by A J McKeep
Contents
Slave Life Online
Copyright 2018 A.J. McKeep
Chronicles of iMortality
AI’s Rule
Jacket copy
Flatiron
Terrorists
Towers
Virtu
Weaponized hair
Anti-Turing
Bar Bar
Chop
Si Kho
Bounceport
Rust and Bust
Interruption
Surfacing
Insects
Grease monkey
Young Frankenstein
Nursebot
Chains of command
Exo
Runes
Pod life
Batwings
Ledge
Recharge
Herbal tea
The host
Incarnate
Quest
Distance
Explosives
Bee bots
Claw
Ambition
Questions
Meat locker
Assemblers
Emergency kill
Gwailo
Firepower
Meds
Favors
Gamble
Conjure
Why?
Tracker
Over the line
Murphy
The right thing
The ‘good’ side
The real thing
~~
You
The Reader’s Circle
EXTRA LIFE
EXTRA LIFE online
EXTRA LIFE online
Outlands
Breathless
Hoist
Juice
School
EXTRA LIFE online
The Reader’s Circle
Copyright © 2018 A.J. McKeep
All rights reserved.
Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the publisher of this ebook.
First Published by in 2018 by TzZ Publishing
Chronicles of iMortality
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THE OUTLANDS: FINAL CENTURY, 3rd Quarter
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SLAVE LIFE
AI’s rule the world in the third decade of the final century.
Along with terrorism and the endless foreign wars, the genetic plague known as rDNA is a constant threat. Early ‘retirement,’ salvaging and maximum age limits are enforced everywhere. In USCom a program called iMortality seems to offer hope with continued life online. But some say the program is not what it seems.
Small pockets of rebels still try to evade the authority of the AI’s. Living off-grid, with unCert communications and hardware, they are hunted by stealth and surveillance.
If they are found, members of the resistance are retired with force and extreme prejudice.
How did a battle hardened grunt's first night of leave go so wildly wrong that one night at Friends Electric turned into a life-altering nightmare?
Could the pet-bots really be mannequins, remotely operated from a distant foreign land by virtual slaves?
Will our cyber-enhanced hero's secret mission take him to work for the dark force at the heart of the machine intelligences?
What should have been a quiet night of relaxation becomes bot-brawling mayhem, Garrison Caine's only option is to sign on for a semi-illegal ghost squad mission deep in enemy territory.
With his body cyber enhanced to a level he can't ever hope to maintain, he's sent as an expendable one-man force on what seems like a one-way mission.
When Garrison sets out to uncover the mystery of the girl in Friends Electric, he finds help from unexpected quarters. Can he escape from the Gabriel, take on the spider-bot warcraft, and defeat the evil gang of traffickers?
Flatiron
GARRISON CAINE WAS THE only grunt on the homeward bounce. The pod had couches for twelve. He secured his phone and his keycard in the slot in the side of his molded couch. The lights in the cabin dimmed as he strapped himself in.
Pre-shot safety instructions echoed in soft, feminine tones. The bot’s soothing voice jarred with his circumstances and his state of mind. He already knew what was to come. He stretched the webbing tight over the compression suit and his combat fatigues.
“Breathe in,” the bot made it sound like an invitation, something desirable. It sounded almost seductive. The suggestion did not seem like a life-or-death choice.
“Most hazardous part of the tour,” experienced grunts were always happy to tell new arrivals, especially first tourists. Garrison cringed inside to remember how he stuck out his chest and let his eyelids lazily droop when he said, “Eh, the trip out wasn’t so bad.” Bravado. Green swagger of a novice. Even as he said it then, he was remembering the fight for breath as his ribs were mashed at launch. He recalled how sore they were for weeks after. But he thought he was being brave, toughing it out. Acted like it was nothing.
“Yeah,” the older man stifled his grin, “Launch on the outbound is only half speed. The Corps don’t like combat assets to splatter on the way out.” The seasoned trooper let out his grin as he chewed on a cigar. “Waste of juice. On the way back, it’s less of a priority.”
He filled his lungs as full and as fast as he could. The thin compression suit inflated with a hard thump around him and he strained to hold his breath. He needed to keep his chest as full as he could hold it, so the suit would form around him and make a survivable cavity. When the inner skin of the suit snapped and hardened he breathed out with a sigh. Then he braced himself. The sculpted couch recess summoned a claustrophobic nausea. He fought it and forced himself to relax for launch.
His second tour of duty with Mech&Tech 282 was finally behind him. Credit was on his service record, campaign medal stamps enhanced his profile and his account was juiced. With a duty record and two tours of credit he could look forward to carrying a least a thin layer of respect, assuming he was able to steel himself for Tour 3.
“Breathe out,” the bot’s seductive tones voice invited him. Launch time. The now-familiar rush slammed him back into the couch, like he’d been hit full on by a man-sized flatiron. The pod kicked into the air. He watched the time display. Darkness crept in from the edges of his consciousness. It was a full twenty-six seconds before he was able to make his chest expand again to suck in a thin ribbon of shuddering breath.
On a return trip, as Garrison was able to learn, fatalities ran at rates of between ten and fourteen percent. Some died under the impact of launch and he could safely tick that off. Most of the rest suffocated, often by panicking when it took too long to draw the first breaths. He kept his mind as calm and clear as he could. Slowly he stretched his chest open, just a little more each time.
He felt a rib pop. Then another. Consciousness retreated, and he dragged in a breath that was slightly longer. He waited for the darkness to come closer, then he let the air seep out slow before another long, agonizing gasp. It was two and a half minutes of what felt like the hardest work he had ever done. Finally, he was able to breathe without pain or a concentrated effort.
For something external to focus his mind on, he made up a story for the thin, poverty-burdened worker who flew the pod, probably sweating inside a metal sweat hangar on the edge of a swamp. Some poor, tiny, undernourished little guy stuck living on the edge of a jungle. Strapped tight into a control suit or an exo-frame, bound and confined in a ho
t tin hut ten hours a day. Earning enough for a few bowls of rice. Most likely still had to farm most of what he and his family ate. Who would want to be a pilot?
Mech&Tech exo stompers worked in confined space too, but a day wasn’t ever dull or routine. Striding on high stilts, hunting for targets, wading through firefights. In the exo he stomped straight through fire of both kinds, the kind that hammered and rattled on the suit’s armorglass and shell, and the kind that billowed and snarled, swallowing up villages. And villagers.
What he needed now was intense R & R to get himself set and focused for tour number three. Get some more juice behind him. Credits for service would go a long way. Tour 3 would be the key to him getting some security at last. If he was careful with his juice he’d stash enough to start up a mech maintenance business. There was plenty of demand in the security industry and the spread of terrorism back home just made it a healthier proposition with every passing year.
He was only twenty-two, so he should have at least another ten years. Could be a much as seventeen if he kept full-tour duty credits. His DNA was certified clear of rDNA risk and his family history was golden. There was no reason he shouldn’t make it all the way. He could get a good couple of years of peaceful retirement before he reached a full thirty-five-years plus two, maybe four.
He would take the Ascendancy straight. No iMortality, no Enduring Domain for him. He didn’t believe in any of that. Maximum salvage and recovery compensation. If he had anything left at all when his Ascendancy was due, he hoped he’d maybe have a kiddie or two to share it out. His parents had both spent what little juice they had on Enduring Domains, and he was certain it was nothing but a crock.
Garrison Caine was in service for the credits and the juice. Plain and simple. Duty, that’s what the juice and the credits were for. Seemed fair to him.
What his first drill sergeant told him still resonated. “Do not be a hero. Not in my platoon, not on my watch.” He remembered the sergeant’s face, half polished steel, his head almost completely cased in titanium. “Any fool who tries to be a hero not only winds up dead, but they usually take their team with them.” The echo of Sergeant McCarran’s part synthesized voice across the blazing hot parade ground rang hard in Caine’s mind. “USMilCorps expends a shitload of juice, training and equipping your sorry asses. Bring your expansively trained ass back if it is at all possible. And intact whenever you reasonably can. It costs a lot to replace you. Or sometimes even more to repair you.
“I am not here to train heroes. Do. You. Under. Stand?”
Two hundred cadets, pumped and raw and ready to kill shouted back, “Sir! Yes, sir!”
“Do not endanger the mission. Or your comrades. Or your valuable equipment. Not in pursuit of shiny medals.”
“Sir! No, sir!”
“Heroes cannot help themselves.”
“Sir! No, sir!”
“Heroes have no choice.”
“Sir! No, sir!”
“You all have a choice.”
“Sir! Yes sir!”
“Protect the mission.”
“Sir! Yes, sir!”
“Protect your comrades.”
“Sir! Yes, Sir!”
Protect your precious equipment.”
“Sir! Yes, sir!”
“Do not be a hero!”
“Sir! No, sir.”
“Come back intact.”
“Sir! Yes, sir!”
“Or do not come back at all.”
“Sir! No, sir!”
Strapped in, unable to move, Garrison had nothing to look at for the next three hours except for the time display on the back of the couch in front. He let his mind drift and he started to think ahead. He thought about how he would adjust in his R&R time. How he would cope, not having the chem to power up the VuSharps. His vision would be poor, compared to what he’d gotten used to. Less sharp and slower to adjust than it was pre-implants.
That was the military. Everybody got top grade enhancements, but maintenance and juice were only there when the military wanted you to perform. Outside, afterward, it was just weight and baggage to carry around.
He remembered too late to brace for the booster blast. The ion canon would kick the capsule on and upward ahead of the apex of the arc. His stomach sank fast with the G-force’s sickening drop.
He was still breathing in. Trying to fill his lungs. The mule-kick slammed the back of his chair. His lungs and his guts felt like they’d burst. The shell of his rib cage felt like he’d been stamped on by something the size of a truck.
Already, just a few hours from the combat zone, a sluggish weariness dragged his muscles. No more NuroStim until he returned to the field. No OxyTicToc, no EndorfAlert. Until his next top up at USMilCorp MedEnhance, the minute adrenal activators that floated in his bloodstream were dead weight. Like all grunts, the first thing USMilCorp did was burn his eyes out and replace the irises and retinas. So, like all grunts on R&R it was either black market Chemdrive for his VuSharp enhancements, or dull and blurred vision.
Maintenance. The downside of all bio-enhancement.
Images of Tour 2 seared in his mind. He was counting on drowning them in massive doses of alcohol. That and fierce bouts of unrestrained sex. It would take a lot before he could even begin to make them blur and recede. He signed up in the first place to get over the image of the girl. The girl he hadn’t been able to protect. He couldn’t even allow her name to surface. Courtesy of Mech&Tech 282, he now had a whole avalanche of scenes.
It was supposed to get easier.
Garrison had never considered a Virtual for sex before. He never wanted to, and he certainly hadn’t ever needed to. Any time he stepped into a strange bar, he’d take his time crossing the floor. He would give an appraising look over all the women. And they all watched him. Their eyes shone and sparkled. They moistened their lips. Touched their hair or the backs of their necks. He knew why they were there and they knew it, too. If there was a set of curves, a pair of wet, eager eyes that met with his stratospheric standard, she would be the nights’ lucky winner. Often, he’d have to wait for a girl to meet his exacting standards. Sink a few before one came along who had what it took. And sometimes, some crazy nights, there were two.
Now, he wasn’t sure if he could trust himself at all with a frail, breakable woman. He figured he’d best take tumble or two with a bot first. The thought didn’t please him, but he knew from enough bitter and recent experience what pent up and bottled aggression could do. It was a valuable asset in the field. Off the zone of combat, outside the rules of engagement, not so much.
He wondered how much personality was programmed into a Virtu. In his field until, the gunnery VirtuCrew had personality. Not only eye movements but twitches, tightening around the eyes to show apprehension. Bot-builders learned that those micro moves were better warning signals than flashing lights and klaxons. The bots weren’t afraid, obviously. If they had human operators, they would be remote, and they wouldn’t have much to be afraid of either.
USMilCorp wouldn’t waste a cent of juice showing the operator’s emotions. Spreadsheets from kinetic encounters showed that troops took more care of the equipment when it showed emotional cues. That way more of their expensive animatronics came back from battleground encounters intact. Still no expense was wasted. Research showed that movements around the edges of the eye were all it took to trigger the response, and so that’s all the bots did. Their eyes narrowed and widened. That was their entire range of expression.
To steel himself for another tour, he would need to be ready for a whole lot more of what the last four months had been, and probably much worse. On each tour, Mech&Tech grunts were deployed in a more aggressive combat zone and the rewards, the ones that mattered, wouldn’t start to kick in until after the third tour.
Military bonuses were the only way for a man with Garrison’s background to get any juice that was worth a damn, and he needed it bad.
On the way to the bounce pad Garrison’s platoon manager sugges
ted he take a few sessions with an adjustment consultant. Garrison said he didn’t want his head messed with in that way. Truth was, he didn’t want the expense. His stack of juice wasn’t nearly tall enough that he was ready to drill into it. Not for psych support. Not when there was beer, bourbon and a buddy. The Mech&Tech Mantra. For now, he was determined to try and manage the bumps of ‘transition’ himself.
Tour three was definitely going to be harder, but he would have to get through it. The seatback screen showed a news roundup. Top of the bulletin was a piece about a big push against insurgents and terrorists in Guandong. That’s why there was no one else bouncing back. Should have checked my mail before I boarded.
The bounce pod accelerated in the downward arc. Garrison braced. He drew long, slow, deep breaths. “Landing can’t be worse than launch, right?” was the other gag that experienced bounce passengers enjoyed telling rookies as they slapped them on the shoulder. Against the rising G-force, he drew longer and deeper breaths. Each time widening his rib cage more. The screen in front of him showed digits. Counting down. 5 – 4 – 3 – 2 – and when it reached 1 he filled his lungs and his chest with as much air as he could.
As the pod rammed into the ocean, Garrison’s sternum creaked. He held his breath. The pod spent at least the regulation thirty-eight seconds underwater. He didn’t watch the time. It would be over when it was over. When at last it bounced up to the surface, the lining of his couch popped to inflate as the top of the pod snapped open.
Before the pod completely filled with salt water, a bot voice rasped out of the seat, much more businesslike and metallic than the reassuring tones of the pre-flight announcements.
“On behalf of USACorp, USMilCorp thanks you for your service and welcomes you back to Corporate USA. You are in USACorp Coastal waters, five point six eight miles off the Florida coast. We hope you had a pleasant bounce. The pod will now make its way to shore. If you would like a complementary tug at your own risk, press the illuminated, ‘ACCEPT TUG’ button to indicate your agreement to all of the terms and conditions.”
