Chapter Eight - Model Six Feet Under

“Communication is key.” That’s the first thing I tell all of my clients. It may be tempting to sweep issues under the rug, or ignore problems and hope they go away, but you must address them head-on. Even if you’re lying through your teeth, it’s important that you get your own story out before someone comes up with a better one.

—Laura Greguras, founder, CEO, CFO, and CMO of “Why Communicate?” LLC

***

The Model Six grew noticeably more agitated as I crept closer. I wasn’t sure that Antithesis could really be “nervous”, but the lack of response from its alien buddies made it seem so. It stamped its six feet several times, looking ready to storm further into the Macy’s, but then backed down and turned back to the entrance of the store. Almost like it was afraid it didn’t have the firepower to take on whatever had killed its friends.

Or maybe it was all in my head, and I was just projecting my own mood.

Benjamin, I suggest additional preparations before you fully commit to this attack.

“Okay?” I whispered, confused by the suggestion. If the Model Six still wasn’t barreling further into the store to find me, then it was probably too smart for me to draw it into an easy kill zone like the escalator; and I didn’t have the points to buy any new catalogs, so something clever like mines was out of the question. I didn’t know how to make any snares, either (I spent a grand total of two days in the Montana Scouts of America before I got them to kick me out)—and even if I did, where was I gonna find the heavy-duty wire needed to trap that thing? I couldn’t think of anything else to prepare. “Like what?”

Your Medical Utilities catalog contains a panoply of combat stimulants. Any one of these will heavily increase your probability of living through this encounter.

I paused at that. I’d experimented with drugs before—who hadn’t? Between megacorporations making life shit and aliens wanting to eat the shit out of all life, living sucked too much for the average Joe to not want to take the edge off. Besides, the corpos were all too happy to push narcotics that would keep their loyal customers fat, happy, and too stupid to complain about their living conditions.

Not that I was allowed to judge. My favorite brand of pop was proudly labeled “high-addiction”, with multiple not-technically-but-still-kinda drugs keeping me just as muddled as the rest of the drones. So no, my problem wasn’t really with the addiction; it was with the cost. I could always buy more pop, but I wouldn’t always be able to spend my hard-earned points on whatever stim Lynata was about to push on me.

“Sounds like a good idea,” I eventually responded, “but what about afterwards? How addictive are these things?”

Very. However, you will not need to worry about addiction; the catalog also includes neuro-cleaning agents that will remove any dependency, along with the lingering negative effects caused by most narcotics.

I blinked. “Wow, that’s just blatantly cheating.”

Not any more so than any other Vanguard-grade equipment. With a higher point investment, you can purchase augmentations capable of similar or greater effects as these combat stimulants without needing to manage unsavory concomitants.

That made sense, and I certainly wasn’t about to complain about having it better than everyone else. “Okay then, drugs it is! Does the dealer have any recommendations?”

The most helpful stimulant in this circumstance would be Vitaphrine—an inhalable substance which will temporarily improve your reaction time, strength, stamina, and pain tolerance. It will affect you very quickly and persist for up to an hour, after which you will require a Cleanse to avoid the “crash”.

I shrugged. “Works for me. One combat stim, please.”

New Purchase: Vitaphrine

Points reduced to… 27

The drug came in an inhaler much like the Nano-Regenerative Suite’s, although this one was much smaller and colored an eye-searing pink. I put the inhaler’s mouth to my own and depressed the button on top, breathing in a slightly bitter mist. I didn’t feel immediately different, so I waited a few moments. After a few more seconds of nothing, I asked the obvious question: “how long will this take to kick in?”

Based on your current metabolism, it will take nearly two minutes for the Vitaphrine to begin affecting you on a noticeable level. Enjoy the rush!

I glanced at the Model Six’s wireframe silhouette. Based on how antsy it was getting, I didn’t have two minutes. I would need to close the distance and hope that the drug kicked in before it decided to leave.

Which, as it turned out, didn’t take long at all. It turned to leave right as I crested the corner, barely in view between two purse-clutching mannequins. It was even uglier than I’d imagined (which was an achievement); like a larger Model Three with long, unnatural-looking legs, and covered in bony plates instead of a Three’s thin scales. I couldn’t see its head from this angle—A problem, since I wanted to make my first shot count, and it was unlikely that I would be able to hit the gaps between its armor at this distance. Nevertheless, I needed to do something to prevent it from leaving, so I stood up, braced my new gun on top of a case of cheap jewelry, and shouted, “Hey, ugly!”

Instead of shooting, I froze up when it spun around. I recognized that malevolent gaze. It was the same Antithesis that had almost torn off the door to the security room.

It recognized me, too.

The Model Six’s warbling reached a new intensity, then suddenly cut off. It bared flat teeth, then gnashed them together in its square jaw, and I just knew that it was imagining popping my head like a grape between them. It was a few moments before I realized that it was already charging me, rattling the glass of the display case under my arms with every stride.

Benjamin, shoot it!

She didn’t need to tell me twice. With a curse, I pulled the trigger. The recoil was so much heavier than my other pistol that the gun nearly flew out of my hands, but my death grip on the weapon had me barely hanging on. I didn’t get to see the actual effect of the bullet, given that I’d reflexively closed my eyes when I fired, but I did hear it: the tiniest pop, like the world’s smallest firecracker, followed by a pause in the Model Six’s gait. The big plate on its chest now had a sooty, coin-sized divot in the center, with little licks of guttering flame inside.

Unfortunately, that didn’t seem to do anything more than annoy the xeno. While its charge faltered for a split-second, it quickly resumed its stampede by angrily knocking aside an entire rack of women’s overcoats. Given that the rack should’ve weighed more than I did, that didn’t help my rapidly dwindling confidence.

Then the combat stim kicked in.

The world didn’t exactly slow down, but it sort of felt like it. I was thinking a lot more clearly now, focused completely on the threat in front of me. My body also felt much more responsive, and I was swiftly able to get a bead on the Model Six’s head. I fired again, confident that I could land a shot through one of its large eyes even as its head continued to bob up and down.

Unfortunately, reality seemed to enjoy spitting in confidence’s stupid face. I rode out the recoil much more smoothly for the second shot, but it was still too much for me to take without flinching. Instead of hitting its eye, the bullet smashed into the plate on its forehead. I saw the explosion this time: a split-second flash of light, followed by a minute puff of smoke and a spread of incandescent sparks.

At least this shot managed to stop the Model Six in its tracks. Even if it was the size of a polar bear, getting smacked in the face by an explosive bullet had to hurt. The giant Antithesis snapped sideways, remaining standing only by virtue of its greater-than-average number of legs. I put another slug into its side before it could recover, finding a gap between two plates this time. There was a great spurt of green blood as the round exploded, but the Model Six didn’t even flinch—even as I watched the tiny motes of fire burn into its skin, the alien’s only response was a sharp whistle, followed by another charge.

I tried to blast it again, but the alien had finally figured out that guns could hurt it. It started to duck and weave between the store displays, deftly dodging the bullet despite its large size. Even in my heightened state, the Model Six was closing the distance too rapidly for me to keep track, forcing me to back up as I waited for it to appear in the gap between two nearby racks. I started to slowly squeeze the trigger when it neared my chosen position, popping one off just as it came into sight. This one took the xeno in one of its rear legs, slamming into its unarmored knee and cleaving the joint in half. I’d been aiming for its head, but didn’t feel like complaining over what was obviously a crippling blow.

Sadly, the Model Six still had five legs left. It was barely slowed by losing one of its limbs, and I was quickly running out of room to maneuver. My sixth shot joined the first one in its chest, so close together that I could see the armor between the two holes crack. Unfortunately, the xeno was now too close for me to exploit that.

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I threw a mannequin between us as it swung a massive, meaty claw in my direction. The mannequin, predictably, was squished flat, but it gave me enough time to go around the side of a tall display full of watches. These were the expensive ones; the case would be bolted into the floor, with thick windows capable of withstanding bulle—

The Model Six tore the display out of the ground.

“Fuck!” I shouted, barely dipping under a massive claw. It tried to snap at me next, so I put a round down its throat. That got a response—the Antithesis stumbled back and gagged, coughing up bloody spittle. Using the opportunity, I stood my ground instead of backing away, lining up a shot with its head. With a great shout of victory, I watched as the bullet detonated in one of its front eye sockets. I was so close that the tiny explosion actually peppered me with shrapnel, as the smaller bone-plates around the eye were flung out at me. The Model Six slumped to the ground shortly after.

I didn’t approach, but still lowered my weapon as I watched the guttering flames in its skull with clinical fascination. The blast had cracked the thick skin around the socket, revealing the meat and bone underneath. That started to burn too, creating an acrid, putrid haze of smoke as the sparks of fire burrowed deeper into little craters. I think it was the stim that made me focus on that—rather than retching like I normally would’ve after such a sight, I was thinking about how much more effective this new ammo was. Definitely a step up from the old pistol, and possibly overkill on something like a Model Three. I stepped closer to the body to get a better loo—

The Model Six burst forward, rising off the ground to ram me in the stomach. I tried to fire another round in my panic, but couldn’t bring the gun to bear before I was thrown off my feet. The shot went wide as I was sent flipping over a mannequin stand, knocking them over like a set of bowling pins. During the jumble, my firearm somehow got caught under the strap of one of their swimsuits before I hit the ground. With not even a second to catch my breath, I struggled to yank it free before the Antithesis reached me.

The splintering of the pedestal next to me was the only warning that my time was up. I raised my left arm in a futile gesture to ward the Model Six off, but that was quickly batted aside by a sharp claw. I didn’t have time to think about the terrible pain in my arm as I looked up at the alien looming over me. Even with the combat stim focusing me, I could feel my breath start to come in shallow gasps as the terror set in.

The Model Six seemed to be taking its time—almost like it was savoring my fear. It pinned me under one of its paws, and I could feel my ribs creak under it as I suddenly struggled to breathe. Before it could do anything more, I finally freed my gun and swiftly stuffed it into the unarmored, meaty area where the xeno’s leg met its body. Blood splattered my hand as I fired, but the Model Six barely reacted. It didn’t even reduce the pressure on my chest; it just continued to leer at me, looking absolutely demonic with a burning eye and its own blood dripping between its fangs. I pulled the trigger again, but all I heard was a muted click as the firing pin came down on an empty chamber. I was out of ammo.

I stared into the Model Six’s three remaining eyes as it gave a final, gurgling whistle. It was over, and we both knew it. It leaned down and and opened its maw—

A series of deafening pops rang out from behind me, and the Model Six reared back as it was struck by a barrage of bullets. The vast majority glanced off its armor, but a few of the shots wormed their way through the gaps and craters created by my duel with the alien. One of the bullets even scraped past its remaining front eye, popping it in the process. Still, I knew that it wouldn’t be enough to put the xeno down.

“Gun.” I croaked, dropping my empty pistol and flexing my hand to let Lynata know what I wanted. Another Defiance Deputy appeared in my grasp, and I wasted no time in punishing the Model Six’s distraction. The first three explosions punched a hole through the bottom of its head, spraying me with viscera and causing the alien to crumple next to me. However, I didn’t let up—I held the pistol close and methodically placed the rest of the magazine into its skull until it was little more than green mush.

I wasn’t going to let it get back up again.

I asked Lynata for another magazine as I debated putting another few rounds into the alien’s corpse, just to be sure, but thought better of it. Instead, I sighed and leaned back until I was lying on the floor. It was almost performative—I was sore and wounded, but not tired; the combat stim kept me wide awake and coiled like a spring. However, it felt like I should be tired, so I stayed splayed on the ground, reveling in the simple sensation of still being alive.

A slow, heavy, thumping noise came from behind me and steadily grew closer. I snapped up my gun, aiming it upside-down from my position on the floor, then relaxed as I saw who it was: my mysterious savior, who turned out to be Harry. He was hobbling along on one leg and a swaggy cane I recognized from one of the mannequin displays upstairs. The mall cop looked even redder in the face than the last time I’d seen him; his new form of locomotion was clearly taking a toll.

“Hey, Harry. You know, we should really stop meeting like this.” I said, remembering the first time we’d met. At least this time he was the one saving me, instead of the other way around. I guess that made us even, if either of us cared about that sort of thing.

Harry didn’t say anything in return. He dropped to his knee in front of me, then pulled me into an awkward hug. His breathing seemed to stutter, and it took me a second to realize that he was crying.

“Hey, uh, Harry?” I tried again, voice muffled by his shirt. “I don’t do too well with the whole, ‘outward displays of emotion’ thing, so could you tell me what’s going on here?”

His shaking sobs hitched as they transformed into a wet chuckle. “Kid, would you just shut up for a second?”

The whole situation was really uncomfortable, but I decided to do as he asked. I didn’t really have much to say, anyway. However, after a few seconds, I realized that the wetness on my arm was from more than just Harry’s sweat; when he released me, I held up my left hand just as the pain started to register.

I was missing two fingers.

“Fuck!” I shouted, sitting up and grabbing at a nearby scarf to wrap around the stumps of my lost pinkie and ring fingers. Harry shouted his own not-curse, casting aside the article of clothing and pulling out his first-aid kit. As he wrapped my hand with his last roll of gauze, I could see that the side of my middle finger was also well-skinned, and the very tip was missing too. At least the digit was still attached.

Strangely enough, it didn’t hurt as much as I thought it would. The pain was excruciating, sure, but not as debilitating as it should’ve been. It wasn’t bleeding as much as it should’ve been, either—in fact, it’d already started clotting before Harry even applied the QuikStaunch cream from his kit. Probably all part of the Vitaphrine in my system. Definitely a worthwhile purchase.

Still, I was missing fingers. It took all of my willpower not to immediately vomit at the sight. Luckily for me, I now had a tried and true method for dealing with terrible injuries: “Lynata, I need some nanos.”

“Unfortunately, a Nano-Regenerative Suite cannot repair trauma of this type.”

“… What?”

“Correction: a Class One Nano-Regenerative Suite cannot repair trauma of this type. While higher Classes have the capability to regenerate limbs—even an entire body, with a Class Three Suite and enough relevant material—your currently available Nano-Regenerative Suite would do nothing more than close the wound. While Vanguard-grade medical treatment would be preferred, your current covering is sufficient for this task without an additional points cos—”

“I don’t care about ‘closing the wound’! I have no fingers! Can’t I just have one from a higher Class?”

“No. A Class Two Nano-Regenerative Suite would first require you to purchase the Class Two Medical Utilities catalog for three hundred points and one token, neither of which you are close to possessing. You do not wish to know how much a Class Three catalog costs.”

“A token? Wha—no, you know what, nevermind. Is there anything else I can buy with the stuff I already have? There has to be something!”

“The Class One Medical Utilities catalog contains several hundred thousand items, most of them consumable or otherwise single-use items that provide a “quick fix” to immediate medical emergencies. None of these are comprehensive enough to replace missing digits. In keeping with your earlier promise to Mister Markus, you could instead purchase one of several catalogs that can provide prosthetic replacements—or, if you are certain that you wish for the digits to be restored, you could purchase the Medical Technologies catalog; it provides multiple medical devices that would be capable of regenerating them over a period of days.”

“Great, do that!”

“Apologies, I should have been more clear: you do not possess the points necessary to purchase any of those catalogs.”

I muttered a few more choice swears as Harry finished wrapping my hand. The security guard, for his part, wasn’t saying anything, just dutifully listening to our argument. Given how our last talk had ended in a shouting match, followed by my current predicament, he had all the right in the world to tell me “I told you so” and continue to boss me around. Instead, he was quietly helping me while letting me work through my options. His attitude made me pause; I needed to stop throwing a hissy fit and start acting like an adult. Also, I needed to apologize to him later. “Alright, how many points do I have?”

“Thirty four.”

“That’s it?” I took a second to do the mental math, then quickly gave up after realizing that math was hard. A flick of my gaze dropped down the “scorecard” that Lynata had added to my augs earlier, showing me the short list of all of my recent buys and kills. I paused when I got to the notification for the points I’d gained from killing the Model Six.

“Fifteen points.” I breathed out. I flopped back down to the floor and closed my eyes, going through all seven stages of grief in under a second. Fifteen fucking points. Only half again as much as a basic Model Three. I’d made a whole one point from killing it, after factoring in everything I’d spent. And now I was down two fingers, along with gaining a few more assorted bruises. This was a net loss.

I felt a pat on my head. Opening my eyes, I saw Harry pulling himself up on his new cane before offering a hand to me. He smiled. “I know it may not seem like it, but you did good, Ben.” His smile changed to a frown as I refused to take his offered hand. “I doubted you… And for that, I’m sorry. I mean, you just killed a Six with nothing but a pistol!” He shook his head as he laughed. “You’re a Samurai, alright; no one else would be crazy enough to do that. But you did, and you survived doing it. So come on, mister ‘badass Samurai’, we have a city to save.”

I sniffled like a little kid. Harry had a point. I may not have gained many points from that Model Six, but I still managed to kill it in the end. As long as I could keep doing that—and hopefully not lose any more body parts on the way—we had a chance to survive this nightmare. It was disheartening to learn that my current catalogs couldn’t fix me every time I screwed up, but they’d gotten me this far. I was learning, and every fight saw me getting more comfortable in my role as a Samurai. I was going to bruise, bleed, and burn a lot more before this was all over. A completely foreign concept just a day ago, but this fight had paradoxically strengthened my resolve: people were dying to the Antithesis, and here I was complaining about losing some fingers that I would eventually be able to replace anyways.

I took Harry’s hand with my own, uninjured one, allowing him to pull me up. I brushed some crusted blood off of my bare chest and looked through the glass doors at the entrance of the store. There were going to be a lot more fights like this one before the day was through, but now I was ready for them.

“Okay, let’s go.”