I signed it.
Not that there was much of a choice. I got a bit extra from the settlement, not much, but a basic apartment prepaid for a month to get me on my feet. Most people would call it shitty, but for a soldier fresh out of the army?
I didn’t give two fucks. All I needed was a rack to recover in.
The major couldn’t be seen giving me anything—there’d be a trail for most things—but he said he’d make sure my suit was fixed up, ready for when I was recovered enough to use it.
He couldn’t do anything about my mods, though, and I was coldly furious as I laid back, closing my eyes and swallowing hard, before I nodded my agreement to the shit that was being demonstrated on the screen.
The damaged kit they needed to take out to put these in was better quality, even trashed, than what was going in, not to mention more functional than the new gear. Literally.
Mods came in five tiers: trash, basic, professional, elite, and artisan. Professional was what it said on the tin, mil-spec and the standard for operators of high-tech gear like the APS.
For me to get back to the level that I could integrate with my APS, I’d need replacement-specific mods that were pro level, or tier three. They weren’t officially supposed to be publicly available, not the gear that would interface with my suit certainly, but there were a hell of a lot of different sets of equipment that ran on spinal taps. Drone swarms, helo pilots, high-level racers, and basically anyone who operated a mech of any caliber needed them, after all.
There was a work-around though, as APS mercs were insanely popular with the corpo types.
That meant that with a little specialist calibration, and a replacement tier-three spinal mod, I’d be back in the game.
The gear they were fitting me with right now? It was trash, basically, or most of it was. The mil-spec specialist mods I had—the command and control gear, special linkages into the command net—all had to be removed. That was standard on leaving the forces. What was normal, though, was that we’d get the equivalent civilian kit installed at cost. After all, we’d had our bodies altered to fit them in, and they couldn’t really rip half our brains and spines out and just leave us on the doorstep.
Thanks to the fact I was so broken, and they wanted me out of the door? I was getting full-range cybernetic replacements. Rather than wait for a clone replacement and then the days to weeks of therapy needed with that, I was being rebuilt right now.
It was literally fully cybernetic from the shoulder down to and including the hand, which sure as shit wasn’t cheap but the entire thing was a goddamn tier-one mod. Not a three, like the rest of my gear had been, and the shit it was replacing. No, it was a fucking one.
The only reason I’d accepted it—beyond a lack of any realistic options—was the ease of replacement for the future. As this was being done by army augmenters, the connective systems, where the mod joined my body, were being done professionally, meaning that when I could afford it, I’d have a much easier time installing replacement third-tier equipment.
All cybernetics and mods required nanites to function. Most worked on a day-to-day basis through chemical interactions as I understood it—an ex-girlfriend had tried to explain it all once and I’d not cared, seeing only the glory of the chrome.
What they needed, though, were nanites, and they had to be pure grade.
Nanites formed the interface between the body and the mod, tying one into the other flawlessly, and providing the systems that allowed the arm to convert the chemical and potential energy into electrical to move.
They enabled the actual “feeling” of the mod as our own limb, letting metal fingers pick up a tomato without crushing it, or vibrate at just the right frequency to “get the job done” with a partner.
The more nanites you needed? The more expensive the mod, and the more powerful. A good interface, like I had, meant that the tier-one arm could be replaced easily and cheaply, like the spinal replacement could. The basic organelles that were being prepped to replace my fucked-up liver, spleen, and half of my goddamn guts were something I was feeling a bit more accepting about, but every time I saw that arm…
I had a civilian-grade, tier-one brain mod as well. My mil-spec grade-three allowed for faster target acquisition and detection, and allowed me to tie into the military subnet. The standard mod?
I’d be able to access the entertainment packages that all civilians got access to at school age, from the standard Keystone mod everyone got, and with the specialist brain mod, I’d have access to basic identification and recognition software, as well as a housing for my RI.
The only reason I was being left that was that otherwise I’d have a literal hole in my head, so, yeah. They gave me the entry-level brain upgrade.
Mods came with a slot, as standard. Tier-one mods like mine had a single slot, and although all of my others were left empty, and they’d stay that way—no sense on wasting money on something I’d be replacing sharpish—at least my brain had my RI plugged into it.
Richie was going to be disabling sections of his and Sync’s…hell, he would have done them by now, and the pair of them should be deep in cryosleep.
The organelles that were being brought in to replace my damaged organs—the corpos and their army cred-counting counterparts had halted any replacement or healing of my injuries beyond enough that I was kept alive, until they got my signature; they’d wanted confirmation of cost, so I’d been in pain and delirious on drugs since I’d been recovered—were something most of us wouldn’t invest in. It wasn’t because they weren’t good; they could make a massive difference. After all, the human body was pretty old in design terms.
We’d evolved past needing things like the fuckin’ appendix, and replacing half of our organs with synthetic, higher-grade versions took up less space and made us more efficient at the same time.
Food was processed better; we could last longer between meals and drinks and so on. It meant that, overall, I was more limited than I had been.
There wasn’t much of a choice, though, considering the damage that had been done.
The mortal body, and the mind especially, could only handle so many individual mods. After a certain point—which was different for each person—we tended to break down, becoming mad, dead, or specters.
So, even though I knew the organelles were necessary, even though I knew that I goddamn needed them, and that I’d actually be physically more efficient, more resistant to poisons and all that shit…I wasn’t happy about it.
It limited the work I could have done later, and adding in the full left arm, the brain, the cyberspace access in the back of my skull…I just wasn’t sure how many I could handle further down the line. Lose a leg? I might be fucked.
Right now, though, it was time.
I nodded to the surgeon, as he settled the mask over my face. The various bits of kit in the room that were to be put in were wheeled in, and I fixed the arm with a glare.
Time to get this over with.
The surgeon set the arm up on my left side. Other medical staff came in and looked over the details. Tubes of active pure nanites arrived and were trayed up, ready for injection.
That fucking arm.
I couldn’t help but stare at it, literally the most basic of all the models I’d ever seen: a single post from the shoulder to elbow, a multi-way orb joint, then a single post to the hand, that—thank fuck—actually looked like a hand, not a hook or a claw.
It was also bright polished silver.
I was going to look like a pure chrome believer, one of those nutters who bought the very cheapest and first mods they could afford, going down to the road to “integration with the machine” as their pamphlets and crap declared was holy.
I wasn’t gonna be able to sneak up on shit. I wasn’t…
“Okay, Sergeant Kabutt, I’d like you to count backward from ten for me, please.”
“Ten. Nine. Eight. Seven…Six……F…ive……”
The world slid sideways as I fought to keep my eyelids open. The surgeon moving in close and examining me, the gentle hum of the staff’s conversations dopplered away as I sank into the world of dreams.
Hours passed, presumably, but eventually the sound of conversation woke me again, as I blinked blearily.
Light.
A bright light moved around me, and I turned my head slowly to focus on it. I winced. The pain of still healing injuries made me jerk, which caused me even more pain.
What the hell was…I froze as it all crashed back on me, as for the first time in ages, I could think without the goddamn drugs fogging my brain.
I jerked my left arm up and over. A clatter echoed as the table brace that had been holding it in place fell over.
Steel.
I stared at the shittiest arm I’d ever seen in my fucking life, and it was attached to me.
Lips drew back from my teeth in a furious snarl before I even knew what I was doing. I ran through a basic checklist with my RI, something I’d done so many times that it was instinctual now, but the resultant screen? Fuck.
Identification: Harry Kabutt
Species: Human
Bonus: None
Mod Capacity: 19
Mod Capacity in use: 6
Stat
Current Points
Description
Mods
Quality
Dexterity
11
Governs agility and movement
Left Arm Mod: (DEX 6)
Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on the original website.
Trash
Mental Power
10
Governs swiftness and fortitude of the mind
Brain Mod: 1
Cost: 1
Trash
Perception
11
Governs an individual’s senses and connection to the world around them
Brain Mod: 1
Cost: 1 (PER 5)
Trash
Strength
10
Governs physical strength and damage dealt
Left Arm Mod: 1
Cost: 1 (STR 11)
Trash
Toughness
9
Governs the body and internal fortitude
Basic Organelles: 3
Cost: 3
Basic
My RI was basic. Hell, it was dependent on the system it was jacked into, so right now it was literally dumb as fuck. But seriously? Mods usually granted a bonus to the user, or an ability, such as tracking, remote reference and appraisal, integrated weapons and more. Mine?
I pulled up the specs and snarled.
Cranial Capacity Upgrade
Tier: One
The Wilmat Corporation 300 model cranial upgrade comes complete with RI storage and integration capacity (RI and storage chip not included) as well as unbelievable tracking and pattern recognition as standard! (For warranty details, please submit form 376[t] through correct channels. No responsibility will be accepted by Wilmat for issues arising from this or any modification unless the original user submits them personally.)
Perception: 5
Durability: 91/100
Cost: 2
The brain mod was terrible and Wilmat was a byword for low-level mods. Hell, it was brand-new and implanted by a military surgeon, and the durability was already ninety-one out of a hundred? That wasn’t good, probably some shitty quality control on the relays or something, but that was hardly a surprise.
They wouldn’t accept any responsibility for issues? What a surprise there as well. That the original user had to apply personally, not a third party? Not their lawyer—if they could afford one—but them personally? Motherfuckers.
Everyone knew a brain mod that went bad meant you were fast-tracking yourself to life as a specter, so they might just as well have included a picture of them pointing and fucking laughing.
That it had a perception level of five? Fucking FIVE? I’d have to focus on someone’s face for several seconds before my RI could bring up the name. Hell, I’d have to go back to actually learning fucking names the old-fashioned way, and that was a ballache.
I pulled up the arm specs and continued to swear.
Left Arm
Tier: One
This entry-level Cybernex left arm is a fantastic model at an unbelievable price. Sturdy, reliable, and solid, the Cybernex 2701 comes with a limited two-year warranty. (Please register your arm to gain access to warranty upgrade offers.)
Dexterity: 6
Strength: 11
Durability: 88/100
Cost: 1
The arm was the same. Read “utter shit” instead of “entry level” and it made more sense. Basically, the arm was slow to react. I focused on it, moving the fingers and running through a full range of movement tests, like I would each time I entered my APS.
Yeah, its specific dexterity rating was a six; my own was an overall ten, which meant, simply, that it was slower than my natural arm had been. It was also stronger, which was something at least, an eleven to my natural ten, so not huge, but considering that was my overall?
It encompassed things like my having strong legs, and a strong back. That the arm was an eleven individually? If I grabbed onto someone, they’d have to be strong to get loose.
That is, if I could fucking catch them.
I couldn’t even upgrade the arm.
Usually you could augment the mod, so I could swap out the shoulder and elbow joints to increase speed, or replace the hand with the Santos version, making it faster, or give myself claws or an inbuilt weapon.
Not this model.
It was literally trash tier.
I’d be replacing it and damn soon.
Looking over the organelles, well, I dismissed them straightaway. They were functional, biomechanical, and efficient—nothing special but nothing wrong. I’d been a bit luckier there, because it was a system that was replaced every so often for grunts on the frontline, foot soldiers rather than the corps, so I’d gotten what looked like their standard package, and basic ones, so tier-two rather than one.
I kept my mouth shut, attributing that to a bit of good fortune, or the major intervening, rather than anything else. Best to keep quiet; I’d been told they’d be trash, after all.
Now I’d not need to replace them, just leave them as they were.
No, the real issue was the spinal tap.
Spinal Reinforcement
Tier: One
The Wilmat 4596 Spinal Reinforcement mod is a direct replacement to the original biological, physical spine, meshing cybernetic know-how with cutting-edge neural integration tissue, and all for an unbelievable price!
Please Note: Support for this model was withdrawn due to internal quality issues in the last quarter. Details included: [Redacted].
Warranty: [Void]
Toughness: 5
Durability: 97/100
Cost: 1
That the military had put a model in me that was cheap was to be expected. The military was always cheap. That they’d used a model that was fucking withdrawn from the market?
That the details were fucking redacted, and the warranty void before it’d even been installed? I had the equivalent of a glass spine, one that would break if I made any kind of a mistake. And that, of course, was the most expensive fucking part to replace.
I was left with two choices: replace the spine with a mid-level reinforcement model, a tier-two most likely—I’d never be able to afford higher than a three for a while, and even that would clear me out—just so I had a functional fucking spine, and then replace it with a specialist spinal tap model when I could afford it.
That would cost a fortune. I’d be buying a spinal mod—one of the most expensive mods to get—and then replacing it only a few months later with one that was geared toward being able to drive my APS. But it was that, or just keep this shitty one until I could go straight to the full spinal tap, and risk it crapping out on me at any point.
Hell, my bank balance wasn’t great anyway. Half my wage went toward paying off the APS. You take off accommodation, food and drinks, then recreational drugs and hookers? Basic costs of living, and I was down to barely saving a handful of credits a month.
My bonus, though…
I pulled up the balance in my account, seeing the overlay that hovered over my bonus section from the last two missions, and for a long few seconds, I wanted to end it all.
Bonuses reclaimed
Reason: Excessive expenditure on mission, requiring replacement of APS and Helo line items.
Approved: Cpt. A. Tyrannus
I glared at it, horrified, disgusted, and furious all in one.
Not only had they taken my bonus off me for the last mission, and the one they’d sent me on before it, but they’d drained my fucking account of all the bonuses I’d earned in the last quarter!
I stared at it.
First Olympic Bank
Credit balance: 147c
I scanned the details, row after row of ins and outs, as that little fuck Tyrannus billed me the absolute maximum for utterly everything.
I had a hundred and forty-seven credits left.
That was it.
I’d spent more than that on nights out, for fuck’s sake, never mind dates.
That was after the payments from the military—after my eight months’ advanced payments and discharge payments.
The door opened, and a nurse stepped in, seeing me laid there, blinking in disbelief as I opened and closed my metal arm reflexively.
“You’re awake!” She smiled, moving in closer. “That’s a relief, sir. I was sent to wake you, or get authorization for the bed for another day.”
“Authorization?” I mumbled, then coughed, clearing my throat, forcing myself to sit upright and look around. “What do you mean?”
“The army paid for your transport here two days ago, sir, along with covering the cost for a full cleanse and nutrient paste, but the paid-for time expires in thirty-seven minutes. Do you need to stay another day, or should I have a porter help you pack up your belongings?”
“How…how much?” I asked, trying to make sense of everything.
“Three hundred credits a day, sir, for the room, two hundred for the cleanse, and…”
“I’ll leave.” I tried to get off the bed and frantically grabbed for a nearby brace when my legs gave way below me. I crashed to the floor instead, when my fucking new arm didn’t respond in time.
“Here we go…” She grunted, looping my arm over her shoulders and helping me up, smiling sadly. “Sorry, I should have phrased that better…”
“What?”
“You’ve got thirty-seven minutes before they charge you, but you can take a few minutes to recover first?” She tried again, and I nodded, blowing out a long breath as she helped me to sit.
“What happened?” I wondered aloud.
“You came in with a lot of work done. Accident?”
“Army.” I shrugged. “It…yeah.” I corrected what I was going to say and nodded. “An accident on the way back from a mission.”
“You’ve had a lot of work done, and while you’ll recover, it’ll take time. You need to give yourself that time,” she told me seriously. “Push through it too fast? You’ll end up back here, and not out of choice.”
“Where am I?” I forced a smile as I arced my back and shifted my legs slowly.
“Recovery Clinic Twenty-Seven, South Laviathon.” She glanced around the room. “Look, you’ve not got much, and if you ask for a porter to help you gather your gear and help you to leave, it’s thirty credits. Can I help you? You’ll have to be quick.”
“Please.”
I knew what she was doing.
Helping me out got me out of the room quickly. I’d owe her a tip at the least, and then she got something rather than the porters and anyone else getting nothing, as the clinic administrators probably pocketed it.
She’d no doubt get a bonus for getting me out of the room on time without having to call for someone to drag me out. I’d been unconscious, after all.
Regardless, the help to dress was appreciated, as was gathering my gear, what little of it there was. A shoulder bag contained it all: a change of clothes, which I struggled into, my tactical knife and its sheath, my handgun—thank the gods of blood and chrome for small mercies, someone had sent that out with me—a box of ammunition, and my toiletries.
That was it.
Hell, I knew I had an apartment paid for, for the month, and I vaguely remembered seeing that I had a load of messages when I’d logged into cyberspace when I was in the military hospital, but I couldn’t remember where or…
I queried the RI, getting a lagging response that included an image of a tower block, a locator designation, floor number and door code, and I grunted.
At least I’d not imagined that. I had somewhere to lay down.
Before I knew it, I was being helped to stand, and to take a few steps, followed by more, then down a corridor and I was standing at the checkout desk, bracing myself as I waited for the asshole before me—who smelled like he’d never heard of a cleanse, let alone deodorant or soap—to goddamn move.
Once he was done, I shuffled forward, bracing myself on the desk, and had my RI offer up my ident.
“Room twelve.” The older matronly woman behind the desk grunted, scanning details. “Paid for in full, and a medication scrip as well. Confirm, please.”
A request popped up, a knock on my Keystone, and I acknowledged, seeing the request for my ident on a form that was displayed.
What does it say? I sent it to my RI, before gritting my teeth and canceling the request. Considering what it had to work with, it’d take forever to scan and evaluate the damn thing.
I dismissed the form, my ident attached, seeing it was a general “you left us healthy and can’t sue us for anything” kind of crap.
I accepted the digital scrip that was offered and staggered to the dispenser, a cylinder in one corner of the room. The nurse who’d helped me out of the room and along to here made sure I got a seat—these dispensers were always slow—and I flashed the seven credits I had to spare to her, knocking on her Keystone in the same way that the counter staff had reached out to mine.
She accepted it, her face lighting up at the credit transfer request…and darkening when she saw it was only for seven creds.
Fuck knew what she’d been expecting, but she took it and strode off, not even bothering to thank me or pretend any more.
I grabbed the pill bottle when it clattered into the tray at the bottom. My RI highlighted the ident and made it flash in my vision, so I knew it was mine.
I still barely got to it before another guy, scruffy with a grey beard that sprayed out in all directions, tried to grab it, and we glared at each other, before he snarled and backed up.
I stumbled across the floor toward the exit. The double doors slid open soundlessly as litter was blown past. I gritted my teeth, each footstep as I headed for the doors slightly steadier than the last.
Then that was it: I was discharged, free to make my own decisions, to start my new life…and I was in fuck all state to do any of it.
Staggering out of the doors of the clinic, blinking blearily in the bright sunlight and flinching at the roar of passing traffic, I stood there for several long seconds. The screams and the laughter, the assault on the senses that came from every goddamn billboard trying to advertise direct to you…
The fucking brain mod!
Something about it, about all the work I’d had done, had reset the privacy filters! The goddamn settings I’d applied on my Aug-World account! For a few seconds, I was subjected to a full-on audio, visual, and olfactory assault, not to mention a tickle as some impossibly beautiful woman appeared on my right, stroking a hand down my cheek, and a man on the other side.
More figures appeared, as whatever advertising system that had locked onto me tracked my responses, trying to get a read for my tastes, to “better serve you” and all that bullshit.
It was too much, and I ordered the RI to block it all, maximum privacy mode. I turned as it worked, processing its way through the command as I searched for a little respite, a place to gather myself for a few seconds…
Suddenly, I was staggering, slamming into the ground, head reeling. The vaguely remembered conversation about the full drug detox fucking me up even more replayed as…as I saw running feet vanishing, and realized that my fucking bag was gone from my shoulder.
I barely caught sight of the bastard—that same grey-bearded guy—running into the road, weaving between traffic, my own bag vanishing into his larger one.
Motherfucker had just mugged me!