Author’s Note:
This is an excerpt from a work in progress, which will
eventually be my next novel. The main part of the text was originally published
as a short story by Unlikely Stories in 2018, and included in my collection: Precious Time & Other Oddities, published 2019. This story was always intended to be
the prologue to a much longer work, and has been significantly revised from
that previous version.
PROLOGUE:
Lost,
Violent, Souls
***
WELCOME TO PRO-T-EN INDUSTRIES!
As the newest member of the elite PRO-T-EN
Savant Corps, we urge you to fully immerse yourself in PRO-T-EN
Philosophy by memorizing (y)our PRO-T-EN Objective, (y)our PRO-T-EN
Dictum, and (y)our PRO-T-EN Precepts.
The PRO-T-EN Objective: “To continually enhance the quality of existence for all lifeforms via the constant and consistent application of innovative and philanthropically engineered psycho-socio-economic systems founded in moral epistemology.”
The PRO-T-EN Dictum: “An investment in The PRO-T-EN Objective is an investment in (y)our future.”
The PRO-T-EN Precepts:
“Attention,
all active and inactive PRO-T-EN Corps Savants. This is your Hourly Updated
Bulletin for Tuesday, May 5th, 2099, 2000 hours. Stay in-the-know,
while on-the-go!
“This
hour’s Bulletin is endorsed by Solar Cola. Packed with essential nutrients and
out-of-this-world flavor, Solar Cola tastes like a ray of sunshine in your
mouth! Solar Cola—the only cola worth drinking! Now available in delicious
avocado cream flavor!
“And
now…another General Safety Advisory has been issued for all PRO-T-EN Savants
operating in Corporate Zones throughout The United Sectors. Top PRO-T-EN Asset
Protection Administrators report an alarming increase in both frequency and
intensity regarding Transgressive Activity targeting PRO-T-EN property and
personnel. These hostilities continue to be perpetrated by rival Corporate and
Civilian entities who resent and revile the PRO-T-EN Way of Life. Quote: ‘They will stop
at nothing to undermine The PRO-T-EN Objective, and therefore, the success of
our entire PRO-T-EN Savant Corps.’ End quote.
“So
be sure to show our Asset Protection Savants some PRO-T-EN gratitude for their
dedication to The PRO-T-EN Initiative, and remain diligent in upholding all
PRO-T-EN Corps Savant Safety Protocols. And don’t forget to enjoy Solar Cola
during authorized downtime. This has been your Hourly Updated Bulletin, relayed
to your neural-net via The PRO-T-EN InfoCast Network.”
—PTN.HUB-2000.05.04.99
2.
United Sectors of America.
Southwest District, Sector 47.
Corporate Zone: SW-47.
2030 hours.
The night came alive with the low thrum of dueling
engines. PRO-T-EN Industries Corps Savant, Gunnar Eck Rourke—Department: Asset
Protection, Job Title: Strategic Executive, Rank: Captain—sat in the comfort of
his machine; Military-grade, custom built, and synched to his private neural-net.
Molded to his form, the soft seat reclined, keeping Gunnar low as he sped along
the mapped route behind a small PRO-T-EN convoy. Though traveling by autopilot,
his hands lay upon the manual controls; smooth metal spheres embedded in the
armrests, the throttle-ball on his left, the steering-ball on his right. Above
these controls, a multifaceted console lit up the dark interior with a sharp
red glow. Through his helmet visor, Gunnar saw a green 28 holding steady on his
digital speedometer.
“Non-PRO-T-EN vessels and personnel detected,”
Gunnar’s neural assistant, Eos, warned in its soothing, mechanized voice.
Thirty seconds before, Eos had been reciting an old poem about lost, violent,
souls while Gunnar relaxed. Then they’d both received an alert from one of the
PRO-T-EN Corps Surveillance Savants, snapping them back to attention.
A PRO-T-EN drone had identified an incoming attack,
but the Savant had been too busy to launch a counterstrike, or even perform a
thorough scan.
“Analysis?” Gunnar asked with a smirk.
“Four human-persons and three Civilian-grade vessels,
Captain Rourke. Approaching from the west. Current speed for all vessels,
approximately thirty-one meters-per-second.”
Gunnar flicked his eyes from the front viewing pane to
his primary monitor. The screen projected a neon blue schematic of his
surroundings. All PRO-T-EN vehicles—including his own—outlined in bright green.
All non-PRO-T-EN vehicles—including these new invaders—outlined in bold
crimson.
“Status?”
“Unknown, Captain Rourke. The human-persons appear to
be Unemployed Civilians. No data files detected, and no neural-net activity
present, viral or otherwise.”
“I see. Incompetents.”
Now Gunnar glanced at his digital power gauge. A green
90 held steady, showing his primary coils at almost full capacity; plenty of
wattage for a little extra maneuvering.
“The human-persons are in violation of multiple
ordinances, Captain Rourke. A state of Unemployment is a Class D Transgression
in all Civilian Centers and Corporate Zones. Civilians trespassing in a
Corporate Zone is a Class C Transgression. Operating a Civilian vessel in a
Corporate Zone is a Class C Transgression. Illicitly owning a Civilian vessel
is a Class B Transgression.”
Gunnar’s smirk became a lupine grin. Un-Civ Incomps;
lower than the lowest criminals. Gunnar, of course, knew the PRO-T-EN
Industries Corps Protocols back to front. If these Incomps worked for a
competitive Corporation such as e-PHEMERUS Incorporated or In-E-Ware Holdings
& Securities, well, the rules of engagement would be different.
But they didn’t.
Which meant that Gunnar would have to follow strict
interaction procedures.
“PRO-T-EN Corps Protocol dictates that you must
initiate contact in an official and professional manner, informing the
human-persons of their Transgressions.”
“Ten-four, Eos. Disengage auto-pilot.”
“Autopilot disengaged.”
Sighing, Gunnar rolled his right hand over the
steering-ball, leaving the convoy behind. The incoming Incomps followed—as he knew
they would.
“Breaking formation,” Gunnar said, engaging his
neural-net to broadcast the transmission. “Un-Civs times three in pursuit.”
A moment passed, then a bland voice returned: “Backup,
Captain?”
“Negative. Standby for update.”
“Ten-four.”
Time
to be Professional, Trustworthy, and Energetic!
3.
In tribute to its color and design—and his love of
classic poetry—Gunnar called his vehicle The Raven. The PRO-T-EN machine
handled with the greatest of ease; a hallmark of PRO-T-EN
engineering. Sleek, jet black, and flying five feet above the desert
terrain, the PRO-T-EN logo—a raised, golden T—gleamed in the moonlight on its
hood. The Raven resembled an ancient combustion engine hotrod, but far more
compact, and a hell of a lot tougher. Like all PRO-T-EN Corps vehicles, it had
been molded from a secret, patented alloy developed by PRO-T-EN Chemical
Engineering Savants. Reinforced throughout (including its front and rear ends,
making it an optimal battering ram), coated with PRO-T-EN’s patented radiation-absorbent
polymer, and armor-plated, The Raven had been driven through every Corporate Zone
in The United States, and had suffered little damage. Gunnar himself had seen
more combat than his vehicle, and sitting there, encased in this techno-magnificent
pod, he felt no apprehension about confronting the Incomps. He chose to leave
the running lights off as he raced into the darkness, relying instead upon his
state-of-the-art tracking system. The neon blue schematic shifted, but Gunnar
didn’t see much in the way of obstacles. He already had the nerve and the
weaponry, and now he had room to operate.
The poor Incomps behind him didn’t stand a chance.
4.
Gunnar’s assignment had been a simple one from the
start: provide an armed escort for three PRO-T-EN transports from the
manufacturing plant in Sector 45, Civilian Center 453—once known as Los, then “New
Angeles,” California—to a PRO-T-EN Distribution Center in Sector 47, Civilian
Center 472—once known as Phoenix, Arizona. Classified freight; property of
PRO-T-EN Industries, The Greatest Corporation In The World. It wouldn’t be a
typical food and supplies run, but still, it seemed like a banal assignment.
Captain Rourke needed banality in his life, and volunteered on the condition of
approval for an Extended Consensual Absence. PRO-T-EN Health and Reproductive Services
had already approved both applications to co-parent a child. He and his wife,
Melisma—Department: Medical Services, Job Title: Executive Pharmacologist—had
submitted their tissue samples eighteen months ago. It took nine months to get
the approval, then nine more to secure an appointment with their PRO-T-EN
Reproductive Services Provider. Not that Gunnar complained; he loved PRO-T-EN
Industries, and revered his Savant Status with an ardor unmatched.
But he hadn’t been home, or seen Melisma, in several
weeks.
Thus, banal or not, Gunnar saw this assignment as a
golden opportunity. The trip had been uneventful until they’d reached fifty
kilometers south of Civilian Center A’s perimeter. That’s when the Incomps
appeared, two on Omnert Enterprises hover cycles, and two in an e-PHEMERUS
mini-shuttle which had to be at least twenty years old; a real clunker which
didn’t even have retractable solar charging panels. And they wanted the
PRO-T-EN cargo.
Which meant dealing with Captain Gunnar Rourke.
5.
“Increase speed to three, zero, M-P-S.”
“Increasing speed,” Eos advised.
The Raven upshifted, its engine thrumming beneath the
hood. Its internal magnetic field disruptor plowed the sand below, billowing
dust in its wake. A black blur against the black night. Heading nowhere,
seeking destruction.
“Hold current speed.”
“Current speed held, Captain Rourke.”
Another smirk as Gunnar watched the Incomps close in
on the schematic. In seconds, a hover cycle appeared on either side. Although
similar to their earlier century counterparts, their front forks attached not
to tires, but flat metal discs. The Incomp riders leant forward, hands and
forearms resting in slots inside their steering consoles. They wore dark
helmets with ancient logos, and tattered white clothing; the attire of
scavengers. The mini-shuttle, larger than The Raven but nowhere near as
durable, stuck close to Gunnar’s tail.
Four
dead Incomps, too dense to know they are doomed.
Content to indulge in this joyride for a few moments,
Gunnar held his controls steady, and it neither surprised nor concerned him
when he heard a sharp thunk! on the
portside viewing pane.
“Physical attack detected,” Eos advised. “Zero percent
structural damage. The human-person is in violation. Damaging PRO-T-EN property
and endangering the well-being of an on-duty PRO-T-EN Savant are both Class A
Transgressions. Lethal force is now permitted.”
Gunnar shook his head. This non-employable scum
thought he could smash his way in with a roto-hammer while piloting a hover
cycle at thirty meters-per-second! Typical. Gunnar had dealt with their kind
many times before. He despised them and their rabid, illogical unwillingness to
join the Civilian Centers and contribute to society. And these particular
Incomps had to be insane if they thought they could engage a PRO-T-EN Corps
convoy and stand even the remotest chance of success.
Thunk!
“Physical attack detected. Starboard side. Zero
percent structural damage. The human-person has committed the same Class A
Transgressions. Lethal force is advised.”
Gunnar glanced to his right as the other Incomp
started in with a roto-hammer, too. Through the viewing pane, he saw the
brand-new Iron Steed ’99 Series hover cycle, with its marbled crimson bodywork,
and felt a pang of regret.
What a shame; having to destroy such a beautiful
machine. Perhaps one day, Omnert Enterprises would see the light and sell their
stock to PRO-T-EN Industries.
“Would you like me to execute an offensive maneuver,
Captain Rourke?” Eos asked with an eager lilt.
“Negative. Hold manual settings.”
“Very well. Remember that safety is a PRO-T-EN virtue.”
“Ten-four, Eos.”
The Incomps kept hammering—
Thunk!
Thunk! Thunk!
—and the mini-shuttle rammed The Raven’s rear bumper—
Crunch!
“Vehicular impact detected. Aft end. Two percent structural
damage. All human-persons present have committed multiple Transgressions.
Lethal force is now encouraged.”
The Raven wavered, but Gunnar held his course. He had
these Incomps right where he wanted them, far from the PRO-T-EN cargo, and disposing
of them wouldn’t be hard.
Time
to dispense some PRO-T-EN justice!
Rolling his palms over the steering- and
throttle-balls, Gunnar took a sharp left turn. The Raven smashed into the
portside Incomp and his hover cycle—
CLUNK!
—sending them both flying into the arid night.
The Incomp screamed in pain and surprise; music to
Captain Rourke’s neural-net. The starboard side hover cycle and the
mini-shuttle careened in separate directions, circling as fast as they could.
“Vehicular impact detected. Portside. Three percent
structural damage.”
“Un-Civ times one eliminated,” Gunnar announced via
his neural-net transmitter. “Standby.”
“Ten-four,” the bland voice replied.
6.
Jaw clenched, Gunnar set his sights on the smaller of
the two red blips and rolled his left hand over the throttle-ball. The Raven
lurched forward, headed straight for the remaining hover cycle. The Incomp
circled in a wide arc and the PRO-T-EN soldier intended to demolish him.
You
are forfeit, traitor!
“Vehicular impact imminent, Captain Rourke, in three,
two, one…”
The Raven crashed into the hover cycle at forty
meters-per-second—
BOOM!
—shattering the Incomp’s right leg and busting the
Iron Steed into so many battered parts. The Incomp shrieked in abject
terror—more music to Gunnar’s neural-net—as he flew forward, bounced off the
front viewing pane—
THWACK!
—and fell to the side—
THUMP!
—limp and bloody.
“Vehicular impact detected. Fore end. Five percent structural
damage.”
“Un-Civs times two eliminated,” Gunnar transmitted,
turning his machine.
“Ten-four,” said the bland voice.
7.
Now, one vessel remained, and it flew toward The
Raven. Sneering, Gunnar rolled his palm over the throttle-ball. Sudden radiance
burst from the mini-shuttle’s running lights but he didn’t flinch. He’d been
trained to deal with such tactics, and his machine had been built to deal with
reckless scavengers. Whatever damage the wreck caused would be refurbished by top-rated
PRO-T-EN Vehicle Repair Savants once he returned home.
Time
to feel the PRO-T-EN Initiative!
The two vessels sped toward each other, sand billowing
around them; both pilots determined to win this game—
No matter the cost.
“Vehicular impact imminent, in three, two, one…”
8.
BOOM!
The crash jolted Gunnar and The Raven hard, but both
survived. Gunnar’s safety harness held, and nothing inside hurt. The monitors
blinked off for a split second, the engine stalled, but other than needing a
new hood and a paint job, The Raven seemed fine, too.
“Vehicular impact detected. Fore end. Twenty percent
structural damage.”
The mini-shuttle, however, hadn’t fared so well. Now
lying on its side, the front end looked like it had been smashed with a
wrecking ball. A shower of electric sparks fell from beneath its crumpled hood.
Gunnar, curious to survey the damage, maneuvered The Raven so that it faced the
twisted heap. He gazed at the ruined mini-shuttle on the ground for several seconds,
contemplated ramming it again…and decided not to.
The Raven had been through quite enough for now.
“Un-Civs times four eliminated.”
“Ten-four, Captain.”
“Returning to convoy, ASAP.”
“Ten-four.”
“Captain Rourke,” Eos interjected in its smooth, mechanized
tone, “scanners indicate one human-person inside the mini-shuttle. Heartbeat
and biological neural activity detected.”
Gunnar’s eyebrows arched in surprise. “Oh? Then what became
of the other—?”
With a monstrous shriek, the mini-shuttle’s driver side
door flew up in a mechanical death spasm. The mini-shuttle now resembled a
wounded bird with one desperate wing reaching for the sky. Grunting, the
devastated Incomp pulled himself up and over the portal. Blood matted his long
dark hair. His face looked young and pale in the weak moonlight as he slumped onto
the steel panel. For him, the world had fallen into pain and darkness. He felt
death approaching, but refused to lay there and let that broken machine become
his tomb.
Fascinated, Gunnar watched the dying Incomp with a
serene expression. How many broken bones?
he wondered, pursing his lips. How
many wounds?
Most of the Incomps that Captain Rourke had dealt with
in the Corporate Zones hadn’t shown any real degree of courage. At best, he’d
witnessed the very depths of depravity and villainy on his assignments. Rare,
indeed; those moments when Gunnar had felt any compassion—much less, admiration—for his enemies, be they
Corporate or Civilian.
But now he did.
This Incomp, at least, showed a glimmer of true
PRO-T-EN grit.
Death
is certain…even welcome now…yet, he clings to life with all of his strength. But,
why? He has nothing. Is
nothing. What life is worth living without the security of employment with a
titanic Corporation?
Gunnar shook his head; clearing his mind and shedding
any trace of sympathy. Courageous or not, this fallen Incomp deserved neither
pity nor mercy, and his moment of reckoning had come.
In
the name of PRO-T-EN Industries!
9.
Gunnar thumbed a button on his right armrest and the
seat harness unlatched. He thumbed another button and a panel slid back above
him, leaving a space in the rooftop. Grasping an overhead handle, the PRO-T-EN
Savant pulled himself to his feet. There Captain Rourke stood, exposed from the
waist up, staring at the broken, bloody Incomp as The Raven hovered in place.
When the Incomp glanced up and saw Gunnar standing
there, he screamed in rage and fear and hatred, and every emotion which a dying
man is capable.
So
defiant! What a fine Savant you could have made…
Clad in his PRO-T-EN Corps gear, Gunnar looked both
official and impressive. He wore a dark gray bodysuit, flexible and breathable,
made from a patented PRO-T-EN polymer blend, and matching gloves. Molded armor
plating, black as fresh tar, covered his shoulders, chest, triceps, forearms,
and abdomen. Contoured to his skull, Gunnar’s helmet fit snug. The PRO-T-EN
polyurethane visor protected his eyes and provided instant infrared against the
night. Another golden T gleamed above the visor.
“Engage standard vision.”
“Standard vision engaged, Captain Rourke.”
In the blink of an eye, Gunnar’s vision switched from
the surreal infrared to mundane normal. The Incomp seemed lifeless; lying
across his wrecked mini-shuttle in the desert shadows.
But Gunnar knew better.
“Engage all running lights.”
“All running lights engaged.”
An electric hum filled the air as a dozen small panels
slid open on The Raven; fore and aft, port and starboard. Then the light
streamed forth; twelve unblinking eyes staring into the night.
Via his neural-net synch, Gunnar’s visor raised on a
tiny hinge in his helmet. Now he looked upon the Incomp with nothing except his
own two scornful eyes, noting that the Incomp wore a thin white shirt—streaked
with filth—and brown, fingerless gloves. All generic; no brands or logos
visible.
Classless.
Worthless.
Roused by the sudden light, the Incomp struggled to
raise his head. His mouth opened, and behind a thick rill of blood a loud hiss
issued.
“Raise audio levels, factor three.”
“Audio levels raised, Captain Rourke.”
Gunnar’s aural implants responded, magnifying the
ambient desert noise and the Incomp’s pitiful voice:
“Trai..tor…”
Gunnar stiffened.
The
traitor calls me a
traitor?
“Engage voice amplification.”
“Voice amplification engaged.”
Fists curled, Gunnar paused, then his voice rang out
like thunder from The Raven’s speaker system. “Hello,” he said, following
PRO-T-EN Corps Savant Protocol. “I am PRO-T-EN Corps Savant, Captain Gunnar
Rourke. As a duly authorized representative of PRO-T-EN Industries, it is my
duty to advise you that you are in gross violation of multiple Transgressions
against PRO-T-EN assets and personnel. As a result of said Transgressions, you
are legally subject to both detainment and liquidation. In the event of detainment,
you will receive a fair and balanced trial in a PRO-T-EN Court of Law. Do you
understand these Transgressions, and penalties of said Transgressions, as I
have explained them to you?”
“Traitor…”
the dying Incomp managed.
Again,
this ludicrous insult?
Bristling, Gunnar took a deep breath. “Attention, you
wasteful Incomp—”
“Violation,” Eos interjected. “Inappropriate language.
Per the PRO-T-EN Industries Code of Conduct, use of the discriminatory
slang-word, Incomp, is prohibited
during any interaction while on duty, or when representing PRO-T-EN
Industries.”
Farc!
“Noted, Eos. Thank you for correcting my behavior.”
“It is both an honor and a privilege, Captain Rourke.”
Eyes squinted against the intense white light, the
Incomp raised a gloved, trembling fist in a feeble yet unmistakable gesture. “Defy…you…we!”
“Explain this nonsense.” Gunnar raised his hands as if
inviting a heavy load. “PRO-T-EN Industries guarantees a place for everyone. We
offer vocational conditioning, career planning, health and wellness services.
And, we are proven to be the top Corporation when it comes to helping its
employees pay off their birth-debt in a timely manner. Take me, for instance. I
am thirty years old. I entered the PRO-T-EN Corps Initiative Program at age ten,
which has helped me pay off a huge percentage of my birth-debt. I will retire
before I am eighty…”
The PRO-T-EN Savant paused, interested to see if his
speech had any effect, and cocked his head when the Incomp began to laugh; a
dry, humorless rasp.
“Edu-less
simp-bot! How…born…into…debt?”
More dry laughter. Gunnar had had enough. Edu-less meant that he hadn’t learned
anything in life. Simp-bot meant that
he couldn’t think for himself, anyway.
Typical scavenger insults.
On each thigh, secured in magnetic holsters, Gunnar
wore a PRO-T-EN Corps-issue Liquidator; force field
projectors, similar in design to ancient fully-automatic machine-pistols, with
short barrels as wide as Gunnar’s fist, and custom fitted to his grip. Within
his forearms, PRO-T-EN Corps Enhancement Surgeons had implanted stainless steel
rods to stabilize his aim. Smirking, Gunnar reached down and unholstered his
righthand weapon.
We
will see who is the edu-less simp-bot now, Incomp.
“Savant?”
More laughter, more bloody drool. “Much…like…SERVANT!”
“I am not a servant!” Captain Rourke replied, raising
his Liquidator. This instrument of PRO-T-EN aggression and efficiency gleamed
in The Raven’s harsh glow, its laser sight now resting on the Incomp’s
forehead. “I am a vested employee with The Greatest Corporation In The World!”
The Incomp coughed, grunted, shook his head. “Slave…” he wheezed, lowering his fist.
“No…I am not a slave, Un-Civ. I am a PRO-T-EN man.”
Disgusted, Gunnar pulled the trigger, and a globule of
raw, invisible energy ripped through the space between the barrel and its
target—
Voom!
—leaving a slight ripple in its wake. A millisecond
later, the Incomp’s face compressed as if he’d been struck full-force with a
sledgehammer. Blood burst from behind his eyes, from his split nostrils, his
mouth, and his ears. His head snapped up as he flew backward, then sank back
into the depths of the ruined mini-shuttle.
An Incompetent, Unemployed Civilian no longer.
Now, just another casualty of The Great Corporate War.
10.
“Disengage voice amplification,” Gunnar whispered,
holstering his Liquidator.
“Voice amplification disengaged.”
Gunnar took a deep, soothing breath. “I am no servant,
Eos.”
“That comment was hurtful and unnecessary, Captain
Rourke. Do you require personal, non-credited, downtime?”
“No, thank you.”
“Perhaps a counseling session?” Eos sounded concerned.
“I can connect you with a PRO-T-EN Mental Health Services Savant at reduced
cost due to stress-related physical duties…”
“No, thank you.”
“Very well, Captain Rourke. PRO-T-EN Industries thanks
you for your continued investment.”
“My pleasure, Eos. As always…”
A warm breeze arose as Gunnar continued to stare at
the wrecked min-shuttle. Several moments passed, then the bland voice returned:
“Status, Captain?”
As if jolted from a dream, Gunnar shook his head.
“Encountered Un-Civ times one, still alive. Subject liquidated. Returning to
convoy.”
“Ten-four.’
“Eos, please notify Engineering, Sanitation, and
Recycling. Give them our coordinates, and inform them that there are
non-PRO-T-EN, Civilian-grade vehicles times three that can be retrofitted for
other departmental use, or stored for spare parts.”
“Excellent suggestion, Captain Rourke.”
“Thank you. I just hope that Leadership takes this
into consideration when formulating my revie—”
“One human-person detected. Portside.”
Left hand falling to his Liquidator, Gunnar turned…and
saw a human-person-male standing several feet away. Barefoot, wearing ragged,
generic clothing. Shielding his eyes from The Raven’s bright running lights. An
old man; much older than the Incomp in the mini-shuttle. His long, silver hair
splayed in the light breeze.
“Identify yourself, Un-Civ.”
“Am Shem,” the old Incomp replied, sounding scared and
pained. “Beg, help.”
Gunnar frowned. “You are in violation of trespassing
in a Corporate Zone.”
“True! Beg, take me long way! Not wasteland! Need
Center Civilian, as human-person!”
Gunnar looked the Incomp up and down. He seemed
frightened, sounded genuine, and his body language implied real desperation.
Still, he’d heard all manner of lies from Incomps before, and didn’t trust
them.
Any of them.
“State your age.”
“One-sixty!”
Gunnar grunted under his breath. The Incomp meant
sixty-one, and he looked it. Hard, lined face. Wrinkled skin. A good reminder
to appreciate health and vitality while you had it.
“Do you have an Identification Number?”
“Neh!” The Incomp’s tone now bordered on hysteria.
“Have you ever sojourned in, or otherwise inhabited, a
Civilian Center?”
“Neh! Eyes
me!” The Incomp pointed at his dirty feet. “Parents scavenge! Not wasteland!
Take long way!”
Gunnar took another deep breath. He needed a moment to
evaluate, and bought himself one by lowering his visor.
He
sounds sincere. And afraid. In time, maybe he really could become a productive
citizen. Maybe. It is worth an effort, but I cannot allow him in my transport.
Regulations.
Farc.
“I will contact PRO-T-EN Civil Care and arrange for a
team of Civil Care Savants to transport you to the nearest Civil Care
Facility.”
“Neh!” The
old Incomp jogged forward, almost tripping upon the sand. “Ears me! Cold!
Hungry! Take me, you!”
Taken aback by the raw urgency in this Incomp’s voice,
Gunnar put his hands on his hips, looked heavenward at the clear night sky. The
warm breeze caressed him. The stars twinkled. Looking at the pale quarter-moon
reminded him of the Lunar Colonists; fellow PRO-T-EN Savants working hard to
secure the geo-political rights to Earth’s sole satellite.
Unemployed-Civilian-Male-Adult.
Lifelong scavenger, born of lifelong Incomps. Wants to flee the wastelands and
seek shelter among the Employed-Civilians.
Hmmm…
Although
transporting him myself would be against regulations, I might otherwise net a
commendation for Best Practices from Civil Services—especially if his
conversion is in any way successful.
“Beg, Mister PRO-T-EN Man! Days two, not eat!”
Two
days? Poor Un-Civ…
Gunnar looked down at the frightened Incomp. He’d
moved closer, and the starburst effect from the running lights obscured his
frail form. But it didn’t matter. The PRO-T-EN Savant had already made up his
PRO-T-EN mind.
I
will transport him. Commendation or no, violation or no. It is what the
PRO-T-EN Code of Conduct compels me to do.
“Attention, Captain Rourke,” Eos whispered from the
deepest recesses of Gunnar’s neural-net. “Contraband explosive device detected.
Concealed inside this human-person’s body cavity. This human-person is in
violation. Possession of a prohibited device is a Class A Transgression. Lethal
force is encouraged. Extreme caution is advised.”
The smile which had been forming on Gunnar’s lips
melted into a grim moue. Concealed inside his body cavity, Eos had said;
implying that the explosive had either been swallowed or inserted. Gunnar
didn’t care to guess which. His hands, moving of their own accord, settled upon
his Liquidator grips. He’d almost been deceived unto his own death.
Almost.
“Beg! Beg,
not leave!”
Anger, now. Running through him like an electric
current. In his mind, he saw it all play out as the Un-Civ Incomp intended:
helping him into the transport…securing him as best as he could upon his
lap…pulling away and rejoining the convoy…
Then, boom!
A sudden flash.
Jagged metal spraying everywhere.
Blood.
Fire.
“Beg, not leave!”
Melisma.
My darling wife. I would never see her again. Never get to hold our child. My
life, my career, no more—and for what? Twenty years of service, destroyed by an
untruthful, psychologically disturbed, Un-Civ Incomp!
“Beg, where heart is?”
Again, Captain Gunnar Rourke made up his PRO-T-EN
mind. This time, in the opposite direction.
“Disengage running lights.”
“Running lights disengaged.”
The Raven’s lights faded, leaving Gunnar and the
Incomp shrouded in desert shadows. The soft, electric hum of the panels closing
filled the expectant silence around them.
“Beg, take long way!”
Gunnar released his Liquidator grips. “Engage infrared
vision.”
“Infrared vision engaged.”
In the blink of an eye, Gunnar’s vision switched from
mundane normal to surreal infrared. The Incomp became a swirl of differing
shades of crimson. Below his pelvis, Gunnar noted a small, ovular device which
glowed an icy blue.
“BEG!”
No.
Wordless, Gunnar sank down into The Raven. Back into
his comfortable, ergonomic seat.
“NEH!”
Reattaching his harness with his left hand, Gunnar
thumbed a button on his right armrest. The overhead panel slid shut.
“NEH!”
“Eos…engage EMP. Target, Un-Civ-Male-Adult. Portside.”
“Engaging electromagnetic pulse, Captain Rourke.”
“DEAD, AM!
PRO-T-EN MAN WRONG, WRONG, WRO—”
Gunnar sighed.
11.
BOOM!
“Target engaged,” Eos advised as the Incomp exploded.
A shockwave rocked The Raven like a heavy wind. Insulated in his pod, Gunnar
felt the impact more than heard it, and grimaced at the thought of the human
debris now splattered across The Raven’s left flank.
Another
PRO-T-EN victory.
Using his manual controls, Captain Rourke piloted The
Raven back toward the mapped route. He felt as calm and relaxed as he had the
moment he’d left the manufacturing plant in Sector 45.
“Eos, resume ‘The Hollow Men,’ please.”
“Resuming ‘The Hollow Men.’ Poetry archive. Published,
nineteen twenty-five. Author, Thomas Stearns Eliot.”
Eos paused, then began reciting the classic poem.
Listening, Gunnar grinned a contented grin, letting
his gaze linger on the console display.
The Raven’s power gauge now read 65 percent.
12.
The convoy reached Sector 47, Civilian Center 472,
safe and sound twenty minutes later. The three large PRO-T-EN transports passed
out of sight as Asset Protection Inventory Savants rushed to take over. The
proper e-forms received their thumbprint signatures, Captain Rourke notified
his superiors, and the PRO-T-EN Corps escort team returned to their quarters
for some much-needed rest.
Mission accomplished.
This quarter features the following:
A tired mother mourns the mysterious disappearance of her daughter in “Shadows,” by Sebnem Sanders.My short story, "Workout," is now available to own on Kindle Direct for 99 cents! Each short story of mine added to the Kindle Store features an exclusive afterword explaining my thoughts on the work itself, and an author bio page.
Enjoy!
Finally got my copy of Death Nail Literary Magazine! Featuring the darkest of dark poetry and prose from John Patrick Robbins, Scott Simm...
