1

“I never liked Gronic,” I said, aware that this would prompt X-37 to gloat.

“You might recall that I warned you it was an unpleasant place,” the limited artificial intelligence I still called X-37 said. It was Reaper Corps technology, outdated and slated for destruction—just like me. The Union had developed bigger and badder assassins while I was locked up on death row for crimes I did commit.

Everything on the planet was carved from red stone, even things that didn’t need to be, like eating utensils and belt buckles. Who the hell wore a stone belt buckle? One minute I’d been crossing the galaxy in a slip tunnel on a starship called the Jellybird, and the next I was eating noodles with a fork carved from some derivative of red granite.

“The craftsmanship is exquisite,” X-37 said, reminding me the LAI saw through my eyes—sometimes better, sometimes worse than I did.

I licked the fork clean. “I didn’t know you were a forking expert.” I laughed and felt pretty good.

“My analysis suggests you’re attempting humor,” X-37 deadpanned.

“Now you’re attempting humor,” I countered.

“I was not.” X-37 beeped softly in my ear. “Stand by, I need to fix something. You may experience a distortion of your visual and auditory senses.”

One narrow line of static grew horizontally across my vision, disappearing almost as soon as it appeared.

A street merchant shouted at me—aggressively demanding my attention and my money. Or maybe he was telling me I couldn’t keep the exquisite bowl and the fork as I walked away from his stand.

Since I was kind of a dick, I handed the mostly empty bowl to a lurking street kid, who immediately darted into the crowd.

The soup merchant shook his fist at me but kept one hand on his cart, afraid to leave it unattended. “Cha! Chada he gonna gat my cheeda growla! You gedda godda pay meeda!”

“Hey, no comprende,” I said, hands raised.

This offended the merchant. He snatched a stick from behind the cart then waved it at me, advancing with angry words and toxic body language. Each step away from his property made him visibly anxious and increasingly angry. He looked back several times.

“What’s he saying, X?” I asked.

“I detect the use of profanity but cannot piece together the meaning. I don’t believe he trusts the other food cart vendors or citizens of Gronic in general. Theft is a serious problem on this planet.”

Backing away, I reached the area of the sidewalk that was beyond the man’s territory, apparently. He went back to his soup cart complaining to all of his neighbors about whatever I’d said or done to offend him.

“What was his problem, X?” I asked.

“You ignored the one credit deposit on stoneware that is clearly posted on the front of his rolling kiosk, redistributed said stoneware to a random child, then conveyed your belief he was robbing you with his prices by raising both hands submissively and backing away,” X-37 said.

“Look at you, talking all formal,” I said, trying to tease him despite the impossibility of this actually working since he wasn’t a person or even a fully functioning AI. Limited AIs—LAIs—often felt like they were more powerful than they were, and the Reaper Corps had pushed right up to the limits of what could be installed in an operator’s nerve-ware.

“You did ask the question,” X-37 stated.

“Yeah, you’re right. Thanks for the answer. What else do you have for me?”

“You have admirers,” X-37 said.

I checked my six, then the rooftops and windows close enough to be a problem if someone wanted to snipe me. X-37 could only see what I saw. He wasn’t omniscient or tapped into whatever local communications network they had on this shithole. What he did better than me was record and sometimes analyze observations my brain filtered or ignored.

“I see them,” I said.

“Outstanding, Reaper Cain. I will put a gold star on your report card,” X-37 said.

“Nice, X. That was almost funny. You’re getting better,” I said, changing my course through the crowds.

Down the street, sweating in the Gronic heat, a half-dozen gang members watched me. Some were sitting on the curb. Others leaned against the chain-link fence that had been bolted into one of the stone walls of a three-story apartment building. They had tattoos, bad attitudes, and plenty of distance to keep them safe.

“Why are your blood pressure and heart rate increasing?” X-37 asked.

“Check your sensors. I don’t give a shit about these preening asshats and I’m certainly not worried,” I said, swaggering like I was ready for a fight. Because I was.

“I am merely reporting on your biometrics.” X-37’s tone could be completely neutral and still sound churlish.

“Well, don’t.” Ignoring the sarcastic little AI in my head, I approached a news kiosk and tabbed through the menus.

“Perhaps I can be of assistance,” X-37 said. “Call it a peace offering.”

“Don’t need your help. Just a simple check. I haven’t seen any news on Greendale yet,” I said.

“What are you expecting? A personal ad from Elise looking for the first starship out of there?”

“Something like that. Or maybe some sort of gun battle between rogue spec ops units and the people I asked to look after her.”

“Are you regretting your decision?” X-37 asked.

“No, of course not. The guy I knew there is a retired ground-pounder—never trained with spec ops. He’s just good guy who happened to serve with me after basic training. He’ll look after Elise, but he won’t be ready for a war with people like Briggs.”

“It sounds like you are regretting your decision,” X-37 asserted.

I cursed under my breath. “Is there a way to turn you off?”

“There is not, Reaper Cain.”

I sighed and left the news kiosk, looking for something to sanitize my hands with. My only consolation was that X-37 seemed to be more polite. He had allowed the Jellybird to update his software with the idea he would need modern algorithms to interact with many of the computers we would be encountering as we traveled through the galaxy. The results had been favorable, but there were a few side effects.

A pack of dogs ripped something out of an overturned dumpster, and they stopped to growl at me when I came too close. I kept moving, pulling a locally made cigar from my pocket and cutting off one end with a small knife from my pocket.

“That is your last one,” X-37 said.

“How did humanity survive without computers like you?” I asked.

X-37’s reply sounded smug. “It is a mystery.”

What sucked about this whole situation was that X-37 could practically read my mind. We’d been over this several times and he promised he couldn’t. I knew from my training that there was no way to link an artificial intelligence with actual human thought. But we were together constantly and it frequently seemed like my little helper was poking around in my brain.

X-37 could read my biometrics and tell when I was stressed, when I needed additional adrenaline to survive a fight, or when my hormones needed to be regulated to maximize recovery after a hard fight or grueling workout. A lot of people would die for technology like that. Probably some people had, but it seemed the Union had moved on from the Reaper program.

We’d been phased out. It was the rawest luck that I had survived the Dreadmax mission and escaped into the wild. Slip tunnel after slip tunnel, I had evaded their attempts to bring me in. Mostly their failure was because I cared a lot more about living than they cared about hunting me, and everyone but Commander Briggs and some of his elite spec ops soldiers knew that if they cornered me, they’d die.

Reapers had a reputation for a reason. Killing was easy. I could practically do it in my sleep.

“Elevated heart rate and blood pressure detected,” X-37 said.

“Check yourself, X. I’m cool as ice,” I snapped.

“That is incorrect,” X-37 said.

“Whatever. I know how I feel,” I said. “Heart rates and blood pressure vary. Who cares?”

“Cool as ice is a mixed metaphor,” X-37 said.

“Bullshit.”

“Ice is cold, not cool. Unless perhaps it is melting?”

“How’s my blood pressure now?” I quipped.

X-37 paused. “Interesting.”

“Well?” I asked. “Are you causing me to stroke out or not?”

“It seems that confrontation actually lowered your heart and blood pressure slightly,” X-37 noted. “My expert analysis is that you, Reaper Cain, are a freak.”

I laughed, nursing my cigar to life with a cheap lighter. “You got that right, X.”

The cigar paper was too thick and wrapped around greenhouse-grown tobacco, or maybe something even nastier like a fungus analog. I breathed it in, reaching up with my left hand to hold the cigar.

Pain shot up my neck. I knew the spasm was coming before it happened but couldn’t stop it. The augmented structure of my left arm was incredibly powerful and not always perfectly in sync with my body. My fingers crushed the cigar, sending a shower of glowing embers tumbling down the front of my shirt.

Beating away the sparks with my other hand, I jumped back and cursed in several languages.

“Shall I call the local fire brigade?” X-37 asked.

“You’re in rare form today, X. Maybe you need another tune-up. Or tune down as it were,” I said.

“Is now a good time to state the obvious? You are officially out of cigars. Perhaps it is time to cease this needless poisoning of your body,” X-37 chastised.

“You’re absolutely right. I’ll quit. When I find some decent replacements.” My hand twitched. Static filled my vision. The limited AI that was supposed to be helping me was talking shit.

I was pretty glad to be alive, even though my only friend was a digital voice in my head—or through the smallest bones in my inner ear, to be exact—and my systems were degrading from state-of-the-art killing tools to personal, permanently implanted torture devices.

“Are you okay, Reaper Cain?” X-37 asked.

“Just happy to be here, even though my shit’s busted and you’re a real asshole,” I said.

“Figuratively, of course,” X-37 said.

“Oh, you’re killing me today,” I said, picking up the stub of my ruined cigar and smoking it anyway.

“Again, ‘figuratively’ is what you mean. I am not literally killing you. That would be illogical.” X-37 sounded too serious.

“Sure, X. I was just pulling your chain. And don’t say ‘figuratively,’” I snapped. “I know you wouldn’t bite the hand that feeds you.”

“I’m not touching that one,” X-37 promised.

Pain shot up my neck. “That hurt,” I complained.

“Where does it hurt?” X-37 asked.

I told him.

“Your cybernetics are out of synchronization with your body. You have two options: see a qualified technician who has access to replacement parts, a laboratory, and diagnostic tools—or grow stronger,” X-37 said.

“Not helpful. Do you have any idea what I would need to lift with the right side of my body to equal my left?” I asked. “Never mind the difficulty of performing the really good exercises with one arm?”

“I do, Reaper Cain,” X-37 said quickly. “You would need—”

“Don’t tell me,” I said, exasperated. “Just don’t.”

“Would you like me to research accessory exercises and physical therapy regimens to address this problem?” X-37 asked. “You can’t just squat, bench, and deadlift.”

“I do other stuff,” I complained.

“There are many accessory exercises I can research for you,” X-37 offered.

“Will that help?” I asked.

“Probably not.”

I rolled my neck until I found some relief.

“Congratulations on quitting smoking,” X-37 said.

“You are such an asshole, X.”

“My personality is based on yours, Reaper Cain,” X-37 reminded me.

I cut across the street to a bar that opened toward the street. The awning provided shade. A sign promised the beer was cold, which was probably true. Gronic didn’t have excessive amounts of technology, but their air-conditioning and refrigeration units were overpowered most of the time due to the warm climate. Out here on the street, it was hot as hell. Inside most of the red rock structures, I’d probably need to button up my trench coat and find a blanket or a fireplace.

The street-side bar was a happy medium. Cool air blew from window and ceiling units.

As for the clientele, I didn’t think we were going to hit it off.

“It is my estimation that none of these people can provide the Glandarian silicon you need for repairs,” X-37 whispered in my ear.

“Give me a beer,” I said to the bartender.

The man poured a tall red rock mug full of brew and slid it over to me. I paid with some of the local coins I’d acquired since arriving.

“You a cripple?” some thick-necked fuckstick at the end of the bar demanded, popping the knuckles of one hand in the other. “Something wrong with you? Got a disease or something that makes you twitch like that?”

“Was I twitching, X?” I asked, facing away to avoid looking like a crazy person talking to myself.

“What did you call me?” the ruffian asked.

“No more than normal, sir,” X-37 answered.

“Hey, asshole,” the man said, leaning forward from his barstool.

The beer, it turned out, was almost too cold. I took a sip, looked at the carved mug, and realized it had probably been machined rather than hand-carved. It was easy to think of the locals as cave dwellers, but starships came here for all the normal reasons, including repair and refitting. The orbital space dock was always busy.

The locals didn’t have the most advanced tech or manufacturing infrastructure, but they had enough.

“I was talking to you,” the local tough guy said, edging closer, dragging one hand along the bar with his beer mug in it. He’ll probably try to hit me with it, I thought.

“Was?” I asked. “That implies you’re no longer talking to me. Which is good—for both of us.”

He opened his mouth, then closed it, suddenly unsure.

I turned my gaze on him, and he took a step back.

“Hey, look at that. Bobby’s scared,” one of the other patrons jeered.

“Yeah, he’s always been squeamish around foreigners,” another man said.

“You guys piss off,” Bobby spat. “I just don’t feel like kicking his ass right now. My beer’s still cold and I’m thirsty.”

“Whatever, Bobby. Why don’t you buy me one of those cold beers too so I can see how good they are?” Bobby’s friend asked.

“That was a close call, Reaper Cain,” X-37 said dryly.

“Are you being sarcastic?” I asked, then took a long draw of my very cold and too bitter beer.

“I was attempting humor through sarcasm. Was my statement, in fact, funny?” X-37 asked.

“Work on it, X.” I wasn’t in the mood, but I wasn’t really annoyed either. My glitchy arm and eye exhausted me. The pain wasn’t so bad, it was just constant and irritating. The minor flareups could be a problem if they happened at the wrong time, but I’d deal with that when it became a problem.

“While I was delighting you with my entertainment software,” X-37 said, “I also ran an analysis of this confrontation. I doubt we have seen the last of Bobby.”

I killed the rest of my beer and slid the mug back to the barkeeper. “Thanks.”

“You paid for two,” the barkeeper said.

“Keep the change.”

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