Gunnar thumbed a button on his right armrest and the seat harness unlatched. He thumbed another button and a panel slid back above him, leaving a space in the rooftop. Grasping an overhead handle, the PRO-T-EN Savant pulled himself to his feet. There Captain Rourke stood, exposed from the waist up, staring at the broken, bloody Incomp as The Raven hovered in place.
When the Incomp glanced up and saw Gunnar standing there, he screamed in rage and fear and hatred, and every emotion which a dying man is capable.
So defiant! What a fine Savant you could have made…
Clad in his Asset Protection gear, Gunnar looked both official and impressive. He wore a dark gray FlexForm tactical bodysuit, both comfortable and breathable, made from a patented PRO-T-EN polymer blend, with matching FlexForm gloves. PRO-TechT molded armor, cast in PRO-T-EN goldplate, covered his shoulders, chest, triceps, forearms, and abdomen. Black with gold trim and contoured to his skull, Gunnar’s matching PRO-TechT helmet fit snug. The helmet’s polyurethane visor protected his eyes and provided instant infrared against the night. Another raised golden T gleamed above the visor.
“Engage standard vision.”
“Standard vision engaged, Captain Rourke.”
In the blink of an eye, Gunnar’s vision switched from the surreal infrared to mundane normal. The Incomp seemed lifeless; lying across his wrecked mini-shuttle in the desert shadows.
But Gunnar knew better.
“Engage all running lights.”
“All running lights engaged.”
An electric hum filled the air as a dozen small panels slid open on The Raven; fore and aft, port and starboard. Then the light streamed forth. Twelve unblinking eyes staring into the night.
Via his neural-net synch, Gunnar’s visor raised on a tiny hinge in his helmet. Now he looked upon the Incomp with nothing except his own scornful eyes, noting that the Incomp wore a thin white shirt—streaked with filth—and brown, fingerless gloves. All generic; no brands or logos visible.
Classless. Worthless.
Roused by the sudden light, the Incomp struggled to raise his head. His mouth opened, and behind a thick rill of blood a loud hiss issued.
“Increase audio levels, factor three.”
“Audio levels Increased.”
Gunnar’s aural implants responded, magnifying the ambient desert noise and the Incomp’s pitiful voice:
“Trai … tor …”
Gunnar stiffened.
This traitor calls me a traitor?
“Engage voice amplification.”
“Voice amplification engaged.”
Fists curled, Gunnar paused, then his voice rang out like thunder from The Raven’s speaker system. “Hello,” he said, following Asset Protection Protocol. “I am PRO-T-EN Corps Savant, Captain Gunnar Rourke. As a duly authorized representative of PRO-T-EN Industries, it is my duty to advise you that you are in gross violation of multiple Transgressions against PRO-T-EN assets and personnel. As a result of said Transgressions, you are legally subject to both detainment and liquidation. In the event of detainment, you will receive a fair and balanced trial in a PRO-T-EN Court of Law. Do you understand these Transgressions, and penalties of said Transgressions, as I have explained them to you?”
“Traitor …” the dying Incomp managed.
Again, this ludicrous insult?
Bristling, Gunnar took a deep breath. “Attention, you wasteful Incomp—”
“Violation,” Eos interjected. “Inappropriate language. Per the PRO-T-EN Industries Code of Conduct, use of the discriminatory slang-word, Incomp, is prohibited during any interaction while on duty, or when representing PRO-T-EN Industries.”
Farc!
“Noted, Eos. Thank you for correcting my behavior.”
“It is both an honor and a privilege, Captain Rourke.”
Eyes squinted against the intense white light, the Incomp raised a gloved, trembling fist in a feeble yet unmistakable gesture. “Defy … you … we!”
“Explain this nonsense.” Gunnar raised his hands as if inviting a heavy load. “PRO-T-EN Industries guarantees a place for everyone. We offer vocational conditioning, career planning, health and wellness services. And, we are proven to be the top Corporation when it comes to helping its employees pay off their birth-debt in a timely manner. Take me, for instance. I am thirty years old. I entered the PRO-T-EN Corps Initiative Program at age ten, which has helped me pay off a huge percentage of my birth-debt. I will retire before I am eighty …”
The PRO-T-EN Savant paused, interested to see if his speech had any effect, and cocked his head when the Incomp began to laugh; a dry, humorless rasp.
“Edu-less simp-bot! How … born … into … debt?”
More dry laughter. Gunnar shook his head. Edu-less meant that he knew nothing. Simp-bot meant that he couldn’t think for himself, anyway.
Typical scavenger insults.
On each thigh, secured in magnetic holsters, Gunnar wore a PRO-T-EN Corps issue Liquidator; force field projectors, similar in design to ancient fully-automatic pistols, with short barrels as wide as Gunnar’s fist, and custom fitted to his grip. Within his forearms, Surgical Enhancement Savants had implanted stainless steel rods to stabilize his aim. Smirking, Gunnar reached down and unholstered his righthand weapon.
We will see who is the edu-less simp-bot now, Incomp.
“Savant?” More laughter, more bloody drool. “Much … like … SERVANT!”
“I am not a servant!” Captain Rourke raised his Liquidator. This instrument of PRO-T-EN aggression and efficiency gleamed in The Raven’s harsh glow, its laser sight now resting on the Incomp’s forehead. “I am a vested employee with The Greatest Corporation In The World!”
The Incomp coughed, grunted, shook his head. “Slave …” he wheezed, lowering his fist.
“No … I am not a slave, Un-Civ. I am a PRO-T-EN man.”
Disgusted, Gunnar pulled the trigger, and a globule of raw, invisible energy ripped through the space between the barrel and its target—
Voom!
—leaving a slight ripple in its wake. A millisecond later, the Incomp’s face compressed as if he’d been struck full-force with a sledgehammer. Blood burst from behind his eyes, from his split nostrils, his mouth, and his ears. His head snapped up as he flew backward, then sank back into the depths of the ruined Ry-No.
An Incompetent, Unemployed Civilian no longer.
Now, just another casualty of The Great Corporate War.
* * *
Hungry for more? Have you read the introduction Gunnar's vehicle, The Raven?
NO?!
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