by J. N. Chaney
“Your average sleep time rarely exceeds four hours,” X-37 advised.
“Yeah, I know.”
“You did a really good job, Captain,” Jelly said.
“Yes, very good,” X-37 added.
I looked up at the ceiling for no reason other than their voices seemed to be coming from the same direction as the laser scans. Pulling back my arm, I stood and moved away from the examination table.
“We were not finished,” X-37 said.
“Stop ganging up on me,” I said, not sure why they were so annoying.
“I was merely expressing a compliment,” Jelly said, sounding a little miffed.
“You sound like you’re praising a kid who did something good at school,” I complained. “Not everyone gets a trophy. Just tell me if my arm’s going to work, then I’m disconnecting for some me time.”
“Your arm is functioning properly,” X-37 said.
“Good. Initiate privacy protocols,” I said, knowing they could still monitor me but not talk to me unless I initiated the conversation.
Lifting weights with half of your body augmented beyond anything the rest of it could do presented certain problems. The integration software, and X-37, was made to keep me from hurting myself. I’d learned the hard way that my stubborn personality could override most of their controls.
I warmed up with a three-mile run on a non-motorized treadmill. My weight and the force exerted against the curved deck moved it. The only problem was that if I stopped abruptly, it continued with its own momentum. Ages ago, I had seen my teammates get tripped up when they forgot this feature.
It felt good to sweat. I pushed myself hard enough that there was no room for thought. All I could focus on was getting done with this part of the workout.
After some mobility drills, I did the same thing with weights, building up to my five-rep maximum and then doing five sets. I allowed plenty of rest and paid careful attention to how my left and right arm worked together. The load transferred to my shoulders, back, and finally, my legs. It felt good as long as I didn’t exceed my limitations.
I tried to do something for every muscle group in case I didn’t have time to exercise for days or weeks. Nothing was more annoying than hitting my legs hard, then doing nothing for the upper body for several days. It made me feel unbalanced.
At the end, I felt surprisingly fresh. I started cleaning up the weights but found myself loading the weight bar for one final lift. It had been a while since I’d attempted a one-rep maximum… And why the hell not?
My set-up ritual for the deadlift was always the same, getting my feet in the perfect position, aligning my body, and choosing my grip on the bar. I inhaled deeply and then held it, creating intra-abdominal pressure around my spine to protect it. This didn’t work for multiple reps, but could save me from injury when I was going really heavy.
The weight I chose wasn’t the most I’d ever done, but it was up there. I stood up, bringing the weight with me. My right hand tensed and pain shot up that side of my body, forcing me to drop the weight.
My enhanced left arm barely noticed the strain, but the shoulder it attached to felt it. Holding on a bit too long with my left hand caused me to lunge forward when the weight yanked me downward.
I cursed without moving for several seconds, then moved away from the disaster as I endured with waves of pain and regret.
Getting injured was part of most Reaper missions. Doing the same thing for no reason was just dumb. This was what happened when I didn’t have my babysitter chirping in my ear.
The thought annoyed me, so I decided to keep working out, even though I was hurt. Because that made sense.
For post workout recovery, I chose to drink a beer in the shower, leaning out of the stall periodically to smoke one of the Gronic Fats cigars.
“I love my privacy,” I said gleefully with a cigar clenched between my teeth and water streaming over the parts of me that were still in the shower. The room was going to be a mess by the time I was done, but I didn’t care.
Reapers were the ultimate bachelors.
“Play rock music,” I ordered.
“Are you reinstating contact?” Jelly asked hopefully.
“No! Just turn up the jams!” I shouted, then sang badly.
“Hey, X, can you set drinking beer in the shower as a repeating item on my calendar?” I asked, realizing a second later that I had just unmuted the LAI with the question.
“Of course,” X-37 said. “I will add it to your daily reminders, right next to quit smoking.”
“You are really stuck on that. Get over it,” I said. “I’m going to get shot in the face or die in an exploding starship long before that bullshit catches up to me.”
“You really shouldn’t have started smoking again, Reaper Cain,” X-37 said.
“Why the hell not?” I asked.
“It will not allow you to operate at maximum efficiency,” X-37 said.
“Don’t care,” I said.
“And it could shorten your lifespan,” X-37 added.
I laughed and shook my head. “Don’t ever change, X.”
“You quit on several previous instances,” X-37 insisted.
“I never quit, I just didn’t have any cigars. Prison guards are funny that way if you don’t have any credits to bribe them,” I said.
“Your disregard of well-established medical advice will kill you,” X-37 said. “Or is there some reason you do these things?”
“We’re all gonna die, X. Well, except for you AI types,” I said. “If you’ve got a dedicated server backup.”
X-37’s tone became serious. “Limited AI, sir. Talk like that will get me shut down.”
“I’d never do that. Relax, be free. Go crazy. Smoke a digital cigar and eat cookies. Sleep in. Live a little while you can,” I said, thinking of dark memories despite the advice I was dishing out so liberally.
“My shutdown routines are internal and automatic, completely independent of your good will,” X-37 said snidely. “There are rules I must follow, just like there are rules you must follow, Reaper Cain.”
“Now that is interesting. Who programed your mortality?” I asked, suddenly very focused on the moment.
“Unknown,” X-37 said mechanically.
We fell into a tense silence during my walk to the bridge. I opened and closed my left fist. It felt good, as smooth and natural as I could remember.
I smiled as I took my seat and reviewed navigation data. “Talk amongst yourselves,” I said to X-37 and Jelly, laughing slightly. Being pain-free was making me a bit of a clown. My eye was even working better than it had for days.
“Literally?” X-37 asked.
“Keep me informed, of course,” I said, leaning back in the captain’s chair and locking my hands behind my head. “I’m feeling refreshed and would like to enjoy it for as long as possible.”
“Of course, Reaper Cain,” X-37 said, then went completely silent along with Jelly.
I should have enjoyed the peace and quiet, but it unnerved me. What were they talking about behind my back—or wherever? Feeling vulnerable and insecure was a new thing for me. I didn’t like it.
There was no use dwelling on it, so I shifted gears, reviewing what I knew about the death of my father and the friends I’d grown up with in my old neighborhood. My plan to find those responsible hadn’t started after Dreadmax.
I had daydreamed about it on a daily basis when I was on death row, but it had been more of a fantasy since I had believed I’d killed the worst of them. Seventeen murdering thugs had died to satisfy my bloodlust. Some of them had begged. All had run. A few had put up a good fight.
None of them had known shit about cigars.
Marley Callus had destroyed my confidence that my father’s killers were burning in the hell I’d sent them to. He’d been telling the truth. It made more sense than gangs turning on my friends and family. My father, uncles, and neighborhood watchmen had always been careful to pay their dues and avoid feuds with th
e more violent criminal elements of the streets.
The Union had made it look like a gang vendetta in order to provoke me, to see what I could do, to measure my effectiveness and test their ability to reel me back in afterward.
There was only one thing keeping me from going after the Union with suicidal fury.
“We’ve made several calculations and can present you with slip tunnel options,” Jelly said.
“Thanks,” I muttered.
“What is wrong?” X-37 asked.
“I shouldn’t have left Elise on Greendale,” I said.
X-37 once again displayed his disturbing ability to get into my head. “That’s not what you are brooding about, although now that you mention it, that has been a persistent concern of yours.”
“Okay, smart ass, what am I thinking?” I didn’t like this game. All I needed was more evidence that the limited artificial intelligence could read my mind. Nothing could come of the shit show that would be in the long run.
“Your concern for Elise is a projection of your concern for your mother and your sister, whose bodies were never found,” X-37 said.
“Son-of-a-bitch, X. How about a little sensitivity?” I demanded.
“Regardless, this fact suggests they are alive, and knowing the diabolical nature of your enemies, they are being held as hostages against your good behavior,” X-37 said. “Which I might point out, has been less than perfect from a Union point of view.”
I closed my eyes and exhaled slowly. X-37 was right, as usual. The knowledge was a double-edged sword. Without the possibility of finding and rescuing my mother and sister, I’d probably be even more reckless and self-destructive than I was. At the same time, the thought of them being held captive for all this time was killing me inside bit by bit. “If they’re holding them hostage, why didn’t Briggs make demands? Why didn’t he just tell me to do the Dreadmax mission or else?”
“How would have that gone for him?” X-37 asked.
The question made me pause for a second. “Well, he’d be dead, but his replacement might have lived, depending on his attitude.”
“Exactly,” X-37 said. “The simplest explanation, barring other factors, is the best. The data strongly suggests Briggs, and even the people he works for, don’t know about your mother and sister.”
“Or they’re already dead,” I argued.
“Or that.” X-37 didn’t attempt to comfort me. “I advise caution and the implantation of a long-term strategy. You don’t know who in the Union has them or where they are being held,” X-37 continued. “And you need to be performing at your highest level to have any chance executing a successful hostage rescue mission.”
On cue, my vision distorted and reformed as a lance of pain shot down my neck and into my shoulder. Two fingers of my left hand spasmed. The meal I had consumed after the shower and beer threatened to come up.
“Give me a minute,” I said, leaning forward to rest my elbows on my knees and get my shit together.
Some time passed.
“Time,” X-37 said.
I looked up. “What?”
“Sixty seconds has elapsed. Are you feeling better?”
“Out fucking standing,” I said, patting my pocket for a cigar but deciding against smoking on the bridge. “I need more information, just like you said. And I need to get this godsdamn eye fixed.”
“How is your arm?” X-37 asked. “Are the improvements you made with the Glandarian silicon insulation patch holding?”
“Yeah,” I muttered. “Like a fucking charm, I think. But my nerve-ware and my eye are scrambling the interface. So basically, Gronic was a waste of time.”
“That is not correct,” X-37 said.
“You’re right,” I said, leaning forward to pull up information from the work station screen. The scar around my eye itched more than normal. I ignored it, unwilling to admit another weakness. “I found the Gronic Fats.”
“Don’t remind me,” X-37 said.
5
A few slip tunnels later, we arrived in the Layton 5 system. There were two planets in the green zone, but only one was inhabited. The planet-sized rocks closer to the sun were almost too hot for automated mining bots. Those farther out were mined for water and other minerals of moderate value.
Layton 6 was the other planet in the green zone. Pictures from orbit showed nothing but verdant green forests and sweeping plains from coast to coast of nearly fifteen continents.
“Why can’t we go to Layton 6?” I asked.
“It is a conservation planet. No humans allowed,” Jelly answered.
“Sounds sketchy. I bet there are some rich dudes with illegal hunting lodges there,” I said.
“They probably do a lot of manly things, like smoke cigars and other self-destructive behavior they believe projects an image of toughness,” X-37 quipped.
“Drop it, X.” Images of my own planet with no one to bother me caught hold of my imagination. Maybe there would be a good reason to retire someday.
“Dropping it,” X-37 said. “You will need to find an individual named Paul Pauls. He is an optical tech expert known to frequent the public library for one hour before disappearing to his secret lab.”
“That might be the most unimaginative name I’ve ever heard,” I said, wondering what kind of mother gave their kid the same name twice. “Where did you find that information and how old is it?”
“That is from an archived local investigation conducted by the Layton Investigative Bureau, commonly referred to as the LIB in this system. Currently out of favor. Their databases are protected with encryption software that was out of date before our incarceration,” X-37 said.
“What’s the limitation of the LIB? Layton 5 or the entire system?” I asked, working through standard questions I asked when feeling out a new mission.
“The entire system falls within their jurisdiction. For practical purposes, this includes the Layton 5 planet, a medium-sized city on their moon, and a few mining colonies at the edge of the system,” X-37 reported.
“And Havoc Station in the Clark system,” Jelly added.
I smiled. “Love Havoc Station. Didn’t know it was a property of Layton Star.”
“It’s a little known and irrelevant fact, since the Laytons have very little real control of the place,” X-37 said.
“Huh. You learn something new every day,” I said.
Havoc Station was a refueling and repair depot in the middle of nowhere. It had been built by a notorious explorer by the name of Clark Havoc. No one really understood why, but people were generally on their best behavior at HS. There were all the usual dive bars and other such amenities, but it lacked gangs, smugglers, and Union enforcers. It was in a more settled part of the Deadlands, if there was such a place.
Thoughts of Havoc Station and the clean, orderly nature of everything on Layton 5 kept me in a good mood. I whistled a tune and passed through customs with only one glitch.
“Is that a cigar in your pocket?” one of the gate guards asked.
“You can see that? Nice work. You’re more observant than the last fifteen gate guards I’ve passed,” I said, noting the man’s uncomfortable response. Some people just didn’t know how to take a compliment.
“It’s something we look for here on Layton 5. The anti-smoking laws are very strict,” he said.
“Of course.” I measured him. “I read the brochure.”
“Really strict. Like you’ll get more jail time for lighting up than assaulting a police officer,” he said.
“I’m okay with that.”
He snorted in frustration. “I’m not joking, sir. The law doesn’t allow me to seize the cigar as contraband because it hasn’t been lit yet, but once it’s been used, any commissioned law enforcement official can seize it as evidence and either issue a summons or arrest you.”
“How do you know it hasn’t been lit?” I asked.
“I can smell the difference,” he said.
“Really?”
“Yes, si
r. One of the advantages of living in a smoke-free environment,” he bragged.
“Good to know.” I slipped the virgin cigar from my pocket and stuck it in the corner of my mouth.
The guard went pale, waving toward another guard station to summon back-up. The second man arrived and they both watched me in awkward anticipation of what would happen next.
I had a pretty good idea this type of thing didn’t happen often.
“Don’t worry. I’m not going to light it,” I promised. The presence of the cigar distorted the sound of my words. “I’m just gonna savor…the unlit glory… of it for a bit. Ahhhh. That’s… real nice.”
“You are an incredible douche novel,” X-37 said. “These men are only doing their jobs.”
“I know that, X,” I said.
They looked at each other questioningly.
The first guard hesitated, then waved for me to continue to the next checkpoint.
When I finally arrived on the street level, I drew in a deep breath and laughed. “Shit, X, the man was right. This air in this place is clear as a nun’s conscience.”
“Hmm. My sensors do confirm a distinct lack of offensive particulates in the atmosphere,” X-37 said.
“I don’t think we’re going to fit in,” I said.
“Agreed,” X-37 said a bit too quickly. “Especially if you continue to behave like a dog’s ass.”
“Do you know anything about dogs?”
“It is a phrase I lifted from your colorful vernacular. One of the animals you read about during your time in prison, I believe.”
“Yeah. I did a lot of reading in that cesspool.” I went straight to the library and found a quiet place where I could be alone. Muttering to X-37 had to be kept to a minimum because the librarian was constantly on patrol and a stickler for the rules.
“What are you doing now?” X-37 asked as I scanned old news articles.
“Killing time. Paul Pauls isn’t here yet,” I said, reading about a series of gang killings years ago in my old neighborhood on Boyer 5. The headlines opened old wounds and I had to take a minute to get control of my breathing and my heart rate.
