Lia the Perfect

I’d fallen asleep in front of the TV again. I'd forgotten to take out my hairtie. I winced and pulled. Light brown hair spilled across my shoulders. It resembled a bird’s nest. My eyes felt crusty, as if coated in dry glue. Glare from the morning sunlight peeked through the blinds and bounced off the screen into my face. I groaned and angled my head away from the light. 'Cilla?' I called, throat parched. My sister didn't respond. She must've been out. Our tiny Tuscan cottage was too small for her to not hear. 

On TV was a big debate between pro-percentage and anti-percentage lobbyists. I couldn’t tell who supported which side.

A guy in a holographic jacket and studded jeans spoke with a nasally voice:

‘Let’s say you paint a wall bright green, and then you spill a bit of orange juice on it. You wouldn’t say you have a green and orange wall. It’s a green wall with a bit of orange. You can still be human with a bit of other stuff.’

A woman in a cropped jacket accented with coils of magenta neon spoke next:

‘You fill a glass of water. It’s a glass of water. You fill a glass a quarter with water. It’s still a glass of water. Once you put cybernetics in, you’re a cyborg.’

‘You’re proving my point! If the glass of water is a human, then no matter how full it is, it’s still human.’

‘There’s a difference between adding water and spilling orange juice.’

‘Oh, so what, if someone gets hurt and needs cybernetics, that disqualifies them?’

I turned off the TV and sunk deeper into the couch. People had been arguing about the cybernetic percentage laws for decades. The arguments and counterarguments ran so deep I’d lost track of what I believed in. Obviously, I knew about the cybernetic percentage laws. 

If you were 49% cybernetic or less, you had full societal rights. Between 50% and 80% and you were exempt from a couple of minor things. Above 80% was where you’d really have a tough time. Then again, I’d never bothered to check what rights were lost. The whole world enforced these laws, aside from a couple of exceptions. Some countries only retracted rights above the 90% mark.

I’d been 49% cyborg for as long as I could remember. Mum paid a fortune to ensure my sister and I had the best cybernetics money could buy. Every month since we were kids, we’d visit clinics to get outfitted. It was painful at first, since it took time for our bodies to adjust, but it helped that we started young. It also helped that we didn’t only have cybernetics. Mum paid another fortune to have us genetically modified by the top biotech corporations. I had: Increased stature, enhanced senses, proprioceptors, and muscle fibre density, along with a more efficient metabolism, and reinforced tendons and ligaments to raise the tensile strength. My organs were worth more than most people’s net worth.

And it was always pretty much legal.

I’d never stopped to wonder if I was human. Or, what percentage of me was human. That stuff was for my introspective older sister.

I left the couch, went to my tiny room, put on grey leggings and a sports bra, and packed my bag. There was a syndicate-sponsored training facility up the street, and I had a holo-room booked until midday. After washing my face and downing an espresso, I left the house.

It still felt weird without Mum. She’d trained my sister and me since—well, I’d never trained without her. But she was exiled six months ago because of syndicate bullshit.

Our family was with Montim Aquinor, the greatest syndicate in the world, and Mum was their greatest Venator. People in and out of the syndicate knew her only as the Viper of Aquinor. But, Mum had been framed. The underboss, Aquinor’s second-in-command, was a man named Horatius Claudius Nerva, commonly known as Horace. He brought forward a bunch of evidence that Mum had been secretly working with the Sumiaka-kai and using Aquinor funds for her agenda. Now she lived in the town of exiles, in Russia’s dyed lands.

I wasn’t going to leave her there. Once I got a Venator licence, I could make my move against Horace. In truth, the other lieutenants in Montim Aquinor didn’t want Mum gone. If anyone but Horace was the underboss, I could convince them to bring Mum out of exile.

But to achieve any of that, I needed to train.

I warmed up with jogging, stretches, and a simple kata. Then I attached external receptors and entered the assigned holo-room. At first glance, it was a metal box, with a cold steel floor measuring 6x6 meters. Strips of white lights lined every edge. A holographic terminal in the corner let you control what the room did. I activated the terminal and a feminine robotic voice said:

‘Good morning, Aurelia Sorranus.’

I input the same training program I’d done for the last year:

The Hundred Onslaught.

The program involved defeating one-hundred holograms in the fastest time possible. Mum’s record was just under fifty seconds. Mine was just over fifty seconds. And that morning – I was going to beat it. If I did, I knew I’d be ready.

‘Start program,’ I said.

A robotic voice responded:

‘Starting in three…two…one…’

A dozen holograms manifested from the walls and sprinted to attack. I dashed to meet the first few. One down. Two down. I spun and launched a low kick. Three down. Hurry up, I thought.

I circled the room and worked my way through the holograms. I focused on sharp jabs for speed, but if the hit was shallow it didn’t always register. I switched to kicks. Ten down. Eleven down. I whirled and a hologram’s fist caught my lower back. The external receptors sent an electric shock. I stumbled and fell to the ground. The holograms didn’t show mercy. They kicked me relentlessly and the shocks kept coming. For all my enhancements, I still panicked. I flailed but finally rolled away, jumped up, and cleared some space with a split kick. I’d wasted valuable seconds.

I spat and rushed back into the onslaught, until:

Ninety-eight down…

Ninety-nine down…

One-hundred down…

The program ended. The holograms vanished. The room was silent. I braced myself against the wall, chest rapidly rising and falling. Sweat darkened my clothes and dripped from my forehead. ‘Time?’ I rasped.

56.39 seconds, the system reported.

‘Damn.’

I took a twenty-minute break to rehydrate, meditate, and check the footage. Then I cracked my knuckles and went to the middle of the room.

‘Start program,’ I said.

‘Starting in three…

Focus, I thought.

‘Two…’

If you can’t do this, how can you beat Horace?

‘One…’

#

I collapsed and took ragged, painful breaths. My whole body ached. My vision was unsteady. I’d made another three attempts, and the times were:

61.23 seconds.

66.78 seconds.

95.02 seconds.

The numbers didn’t make sense to my exhausted mind. I was getting worse? I couldn’t focus. I couldn’t stop thinking about Mum.

Dad, me, and my sister visited Mum shortly after her exile. She had looked…terrible. Worse than I imagined. She’d lost a bunch of weight, had a sallow complexion, and sometimes she coughed up black fluid. The dyed lands were to blame.

Decades ago an eccentric billionaire had tried to use colossal bombs of paint and chemicals to dye a chunk of Russia’s landscape. He aimed to create a maximalist painting visible from a nearby mountain range. He wanted something to last after he was dead. Well, it lasted. But, the bright fields of crimson, amber, and magenta left the land poisoned. Staying there too long led to all sorts of health issues. Hence, the syndicates built their town of exiles between the mountain and dyed fields. Not close enough to kill; close enough to suffer.

I hadn’t seen Mum in a while. Had she gotten worse? How long could she survive there?

‘Never stagnate,’ Mum always told me.

Mum had lived during the Deliberate Stagnation Period, the DelStag, and she used to tell us stories about it before bed. It was a time when people deliberately stopped trying to advance because they thought humans weren’t ready for new technology. The movement gained a lot of traction and caused decades of exactly what they wanted: Stagnation.

As a child, the DelStag had morphed in my mind into a literal monster. I imagined it like an undead stag with four antlers dripping with blood. It wanted to kill humanity slowly. My nightmares were always about running from the DelStag across a foggy, hellish field.

My breathing steadied and I craned my head, looking at the wall between my legs. A hologram manifested. The hologram was a stag with four horns and—

I slapped myself. Hard. ‘Shutdown!’ I shouted. The system confirmed. The white lights dimmed and the door slid open. My cheek stung. ‘Just a glitch,’ I murmured. ‘Just a glitch.’

I went home.

My frustration boiled over. I kicked randomly and hit my bedframe. The combination of cybernetics and biotech made my kicks like a gunshot. Crack! The cheap synthetic wood shattered and my mattress slid onto the floor. I grumbled, ‘Cheap piece of…’

The front door opened. I opened my door ajar and peeked. My sister strode to the kitchen with two plastic containers and two paper cups. She put them on the kitchen counter, got two sets of cutlery, and opened the containers. Steam rose from two servings of vegetable frittata. The egg probably hadn’t come from a chicken, and the vegetables probably weren’t grown in the ground, but it looked and tasted like a frittata.

I left my room and said good morning.

‘Thought you were asleep,’ Priscilla said, noticing my training clothes.

‘You hoped?’

‘If you want to waste calories punching beams of light, go ahead.’

My sister, Priscilla Sorannus, had light brown hair, high cheekbones, and a defined jawline. Her eyes were large, bright, and coloured greenish-hazel. She was one-hundred-and-ninety centimetres tall, like most members of Montim Aquinor. Biotech, you know? Her chest was—never mind. It was modified to be considered appealing, and that’s all you need to know. I looked identical to Priscilla, except I preferred a ponytail, while she kept her hair loose.

Priscilla was on the way to the bathroom when she noticed my broken bedframe. ‘You did that, right?’

‘It was an accident.’

‘I mean, was it only you?’ Priscilla hesitated. ‘Like, not because…’ She trailed off.

I’d stopped listening, too preoccupied getting a serve of frittata and one of the paper cups. Taking a drink, I found the cup held hot chocolate. Priscilla always hated bitter stuff like coffee.

‘What I’m saying is,’ Priscilla continued, ‘these cheap beds can’t support more than one person. Especially if there’s movement.’

I choked and spat hot chocolate on the counter. Wiping my chin and chest, I shook my head. ‘I kicked it.’

Priscilla’s expression softened. ‘You okay?’

‘No, my mattress is on the ground.’

‘But are you okay?’

‘Well, I’d rather not sleep on the ground—’

‘Fine, forget I asked.’

I attacked the frittata with a fork. ‘As for more than one person on the bed—I’m not interested.’

‘Kinda hoped you were.’

‘Now isn’t the time.’

‘Now seems like the best time,’ Priscilla remarked airily.

‘Mum is dying in the dyed lands,’ I retorted through a steaming bite of frittata.

Priscilla crossed her arms, gave me a withering look, and continued to the bathroom. She didn’t like discussing Mum, and “dying” might’ve been too hyperbolic on my part.

‘Did you get some brioche?’ I called to her.

‘Nope.’

‘…I really like brioche.’

‘I know.’

Priscilla finished with the bathroom, sat next to me, and started on her frittata.

‘You know,’ I started. ‘Mum would want us—’

‘I’m starving.’

‘Mum’s probably starving,’ I said under my breath.

Priscilla lowered her fork. ‘She’s our mum, but she’s also just a Venator.’

‘She’s not “just” a Venator.’

‘Well, there’s not much higher than Venator. Oh, but you think she’s God, so I guess there’s that.’

‘I don’t think she’s God.’

‘You worship her like one.’

‘She gave birth to us,’ I said with more venom than intended.

‘Oh, shut up. She made us in a tube and happened to check on our progress occasionally.’

That…wasn’t far from the truth. Not that I planned to admit that. ‘Fine, fine. Forget all that. Just tell me why you’re so against getting her back?’

‘I’m not against it.’

‘Then why are you being like this?’

Priscilla’s jaw clenched. She talked through her teeth. ‘I’m against her coming back and picking up where we left off.’

‘What, being a family?’

‘Controlling our lives!’ Priscilla pushed away from the counter and paced the living room. ‘For the first time in our lives, we can do whatever we want.’

‘We weren’t prisoners.’

She jabbed a finger at me. ‘Stockholm syndrome.’

‘She wanted—she wants what’s best for us.’

‘She wants the best from us,’ Priscilla groaned.

‘Is that bad?’

‘Are you really asking that? When I look at you, it’s like looking in a fucking mirror.’

‘What’s wrong with that?’

‘I want to be me, not you! Then again, Mum wants us both to be versions of her. And you want…I have no idea what you want.’

I pushed away from the counter, turned on the holo-projector, and synced it with my visual cortex. ‘Cilla,’ I said in a conciliatory tone. ‘Indulge me for a second.’ I closed my eyes. Instantly, beams of light constructed the scene I envisioned.

‘We’re walking down a grand hall with real oak doors,’ I said. The hall manifested as a hologram. ‘A bunch of goons ambush us. Dozens of them. We paint the white rug red with their blood. We don’t need to cover each other’s weaknesses because neither of us has any. We kill the leader threatening Aquinor, and then we go out to a fancy dinner. I’m thinking quail. Caviar, too. And we’ll drink champagne, but the grapes will be grown from the vine, none of that synthetic stuff. Whaddya think?’

I opened my eyes. The holo-projector whined and the light dissipated as my mental scene unfocused. The front door slammed shut. Priscilla had left.

#

I tried my best to be okay with Priscilla leaving, but something about it felt final. Like, I finally understood that no matter what I said or did or how I begged or pleaded, she didn’t care that Mum was in exile.

Fine, I fumed. I didn’t need Priscilla’s help. Although, it would’ve been nice to have. I re-read the letter Mum sent a month ago. Between the lines, I sensed she was begging me to do something. Never stagnate. Advance. Forget being a Venator, I thought. I didn’t need a licence to get rid of Horace.

What had I been doing all this time?

We used to live at Aquinor’s main compound in Shanghai, but without Mum’s funds as a Venator, we ended up in Italy. Montim Aquinor wanted to gradually transfer most of the Asia-based assets to Europe, and Dad was in the administrative department. The move made sense to everyone but me. Yet, why had I let myself sit around all that time? I told myself I needed to train, but didn’t I enjoy exploring Italy? What would Mum think? It’s not like Horace was far away. Nowhere in the globe was “far” in the current era. I could do it. I could kill him. I could befriend the new underboss and have Mum home within the week.

A dark, broiling, impulsive rage began to fill me. It wasn’t logical. I should’ve stopped, considered options, and formed a plan. Instead, I acted.

I got dressed, packed my bag, and caught a taxi to the nearest Aquinor facility. Mum may have been gone, but making it clear I was the Viper of Aquinor’s daughter still had plenty of influence. I contacted Aquinor’s Venator department and learned Horace was doing a favour in Neo-II Sendai for a politician.

Unlike the Sumiaka-kai, we had standards. And refinement. Our Venators were assigned to important figures as bodyguards, which was more efficient than reacting to the Rat King’s attacks. Hence, Horace was acting as a bodyguard for the politician’s son.

Aquinor was sending a jet to collect our Venators from Neo-III Tokyo. Easy, I could be in Neo-II Sendai in around five hours. I convinced them to give me a lift.

Before we left, I installed the newest Japanese language translation software. Then I collected some hardware: AvMak’s NK89 rifle (CQC model), wrist-activated Hornet-V6 Darts, a full-body kinetic displacer, and a black coffee.

Our group of Aquinor members, including a couple of Venators, piled into the jet. The sleek, black marvel of post-DelStag ingenuity rose gently into the air. It gained airspace clearance. A yellow light switched on overhead. My fellow passengers and I took a breath. The jet shot in the direction of Japan. Immense g-forces pushed my face around. Everything felt heavy like invisible hands pushed me into the seat. I drooled. Taking a breath helped keep us conscious. Plus, all the Aquinor members on board had biotech modifications that made us more resilient to the g-forces. After a couple of seconds, the jet’s force dampener kicked in and the pressure faded.

In a few hours, we reached Neo-II Sendai. I caught another lift from a Venator named Corvus. That got me close enough to reach Horace’s location, a tower deeper in the inner city.

As I approached the police border, I spotted a group of the Sumiaka-kai’s Venators, including that madman Wataru Iju. Horace’s death needed to look like the androids’ fault. Whispering to the police my connection to the Viper of Aquinor got me across the holographic border. I jogged through the front doors, primed for a firefight, but surprisingly there weren’t any androids. Fate must’ve watched over me.

I took the elevator to the executive suite. My head almost touched the ceiling. The doors slid open to a hallway, and then around a corner to a spacious, brightly-lit foyer. My footsteps echoed on the polished marble. Huge ceramic vases stood on pedestals. Paintings done with real oil paint hung on the walls. Ahead, separating the foyer from the executive suite was a massive blast door. The screeching of metal pierced my ears; the doors were being prised apart by a horde of androids. Progress was slow, but they were bound to get inside.

I ducked into an alcove and considered. With that many androids, killing Horace might not be necessary. Then again, Horace wasn’t underboss for nothing. He might get injured, but he wouldn’t die. Therefore, I’d go in afterward and complete his death. But the politician’s son was in there, too. Ignoring him was an option, but he might try and blackmail me with Horace’s death. I took a deep breath and resolved to do what was necessary. It’d also hurt Horace’s reputation if he’d failed as a bodyguard.

I’d have to move fast and keep outside the doors to hide my identity. If I hid behind the crowd of androids, it was possible.

The androids made progress. The screeching got louder. Internal mechanisms of the blast doors began to fail.

A little more, I thought.

I flicked my wrist and the Hornet-V6 Darts shot from the alcove and pierced a couple androids watching the flank. I switched my rifle to single-shot and crept toward the main horde. Shit, I thought. There were thirty, maybe forty androids. They weren’t focused on me, but it was still intimidating. Sure, I’d done the Hundred Onslaught simulation uncountable times, but corporeal foes left a different impression.

I held my breath.

Almost there.

The doors were open wide enough to peer inside. I craned my head. There was movement in the suite. Horace! I recognised his stupid beige suit and tangerine pocket square. I was about to raise the rifle to my shoulder, but I recognised something else…

The belt-fed AvMak automatic grenade launcher. In Horace’s hands.

Suddenly multiple 40mm grenades propelled their way toward my face.