Point and Shoot Read Online Free Page A

sometimes he spoke aloud to this mysterious Watcher, on the off-chance he or she could hear.
    Which he knew was ridiculous, because this was a one-way transmission—they had stressed that during his training. We’ll be able to monitor you through various sensors, but don’t bother talking to us. And fuck you very much!
    Still Hardie couldn’t resist.
    “Come
on
.”
    He spoke out loud just to reassure himself that he had a voice. He almost wished he could time travel back about a year and visit himself in that lousy secret prison and tell himself,
Look, buddy, at least you’ve got people to talk to. Even if they are crazy. So enjoy it while supplies last
.
    Hardie would say all kinds of things to himself.
    You know how screwed you are, Chuck
?
    Chuck. Always Chuck. Nobody in real life called him anything but Hardie, and that would have included Kendra most times. But after he was almost shot to death nearly nine years ago, the media decided that he was Unkillable Chuck. And he was up in this tin can, still alive. So he must be Chuck.
    Right, Chuck?
    How we doing there, Chuck?
    Morning, Chuck, you big asshole.
    How’d ya end up in a satellite anyway, Chuck
?
    There was only one way up to the satellite. You basically had to own a rocket, possess the technology to dock with the satellite, then force your way into the orbiting craft—which was not much bigger than a Honda Odyssey. But
if
… and this was a HUGE
if
… you could manage to clear all of these hurdles, then there was one last fail-safe:
    Charlie Hardie would be waiting for you, ready to point and shoot.
    The only entranceway—a long tube that didn’t feel much wider than a hula hoop—was lined with machine guns. If you stepped inside and Hardie pulled the dual triggers, you would be cut to ribbons, then jettisoned back the way you came, along with your intruding craft. In lots and lots of chunky, frozen pieces.
    Hardie almost
wished
someone would try to break in, just so he’d have something interesting to do. Instead he languished inside a satellite parked 166 miles above the surface of the earth—passing over the United States, according to one monitor.
    What was so important about this satellite? Hardie has no idea. But his life had boiled down to three duties: (a) press a few buttons to perform simple maintenance, (b) keep himself alive, and (c) shoot anyone who showed up.
    Hardie still didn’t fully understand why he’d been chosen for this particular mission.
    I’m no astronaut
, he told them.
    That’s fine, they told him. We don’t want an astronaut. We want
you
.
    Why?
    You’re a survivor. We realized this when you survived what happened in L.A. five years ago. This was confirmed when you managed to work your way out of an escape-proof prison facility. It’s you we want. But first, we have to make a few modifications.
    Yeah.
Modifications
.
    You see, astronauts typically remain in orbit up to six months. Any longer than that exposes the astronaut to weakened bones due to loss of gravity and exposure to solar and cosmic radiation. (Not to mention the psychological stress of being so far from any other human being for so long.) But they claimed to have procedures that would limit the risks. Hardie wanted to know what they were going to do to him; they more or less flatly refused to tell him any detail.
Proprietary secrets
, they said.
Fuck you, it’s my body
, you said.
Is it really
? they said. And they had a point.
    All he knew is that after surgery, his head had ached for a really long time. And more or less hadn’t stopped hurting since then, as if they’d sawed open the top of his skull, moved some stuff around, and then put his head back together a millimeter or two
off
.
    Anyway, that had been nine months ago; there were three to go on his contract. Besides the hellish confined spaces and the constant low-grade headache, it wasn’t complete misery. There were perks. In addition to Hardie’s family being permitted to live, he was