[Original Novel] Metal Fever, Part 1

^source

“How ‘bout it? Can you beat the machine? He’ll settle your tab if you do.” I don’t pay Aubrey to rope ‘em in. She just gets a kick out of it. Missed her calling as a carnival barker.

The newcomer sized me up. I’ve got my mech arm on today, for show. Can’t imagine actually lugging this thing around with me on the regular. You can always feel the weight of a prosthetic, concentrated on the bolts it attaches to your skeleton with. Accordingly, the most popular ones are very light.

“Alright, I’ll have a go” he says. Ruffled blonde mohawk, faded “Kampachi Farms” t-shirt and a studded leather jacket. “But I want to try your other arm.” I feigned dismay. Perfectly, having practiced the same reaction on every rube before him. “You’re the only one ever to think of that! I suppose I have to honor the bet anyway.”

There were no free chairs, so he borrowed one of the bar stools. The bartender, a near full metal with a trendy biological forearm and hand, looks on in amusement. She’s seen what my game is, and only doesn’t warn my marks because it’s entertaining.

“When I saw you, first thing I thought of is crabs. I know that sounds strange but I worked out on the conshelf for six years farming those critters. All the males have one giant claw and one teeny one. The giant claw is the one they fight with, the other is for everything else. It’s your everything else arm I think I can beat.”

Truth is, that’s where I hide all the good shit. The mech arm is barely powerful enough to move itself. My body has no room for the compressor it needs to work as intended. His analogy is spot on, he’s just mistaken which claw is which. I flex my left arm, feeling the electroreactive gel muscles constricting in their flexible insulating sleeves, buried inconspicuously under living skin.

“Once you're done making assuredly fascinating crab analogies, put your elbow on the table and keep it there”. He shot me an irritated glance, muttering “I know how this works. Get ready to pay my tab.” I waited for him to signal that he was ready to begin before realizing, from the increasing redness in his face, that he was already exerting himself.

I made a show of struggling too, so as not to humiliate him. Even gave the appearance he was winning for a minute or two. But then, at a rate carefully calculated not to injure his comparatively delicate arm, I brought our clenched fists down to my right.

“You sack of shit! There’s a trick, isn’t there? You’ve got metal on the inside you didn’t tell me about.” The bartender leapt to my defense. “Hon, you chose what arm you wanted. Don’t go simian just ‘case you lost. If you think this guy’s a freak, you haven’t met the bouncer.” On cue, a creature more closely resembling a meat mountain than a person emerged from the intersex urinal, pecs twitching at the mention of its name.

There’s always a bigger fish. If you’re smart, you pay for its drinks. But not too many, or it gets the wrong idea about what you’re after. That’s a fine line to walk with somebody that looks like a bodybuilder hybridized with construction equipment. We’d nonetheless established a stable rapport, such that I could continue running my game on newbies with the owner’s approval.

“Dis one givin’ you trouble, Miranda?” She waved him off. “Not yet, sweetie. I’ll call you again if I need you.” The surly frankensteinian pile lumbered back from whence it came, leaving blondie wide eyed and pale as a sheet. “If you can believe it”, the bartender added, “Xe used to be cute when we dated.” A muffled voice from the back room objected: “Bitch, I’m cuter than ever.”

I ran into blondie and his buddies on the way out. Full bios like to think they’re less predictable than machines, but it’s all just the interaction of atoms. Like the grandest possible set of dominos, set falling at the moment of the big bang. To guys like him, which specific atoms they’re made of is of meaningful import. I stopped caring decades ago.

“Where you goin’, ar-too dee-tard?” I smiled. That was at least one I’d not heard yet. Aubrey emerged behind me, lugging my mech arm. “Unless we’re dating, this isn’t my job anymore” she whined. “We’ve been through this, you carry your own damned….Oh. This again.” She sighed and retreated into the bar to wait it out. Blondie and his two buddies motioned as if to follow her.

“Inadvisable. She can take care of herself. You wouldn’t know it to look at her but she’s had more work done than me. Besides, supposing you hurt her, but don’t defeat me. What do you suppose happens next? You won’t believe the answer, even while I’m doing it to you.”

“You talk a big game for a guy with one arm.” They closed in, reassured by their numbers. “I only need one.” The dialogue box in the center of my vision asking me whether I would assume legal responsibility for utilizing the self defense software included with the arm vanished after I rapidly scrolled through the terms and agreed.

I have no idea how to fight. Never enlisted, used my head to stay out of fights when I was young. My first wheels were an electric bike I cobbled together with parts from a junkyard near my dad’s trailer. “Why’d you go and ruin a perfectly good bicycle?” he’d say. “The whole point of it is to get exercise”.

What’s the point of building muscle when you can literally build muscle? If an electric motor or equivalent mechanism can do it, that’s how it should be done. We did not get to this point, dominating the planet to the point of destroying it, by muscle power. This reasoning led me to evade beatings by subterfuge, bonding with bullies over shared interests, then pitting them against each other.

Fight smart, not hard. That’s my philosophy, anyway. I don’t have much to show for it yet but when I do, dad’s moving out of that trailer and into a mansion. I concluded my ruminations just as my arm notified me that all credible threats to my person had been pacified, and that a recording of the altercation was being uploaded to the local police department for review as well as the arm’s manufacturer. I imagine whoever they pay to watch those videos truly loves his job.

All three were laid out around me, bleeding profusely from their noses and mouths. Sufficient as fuck. “All clear, Aubs.” She poked her head out, surveyed the aftermath, then gave me a disgusted glare. “What? It wasn’t me! It was the one armed man!” She used to pretend my jokes are funny. I think I miss that more than the sex.

I straddled my beat up looking Honda Electrode. Charge meter says one hundred, but these old batteries don’t really read accurate unless under load. I gave it some juice, the rear wheel squealing against the pavement in protest. Percentage immediately drops to 78, then very slowly begins climbing. That’ll more than get me home.

I help Aubrey stow my mech arm in the sidecar, then she throws her leg over the back and puts her arms around my waist. “Remember when I used to street race this fuckin’ heap?” I don’t see her smile but I can feel it. That part of the bond never diminished. “You were hot shit until dual carbons dropped.”

Lithium is good enough. But “good enough” doesn’t disintegrate panties. This thing’s no slouch, it’ll break a ton, but that’s not even enough to outrun the cops. Not that I’ve ever needed to, of course. Smart, not hard. Aubrey swears there was more to it than the bike, but she was never as into me as when I raced.

“What the fuck is that?” she demanded. “The seat’s shaking.” A recent addition I’d put in. “The old bikes used to do that, on account of the combustion engine. Chicks loved it.” She threatened to hail a cab until I switched it off. Bluffing, I think. Autocabs are basically mobile hobo toilets.

Can’t count the number of times I’ve summoned one only for there to be somebody still inside, passed out in their own vomit. Fresh hot drunks, delivered to your doorstep! If that’s their business model, they’re killing it.

“This is a courtesy notification. A vehicle is rapidly approaching from the rear, piloted by an individual who recently assaulted you. Do you desire assistance?” A devastatingly clean twentysomething police officer appeared on the bike’s hud. I studied the edges of her face looking for telltale seams, from injection molding. Nope, real person. Nobody should be that symmetrical, it’s fearboner territory.

I used an eye gesture to scroll down to the last option. Decline assistance due to religious objection. It’s the only one that guarantees they’ll leave you alone. Police involvement only ensures a higher body count than if you handle it yourself, and the less about me they have on file, the better.

---

^{Stay Tuned for Part 2!}