Base Metal (The Sword Book 2)

that is, right?" The agent asked. "It's when you get fucked so hard by the prison bull that your sphincter snaps like a rubber band, and everything falls out. It's a real shit way to die."
"What do you want?"
"The funeral would be awful. They'd have to close half the casket, at least, just so your mom wouldn't have to see her son died from his gooey bits tumbling out his broken, sodden-."
"What do you want?!" Firenze cried.
"There's no need to scream, kid. I'm just laying out scenarios."
"What do I do?" Firenze asked. "You're goading me. What do you want?"
"I want you to consider a third path. You cooperate, you volunteer for civil service to make up for your crimes of naivete. A man of your talents could be of great use to the State. We might even be able to waiver your hardjack."
Firenze stared.
The agent leaned forward and added, "You might even get your assist box back before we dissect the mask."
"I'll do it." Firenze snapped.
"Just like that?" The agent sounded a little surprised. Amused, even.
"Yeah. But I get my mask back, unaltered. And I want my mom-"
The man turned his hands open as if to protest his innocence, "Of course. You'll be paid for your service, and we'll defer whatever you think is proper. Play this right, and you might get some social credit for your work. That kind of prestige is priceless." His smile vanished, his voice darkened, and he advised, "But know this: there are no go-backs. From the moment you leave this room, you'll be squeaky-clean, or we will revisit this file." The smile returned in all its demonic glory. "We wouldn't want that, now would we?"
"No." Firenze agreed.
"Glad we agree." The man stated. "Here's how this plays. I'm going to leave. Some guards are going to bring you to a washroom. You'll clean yourself up, get that shame off. You'll go back to your cell until the lawyer arrives. You'll cooperate fully, give up everything you know about Kendrix and Suze. You will not mention me or this conversation. You will be charged with receiving illegal wetware, you will waive your right to a trial, and you will submit yourself to civil service as summary judgment. Upon release, you will board the waiting cab and join your new life. You will contact no one, bring nothing. Do you understand?"
Firenze nodded.
"Good. Welcome to your new life, citizen. You've just made the best choice."
The man stood, smoothing his tie as he rose. Only when he'd reached the door did Firenze recover enough wits to protest, "But I'm not a soldier!"
The agent froze, framed in the light from the hall, and promised, "Don't worry. We'll take care of that." His worn face crinkled into a mockery of good humor, and he assured, "We'll take care of everything."
The door slammed shut behind.

Bootload Basic
He should have known there'd be consequences.
'Never trust the cops.' His oldest brother used to tell him, and the Agency was to cops what oceans were to rivers. Every deal was laden with an Ifrit's discourse, barbed and spiked to ensnare the unwise.
He should have remembered this, for now he drowned in a tunnel of gold.
The clamor sang around him. It was as if he stood with his back to a radiance incredible, with all the world viewed through a squinted, shadowed tunnel. Through that pinprick, choked by the golden beams streaming past, he watched the lights swirl on the ceiling, the shadows of doctors in white masks, and their implements gleaming over him. He tried to raise his head, but his neck was too weak. Pain spiked, golden and hot, with a rise in the terrible whine-ring song.
He collapsed, unable to rise, and tumbled down the golden tunnel.
Alien words coursed through his mind, echoes of a hundred voices he'd never heard.
-5.5 kilograms unloaded-
-equal to the armor's thickness divided by the cosine of inclination from perpendicular-
-this is my Rifle-
-haircut, number three razor on the top-
-blast radius of five meters, casualty radius-
The chorus blurred into the golden-heat chime, silver lines through the auric base echoed in screams and songs. Numbers clawed from the depths, flooded his vision. He could feel the ache-shape of his bones against the hardjack as he lay helpless, pinned beneath the storm.
-arm forward, lock the opponent, use your body as the fulcrum-
-I am the shield of the State-
"Quiet!" he scream-thought.
The light receded to the edge of his vision. The pain-clamor dwindled, and the heat faded. He was lying on a bed, white sheets over puke-green plastic, all the walls built of peeled plaster and faded glory. Eyes behind plastic shields stared down at him, white-masked-mouths speaking muted mysteries. He tried to stay in this place, this tawdry and threadbare world, but the voices pulled him to the sea.
-161 decibels when firing-
"No." He mumbled. The cacophony dwindled. Every millimeter it gave, he took, repeating his monosyllabic defiance as he beat back the tide. "No."
The walls twisted like a surrealist painting, all melting clocks and looming corners, impossible angles and bleeding color, with the golden dawn hissing through every crack and crevice. "No. No. No. Quiet." He hissed.
A bonfire raged in his skull, carved about the scars of his implants. The hardjack was lava, a smoldering spike that pierced his core. Somewhere about the edges, he knew he'd been neural imprinted. They'd used his wire to flash two years of training into his brain.
-the glory-
-the duty-
-the State-
My mind!
He'd agreed to it. The case had been hard to argue. He'd taken the deal, and they'd needed a soldier, quick. His wetware had been just good enough to let the Agency get 'unconventional'. He knew it was illegal, but he couldn't argue. 'How bad could it be?' he'd wondered. Now a thousand voices pounded against one: mind rape, a reverse lobotomy.
-the laws of war forbid-
"I am me!" He screamed, defiant against the tumult. The Agency didn't have months to train him, so they'd programmed him, instead. It wasn't just data in the imprint. The knowledge carried loyalty