4


I sat patiently, my cyborg arm stretched across the worktable while Jelly and X-37 scanned it.
“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.”
“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.
“Well I have other things to do,” I said, not sure why they were so annoying. “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.
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.
“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 reviewed 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 the 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.
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, but I ignored it. “I found the Gronic Fats.”
“Don’t remind me,” X-37 said.