Mission Log 003 - Too Many of Me (4)
I couldn't take a rifle too. Just the pistol and one standard-issue Bellwether tactical dagger. Its blade gleamed razor-sharp. There's only one thing that needs to happen today. One member of Half and Half Corp's security team goes missing during his shift. That's it. The job has to be clean. Thorough.
I grit my teeth. Kay approaches me cautiously and pulls out a small device. She lifts her fluffy peach hair, revealing the side of her temple. Her tone carries a hint of apology.
"Most security vulnerabilities are in the real world. You found it. Remember? Those guys wear helmets with visors that block mutual recognition. Not much I can do now. Before you take out the security guy, stick this right here, on the side of your head. Simple gadget. It'll copy the signal from his computation assist device, so keep it on you while you're inside the company. Got it?"
Her expression rediscovers a sense of responsibility. I nod with a smile and pocket the small device in my jacket.
7436, changed out of the tracksuit into the basic Bella model outfit, is already waiting for me. I offer my hand, and she snaps curtly.
"Customers don't hold Bella's hand. They wrap an arm around her shoulder. Do it right."
She's adapting to mercenary life faster than I did. I let out a dry chuckle and pull her shoulder close. Bella gives a short nod. Now we look the part.
President Yoon wipes the surprise from her face quickly. She briefs the cleanly laid-out operation.
"This is a no-client mission. Objective: infiltrate Half and Half Corp and ensure Wild Night's safety. Arthur and 7436 Bella will handle the op, but the rest of Wild Night will provide support. Bola's pickup truck will tail you at a distance, and for the escape vehicle..."
Valentina, who usually drives with full-bodied prosthetics instead of lightweight ones, steps out today equipped with her skeletal lightweight arms. Her expression is as laid-back as ever.
"Today's not the company ride—it's my personal car. Got back seats, not exactly street-racing spec, but hold on tight, yeah? Kay's gadget shutting off will be the signal to move, mmkay."
Trusting my life to a street racer's driving. Absurd, but street racers who listen to orders often make a side gig out of helping criminals escape, so it tracks.
"No airbags for sure. Hope we don't need to peel out in a hurry. Sounds good."
That security team member has to die. Not his fault. Not ours. But no matter what anyone says, it'll be my hands that do it.
I grab an organic waste bag. No balaclava or helmet yet, so no neck mic either. This is the last conversation. President Yoon's voice declares mission start. With Bella in tow, I head out to the street.
Cross one street, a few blocks over, to the junkie turf where I remember the mercenary got jumped. In a corner of that street, I pull out my phone and call Half and Half Corp's clone brothel.
The ringtone drags on.
"Ah, sorry about that. Short-staffed right now... Half rights, half price. Half and Half. What can I do for you?"
"Uh, the clone that caused trouble was a Bella model, right? Saw one walking the street, bringing her back. Don't know who bought her, but I ain't paying, yeah?"
I pitch my voice a bit rougher on purpose. The voice on the line doesn't suspect a thing, responding bureaucratically.
"Of course. For proxy returns of wandering Bellas, we even give coupons for next time. Security's short-handed, so one guy's coming on a bike. Tell me the spot, and we'll be there in ten. Current location?"
I give the spot, hear thanks, and hang up. Hide the organic waste bag and wait. Ten minutes feels like an hour.
No direct comms, just Kay's drone hovering silently nearby. Soon, the whine of a bike engine. Down hops a security guy in the opaque visor helmet just like the ones I saw.
"Half and Half. You the one reporting the Bella return?"
His voice is similar tone to mine, but his inflection rises at the ends. I know everything. One more detail means one less suspicion.
"Yeah. Found her wandering nearby. Guess she didn't wanna end up collateral for some asshole."
"Heh, one scared little bitch, huh. Hold on, gotta find the coupon..."
He called on a mobile, so he knows it's a pure human customer. As he digs in his pocket for the paper coupon, I step closer. Draw the Bellwether tactical dagger. One step, and I slide it lightly between his neck and jacket collar. Press deep to stop the blood.
Can't go back smelling like blood. He grabs at my hands. Adrenaline makes him thrash harder than expected. Lucky the blood isn't spurting. I yank off his helmet, attach Kay's device to his temple. Signal copy starts.
I don't whisper that it's nothing personal. Death is always personal. No intent to deceive with cheap words after the deed. Just stare into his eyes. Watch them glaze over, focus shatter completely.
Dagger still lodged, I lay him down, strip the clothes. Change into them. No bloodstains. Barely any smell. My Posthuman IV augmented body senses it, but a normal person wouldn't.
Moment of silence: done. Clothes fit a bit snug but okay. Sigh, then bag the remains—dagger and all—into the organic waste bin for android disposal. No one knows if there are more androids or humans in there. Old Los Angeles ghost story.
Mount the bike, Bella behind me. Pocket the signal copier, about to go when Kay's drone buzzes close. Knowing time's short, she blurts urgently.
"Checked his comm logs. Casual with his team, rude but polite to other departments. Name: Frank Williams, three years on the job, took part in the industrial spy purge. All I got is speech patterns. Can't tell you habits like gestures. Don't get caught, Offliner."
"That's plenty. Thanks for the intel, Kay. Be back soon."
I flash a grin and peel out. I remember the Half and Half clone brothel location from last time. Nonstop, I'm there in ten. Bella's grip on my waist tightens. Her road to hell. All she has is a check labeled "freedom." Might bounce.
Park the bike in their lot, grip her shoulder hard—almost forceful—and head inside. Casual nod to the lobby clerk.
"Got the stray. Abandoned, so need serial check. Where to? Bella model's probably Culture 4. Their boss didn't eat it, right?"
The lobby clerk eyes me with disgust. Asking if the purge team's still kicking is bound to piss her off. But no suspicion on her face. Good. I'm nailing the act. Lean in harder. Slap the counter.
"Not working? Call someone who does. Some of us gave up two weeks' vacation for the company—least you can do is look alive. What're you, anyway?"
Security swearing in front of customers? This level of rudeness is par. Well-trained, disciplined guards keep dignity. Security and guards outrank regular staff anyway—legal guns give leverage.
She shakes her head. "S-sorry. Wandering Bella needs inspection... B4. I'll open the elevator."
Basement. Yeah, basement. Horrific. Ground floor, at least a window jump. Underground? No escape. Tension spikes, but I play it looser. Guess our Frank talked like this. Or maybe all their security does.
Gloved hand taps the clerk's head twice, then into the elevator. Standard CCTV. 7436 knows—stays silent. I keep posture straight. Elevator stops at B4.
Desolate office, barely any people. Purged 'em all to data processing, then axed. Prioritizing speed over keeping field staff? Never. Protect ops first, even if it drags. Half and Half won't last.
Rotten top hates the ripe bottom. Doesn't see the whole fruit rotting.
Head to Bella's culture room. Researchers' glares mix resentment. Opaque visors might shield from insiders' stares, not outsiders'.
Passing, feel Bella stutter-step twice. Door beside. This is it. Turn naturally, enter the exam room. Staff look doomed too. Time for more bullshit. Shove Bella at them. Act like I know it all—results, even if the boss died.
"Why the funeral faces? Boss and a few coworkers gone, but no outside ties, so you're still working, right? Promotions coming from doubles soon."
Seems true. One can't hold back, rushes me, spilling.
"You security got the right to say that shit? Storm in, gun to the boss's head, ship to data processing—nothing, nothing comes up, but you slap 'spy' on it anyway. Then that fucker says scrap the gray matter. Who the hell are you to...!"
Trustworthy employer, huh? Did he really mean to kill 7436? Maybe... Bad habit to speculate, but maybe he was plotting something audit-worthy. Dead saints aren't automatic. His attitude makes me wonder if he was acting too.
To free the self-willed Bella—maybe call her 7436, human now—he consigned her to three-day inspection hold... to dodge suspicion?
Makes sense, but the dead man's mouth is shut, gray matter scrapped. No revival.
Punch floors him.
"Talky fuck. Hey, hold up. Yeah, yeah. That bitch has a booking—quick scan and bring her. Or just pass her. Stray Bella, no need for serial hunt... Pain in the ass, right?"
Push past inspection, reclaim 7436. Her tension eases only in my grip. Wild Night didn't forget her. Shoulder loose, head out down B4 hall.
Four more in identical visored helmets approach. One chin-nods hello.
"What, brass wants more ass-kicking here? Boss's crib ransacked—lid popped, nothing. Called it spy and moved on. Upper and lower management's all idiots."
Security vouching for me. Nice. Snort, reply—mimic Frank, uptick ends.
"If they're that dumb, how'd they build this big in central LA? Brass old farts bust ass for a reason—not just bark. Got a booking for this one, gotta go."
But he tilts head, puzzled. Voice differs despite mimicry and age match. Need a suspicion-killer answer.
"No booking logged. You sure?"
Half and Half's rotten to the core. Inefficiency everywhere. One play works.
Shove past. "You bitching about side gigs too? VIP who tips extra for off-schedule girls called personal line. That's why."
He shoves my shoulder hard. Not buying. If only this guard's corrupt, he'd be gone already.
Next line ready. "You know it's rule-breaking, right?"
"Go to the chair and flap gums, next is security purge after culture team. Wanna see old farts scream 'traitors!'? I'll pop corn if you want."
He sighs, conflicted. Bluff lands. Neck muscles unclench, thrill sparks.
With 7436, elevator to ground. Lobby clerk, threatened inbound, doesn't stop us. To lot, mount bike. Out the painted wall in under five since entry.
Bella's arms hug warmer now. Outside, spot Bola's pickup and Valentina's modded shell-of-a-car. Kill signal copier power. Bike to no-CCTV streets. Pasadena side, my old hotel.
Down to hotel basement lot, wait for Valentina's ride. No traces. Still in his clothes, pile into her car with 7436. She guns it.
Lightweight—no suspension, thin seat padding—jostles hard. But right now, cozy as hell.
Take her tossed in-ear and mic. Ditch helmet, report in.
"Offliner here. Cross-confirmed from culture and security staff: employer not purge target, data processing gray matter scan showed no external links. No more intel available. Sufficient?"
Fifteen minutes of dead air feels eternal resuming. President Yoon's voice soaks in relief. Everyone feels it.
"Sufficient, Offliner. Truly... thank you. Mission complete. See you at the office."