Voices
- 3 years ago
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Voices free porn video
This story was my first try at the dark future genre. With the nomination of THE RUN for a year end award, there has been renewed interest in that story as well as requests for more. This story introduces several of the minor characters and expands upon the world. It isn’t necessary to have read The Run to enjoy this story, but if you have, it will give you a better feel for Characters like Nelson and Irish.
CET Sunday, March 15th, 15:00 Hours
At the first screech of the alarm Nelson’s eyes popped open. He was fully awake in the way only a longtime soldier could be. He instantly regretted it, the pounding in his head and blurred view of the cracked ceiling reminding him forcefully of last night’s drinking. He sat up, his stomach protesting violently. As he tried to make it to the small alcove that passed for a bathroom, his feet hit the empty bottles strewn on the floor near his bed. Nelson crashed to the floor in a cursing vomiting heap. He lurched to his feet and stumbled into the alcove. With a heave, his stomach tried to expel more of the poison he had filled himself with last night.
For several minutes Nelson stayed on his knees hugging the cool porcelain bowl. He wretched until nothing was left to come up, finally lifting himself heavily to his feet and turning on the water in the wash basin. Taking a dirty washcloth from the overflowing hamper in the corner he wet it and wiped his face. The image that greeted his blurry eyes in the mirror actually brought a ghost of a smile to his face.
Bloodshot blue eyes peered out from under his bushy eyebrows. His once thin, finely chiseled face was now gaunt and pale. His lips compressed into a thin razorlike gash behind three days of stubble. The high cheekbones his mother had constantly kidded him about as a youth only added to the overall effect, making him look like one of the living dead from one of those bad movies his son used to love.
Nelson washed his face again and stared thoughtfully at the toothbrush. His stomach growled and he decided that discretion was the better part of valor this morning. Besides, he wasn’t going anywhere and he never had visitors in the single room he rented here in the worst part of old town Singapore.
Nelson stripped off the uniform top, now dirty beyond wearing, and tossed it in the hamper. A crisscross network of scars decorated his broad chest and back. A doctor would have been able to identify several types of wounds, slashes, punctures, entry and exit wounds. Almost anything that the human body could endure and recover from was written in Nelson’s pale skin. Nelson didn’t need a doctor to tell him about those scars. Each one told a story, a story only he knew. Permanent reminders of a past he wished to forget. The ceramic holes in each wrist were the most painful reminders to him. He had saved up several times to have them removed, but something always prevented him from it.
Nelson removed the black trousers next. These were now vomit stained as well and even he couldn’t make himself wear them. His legs and buttocks were just as scarred as the rest of him. Nelson stepped into the cube and turned on the water. It was cold, and soon had soaked into his long black hair and was sheeting down his body. The shock of the cold water roused him some and he flipped the control over to hot. Nelson breathed deeply, letting the steam do its best to rehydrate his body. He was an old hand at dealing with hangovers and knew all the tricks.
The steam and heat reminded him of the jungle. Some South American shithole, squatting next to a jungle track. Never knew where and it didn’t much matter. Four guerrillas were moving cautiously up the track. He could still feel the cold steel of the H&K G-99 assault rifle gripped in his sweaty hands, could smell the rotting jungle around him and hear the insects buzzing in his ears. That was when he was still a man, before the jacks, before the chips, before the smart optics and long before he had the wealth of experience needed to sense a trap. He had taken careful aim and released a spray of copper jacketed death into the four men. He could still see the flash of the grenade launcher, almost like a movie in frame by frame.
The water had gone cold. Nelson switched it off and pulled a dirty towel from the hamper. In a few moments he had dried himself and wrapped it around his waist. As he reentered the bedroom, he glanced at the digital clock. 3:40, still two hours before work. Work? Well, what passed for work. He eyed the closet where his last clean uniform hung. White shirt, black trousers and black cummerbund. The outfit of a waiter at the Café Du Margarite.
Another uniform hung there, still sealed in the black plastic of the dry cleaners. How long since that had been put there? A year? Two? Maybe more. Nelson’s mind struggled with the bland routine that had become his life. Time simply had no meaning. With effort, Nelson pieced together the date and did the math. Three years tomorrow. Three years of living like an average denizen of Singapore.
Was it really three years since he had stood in the back room that passed for an office and told Sharky to sit and spin? He could remember the gnomish little man’s face, the snide grin upon it. His own feelings were so sure back then. He was out, no more. Now? Now he was sick of having no money, sick of kowtowing to every asshole who could afford to eat at the café. And most of all sick of himself, sick of the shell of a man he had become.
The buzzing of the vid phone roused him from his dark thoughts. Probably the café wanting him to come in early. Screw it. Let them find someone else to handle the last of the lunch crowd.
Nelson began to clean up the mess in the floor, but the phone continued to buzz insistently. With an irritated twist Nelson said, ‘Answer, image off.’
There was a hum and a click. International connection? Nelson waited quietly. The blank screen gave away nothing. For the first time in ages Nelson clicked up the mag on his eyes and brought the tiny printout at the bottom of the screen into hard focus. 23453 code. India? Still no sound.
After a few more seconds of silence Nelson said, ‘Image on.’
A ghost from his past stared out at him. Eyes hidden by mirrored shades, tight lips curled into a grin. Nelson sat heavily on the bed, words failing him.
‘Nelson. Been a while,’ the image said in that easy southern drawl. Nelson remembered that drawl. Never figured to hear it again.
That same drawl, a calming voice in his ear amidst the gunfire and explosions. Nelson was Corporal Nelson then. In a jungle up to his ass, with his team being slaughtered by separatist guerrillas. Mortar fire was falling among their hastily thrown up defensive positions. Already he was down to three effectives. And all the while that smooth, calm drawl coming through the earpiece. Promising the extraction team would be there with gunship support. They fought until there was no ammunition left, then with fists, knives and riflebutts. Inevitably numbers prevailed and they were over run. The gunships never arrived.
Nelson had been taken with Parks and Vorkiser to the rebel camp. Thrown into bamboo cages, they had suffered three days of torture and abuse.
On the fourth day they took Vorkiser away. Nelson and Parks were squatting in their cages covered in their own filth when they heard the screams begin. Something inside Nelson froze. Vorkiser was a tough man, tougher than Nelson. What could be making him scream so hideously?
When they dragged him back later Nelson got his answer. Vorkiser’s eyes were empty sockets, his left arm gone, the stump still oozing blood through a black tarry substance smeared over it. They had cut out his wetware. Nelson suddenly felt the weight of his own cybernetics.
They threw the maimed man back into his cage, a death sentence considering the filth and heat. The three camouflage clad men approached his cage next. Nelson braced himself. He wo
uld rather be killed than have that happen to him, he tensed and waited for the door to open.
The sudden staccato of a light automatic weapon interrupted the men. They did a macabre dance as they collapsed into heaps in front of him. Several explosions took out the como tent and the barracks hut. In moments it was over. The quiet was ominous.
A very tall man in tiger striped fatigues approached him, a smoking Armalite in his hands. He stopped before Nelson’s cage. As his eyes moved over the scene the he took out a cigarette and lit it.
He dragged long and hard on the cigarette, the cherry lighting red. His eyes fixed on Nelson.
‘Sorry I’m late.’
That same slow drawl.
‘Major?’ was all Nelson could manage.
‘In the flesh,’ came the sardonic reply.
Nelson started to speak, but the image beat him to it.
‘Nelson, I need your help.’
Nelson found himself smiling. That was the Major for you. Cut to the chase. No asking about how you are or anything. Always business first.
Nelson shook his head, ‘Major, I’m out. Have been for a while. I thought you retired, too?’
‘I was retired, but not by choice,’ the image replied.
‘Sorry Major, I never heard about it,’ Nelson said quietly.
‘Doesn’t matter, I need your help.’
‘Major, I haven’t taken a job in three years. I am out of the Biz. I walked away before it got me killed,’ Nelson said, a note of pleading in his voice.
‘You owe me, Nelson, and I got no one else to turn to.’
‘Damnit all to hell,’ Nelson muttered.
‘Skyjockey’ll be there in half an hour with the data card. It’s up to you whether you look at it or not.’ With that the screen went black.
‘Trace,’ Nelson snarled.
The wall unit hummed for a few moments, then there was an audible clicking sound.
‘Trace completed at-‘
Nelson impatiently cutoff the electronic voice, ‘Dial back.’
It rang several times before the screen came on. A dapper man in business attire with a suitcase in his hand said, ‘Hello?’
‘Kill,’ Nelson said quickly. Damned airport. He called me from a fucking airport. Has he lost his mind? Or is he in that much trouble?
Nelson dressed quickly, he moved to the tiny kitchenette and made a pot of coffee. While it was brewing he took a shoebox from the top shelf of his closet and tossed it on the bed. By the time the doorbell rang he was on his second cup. For the first time in a long time he answered the door carefully. A young girl in the blue and red uniform of a skycap stood there.
‘Jack Nelson?’ she asked cheerfully in badly accented English.
Nelson nodded and placed his thumb on the proffered scanner. The girl checked it then removed a thick manila folder from her shoulder and handed it to him. Nelson dug into his pocket and tossed her a Hong Kong dollar. She looked at him with a little bit of astonishment on her face, it was way too big a tip.
Nelson smiled and closed the door. He tossed the envelope on the bed then lit a cigarette. He contemplated as he smoked it. If he opened that envelope, he was throwing away three years. He looked around the squalid little room. His eyes lit on his waiter’s uniform. If he did this he would lose his job, a job he had pulled a lot of strings to get. A job he realized suddenly that he hated with every fiber of his being. With a smile on his face he finished his coffee and went to get another cup.
Seating himself on the floor he opened the shoe box and removed a small data encryption machine. It was flat and black, sleek German technology. Hopelessly out of date. But the Major was just as out of touch with the latest technology, he guessed wryly as he tore open the envelope and spilled its contents on the floor.
Nelson swept up the data card and plugged it into the machine. The display flashed green and then came up. Nelson smiled to himself. Just as much out of touch as he was. An hour later, the ashtray was full of butts and his eighth cup of coffee sat half emptied and cold. Nelson shut down the little machine and rubbed his eyes.
He then stood up and began to pace. Damn, he could see why the Major needed help. But something like this would take a team, and he didn’t have a team anymore. Or did he?
Carrie was still in Singapore, and there was always Irish. Now came the moment of truth, do you do it? Or do you toss the stuff in the incinerator and hurry to work with a lame excuse for being late? Anyone but the Major and he might have stayed out. But he had no choice, he owed the man. And the Major was one of the few people in the world Nelson still called friend.
With a shrug he walked to the closet and fished out the black wrapped bag. Tearing the wrapping off, he almost reverently removed the dark black uniform. It still fit mostly. A little loose here and there, he was down from his fighting weight. I’ll have to remember that, he thought to himself.
Nelson made his way down the rickety staircase and out into the crowded streets. For three years he had taken these same steps daily, but now it was different. His Nimjaka 485-Ks were on. The whole world appeared different. He could see the cracks in the old walls, the faded spots in the carpet. When the low light enhancement kicked in, down in the foyer it startled him. The 485’s had been state of the art when he got them. They were still good eyes, still cut it. They had cost him the proceeds of three lucrative jobs for Nimjaka Corp.
The 485-Ks were top notch. Low-light, high res, Infrared, ultraviolet, integrated targeting system, HUD and several other gizmo’s Nelson didn’t understand. The flash suppression and auto dampening features were so fast that he almost forgot they were there.
Nelson stopped in the doorway and examined the streets. His old cautiousness was coming back. And the fact that the Major called him over an open line left him nervous. The Major was elite, the best of the best. If he had trouble, you could bet it was heavy. And if he needed help that went double.
Nelson hailed a cab and gave the driver an uptown address. The cabby looked at him dubiously, but Nelson looked out the window and ignored him. Nelson felt naked now. An average Joe didn’t need guns, but he did now. And he didn’t have his. Funny how he hadn’t noticed it in the last three years.
When the driver pulled in at the curb Nelson tossed him a handfull of bills and walked. His actual destination was two blocks away, but he wanted to watch his back trail. He reached it minutes later, no one was tailing him. Or if they were, they were very, very good.
Nelson stood before the blank concrete façade. The door was a heavy vault-like structure with no windows or locks. A small keycard slot was the only thing that broke its smooth surface. Nelson swiped his card along the slot and the door slid open. He ducked inside quickly. Exactly five seconds later the door slid noiselessly shut on its well greased tracks.
The interior was cool. The floor covered in a thick carpet. Heavy brocade drapes covered the walls. A few people moved purposefully through the lobby. Most were dressed well, upper corp or those who wanted to be thought of as such. The ladies in dresses and heels, the men in sharp suits. If he hadn’t known the nature of the establishment he might have felt out of place.
Nelson crossed the broad lobby and stopped at the desk. An obsequious man immediately rushed to attend him. Nelson studied him for a moment. Asian, with a rat-like face and oily manner that made Nelson feel dirty just speaking to him.
‘May I help you?’ he inquired.
Nelson wondered suddenly if he had that look on his face when patrons entered the café. He shuddered.
‘221,’ he said curtly.
The attendant went to a terminal and pressed a few buttons. The retinal scanner rose silently from the hardwood top of the desk. Nelson looked in and then said ‘Nelson, 2345323’.
A small magnetic car
d slid out of a slot. Nelson took it and made his way to the elevator. He could feel the attendant’s eyes staring into his back.
Nelson got off at the second floor and made his way down the hall. A thick red carpet ran down the center of the richly tiled hallway. Tasteful prints hung at intervals. Evenly spaced along the hallway were white numbered doors. Like a fancy hotel, he thought. He reached 221 and inserted the card. The faux wood door slid back with a hydraulic hiss and he walked in.
The room was exactly as he’d left it three years ago. Four long black cases and one smaller one. A strong box sat in a corner. A duster hung on a dilapidated coat tree. Other than this the room was empty. Nelson remembered leaving here, swearing he would never come back. Never meant three years, he thought cheerlessly.
Nelson took the smaller case and held it in his hands. If he opened this, he would be back. He hesitated only for a moment, then set it on the floor and clicked the clasps. With a mechanical whir, the top of the case rose. The hiss of air signaled that the hermetic seal had held.
Inside sat a pair of unusual pistols. One facing one way and one the other. They were larger and more bulky than most pistols, with a heavy chamber and ventilated barrels and real wood grips. Four spare clips sat in the plush red velvet liner. Four extra power cells were nestled along the top of the case. Inscribed along the barrel of each was Martell Inc. Model 9.
Martell was a wholly owned subsidiary of H&K now, but three years ago they had been a force in the arms industry. They had introduced the concept of gauss technology and their weapons had been some of the most sought after hardware on the planet. Each one had a smart chip in it that would analyze and integrate with almost any optics package and would auto calibrate to point blank for any range you happened to want in a nanosecond.
They were basically miniature railguns, the magnetic array would accelerate the titanium alloy spikes it used for ammunition to an incredible 5000 foot pounds per second. At that muzzle velocity, there was no armor in existence it would not penetrate out to 1000 yards. Even vehicle armor was no sure protection.
For the most part they had done their business in rifles. The Martell XR-5 had become the weapon of choice for snipers around the world. They had done a very limited business in pistols. The reasons for this were largely matters of magazine capacity, or more accurately, the power supply. Each clip held fifteen metal shards, a respectable number of shots. But at full power the magnets would deplete one of the energy clips in about four shots. You would usually get a fifth shot, but you never knew how much power was left, could never be sure the shot would leave the gun with a sufficient velocity to get penetration.
The second problem was damage. Soft targets would barely slow the shards, thus making only tiny holes. Only a hit on a major bone or organ would knock a soft target down. Against an armored foe however, they were superb. And rare. A pair of them would go for well over one hundred thousand Hong Kong dollars today. Nelson took one out with unusual care.
He snapped in the clip and slid home the magazine. With a flick he chambered a round. From the case he pulled a black DNI cable and jacked it into the gun, then he jacked the other end into the tiny ceramic socket in his wrist. Lines of red code blurred across his HUD as the gun and his eyes meshed. A red targeting cross appeared on the overlay. A smile creased Nelson’s face.
He removed the second gun and jacked it in. In short order both guns were set for 250 yards. Nelson coiled the NI cables and stuffed them in his pocket. Lifting the red inner liner he removed the dual shoulder rig he had made for the guns. They were black leather with extra room to accomdate the guns’ unusual size. He put them on and their weight comforted him. He tried a few practice draws. The guns came free easily with a motion that defied the eye to follow it. Nelson was pleased. At least he hadn’t lost that.
Charlize
- 29.10.2020
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