Last Duty Log - Dishonorably Discharged (2)
"Berta, can you tune the avatar's performance to match the growing augmented body's specs?"
It's the first thing I say after letting my brain—blacked out twice but denied even a wink of sleep—rest a bit and hauling myself up. I want to feel the body move more vividly. The avatar smears into a graphical mess before reconstituting. Programmed to mostly obey the laws of physics in this rehab virtual reality, it lets me sense the body's changes. My heart thumps once every four seconds, senses hypersensitive—close my eyes and focus, and I feel the faint tremor rippling through me with each beat. Normally, the dampeners keep it from being too uncomfortable. The lightness feels extreme, too. Nothing like my original body's motion; it's on par with that biotech abomination that shredded me, a nauseating match I barely suppress. The quantified stats match the Posthuman IV augmented body catalog perfectly. I have to assume it's really being built. Which means I need to figure out their goal.
One: they want the augmented body. Posthuman series procedures only go to Bellwether Corp employees or certified contractors. Faster for that bastard to hijack a Bellwether staffer's brain for culturing, yank mine out, and hand over the body than seek personal approval for custom jobs.
To adapt more to the motion, I wander the staff dorm VR—modeled only on what my eyes saw—asking Berta,
"Can we rig something inside the incubator? Like... medical gear. Especially brain transplant stuff."
"Impossible. The incubator interior allows only nutrient injectors, extractors, and EEG sensors. No other equipment installed or feasible."
At least I won't be blinded forever. I draw a deep breath, exhale. Then they'll be waiting outside the incubator to take me down. Good thing the biotech horror trashed everything from my neural coprocessor on— no hacking risk. Whether that's a silver lining, who knows.
The doc who locked me here thinks I bought his bullshit. No reason to suspect I'd bow my head in a no-choice spot. Not many waiting outside. Other motives? Implanting a knockoff Posthuman IV can't be the endgame. People don't move without gain.
All I can rely on: Bellwether security academy basics and a few months' field time. Could be wrong. But in a call-to-judge, the only bad call is no call. Do it. Swallow the anxiety. Lead the sheep, Bellwether motto.
First out: naked. I rack my brain for barehand training dates, summon Berta.
"Berta, hippocampus stim for week two, July 2096 recall? Please."
No need to "please" an AI, but desperation calls.
Deep breath. I eye the virtual screen. A professor lectures hand-to-hand, jaw fully metallic with a massive nut at the bone-end—bald, memorable. "Even hand-to-hand's mostly useless in real combat," he'd started. Apparently not that useless, prof. I rewatch my memory lecture.
A month later, till culturing ends, I repeat. With Berta's help, I spawn training dummies at half-plus Posthuman IV specs, drill the moves, smash them. Whatever mercs the doc prepped? This body's a grave-digger's dream.
No outside comms. Anxiety spikes—I check progress. Near four weeks: body near my original shape. A month's lecture refresh enough? Berta ramps dummy count, specs closer to Posthuman IV, quells it. Time flies.
Halloween nears. Ghosts and monsters roam, they say. Perfect night to coffin-bust out.
Oct 30, 10:55 PM. Hour to culturing end; finisher running. No serial number for knockoffs. Deep breath—body can now. Time to bid Berta farewell, my sole outside window.
"Berta, exit time from culturing end?"
"Preservative/nutrient mix fills till 30 min pre-end. Full drain: 10 min. Then 20 min external check wait. Check skippable at discretion. More info?"
Filled, no punching. ~25 min pre-end: torso clear. Smash out then.
"Nah, good. Early goodbye. Take care. And thanks, Berta."
Heart, once every four, now tracks my stress—three to two seconds. Ten more minutes; scenery whites out. Berta grants release from this brain jail. Her stock female voice near-sweet.
"Culturing complete. Reconnect to body? Exit VR waitspace?"
Words I'd craved a month. Not yelling them into virtual air/walls.
"Let me out. Yeah. Great. Yeah..."
Consciousness blurs. Then... four-second heartbeats. I'm in Bellwether's latest Posthuman IV, for real. Hope this knockoff pulls its weight once. Eyes open. Real eyes, not memory-repro. Nutrients fill around, but specs shrug off sting. Lungs nutrient-packed, breathing fine—just fish-gill alien. Eyes clear: doc waits outside.
Now his face sharpens: pale, sunburn scars; short, irregular brown-blond hair. Simple HUD glasses. More student than scholar than copycat. Overambitious kid who'd yell "Century's discovery!" if campus cops raided his lab-bomb.
Eye contact: fists clench, mutters.
I hear. Posthuman ain't "newhuman" for nothing.
"Told you I could. Yeah, I could... No more ass-kissing Walter that fucker..."
Meaningless. I flail awkwardly in nutrients, feign panic. He approaches, loud to soothe.
"Wait just a bit! Still ~30 min nutrients. Finish safe. Then out—scan next room!"
Berta said external scans possible. Crude lie. I nod short, revenge pending. Green vision scans. Cramped space. Desk: scattered tablets, cheap; chair: double-back luxury. Two mercs: dubious helmets. This fist could shred 'em. One Bellwether shotgun, one rival Pitts & Morrison. No true Pasadena General'd have P&M. Evidence piles anxiety. Wait drain.
30 min eternity. Berta's second release.
"Stabilization wait over. Draining nutrients. Stand by."
Slow. Heartbeat slow. Head clears—hose in, expel lung goo. First true air in a month: euphoric. No cheer yet. Main course pending. Shoulders out. Arms. Torso near-free. Jack—doc—bounces like a kid at gifts.
"Fully functional? No, my check... Sorry. First Posthuman IV culture. Amazing..."
"Nah, makes sense. Gotta be. Watch..."
Drawl end, shoulders tense. Pure malice. Wants this body? Take it. Full-power punch launches as I finish,
"Jack."
No suspicion: "Thanks." Then realization—no name knowledge—face drains blue as hypothermia.
Punch flies. Bellwether's all-tech Posthuman IV—forged in lab horrors turning men to abominations—transcendent. Fist craters reinforced plastic. Half-arm in. Careful—minimal. Posthuman IVs top Bellwether 'cause soldiers gear max. Me? Bare, no rag.
Red alarm flashes: breach. Too late for culture. Grip hole, wrench. Mech locks snap; hatch cracks. Jack ducks mercs; they panic-raise shotguns. Unsuppressed roar deafening—boom shakes room. Buckshot peppers left arm hiding face. Stings. Hurts. Real hurt—vivid, alive vs. shadow-play VR. Shake: pellets flake skin. Body rocks back, bleeding staunches.
Wide stance, charge like VR. Merc lowers recoiling barrel—I'm there. Butt-swing at jaw; my eyes clock sweat-speed in panic. Idiots thought this body'd let me surgery-table? Absurd laugh. Snap shotgun stock, uppercut ribs. No effect—grab dagger wrist, snap. Whip arm full-break, hurl body at second merc.
Boom again. Flank direct—hot lead sears like cauterizing. Shakes, no worse. Jack flees—incubator blocks door. He corners, hysterical.
"Do something! Useless merc fucks can't take a naked guy?!"
"You said normal human..."
Stomp cracks floor, lunge. She pumps—grab block load. One-eye implant, pale-brown ponytail: fear blooms, milk-soaks bread—total terror. Her shock mirrors mine at lab horror; gut churns. Nothing to puke.
Yank shotgun free. Mercs just paid guns. Life allowance? Hesitate headshot. Same soul-sellers. Aim head,
Jack unarmed. Sloppy security. My failure echoes.
"Yeah, normal human. Bellwether LA security, Guard 4, grunt. Know what you cultured locking me? Fucked. In over heads. I call Bellwether. No resist? Ignorants. Whose word? Bellwether or that prick."
She calculates fast. Concentric implant eyes jitter; draws pistol on Jack.
"Fuck... Bellwether it. Here. No comms anyway."
Phone tossed, aim steady. No coprocessor folk still use 'em. Pure taste—clunky, but no hack-fry risk.
Dial Bellwether—instant Stephanet. External to corp? Her turf.
"Stephanet, hope you haven't forgotten my voice. Bellwether LA security, Guard 4 'Shepherds', Arthur Murphy, callsign Shepherd Six. Voice auth."
Grin unstoppable. Giggle risks dumb, but breaking brain-jail to corp-return? Joy.
"Arthur... You're alive? Records: rushed hospital post-incident, severe brain damage, deceased. Where..."
"Ha! Didn't know you could fluster, Stephanet. Tracked, right? Lost here too—send rapid response. Copycat yanked my brain for body culture."
Inefficient, but happy inefficient. She optimizes, near-joy tone.
"Tough mark. Dispatching to trace now. More? Medevac...?"
Shot spots self-heal, no bleed. Regen reason for that horror? Fingers twitch. Merc who loaned phone coughs, blushes. I clock my nakedness, add,
"Shit. Staff uniform my size too. Just busted copycat post-incubator."
Her reaction hints corp mercy: reclaim this, culture new. "No exceptions" nightmare monster—gone on waking.