He should have been kicked out for refusing that order to draw fire. Things were so bad towards the end of the war that they couldn’t afford to. Of course, his superior officer not surviving the subsequent engagement helped.
Leaving his trip down memory lane where it is, he steps through the doors to the bar. He sees that there are quite a few people out and about this evening. Carla spots him from the bar and she’s smirking at him. He realises he must look like a walking corpse.
He goes over to the bar and takes the only available stool at the end, the furthest from the door. There are only four bar staff to deal with the onslaught of orders so Carla half swaggers over to him, “You look—”
“Like shit, yes,” he says before she can.
“Another Absinthian Siege?”
Rennin looks at her hard, “Not a chance,” he says slowly.
“I don’t have a lot of time here, Rennin, as you can see we’re busy.”
“I’ll have a coffee and an explanation,” he says.
“Explanation?”
“What the hell are all these people doing out at this hour on a weeknight? Don’t they know the monsters come out after dark?” despite his sarcasm there’s something dead in his eyes as he says that.
Carla meets his stare with a mocking glare, “These people are the monsters.”
Rennin finds a bitter smirk crossing his face, “Aye, madam, how right thee is.”
“I’ll get your order.”
“Sharp about it.”
“Don’t push your luck, Trigger.”
Next to Rennin sits a Beta HolinMech, the one called Drake as he recalls. Bright Eyes isn’t here with him and this soldier is swaying even though he’s on a stool. Rennin figures since he’s obviously drunk he might be talkative and so nudges him.
“Where are your buddies?”
Drake’s glazed eyes struggle to focus on him, “Hey it’s Happy,” he says slapping Rennin on the shoulder. “How’s it going? I see you here a lot.”
Rennin was wrong, this soldier is not drunk, he’s completely wasted, “Happy?”
“You know,” Drake does an impression of a sniper holding a gun, “Trigger happy.”
Rennin glances at Carla who’s serving someone down the bar, “Ah.”
“I’m Pharaoh Drake, Beta HolinMech S-66-83-49.”
The name rings a bell. “What’s the ‘S’ stand for?”
“Standard.”
Rennin takes a steadying breath. Standard. Again the distinction of expendable troops used as meat-shields slaps him in the face. Rennin does understand in a way. The androids fought because they were hated for being what they are and the humans fighting with them were only fighting to maintain the slavery of machines.
Though the androids Rennin served under were as brave as any man and never sent their human contingents into conflicts they wouldn’t face themselves. “I didn’t realise the military still used that distinction these days.”
“They don’t formally, but old habits die hard. Especially since androids are working with us mere mortals again.”
Rennin quickly scans the nearby patrons. “Are you here by yourself?”
“Yeah, the others got pulled on mission. I was already drunk so couldn’t join them.”
Rennin looks at him in surprise. “You get drunk while on call?” he laughs. Godyssey’s standards must really be dropping.
There’s that word again… pun and all.
“Oh come on, we were put on standby until further notice so I came for a drink.”
Something clicks in Rennin’s mind. “Now I know who you are. You’re the heir to one of the largest fortunes in the Western World Remnant. Your father lives in Drake Mansion.”
“We live there.”
Rennin laughs again. “Until he kicked you out for having it off with the maid and his mistress,” he laughs louder, “at the same time!”
Drake does try to look serious but automatically starts grinning. “Yeah well…”
“So since he owns part of the HolinMech Program, they can’t kick you out for drinking on the job, huh?”
“You wouldn’t believe what I’ve done to get kicked out of this shit.”
“Why not quit? Sign that mentally incompetent document.”
Drake’s face turns rather disturbed. “It’s not as easy as that.”
“Why not?” asks Rennin, bemused.
Drake’s eyes take on a renewed focus despite the alcohol and he leans over slightly, “Are you familiar with any of the full android HolinMechs?”
“No, but I served with androids during the CryoZaiyon Wars.”
“Yeah, well, there’s one in the Alpha Unit called Mikhail Raddocks.”
Raddocks? Rennin frowns. “You have my attention, Drake.”
“Rumour has it that Mikhail Raddocks is the brother of Nyder Raddocks, who made lord mayor of this city years ago. That’s why it’s called Raddocks Horizon instead of just Horizon now.”
Rennin nods, “Bugger for signage.” He has heard that the androids, whether old or new, were built from converted humans. He’d even heard of some androids going mad because they see themselves and their kind as the walking dead. There was a story in the news about some AWOL HolinMech who disappeared on mission recently.
“Are you saying he let his brother get converted?”
Drake smiles as if he’s educating a naïve child about the world, “Not let, donated. Donated alive.”
Rennin arches an eyebrow, “I beg thy fucking pardon?”
Drake nods, “I know. His own brother.”
Rennin doesn’t even notice Carla put his coffee in front of him. “Are you trying to say you’re worried that the same will happen to you?”
“Nyder’s brother becomes a HolinMech then the man becomes lord mayor. I’m in Beta HolinMech and twice removed from replacing an android called Xannon Janus.”
“Twice removed?”
“There are two ahead of me who will take his place before me.”
Rennin sits still for a moment and decides to see Caufmann in the morning. “I think you need another drink while I Irish up this coffee.”
Second day hangovers are far worse than just the day after, Rennin has discovered for the umpteenth time. He remembers once issuing orders to himself never to ever let himself try to drink away one hangover with more alcohol. Unfortunately he’ll do almost anything to get information out of someone. Though, Drake was less forthcoming the longer they chatted.
It’s the next morning and Rennin is in Caufmann’s office waiting for him to come up from the experimental lab area. His codfish water-yeti secretary didn’t want to let him in while the doctor isn’t there. At least she wasn’t about to stand in his way or call security.
Again.
Rennin scratches at the Taser burn scar on the left side of his neck remembering the last time that scaly antediluvian called security on him.
It was about a year ago, when he got into his first fight with Michael Gainsford. The stinking coward ordered the secretary to call security after a well-placed knee to the groin.
Rennin was put in restraints and you don’t do that to someone who spent three months in a GA war prison. He went berserk and before he knew it there were a crowd of security. In the end the injuries totalled of three broken noses, eighteen fractured ribs, two broken arms and a punctured lung before Rennin took a ten thousand volt Taser round to the neck. It nearly killed him. But he feels it was well worth it for Gainsford to be sent up an octave.
He’s still pondering that memory when Caufmann enters his office distinctly limping on his right leg. He sits down and faces Rennin directly. “Something you need?” his voice sounds sick. Very sick.