So yeah, I took last week off from my rigorous schedule of blogging once a week for my birthday.
I also have been spending a lot of time engaging with humanity in the wild and at work, as well as at school. I started my new semester taking my Noir fiction class. Finished up discussions on The Maltese Falcon and am on to The Big Sleep. I realized I made a fatal error in not rereading The Big Sleep, since it's been almost exactly a year since I read it, and the details are hazier than I expected. Hopefully no one notices me mostly commenting about the movie.
Aside from school work, and work work, I've been playing Fallout 4 in the wake of the Far Harbor DLC being released. I've been farting around bringing all my settlements up to snuff and rearranging my house furniture with all the new things added for settlement building. I spent all last night doing this:
 |
| From Drab |
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| To Fab |
I've of course been playing the DLC but I've been having issues with live broadcasting on twitch lately so I don't have anything to show for it. I've mostly been doing side quests and I haven't advanced the main plot for Far Harbor yet. I've been running around the island being chased by mutated angler fish. But I finally decked out my guns with top quality mods, and I'm getting into more of my Charisma perks, so needing guns will hopefully be a thing of the past. Pacifying a Deathclaw and sicking it on someone is fun.
I've also been on a huge Deftones listening kick. If you're a fan and haven't picked up their latest album, Gore, I would do so. I'd say quality-wise it falls in between Diamond Eyes and Koi No Yokan, and has just as many awesome old school metal sounding riffs (especially Doomed User) as shoegazing walls of sound (like Phantom Bride). I've been a fan of them since '98 after I stumbled upon Around the Fur, and they're a band that's grown in maturity alongside of me just growing. As much as I love the nostalgia drummed up by listening to Adrenaline-White Pony, I feel their last 3 albums since losing Chi have just gotten more focused and adventurous with their sound. Having been listening to their albums in chronological order, the teenage bombast of Adrenaline has its fingers all over the rest of their catalog, but the last 21 years have morphed their sound into something all together different. What started out on Fireal and Fist closing the album with powerful soaring guitars with weird sounds and effects has become their signature sound.
And in the last 2 weeks where you haven't heard from me, I also finished chapter 8 rewrites with chapter 9 almost complete (had I not been playing Fallout till 5 in the morning, I would have). So I'm gonna close out on the requisite dog picture and chapter posting. See you next week, gang.
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| Someone get this freakin' thing off me! |
C:\>08_Trapped_in_a_Closet
Decker spent the night poring over the
files he'd stolen from Gene Works. He moved between states of wonder, fear, and
anger. His bloodshot eyes finished an analysis of 3559 surviving files pulled
off the Ghost with several more to go.
Many of them were full dimension schematics of DNA chains that Decker would
need Trip to look over. The text, vids, and images Decker understood told of synthetic-organic
hybrid organism projects dreamed up by Gene Works R&D.
His eyes stung, bloated and drained at the
same time, from abuse. Several cups of MR coffee from the hallway vending
machine littered his pod. Caffeine burned in his veins and bladder, urging to
drain the liz.
He tossed aside the smart paper and powered
down the Ghost. Stacking up his cups,
Decker left to pod then stood in line for the communal toilet. The shower stalls
filled with whores coming in tired and sore from a night's hard work. The
servant caste pulled on coveralls and smoothed down wild hairs with a diligent
Sword of Damocles overhead, waiting for a bit of uniform out of place to
strike.
A changing of the guards in Clonetown,
ready to brave the Bridgeover for a day that could be their last at a whim.
Empty pods, filled with light, darkened as privacy shells choked off the sound
of tears. Decker pissed and washed his face.
Decker picked up the smartpaper to continue
his unauthorized research, finding it unresponsive. Shaking to get the kinetic
battery running again, to no avail, lead him to shake progressively harder. Never
experiencing something as simple as smartpaper glitching out on him, Decker
jacked in to find a solution. He felt stupid searching for a troubleshooting site
and coming up empty. He expanded his search and found zero help, and a skagton
of derisive forum comments. Completely over the human race, Decker took it to The Raw.
He knew in an instant everything was about seven
shades of fragged. Decker saw the Shocking Pink he encountered from Gene Works HQ
mingling with the Rebel Red and Ocean Blue of the Great Confederacy and
Roplaxive's respective digital cityscapes. Pink ink blots swirled about,
suspended in liquid filled structures.
"I wonder if I'll be held responsible
for any of this."
Inborn human curiosity outweighed cautious
prudence. Decker ported down to the reshaping streets of Ocean City's virtual
self. Chaos had spilled over from the net to the streets of OC. Street light
control panels flickered in and out of existence, disguised as tall pink trees
lining a black lane. Decker turned off his collision detection and swam through
waves of jacked in users, unhindered by their real estate. He returned to his
launcher and logged into the Roplaxive intranet.
"Oh for frag's sake," His account
information had been changed or no longer existed.
Decker opened his slicing GUI and went to
work. He rewrote himself into the system as a senior contractor and
auto-generated a paper trail for employment history. It would work long enough,
before the sniffers, some jackass—that shall remain nameless—insisted on adding,
detected all of it was fresh.
Decker scanned company memos from the last
twelve hours. Whatever happened had hit without warning. Email activity didn't
even explode until an hour ago, disseminating down and up the chain of command.
They met in the middle as a clusterfrag of confused messages where no one had
answers. Complaints about malfunctioning electronics and irregular scheduling
added digital noise to a pointless search through millions of people raging
about the same general issue.
Decker ran a background scan with filters
to find instances of his handle or name since the skag had hit the fan. Back in
The Raw, he sliced into Roplaxive's
Decision Maker's messaging systems.
Decker read with his jaw clenched and his
heart on fire. He was duped by the world of corporate espionage before he had a
chance to show he was awful at it. The DM's of The Roplaxive Group had spun a
yarn into a web. While chances were high that Pharrel and Gene Works had
similar gambits hidden within their emails, Decker was cognizant of the one
unfolding before him.
Decker sat there, feeling cheap, stupid
and, though he wouldn't admit it, fragging terrified. He sat in his rented pod
going over the big slice in his head. Wondering what in Oblivion even went
wrong. And furthermore, how a security VI could appropriate data into itself
without anyone noticing. A message alert popped in the upper right corner of
his vision. The search filter caught a message from Dick West with seven deadly
words: "Bring me the head of Decker Ames."
***
Trip's skin beaded with sweat despite the
environment controls comfortable preset. His internal temperature was a blast
furnace located where his brain used to be. Held hostage in his own living
room, armed guards and a crew of Roplaxive workers transformed the corporate
housing unit into a laboratory.
"So I'm going to be working from home
from now on, I take it?" Trip tried to sound as tough as possible.
Nausea flowed in waves that he knew would
subside if he could throw up. The thought of puking on the floor seemed out of
the question for some reason even though skipping out on work with a hangover
seemed to work for promotions.
"Don't be fatuous, Mr. Dawson. We need
you in top form." The Toad croaked. A designer vinyl bag hugged her
bloated frame thanks to a Peruvian braided bungee cord hooked under the 'U'
that made up her cleavage line. "This project is of utmost importance; one
we feel you'll fit right into." She broke off from the group and began
directing the clone help's assembling process.
The Blonde—in a white trimmed, flamingo pink
pillbox cap with matching pant suit—picked up where the Toad left off.
"Roplaxive has a desire to grow a new breed of humanoid. One that will
finally close the gap on programmable sentient life, begun with clone
technology. We're building the better servant." The Blonde shot a sideways
glance at the labor caste clones powering up a series of Matter Recombinators.
"The marriage of man and machine at
birth has been a pipe dream of many over the years. Some are closer to reality
than dream, but regardless, a cyborg is just a human with wiring strung about
their body." The Blonde stalked around the couch where Trip sat. He
wondered if she wasn't wearing anything beneath her pantsuit again.
"Have you ever contemplated just how
miraculous it is that humankind has discovered a way to write a silicon chip
into our genome?" The Bird said to Trip's general location. He twisted his
head around the apartment, thin brown lips pursed into a knife slit. "All
it takes is the right markers in a genome template and a fully functioning
piece of technology springs forth from living tissue," He bossed around a
pair of clones to make the lab layout flow with the room.
"Okay," Trip choked back more
bile, "but where does my apartment come into this?"
"I'm getting to that. You ruined my
dramatic pause," The Bird's face sneered at Trip, "Your talents were
going to waste in Pharmacology. Your skill set is exactly what we need
for–"
"–the future of our world." The
Blonde's manicured nails rested on Trip's tense shoulders, "Mr. Dawson,
the company recruited you from Pharmacology School because your work was,
inspiring.” She drummed her fingers on his head, “It has a certain, creative
charm, most people lack. Focused for industrious use, you could do amazing
things. We want that type of mentality working for us." Her rosy cheeks were almost pressed to his sallow
ones, "We want you to make, Biodroids."
"Biodroids?" Trip said.
"Biodroids," The Bird crossed the
living room and sat next to him, "fully obedient synthetic-organic
hybrids. An unwavering work force, programmable and fast growing."
"A new stage in human evolution,
guided by the hands of loving grace at Roplaxive. We want to eliminate the
weaknesses of clone labor and start anew." The Blonde said.
"Why? What's the point?" Trip's
head exploding with pain.
"Clones are awfully rebellious, in
case you haven't noticed. Even if we load their little brain chips up with
servitude, they're still human clones. Pain can only go so far as a deterrent
for unwanted behavior." The Blonde stopped breathing into Trips ear to
stare out the window, "Cheap cloning technology has hit a wall concerning
how useful it can be. Biodroids will be the ultimate servant in ways a little
shock could never achieve."
"It's a pretty stupid name," Trip
said.
The Toad turned from ushering the
eavesdropping clone laborers back to their work, "It's not set in
stone."
The Bird continued, "We're going to be
sending over a team that will be using this unit as their headquarters."
"Your work will be top secret, which
reminds me," The Blonde produced a firearm from her handbag, and blew
holes in every clone in the room. Red dripped from her smiling face as she turned
back to the conversation, "We're quite glad your little friend isn't
here."
The Toad's face curled into a wicked grin,
"We do know where he is, though. Our first batch of Biodroids are on their
way to retrieve him. I’m certain this team’s efforts will work out their kinks,
but Mr. Ames shouldn't pose a challenge."
Concern overtook Trip's face, "What
about, Mecha-Clones?"
"Yeah, that's not going to work,"
The Bird looked as if a lemon wedge had been up his cakehole.
"We look forward to having you as a
part of the team." The Blonde, still smiling, put the gun away, gathered
her associates at the doorway. Serious faces in lab coats filed into the room
and behind work stations. A small production unit followed. They set up around
the cleaning bots as they hauled off clone corpses.
The trio exited as guards took their
stations at the door. The Toad turned, hands on her hips, and said "Now,
get to work."
***
A dull thudding came from the pod door.
"Hey, guvvy, get your ass out
here." Three muffled bangs, "There's spooks lookin' for you, Guvvy."
The hatch hissed open with a surly innkeeper filling the entrance, "I told
you I didn't want no trouble wit' you." They grabbed Decker's bag and
threw it at his head. Decker grasped at his bag as he was yanked from the pod
by his legs. He balled up against the impact of the stained carpet. The clone's
gut spilled over pants made from a sack tied off with an extension cord.
Blocking the rest of him from Decker's view was worn duct tape clinging to the
side of a pistol.
"Get up, on your feet. Take your
business outside and I never wanna see you. Never, again, you hear me?"
The clone helped Decker up then shuffled
away muttering under his breath, scratching his neck with the gun barrel.
Decker took stock of his surroundings and strolled to the emergency exit. He
was correct that no alarm would sound, but opening the door revealed a cluster
of heavily armed-weird-fleshy-robot-atrocities. In unison they drew beads on
Decker's forehead.
Decker slammed the door shut, ducked and
ran for the front. A hail of bullets eviscerated the top three-fourths of the door.
He found cover, fished his clonenet phone from the bag and sent a text out to
anyone in Clonetown that cared. He hit send and a magnetic firing chamber
primed above his ear.
“Detectives Wu and Hollis, OC clone crime
division.”
Decker put his hands up as slow and steady
as he could. It didn't stop him from being pistol whipped and dragged away with
a cop on each arm.
The cops heaved Decker's body into the back
of a van and followed, keeping a gun on him at all times. Decker pushed himself
as far away as possible from the people he expected wanted his head.
“What, RoPhar has OCPD in its pocket for
personal hits?”
No one spoke.
Hollis, with the cheaper suit and fresh
from the academy smirk, pulled a palmtop from their pocket and placed it on the
corrugated floor. Wu slotted a wireless receiver and loaded a live feed.
A hologram of Decker and Trip’s apartment
shared sprang up in the empty space. Trip was tied to a chair with large
bruises and fresh blood coating his face.
"Decker, they've got me working on
perfecting those… things, those Biodroids, they've sent after you." His
voice carried an, 'I am reading cue cards,' tone.
"Oh, for frag's sake," Decker
said.
Wu, under a dated blue-black pageboy cut,
put a finger to their lips. "Sssh,
watch."
"Roplaxive has me, they've brought in,
my mother? What?"
Decker groaned, "You expect me to
believe this slag? Do I look devolved?"
"Quiet, you're missing it," Hollis
said.
"Who directed this? Clone George
Lucas?"
Neither cheap suit gave a response.
"And the writing, oh frag, the
writing. This is about half a step above, 'Help me Deckie Wan Kenobi.' Does
Roplaxive even have a… hey, who's getting in the driver's seat?"
The clone crime cops readied their weapons on
the new additions up front. From behind, the van doors flung open. Brawl17 and
two vicious looking ladies held the rear exit.
Fixer started up the van with a Lo-Jacker,
Breaker fastened his safety belt. Cheap suits gained expensive holes with a
blast from a hand cannon and a thrust of a broadsword. Brawl17 gave Hollis and
Wu the old heave and toss.
Someone spoke outside the van. "You do
not possess the proper clearance to operate that Roplaxive Pharmaceuticals corporate
transport. Please disarm yourselves and exit peacefully from the vehicle. This will
be the only warning before deadly force is authorized." Its voice sounded
like standing behind someone speaking into a megaphone. The sound of multiple
weapons being readied followed.
"You guys think this van has armor coating?"
Breaker asked over his shoulder from shotgun.
Decker banged on the floor. A flat ding of
cheap plastic-aluminum conglomerate put holes in bulletproof hopes, "Thanks
for showing, guys. But, if someone's got a bright idea, now would be the time
to share." He took a look around the cabin and his rescue party,
"Brawl?"
Brawl17 shook his head, "I'm the
muscle."
Decker turned to view the front seats,
"Twins, thoughts?"
"Bulletproof driving away is
out." Breaker rifled through the glovebox.
"You have exceeded the period of
compliance. Deadly force will be used in 5…"
"This van is a pretty huge piece of
crap. And now it's covered in blood," Fixer was no help.
"4…"
"New girl? Oldie? Anything to add?"
Decker was running out of—
"—3…"
"Don't call me old, you limprick.” The
gray haired clone gave Decker a look that could stop an earthquake, “And she
doesn't talk."
"2…"
"Okay, okay, I'm sorry–"
Everyone's clone phone buzzed.
'Why don't we head out before they shoot? Brawl17/
Worthington
follow my lead. Find cover. Scatter.'
-M
One by one they exited. Each person held
their arms up in a plea for sympathy through compliance. Outside, seven Biodroids
waited for them, each one with a weapon raised in firing position. A singular
droid walked forward, weapon holstered and palm out.
"Objective: Decker Ames, come with us.
You are to accompany these units to Roplaxive HQ where you will be processed. Renegade
clones to be recycled."
"Hey now, I'm not a renegade,” Breaker
said. “It's my day off."
"Now that you think of it, me
too," Brawl17 said.
"Renegade clones will be recycled for
organic matter." The units said as one.
Decker stepped forward before anything
started reaching for a trigger, "You dudes are all sorts of fun, aren't
you? Let's go, leave them."
"Impossible, clones potential members
of unnnnnnderrrrrrground rrrrrrreb-b-b-b-ble grouuuuuuup." The droid said
in a buffering stutter.
"I think your vocal modulator is
fragged up there, Ace." Fixer chimed in.
Vibrating phones went off in everyone's
pocket. -M sent a message to the group. Everyone ignored their phones to scatter
in separate directions. Biodroids scrambled for a target to attack as -M dashed
from hiding, an antique claymore in her hands. She split three biomechanical
trainwrecks in two with one slash.
Four remaining guns honed on her last
location, finding nothing. Worthington's hand cannon blew off a freak's gun
arm, mid-humerus. Brawl17 charged in, tackling the armless Biodroid. Three
laser sights whipped around and fired.
A trail of bullet holes sparked and sprayed
blood down the back of the lead droid as Brawl17 flung the frame at the
remaining three. It bowled them over into a pile of meat and metal. Their heads
twitched in a frenzy, each one smoking with a smoldering oil smell. After a
series of beeps, each Biodroid exploded in a mess of guts and fire.
~~~
C:\>09_Rated_PG
"Okay people, strike the set and load
out." The director called from his seat.
A production assistant pushed Trip out of
the chair he was tied to for the better part of the afternoon. Free at last,
Trip bolted for his bedroom. A guard blocked his path.
"Sir, I really need to use my
bathroom," Trip needed it in every way.
"Get to work."
"I am too scared to fart at the moment
to show you how I'm not joking about this. Can't you smell me? Don't I reek of
liquor and body odor and faint wafts of urine?” Trip looked towards his
privvys. “I may have let a little slip here and there." Trip danced an
awkward shuffle.
"Oh, get out of my face." The
guard stepped aside.
"I'm not sure what the world is coming
to where people aren't allowed to use the bathroom in their own
apartments." Trip pressed into his room.
"This apartment unit is owned by
Roplaxive, and no funny stuff in there, Hollywood." The Guard smirked,
pleased with himself.
Under the guise of looking for clothes in
one of his old containers, Trip scanned a galaxy of scattered bottle labels in
his chemlab.
"You're not dressing for mass,"
The Guard said over his shoulder.
Flustered, Trip grabbed the first clothes that
fit and passed the freshness test. He locked himself inside the bathroom,
assured of a lack of cameras, stripped to nothing, and went straight for the
toilet.
Trip leaned up against the tiled wall and
slid to the Roplaxive brand slip-resistant tile™. His flammable stomach
contents circled the floor drain. He sat under the self-aligning faucet,
aligning his thoughts about how he was going to get out of this mess.
Toweling out excess moisture from his hair,
Trip emerged from his room. Greeting him was a door guard holding his mother by
the arm. She shrugged off the guard, put her hands on her boney hips and set
her feet.
"Trevor. Daniel. Dawson. You go gallivanting
off to Ocean City, pretending to be a big shot, and this is what happens? You
know they grabbed me during spin class? Do you know how embarrassing that is? I
can only imagine what they're saying about me right now. I'll probably have to
go to some SGV gym after all of this," her face twisted like she ate a caramel
covered onion. "I could have died of shame, Trevor. Died. Of. Shame."
"Hi mom, were you at the gym?"
"Don't play stupid with me, I hate
when you play stupid. Does this place have a bar? Whip mommy up a Xodine, will
you, Trevor dearest?" Trip's mom wandered into the kitchen, blasting smoke
from a fresh slim out of her nostrils.
Trip sighed the whole contents of his
lungs, "House, diet tonic water with white wine and gin on the
rocks." The servebot zoomed over her order.
"At least something works around
here," Trip's mom said from behind a cloud of evaporating smoke. The house
announced the activation of enhanced air filtration systems.
Trip chose an unclaimed workstation where
The HV used to display. The house VI still responded to him and he was out of the
guard’s line of sight, so something was in his favor. Trip's mind dwelt on
mundane logistics. Whether or not these new cubicle people and his domineering
mother were going to be staying at this unit was at the top of those concerns.
Ignoring answerless questions, Trip
pretended to work. He played worker bee almost as serious as his new cubicle
buddies, buzzing around his, 'used to be cool' apartminium. A singular email
sat in his private inbox. Inside was a URL link titled: [Immersion Archive].
Trip choked a groan at the lists of files
he'd have to sort through. His desktop exploded into galactic clusters of light
relating to each discipline's contributions to the Biodroid project. He dialed
up a hangover prescription, mood enhancers, and protein/lipid composite snacks
with a glass of whole milk. Trip settled in for a productive day even if it
killed him.
***
Sirens wailed through Clonetown. Van tires
screeched across the fresh wet streets. Inside, a five-way argument exacerbated.
"I am
turning left!"
"You're going to flip us!"
“About
fraggin’ time you shook them…”
"Will you all shut up and listen to me for a change?"
"Like you've got a bright idea?"
All of you should shut up. -M
"Okay! Everyone! Relax!"
Adrenaline ebbed from Decker's overtaxed systems, "Does anyone actually
have a plan that is well thought out and going to fix anything? Anyone,
anyone?"
Worthington straightened up and glared hard
into Decker's face, "what's wrong with my idea?"
"There's no purpose in simply cutting
and running from OC," Decker said.
"There's plenty of purpose in getting
the frag outta town. After killing peace officers and stealing Roplaxive property,
all of us can kiss our lives goodbye." Worthington's voice choked itself
off. Regaining herself, "Even you, ya guvvy skag. Getting as far from this
city as possible is priority number one in my book. I’m certain Manner would
agree with me. I wouldn’t expect a fraggin’ guvvy to understand."
"Hey, frag you! Decker's just as much
a part of us as you are," Fixer shouted from the driver's seat.
Shouting at each
other is getting us nowhere. Worthi is right, we
need
to get the hell out of here. But first we need a where. -M
Brawl17
looked up from fiddling with the antenna nub on his clonenet phone, "Let's
get Sweeps."
"Yeah, Sweeps, that's a great
idea." Breaker’s face changed shades of green from Fixer's driving.
"Wouldn't he be at work?" Decker
said.
Sending him a message to be ready for us. Brawl17
knows the way. -M
Decker settled against the van wall,
"Good, I've got words for him."
Brawl17 gave Decker a puzzled look, "What's
that supposed to mean?"
"New skag's come to light. I need answers."
"That's delightfully vague,"
Brawl17 scoffed, "I suppose we'll all find out together what your big
secret is."
"I just want to look him in those
mismatched eyes before I start spitting rumors," Decker fiddled with his
bag strap.
"Hey guys,” Fixer said, “loving the
new plan and all, but I don't know where the frag I'm going."
Brawl17 moved to kneel in between the front
seats, "Keep your skin on. Go straight."
Decker pulled his knees to his chest,
closed his eyes and pretended to sleep for the rest of the silent ride.
Potholes studded the back entrance of Replicated Results Domestic Services. Sweeps
smoked a cigarette next to an open garage door. He leaned a stack of crates and
poked his head through the driver side window.
"Get this off the streets." Sweeps
flicked his half-finished smoke into a rain filled pothole then followed into
the carhole.
He closed the garage door as the team
unloaded, "Okay, what the sacred skag is going on here? IT and Maintenance
have been swamped all day. Calls keep coming in and Decker's name has spread
more than a CoFS outbreak." Sweeps unscrewed his ugly mug, bleeding tension
as if on command. "All the serving caste to RoPhar’s bigwigs are hearing
their guvvy's blab about you. Saying you're to blame for whatever's screwing up
the system."
Decker's face met his palm, "Hot
damnit. I knew I should have just stayed at home and gotten evicted." He
paced in a circle, repeating random strings of profanity.
"Care to fill us in on what's
happening, Mr. Decker?" Worthington relaxed her body language for the
first time since they'd been introduced. "Like, why the twins and the big
guy grabbed us out of our home."
"Backstory would be tedious, don't ya
think?" Decker's charismatic smile melted under the glare of six stoic
faces.
Fixer said, "Does this have anything
to do with that package you were getting the other day?"
"Well,” Decker began, “it mostly
starts there."
"I'm sort of used to the kill or be
killed position, but I rescued you because you stuck around after you got paid
for helping us." Brawl17 generated little earthquakes through a soda
machine’s contents by slapping it. A can rolled out. He popped the generic
uncola open and sipped, eyes locked on Decker’s. His stare forced Decker back a
step. "Favor's paid up in my book, start talking." Brawl17's face
turned sour, "Ugh, they call this lemon-lime?"
Decker sighed, "It's really not as bad
as you think it is. It's a simple series of minor escalations that turned into
me kinda, maybe, screwing up the entire neuronet."
"How'd you manage that one, oh great
slicer?" Sweeps said.
"I underestimated the world leader in computer
technology’s security VI." Decker gazed at his shoes, "Replicating
security VI that is. At least that's what I'm guessing it is. I've never really
sliced into anything like that before. You think you're stealthy in The Raw, then you get tasked to break
into Gene Works Inc.'s R&D department. One would call it humbling."
Sweeps
swore to himself.
How did that turn
into: 'Anyone who cares, get to the body
locker.
Bullets flying - Decker'? -M
Decker looked up from Manner's text, "That
was completely unexpected. I'd just found out how dead RoPhar wanted me, the
desk jockey yanked me outta my pod, yelling about pocs looking for me."
"How'd they know where to find
you?" Breaker looked up from a game on his phone.
Decker said, "That’s what I’m trying
to find out. Have any suggestions, Sweeps?"
"What the frag is that supposed to
mean?" Sweeps reached a hand in the pocket where his smokes were then
jerked it free, running it through his hair. "I'm the one who organized
your rescue, bud. I wrangled the troops to save some guvvy that no one would
have bothered with."
"I would have," The Twins said.
"I wouldn't," Worthington said
while cleaning her gun.
"He's right Decks. Sweeps fired off
the texts to the rescue party." Brawl17 crushed his can and sunk a bank
shot into the recycler.
"I did some digging in Roplaxive's
mainframe after going over a chunk of Gene Works files." He snagged the Ghost and projected a vid, "Found
this interesting. Head to head between RoPhar’s Decision Makers." Three faces
hovered in a fan of light from his palm.
"Have you seen the newsfeeds?"
"The demonstrations in the
Coalition?"
"Setting themselves on fire. What a
waste of matter.”
“Are we planning on tossing them
matches?"
"What an excellent idea, Mr.
Jones."
"Thank you, Mr. West. Pity the price
for a compliment paid by you is to be accomplice in a grand scheme. One that
works well in the meantime but lacks staying power."
"Tsk, tsk, Jones. Scheme is such a
harsh word. But you’re right, I do have a plan. Gentlemen, the future of our
company, and our country hangs in the balance."
"Here it comes, your grand ideas of
pushing the company forward."
"You two are far too cautious. With
caution, we would have never–"
"–would have never had a situation
like this in the first place."
"What do you intend then, Mr. Richardson?"
"You know me, just have to get the
word out about things."
"Someday it might get you out of words."
"Heathie, lighten up. Take a Fucitol™.
Listen, if the clones are getting restless, what better way to smooth this over
than by starting our own clone revolution? One that we control."
"I’m listening."
"Well, we really do enjoy killing the
copypaste bastards, don't we? And what is this, the fifth year of the matter
shortage?”
“Feels like there’s always been a shortage.”
“Right you are. Wouldn’t a culling be a superb
way to reclaim some organic material?"
"Tossing them some matches."
"We need to build this properly if
it's going to work."
"And when it works, we’ll have all the pieces we need for mass production
of the Biodroid initiative."
The faces disappeared in a flicker. The
clones own faces shifted through an array of emotions. Looks sharp with
mistrust fell on everyone in the room.
Decker pocketed his comp, "I didn't come
across more evidence than this. There were a bunch of other conversations with their
plant in the rebellion I haven’t sliced into yet. All encrypted the long way. It'll
take some time to get into."
"Until then, all we know is we've got
a rat somewhere." Brawl17 said.
"Yeah, I guess it looks that way,"
Decker shrugged.
"Then, this is stupid and pointless,"
Brawl17 laughed. "Every rebellion has its heroes and its heels. It'll get
sussed out when it's meant to be."
"So you're saying forget this and move
on?" Worthington locked her hand cannon’s magnetic slide into place,
pleased with her work.
"Are we doing anything but wasting
time playing the blame game? What's the real plan? The plan we should be
following to keep our co-opted revolution flowing in our favor. We need one of
those."
"I think now would be a good time to follow
Worthington's GTFO plan." Fixer said.
"You're right. You're all right,"
Decker broke the tenseion with a soft tone. "And I know just the place.
We're going on a road trip."
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