Superego

SUPEREGO

Frank J. Fleming

New York, NY

To the lovely and talented Sarah K. With you, life is always an adventure.

Acknowledgements

First, I'd like to thank my wife, who has always supported my writing and who edited
Superego
and came up with one plot point that helped tie the whole story together. I'd also like to thank all my beta readers, including my sister, Sarah Fleming, Charlie Hodges, Steve Oglesby, Rick Woolard, Ed Killian-Keup, Michael Fisher, Dodsfall, Jeff Patterson, Jeff Ferrier, MD Persons, Rick Mount, Eric Krysinski, Nicola James Fiorvento, Randy McCarthy, Ray Pruett, Brian Goodman, and Robert Lowell. Thanks also to the readers of my blog, IMAO. us, who indulged me when I first posted the adventures of Rico as a short story there; that encouragement helped me decide to turn
Superego
into a full novel.

I would also like to thank Steve Russell and Gina Duvall and the rest of the writing group I was a part of way back when, who gave me the hard critiques I needed when I first started writing fiction. Also thanks to Michael Z. Williamson and Sarah A. Hoyt for all their help along the way. Thanks to Len Sherman for his comments on the manuscript. And a special thanks to Adam Bellow, David Bernstein, and the rest of Liberty Island for the opportunity to get my novel out there.

Thanks to my parents for always being supportive. Although my dad never liked “Sci-Fi,” I know he would have humored me and read my book anyway. And thank you to God, Who always makes sure life is interesting.

CHAPTER 1

Killing is ugly. A living body is designed to survive; killing opposes its entire purpose. Nothing dies in an artful manner—a body is just damaged until it fails to sustain itself anymore. Put enough holes in something, and it will eventually stop moving, stop functioning. And often a living creature's last moments are spent in a pointless struggle, twisting and writhing in a vain attempt to continue its existence. I've seen it many times. I've known it myself.

But that's just an aesthetic quibble. The ugliness of death aside, I always enjoyed the challenge of being a hitman.

The receptionist was ignoring me. She (I wasn't familiar with the species—purplish with tentacley things on her head—but she appeared to be the childbearing variety) was talking on the phone in a clearly non-work-related manner while I waited. We were in a spacious lobby with walls and floors of glass and ivory. Everything was curved, not many hard angles where surfaces met. Several bunches of flowers and other potted plants decorated the walls and otherwise empty floor space. I noted one exit to my right and a hallway leading further into the building to my left—so I only had two directions to be wary of.

I knocked on the hard white top of her desk. She finished her call and looked at me with gray eyes. “I'm sorry for the wait, but I don't think this resort is able to accommodate your species.”

“That's okay. I'm actually here on business. My name is Rico, and I am here to see Chal Naus.”

“He didn't say he was expecting anyone, and he doesn't see anyone without an appointment. And business hours ended half an hour ago.”

“No, he is not expecting me, but I do need to see him personally. And I specifically came after business hours because I wanted to be polite and not interrupt whatever it is he does here.”

Her face tensed. I had no idea what that meant—and didn't care. “I can't help you. I think you need to leave.” Her tenor had changed—I think she was threatening me. She wasn't very good at it. Perhaps I could teach her something.

The job of a hitman is always changing, always invigorating, and it often requires that I perform at my best. Plus, it makes me get out and interact with people—which is good, since I'm basically anti-social. I have trouble seeing that as my fault, though; I rarely encounter an individual worth talking to. Everyone seems so pointless, coasting through drab, rote lives. They have nothing useful to say, nothing useful to do. They just are.

I partly blame civilization for that. It allows people to get through life with so little effort. Take this receptionist. Most animals exist in a daily life-and-death struggle, and if they don't give it everything they've got, they end up with that messy death I just described. The receptionist, on other hand, just had to sit at a desk and smile…and she couldn't even be bothered to put much effort into that. I can't imagine why someone would waste her life going to a job she doesn't care to do. I can't imagine such a person would have anything to say that might be worth listening to. So I'm anti-social.

But I'm working on it.

Sure, I find pretty much all sentients boring in their normal lives, but that doesn't mean they lack the potential to be interesting. It's just a matter of focus. No matter how lazy or unmotivated a person is, if he feels his life is on the line, he will devote every available resource to not being killed. Civilization goes out the door, and pure survival kicks in. When people are that awake and that focused, they intrigue me. So you can say I have a job that brings out the best in people.

“Are you familiar with the Nystrom syndicate? I am here on their behalf, so one way or another I will speak to your boss. In person.”

Her eyes grew wider. I could have guessed at the meaning of that but, again, I didn't care. “Is he aware you are coming?”

I thought I'd covered that. Sometimes—due to my lack of social skills—I'm not as clear as I think I am. So I tried again. “I'll make this simple: You tell Chal Naus that I am going to speak to him personally and that I will kill anyone who stands in my way, starting with you.” I didn't think she was actually going to get in my way, but as I said, people can be quite focused when they feel their lives are on the line. “I'm going to go sit down while I wait for a response.” I smiled politely, wondering what color her species bled; you can never tell by skin color.

I sat down in one of the odd circular chairs across from the desk. The purple, tentacle-headed receptionist was back on the phone, talking much more frantically than she had before. Soon six other creatures entered the lobby: larger tentacle-headed things I assumed were male. I think they were supposed to intimidate me, and the tense faces they wore were probably their angry expressions.

I remained seated and relaxed, arms folded. There is little in body language that is universal between species, but ignoring someone is a good way to assert dominance; it communicates that I do not find an individual or group to be threatening or even worth my time.

A screen appeared on one of the walls. On the screen was the image of another creature of the same species, and admittedly able to judge by only a small sample, he seemed obese. That wasn't necessarily a weakness—it could be a cultural thing.

“That is Chal Naus,” Dip, my “partner,” chimed in my ear.

“You said you needed to speak to me,” Naus said.

“I was told by Nystrom to speak to you personally, and this is rather impersonal. So just tell me where you are, and I'll head on over.”

“Don't bother; I don't have anything to say to you people. I'm supported by the Veethood now, and I don't intend to have any more business with Nystrom.”

Dip spoke up. “The Veethood are a local cartel—”

“Never heard of them. Don't care about them,” I told both Naus and Dip. The six guys around me started to stir.

“You go tell Nystrom—”

“I was not told that Nystrom cares what you have to say.” I used my firm voice, hoping that meant something to his species. “And
I
certainly don't care. My job is to give you a message, and then I am done.”

Naus's eyes narrowed. Anger? “Perhaps I can tell them all I need to by sending back your corpse.”

I relaxed back in my chair. “I wouldn't recommend it. Nystrom is known for being very dogged. You kill me, they send two people. You kill them, they send three people. Then four people. Then five people. And they'll keep going until they get what they want.” I unfolded my arms. “Know how many I think it will take, though?” I leaned toward the screen. “I think one will be more than enough.”

I should mention that my brain is altered in more ways than one. First, my reflexes are much better than a regular man's, but more importantly, I can actually process and perform two separate actions at once as long as one of them doesn't require higher-level functions like speech processing. For instance, I have never had any trouble patting my head and rubbing my tummy at the same time. More practically, I can wield two guns, acquiring and eliminating a separate target with each hand simultaneously. That's very useful when I have to quickly gun down six people—which I did as I stood from the chair. I immediately assessed the threat level of each of the six and then shot them in order. I had shot them all before any had successfully drawn a weapon.

It was a little pathetic, but the rest of the bodies Naus would throw at me would be a little more prepared and might actually present a challenge. Their blood is orange, by the way.

Naus was shouting something at me through the screen, but I didn't pay attention and instead walked over to the receptionist, who was cowering behind her desk. “So where is Chal Naus?”

“Down the hallway in the bar!” she cried. My translator program had some trouble with her stuttered delivery.

“I know this must be stressful for you, but thank you for your help,” I said before turning away. I want to be better socially, so I try to work at it whenever I have an opportunity. It's hard for me to analyze in which situations I actually gain something by being polite, but it usually doesn't hurt. I really have to remember to be polite, though, because of my intense disdain for pretty much every sentient creature.

Two more purple guys came running at me, guns pointed forward, but I still shot both of them before they could fire. I stepped over them and continued to the bar.

Now you might be thinking there are smarter ways to go about this sort of thing, but then you'd be missing the point. Sure, I could sneak in and take out my targets surreptitiously, and a skilled assassin certainly is a threat to be feared. But I am a hitman, not an assassin. And there's a good reason for that. Hiding shows weakness. When representing the Nystrom syndicate, one of the most powerful forces in the universe, one should never show weakness. That's why I always use the front door. I let my marks know I'm coming. I walk calmly. I give them time to prepare to defend themselves. And I show them that whatever they do doesn't matter. Because Nystrom always gets what it wants. Always. It is larger and more powerful than most people can even comprehend, and I am the human representation of that power.

Yes, one of these days that philosophy will earn me a hole burned right through my face. But everyone will have to admit that right up to that point I was extremely intimidating. Years ago, there was once a sensationalist piece in the works at the Laverk Times calling me the “Universe's Deadliest Man.” Funny story: the day before it would have appeared, I killed the entire editorial staff in a completely unrelated matter.

Well, it was funny to me. Maybe you had to have been there.

Anyway, I met no one else on the short walk to the bar and could hear people panicking inside. I assumed security had fortified around Naus, and that would work nicely for me, because I'd rather they all just stayed put.

Bars make nice places for hits. They're public, so there are plenty of witnesses, but they usually lack many windows and are out of the way, so too many people aren't alerted too quickly. I've never liked hanging out in such places for fun, as I don't drink; I only go to bars when I'm killing people.

I go to a lot of bars.

I stepped through the front door and started firing. The non-threats were presumably smart enough to flee through the exits, so I took aim at anyone facing my direction. It's not like there's a penalty for shooting innocent bystanders (besides the legal ones, but that's always been a non-issue for me). I aimed quickly while moving in a zigzag pattern (they were expecting me, so they would inevitably get some shots off) and took them down two by two. There were nine threats by first glance, then seven, then five, then three, then…still three.