pitcher of water.

  “You’re waiting on Cates, Avery?” Gupta said briskly to the man sitting at the table.

  “I am. I paid an exorbitant fee for him.” Wa Belling leaned back in his chair. “Hello, Avery,” he said. He ran his eyes up and down my uniform. “Dapper as always, I see.”

  IV

  YOU SURVIVED ME. NOT MANY HAVE

  Gupta gestured at one of the frail-looking chairs.

  “Have a seat, Cates. Mr. Belling, if you are satisfied that this is the cargo you requested, you can indicate your agreement here.” He rudely thrust the clipboard and the remote control at Belling, making the old man straighten up sharply and scowl, taking the remote and immediately pocketing it.

  Belling looked ... young. His hair was darker and his face had tightened up, smoothing out decades of wear and tear. He looked like an approximation of Wallace Belling at age fifty, a sketch done from memory years after the fact. His eyes, though, were the same: yellowed but bright, cunning, and
mean. Behind him, I noted two soldiers, their sidearms in their hands and pointed at me.

  “Have a seat,” Gupta repeated. “Transfers are tricky moments, and those two will shoot you the moment they don’t like what they see, okay? We’ve found having guards on hand makes these transactions go easier.”

  Belling glanced at the clipboard. “And the final installment?” His voice was melodious, seductive. Educated. I always wanted to believe Belling.

  Gupta shrugged. “That is between you and the transacting officer. All I do is deliver the cargo.”

  I eyed the two guards. I had the feeling they’d shoot me if I sneezed. Slowly, I let myself sink into the chair.

  Belling looked at Gupta with a sunny smile, then held his thumb out. My eyes flicked from the guards to Belling’s thumb and back again. I curled my hands into fists. After a moment, Gupta’s clipboard chimed, and the doctor flipped it around and nodded. He glanced up at the two guards and jerked his head slightly. They instantly holstered their weapons and exited the room in sync.

  “Is that it? He’s mine? ” Belling asked, still smiling.

  Gupta nodded without looking at him. “Yes, Mr.—”

  Belling reached up with one hand and took hold of a healthy shock of Gupta’s thick hair and yanked the doctor’s head down, smashing his nose into the table. This table didn’t collapse, though it vibrated like a musical instrument as Gupta dropped to the floor. Belling leaned back a little to run his eyes over the prone form.

  “He’ll live,” Wa said with a smile, looking back at me. “But perhaps he’ll be more polite next time someone comes in to transact business.” He cocked his head. “Why, Avery, you look like you’re not happy to see me.”

  I took a deep breath. Instantly, my HUD showed my heart rate slowing, and I felt myself relaxing in quick increments, helped along by my new wiring. I’d missed my chance; Belling had the remote and if I tried for him, I’d just end up twitching on the ground. “You look refreshed, Wa,” I said. It was important to not react. Belling had betrayed me too many times for us to be friends, but we were peers. Or at least I thought so; Belling himself probably still thought of me as second-rate. I wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction of surprising me. “You’re fucking beautiful. I think I’m getting a little excited over you here.”

  He shook his head. “Homophobic humor from you, Avery? Very disappointing.” He spread his hands. “Pockets of civilization remain, for those of us who have the influence. Not just plastics, though, Avery. I have had a full process. Artificial ligaments, skin therapies, artificial hormone emitters. I am, in a very real sense, younger than when you last saw me.” He shrugged. “I do not intend to die like some pathetic old cat, whimpering in a darkened corner.”

  The eyes were freaking me out. The eyes were old.

  “You, on the other hand,” Wa said, squinting at me. “You look terrible. Older than your years.”

  I rewound Gupta’s assessment of me from a few moments before. “So I’m told, Wa.” I rolled my shoulders. “But I feel great.”

  I kept my eyes on the old man and pictured the tent, everything in it, assessing the situation with old, undying instincts that had kept me alive beyond all probability. The pitcher looked like glass, but it might be a polymer or even cheap plastic, something that wouldn’t shatter into a satisfactory edge. The chairs would make decent bludgeons but they’d be clumsy to work with. And there was the fucking remote control; if Wa Belling had bought me to drag a knife across my throat, to eliminate a loose end from his past, I wasn’t going to be able to stop him—especially with lab-grown ligaments under his hide—but I wasn’t going easy.

  A few seconds of silence wound around us, pulling tight.

  “So,” I said, “what’s the going rate for old Gunners these days? ”

  Belling studied me calmly, the remote control being spun around in his deft, piano-player hands. These, I noted, had also been left untouched by the surgeon—they were papery and mottled with age spots, the original issue. He reached out and pulled one of the metal mugs toward him.

  “Well, Avery—”

  He snapped his arm up and sent the mug screaming right at my head. My arm popped up and I snatched it from the air, surging to my feet.

  “What the fuck—”

  “I apologize, Avery,” he said, waving a negligent hand at me. “Sit down.” He reached into his coat and I tensed up, but his hand emerged with a large flask that he unscrewed slowly, watching me. “Your reflexes are still good. Have you been working? ”

  I blinked. I felt very strongly that I’d lost control of the conversation. “What? ”

  He took a long pull from the flask and then extended it toward me with a nod. “This reminds me of our earliest conversations,” he said cheerfully. “Me speaking clearly and simply, and you saying ‘What?’ over and over.”

  I hesitated, and then stepped around the table and reached for the flask. I considered taking his wrist and breaking his arm instead, but he would be ready for that. I considered him taking my arm and breaking my wrist, but Belling had never been one to crack heads when he could simply shoot you from across the room—he’d see that as a waste of energy. So I pinched the flask between two fingers and took a sip: whiskey. Good whiskey.

  I turned and walked back to the other end of the table with the flask. When I sat down again, I put my feet up and took a second swig, even though whiskey had never been my thing. Belling’s expression was one of annoyance, and I enjoyed it, since it was all I was going to get by way of revenge. For now.

  “Working,” I said. “If you mean taking contracts, no. I’ve been in the armpit of the fucking System watching the troops march past. If you mean killing people, I’ve kept my hand in.”

  He sat forward. “Glad to hear it, Avery. I’ve seen your medical reports, and with the standard-issue SFNA augments plugged into you, I must say you’re in better shape than I would have imagined.”

  I wondered if that was an insult, considering what Gupta had told me about my physical state. “Let’s cut this bullshit short, Wa,” I said, setting the flask down on the table in front of me. I watched his eyes flick to it. “Why do you care what kind of shape I’m in? ”

  Belling gave me his billionaire smile, spreading his hands. “Because we want you to work for us, my dim-witted American friend,” he said. “The Dúnmharú has been reformed, and you’re being recruited.”

  I frowned before I could stop myself. The Dúnmharú—Canny Orel’s contract murder mill—was legendary. The best Gunners in the world banding together during Unification to take contracts from governments. The biggest money, the toughest marks. I knew Belling had been a charter member; Belling was old, despite the best work of his surgeons. “You just bought me, Wa. You’ve got that fucking piece of black plastic in your pocket, can make me sizzle. So cut the bullshit about recruiting me and tell me what it is you want me to do or else I get a zap, okay? ”

  He shook his head and stood up, pushing his hands into his pockets. His suit was expensive looking and cut nicely, with a stiff back collar that was popped up behind his ears. I still marveled at the new Belling, younger looking now than when I’d first met him, all those years ago in London, when he’d been trading on Orel’s name. “You’d rather hump it in a suicide squad? Get assigned a shredding rifle and a date of death, running across some field already muddy with the blood of insignificant morons?” He shrugged. “Too bad. We’ve got a job, and we need someone with experience to run it for us.”

  Still, I looked at the cocksucker’s smug, smoothed face and I couldn’t just give in. I leaned back in my seat and pointed at him, letting him squirm a little. “Experience?”

  He shrugged again. “Avery ...” He paused and looked at his hands appraisingly. “Avery, the System is not operating at peak efficiency.”

  I snorted. “That’s the fucking understatement of the year.”

  “Yes. Civil war—the front line shifting back and forth hundreds of miles in a week, cities bomb
ed to pieces, whole populations displaced, press squads denuding the world of labor forces, breakaway states, ruined communication lines, restricted travel.” He looked up at me from under his eyebrows, suddenly and obviously casual. “Hong Kong is days away from declaring independence. Did you hear that? ”

  I thought about telling him what Anners had said about taking his unit to Hong Kong, wanting to one-up the old bastard. Instead, I just shook my head, and he sighed.

  “Avery, thirty years ago, during Unification, we made a fortune taking on contracts from governments, playing them off each other. Those times are here again, and there’s an opportunity to not only remake those fortunes, but to shape the world. To take command. To shift the course of things.” He leaned back, satisfied with himself as usual. “The problem is, there’s a lack of individuals with the talent level we require.”

  I raised an eyebrow, and he jabbed a finger in my direction, his face comically enraged.

  “Don’t bring up old news, Avery. I live in the present. You can’t just skim through the slums anymore and find some talented kid who can be trained. They’re all dead. Or in the army, which is the same thing.” He scowled. “You’re, what, forty now? Old, but you have experience . You’ve organized large-scale jobs. You’ve survived global emergencies—you survived me. Not many have.”

  I nodded. “I’m all you’ve got.”

  “Yes,” he hissed, unhappy. He stood up, shooting his expensive cuffs. “Money doesn’t mean anything, anymore. Power always means something. And the Dúnmharú means power.” He paused and gave me what he probably imagined was a friendly look. “You were once powerful, in your way. In New York, after Squalor. You remember it, I am sure.”

  I sighed. I needed to stay with him, needed to get out of the army’s sphere and wait for Belling to make a mistake so I could kill him. It didn’t matter what line of bullshit he thought he was feeding me.

  I thought of Remy. “I was scooped up with some other—”