“Listen up, cadets. Today we’re going to play Capture the Crook. One person is the cop, the other the crook. Come over here and draw a colored sash out of this box and tie it around your waist. Blues are cops, reds are crooks. Simple rules. If you’re a cop, your mission is to enter the bamboo maze and take down as many crooks as possible. If you’re a crook, you can have fun creating chaos in the maze. Use your bioguns and sick the hell out of each other. If more reds are left standing than blues when I call time, crime wins and the reds get to skip class tomorrow. If more blues than reds, the QUEEN’s arm of justice once again prevails and blues skip class. So get in there and show me that I haven’t been wasting my time training you these last four years.” I hardly sound enthusiastic. I’ve given the same lines to fourth year cops-in-training for sixteen years now. I’m about as bored with this game as an old married couple in the bedroom. Nothing new under the sun in my 45 years of existence. Soon these kids will be off hunting down real bad guys while I stay stuck in Saigon explaining Capture the Crook , how to camouflage in the wild, and basic hand-to-hand combat skills. Not much has changed from when I was on the beat, except now my purpose sucks.

What does the QUEEN do with a washed-up crippled cop? Send him to teach at the Police Academy. Yay me. I’m a real badass with my red pen and instructional slides. Haven’t stunned a single crook since the accident. Same life purpose, new role. Like a top chef that used to make risotto and now flips burgers at a roadside dinner. It’s all downhill from here, kid, I see the burgerman say.

“Trainer Simon, what’s our role play? Like why are the reds crooks?”

I glare at the girl tying the blue sash around her low body fat waist. I used to have one like that. She’s pretty, smart, athletic, top of her class of course. The QUEEN only selects the best for the life purpose of cop.

“Trainer Simon, sir?” She looks up at me all doe-eyed and eager.

“Druggies. Low levels dealing uppers and downers and things that make you see stuff that ain’t there.” I pull out my stopwatch. “Reds take your position at Maze Entrance A. Blues line up at Maze Entrance B.”

“Sir, yes Sir.”

I like their double use of sir. Respectful cadets. “Start on my count. Five … four … three … two … one … now!” I point at the maze with my mechanical right arm, for dramatic effect, even though it was painful as hell to do so.

They dash enthusiastically into the bamboo. When they all disappear, I turn and pop a painkiller and chase it down with a flask of scotch. Good scotch too, not the free kind you get from the QUEEN’s liquor store. Deleted close to 200 credits in my account for the bottle, not that I get too many of those these days. Students say I’m mean and sarcastic in my surveys. Bunch of whiny kids. Good thing I still have leftover credits from the days when I was a beat cop in the Vancouver region.

I lose myself in the high of my pill, a quick rush of tranquility. For a moment I’m on a beach, somewhere tropical. My mind wanders to the case of a guy who swore up and down he didn’t deal uppers, even though I videoed the dummy trying to sell it to me for credits. Needless to say, the QUEEN found my evidence convincing and sent him off to freeze in the Arctic Penal Colony. His life purpose had been a childcare worker, but he never got the best ratings. Said he wanted to use the credits to get a better surfboard. Didn’t like the basic free model. Guess he has all the time he wants to try surfing in the Arctic. Cowabunga dude.

A dull pain returns to my wrist, waking me from the past. Crap. I left the cadets in there too long. Most of the class is probably sick by now. “Time!” I shout, waiting to see who appears. Stupid arm.

All our tech and still the docs whose sole life purpose is to keep us healthy can’t get my arm to sync with my brain. Just more pills. You’d think the QUEEN in her infinite neural networks of digital wisdom could at least find someone on this cesspool of a planet to fix chronic pain or regrow a bloody arm like those starfish. I mean nature can do it.

Ten make it out, seven reds. I hear distant moans from the sick cadets in the maze.

“Crooks win! Go join the rest of the cadets at the canteen. Report at 1300 for Criminal Psychology class.”

“What about the students in the maze? They’re throwing up all over the place!” asked the same annoying girl from earlier.

“Leave them. The sickness will wear off in a few hours. It’ll teach them to be smarter next time.” She looks at me with horror, and I don’t mind. Be afraid of me. Better fear than pity. Those cadets lost. Not my problem if they crap or vomit on themselves.

“Yes, Trainer.”

The girl runs down the hill towards the Police Academy building, and I enjoy the view until she disappears into the treeline. Only thing left to enjoy about my life since the accident. She’ll be graduating soon with the other 20 year-olds. Then they’ll assign her to a region so she can start policing up the troublemakers of the planet.

Criminal Psychology. I really think the QUEEN should have assigned me to teach that class instead of Combat & Survival Skills. I mean I’m so good at bloody combat that I lost my arm to a deadbeat murderer who killed someone for sleeping with his mate. As good as the QUEEN is, she can’t rule people’s passions or addictions. Whatever, the QUEEN knows best. Obey the QUEEN.

I scan over the dense jungles surrounding the training facility. The rural sector of Saigon would be an easy place for a criminal to hide.

“Hey Simon, you teaching Capture the Crooks again?” I smell a familiar stench.

Ugh – Trainer Steve. Hate this guy – overweight, chain smoker, always grinning about something. Total cop wannabe. Assigned the life purpose at age 16 of teaching the History of the QUEEN at the Police Academy because the QUEEN knew better than to make him an actual cop. Dude just has to memorize facts and spit them back out. Every academy, from the Food Preparation Academy to the Medical Academy to the Sanitation Academy to the Childcare Academy, gets assigned historians so that we all know the value of the QUEEN. He only teaches the first years. The cadets get me all four years. Lucky them.

He’s still grinning as he lights another cig, and I’m still not talking. Pretending to be really interested in that tree to my left.

He tries again. “So, doing anything fun this weekend?”

“Discovering new uses for my mechanical arm. Look at this wetware finger extension I got.” I hit a button, showing him how I can elongate my fingers to double the size of a normal human. I know he’s jealous.

“Umm … that’s a neat trick.” He pauses awkwardly. “Well, my partner Gayle and I are going to have a small dinner party. Inviting other trainers over if you want to come and bring one of your lady friends. Play some cards. Oh, and we are going to have a trivia contest on the QUEEN. If anyone can beat me, they get a bottle of Dom Perignon. Used near all of my credits from last year’s student surveys to get that bubbly. We’re asking everyone to bring a side dish.”

“Thanks, but I’m not much good at trivia.” I’m hoping he’ll take the hint and leave.

“Oh, come on. Here, let me pull up a sample question on my gogs.” Steve grabs the vintage gogs that are hanging around his neck. They look ridiculous on his fat face. Too small for his head. “Ah, an easy one. What is the QUEEN?”

“Hell if I know, Steve. I teach bullets and bush craft. The question's too philosophical for me.”

Steve takes a few aggressive puffs before responding. “Answer: The QUEEN is the AI neural network computer that governs our world.”

“Maybe you’ll win your own bottle. To me, she's a bunch of wires and metal put together right to keep the world from pointing the trigger at itself again.”

"You mean it's a bunch of wires and metal. The QUEEN doesn't have a gender. That's why the trivia question asked what is the QUEEN instead of who.”

I visualize myself extinguishing the cig on his forehead. Then he’d understand what it’s like to live in daily pain instead of harassing me about my pronouns. My gogs start beeping. Saved by my tech. I wonder if it’s Alice or Selena. Think I’m in the mood for Alice. Plus she’s got her friend Jess who’s smooth on the eyes. Or was that Melanie. Hard to keep track of them all.

“You’ll be missing out on a good time. Gayle’s making her famous hummus dip.” Steve quickly stomps out his cig.

“Sounds way more fun than Alice’s rooftop party. Think I’ve mentioned her before -- life purpose is model. I’ll just gog her and explain I’ve got a hot trivia night to go to instead. She’ll understand once I mention the hummus.” I’m sure he can sense the sarcasm in my voice.

Steve looks defeated but intrigued. “Well, better go prep for class. Have a fun weekend. Maybe you could ..umm … tape some of the party for me with your gogcam?”

I give a noncommittal nod and turn my attention to the projected screen from my gogs. Hmm … odd. An Alpha Priority message. Last time I got one of those was when I got taken off the beat and moved to teach at the Police Academy. Same life purpose, just not on the front lines. The QUEEN must think I’m ready to come back on duty. Finally. Visions of chasing down crooks flash through my mind like a collage of badassery.

“Alpha Priority for Simon Lawrence. I have reassigned your life purpose. Your new life purpose: Rogue Assistant. Function: Help Rogue Rayn Achari destroy the QUEEN. Your coordinates and reporting location are attached. End message.”

Sigh. Just my luck. I was really looking forward to making Steve a video. My purpose sucks.

Next Chapter: Chapter 4 - ARLO