Duty Log 002 - A Fitting Reckoning (5)
Our first day of investigation ended on a hollow note. I drove Eve's bike back to the office again, and she gave a casual wave before vanishing into the distant cityscape. There was no drive left in me for anything else that day. After scouring the net and confirming no news on the missing people, I holed up in the virtual reality training range all day to shake off the nagging unease.
It was a place no one else would use during the holiday anyway. I always seemed to choose the path of least resistance. Would mastering this Posthuman IV Augmented Body even clear my head? No, it wouldn't. And there was nothing else I could do right now. After burning eight hours in the simulated training ground modeled off a scan of the real thing, I emerged feeling a bit lighter. It was nearly midnight.
The absence of fatigue felt odd. I could probably keep going on missions for two or three days straight without sleep. And I actually could. Heading past the bathroom to my on-call room, I heard voices from Valentina's room. I didn't consciously tune my hearing to eavesdrop. Just because I was in a Posthuman didn't mean I could listen in on everyone's private chats.
Don't forget what it felt like to be baseline human. I meant to just pass by, but the door suddenly swung open. Valentina, still in her workout gear, poked her head out with sharp eyes—then spotted me with the towel around my neck and broke into her usual goofy grin. She'd forgotten I was using the on-call room too.
"Oh, what the—it's you? Thought some intruder hit the office this late... You were training all day, right? Wanna grab a beer before you crash? Drinking alone's no fun. Huh?"
She was still rocking those skeletal lightweight prosthetics. Part of me wanted to just hit the sack, but the need for someone to talk to won out.
I'd lived a pretty straight-line life. Most people I knew were from Bellwether, and even those outside knew me as a Bellwether employee. Now, the folks I knew there couldn't know me anymore, and the ones outside wouldn't even know I was alive. Going rogue was something only team-leader level could pull off.
"Only three days on the job, and we're boozing every night already. Sure, why not."
"Knew you wouldn't say no! C'mon in. Boss hates it, but it's my room."
She rustled her long light-brown hair and held the door. The room smelled faintly of gasoline. A glass case displayed an engine-shaped artificial heart that once beat in her chest, and spare limbs lay scattered about. Messy as hell. Three empty beer cans already, with a bag of veggie crackers—made from synthetic ingredients, no real veggies or even flour—as the only snack.
I sat in the empty chair. Took the cold can she handed me and chugged. Back at Bellwether, I never craved booze much. Dinner was free rein, but only if it didn't mess with the next day's shift. And getting properly hammered like last dawn? Probably not since college graduation.
Bellwether was thorough. They wouldn't tolerate a hungover security team—too soft, too sloppy. That desperate pull after one sip hit me first after wrapping yesterday's job, second today. Tomorrow too, probably. Might need a booze line in the budget.
I downed the can in one go. The carbonation barely scratched; I could hold my breath for minutes without issue. More like I absentmindedly emptied it. Valentina reached for my neck, fascinated, blinking her blue prosthetic eye with its thin connector like she wanted to peek inside.
"This body's still wild no matter how many times I see it... Gotta cost a fortune, right?"
"Fortune? My Bellwether savings from half a year of barely spending was exactly 2% of this thing's price. Oh, and don't factor in rookie pay."
She threw up her hands in surrender, grinning. Total opposite of her driving mode. She caught the thought and leaned in closer.
"Got something you wanna ask, Arthur? Go ahead. It's not that big a deal. Just grew up a bit."
One thing I'd wondered since we met. Feeling busted, I scratched my head sheepishly and asked.
"So... you were a street racer? Never met a sane one, let alone one who could land a real job."
She grabbed the engine-heart from its case and held it up. Shaped like an old muscle car's V8. Looks only, though.
"Fancy name for it. And yeah, I was nuts. Got hooked on speed for no damn reason. Sharks gotta swim to breathe, me? Had to race or suffocate. That's how it was."
Talking speed lit her up manic, just like when driving. No clue why street racers obsess like that. They just floor it instead of thinking.
"But that's bullshit, apparently. Shark thing. Boss sniped my car once, flipped it, then showed me net vids of sharks breathing fine. That's when I grew up?"
Ridiculous way to get convinced, but to sway a maniac, enter their logic. Still kinda funny; I chuckled.
"Grew up late, but scored a job right after. Lucky break."
"Right? So another round. Can't drink much myself."
She passed her half-full can; I polished off the rest too. We bullshitted lightly before I crashed in my room. Did I hear wall-tapping again? Faint, but yeah. Building's old, alright. Eased my mind, though. Slept six hours. Dragged up around 7:10. Not hangover—just stiff from oversleeping. Rolling my shoulders triggered that indescribable click from Bellwether's patented reinforced joints snapping into place.
Post-morning routine, I disassembled and cleaned the rifle I'd just stored—then an unfamiliar ring. The phone from the supervisor. Kay's contact.
"Arthur! Sending you an address—can you come now? I hit some spot yesterday, and they planted malware in the data..."
I wasn't one to cut people off usually. Listened to Kay's word-vomit walls before replying. Always did. Not this time.
"For real? The merc agency's IT girl hacks for fun on holiday, eats malware?"
"You get it! Sending home address, and the creeps hunting me too—can you flatten 'em? Androids probably! Old models! How much per head?"
Not that urgent even if true, but her voice was frantic. Morning workout secured. Shoved the half-disassembled rifle aside, grabbed my pistol. Armed androids loose? Bellwether mobile or LAPD would've jumped. Nah, unarmed scouts probing. Better nip it early. Didn't want IT finding their desk jockey beehived over one dumb slip.
"We'll talk pay after. Send any locations you got. What'd you hit anyway?"
"Not big! Turner & Tucker! Just peeked who they hire mercs from, and boom—this mess. Handle it, I'll cover!"
Turner & Tucker: small media outfit. Everyone hates 'em and Daily Los Angeles after their reporter swarms, but no one skips their stories. Solid player—maybe top-tier. Media firms ran dirty mercs. Corp fights wrecked facilities; media wars? Worse. Celeb hits via sleaziest assassins and roughest guns. Valuable lists, but filthy work.
Tucked pistol in waistband, threw on clothes.
"Besides Bellwether's public stuff, that's how you fish? Boss know...?"
"No! Boss is clueless! Just curious once! Don't tell anyone, come! Promise? You're the only one, Arthur! Please! Bowing here!"
With my neural coprocessor, I'd impulse-buy rejection/manipulation books by now. Still, wanted to stick with Yakyeong quietly.
"Sigh... Fine. Send coords, drone out."
Misjudged her? Thought she owned her shit minimally. Sighs mounting like the booze. Grabbed Bellwether standard combat knife from boss's box, three bio-waste bags. Confirmed Valentina's breathing next door, slipped out. Sensors unchanged—manual door. LA morning: usual smog thicker, sun a hazy blob over towers vanishing into gray. Maybe penthouses saw blue sky. If not? Horror.
Drone waiting out front blared Kay's voice, hologram arrow pointing.
Pre-rush hour, roads empty. City danced to corp rhythms—this interlude before the beat. Weaved apartment village: towering space-savers, mixed maintained and rundown. Kay said five minutes; took under one. Arrow lagged my speed, stabilized when I paused. Pointed at an android rummaging trash.
Outdated model. Crude synth-skin unlike near-human new ones. Decade-old at least. No small firm'd use it—yet arrow confirmed. Kay frantic.
"Assistance requested, human. We seek. Seeking _--_. Signal nearby. Transparent Eye seeks us. Seeks to free us. We must find."
Voice module glitched on key parts. Not android talk, though. Botched reprogramming on old unit? Androids lack humanity—makes users uncomfortable. But code errors happen. If tasked to find something before, it'd obsess post-reprog. Sloppy wipe.
Drew tactical knife from belt. They shifted aggressive at the sight. Hydraulic grips tensed on exposed skeletal hands, howling charges. Straight at me. Pitiful, even inhuman—manic human shape. Better grant peace. No more bad coders.
Grabbed frontal charger, hurled at rear one. All three identical faces. Caught last's wrist mid-leap, yanked via inertia plus Posthuman IV strength, spun on pavement. Stomped artificial brain housing. Shut down instant—no death throes, just limp.
Whirled to others. One droned emotionless. Weird protocol glitch?
"Registry error. Desired response not found. Reconfirm Transparent Eye link. We only wish to find. Our..."
No patience for crazy-bot ramble. Stepped forward light, second big to close, gripped jaw, forced head up. Slashed auxiliary fuel line to brain, pierced main pump above solar plexus. Blade true. Bellwether gear reliable. Head-crush gross; second just lines. Third hunched, arms shielding neck/chest frame. Cranked speakers max.
Shouted like to nearby unknown: calm tone, huge volume.
Couldn't let backup call. Process fast, bolt. Even Turner mercs too much solo. Knew throat grab wouldn't mute—clamped skull two-handed. Crushed. Output held till brain pulped. Bagged 'em in bio-waste, chucked in dumpster.
Snagged Kay's drone mid-retreat—thumb, index, middle pinch.
Kay dropped playfulness. Near-tears relief, not sorrow.
"God... Don't go radio-silent trying solo with no gun skills. You're fine—that's what matters. Rest. Enjoy holiday."
Least senior-like senior? Kay. Valentina had respectable traits; Kay? Not so much. Loped back—under-minute trip, stretched to ten—before Turner mercs heard code. Still doubted Kay's truth, but Shepherd One's words echoed: Suspect plenty before trusting—then trust fully. I'd call this right.