Ergo Sum: A Post Singularity Urban Fantasy
By Jave Harron
On the Prowl
The bionanoborg known as Adam Wilson followed the leads he had been provided, heading deep into the Purist neighborhoods. His camouflage, that of an unassuming elderly man, so far had been ignored by the gangs of baselines patrolling the streets. Wilson followed the scent of his pheromone tagged target with an efficiency tenfold greater than any dog, making note of the different gangs, graffiti, and territories.
Perhaps it would come in handy if the local government decided to clear out the scum, Wilson thought as his synthetic neurons absorbed the details.
Focusing on his primary task, Wilson noted the presence of other chemicals mixed into the pheromone trail. His target had been performing some type of drug. As he turned a corner, he noted the scent became much sharper. Looking into a nearby alley, he saw three young baseline men drinking out of a bag. The scent was all over one of them, mixing liberally with the bodily odors of his comrades. Each was dressed in the same set of red and orange colors. Whether gang colors, colors of one of the Lesser Sects, or some sports team, Wilson did not care.
He approached the group and started the routine that he had devised."Excuse me," Adam simulated a limp as he approached the youths. "Do any of you know how to get to Tenth Avenue?"
The target turned to face him, eying him up. Judging from the body language, the target was sizing up Wilson's body. "That's a ways off," the target replied, unsure whether to be aggressive or polite.
"Mind if I go through you idiots?" Adam abruptly changed the tone. "I'd like to stomp over you."
"What did you say?!" one of the target's friend's asked, shocked by his sudden threat.
"I said I'm going to kick your asses," Wilson taunted. "Now, get out of my way!"
The target pulled out a handgun from under his shirt. "This is our turf, old man," the target gestured to the end of the alley. "I'll give you to three to get out of here."
"Shove it," Adam gave the gangster the finger.
"One," the target said as anger distorted his face.
"Idiots," Wilson said as he took a step closer. The thug leveled the weapon at Wilson's face. "Two."
The safety of the gun was off, and there was likely a round chambered. It was then the plan was enacted. Adam Wilson moved to the outside of the target's gun hand while grabbing under the barrel with one hand. His other hand grabbed the rear of the gun, and turned the weapon towards the man. The target's finger snapped as Adam continued turning his hips and hands, causing him to release the firearm. Grabbing the pistol in one hand and the thug's throat in the other, Adam stood behind the target, using him as a human shield.
He fired twice at the first thug, shooting once in the stomach and then the face. The second thug reached for his own gun, but hesitated to fire for a split second. That split second was all it took for a single round to end up between his own eyes.
Wilson noticed sweat beads forming on his target's face. He loosened his grip enough so his target could speak.
"Relax," the posthuman instructed his mark. "My client wants you alive."
"For what?!" the man panicked.
"Oh, I think you know," Wilson replied. "Let's just say an old lady you sold for spare parts had some wealthy relatives."
"I had no choice!" the target protested. "I did what I had to to eat!"
"You had plenty of choices," Wilson replied, tightening his grip for the psychological effect. "You just made all the bad ones. Like killing other baseline humans for spare parts when artificial organs are cheaper and easier anyway."
"No one here wants that inhuman stuff!" the target said.
"That's why these Purist ghettos are going to be desegregated soon," Wilson replied. "But don't worry. You won't live to see that."
"Where are you taking me?!" the target shouted.
"Where you took your victims," Wilson smirked. "I hear they're not too picky about where their parts come from."
"No! I've got friends there!" the young man threatened in vain.
"Not anymore," Adam smiled. "They're compost. Soon, you will be, too. At least the parts they don't take out of you."
"Let me go! Please!" the target pleaded. "I'll never do it again! I'll make it up to them!"
Adam Wilson let the target's pleas and threats caress his ears, savoring ever one of them. "I'm afraid it's too late for that," the posthuman replied. "Now, good night. I hope you wake up to the scalpel coming down on you."
With that, he injected the special tranquilizer into the man's bloodstream with a syringe concealed inside his fingertip. Adam signaled his contact on his internalized radio implant, and an unmarked van pulled up. He handcuffed his target, threw the unconscious youth in the back, and closed the doors. The driver nodded and headed off to the black clinic.
After making his delivery, Adam Wilson caught a ride back to the respectable part of town, near the new Olympian Orthodox Church. He dropped his appearance of an elderly man, reverting to the younger near-baseline guise he normally used. Entering his apartment, he saw his wife waiting for him at the table.
Why didn't you take me with you? she neurauxed him.
Because you'd be too loud, he replied. I think you should get a checkup soon.
Can't you just do it yourself? she protested. You still owe me, dear!
I'll make it up now. How about in the shower? Nice and warm, the way you like it, baby, Adam suggested. All that gunk will be out, and you'll take it the way you like it.
Oh, I want you! Lin-Mei Wilson neurauxed him.
With that, he took his wife into his room, and began to strip down. He took his lover into the bathroom, and locked the door. He turned the shower water on, and waited for it to get warm. Looking at his wife, he readied himself for love. He sent a command to the nanomachines in his scrotum to produce the variety of semen that acted as organic gun-lubricant. He took his wife into the shower, and masturbated into her barrel.
Don't you think we could get you a new body? he asked afterwards.
What? You don't like the way I look? I choose this type of gun based on your favorite sidearm! the weapon that his wife possessed complained.
No, I love you the way you are, Adam said as he stroked the barrel. His wife was inhabiting the body of a Chi-You Type 23 automatic pistol. Her shape was not as blocky as certain pistols, nor as curvy as the new all polymer German ones, but she was a classic caseless weapon that could take several types of ammunition. The bull-head trademark of Manchuarian Armories showed that it was a design devised by that Chinese god of war himself. He dried the weapon carefully, and cleaned each of his wife's parts meticulously. He then reassembled her, loaded her with fresh ammunition, and placed her next to him in bed. After checking his email, Adam went to sleep next to his wife of a decade. Unaware of what the next day would bring, the posthuman dreamed silently.