Chapter SevenGo to chapter: 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 ==February 15, 2096, 13h The Budget Motel was half-covered in lunar dust from its position alongside the official entrance to Iolo Crater on Luna. It catered to travelers there for the week, the kind who valued location and price above amenities and service, or were simply too poor to afford the better places. Room 117 boasted the same peeling wallpaper, low-powered fluorescent lights, and cheap furniture as every other, but its occupant was far from ordinary. Trent, HAR pilot par excellence and one of the key players in WAR's tournament, lay exhausted on his bed, the only item of furniture in the room sufficient to comfortably contain his bulk. He had just returned from his daily grueling practice session, fighting round after endless round of simulated enemy HARs until he could no longer stay on his feet. Whenever Trent closed his eyes, he saw nothing but the actinic flash of shorted circuits, remembered the acrid smell of burning metal, heard only the screech of metal rending itself apart under pressure from his enormous fist. No matter how much he tried to relax, it was always there, in the back of his mind: the knowledge that he was just a fighter, that his skill in combat was the only way people would ever notice him. Today, he remembered, he had had a spectator, a young Italian who offered to give him some practice against "a real fighter". He could have taken the opportunity to study the other man's movements (after all, one so eager to fight would probably be a fellow competitor in the tournament), shown some human kindness; instead he had defeated his unknown enemy without a thought. He had had no consideration that perhaps having a robotic arm torn off would cause pain on the other end of the line connecting the HAR directly to the pilot's brain. After that he had left, unwilling to face the shock and horror on his opponent's face, the stories that would inevitably get around. Instead, he was in this low-rent dive, trying to clear his mind. The door in Trent's motel room chimed at a volume sufficient to wake the dead. Trent glanced at his watch, and he remembered with a jolt that he was supposed to be meeting a Mrs. Traillieu today for lunch. He opened the door and there she was, looking up at him and obviously struggling to keep the annoyance off her face. "I assume you were expecting me?" she asked, but it was really more of a statement than a question. Aidoann Traillieu was attired in a simple green and gold sweater with jeans, matching metallic green earrings placed to accent the green of her eyes against otherwise plain features. The close-cropped, almost white hair and the pocket organizer at her waist completed the businesslike image, a stark contrast to Trent's unruly blond hair and large, muscular frame. Trent was in no mood to bandy with words, so his reply was clipped and direct: "Thank you for coming to my place, Mrs. Traillieu. Do you have somewhere in mind, or should I treat you to the latest in lunar cuisine?" Turning her glare down a notch, she replied, "Please, call me Aidoann. By the way, should I call you Trent, or do you have some other, more formal moniker?" "Just Trent is fine," he assured her. "Unlike you, I don't have another option," he continued, unable to keep his voice and face from twisting with bitterness. He hated it when people rubbed his differences in. A quick nod accompanied Aidoann's next comment. "Actually, that's what I wanted to talk to you about. I have transportation waiting to Coral Station, so it's best if we leave in a timely fashion." Trent raised his eyebrows in surprise. Coral Station was one of the most top-notch restaurants anywhere, and wasn't cheap either. This meeting must be more important than it sounded! Trent was not so easily spooked, however, and was not about to turn down a meal at Coral Station just because it looked shady. A hurried word of acquiescence from Trent proved sufficient to start Aidoann out the door. * * * * On the shuttle to Coral Station, Aidoann explained, "I'm taking you here to meet a man named Marcus Faraday. I guess you could consider him my boss. He can't avoid a job at WAR, but he's risen high enough that he has plenty of free time to do this sort of thing." Trent only half-heard her words, fascinated instead by the view port looking out to Coral Station, the space restaurant once hailed as "the best cuisine in the solar system". It felt good to be thinking about something designed to entertain instead of intimidate. Coral Station used the same man-to-machine neural connection as a HAR, but for a far different purpose: using the latest technology, the master chef could redesign the whole restaurant in a matter of hours to fit with the new theme of his menu, or shift tables to accommodate the exact number of patrons he had that day. Although the space station wasn't much to look at from the outside (it was a space station, with all the usual utilitarian feel of such), it was oddly welcoming, especially for Trent. Trent jerked his attention back to Aidoann, who was now discussing her own history with WAR and Faraday and why she was now committed to helping him. She glared at him and broke off conversation, prompting only a slight abashed expression from Trent, to whom it had never occurred to be polite. Fortunately for Trent, the shuttle pilot chose that moment to announce their arrival at the station and wish them an enjoyable stay. As the two of them traversed the airlock system and were guided to their table by an obsequious, annoyingly European waiter, Aidoann shot glances at Trent to see how he was reacting to the surroundings. She was impressed at his cold, calculating manner; she had no doubt that in a couple minutes, he could navigate the place blindfolded if he wanted, even though he had never been inside the place before. Being a genetically engineered freak had its advantages, apparently. Trent helped Aidoann into her chair with an exaggerated bow, and then took his own seat among imported plants, muted white lights to accent the pastel décor, and well-dressed visitors. As usual, the elegant padded chair was insufficient to admit his bulk, so he was perched on the edge of his seat, trying to order lunch, make himself comfortable, and size up the table's other occupant at the same time. He was unable to stop himself from starting as he glanced over toward the man he assumed to be Marcus Faraday: it was the man from the practice room! A small part of Trent's mind wondered how the older man had managed to clean himself up and arrange this meeting before Aidoann had arrived at his door, but the rest of him was too busy thinking up excuses for his brutality that morning to notice. Although Trent had seen Faraday on holovision before, a machine failed to convey the personality behind the man. The first impression one got on the holos was one of youth, and indeed, Faraday took pains to show himself as young, not yet in his prime, even to the point of growing his hair long and dressing in common work clothes rather than the usual suits. What the holovision did not show was the sense of righteous purpose behind the brown eyes, the assurance that here was a man who would never go back on what he believed in, who would never think about you if not that you might have some usefulness to him. Faraday's eyes seemed to bore to the depths of his being in a single glance, scrutinizing him just like Trent would have had he been facing an opponent on the arena floor. Trent nodded, thinking, Finally someone worthy of my time! Faraday, after thanking Aidoann for her help, started analyzing Trent. So he really is a super-warrior like he claims to be, he thought. He certainly does look the part. Faraday was correct: Trent resembled nothing so much as a fighter caricature, all muscle and strength with an unruly shock of blond hair helping to divert attention from his frightening eyes that seemed to take him, and Aidoann, in with a single glance. The man was wild and dangerous, but to Faraday, he was merely another tool to be used. Faraday made the first move, addressing himself to Trent in a mild tenor voice: "I'm Marcus Faraday." Smiling slightly at Aidoann's expense, he continued with a significant raise of the eyebrows, "I'm sure you know all about me from Aidoann here, but what really concerns you is my vision for the future. Everyone knows that WAR is a corrupt institution, but I'm doing something about it. I'm going to reform WAR from the inside, make it a company that helps men achieve their dreams instead of controlling them." Faraday's fist clenched under the table; although Trent could see the other was agitated, he had no fear of him and ignored the gesture. Trent had watched Aidoann's previous interview on LBC News, and was familiar with what he now knew to be Faraday's mission: use WAR for a subsidiary instead of controlling role, put more emphasis on the power of man and less on the power of machines. The power of the HAR would become secondary to the skill of its pilot. Trent saw the implied bait immediately: if the pilot was the all-important factor, then he, as the ultimate HAR pilot, would become dramatically more important with no work on his part. He could become a household name, with enough clout to learn his real past... especially if he started from the top-notch job WAR offered to the winner of the tournament. Certainly an attractive prospect for anyone, Trent thought, not just someone like me who has no other choice. With a meaningful glance at Faraday, Aidoann took up the tack, looking thoughtfully at the hulking bio-warrior. "Trent, I know you're unsure about what to do. You think this is too sudden, that helping us will come back to haunt you. After all, that's what people want from you, isn't it? Muscle." Aidoann cut a little close to home for Trent, who put down his excellent cuisine and lashed out in response. "How are you two any different? You would never have approached me if I couldn't fight better than you could!" Hastening to stop this rant before Trent convinced himself, Faraday jumped in, "Of course not! You're the only major tournament competitor who isn't attached to WAR. Besides, your motive already coincides with ours. It's simply a matter of expanding your horizons, fighting for something beyond the next bend." Diners from other tables turned to stare as voices rose higher, echoing in the cramped confines of Coral Station; by this point, Trent's was not the only chair groaning under unaccustomed strain. Trent forced himself to calm down and think rationally. Marcus can't possibly know the real story; he believes what I say on the nets, that I'm a freelance worker who lost his memory in a gravlift accident five years ago. Even so, he could be useful to me, provide somewhere I can run to if the deal with Iron Fist turns sour. From what I've heard of the Talon, she probably will -- When you put it that way, I don't really have a choice. Interrupting Faraday in the middle of another preprepared speech, Trent said, "Very well. you've convinced me. You help me win the tournament, I'll help you win your cause." As an afterthought, he added, "Oh, and Faraday, I have some... prior commitments I'm going to need your help with, if you don't mind." Faraday nodded, stood up, and shook Trent's hand. "Thank you, Trent. We need everyone we can get. I'm sure I have sufficient resources to provideyou with whatever you need." His eyes communicated far more than words; Trent wondered if he knew about Iron Fist after all. But of course, he thought, that was impossible. Thanking his host graciously, Trent and Aidoann made their exit, the former walking through Coral Station's apparently random tunnels with ease, his final destination the shuttle back to Luna. Behind them, Marcus Faraday got up from his seat, a faint smile on his face. Goodbye, Aidoann, he thought. Take care of Trent and bide your time, for our day is yet to come. |