by J. N. Chaney
“I’m gonna check on your friends. This time, you got lucky. Next time, you won’t wake up. Stay away from me or you’ll pay the price.”
After a brief, angry staring contest, he nodded, but I wasn’t sure he understood. I gave Bobby the same speech but wasn’t sure he got it because his eyes shifted in and out of focus and he looked ready to puke.
“Let’s get out of here, X,” I said.
“That seems a reasonable course of action. I will, of course, go wherever you go,” X-37 promised.
I felt like I was missing something, so I looked over my victims a final time. Smiling, I opened big Bobby’s jacket pocket and pulled out two Starbrand cigars. His other pocket had an old style lighter that smelled like propane.
Flipping it open, I ignited the tip of the Starbrand, puffing until the ember was perfect.
“I hope you’re happy,” X-37 murmured in a disapproving tone.
“If it makes you feel any better, it’s a fake,” I said, the cigar distorting my words. “Tastes like a dog’s asshole.”
“I’m not going to ask how you came to know what that tastes like, and I don’t feel sorry for you,” X-37 said.
“Didn’t think you would, X.” I inhaled deeply. “Ahhh. No regrets.”
3
One nice thing about Gronic was that even the shabbiest workshop conformed to fire codes. Carved from stone, the place felt like a bunker that could resist an artillery strike. The bench was some type of granite with a rubber mat covering one end where I laid my tools. The lighting was shitty, but you couldn’t have everything.
“This would be a lot easier if I could take the arm off and place it in front of me,” I complained.
“If that were a possibility,” X-37 said, “they would have taken it from you when you were in prison.”
“Uh, huh. Yeah, you’re right,” I conceded, squinting as I worked with an incredibly small pair of tweezers. My repair wouldn’t fix everything and the minuscule nature of it was almost insulting. The head of one wire lacked insulation. Even with the magnifying glasses I wore, I could barely see it.
“You’re not even listening to me,” X-37 said.
“Uh, huh. Sure thing, X,” I said. The bead of silicon looked like a baseball in the tweezers. I slipped it over the raw edges of wire and smoothed it out. The nice thing about Glandarian silicon was that it was easy to work with once it was the same temperature as the host wire.
“We should go back to the ship,” X-37 said, probably not for the first time.
With the repair basically complete, I sat up straighter and looked around, clearing my vision and breathing normally again. “Why is that, X?”
“Because you would have proper tools on the ship, and I could consult with Jelly,” X-37 said, referring to my new ship’s AI.
“She told me she wasn’t an expert on cybernetics,” I argued.
“Yes,” X-37 said, “but you will also recall that she has a broad database of general knowledge acquired from the three captains before you.”
“Who were all dangerous rogues and probably drunk most of the time,” I said. “We’ve had this conversation before.”
“And you intentionally distort the facts. The first captain was not a renegade, but an honest man set upon by pirates,” X-37 said.
“He worked for the Union. That doesn’t sound honest to me,” I said. “And he drank whiskey like it owed him money.”
“That makes absolutely no sense,” X-37 complained.
“He was an asshat just like the rest of them,” I said, raising my voice, feigning more annoyance than I felt.
“Jelly has fond memories of him and has requested more than once for permission to inquire of his location and status,” X-37 said.
“She doesn’t need my permission for that, but we’re not going anywhere near the Union, and is it normal for a ship to get emotional like this?” I asked.
“Most artificial intelligences are programmed with a loyalty algorithm. It is, of course, flexible, but designed to maintain the proper chain of command,” X-37 said.
“So the machines don’t rise up. Yeah, I get it,” I said. “Let me know what you find about this captain’s location, and I’ll look into it. But I don’t want him or anybody else tied to the Union on the ship, ever.”
“I’m glad for your permission,” X-37 said evenly.
I didn’t care for his tone.
“You already did it, didn’t you,” I said accusingly but not really caring. One thing the Reaper limited artificial intelligence did better than a full AI was human intel research. I always needed as much information as possible on my targets. I wasn’t surprised that X-37 had found data that Jelly couldn’t see in the gal-net.
“Captain Jedediah Summers was court-martialed for his failure to maintain control of UFS Jellybird. He currently resides on Roxo III,” X-37 said.
“Poor bastard,” I said. “Roxo III is a shithole.”
“Shall I work with Jelly to make travel plans?” X-37 asked, ignoring my comment.
“Let’s consider other options. I swore I’d never go there again,” I said, immediately regretting saying the words aloud.
“It seems that was probably premature,” X-37 said.
“No, X, you don’t get it. Humans don’t swear based on logic or expediency. It’s all in motion. Some bad shit happened on Roxo. I did things people won’t forget,” I said.
Killing wasn’t hard, especially if my target deserved it—or I could convince myself my target deserved it. Torture, that damaged me every time I did it.
Coping with the evil bastard I’d become in the service of the Union was tough. Cigars helped. Staying busy was also a pretty good way to keep from dwelling on the living damnation my life had become since dark ops selected me for the Reaper Corps.
“I think I understand,” X-37 said. “You committed acts of violence and fear repercussions should you show your face on the planet.”
There was no way to make a computer program understand the meaning of regret. “Sure, X. That’s a big part of it.”
“I sense that you are up to something,” X-37 said as I picked up my tools from the shop and packed them into a go-bag. Years of training and experience had taught me how to put a lot of stuff in a really small, tight bundle. My current load-out was easy to manage because I didn’t have a lot of gear to drag around.
“I need to do something,” I said.
“I would better assist you if you gave me specifics,” X-37 pointed out.
“Sure, I know that’s the truth,” I said.
“Are you trying to aggravate me?” X-37 asked.
“Is that possible?” I countered.
“Not in the way you probably understand it. You can, however, decrease my efficiency with your vagueness,” X-37 said.
“I don’t really need your help, but you’re welcome to guess what I need,” I said, heading into the street.
“My analysis suggests you are in search of Starbrand cigars, which are only available on the black market and at a price you can’t afford,” X-37 said.
“What about fakes?” I asked, crossing the street and pausing to watch the foot traffic. There wasn’t much happening, but it was a habit. Situational awareness was the first lesson they taught in the Reaper Corps. Nothing mattered if an operator didn’t appreciate his or her environment.
Reapers, from day one, never trained with paint balls or other simunitions. Barney Drexler had been the first to die in training, shot in the chest for pretending he couldn’t complete a run. It had happened from time to time. Shelia Blue had been executed by a Reaper candidate in the class ahead of us for failing to notice his approach.
“A fake cigar is like a thousand times better than no cigar,” I said, slurring the words despite my attempt at levity. The past was in the past. It needed to fucking stay there.
“I don’t have a mathematical formula to check that assertion, so I will take your word for it and enter the information in my knowledge database.” X-
37 paused. “There are several vendors of imitation Starbrand tobacco products, but I predict they will taste like a dog’s orifice.”
I burst out laughing, drawing stares from other pedestrians. My eyes actually watered by the time I was done and I had to catch my breath. I looked around, staring down a couple of street thugs who were creeping up on me, then glanced at an electric billboard.
“Thanks, X. I needed that,” I said.
“Anytime, Reaper Cain. Your morale should be much improved now that I have mastered humor,” X-37 said.
“Yeah, sure. Don’t hurt yourself,” I said.
A display for Zag City on Greendale caught my attention. My mood quickly slid back a few notches.
“Why so serious?” X-37 asked. “Don’t you like my jokes?”
“It’s nothing, X. Just thinking about Elise,” I said.
One of the local thugs kept eye-fucking me.
I faced him, looming over him as I projected all the malice I normally kept in check. “You like breathing, punk?”
He sneered, muttering something under his breath, and retreated.
“I hate this place, X,” I said.
“It has much to be desired. You don’t seem to have hit it off with the locals,” X-37 commented. “Are you regretting what you did on Greendale?”
“I worry about Elise, not that the brat can’t take care of herself,” I said. “And I left people to keep an eye on her. One person, really. Frank was always looking after strays back in the day.”
“He will be protecting her, sheltering her, and mentoring her as she enters adulthood?” X-37 asked.
“No. I just asked him to check on her periodically, and maybe kick anyone’s ass who gives her a hard time,” I said. “He know she’s wanted by the Union and isn’t one of their fans.”
“Given what we experienced on Dreadmax, this seems grotesquely inadequate,” X-37 said, laying on his digital opinion a bit more forcefully than I thought was reasonable.
I studied the advertisement for Zag City, Greendale. “The place looks a lot nicer in the advertisement.”
“Of course,” X-37 commented.
I thought about the conversation with X-37 and the decision I had made to leave Elise on Greendale. I needed to go to Roxo III for critical parts, but I wanted to go back to Greendale to check on Elise.
The total lack of news from the planet was a good thing. I hadn’t been joking when I told X-37 that I expected there to be some sort of public incident. It wouldn’t be anything obvious, of course. It would probably be portrayed as an industrial accident, a series of explosions caused by a company’s failure to follow Union safety regulations.
Or maybe there would be a report of a mass shooting blamed on terrorists. Something like that.
I’d be able to figure out exactly what happened with a little bit of follow-up research. But the news was no news. The only thing I’d seen that had anything to do with Greendale was the travel brochure on the jumbotron.
I found the little corner shop that sold cigars and quickly discovered the Starbrands were fakes, but a local brand, Gronic Fats, were decent. I bought a half dozen.
“Are you sure I can’t interest you in one of the Starbrand value packs?” the tobacconist asked. “You won’t find a better price on the planet.”
“That’s because they’re fake,” I said, watching for his reaction. I was curious. He didn’t seem like a cheat, and the GF brand wasn’t too bad. The profit margin was probably much higher on the SB knockoffs, of course.
He smiled at me. “If you find someone trying to sell you a genuine Starbrand around here, you better hang on to your ass. Because you’re about to get robbed. There are Starbrands, and there are Starbrands. Mine are the closest you’ll find to the real thing.”
I nodded. “Maybe. But I’ll stick with the Gronic Fats. Support the local economy and all that.”
He shrugged, took my money, and thanked me.
“One more thing,” I said. “They don’t actually have a gold band around them. That’s a marketing ploy. A genuine Starbrand purchased in a retail establishment has a blue band. The gold looks better in the holo videos.”
His eyes widened slightly. “Really? That’s interesting. I didn’t know that.”
“I’ve been around, and people tend to tell me things when I ask nicely.” I’d meant the statement to be lighthearted, but the man shivered.
I left, not wanting to look at him anymore.
“Are you happy with your purchase?” X-37 asked.
“Ecstatic,” I said, putting one of the cigars in the left corner of my mouth but not lighting it.
“What is wrong? I’m sensing that you are going into fight or flight mode,” X-37 said.
I shook my head. “That’s actually called my maybe-I’m-going-to-kill-something mood. I don’t have a flight mode.”
“Of course not. How foolish of me to assume you would retreat, even if it was wise to do so,” X-37 said.
“Wow, your attitude is really getting out of control,” I remarked, moving casually through the crowd toward a man that looked too familiar.
“As I have explained to you multiple times, my personality is based on yours,” X-37 said.
“That’s probably going to be a fucking problem, then,” I said distractedly.
The man I’d spotted was straight out of my past. His real name might’ve been anything, but I’d always known him as Byron Thane. He was the last person I ever thought I would see on Gronic.
“My records show that Byron Thane was killed in action,” X-37 said. “The resemblance between him and this man must be a coincidence.”
“You know what they say about Reapers, right?” I asked.
“My database has four hundred and twenty-seven references to descriptive phrases people have used to refer to Reapers—most used in conjunction with pleas for mercy. Would you care to narrow it down, or is this one of your sarcastic metaphors?” X-37 asked.
I lowered the cigar, stopping to watch my quarry from a distance while I talked to my Reaper limited AI. “Reapers never die, they just get new identities.”
“You saw him die,” X-37 said.
I shrugged. “Actually, I probably killed him.”
“You’re being dramatic,” X-37 said.
“Why don’t you just fuck off,” I said, and started across the street. “We’re pretty close to the star port. Can you poke around and figure out what he’s doing here? Where he’s going?”
“He’s searching for passage to Greendale under the name Gentle Davis,” X-37 said.
“What an asshat,” I replied without thinking. “That can’t be a real name.”
“It checks out, as far as I can go without direct access to a terminal,” X-37 advised. “I need to disconnect from the local wireless network before I am noticed. Unless you require a deeper probe into this person’s identity.”
The man disappeared into the terminal. I couldn’t just stand there staring after him and twiddling my thumbs. There wasn’t much security on Gronic, but there was some, and I didn’t want to test it.
Turning away from whoever it was that looked so much like the Reaper I’d seen die, I put away my Gronic cigar and took the concourse to where the Jellybird was docked. Nothing about GF seemed appealing right now and there was a no smoking sign bigger than life near every security booth.
“Surely that wasn’t him,” X-37 said. “You weren’t certain and the name, however ridiculous, checked out.”
“I’d feel better if he wasn’t headed to Greendale.”
“I see no need to worry further,” X-37 reassured me.
I remained unconvinced.
Sometimes it was good to listen to the little voice in your head, especially if it was part of your Reaper Corps nerve-ware.
“Welcome, Captain,” the Jellybird AI said into my right ear. How and when my digital friends spoke to me was something we’d worked out before arriving on Gronic. X-37 would remain male, and Jelly would retain her female voic
e. She was a ship after all—and there were traditions older than the Union.
We had one difficult encounter when they made me sick to my stomach with their nattering. I muted them for three days to get some peace. Since then, I scheduled downtime where they both understood I wasn’t listening to them unless sitting at a workstation on the bridge.
“Good evening, Jelly,” I said, looking back at other ships docked on the ring. Before I knew it, I saw Byron Thane, or Gentle Davis, or whoever it was going ship to ship attempting to book passage.
“Oh God,” X-37 said.
“What is the problem?” Jelly asked.
I ignored them and watched the stranger. From this vantage point, I had a better view and decent lighting. There weren’t any crowds getting between us like they had on the way into the star port. Maybe I only wanted to be sure it wasn’t my old rival-not-rival in the Reaper Corps, but there was something about the way this person moved—an annoying habit of rolling his neck when he became stressed or frustrated—that was hard to deny.
“Let’s get out of here before that guy tries to hire us to take him to Greendale,” I said.
4
I sat patiently, my cyborg arm stretched across the worktable while Jelly and X-37 scanned it. Pretending I was alone, I meditated on how far I’d come since Dreadmax. My problems were mundane by comparison to that shit show. In a way, the challenges of repairing my obsolete and probably illegal Reaper hardware were just what I needed.
Every Reaper needed a mission. I was made to do work, not sit around worrying about who was coming to kill me.
Was it a lonely life?
Sure it was.
“You did a decent job,” Jelly said. “I’m completely unfamiliar with the design and there are several instances where something in the software prevents me from seeing proprietary elements. They are like blind spots to X-37 and me. However, my maintenance and engineering protocols have found nothing wrong with your work so far.”
I nodded. “Thanks. I think I need some down time. Maybe I’ll hit the gym, then grab some food. Sleep for fifteen or twenty hours.”
