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“If you are going to be my administrator, you have to know everything about my bounties….”
“Of course, sir!”
“… but you also need to know everything about me. You are my interface with the authority. I will be coming to you not only for bounties but for information. I expect you to be available, understand?”
“Yes, sir!”
I try not to simper, but it is not easy. I have to get control of myself. I have to remember what my purpose is, not to pursue the desires of my flesh, but to serve him in every way he desires.
* * *
Present day…
I finish processing his latest kill just as a new one flashes onto my pad. Usually, I’d review the bounty and send it to him, but he’s right here. I can give it to him in person, maybe talk about some of the details. I thumb open the screen and check to see what kind of bounty it is.
The green header tells me that the bounty isn’t one of the scum. It’s an elite. Someone has pissed off the powers that be. I feel sorry for the poor bastard. As elites, we get comfortable in our positions. We start to think that we’re untouchable, and nothing can hurt us.
The red text below the header details the crime.
This bounty has been caught trading secrets. Stupid rookie mistake. There’s no way to traffic intel without being caught. Everything these days is impregnated with personal thumbprints in the data itself. The chain of possession is undeniable and unhackable.
I thumb down to see the picture. What poor stupid sap is going to end today dead because he wanted a few extra bux?
It’s a woman.
Blonde hair.
Blue eyes.
Pretty, symmetrical features.
I’m looking at my own face. But that doesn’t mean anything. My face is everybody’s face. It’s just strange to see an elite on a bounty list. Hunters almost exclusively prey on scum. Who is the unfortunate elite about to lose everything, including her life?
Lyric Fours
That’s my name. It’s me. The contract is on me.
The world goes into slow motion, one breath drawing out into a slow, stodgy spiral of disbelief. Not me. Not my name. Is there another Lyric Fours? I already know there isn’t. Our designations are all utterly unique.
I glance up at Rath. He’s not paying attention. He’s staring off into the ether, which means he’s checking his internal data stream. He must trust me a lot to do that in front of me. Or, more likely, he doesn’t really consider me a sentient being. I’m part of the furniture to Rath. He doesn’t think any more about zoning out in front of me than he would about zoning in front of a potted plant.
I look back down at the tablet. This is a mistake. I know damn well I didn’t sell any secrets. I’ve been algo’d. That means the algorithm has incorrectly flagged me as a criminal. It happens from time to time. Fortunately, you can always appeal. It might even be upheld. The problem is, appeals take thirty days, and the average length of a hunt for an average bounty hunter is ten. Rath’s average hunt length is more like two. I can appeal this, but by the time a decision is made, I’m going to have already been separated into my composite elements and recycled.
I’m going to be sick.
Being an elite doesn’t stop you from experiencing justice, and justice doesn’t mean fairness. It means that the order was given and the bounty was collected, and the case was closed. We don’t have courts. There are no judges. Juries are a thing of the very distant past. There is only the algorithm. And it just flagged me for removal.
I look at Rath.
He has no idea he is about to kill me.
If he can catch me.
Two
Captured
The first mistake most bounties make when they run is going to unfamiliar territory. It is best to stay close to the territory you know. Yes, that means Rath is close. And it means that people here know me, and that my retinal scans will be on file, and that all my funds will be frozen.
The first thing to do is get to my apartment and hope I haven’t been locked out yet. It’s risky to go home. That’s the first place they’ll look for me. It’s also the one place all my stuff is. The one place I have some small hope in hell of gathering some supplies.
I grab a bag and a hat. Hat goes on my head first. That’s going to save my life, more than anything else in this whole space. Hats hide eyes, and eyes are the window to your existence in Megaris.
Then I add a stack of ten baked sandwiches, 600 cal each. They can keep out of the fridge for up to a month. If pushed, these can get me through five whole days. I’m going to be foraging once I leave this apartment, and it’s not going to be pretty. Scum don’t eat well. They have no access to any of the grocery stores. Sometimes a gang of them will try to mug an elite, but grocery security is tighter than Gettem security. If scum comes within five feet of an elite, they can expect to be vaporized.
