Last Duty Record - Dishonorable Discharge (4)
"In a corporation, preventing precedent matters more than saving one employee? Hah, what a load of bullshit..."
The Supervisor is raging on my behalf. What I feel, though, is more like emptiness. Just the sensation that everything crumbles so easily. Like forgetting to mix water into a sandcastle. I consider intervening, but his words bring a bit of satisfaction, so I stay quiet.
No bugs in the hallway outside the disciplinary committee room. Being on the security team under the guards teaches you where it's safe.
"In Bellwether's eyes, that guy's just one employee with too much attitude. Tsk. You okay with this? Just that hunk of meat left?"
I shrug weakly. One foot still lingers in that hollow feeling.
"Leave with nothing, or take this and go? It's something, right? Guess I'll scout some mercenary agency..."
The Supervisor slaps my shoulder twice with his massive hand. At least it seems I didn't live wrong in this company. Or maybe that's why I'm in this mess.
"You'll do fine anywhere—just take a deep breath and stop sighing. Three hours, yeah? You're still a pre-discharge employee till then. Need anything? Spill it. No day shift for me tomorrow. Crash on me before you go."
"They already cleared my stuff from employee housing, didn't they? With the death processing and a month's delay..."
"Identity got restored by Stephanet earlier... Oh, your gear? Still in the corner locker of Guard Team 4. Figured we'd hand it to next of kin after the funeral, but corporate kept delaying it. Sealed it vacuum-tight so no dust. Lucky break."
At least I'm not getting kicked out naked. I exhale.
The rifle was company issue, but the pistol's mine—graduation gift from Bellwether's security training university. A few changes of clothes, restored ID means the account's live, but whatever was in it went to that Jack bastard, and with the company burying this, no way my hard-earned savings come back.
Immediately usable cash is slim. Savings drained, but daily account should have a few hundred credits. Enough for a week or two in a motel.
Good... No, the fact that this feels like a good sign isn't good.
Can't squeeze in a neural processor implant via Bellwether's employee welfare in three hours. It's 1 a.m. now. Top priority: net access gear. Gotta track the bastards who did this.
Light a fire with injustice, and it burns on revenge. Revenge is smoky and sooty, but fire all the same.
Listing post-exit tasks sharpens focus: One, uncover what mess I got tangled in. Two, hunt Jack and the abomination. Three, find work to survive till then.
No Bellwether augmentation program means paying full for implants. Credits first. Job hunting tops the list.
"Need two things right now: a smartphone and a solid mercenary agency. Can improvise the rest... Work anywhere, earn cash, get a computation implant, optics upgrade... Then find those bastards. The abomination and Jack."
The Supervisor pulls a Bellwether-logoed smartphone from his vest's inner pocket, presses it to his ear, and calls Stephanet.
"Stephanet, re-register this under him. Backup internal intel to my head as a file. Toss in October 3rd mass terror incident data too. He wasn't there, but he's curious. Don't ask why I'm nice—Shepherd Six. You blew that guy's head off, yet casualties stayed at one that night. Now zero."
The biotech abomination killed me then bolted? Weird. No reason means navigating a company building where inside looks like outside is tough. Lights out, emergency only—no instincts to rely on. Like me, it couldn't smell rain inside; no way it knew which way was out.
"So it killed just me... well, didn't, and fled? I don't recall beef with the test subject."
"Seemed more the explosion. Gut to spine blown open. Regenerating, it looked around, screamed bloody murder, and bolted. Smashed through the Sunny Side Up Cafe ceiling in the research wing cluster—you know, the sky-view spot. Mobile teams scoured LA, nada."
I recall the internal map. From A-wing hallway to that cafe: three turns. Pure instinct to the roof window? Beast-level smarts. The abomination maybe... No. No intellect. Investigate outside.
Take the reset smartphone from Stephanet. Feels awkward—kids can't get cybernetics till growth stops, so last used as a child. Grab locker stuff, and survival prep's set.
Sigh, then remember one more. The guy who'd blame himself most hearing I died. Lucky I didn't, thanks to the Posthuman IV Augmented Body that failed to kill me.
"Oh, sir. What about... Shepherd Seven? Francis."
"Worrywart... Reinstated, then quit. Said he'd date, let terrorists in, you died—he couldn't handle it. Want his contact? Tell him you're alive, ease his load. Though seeing you won't help much... Being good gets you nowhere, kid."
"Only bad guys say that. Gimme the number. I'll call."
The Supervisor glares good-naturedly, unlocks the security passage, beckons me. Last locker stop.
Following, I note Francis's contact. Locker room: vacuum-sealed box with hand slots. Rip it open, check contents. Self-defense pistol, three spare mags. Plainclothes neatly packed. Strip Bellwether uniform, change.
Basics only—no flash. Gun-hidden in loose synth-leather jacket, tee, jeans: alley-normal.
Ready to leave the nest. Won't be the fledgling splattered headfirst.
That's my vow. Then the Supervisor chuckles beside me.
"Hey, Shepherd Six. Pulled your resume for job help... This right? Nah, can't see. Stephanet, print it."
A white drone flies in with a sheet. Reading it, I can't help laughing. Good there's still humor here. Records wiped clean.
Augment type: Posthuman IV Augmented Body. Serial: None. History: Records Deleted. Obvious fuck-you to branch head.
"Flash this at Pitts & Morrison, they think Bellwether spec-ops alum? Instant hire. Newbie day one, grilled for client intel. Damn... Shouldn't laugh, but hilarious."
Not resume fraud—LA branch did this.
Laugh clears the mood. Prep for this semi-honorable dishonorable end.
"Feeling better. It's done anyway... Need a crash spot, better head out. Thanks, sir. Stephanet too."
He sighs, looks at me like a daughter. Mixed expression fades; shakes head.
"You'll manage, kid. Diligent, responsible... Saw over eight Shepherd Sixes—you're tops. Thrive out there. No severance? Buy booze with this. Good synth-ale spot?"
He taps my phone; credits via Stephanet. Plenty for a night out.
"Good guys don't blow cash there. Might down one if you tell... No splurging. Farewell."
Salutes exchanged. He escorts to main gate. Stephanet drone farther.
Alone with her drone, she asks.
"Before farewell: question. Arthur Murphy, never general employee or Shepherd Six. Won't dodge, right?"
"Ask away. Never my support AI, never printed resumes or helped—Stephanet."
Short laugh output. Unlike her.
"Freedom's not great? You're free of all duties. No Posthuman IV return, no accountability, no blacklist watch. For my emotion module expansion."
Laugh in reply. Humor fading fast; cold reality claws throat—laugh to mask dread.
"No watch yet—gag order means eyes awhile. But forced freedom? Better submit by choice. Hard for AI?"
"No, brilliant. Want to delete 'heard from Arthur,' claim as mine. Farewell, Shepherd Six."
My Bellwether efficiency impressed even fickle Stephanet. Few get her goodbye.
I exit fully. Warmth from Bellwether vanishes with the building.
I had value inside, recognition. Thanks to Bellwether.
Last outside living? Faint memory. Dorms since security uni, high school, middle, probably elementary.
Walk Old Pasadena—grand buildings now museum pieces or photos. Caltech gleams afar from expansions. My direction glows too.
Behind: lamp light. Ahead: neon.
Cheapest sorted hotels—decent one in failed new district.
Always saw morning streets: smog-piercing towers. Lived employee housing—no rain smell. Fulfilled duty, no one cared about "me" in this libertarian hell—heaven's cherry atop.
Same city. Yet week-post-rain streets slick, filthy. Not rain.
Walk gun-concealed or eyes hit side-box. Decadent LEDs reek synth-bourbon. Half-price real thing, same comp, taste.
Everything here. Knowing vs. entering: different.
Hotel: grid of identi-rooms. No service, breakfast.
Phone pay, elevator. Gang-level bad? Half price.
One night here. Tomorrow: budget check.
Walk drained optimism.
Room streaming guide: graffiti. Toss.
Dial Francis. Need vent or his "not your fault" moral high? Latter. Painkiller for drones as good as employee-grade.
Rare in squalor.
Rings twice, connects. Late LA 2097: few sleepers.
"Francis, remember my voice? Arthur. Didn't die that day. Mess, barely treated, out now."
Under three hours. Still pre-discharge—talk okay. Monitoring starts post-record wipe.
He hangs. Redial. He's screaming at ringing phone: Disappear, ghost!
Stop when urge to torment hits—like he did this to me. Looks dumb after playing nice to Supervisor.
Real LA air twists heart post-exit. Painful.
Then incoming from him.
"Really Arthur? What'm I on?"
"Not manic, so no coke. Guilt then. Called to say no need, feel good-guy."
Honest enough. Nothing to lose.
Francis apologizes once—grave-talk.
"Quit Bellwether. Or forced. Two hours, records gone. Lucky solo snag. So..."
Tell while I can. He cuts: ease guilt.
"Quit? Job? I was Bellwether trash, you Supervisor's fave. Hey... Post-quit, merc agency for discharges pinged. Security vets? Join us. Turned 'em—leaked terror, quit. Want intro?"
"If it clears your conscience. Need work. Slept... Incubator month."
Hour-fifty left clinging to pre-discharge, but futile—regret only.
"Yeah. Call morning after contact. Wait! Night!"
Hang, flop on decent-cheap bed. Too soft—drown-feel, squirm, sleep.
While I sleep: 3:39 a.m. passes.
Bellwether last duty record ends. Vanishes fully.
Gag order: sole shallow remnant.