Connor Rix Chronicles 1: Rules of Force (7 page)

Rix nodded, and
followed Rohm out the door.
I hope he has a well-stocked liquor cabinet,
Rix grimly mused.
That drink may be a
while in coming.

9

"So you're
in then?"

"Of course
I'm in, Rixie. I told you I was up for the job."

The
"Rixie" tease was the first playful response from KC since the start
of their conversation. Her manner had been strictly-business while he had
described the nature of the crimes, the job and why they were being hired. The
deaths were appalling enough, and then there was the fact the client was one of
the most powerful corporations in the world. It was sobering, but Rix knew KC
had limited capacity for sustained sobriety.

"Thanks,
KC. I'm sending over on a secure network everything I've compiled. Wade through
it. We have some good leads, thanks to what Angie 6's team uncovered at the
end. The main thing I'd like you to work on is narrowing down the list of
probables. Rohm passed me some decent leads he uncovered on his own, but he
doesn't really know the lay of the land over here in our Modified neighborhood.
Plus. I think he's still too shook up about it all to really think clearly,
although it's hard to tell with that guy."

"You know
me, Rixie. Up all night." She paused before continuing. "So. Any
other members on this super team you're putting together?"

"Yes, I'm
going to see him right now. I'll tell Big Fella you said hi. Unless you want me
to deliver a more explicit message?"

She gave a
playful snort. "I'll deliver those sorts of messages in person."

"Good,
because I wouldn't want him to get the wrong idea."

They laughed and
said their goodbyes, and Rix thumbed his E-Thing into sleep mode. Rix had
stopped to make his call to KC at one of the picnic areas that randomly
populated the state highway network. It was a small facility, but set back from
the highway so the noise of the passing cars was minimal. There were tall
sycamore and pecan trees shading the concrete tables, but best of all, nobody
else was there. He wanted to sit and think a bit before making that final turn
onto the farm-to-market road that led to Big Fella Jackson's place.

Rix had
projected a confident, "Oh yeah, no problem" tone when he had been
filling in KC on what he was proposing. But he knew it was no sure thing
getting Big Fella to sign on with this deal. The two were not as tight as they
had once been. Rix and Big Fella had had many a beery late night debate over the
pros and cons of Modification. Rix had always argued on the "pro"
side, an enthusiastic believer in the truly awesome potential to vanquish
humanity's ancient weaknesses, to uplift humanity for the better. More than
once, usually after four of five pints, he would really let his imagination run
free and construct a detailed new world where all this human potential was
harnessed.

Big Fella, on
the other hand, would have none of it.

"You
dumbass, you have no idea of the long-term damage you could be doing to not
just your body, but the next several generations, assuming there are any,"
he had told Rix at their last meeting.

Big Fella
opposed the rapid spread of human bio-engineering on a personal level, but had
also framed his arguments from a wider perspective.

"Hell, you start passing out
superhuman powers and it will take all of five minutes before somebody starts
using them to rob a bank, or worse," he had said. "Christ, Rix,
you've seen most of this world. You've been to plenty of the backward tribal shitholes.
You've seen how a handful of thugs can rule over an entire nation of poor
people. Are those the kind of people you want to turn into 8-foot-tall
superhumans? 'Cause that kind of power won't stay confined to the civilized
corners of the world."

The last time
they'd had this discussion, Rix had given his usual counter argument.
"What, we're supposed to wait for every lost corner of the world to catch
up before we can advance? I'm glad you weren't there to whisper in the Wright
brothers' ears. 'Bad people might get airplanes, so we ought to just junk this
whole flying business…'" And so it went.

The whole issue
was complicated by the fact that Rix's Modifications were voluntary, while Big
Fella's enhancements had been a matter of necessity. And that Big Fella himself
was a dealer of Modifications, of a sort. Not that he would admit to the
standard categorizations. "I'm not Modified. I prefer Custom," he had
said to Rix once.

Rix sat for
another fifteen minutes on the picnic table, reviewing the approach he would
take with Big Fella. He finally stood up, shaking his head.
I don't need a
strategy. He's my friend, for godsake.

He got back into
his truck and pulled out onto the two-lane highway that led to Big Fella's
place. It was a short drive from where he had stopped. The road followed the
contours of the hill country, dipping and arcing through the tall brown grass
and bare trees, bordered on either side by unending barbwire fencing.

Rix could see
the property long before he pulled up to the entrance. The high fencing was
covered with lengths of faded red plastic to keep the acres of — stuff
— out of sight of the road.
 

As he slowed to
pull into the front gate, he could read the jumbled letters painted onto the
plastic of the fencing:
Big Fella's Motorcycle Parts
.

It looked
exactly the same as the last time Rix had visited.

He parked his
truck on the dirt lot in front of the ranch-house-style building that served as
the parts counter and office. At least, the official one. There was only one
other vehicle parked in front, and as Rix looked around the yard, he could see
a solitary figure out among the nearly endless rows of ancient motorcycles.
People came from around the nation to hunt through these acres of discarded
bikes, looking for rare parts and unexpected treasure.

Or, more
accurately,
very dedicated
motorcycles
fans came here looking for treasure. Big Fella's lot was remarkably isolated
from the wider world. The business did not maintain a web page or social media
listing, or even a phone connection. If you wanted old motorcycle parts, you
had to travel there and search through the two-wheeled graveyard yourself.
Well, you and the rattlesnakes.

Running this
salvage yard was Big Fella's day job, although he never called it that. As far
as he would admit, it was his primary business, and anything else was simply a
"side project." He especially hated it when any of his "side
project" customers would jokingly suggest it was a front operation.
"My uncle established this yard thirty years ago," he would fume,
"and my grandfather established the largest chain of motorcycle
dealerships in the history of the state of Texas. Bikes have been the family
business for almost a century. Don't tell me my yard ain't a real
business."

All of which was
true. It was also true that the motorcycle salvage yard had proved to be an
excellent cover for his other business, the one that operated in an underground
facility below the garage out back.

Rix stepped onto
the porch and pulled open the screen door. The hinges and door return spring
squealed in protest. He walked through, and the door banged to a close behind
him.

The office
looked the same as Rix remembered, not that he expected anything to be
different. Bent and scratched metal signs advertising long-gone motorcycle products
were mounted randomly on the walls between faded posters of old motorcycle
races. There was a homemade wooden parts counter bisecting the room, anchored
at either end by catalog holders crammed with vintage parts catalogs. It was
defiantly old-fashioned, as if computers, not to mention the internet, had
never been invented.

Big Fella
Jackson was sitting behind the counter in a battered easy chair, feet propped
up in front of him on a counter stool. He was engrossed in a motorcycle
magazine, eyes down. His graying ponytail spilled down the back of his worn,
black leather jacket.

He looked up
without moving his head. Then he slowly stood, his six-foot-eleven-inch frame
unfolding like some giant human pocketknife.

“Well if it
ain’t the shore patrol," he said, staring down at Rix. "Screwed up
your DNA yet?”

"No, but my
third testicle sometimes aches."

"Haw. You
always looked like the type who needed more than two. But I'm not buying
it."

"Well, nuts
to that. How's business?"

Big Fella raised
an eyebrow. "Which one?"

"I think
you know."

"Yeah, I
don't guess you're here for 'cycle parts."

Big Fella turned
around and gave a sort of shrug for Rix to follow. Rix went around the counter
and followed Big Fella through a door at the back that led to a covered breezeway
between the front office and the garage. There were two doors on this wall of
the garage, and Big Fella angled toward the heavy steel door to the right. He
pulled out a distinctive key, an unusual combination of metal and plastic, and
placed it in a lock mounted higher on the door than the typical keyed lock. He
held it still in the lock for several seconds, until the muffled sound of gears
and sliding bars buried in the door finally ceased. Then he slowly pushed the
heavy door open and led Rix down the concrete stairs.

As Rix followed
behind he was quietly impressed with how smooth and natural Big Fella's
movements were. You'd never guess he was wearing a state-of-the-art powered
exoskeleton under all that leather. And the average person probably wouldn't
have noticed his bionic hand right away, either. He had clearly installed
another upgrade, one that was remarkably lifelike.

It still amazed
Rix to see him moving so effortlessly. Big Fella had taken the hit that altered
his life forever at the battle for the Strategic Petroleum Reserve. The spinal
injury had left him partially paralyzed, as well as costing him the use of his
hand.

But the man had
connections, one of whom was Rix. The two had met during the quiet meetings
between a loose affiliation of mid-level officers and senior non-comms of the
U.S. military who were contemplating joining the nascent Texas Republic. Once
it had become clear the United States was no longer united and would not hold
together for long, an informal network of military personnel began a campaign
to "call home the sons of Texas" and any other Americans hoping to
join the new Republic. It had been a tense time as everyone grappled with the
ramifications of choosing sides in a civil war, but also a time that formed
lasting bonds.

Big Fella
Jackson's military career path had led him to a post in advanced weapons
evaluation. After the Breakup War had ground to a conclusion, with all the old
states struggling to build new alliances and establish new nations, Big had
used those military connections to acquire an advanced exoskeleton. Even
amongst the chaos it was one of the hardest acquisitions Rix had ever helped
put together.

The exoskeleton
had been developed by a Boston research company, ProtoTech, and Big's was the
first pre-production build after the prototype. Fortunately, the Atlantic
States of America had been slow in forming its new government, and Big had
managed to clandestinely purchase the exoskeleton and have it smuggled across
the border before the ASA had clamped down on the export of such advanced
technology. It was one of the first laws the new nation had passed.

It was a small
miracle Big had been able to acquire it, but the war had so shaken the
foundations of the economy that many frightened businesses had liquidated
inventory or quietly moved valuable projects to presumed safer locations.
Everything had been in flux. And the "XO," as Big called it, was an
extraordinary prize. It was the first fully functional exoskeleton that not
only boosted normal human strength via amplified electrical impulses to the
nerves and muscles, but also could effectively allow a paralyzed human to walk
again, thanks to the embedded interface with the human nervous system. The
compact fuel cells that powered it were the key elements that made it all
possible. They were the latest breakthroughs from the tediously named
"silicon reef" of Australia.

Even so, the
real reason Big was able to acquire the suit wasn't obvious until it arrived.
It was hand-delivered by three of the top ProtoTech researchers, who then
promptly asked for asylum. Rix smiled as he remembered that scene; nobody had
the slightest clue about the asylum laws of the fledgling Texas Republic.

"Sure
dudes, stay as long as you like," he'd said. "It's a free
country." And that was pretty much how it had turned out. The three men
were still here, and still working on advanced biocybernetics. Except instead
of working in ProtoTech's advanced lab, they were working in what Big Fella had
labeled the "subterranean beer garden and chop shop." Years ago Big's
uncle had excavated the underground area, intending to use it for oil storage
tanks for the above-ground garage. The tanks were never installed once Uncle
Bradley discovered that the facility was more profitable as a chop shop for
stolen cars. It was a very different sort of chop shop now.

Big and his new
partners had every intention of putting the XO into production and selling it
on the open market. Austin and New San Antonio were becoming hubs of
Modification research and development, so the supporting infrastructure was
near at hand. But for now they operated quietly, slowly refining and testing it
on willing participants, until it was fully ready. So far, they had only sold a
handful of examples to other paralyzed or incapacitated people, and had not
made it available to those simply looking for the latest Modification.

There was
another reason to keep their efforts quiet: The ASA would never forgive the
loss of the technology and the researchers. Rix heard through his network
across the border that the ASA Security services felt the same way about the
loss of the exoskeleton team as the Soviets felt about losing Germany's rocket
scientists to America after World War II. The ProtoTech team reported that in
the final days before the first shots of the Breakup War, new government agents
had shown up with a pointed interest in the researchers' progress, and stern
talk about diverting more resources toward developing a military application
for the technology.