by M. K. Gibson
“Me too,” I said back as I silently picked up my plasma pistols from my workbench. I carefully disconnected them from the diagnostic cable and loaded an ammo cell.
“So, I was tested tonight, huh?” I asked as I aimed the weapons at his back.
“Yes.”
“And? Did I pass?” I thumbed the primer charge on both weapons.
“Let me ask you, do you feel like you passed?” he asked, still admiring the poster. His back was still turned to me, but now his hands were clasped behind him. The empty beer bottle sat on top of my coffee table.
I actually took a moment to think about it. Sure, I had dealt with the mechanical ants and got away. But the way he asked made me feel I hadn’t pass his intended test. It felt like one of those trick questions about how many animals Moses brought on the Ark, which were popular on the old internet. No, I was pretty sure I had not passed what he intended.
“Well, I think I did a fine job last night. I followed your instructions. I took the package to the location you provided, so your metal friend and his companions could find me. And most importantly, I must add, I survived. But from your tone, I am guessing I didn’t pass.” I stared at his back, still waiting for him to make a move. He just continued to stare at the poster on the wall.
“Not all tests are pass/fail,” he said. “You were evaluated tonight. You are resilient and think quickly. Your technology is advanced. Top marks all around. However, your empathy and compassion were less than favorable.” Grimm’s tone was almost scolding.
“Empathy? You mean those bums in the building? How were they a test? Besides, I saved them from the ants.” My voice rose.
“You scared them. You fired upon them and drove them from their home. You do not care much for your own kind. You have little to no feelings for the less fortunate.”
Oh lord. Of all the creepy magicians to come into my life and give me money while nearly having me eaten by mechanical ants, I had to get the one who was a damn hippie. Next he will want to talk about our feelings, do things “outside the box.” Form a drum circle. Probably has a hacky sack in his robes and flyers to protest something.
“No, I honestly don’t care that much. This new world isn’t big on caring. You show too much weakness, you die. It’s pretty simple. Friends are a gateway to being used. I keep a few around, but I keep outliving them.”
“They have you programmed. That is how they want you to think,” he said.
“Who? Who has me programmed?”
“Hell. Less and less concern for your fellow man makes it easier and easier to promote dominance and control. Your apathy is but a symbol and reminder that they are in charge, and it is no longer our world,” he said, his voice somber, his tone resolute.
“So that was part of my test? To see how I dealt with the bums? What, were the rampaging bugs a bonus?” I asked.
“That area was chosen because of the homeless population. I knew you would escape the ants and encounter the locals. How you dealt and reacted in that time was the true measure of your evaluation. You tried to save them in the end. Self-serving as your intentions were, ultimately you ensured they lived. Little to no empathy, though. So in some sense, you passed. More than that, I believe you can be taught.”
“Taught? You think I am a dog or something?”
“No. A person. Perhaps a person worthy of trust.”
Hell. I didn’t know what to say to that.
No one spoke for several minutes. The air had become thick with the silence. The tension was tangible. I broke first and spoke.
“So, where does that leave us then?” I asked. A moment or two passed before Grimm spoke.
“I wish to make this world a better place. A unique opportunity has presented itself. Because of this I require an assistant. When I approached Rictus, your name was the only one on his list.”
“Why Ricky?”
“I have known Rictus for a very long time. I trust his judgment. I wished to see what you were capable of. Rictus has been…off recently. His agoraphobia has gotten worse. Otherwise I would have simply employed him. So, do you agree to work for me, for the time being?”
Boredom had set in the last decade or so. I had read all my books. Watched all my movies. Played all my games. This was a chance at something new. Hell, why not.
“Sure. When do we start?”
“Immediately. First, I want to know the secret of your immortality,” he said.
“What?” I asked.
Look out! yelled my mother’s voice in my head.
Son, behind you! my father’s voice cried out.
A viselike grip came around my throat and for all my strength I could not move it. Grimm’s image standing before the poster shimmered and vanished. An illusion. He was behind me and he was strong. A surge went through me and as I was about to break his grip, I felt a dagger plunge into my chest three times in rapid succession. I broke free and lunged forward. But not before he took the dagger firmly, and slit my throat.
Chapter Six
A Highly Metallic Plastic Protein Smoothie
A long time ago…
A scared little boy looked up at his father. He was only eight years old and he was very afraid of the machinery and needles in his father’s secret lab. Computers hummed, machines beeped, and the room was cold. Sterile.
“Daddy, I don’t know if I want to do this,” the little boy said to his father.
“Son, don’t you want to be like a superhero?” the father asked.
“Yes, but I don’t want it to hurt,” the boy said.
The father knelt down and hugged his son, and patted his head. “Son,” the father began, “I would never hurt you on purpose. If I am right, all you will feel is a little sting of the needle and you will go to sleep. When you wake up, you will be fine. New and improved, actually. You will be ready for what is coming. I need you to be brave.”
The boy looked over at his mother, and saw her crying.
“Mommy, why are you crying?” the boy asked.
The mother also knelt down and hugged her son. “I am sad because I feel your father is right. This needs to be done. It is the only way you will survive what I fear is to come.”
“Dramatic, don’t you think, dear?” the father said to the mother. She gave a sideways glance and he avoided her eyes.
“Son, the world is about to change in the next few years. And we don’t know what exactly is going to happen. But if we are right, then it is going to be bad. And people will need someone like you to help them. You have to be one of the good guys, son.”
The little boy thought about it for a moment. He thought about what his parents had told him might happen. And they told him about the procedure. He would become smarter, faster, and stronger.
The boy got on the table and lay down. His father patted him on the head and ruffled his hair a bit. “Getting shaggy, boy. You are going to need a haircut soon,” his father said. The boy felt a small sting of the needle in his arm, and he immediately felt a bit sleepy. He began to drift.
The last thing he heard before falling into a deep sleep was his parents telling him they loved him. And that made Isaac smile.
Now . . .
I lurched forward, dropped both pistols and clutched at my neck while blood spurted. Cuts like these aren’t like the movies with gallons of blood spraying. Short deliberate spurts. The chest wounds I wasn’t nearly as worried about. Those would close quickly. But the sliced throat was bleeding too quickly. I needed to get it stopped so my system could take over.
An awkward moment of clarity hit me as I thought, “That fucker cut my throat!”
I turned and kicked him in the chest hard enough to rival a Spartan. I caught him by surprise and sent him into the wall. I guessed he didn’t expect a bleeding would-be murder victim to turn on him, let alone deliver a crippling attack.
I dashed for my auxiliary gear by the weapons bench. Keeping direct pressure on my neck, I rummaged for a scant second and pulled out my quick-clot coagu
lant gel package. Darkness was beginning to form around my eyes and I knew I didn’t have long before I blacked out. I could possibly survive this without the gel, but I would be unconscious with this prick in my home. I ripped the package open with my teeth and smeared the contents in the open wound. The chemical burn began instantly, sealing off the flow of blood. My windpipe was also seared shut now and some blood had gotten into my lungs.
I had to control myself for a few minutes. I had to not spasm, not cough. I had to let my system take over and begin the healing. I reached down and grabbed my pistol from the floor and fired several rapid shots at Father Grimm, who had peeled himself off the wall. Grimm raised a hand at the same time I fired. An iridescent light formed a diamond shape in the air. My shots hit this shield, never touching him. Son of a bitch just pulled a Darth Vader and I was Han Solo in Cloud City. Worst dinner in cinematic history. At least the blasts pushed him back, but he made no move toward me.
We stared at one another. And in a few moments I began to cough up the blood from my lungs. I felt my breathing slowly return. He still made no move, only watched me. I felt my voicebox reset.
“You fucking prick!” I rasped. “I am going to kill you.”
“What are you?” he asked. His head cocked to one side as if trying to puzzle out a riddle.
“Pissed is what I am!” I yelled back at him. He put both hands up in a gesture of surrender.
“You must believe me; you were never in any real danger. Pain, yes. But you were never meant to die. I needed to see what would happen.”
I kept the weapon trained on him and rubbed my hand across my throat. The scar tissue was already receding. I watched as he walked over to my workbench and sat down on a stool, hands in front of him in a sign of surrender. I began to feel a burning hunger. Typical after that much cellular regeneration. After all that, if I didn’t eat very soon I would pass out.
“Sit there and don’t move,” I ordered him. He nodded. My pantry was off from the living area. I went into the pantry and deactivated one of the stasis modules, grabbed an MRE, and turned it back on. Old-fashioned MREs have a lot of calories and I needed them all. I brought it back and sat opposite Father Grimm at my workbench and began to ravenously wolf down the food.
I still kept the pistol aimed at him. I ate in silence and he just watched. After I had eaten, I opened one of my work drawers and pulled out an assortment of various small metal ingots and multiple density plastics. From the back side of the bench I pulled out a titanium-bladed super blender and put the ingots in. I got some orange juice from the mini fridge and poured that in as well. Before I turned it on, I went to the deep freezer nearby and picked out a hunk of frozen beef. I threw that in the blender as well, turned it on and blended it all into a highly metallic plastic protein smoothie. I slugged the whole thing down in a few gulps. Grimm looked moderately surprised.
“My God. Are you a cyborg?” he asked.
A long time ago…
“Isaac, Isaac, wake up,” the father said to his son. The boy named Isaac opened his eyes slowly. He saw … perfectly. He hadn’t needed glasses before. But he saw differently now. He could count the hairs on his father’s head if he wanted to. In fact, he realized he literally could count them. In seconds. He heard the heart rate monitor in perfect tones. He could smell everything near him. All his senses were hyper acute.
“Daddy, what am I now?” the boy named Isaac asked his father.
“Something new, son. Something new.”
Chapter Seven
An Odd Case of Pica
A few minutes of silence passed. Father Grimm watched me. I had the incredible urge for a smoke. Walking toward my living area, I noticed the blood that now decorated my home. Damn. Blood was hard to clean.
“I asked you a question. Are you a cyborg?” Grimm asked me. I gave him a glare over my shoulder and kept my pistol on him. I almost laughed. Fucker cuts my throat and stabs me and is now demanding I answer his questions?
“Yup,” I said as I lit up a smoke. I walked back to the workbench and sat opposite Father Grimm. I watched him watch me. I gestured at the ashtray and Grimm slid it toward me. I took several deep pulls of my smoke. I knew he was about to ask many questions. And at that moment, as dumb as it sounds, I felt like answering them. As I thought about it, I guessed that was the way with immortals; we either harbor our secrets around one another or we spill our guts, hoping to find that kindred spirit. And fuck it; he was dressed like a priest. I felt like confessing. But I also kept my pistol ready; I wasn’t above shooting him.
“Very few people know about it. As you can see, I don’t look the part. No wires, tubes, hoses or external augmentations.” I gestured to my body. “But it is what I am, and the reason for my extended life span. If you tell anyone, I lose my edge. People will see me differently, both friends and foes. So, Father Grimm, what’s your story?”
“You are not ready to hear my beginnings,” he said to me. “However, you have shared with me, so let me share with you.” He stood up and walked over to my mini fridge and pulled out two beers. He held one up to me in an unspoken question. I nodded.
“Sure, I love to drink with people who only a few minutes prior cut my throat. No, seriously, give me the beer.” He passed me a beer and sat back down.
“Before I begin, let me reiterate, I never intended to kill you. Even if your own actions and self-preservation systems had not saved you, I would not have allowed you to pass on.”
“With magic?” I asked.
“Yes. With magic. I would have prevented your spirit from passing on, had you not acted. But nevertheless, you survived. Let us begin with, I am an immortal, and I am very old. I may be the oldest human on this planet.” He took a sip of his beer and raised an eyebrow at me. “I propose a game of questions. You ask me something and I answer with the truth. I ask you something and you answer truthfully. The moment we lie to one another, the game ends.”
I stared at him. I wondered why he was trying so hard to ingratiate himself with me. This went way beyond immortal boredom. But the game of questions was intriguing.
“OK, I will play a little ‘Riddles in the Dark,’ what the hell. But I propose a twist. If I don’t like your answers, you leave me in peace. Forever.”
“Agreed,” he said.
“Hang on a sec. If we are about to get all deep, I don’t want to do this sober. And definitely not on beer,” I said, getting up from the workbench.
I went back into one of the storerooms beyond my pantry and rummaged for the old Johnny Walker Blue I kept for special occasions. I brought the bottle and two glasses back to the workbench, where I poured several fingers of scotch into each glass. I passed one to Grimm. As he accepted, he passed his hand over his glass. The air condensed and coalesced into small chunks of ice. He just pulled moisture and cold from nothing and made ice. I held out my glass and he repeated the process. We clinked glasses and drank.
There is a bond you develop with someone over strong spirits. Those are the times you bare yourself to the core. The times you share what else you keep hidden. I like drinking with people. For those few hours, things are more real. Things feel like they have a purpose. Then, inevitably, we go back to our existences. All things muted. The lies resume. Damn, I was already maudlin. Didn’t this asshole just stick a knife in my neck?
“You go first,” I told Father Grimm as I lit up a smoke.
“Certainly. What is the nature of your cybernetics?”
I knew this would be a lead-off question. Something must have crossed my face because Grimm added, “This conversation is for you and me alone. Your secrets are my secrets. My secrets I will entrust to you to guard as your own. This I swear.”
“Dramatic. But I accept. Thank you.” I took another sip of the scotch. What the hell was I doing?
“When I was a child,” I began, now gulping my scotch, “my father was the CEO of the American branch of the Kurasawa-MacMillen Corporation. Among his other duties, he was the lead tech direc
tor for R&D. Brilliant guy, really. When the board presented the project of ReGenesis, my father objected. Cloning Christ was not on his to-do list. My mother, the PhD in Theology, made sure of that. So he quit. He took his patents and designs and left. My mother predicted that the bringing of a Christ clone might bring the end of days. So, my dad went to work. He was an artist and I was his canvas. He utilized a project he had been working on to enhance our soldiers in the battlefield, but it never saw production. He did this to me to prepare me for the days to come. But he never expected the side effect of my life span. Happy accidents and all that.” I finished my drink and poured another.
“What about your appearance? As you stated, you are not the norm for a cyborg.”
“I could have sworn the rules for this game were one question for one question.”
Father Grimm stared at me flatly and I suppressed a smile. After a few seconds he nodded his head.
“OK, my turn. Why me? Why am I your pet project?” I asked. Grimm smiled a little. It was creepy.
“That is a stupid question and a waste. I do not tolerate waste. I already told you, I would have preferred Rictus. But as he was not available, he recommended you.” His eyes said he was serious. Then he took a drink of my expensive and rare scotch. I felt a little dismissed. Grimm must have picked up on that. “You have special skills and gifts beyond being an immortal. I could have need of those.”
My turn. He extended his glass for a refill. I stared at him and the glass and quelled the urge to spit in it. Begrudgingly I filled his glass, and topped off mine. I gestured with my glass for him to continue as I lit up another smoke.
“I want to know how you became a smuggler.”
“I thought you were going to ask about my cybernetics.”
“In due time. I think I have most of it figured out already. For now, I wish to hear how you became a smuggler.” He set his jaw into a mask of resolve.
I rolled my eyes at him. Figured me out, huh? Good luck, you scary old bastard. But I guess it was his turn and I owed him his answer.
