Cyber Dreams 2.23 - Resolution

Here's a juicy one for you :)

-Plum

“So,” Juliet said, holding the long, sleek rifle in her hands, running her eyes over its length, from the heavy, battery-filled stock to the tip of its barrel where the magnetic coils were visible as they emerged from the plasteel forestock, “This thing certainly felt different, but what makes it so? I mean, how is this different from my bolt-thrower?”

“Well,” the range master said, clearing his throat and rubbing his heavy, gray mustache between his thumb and forefinger, “I’m guessing your bolt thrower uses standard rail technology; the ‘bolt’ slides through the barrel, where magnets propel it forward. This gauss rifle is a bit more sophisticated; it fires needle rounds, and they never make contact with the metal of the barrel; the magnetic field is generated by the coil; it spins the needle as it launches it through the center of the barrel at nearly 7,000 feet per second.”

“That’s fast for a bullet?”

“Extremely. It’s why the gauss projectile does so much damage, even to distant targets.”

Juliet hefted the gun; it was heavy, probably pushing fifteen pounds, and she wondered how fatiguing that would be over the course of an extended firefight. Still, it wasn’t nearly as long as White’s rifle. “Hey, do you know Sergeant White? From Zeta Unit Charlie?”

“Yeah, of course.” The range master sighed and shook his head, “We don’t have any guns like his for you to check out.”

“What’s the difference? Why’s his so long?”

“It’s made from expensive, rare alloys, for one. The circuitry and batteries are all shielded, and it fires bursts of needles, not one. Everything about that gun is five generations of tech better than this Grave model.”

“Why doesn’t Grave make them like that?”

“Hah!” the grizzled veteran leaned forward, smiling over his counter as he fished around in his shirt pocket for a roll of mints. While he unwrapped the package, he continued speaking, shaking his head with a grin the whole while, “Grave wishes they could make guns like that; we’re talking billions of bits worth of infrastructure they don’t have; foundries, factories, machine shops, and the technicians—or AI—to run it all. That gun is from the height of the Takamoto-Cybergen war; most of the facilities that made that kind of weapon were reduced to rubble.”

“Well, this one was fun to shoot, anyway,” Juliet said, gently placing the weapon on his counter. “Thanks,” Juliet looked at his nametag, “Range Master West.”

“You’re welcome. You want to shoot anything else today?” He held out his roll of mints, offering Juliet one, and she took it with a smile, plopping it into her mouth.

“I think I’m done for now; I spent a lot more time with that gun than I’d intended.” It was true; she’d shot through six battery packs and two magazines of needles—more than four hundred rounds.

“Right, well, you’re all checked in, and I’ll give you a discount on the ammo you shot over your weekly allotment. Let’s see . . . twenty percent range maintenance discount sound good? You did sweep up for the knucklehead before you, after all.”

“Oh? Thanks! I did it selfishly, though—couldn’t concentrate in that mess.”

“Yeah, I know how you feel. Anyway, I’ll bill your corporate account.” He nodded over Juliet’s shoulder, and she realized a young man was patiently standing in line.

“Oops!” she said, quickly stepping aside. “Thanks again!” she called as she walked away, waving. She hurried out, and on the way to the elevators and up to her room, her earlier euphoria, her good mood, seemed to come crashing down, and she yawned several times loudly. Walking through the corridor to her apartment, she felt a pain between her eyes and realized she’d been scowling.

“What’s up with me?” she asked, not expecting an answer, but Angel surprised her.

“I’ve been monitoring your brain activity and hormone levels, well, as much as I can with my limited diagnostic hardware. I believe you experienced some mood-altering aftereffects from the tests with the mesh cap earlier. More precisely, I think the stimulation it administered to your brain, while mostly targeting the left hemisphere, specifically in areas of the parietal lobe, bled through to your hypothalamus. I believe, perhaps inadvertently, the test stimulated the release of some hormones into your system.”

“So . . .” Juliet said as she opened her door, then switched to subvocalizations, “I was acting like an idiot because they caused my brain to pump me full of hormones?”

“That’s my theory,” Angel replied.

Juliet sighed and tried to go about her regular late afternoon routines but could barely find the energy to get undressed and drink a protein shake; she’d planned to go out for a meal and make a secret call to Rachel, but she couldn’t bring herself to do it; she was crashing hard from whatever had happened to her during that exam, and she just wanted to crawl into her sheets and pass out.

At one point, while Juliet lethargically brushed her teeth, Angel put up two blinking icons on her AUI, indicating she had a message from Hot Mustard and two from Honey. “I’ll read them in the morning,” she subvocalized. Then, despite Angel urging her to eat something more, she crawled into bed, closed her eyes, and slipped into oblivion.

“Juliet,” Angel said, then more insistently, “Juliet, your watchdog received an update; you need to wake up. You have new orders.”

“Ungh,” Juliet grunted, flopping from her side onto her back and opening her eyes, irritated to find her apartment’s lights were set to the maximum brightness. “Kent, why’s it so bright in here?”

“I’m trying to help you wake, Ms. Roman—your appointment time on B20 has been moved up; you need to report by 0500.”

“God,” Juliet groaned, squinting to look at the digital time displayed on her AUI—0423. She sat up, stiff and sore, more so than she should be from yesterday’s workout, and selected the watchdog icon. A message appeared on her AUI:

Lydia Roman:

Your compatibility test was a success. Please report to B2055 at 0500.

Gray Vance

GARD Director of Special Projects

Grave Industries, Inc.

Juliet threw her sheets off and slid to the edge of her bed. She felt hungover but okay—just groggy, sore, and suffering from a bit of a dull headache. She rubbed at her eyes one more time, then forced herself to her feet, stumbling into the bathroom, where she stripped down and took a shower.

Ten minutes later, Juliet felt a lot better. She threw all her dirty clothes and linens in the wash and started pulling out a uniform when Kent’s voice interrupted her, “Lydia, I have additional instructions for you. You’re to wear comfortable attire suitable for resting.”

“What?”

“Yes, Director Vance added the instruction and asked me to make you aware.”

“Okay, thanks,” Juliet said, a sudden paranoid thought entering her mind: was Kent messing with her? Was she going to show up in tights and a t-shirt and be laughed at by everyone in the facility? “No, AIs don’t play practical jokes . . .”

“I think practical jokes seem like great fun,” Angel piped up.

“Are my hormones back to normal?” Juliet subvocalized, ignoring the attempt at humor, as she dug out some “comfortable attire suitable for resting.”

“You seem much back to your usual self, Juliet.” Angel’s voice was dry and almost judgemental, and Juliet frowned.

“Hey! You don’t know what it’s like—having hormones messing with your mind!”

“I . . .” Angel started, then quickly said, “I know I don’t; I’m sorry. I should show some grace with regard to your erratic moods recently.”

“Thank you,” Juliet said aloud, tugging on her tights and her polyblend athletic shirt. She pulled on some socks and cross trainers, then hurried to her kitchen, where a cup of hot “coffee” was waiting for her. “Fourteen minutes to go; thanks for waking me up,” Juliet said, and she smiled to herself, realizing Kent and Angel would both think she was talking to them. She grabbed a breakfast bar—cherry and hazelnut flavors of fat, carbs, and protein—and hurried out, walking swiftly to the elevators.

“Alright, Angel,” she subvocalized as she pressed the call button, “what do you think? It’s weird that the director of this research department has me coming in so early, don’t you think?”

“A similar thought did cross my mind, but I’ve been doing some theorizing.”

“Go on . . .”

“I believe a small percentage of the Grave employees are selected as candidates for this program. I think an even smaller percentage passes the compatibility test with the cerebrospinal fluid. I would contend their urgency is indicative of excitement or, perhaps, desperation—they may be severely lacking viable candidates; they may need to show some results as soon as possible to continue receiving funding or other support for their program.”

“Woah,” Juliet said, stepping into the elevator. “Lots of assumptions, there. What are the odds they’ll do something dangerous to me just because of how desperate they are?”

“The odds seem good. You should press for specifics before you submit to any procedures.”

“Agreed,” Juliet said, unwrapping her breakfast bar and chewing it down, glad it was moist and not one of the much dryer protein blends the tower’s dispensers carried. While she descended and ate her breakfast, she opened the message from Hot Mustard:

Hey - got your note. Don’t worry about a thing; I’m just glad to know you’re doing all right. Hit me up when it’s convenient.

-Old Mustard

“Old Mustard,” Juliet laughed, then she selected the icon for Honey’s first message just as the elevator dinged and the doors opened. She stepped out and lingered near the empty elevator lobby while she read it:

J -

I got a bizarre offer to take a job out of town, well off planet, even. Temo says one of his clients was impressed with my swordwork and my “composure,” whatever that means. He’s a rich guy, though. Really rich. He’s got property on Luna and wants me to come to spend the “summer” teaching his daughter some martial arts. This totally came out of the blue; Temo was more surprised than I am, but, well, I feel like I have to go for it. How many chances is a scrub like me going to get to do something like that? When you get a minute, can you give me your opinion?

Xoxo - Honey

“Holy shit . . .” Juliet said, pacing back and forth in front of the elevators while she read. She didn’t look at the time, too worked up by the note and wondering what else Honey had to say; she opened her second message, which had come through seven hours later at 0300:

J -

Me again. I’ve got a head’s up for you—Temo just messaged me; he says he was speaking to another fixer, trying to track down the right operator for a particular job. The fixer is based on the south side of Phoenix, and he mentioned that someone’s been asking around, looking for an operator named Juliet. He wanted to know if Temo knew any operators with that name; said there was a reward, and they could split it. Temo played dumb, of course, but he said I should give you the warning. Who’s looking for you, J?

Honey

“Fuck . . .” Juliet said, still pacing.

“I understand the alarming nature of these messages, but you have two minutes before you’re going to be late,” Angel said.

“Right,” Juliet hurried through the glass doors to the reception window, barely noticing the empty chairs in the waiting area. She stood before the glass and said, “Lydia Roman. I’m almost late.”

“Yes, dear.” The same woman who’d been there before, the one from the bathroom during the job fair, sat behind the window, a smile that gave Juliet the creeps pulling the corners of her mouth wide, angling toward the corners of her overly blushed cheeks. Her weird marble-like eyes betrayed no emotion. “Go on through, straight back to room . . .”

“B2055. Got it,” Juliet said, pushing the door open and striding down the silent, concrete hallway, past a few dozen closed, orange, metallic doors, until she reached her destination. She paused before it and subvocalized, “Angel, what am I going to do? Do you think WBD figured out I’m an operator?”

“I don’t know. There are a number of people that might be looking for you, though WBD does seem to be the most likely candidate. I’ll do as much snooping as I’m able through the sat-net, but we might be advised to employ some counter-intelligence . . .”

The door opened suddenly, and Juliet had to step back to avoid a collision with a man in a white lab coat as he walked out. “Oh! Excuse me! Are you Roman? Lydia Roman?” The man who’d opened the door was about Juliet’s height, with gray hair that faded toward white at his sideburns. His face was smooth, free of wrinkles, and a little too taut, in Juliet’s opinion—someone who could afford anti-aging treatments.

“Yes, that’s me.” Juliet smiled and stepped to the side, making room for him to continue walking, but he stopped and gestured toward the partially open door.

“I was actually coming to look for you; I was afraid Bernice had you sitting up there waiting for us.” He nodded toward the reception area down the hallway.

“Is that her name? The lady with the . . . dull, green eyes?” Juliet frowned, realizing that her description might sound a little rude.

“Oh, yes. She’s an odd one, that Bernice. She’s seen a lot, though—it would be a breach of confidentiality if I told you the percentage of her brain that’s artificial, so I won’t.” He winked at her and then gestured toward the door again. “Please come in! We’re excited to get started with you.”

Juliet’s mouth had fallen open at the mention of Bernice’s artificial brain, and she stepped into the room without further comment. Another white, concrete-walled room awaited her, though this one was larger, with a full-sized hospital bed. A sleek, portable surgical machine was parked next to the bed, sporting three robotic arms, much like you’d see on a full operating table.

An open door to her left revealed a small lavatory with a toilet and a sink, and the same woman from the day before, Violet, stood to the side, flipping through a tablet, clearly concentrating on something she was reading. Her brows were drawn down, and her lips were pressed in a thin line, and she jumped a little when the man said, “Violet! She’s here.”

“Oh,” Violet said, looking up from her screen with a smile. “I was lost in the data; Dr. Vance, I wish you’d let me upload this so I can view it through my AUI.”

“You know we can’t do that, Violet. Security protocols!” He gently gripped Juliet’s elbow and propelled her toward the bed. “Lydia, please hop up on the bed; we have a quick procedure to put you through. It’ll be over before you know it, but you’ll need to stay here for observation afterward. I’m glad the AI passed on the instructions to dress comfortably.”

“Um, Dr. Vance, is it?” Juliet asked, walking toward the bed, but stopping near the foot, resting one hand on the soft, pale-green blanket. “I’d like to know a little bit about what you’re doing before you, well, before you do it.”

Violet cleared her throat and shifted uncomfortably while Dr. Vance closed the door. He turned to look at Juliet, and though he smiled, she saw a look in his eyes that indicated he was not used to people questioning him. “Lydia, we’re going to give you an injection. That’s it. We’ve already tested you for compatibility, so you don’t have to worry about an adverse reaction. The truth is, your test results were spectacular.”

“Spectacular?”

“Yes! We have a scale for rejection from zero to total deliquescence, which is somewhere around fifty-nine; that’s the level where immediate brain death occurs. We learned the hard way to run a sample before injecting a candidate,” he chuckled as though he’d just conveyed a rather amusing anecdote.

“You don’t have to worry about that!” Violet chimed in.

“Yes, correct,” Vance said, shaking his head as his chuckle died away. “We’ve had some rather successful candidates with a rejection rating of less than fifteen. You scored a point-oh-seven.”

“Less than one?” Juliet clarified.

“Much less than one. Less than point one. You won’t suffer any damage.”

“Well, what’s the injection?”

“Some specialized nanites,” Vance spoke enthusiastically, moving closer to Juliet and reaching out to rest a hand on her shoulder. “Lydia, we’ve been waiting for a candidate like you; we have high hopes!”

“Uh, what kind of nanites?” Juliet backed away from his touch, sliding along the side of the bed.

“Bah, don’t worry, Lydia!” Vance said, his eyes narrowing. “We won’t tell you more at the moment. We can’t because it would invalidate the assessments we’ll need to do after the procedure is complete.”

“We wouldn’t do something that will harm you, Lydia,” Violet added, and she seemed sincere.

“Regardless,” Vance said, gesturing to the bed again. “You have your orders. Please recline on the bed, Roman.”

Juliet stared at Vance, then glanced at Violet. How far were these two willing to go? Would they try to force her? She was confident she could fight her way out of the room, but how would Grave respond? At the least, she’d lose her job, but they were a corporation—she doubted she’d make it to the elevators before they had a Zeta protocol unit grab her up and force this thing; Vance seemed far too eager to let her go. So, she could burn herself and cause a scene, becoming a forced guinea pig, or she could go along, trusting that there would be a way to undo whatever they had planned if she didn’t like it.

“Angel,” she subvocalized as she hopped onto the bed, legs still dangling over the side, “please try to monitor whatever they do—you’ll be able to sense the nanites, won’t you?”

“To a degree, yes, especially if they inject them into your cerebrospinal fluid. I have hundreds of thousands of synth-nerve nanofilaments in that area.”

“Hundreds of thousands?” Juliet almost spoke aloud; she was so startled by the number.

“Oh yes, remember, I expanded my connections after you inserted me.”

Juliet couldn’t deal with the revelation of the full extent of Angel’s invasion into her brain and nervous system just then. She closed her eyes, took a deep breath, and said, “Is this permanent?”

“No, no,” Vance said. “The nanites can be made inert with a second injection, allowing your body to filter them out naturally.”

“All right,” Juliet said, laying back.

“Lydia,” Violet said, coming closer. “Please put your hands on the armrests, here and here.”

“Okay,” Juliet said, and when she gripped the white plasteel arms on each side of the bed, something clicked, and broad, plasteel cuffs snapped up around her wrists. “What the fuck?” she hissed, jerking her hands, unable to move them more than a centimeter.

“It’s for your own protection, Lydia,” Violet said, smiling, her beautiful amber eyes creasing around the corners. “Trust me, please. While the nanites do their thing, you’re likely to hallucinate, and you may experience some pain—we don’t want you to hurt yourself.”

“Do their thing? Pain?”

“Yes,” Vance said, stepping closer and carefully pulling off Juliet’s left shoe. “Let me help you get more comfortable. You see, the nanites’ job is to create novel pathways between specific areas of your brain. As for the pain, we’ll give you some nerve blockers, but because the nanites will be working in your brain, I’m afraid most of our medications are quite ineffective.”

“I’d like to opt out of this procedure,” Juliet said, suddenly wishing she’d tried to fight free; maybe she’d have made it out of the building before they mustered a response. She knew it was bullshit, though—they only had to disable the elevators. “You didn’t say shit about the nanites altering my brain!”

“I know you’re frightened, but you don’t need to worry; I told you—your compatibility was the best we’ve seen. People with far worse numbers are functioning just fine. I’m afraid we can’t have you back out at this point—too much is riding on this program. Grave’s future is at stake—the company needs you to rise to this occasion.”

“I don’t give a fuck about . . .”

Violet touched something on the portable surgical machine, and it *whirred*, and, fast as a striking cobra, one of its chromed arms shot out with the precision only a machine could match, and it injected something into Juliet’s neck. She fell back, mid-speech, unable to control or feel her body.

“There we go,” Vance said, smiling as he took off her other shoe. “I know you’re still there, probably panicking, Lydia, but this is also for your own good. We need you to hold still during the procedure for your safety. Don’t worry; everything will work out wonderfully, and it will be over before you know it. This is going to feel very much like a strange dream in a day or two, and you’ll be able to get back into a normal routine.”

“Juliet!” Angel said into her auditory implants. “Juliet, I don’t like this! We should have fled when we got the director’s watchdog notice this morning.”

Juliet tried to reply, tried to subvocalize, but she couldn’t even flex the tiny muscles at the base of her tongue. She managed to make a slight moan escape her lips, though, and Violet reached forward to gently squeeze her arm, just above where the plasteel cuff held it to the bed.

“You’re okay, Lydia. I’ll be here the whole time. You’re going to do wonderfully.”

“Here we go,” Juliet heard Vance say as something hissed off to her left. It reminded her of the sound a can of beer makes when you open it, but longer and deeper. He walked into her field of view, and she saw he was carrying a glass tube, about a foot long and an inch wide, completely filled with a silvery, shifting fluid. Were they going to put all of that into her? She wanted to scream, wanted to thrash, wanted to pull her vibroblade—which she didn’t have—and slice their smiling faces off.

“Violet, make sure you follow the injection protocol from the delta group; it seemed to have the best uptake results.”

“Of course, Doctor,” Violet said, and then, after a few clicks, the surgical unit began to hum. One of its long arms moved, and a high-pitched motor began to whine, reminding Juliet far too much of the sound a drill makes as it ramped up to speed.

“Juliet! What can I do?” Angel wailed in her head, and Juliet couldn’t answer. Her fear had retreated, though, and only one thought filled her mind, one resolution—when this was over, if she was able, she was going to kill these assholes.