Final Duty Record - Dishonorably Discharged (3)
"Damn, you're way too calm... Is that just how Bellwether guys are?"
The mercenary who'd originally been hired by Jack let out a hollow laugh as he asked. Mercenaries don't betray. Not until their client betrays them first, anyway. Jack had assigned her simple lab security duty, but what she'd actually been handed was dragging Bellwether employees—outfitted with Posthuman series augmented bodies—onto the operating table. That was betrayal. So, she could be trusted, at least a little. Leaning on that shallow trust, I shook my head.
I wasn't nearly as calm or machine-like as I seemed.
"I've been locked in a virtual reality incubator for a month—no net connection—just obsessing over smashing that bastard's face in when I finally got out. You think I'm calm after coming back from the dead?"
"That's calm as hell. You know how many green mercs flinch at their own gunfire and turn their aim to shit? Anyway, to the point. Our identities..."
She was looking for a way out. Good sign. The fact that she wasn't trying to flip this mess and handle it herself was the best news I could hope for.
"I'll vouch for you. Hell, just seeing how you've got that guy's wrists zip-tied with cable ties oughta count for something with Stephanet..."
She let out a short breath, like a weight had lifted. Gesturing toward another merc sitting on the floor, trembling as he sprayed painkiller on his broken arm, she said,
"Fine, then buy us a drink for smashing that guy's arm. Might not cover it, but even us grunts don't mind getting chummy with Bellwether folks. What do you say?"
Networks of connections like spiderwebs save you a bullet mid-job, spare you a knife in the back, or get you bailed out by sheer luck when things look hopeless.
"As long as you're not asking me to overlook some minor code violation. This whole mess? It all started with something really, really petty like that."
It was right about then. Just as the mercs had Jack's wrists secured with cable ties—no means of resistance left—and we were trading small talk.
A black silhouette appeared at the lab door we'd left open. Too big for a person. Even spotted the rifle labeled for powered armor only—something no regular employee saw more than once a month.
They'd scoped the interior and chosen to reveal themselves. The optical camouflage on the powered suit bent the moonlight filtering through the window by about three and a half degrees.
The mercs shot me questioning looks—why'd you stop talking?—so I pointed toward the powered-armor figure.
No sound despite the closed powered suit's weight. The mercs hurriedly set down their shoulder-slung shotguns, hip holsters, and even the daggers they'd packed just in case.
Mobile strike teams are for the impatient types. Seeing them disarm without orders, the armored figure spoke through external speakers. Even the slight static crackled crystal clear.
"Facial recognition complete. Emergency Mobile Strike Team 6, 'Striders' unit, Strider One, Michael McMahon Supervisor."
I stood, saluted sharply, and faced him.
"Bellwether Los Angeles Branch Security Squad 4, Shepherd Six, Arthur Murphy, regular employee. Voice confirmation requested."
Stephanet would compare my language patterns and movements to verify this was really my brain in here. It wouldn't take long. She already knew.
"Confirmed. And the mercs next to you?"
"Mercenaries hired by copy-shop Jack Winstead, but they claim ignorance of the job details. I've got them subdued. They even helped apprehend and restrain the copy-shop guy. Permission to submit their contracts proving they're victims of fraudulent agreements?"
The merc sitting in front of me chewed her lip, worried I'd rat her out as an accomplice. Once I finished, she slumped back like a deflated balloon.
"If they were just caught up in it, that's worth leniency. Two civilians—submit your contracts."
I couldn't see if they did. No augmented vision, no implants right now. The unaugmented world offers no clues. First thing on reinstatement: new eyes. Nothing would match Posthuman IV specs, but this body was overkill for me anyway.
"Contracts verified. Simple security gigs, as stated. Can you accompany us back to HQ for investigation? And put something on. Your security clearance was wiped on 'death,' so no uniform."
The mobile supervisor pulled a vacuum-sealed employee uniform from a tactical drone's compartment trailing him and tossed it my way. Standard office drone wear—never tried it on. Quality was solid, though. True to Bellwether's bell-wether name, it had a trapezoidal zipper on the jacket, all white overall. Anti-contam tech or not, stains would suck.
First real clothes in ages. Not great mobility for a grunt uniform, but solid for post-resurrection duds.
The supervisor nodded curtly.
"Mobile Strike got here first, report's filed. Intel team's coming for the copy-shop guy next. Standard spiel time. Dr. Jack Winstead... Intel's slower than a one-legged dog. Thirty minutes at least."
The closed powered suit crouched lightly before the prone, shaking man. Jack looked terrified he'd stomp his skull. But Bellwether wasn't merciful.
The supervisor continued,
"That's your last thirty minutes. Not for escape. Not for deals or confessions. For suicide. If you're too scared, scream out a lifetime's worth now. Intel only wants your gray matter—not your screaming vocal cords or biting tongue."
Chills raced up my spine. Security gave some familiarity with Intel ops... but barely. Creepy as hell.
He gagged Jack to prevent tongue-biting, stripping even that last chance, then beckoned me to follow.
"Gotta face the disciplinary board formally. You did wear a copy-body, after all. Cloning top-tier augments is big trouble—HQ overseer incoming. You two mercs too."
He reflexively raised two fingers to his ear and spoke—external speakers on so I could hear.
"Situation resolved. Sheep located. Returning to the fold."
Three Mobile Strike vans idled outside the lab. Mercs to the third; me to the second. No need to split us, I thought—until I saw who waited inside.
My old Security Squad 4 supervisor. Pacing like a worried dad, he clenched his fists the second I boarded, face lit with certainty.
"Knew you weren't dead, you rascal. A guy who shoved a grenade down his gullet after those fucking claws ripped his chest—who keels over on the way to the hospital? No way! Welcome back, Shepherd Six. Well, assigned someone else to your spot... but to me, Shepherd Six is you. Got it?"
His words stung my chest wound, but I held back. Didn't want to ruin that grin.
We rolled back to Bellwether HQ. Dawn air reeked of smog laced with fumigant, but the moon shone through. My world had been a hellstorm recently; the city's was clear.
Vans weaved skyscrapers. Early drivers parted like for a fire truck—kinda funny. No asking about that eyesore yet. Revenge talk wasted recovery time. Inefficient. Bellwether hated waste. So did I.
At HQ, we took the security-only passage to the disciplinary room. Straight to it, no delays. Brass barely slept. Too many cybernetics. Some modded till phantom pains nearly broke them—less human, more mad-scientist meat-machine hybrid. Portrait of efficiency devolving to monster.
Stepped into the room. Basic office setup: seats for subject and witnesses, ringed by towering displays like gravestones. Surrounded meant pressured.
Eight displays total; three lit. One head display spoke, topped by the full Bellwether logo—a bell-bearing sheep.
"Good evening, former regular employee Arthur Murphy. I am Bellwether. Proxy AI for HQ management, representing the company, all shareholders, and the Chairman."
Good sign. AI, not Chairman direct—meant low priority.
The other head display spoke. No video—just "NO VIDEO OUTPUT" in white. Human. For now. Unpredictable. Bad sign. Straight-up nightmare fuel walked in right then.
"Former regular employee Arthur Murphy. Auto-censor blocks my name anyway. I'm Bellwether LA Branch President. Upfront: no exceptions my way. Saving one employee—even with caveats—means setting precedent for keeping copy-body users on payroll. Company first. Obvious, right?"
Supervisor twitched to stand; Mobile guy held him back. Only two displays live, it seemed. Hands trembling, I gripped them steady and replied coolly.
"But... the code doesn't allow punishing innocents to avoid precedent! Bellwether AI, check the statutes."
"Reviewing bylaws and statutes. Review complete. Former employee Arthur Murphy's claim is valid. Company expresses concern on this matter, _--_-_- Branch President. Copy-body issue protocol prioritizes tech-leak probes over employee investigations."
Auto-censor garbled the President's name. Bellwether naming him was pressure to judge wisely.
A sigh leaked from the President's display.
"Doesn't HQ non-interference fall under those same bylaws, Bellwether AI? Fine, re-verifying. Former employee Arthur Murphy, when did you learn it was a copy? Desperate enough to accept anyway?"
Scapegoat time. Crystal clear. Too cold for mere job-fear. Had to rally. Deep breath—all sensors logging it. Gritting teeth, I said,
"Since when does the board punish mindset over actions? Per bylaws, no duty to answer that."
Two voices overlapped—instant read on their stances.
"Valid."
"Uncooperative."
Oddly, no irritation from the President. My pushback didn't irk him. Had to think. Died and back—couldn't tank the board and get blacklisted in this no-options world.
But what could I do? Rely on the AI. That was it.
Bellwether AI started to speak—cut off after two syllables.
"Uncoop..."
Even the President seemed thrown. Calling "Bellwether AI?" got a restart.
"Apologies for the inconvenience. Chairman relays: Agrees no-precedent principle matters. But deems former employee Arthur Murphy's no-choice acquisition of copy Posthuman IV not blacklist-worthy."
No precedent meant dishonorable discharge and blacklist. But not that bad? Didn't compute.
President, still oddly neutral, pressed,
"So... Chairman wants it buried, copy-shop handled quietly, leak path sealed. What does he want exactly, Bellwether AI?"
Frustrating—nothing to add. My rebuttals were footnotes next to theirs. Did the Chairman know "mercy"? Couldn't say. Hated begging mercy.
Bellwether AI output:
"Chairman requests erasure of former employee Arthur Murphy's employment record—as if Bellwether never hired him. He wasn't involved. No employment, no Ja-in-a terror death on October 3rd, no copy aug-body, no this board."
President paused mid-reply. Looked like what he wanted: blacklist discharge or record-wipe dishonorable—same diff? What'd he gain?
No clues from a month in netless VR. Apathy clawed my ankles. Stomped it down—let it climb, it'd choke me.
"Even so, not just releasing him. Posthuman IV recovery..."
"No. Leaving surgical logs and witnesses risks more than release. Former employee Arthur Murphy walks if he agrees to silence. Chairman proposes: Gag order for three-hour grace to wrap life affairs."
Weird. Absurd. Shut up, get top aug-body and freedom? What'd the company gain? Logical link... somewhere. Me leaving with it meant LA Branch got no brainless Posthuman IV shell.
HQ vs. branch ego war? President clung to judgment rights. Possible... but all?
Grab the line or rotten rope? HQ backed me so far. Grab HQ—save the body at least. Bellwether dumping me either way. No seat here.
Selfish it is. Bargained away my flimsy goodness. First gamble—casino virgin—in a corp boardroom. Chest scar burned.
Both whales'd crush me. Pick the bigger, meaner one.
Voice shook from fear—but steadied. Glanced at helmetless Supervisor, worried but silent, no nod or shake. Turned to displays.
Heaviest life decision—felt too light spoken aloud.
"I... accept HQ's proposal. Agree to gag order. Take the three-hour grace."