Things To Do In 1850 When You're Dead copyright 1996 by Dave Van Domelen characters and situations TM Daedalus Entertainment Inc. used with permission for purposes of fanfic -=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=- A lot of stuff goes through your mind when you're dying. It doesn't matter if you're dying slowly from a stab in the gut or "instantly" from a blast of magical fire, your last moments have a sort of dreamlike quality of stretching into infinity. They used to say, before the Buro brought hell to Earth, that hell was an eternity of living your dying breath. Anyway, speaking as one who knows what he's talking about, there's plenty of time to think back on things in your last moments alive. One of the first things I suppose anyone thinks about is "Why am I dying, anyway?" That one's easy. I underestimated one Chinaman and didn't pay enough attention to another one. Boom, I'm in an extremely untenable position, even for a BuroMil-trained Supersoldier. So. That's out of the way, and I still have a few infinities of time left before the blackness claims me. Time for my life to flash before my eyes or something. Time to ask if I have any regrets. Do I regret joining the BuroMil? Sometimes, I suppose. But I'd probably regret it more if I'd stayed a wretched consumer, living in fear of being turned in by the nosy old man next door or blown up by some crazy Jammer. At least, I figured, if I got blown up by a Jammer as a cyborg, I'd take a few with me. Cold comfort, I guess, but they don't warm it up for you in 2056. Do I regret agreeing to this mission? Damned straight I do. I'm a damned euro, for crying out loud! I'm amazed I managed to pass as long as I did, trying to look like a local. I tried to tell the general that if he had to send me personally, to let me go openly as a westerner. I'd attract more attention initially, sure, but I wouldn't incite a riot for trying to pass. Unlike some of my no-neck subordinates, I read my history books, and the locals didn't care much for "gwailos" in 1850. At least traveling openly I'd have fear on my side. Instead I have to play the sneaky game and hope when I reveal myself everyone will be too busy to mob me. Heh. Yeah, they were busy enough. At least I didn't have to fight off a mob of pitchfork-wielding villagers. Just a demon large enough to wrestle a Megatank and a suicidal archer. I do regret one thing. Amanda. * * * * "Damn it, 'Mal, can't you just LET GO of the whole jackbooted stormtrooper facade for one night?" she demanded as she slammed the door behind them. "Devon was just trying to make conversation, and you practically shoved a Helix Ripper up his backside!" "I didn't have my Helix Ripper along with me," I protested, going for the literal side in hopes of defusing some of the tension in the air. She just gave me one of THOSE looks, the kind which turn my spine to jelly in a way facing a dozen cyberapes can't. "You KNOW what I mean, Nirmal Stanislaw Yadav," she countered, using my full name as if I were a small child she had to discipline. "He was just talking about the Jammers, and suddenly you start accusing him of being a sympathizer while ominously fingering your AI/O ports...oh, MISTER Subtle you are." "Hey, hey...I was just trying to spook him for his own good, Amanda. I know you Arcanotechs tend to get a lot more freedom than the average citizen...more than I get, for sure...and get cut a lot of slack in some areas because the Buro needs your skills. But I've seen plenty of termination orders for rogue 'Techs go out, all because someone got the idea he could turn loose talk into action. Trust me, Devon'll be better for it, live longer." She just stood there fuming. Sure, we clicked real well on the physical stuff, and we liked a lot of the same things when we had the time and the clearances to do them, but we did not share the same politics. And in 2056, even HAVING politics could be hazardous to your health, but I just couldn't get through to her on that. "Look," I said, holding my hands up in a gesture of surrender. "I can see we're not going to get anywhere on this right now...." "Don't you try to play Mr. Reasonable on me!" she shouted. "Ever think maybe I'm right to be angry?" I sighed. Usually took a few days for her tantrums to blow over once they reached this level. "Amanda, I've got a mission in the morning, gonna take me 'out of town,'" our nickname for time-traveling...just in case the wrong people were listening, "and I won't be back until evening at least. We can talk about it then, okay?" "I might not still be here," she pouted. "Of course you will," I rolled my eyes slightly. "It's not like you can get housing reassignments overnight," I grinned, and ducked out before she could throw something at me. Predictably, there was a dull thud on the door after I closed it. Rubbing a hand over my face, feeling the metal imbedded in the skin, I wondered for probably the thousandth time why I bothered to get involved with a techie. And for the thousandth time, the answer drifted out of the back of my mind, "Because all the women in the military make abominations look good." Well, not all of them, but too many. As I headed back for my quarters in the military block of the city, I looked forward to "making up" with Amanda the next night, or maybe the night after. * * * * Now I'd never see her again, never get a chance to say I was sorry (not that I was, but she liked it when I said so), never...well, it was fun while it lasted, anyway. As the blackness closed in, I fervently hoped that Amanda would be my only real regret.... * * * * At first I thought I must be in heaven, but I knew better than that. Too many parts of my soul had been eaten by demons for me to go anywhere but down. But there it was. Despite the heavy cleanroom gear and mask, I could recognize Amanda's face, those eyes, anywhere. I'd get my chance after all! I'd been saved from a magic-induced death by the wonders of technology. "Amanda!" I tried to say. Tried. Nothing came out. I found I couldn't move, couldn't even change the location my eyes stared at. Amanda looked at me in a coldly clinical way, no spark of recognition in her eyes. Had I been burned so badly, had no one told her it was me? Or was she always this clinical on the job? She reached over and made some motion, adjusting something on my body. I felt nothing. Then I remembered. Amanda was not in BuroMed. She was one of the people working on the new full-cyborging process. Cyborg Humanoid Attack Resource or something like that. Then she said, "Begin purge of organic memories," and a velvety curtain started to fall. But as everything went black again, I realized that the first thing I SHOULD have thought of when I was dying was, "Will I stay dead?" And then I remembered no more. Ever.