Ordnance

by Andrew Vaillencourt

  Roger, like most people who opted for biological augmentations over cybernetics, was not fond of armatures. Despite his extreme level of enhancement, Roger had at least looked entirely human. He could sit at a restaurant, walk into a bar, or drive a normal car without issue. As long as he avoided places that had the technological capability of scanning for augmentations, he could live a completely normal existence. Well, at least an existence that appeared completely normal. His dependency on drugs to get his brain and body to move at the same speed when he wasn’t fighting was just the price he paid for his professional success.

  Roger had met and known a few armature pilots, and he respected them. Armatures made the best, most powerful cyborgs in the galaxy; they were always far stronger and more versatile than prosthetics. If a man lost his legs in an accident, he might get a quality set of prosthetic legs to replace them (if he could afford them). That man may go on to have a somewhat normal life after that. But contrary to the conventional understanding, those legs could not be made much stronger than the originals. Legs that could lift a thousand pounds were useless if the arms could not hold onto the weight and got torn from their sockets. If the spine could not support that mass, then you just crippled the poor jerk you were trying to augment. Because they were attached to normal bodies, a new prosthetic would always be limited by the strength and durability of whatever they were anchored to. It was the same story for any body part: Replacement was easy, but unless the whole body got upgraded, there was not much of a marketplace for super-powerful prosthetics.

  If a skilled deep-space construction foreman suffered a crippling accident, however, the company may be very excited to equip him with a fully upgraded system purpose-built for his role. Instead of having to hire a man and replace a piece of equipment, they simply turned the man into a piece of equipment. It was a good system: The worker gets to keep making money (and likely much more of it) and the company doesn’t lose hard-to-find expertise.

  Prosthetics were about vanity and quality of life, and an armature was a tool assembled for a task, plain and simple. No one had made a full prosthesis reliable yet; and until they did, a guy with a bunch of missing limbs and a mechanical respirator could still enjoy life a little if he had an armature. It was easier to think of them as a large, semi-permanent wheelchair rather than an actual mechanical body.

  Roger had been briefed on all of this, and was excited and scared in equal proportions. He looked down at his arms. He saw the nine one-inch round plugs that had been surgically implanted along his humerus and radius bones. Little round caps sat on top of his skin, looking like silver buttons poking just through the surface. There were more of them on his legs and along his spine. One had been installed on each temple, as well. Getting dates was going to be a little tricky after this gig, but thanks to the ’net, there was a kink for everything. It would all be worth it if he got to avenge himself on that big bastard from Dockside, at least.

  But Roger was still not entirely sanguine about getting an armature. Armatures were what you got when you lost large chunks of your body, or ended up needing permanent life-support. If you were obscenely rich, you might get an armature that at the very least could fit under your clothes. If you weren’t, you got whatever the company was willing to give you.

  So, when Fox told Roger that they were developing a new type of armature, he had balked a little. Then they showed it to him, and he was sold on it right away.

  Johnson had explained it best, “You have enhanced your body far beyond what any reasonable person should have. Your augmentations are going to kill you, and soon. You have the brain of an eighty-year-old drug addict and your organs will need replacement every three to five years. Your joints have no organic material left in them, and your muscles are atrophying at six times the normal rate because they have been laced with inferior materials and are constantly fighting infection and rejection.”

  “You are lucky we hired you, Mr. Dawkins, because you are fast approaching the point where the maintenance on your body will cost more than you can ever hope to earn. You will die slowly, in agony, while simultaneously going mad, Mr. Dawkins.”

  “Well, gee, Doc. Don’t sugar-coat it or nothin!” Roger had not realized that he had damaged himself that much. He supposed that’s what he got for only using underworld biotech.

  “What we propose is to fit you with an advanced armature that…”

  “Whoa, there, Doc!” Roger remembered well that moment of brief panic, “I’ve seen those things. That’s not what I signed up for!”

  “Oh relax, Mr. Dawkins,” Johnson admonished, “this is something altogether different from what you think it is.”

  And it had been. First of all, they were rebuilding his body anyway, so he would not have to depend on the armature for survival. That was the most important thing as far as Roger Dawkins was concerned. Second, this was no bastardized worker ’bot they were talking about. Granted, the military versions he had seen were good-looking in their own functional way, but Roger still had no desire to be welded to a twelve-foot ’mech that looked like the bastard love child of a tank and a hoversled.

  He needn’t have worried. The apparatus in question was something else entirely. It did not look like an unwieldy machine at all. To the contrary, it was sleek and clean and bright white. It bore a superficial resemblance to power armor or a heavy space suit, but with a smooth, unmarked exterior. Joints and overlapping armor plates created a pattern of lines and facets across articulated joints like shoulders, waist, hips and elbows. But otherwise it was smooth and humanoid, even to the extent that the designers had obviously duplicated human anatomy on purpose. The chassis was very clearly meant to evoke human features and even proportioned in such a manner as to not appear too ridiculous. If Roger squinted, the shape was vaguely reminiscent of a very athletic man. The shoulders were wide, the waist narrow, and its legs were long and powerful-looking. It had two arms, two legs, five fingers per hand and an otherwise normal-looking head with square, black eyes and a blank faceplate. It looked more or less like a nine-foot tall service android; except bigger, stronger, and with obvious armor plating.

  Johnson gave the briefing, “The armature is entirely anthropomorphic,” he studied Roger’s face for comprehension, “that means it mimics the human body, Roger.”

  “I know what ‘anthropomorphic’ means, Doc,“ Roger lied. He had always hated school.

  “Of course,” the Doctor acknowledged with dry sarcasm, “the armature is designed to move exactly like you do. Underneath those external plates, is an authentic human muscle analog created for a top-secret military program. It connects directly to your nervous system and is equipped with an analogous and entirely sympathetic nervous system of its own. If it works the way we hope, it will feel exactly like your own body.”

  Fox jumped in and rescued Dawkins from having to pretend he understood any of that, “You will feel what it feels, and it will move like you move.”

  “Don’t they all do that?” Roger asked. He had seen enough cyborg armatures to know that most of them moved in a smooth, precise manner. Good pilots could drive a giant excavation ’mech through a crowded street without stepping on any toes.

  He had also seen enough prostheses to know that they did a good job of mimicking the original body parts as well. The big white caricature in front of him, creepy as it was, didn’t look all that high-tech to his uneducated eye.

  “Not like this!” Fox grinned.

  Johnson interjected, “Most cybernetic systems simply read the electrical activity in the brain or nerves and map an action to the signal. There is no direct feedback from prosthesis itself; there are no nerves there to carry a signal. The user simply learns to accommodate for the signal delay and to manage the prosthetic such that its limitations do not impact their day-to-day life.”

  “A soldier with a prosthetic arm does not feel the rifle with the fingers, but the prosthetic mimics the force feedback signal that has been mapped to the brain. He can avoid
breaking things and get a sense of weight and resistance, but he’s not feeling it. Not really.”

  Roger nodded slowly, “So this thing,” he gestured to the imposing metal man, “will feel stuff?”

  Johnson returned the nod, “Eventually, yes. If we do our job right, this armature will feel like the body you’ve already been walking around in your whole life. No feedback delays, no dyskinesia, perfect balance and proprioception. When coupled with your already impressive enhancements, you will be the most lethal and effective fighting system ever developed.”

  Roger liked the sound of most of that, “Eventually? What do you mean ‘eventually?’”

  Johnson’s face contorted in a pensive frown, as if he was searching for the right words to make Roger understand, “we have not… uhm… perfected… the symbiosis between the armature’s virtual nervous system and yours… yet.”

  Fox interrupted again, “Don’t worry Roger, just the usual R & D hassles. We have the best man in the field working on it right now…”

  Roger was not the most learned man in the world, but he had squeezed enough intelligence out of enough informants to know when the whole truth had not been spoken. His face must have betrayed his suspicion because Dr. Johnson rushed to reassure him.

  “It’s not a big deal for now, Roger. The armature has already been seeded with your neurological parameters and our best bio-technicians have written an AI to bridge the gaps between your nervous system and the virtual one in the armature. You will be 100% safely operational with or without that last bit.”

  “So why do it all?” Roger wasn’t too proud to acknowledge he was getting nervous about this deal.

  Johnson again: “Because when we have it fully operational, you will be faster, more comfortable, and more effective. You will be able to pick a flower and smell it while mounted to the armature. The armature will be your body when you are in it.”

  “With the current system, you will still be most of the way there. It will feel more like a cross between a good prosthetic and a high-end suit of power armor than a true symbiosis; but thanks to the bridging AI, you should be nothing short of devastating. No currently available biotech will be up to your specs.”

  Roger relaxed a little. He didn’t trust Fox as far as he could throw the doughy bastard, but Johnson was the same kind of tech-nerd Roger had been stealing lunch money from since he was nine. Johnson was incapable of deception when he talked about his toys because his exuberance over his own brilliance prevented him from being a convincing liar.

  “And I can un-mount at any time, right?” Roger had nightmares about being permanently attached to that machine, trapped forever in a robot body.

  “Of course! That is the real genius of the system!” Even Fox was gibbering at this point, “It’s just a big suit of armor, except we built it to the exact specifications of its pilot…you! When you are done with a job, pop right out and go about your business.”

  “Since your reflexes are already superhuman, and your body is so physically durable, you will be able to run the system at its maximum capacity,” Johnson was still sputtering, “far faster and at higher G-forces than any regular pilot could!”

  Johnson’s grin was ebullient, “You don’t even comprehend how perfect you are for this machine, Roger. It has been built for you, and you have been re-built for it. Basically, the machine will multiply the abilities of the pilot. The tougher the pilot, the tougher the machine. This is why we wanted you, specifically, to be that pilot.” That rang as mostly true, but something was missing, and Roger knew it.

  “And this will mean I can take out the big fucker who damn near killed me?”

  Fox’s grin was more reserved than his excitable partner’s, but no less cheerful, “We are counting it. Eliminating him and bringing in that woman are essential for completing the symbiotic nervous system.”

  “Really?” Roger, was not brilliant, but he was sly. He knew a con when he saw it and this stank like a con job. The trick was in piecing it all together.

  “Yes, Mr. Dawkins. She is turning out to be a critical factor in completing that phase of the project,” Roger wondered if Fox ever turned that fake smile off, “I believe you knew of that when you took the original job?”

  Fox’s question was a revealing slip. Roger had not known exactly what his client had needed the girl for when he took the work, but he was sorting it out. He had known the gist of the job when he took it, but he hadn’t realized it was biotech development that the girl’s family was caught up in.

  Roger hated kidnap and ransom work, it was always so messy and relied on too many separate things going right for a chance to be successful. Corpus Mundi had to be very anxious to resort to such a ham-fisted strategy. It reeked of desperation.

  But what could make a large, well-funded corporation so desperate?

  In that instant Roger’s felonious mind slapped another puzzle piece into place, and he grinned like a monkey, “You need me to run the suit because the nervous system bullshit doesn’t work yet, don’t you?” Fox’s smile wobbled for the briefest of seconds and Johnson frowned, “Hah! That’s it, isn’t it? I’m so hopped up that when I drive the thing… it’s going to look like you’ve got it all worked out… but you don’t!”

  Based on what Fox and Johnson had just revealed, Roger would have bet that whole bounty whatever tech they needed to get the suit to work the was locked in either that pink-haired bitch’s head or her father’s. It was the only logical conclusion.

  Johnson’s face went red and his eyes blazed indignation. Roger continued his assault on the man’s dignity, “And you need that girl because she or her dad know how to fix it.”

  Roger further surmised there must be big money on the line, and that promises had been made about the new armature. Promises that Mr. Fox was having trouble keeping, it seemed.

  He beamed, caught up in his own cleverness, “Tell me if I’m wrong, boys: This thing is probably for the military, right? Did you pitch it as armor for regular soldiers?” A barking laugh, “Of course you did! Oh man, you two made a shit-ton of promises about it and got a big military research grant, didn’t you? How am I doing?”

  Fox could not maintain his smile, “True or not, Roger, nothing like that would be any concern of yours.”

  Roger snorted a derisive laugh, “That’s rich. I figure you’ve gotta make that ’bot run like the next greatest thing in biotech, or you’re gonna lose a big fat contract, aren’t you?”

  Roger plowed on as the whole picture finally came into stark focus. It was comforting for him to see that the contortions of liars and thieves were the same no matter the scale of the crime. Fox was running a hustle, just like any other con man. Roger didn’t let up. He wanted to make sure that Fox knew that Roger Dawkins was no fool.

  “This hunk of shit is juuuust a fancy exo-suit without that mumbo-jumbo, right? Can a regular guy even drive it without that weird brain shit working?”

  Fox’s face twitched. Not quite a wince, but it was a microscopic tell that encouraged Roger to run with this thread.

  He paused, still smiling, “But me?” he smirked with smug satisfaction, “… a guy like me can already move faster and take more hits than anyone else. My brain doesn’t need any fancy hardware, and my other shit is so jacked up I’d make any tech run like a champ. Yeah. That’s definitely it.”

  He gave the two company men a hard, triumphant stare, “The only way your toy robot there will perform like you’ve promised, is if I run him.”

  Johnson could not contain his agitation over the insinuation, “It’s not like that at all! The system is beyond anything else ever made. We just need more time to get everything perfected,” he mewled.

  “Oh, shut up, Doctor.” Fox ladled sarcasm onto the title, then turned to Roger. His stern tone was incongruous with that implacable fake smile, “Roger, you have been hired to drive that armature, and you are being paid handsomely to do it… both in cash and in new body parts. You are a goddamned investment, Dawkins, so
don’t get any ideas.”

  Fox straightened his tie and continued, “Why we are paying you to do this is entirely irrelevant, because you are not part of that equation. Our agreement is predicated upon your discretion. Am I understood?”

  Roger was content with his victory and relaxed, chuckling quietly. He couldn’t care less about their corporate screw-ups, he was simply filing the information away for when it came time to renegotiate his contract. Fox’s reaction and Johnson’s whining had him convinced of his correctness.

  It would never be Roger’s problem either way. If these chumps wanted to rebuild his fucked-up body and brain to fool some other chumps, and pay him to kidnap some uptown lady, that was their issue.

  “As long as I get paid, man.”

  “Naturally, Mr. Dawkins,” greased Fox, “We’re not savages, after all.”

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  The smoke from Umas climbed hundreds of feet into the yellow-orange expanse that was the night sky over Big Woo.

  Billy McGinty took in a deep breath, inhaling the jumbled mélange of competing aromas: smoke, ozone, squalor, burning flesh, and blood.

  Smells like revolution, was his silent comment.

  His eyes sparkled darkly in the firelight, and he exhaled in another long slow breath. Standing in bleak silence atop the 10th floor roof of an old office building gave him the perfect vantage point to observe his minor little mutiny grow into a full-blown coup. He could see for many blocks in all directions, like a general fielding units from a hilltop vantage point. To his left, he watched small teams of rag-clad shadows snake in and out of Marko’s supply houses. Like rats, they scurried to and from the nondescript buildings and hauled boxes and crates to waiting hoversleds and old cargo vehicles. In six short hours, every supply house in town would be emptied of drugs and contraband.