Arthas and the Admiral Go Out Shooting

Warning: guns and their inevitable consequences.

Detective Arthas Jacques prodded the artificial skin that covered his new leg. It was lighter than the old one, stronger and had a built-in pistol holster.

“So, what’s the catch?” asked the Martian Off World Crime detective, looking at his droid.

“Besides the king’s ransom it costs?” asked the black Spectrum droid, the lights behind its eyes were emerald in colour as it spoke with its Dublin accent. “Rumour has it the manufacturer’s install kill switches in all of their tech so that it can never be used against them.

“So that has to go,” Arthas felt the tingle of sensation as he tickled the prosthetic.

“All components of the leg are protected by the user license agreement you signed before the surgery. Tampering with or removing them voids the license, giving Cargil Communications the legal right to reclaim the leg.”

“Is it legal to put a kill switch in the tech, Orange?” Arthas asked the legal and regulatory expert program within the Spectrum droid.

“Thanks to very well written contracts, you forewent your legal rights when you signed the contract.” The eyes of the tall droid had switched from Emerald to Amber as the legal program took over from the technology expert program. Orange spoke with a Washington DC accent Arthas had been told more than once was too vague to truly represent the city.

“Time to retire to the Morrigan,” said Arthas, picking his newly gifted first edition of Paolo Bacigalupi’s The Windup Girl. The bookmark was the note from his sister, handwritten in her flowing script. Dear Arthas, I hope you like this one as much as I did. Demi.

“I like the leg holster, very Robocop,” Arthas said. He opened and closed it with a feeling that reminded him of wiggling a toe somewhere on his thigh. “Will my pistol fit in this?”

Eyes turning emerald again, Green replied, “not without modification.”

“There’s always a catch. Do Cargil Communications have a deal with a weapons manufacturer whose pistols just so happen to fit perfectly?”

“Ashikov Armaments has partnered with Cargil Communications on multiple military contracts,” said Green.

“Of course they have.”

“All Ashikov pistol variants fit snugly within the holster.”

“Of course they do, time to see what my dad paid so much for.” He stood, grabbing the droid as he moved further and faster than he’d intended.”

“The leg is usually one of a pair. Adjusting for the discrepancy between weight and strength between your biological leg and your mechanical one is expected to take up to three days.”

“That’s not what I was told,” said the detective.

“That advice was based on double amputees.”

“Because the power of the legs is the issue?”

“Strength,” Green corrected him, holding up its right index finger.

“So you’re calling me weak?” Speaking as if the question was a rhetorical joke, his frown made it clear he wasn’t.

“No. I’m stating that your biological leg-”

“My real leg,” Arthas interrupted.

“Your flesh and bone leg is weaker than the metal, synthetic muscle and skin leg that has been grafted to you.” The emerald eyes blazed with inarguable truth.

Arthas tottered with a tired toddler’s coordination from his bed to the door. “Three days, fuck that. Come on, I’m fixed up. You’re next.”

The Spectrum droid walked alongside the detective with an arm held out behind the man to catch him if he fell, which he did several times.

“Sir, Mister Jacques.” A nurse responsible for Arthas’ lunches jogged along behind him. “You’re not due to leave for another two days. I need to schedule your physiotherapy sessions.”

“I feel great.” In fact he felt as if he was walking on stilts with rollerblades strapped to them. Though the nurse tried to protest further, the detective tripped his way out of the hospital, beyond the nurse’s jurisdiction.

The Morrigan was a long, exhausting walk from the hospital, but Arthas insisted. Soaked in his own sweat, he collapsed into his chair.

“I'm too old to be learning to walk.” Closing his eyes, he relished the cold pleather of the seat on his aching muscles. Before any of the programs in the Spectrum unit could respond, he was asleep. The droid drew a blanket over the detective.

While the man slept, the machine repaired itself using replacement parts which had been delivered to The Morrigan in their absence. Not merely trusting the manufacturers, Green checked for kill switches in the new chips, servos and removed them before they had the chance to activate. The emergency off switches filled a scrap can the droid’s many personalities agreed to dump before leaving the port. The last task was painting itself again. 

Each component was the standard colour of the brand, many of the Martian parts were shades of red or orange. The droid painted them all black. Paint it Black by the Rolling Stones played as the droid worked, bobbing its head to the beat.

When Randal Jacques entered the hangar, the droid was loath to let the man aboard, but relented, knowing Arthas might face the tycoon’s considerable wrath later if he snubbed his father.

“Wake up, boy.” The retired Admiral of the Martian Navy clapped his hands. Arthas woke with a jolt, reaching for the holster on his hip that was no longer there. “No need for a gun, you’re in bed, not in battle.”

“Why are you here?” The detective sat up straight, stretched and stood.

“To see how my money has served you.”

“And that’s why you’re not really my father. Everything puts you first. That’s not how a parent should think.”

Randal’s face was unfeeling stone. “Stand straight when you address me.” Despite himself, Arthas did. The detective stood at parade rest, straightening his shoulders. “Much better. Your leg looks good. Can you walk?”

“I think so. I was still adjusting to it yesterday.”

“So I was told when I tried to visit you. You discharged yourself early. Foolish,” said Randal. Arthas’ jaw clenched. “Walk with me. I want to talk about your investigation.”

“I’m not meant to talk about an ongoing case.”

“Seeing as you’re due to be fired, I don’t think it will be a problem.” Randal turned to leave the ship.

Arthas made the hand sign to lock the door. His droid’s eyes flashed purple as it nodded. “FIRED?” The headache that always accompanied time with his father was setting in faster than usual.

“You caused a diplomatic stir between Mars and Earth. What did you expect? You were working beyond your jurisdiction without the authorisation of your superiors.” In his parade uniform styled suit, Randal was a comic book villain waiting to happen.

“What do you want to talk about?” Arthas asked, rubbing the twitching muscle above his eyebrow with his metal hand.

“You were investigating Deus ex Sapiens. I want to know everything about it. I want to help you catch Lord Banks. Maybe The Morrigan is a better place to discuss that.” The grey haired man nodded, appraising the ship again with his blue eyes.

“Why?”

“Because I’ve been hearing rumours about it for months. At first I was certain it was a con. Given the results that I’ve had verified, the technology is clearly legitimate, no matter Lord Banks’ true intentions. Deus ex Sapiens will change the course of human history. We can’t let a man like him chart the course of the future.”

“Because you’re better than he is?” Arthas’ question stank of scepticism.

“We need to secure this technology, son. For Mars.”

The detective sneered. “For Mars? Or for yourself?” Randal frowned. “What? You're a selfless man suddenly? You and Lord Banks have a lot in common, he’s just smarter than you are.”

Randal’s nostrils flared. His pupils dilated. Lines between his brows deepened. “And yet my clone defeated him.” The old man waved a hand at the clone he had raised as his son.

“You’re not going to be immortal. Even if we managed to stop Lord Banks, he created Deus ex Sapiens for control. That’s its purpose. A man like that would never hand over his ticket to supremacy. You wouldn’t either. You can’t buy it from him. At best, you’d be an eternal slave to him. Is that what you want? He’s already used Deus ex Sapiens to turn unwilling people against me.”

“You fought Cain Ableman before his Deus ex Sapiens had been activated. Belle Nguyen’s loyalty has always been to herself. Their betrayal was inevitable, they were hardly unwilling. You’re a fool.”

“How do you know all of this?” Arthas yelled, gesticulating wildly.

“Benefits of the admiralty. The Martian Security Agency isn’t the only intelligence agency on Mars, and they’re not as watertight as they like to believe. I’m offering you a chance to pursue this when the Off World Crime Department has cut you loose. Are you going to turn down the opportunity to spite me?” Randal’s head tilted.

Sighing, Arthas stared at his boots and shook his head.

“Wise.” The admiral made a hand signal to his son’s droid to unlock the door. Green looked to Arthas for permission, then opened the door of the ship. “Follow me, we need to move quickly. First you have to tie up your loose ends with the police.”

Instead of being fired in person by his captain, Arthas was ushered to a meeting room by a woman from Internal Affairs. She explained that his contract was terminated with immediate effect. A judiciary panel would decide whether to withdraw his pension. He would be informed when the decision was made.

Arthas carried the contents of his locker back to the Morrigan the pockets of his civilian clothes. His uniform had been revoked. His permits to carry firearms were pending.

Randal waited by the rear of the ship with a fireteam of Martian Navy battle droids. The sleek models were grey head to toe, using simplistic dazzle camouflage. The admiral’s own bodyguard had been repainted using slightly darker greys to distinguish it.

“What’s this?” Arthas asked, nodding at the mechanical soldiers.

“Our unit for the strike on the next demonstration of Deus ex Sapiens. We have an hour to leave. Other units will rendezvous with us at the AO.”

Arthas barked a laugh. “He’s not going to be there. He uses proxy droids.”

“The mission is to capture and trace one,” Randal nodded.

“The mission? You retired. You’re an admiral. Why would you be sent back into the field?”

“Because you’re the expert on this subject and I’m your father. Special circumstances.” Randal said, not knowing the smirk Arthas has to suppress at the thought of Iain M Bank’s Special Circumstances intelligence agency in the Culture books.

“I’m a civilian now.”

“No. You’re going to be a private contractor.” Randal produced a tablet and held it out to Arthas. The former detective took the device and stared at the words on the screen. He handed it to his droid.

The Spectrum unit’s eyes turned Orange, signaling that the financial, legal and regulatory expert program was in control. “Good pay,” it said. “Pension payments. Access to military medical facilities in the event of injury. Full compensation for any damage to property including myself and the ship. Contract is exclusive to the mission on Neilson Station.”

“Who’s in charge?”

“Who’d you think?” Randal asked.

Sighing, Arthas took back the contract, agreed to the terms and authorised it with his handprint and an eye scan. “Come on then, let’s not dally.”

The Morrigan arrived on Garrett Xander Neilson Station which floated in the void of space near nothing and nowhere. Jace Everett’s Bad Things played throughout the ship as it docked with the station. GXN Station was the shape of a half egg, with a hex pattern glass dome to admit light from the nearest star. Solar panels spread were the petals of the station, circling the dome. Ships entered and left from the base, forever in shadow.

“Form up. We are attending as Mars’ representatives at this demonstration. Naval intel suggests this is where the bidding begins. Lord Banks doesn’t have to attend in person. We just need to get his virtual presence droid to trace it back. Shoot to wound it. Everyone else is considered a combatant. Use deadly force if necessary.” He nodded. Opening a container brought by the drones, he handed his son an Ashikov pistol which fitted nicely in the holster within the former detective’s leg.

I might never get used to that, he thought, watching the gun disappear into his thigh. His trousers had a velcro patch to cover the fake skin of his leg, for dignity he supposed.

“This place is where old crooks go to retire,” said Arthas. Drug dealers. Contract killers. Anyone who wants to be off the books and outside the jurisdiction of Earth and Mars. It’s not just Lord Banks we have to worry about here.

“Maybe your time as a pig will finally come in useful.” Randal grimaced. The admiral checked his weapon.

Ships of all shapes and sizes were arriving from Earth, Mars and everywhere between and beyond. Mercenary bands who had been present at previous demonstrations of Deus ex Sapiens caught Arthas’ eye.

“The leaders of those groups have been compromised, which means they’re all technically under Lord Banks’ control. We can’t fight them all.” The fired detective watched the legions of private soldiers file from the docks into the station. Brightly coloured like the knights at ancient jousting tournaments. Those men, women and droids had the best armour they could buy on the open market, the best guns they could get their hands on.

“We don’t have to fight them all. As I said, other fireteams are Oscar Mike. This ends today. Move out.” Randal looked from Arthas to his droid, then led them from the ship.

“Welcome one, welcome all, to the final demonstration of Deus ex Sapiens.” The voice that bathed the population of the docks was the aristocratic drawl of Lord Banks. “Thank you all, truly for your interest. You will not be disappointed. Today is the dawn of a new age!”

“Dramatic,” said Randal. One of the grey fluffy caterpillars resting on his brow rose in exasperation.

“Just wait until you see him on stage,” said Arthas.

Marching into a trap among enemy combatants, he hoped his father had something up his sleeve.

Arthas’ heart rate increased to the point that he could feel it. Instinct screamed at him to raise his weapon and start shooting before the enemy shot first.

The dome of the station had multiple layers, bringing the light of a distant star down into vegetation designed to supply the oxygen needs of the occupants. Three hundred soldiers representing dozens of interests circled a band stand in what was the central park of the station. Creepers wrapped around the beams that held the structure together. Their leaves shielded all within from the naked wrath of a sun, beams of green light broke through the emerald canopy.

“Here we stand, on the edge of known space. Representing every major power of man, political and industrial. I, Lord Mark Ignatius Banks, bring you the future.”

A droid emerged from a hatch in the band stand. Arms flung wide, the droid looked about as if the man was there in person, pleasantly surprised by the turnout. He/his droid bowed with a twirling of his hand. Another droid emerged from the hatch with an armoured suitcase.

Wondering when the signal would come, Arthas jumped as the host was hit in the back by a stream of immobiliser rounds. Meant for riot suppression, the rounds were the size of grenades and contained expandable foam with the strength of concrete.

Three hundred warriors tried to find cover, only seeing more enemies. Sidearms emerged from holsters, if not knives. They were all too close for rifles.

Randal’s fireteam grabbed hostages to used as shields, backing towards a wall. Arthas’ droid took half a moment to copy the gesture as pockets of similar behavior emerged all around the room.

On stage, the host’s droid was a cluster of drying grey foam when he shouted, “KILL THEM!”

Ripping open the patch on his leg, Arthas pulled the pistol from his thigh holster and aimed between the bots that had circled him and his father.

“This is your plan?”

“NO. Whoever shot first, it wasn’t us. Find cover.” The heads of the human shields sprayed chunks as they were filled with bullets from every direction. The Ashikov pistol fired rounds that split the air with a crack. Anyone hit by the rounds was sent flying backwards. Arthas had heard of miniaturised rail guns. He thought that meant assault rifles, not pistols.

The ammunition magazine counter rolled from twenty to nothing in no time at all. Reloading in the heat of battle was always a nightmare. Only training kept Arthas from fumbling with the new clip as he slammed it into the Ashikov RGP Alpha.

One of the four fire team droids collapsed, speared by a rocket propelled grenade which exploded, sending them all to the ground in an arc of disarray.

“I THOUGHT YOU HAD A PLAN!” Arthas yelled through the all too familiar sounds of death and destruction.

“No plan survives contact with the enemy,” said Randal, lying prone and firing with his arms stretched out. His remaining droids began to build a wall for them from the dead, using human bodies as sandbags.