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11: Something Tells Me This Little Black Duck Has Worn Out His Welcome
Laws are only words words written on paper, words that change on society's whim and are interpreted differently daily by politicians, lawyers, judges, and policemen. Anyone who believes that all laws should always be obeyed would have made a fine slave catcher. Anyone who believes that all laws are applied equally, despite race, religion, or economic status, is a fool. -- John J. Miller, "And Hope to Die" (in "Jokertown Shuffle: Wild Cards IX")
I'm betting that I'm just abnormal enough to survive. -- The Tick
Ohara had no idea where or when (other than during business hours) the boomer would strike, but he did have some extremely unofficial specs on the thing, which he handed over to me.
Jesus, what a monster. Or, to put it in the words of my spiritual totem, "My, he's a *big* one."
I couldn't have taken it down in combat by myself, even if that were still an option. Diana and Maggie probably would have a decent chance of beating the thing if they double-teamed it. Shockwave on his own, before he retired, probably could have taken it down. Probably. Hexe as well.
It was the second of two prototypes, built three or four years earlier. According to a heavily censored report in the packet, the Knight Sabers and some spider-shaped walker tank had destroyed the first one by blowing it up with either a huge conventional bomb or a micronuke; this second prototype was supposed to incorporate fixes for problems noted during that fight. GENOM and an American megacorp called "Gulf and Bradley" had intended to start a production run of the things, but the project got cancelled after G&B formed a strategic alliance with another megacorp called "The Chang Group".
Because several key patents and trade secrets were shared and/or cross-licensed in order to design it, neither corp could move to manufacture the model without immediately becoming tasty and profitable lawyerbait for the other. Result: stalemate, and G&B (who had constructed the second beta version) put the remaining prototype into cold storage.
Two years later, according to Ohara, G&B dumped the prototype as part of an odd-lot sell-off of excess inventory and abandoned junk. Whether or not they actually intended to is an interesting question; if so, someone at the company changed their minds *fast.* By the time G&B sent its people to the auction house, though, the boomer had apparently already vanished into the grey market or the arms-trade underground. Eventually it made its way to the warehouse owned by Ohara's unnamed and morally ambiguous "associate".
And from there it had been moved so that it could be released on that day at a random time and location somewhere near the Cone.
Which left me where I was: crouching on the more accessible building tops around the Tower, shivering in the cold, grey mist. It was a near-freezing day that continually threatened rain, but couldn't quite follow through on the threat, and I couldn't decide which annoyed me more. I spent the damp, chilly hours listening to the ADP band, looming over various plazas and alleyways, and waiting. I didn't even allow myself to break for a proper lunch; I ate a pocketful of sports energy bars while perched atop a crumbling cornice with what would probably have been a glorious view of GENOM Tower, had it not been cloaked completely in fog.
The imp of the perverse must love me, because when the call finally came in and put an end to the waiting, the damned thing had been released on the far side of the Tower from my current position. Although the bounce down to ground level didn't take long, the few kilometers I had to travel in city traffic meant that by the time I got there, not only were a few representatives of the ADP already on-site, but the boomer giant was also about to be engaged by GENOM defenses.
It was pure coincidence that had put Leon and Daley near the Tower when the call came in, a coincidence that left them chasing after a monstrous boomer which strode along a busy city street toward GENOM Tower, scattering civilian vehicles left and right. The street eventually opened onto one of the larger plazas near the Tower, and in its center the boomer paused and turned slowly in place, as though orienting itself and determining its next move.
Dispatch had reported an ETA of 15 minutes for the first squads, so they took advantage of the boomer's distraction to circle around the edge of the plaza. At the far end of the square they took up a position at the mouth of the narrow street that was the closest thing to a direct route to the Tower. It seemed a logical spot for a barricade, however futile. Meanwhile, the N- Police cordoned off the area and began an evacuation of anyone too stupid to leave on their own.
Knowing they'd need all the help they could get, Leon contacted HQ again. Shouting over the traffic noise raised by the evacuees, he requested that Nene be assigned to the scene as his aide. After getting approval, he then called the redhead to let her know she was free to operate independently. Catching his meaning, Nene had given him a thumbs-up and a wink before cutting the line. *With luck,* he mused, *the Sabers'll show up faster than the heavy-weapons squads. And before this whole situation gets too ugly.*
That done, he finally had the time to join Daley in studying the boomer before them. Half-crouched behind the open doors of their patrol car with their hand weapons at the ready, however little good they might do, the two ADP officers surveyed the determined- looking cyberdroid.
"You know," Leon said, drawing off his sunglasses as if in slow motion, "I thought they'd only made the one."
Daley realized he was holding his breath, and tried to let it out slowly and calmly. To his disgust, it wheezed out into something like a sigh. "A boomer giant. Damn." He shook his head and turned to his partner. "Leon-chan, this can't be a simple attack on GENOM. It's got to be a lure, like the siege at Bunko's. Someone wants the Loon very badly, or maybe just very dead."
"Well, they can't have me. Either way. I take a lot of killing *and* catching."
The voice came from ... overhead? Daley and Leon looked up to see the familiar helmet and leathers. Their wearer was hanging upside down from the fire escape above them, the toe of one boot hooked neatly around a ladder rung. He saluted. "Good afternoon, officers." His foot relaxed and he dropped, twisting cat-like in mid-air to land neatly before them.
He cocked his head inquisitively. "You were expecting maybe Humphrey Bogart?" Then he peered at them, wiping mist from his goggles. "Well, if it isn't Inspector Wong of the Yard! And his inestimable sidekick."
As Leon held back a growl and Daley suppressed laughter, they exchanged glances. "You want to arrest him, or should I?" Leon muttered wryly.
"Oh, please, let's not start with the arresting business again," the Loon responded. "I'll just escape, and you'll get frustrated, and your bosses will get frustrated, and whoever pulls their strings at GENOM will get frustrated." He peered closely at Leon. "You know, your voice sounds familiar."
The Loon suddenly grinned, snapped his fingers, and pointed at the ADP officer. "You're McNichol, aren't you?" A fraction of a second later Leon discovered his hand was being furiously shaken. "Nice to meet you, finally. I really must apologize for not being around after the action on Sunday so you could try to arrest me, but as you probably know, I got a little, um, carried away."
Daley stifled a groan as Leon attempted to extricate his hand from the Loon's enthusiastic grip. "Yes, I'd noticed," he replied.
"I'm *so* sorry about standing you up like that, and I'd like to make it up to you. Can we set a date for you to corner me and try to take me in?" Leon finally extracted his hand and opened his mouth to respond, but the Loon ran roughshod over his attempt to insert a comment. "Today's no good -- I'm all booked up -- but maybe sometime early next week? We can do lunch, you can bring the partner and the girlfriend..." He paused and swept an assessing glance over an amused Daley. "...or the boyfriend, whichever..." Daley suddenly felt the need to suppress a belly laugh. "I know this nice little French place. We can sit down, eat, talk over old times, and then after dessert and cognac you can try to arrest me. Would that work for you?" He ended up with his head cocked at a quizzical angle.
"But today is right out. I'm afraid you can't try to arrest me at all right now. It'll just ruin the afternoon for a whole lot of people if you tried."
Daley raised an eyebrow as Leon recovered from the verbal barrage. "Well, then, what do you suggest we do in the mean time?" he asked, for lack of any better idea.
"Well..." The helmeted figure pantomimed deep thought for a second. "You could tell me if it's possible for you to take in a giant boomer like ol' Abominababble over there?"
"What do you mean, 'take in'?" Leon slid his sunglasses back on and drew his face into his "pit bull" expression in what Daley was sure was a calculated effort to dispel the last of his bewilderment.
Sensing the change in tone, the Loon also grew serious. "What I mean is, if I can restrain Laughing Boy, can you deactivate or disable it without destroying it?"
Leon looked at Daley, who shrugged. "I think so," he replied after a moment. "Theoretically, we're supposed to bring in all the boomers we can. However, most resist arrest rather... energetically."
The helmet dipped in a nod. "Understood. It's hard to let go of freedom once you get a taste." He tilted his head in a quizzical manner. "So... you can take it down nondestructively if I can get it to hold still long enough?"
"Good, that's what I'll do, then. You be ready." He turned to go, spinning so fast he almost seemed to blink from one facing to the next.
A change seemed to come over the man as he turned back to face them; his stance softened. "Because I'd rather work with local law enforcement than against it. Because it's the right thing to do. Because every sentient being deserves to keep its life, even those that are built instead of born," he replied in a quiet voice. Then, before any more could be said, he turned away and launched himself at the boomer giant.
Leon pushed his glasses up on his nose with one finger. "Well, Daley, you heard the man. I'll check on our backup, you go get the boomer restraint system." He glanced at the trunk of their patrol car, then looked back at his partner. "Do you remember how to use one?"
Daley didn't deign to answer that as he opened the patrol car's trunk and retrieved the boomer restraint kit. He closed the trunk quietly -- no need to attract more attention than they needed to. Laying the case on the lid, he opened it and began refamiliarizing himself with the device. "I haven't looked at one of these things since I transferred to ADP," he muttered to no one in particular as he studied the squat, broad pistol that resembled a flare gun with a folding stock, and its chunky payload.
It was, to put it simply, a jamming device covered with glue. A nodule of hardened electronics sat at the heart of a sphere of black, sticky stuff that most of ADP simply called the "tar ball" in preference to its 20-syllable chemical name. It was specifically designed to bond to Abotex, but would adhere less permanently to almost anything else, too. In theory, it would effectively weld itself to the boomer's body and send out pseudo- random electromagnetic pulses that would disrupt the electronic parts of its neural system.
Daley couldn't remember ever seeing anybody actually use one during a real incident. The department had all but discarded them years before, after a few capture attempts had turned deadly; the presence of one in their trunk was more a tribute to bureaucratic inertia than to any effort at comprehensive contingency planning.
He hefted the bulky gun, which felt as ungainly as a potato sack in his hands. Stepping back to his position behind the passenger side door, he unfolded the stock and peeled the protective film from the "tar ball". *If this thing doesn't have a kick like Leon-chan's handcannon, it's not going to do any good,* he thought. *And if it does, it's probably going to break my wrists or my shoulder. I just *love* lose-lose propositions.* He sighed and looked up from the pistol at the combat.
Well, as boomers went, this one was the giant economy size. Six meters tall if it was an inch and vaguely hunchbacked, it had digitigrade legs, surprisingly slender for its size, and hideously over-built shoulders and arms. Its barrel-sized hands bore some seriously wicked claws, but oddly, they seemed to be its only armament. Its head was surely larger than the standard boomer cranium, but perched atop that massive structure, it looked laughably small. Or it would if it didn't have all those fanglike protrusions in its jaws. The whole thing was covered in incredibly thick-looking armor. It was heavy enough to crack the stone pavers that formed the bulk of the plaza.
I wondered where Ohara was. He'd told me that he'd be there while I engaged the giant, but I didn't see any sign of him. Which was for the better, actually. The last thing I needed was a guilt-stricken tech-boy sightseer in or near the combat zone.
While I'd been playing gargoyle, I'd worked out a plan. Having the ADP's cooperation meant I could actually use it, and for that I was glad. Surprisingly, it would be easier to subdue the giant than to destroy it; I could do that by myself. Short of summoning simulacra of the whole team, I didn't think I could kill it. Wound it badly, maybe even cripple it, but not kill it. I wouldn't do that, though. A clean death, or none at all.
I launched myself at the giant boomer with the primary intent of distracting it, to keep it from progressing any closer to the Cone. We were a scant four hundred meters from one of the four blocky towers that stood sentry around the base of the Tower, and if I didn't keep it in the plaza it would walk right over Wong and Friend and start tearing out chunks of superstructure in less than a minute.
I worried about just how much distraction I could provide. I needn't have. Even as I was bounding towards it, two huge black- and-white boomers plummetted out of the sky in a pair of screaming power dives. At the very last second before their seemingly-inevitable crash, they pulled up and began to circle the giant.
Whatever they were, they were almost as big as it was -- four meters or so. Their armor was somewhat more streamlined, though, and big jet vents on their legs and backs gave them a lot of thrust, allowing them to fly more aerodynamically than the usual combat boomer. Their arms were oddly shaped, hands and fingers pointing upwards in a permanent "come get me" gesture that made no sense until their forearms split in half lengthwise and pivoted at the elbow. The lower halves kept the hands, but the upper halves were clearly weapons pods of some sort. And they were trained on the giant.
I arrested my forward movement with a short skid on the damp pavement, and backed off until I could re-evaluate the fight and do a tactical on the the two new bots. As the three boomers settled into what I was sure was a brief temporary standoff, I retreated to within shouting distance of Wong and his partner.
Wong and McNichol were back to crouching behind their car doors. Wong held something that looked kind of like a bullhorn mated to a leprous softball, and his partner had a pistol that might have been the same model as the one owned by that motorcyclist I'd raced a few months earlier.
"They're called Dobermans," McNichol called back. "They're just as vicious as their namesakes. And about as smart," he added.
I nodded. "Not sentients, then. Good. Thanks!" I turned my attention back to the Mexican standoff in front of me and completed my tactical.
I suddenly felt like a five-year-old about to jump in the ring with a trio of professional wrestlers, and I frantically sorted through the songs I could use to take out the new players and still leave the giant unhurt for my attempt at its rescue. The single worst problem with my metagift is *not* its unpredictability. It's that I have too damn many options -- more than I care to sift through in a crisis situation. But then, I bring it upon myself. I don't *have* to keep more than a dozen or two songs in my helmet, but I like being prepared for contingencies. And if I weren't operating under my personal rules of engagement, it wouldn't be a problem anyway. I'd just "Lightning's Hand" them by default. But that choice wasn't open to me any more. Even if they were now presumably made moot by my deal with Ohara, I didn't dare completely abandon my rules yet. Not until I was sure -- of the deal and of Ohara.
Which left me scrabbling for the right song to use against the two newcomers. The tactical called for offense, but not indiscriminate offense -- I had two hostiles and one effective "hostage", since I still intended to rescue the giant. I didn't want to hurt it accidentally. That eliminated area attacks. With the Dobies' flight potential, something ranged would be best, but it had to have the potential to get through what looked like some seriously hefty armor. But I couldn't scale up immediately to a true mainline attack, not in an urban area that I couldn't trust to be free from noncombatants. Not unless I was forced to. *Damn.*
In the couple of seconds that I took me to reach that expletive, one of the Dobermans took to the air again, and began circling the giant. The second backed off a couple dozen meters as ol' Abominababble began circling to keep the flying Dobie in sight. *Damn,* I repeated mentally. *They're going to hammer-and-anvil it. Classic pincer.* I needed to get through that armor to put down the Dobermans -- I needed to punch, cut, melt or burn my way through.
I had it. It might be a little slow, but it would do the job. And if I could get the giant clear, I could use it as an area effect, too. And without accidentally burning out anyone's crops like I did while defending Demsbury... I reached up and twisted the speaker housings to "on" and made sure the PA was off. "<System. Combat mode on. 'This Corrosion.' Play."> "10:55" flashed green on the display in my HUD and started counting down as the trademark Steinman million-voice chorus began its almost Gregorian descant.
I paused a moment to gather the power that started to flow into and through me.
I combat-hyped, and as the world blue-shifted into slow motion I poured on the speed and darted around the ground-bound Doberman. Leaping for the lower half of its left forearm, I got a good grip and swung myself upward as if I were on a chinning bar.
For all my speed, I didn't quite surprise the beast. Roaring, it waved its arm violently, trying to shake me off. In my state of combat awareness, though, it was like hanging onto a slow-moving piston. I used the movement to pump myself into a swing around the lower forearm and swept a boot heel directly across its left- hand eye. As the optics shattered (from the impact) and melted (from the song), I released my grip on its arm and let my momentum carry me upward; where my hands had been were two smoking trenches in the boomer's armor plating.
"<Hey now, hey now na-now, sing This Corrosion to me
Hey now, hey now na-now, sing This Corrosion to me
Hey now, hey now na-now, sing This Corrosion to me
Hey now, hey now na-now, sing...>"With ponderous slowness the boomer turned in place, trying to arch its massive back enough that its small, low-hung head could look upwards. I crawled to the low zenith of my flight, tucked myself into an acrobatic roll that set me back upright, then began to drift back downwards feet-first.
And it was at that point that the Doberman in the air picked me off. A deceptively harmless-looking ripple of red light erupted from the weapons pod on its right arm and slammed into me like a speeding truck. I howled as it tore through my field and knocked me out of combat-hype, sending me flying right back into Wong's patrol car.
As I tumbled, flailing, through the air, I spotted the two ADP officers diving to either side from its open doors. My head slammed into the car roof as I hit the windshield, which fractured and flexed under me without giving way. I heard the doors slam shut, then the scream of tortured metal as the mystery blast tore and crumpled the vehicle. I gasped for a moment with the pain as the beam washed past me; it felt like I had gone head- first under a steam roller. The polykev had borne the brunt of most of the impacts, fortunately, and it was so hot that it was almost unbearable. I could feel the radiated heat on my face and even through my gloves. And even so I still took a lot of damage; my left wrist felt sprained and maybe broken, my head still rang from the impact, and every muscle in my torso screamed a complaint. I don't think I'd ever been hit with anything that powerful before -- nor have I since.
Before I could burn my way through the remains of the car, I levered myself out of the bellied windshield using my good hand, then winced as I rolled off the fender and onto my feet. As it was, the safety glass had already begun to melt and run, and patches of pitted bare metal were starting to show on the smoking hood. "Ow ow ow ow *shit*," I growled as Wong and Friend crept back. I waved them off, but I think the sizzling and bubbling asphalt under my feet had more to do with where they stopped than my gesture did. Some meters away, the flying Dobie had already turned its attention back to Laughing Boy.
"You survived *that*?" Wong said with no small amount of undisguised awe in his voice.
"Ask me later," I snapped. "What the hell *was* that it shot me with?"
"What, you don't know?" McNichol replied from the other side of the sheet metal accordion that used to be their car. He seemed both surprised and a little amused maybe at my ignorance. "A gravity gun!"
That got my attention. I snapped my head around to look at him, and immediately regretted it. "Ow! Shit. Do you mean to tell me you've got gravtech?"
He gave me a nasty smile. "Disappointed that we're not as far behind your homeworld as you thought, Loon?"
"Hell, no," I shot back. Precisely *what* he had said didn't register with me until hours later. Right then I was realizing what I could do with one of those guns, and deciding that I wanted one. Badly. Add that to the dramatically upgraded need to protect the giant from its assailants, and I decided it was enough to justify escalating my side of the conflict to match the opposition. It wouldn't be easy with a sprained-maybe-broken wrist and what might be a couple broken ribs, but hell, I never was one to do things the easy way.
"So they want to play rough, huh?" I murmured, more to myself than to the cops. "All right, if that's the way they want it. Time to fight fire with napalm! <System!>" I shouted. "<'Black Hole Sun'! Play!>"
Leon dove for cover as the Loon shouted something in English and started to glow. Daley, though, held his ground and watched.
The Loon stood in a slightly spread-legged stance, left hand held carefully against his stomach, his right at waist height, open and cupped as if it held a sphere about the size of a grapefruit. Which, Daley realized as the glow around the man slid off his body and down his arm, it now did.
Daley's late maternal grandmother had been an indiscriminate enthusiast of pop occultism. Having far too much money for her own good, she had over many years filled her home with all manner of New Age totems, tools and knickknacks. As a child, Daley had been fascinated by all of it, but most of all by the large crystal ball which had held a permanent position of honor on a sideboard in her living room. The shape which floated now within the Loon's right hand reminded him of nothing else so much as his grandmother's crystal ball: round, transparent, warping and lensing the light that passed through it, and outlining everything viewed through it with a rainbow-tinged border. But whatever it was, it wasn't solid, not quite. There were no defined edges -- only a gentle, almost airbrushed, transition from a solid and furious center to the air in which it floated.
As he watched, it lifted out of the Loon's hand and began to speed furiously around him. Another appeared and joined it, then another, and again, and again, until there were a dozen or more, the arrival of each heralded by a small, distinct popping noise, like a distant firecracker.
They swarmed and orbited the Loon, looking for all the world like the electrons in an old-fashioned atomic diagram. As they passed over and around his body, their bizarre optical properties seemed to warp and twist his form, making him waver and flow like a lava lamp on fast forward, all the while emitting a low, whistling drone. Daley found the combined effect profoundly disturbing. His stomach churned and threatened him with nausea, but he fought it down and stood unmoving, the BRS firmly clamped in his hands.
In the center of the plaza, the Dobermans and the giant traded attacks. Gravity blasts battered the giant's armor, scoring and denting the Abotex and driving the boomer to its knees once. The Dobermans had suffered their own share of damage. Three deep, parallel gouges scored the chest of the one in the air, and the one on the ground was now stuck there, with half its jet system torn away by a lucky blow. As another exchange of fire belched forth between them, the Loon dashed unevenly to the right and in towards the conflict. That this took the ADP officers out of the line of any more attacks upon him was no coincidence, Daley noted with gratitude.
The Loon halted thirty meters away from the battle, raised his right arm, and once again held out his hand as if he were presenting the boomer with a phantom grapefruit. He still cradled his left hand against his stomach. The orbiting balls slid around and away from his outstretched arm.
"Bang," he said, clearly enough to be heard from where Daley stood.
As the flying doberman jogged to one side to avoid its companion, there was a crack like miniature thunder and a blast of white light erupted from its shoulder armor. Whatever it was, it staggered the boomer, almost throwing the cyberdroid into an uncontrollable tumble backwards. Its jets shrieked in protest as it fought to stabilize itself. Then, slowly, it brought itself upright again.
On the ground, the second Doberman paused, seemingly distracted. The giant took advantage of the moment and lunged for its opponent, sending up a spray of sparks as its claws bit into the security boomer's armor sheathing.
Daley hissed as he got a good look at the flying Doberman. Its left arm hung limp and useless. At its shoulder, the left pauldron of the boomer's armor was shattered and seared; in its center was a hand-sized crater with blackened and cracked edges, deep enough to reveal the burnt and broken mechanisms beneath.
The Doberman roared its pain, had been roaring, Daley realized. It whipped its right arm up toward the Loon, and fired another gravity blast. The crimson wave slammed into the Loon...
...and died. It shattered upon a wall of whirling, orbiting distortions, and broke into a thousand shreds of scarlet energy. The streamers of translucent red swirled aimlessly around him for a moment before most of them spiraled down into the transparent spheres like rusty water down a drain; the Loon didn't even break his stance when what little was left of the wave finally struck him.
It howled in outrage and gunned its jets, hurling itself at him as if it intended simply to smash him with its sheer bulk and speed.
Another explosion of light and sound, and another smoking crater appeared, this time in the center of the Doberman's chest. Despite the roaring jets gouting flame behind it, the boomer stopped short in its flight at the force of the impact. Its jets stuttered warningly.
The Doberman swung its massive arm in an attempt to swat the man like a wayward basketball; it missed, barely. The long, talon- like fingers on its hand slid through and among the orbiting spheres.
Tony studied the few instruments they'd managed to carry in the trunk of his car. "Quantum black holes. I think. If I'm interpreting these readings correctly. And if the grav sensors aren't simply reporting garbage. A dozen or so, massing maybe a metric ton each." He shook his head in disbelief. "Why he's not being torn to shreds by the tidal forces..."
"Amazing," Ohara breathed. "We've got to get him show us that device when he starts work next week."
Tony's attention snapped completely onto his friend and nominal employer. "Say *what*?"
The Dobie swiped at me and missed; my field deflected the blow and the holes reduced its hand to a useless tangle of metal and plastic. The boomer was too tall for me to actually leap over it, but I could get as far as its upper arm, and springboarded from there to arc high over its back -- just barely clearing the big, sharp-looking fins it had there. While I was upside-down at the zenith of my second leap, I fired another hole down at the back of its head. Between its movement and mine, I missed my intended target, but I still hit the thing: a glancing blow ripped a long gouge through the armor over what remained of its jets before the hole destabilized and vaporized itself in a burst of light and radiation.
"<Black hole sun
Won't you come
And wash away the rain
Black hole sun
Won't you come
Won't you come...>"Below and far to the left of me, the giant was holding its own against the other Dobie. More than holding its own, in fact; little pieces of Doberman were flying everywhere as the giant merrily dismembered the weakly-struggling boomer. I absently hoped that it left one of the gravity guns intact.
As I started to drop back down, I risked flexing my left hand. Painful. But none of the all-too-familiar bone-on-bone grating. Okay. Either a sprain or a hairline fracture. Or both. I could work with that, push it if necessary, until I had a chance to heal myself. The polykev plates in the glove would kind of splint it, and the glove itself would help, too. It'd hurt like hell, no mistake. But if I needed it, I could use it. And I needed to, if I were to follow through with my plan to restrain the giant.
Beyond that, I ignored the complaints of my body. As long as I didn't puncture a lung, I didn't care about the ribs. And the other aches and pains were a useless distraction; I banished them from my thoughts.
And well that I did, because at the moment that my feet touched the damp pavement, that damned Doberman swatted me again, lashing out with one of its legs. My field didn't divert the blow, and it slammed into my hip even as the black hole shield punctured and sliced at the limb. I went rolling across the plaza, sweating as the temperature of the polykev shot back up.
The Doberman pulled back a mass of pureed metal, polymer and flesh where its foot used to be.
This time Daley actually glimpsed the projectiles rather than just their effect: one after the other in rapid succession, round, rippling distortions like those that swirled around the Loon's body. Streamers of mist trailed after them, stretching out almost beseechingly for the strange distortions.
A line of small white explosions walked across the fallen boomer's barrel chest, drawing a diagonal line from just under its left arm up to its right shoulder, and leaving behind shattered and seared Abotex. The impacts sent the Doberman sliding and bouncing backwards across the mist-slickened paving stones. It came to rest near the giant, which at the sound of Abotex on stone had looked up from where it had been savaging the remains of the other Doberman. Growling, the giant leapt upon the wounded boomer and began tearing it limb from limb.
Once the giant finished thoroughly trashing the Dobies, it stood up and slowly, deliberately turned around in place again, like it was searching for something. Taking several huge paces, it positioned itself a dozen or so meters closer to the Tower and ponderously rotated once more.
"<Hang my head, drown my fear,
'Til you all just disappear,
Black hole sun
Won't you come
And wash away the rain
Black hole sun
Won't you come
Won't you come...>"I took advantage of the moment to dash in to where its victims lay splattered across the pavement. The paving stones, already moist from the hesitant rain, were now liberally coated with yellow goo and random wreckage, and I had to watch my footing. The first Doberman had been thoroughly smashed. I was out of luck there -- its gravity weapon had been totally destroyed. But the second...
I didn't even try to move the whole arm. Instead, I dissolved the shield and let the holes flow down to form a vertical circle just beyond my clenched fist. I started the circle rotating with a thought, a dozen quantum black holes blurring around an orbit maybe 30 centimeters across, just a few centimeters beyond my knuckles. With the gravitational lensing, it looked like someone had taken a small rainbow and looped it back upon itself.
I knelt by the biorobotic limb and took a moment to study the weapon pod that held the gravity gun. I chose a point safely behind it -- not so far back that it would be unwieldy, not so close to the pod that I risked damaging the weapon. Then I brought the spinning ring of black holes down upon that polymer armor.
It was hard not to expect some kind of resistance and to avoid pressing down firmly to counter it. So, in one quick motion I sliced through the armor, the pod's support stanchion, the rest of the limb, another layer of armor, and finally, a fair distance into the 10-centimeter-thick paving stone beneath.
Standing, I dismissed the holes. With my foot I kicked the pod over to one side of the plaza to get it out of the way of what was to come next.
I turned back just in time to see it start off for the Cone again.
I had two advantages against it -- size and speed. It was fast, like all of GENOM's warbots, but not fast enough, and it was big enough that I could dance around and *under* it, into and through blind spots. A third advantage: it was somewhat wounded from its encounter with the Dobermans. (Then again, so was I, so that pretty much cancelled out.)
"<System. 'The Chain'. Play,>" I muttered. Fleetwood Mac, *Rumours*. A classic. And the next step in my original battle plan.
It didn't take me long to piss it off. This assumed that it had ever *stopped* being pissed off from the Dobermans' attack. Whatever. Boomers all seemed to be very short on temper. Then again, if hardware blocks had been installed in *my* brain at birth to make *me* a slave, I don't think I'd be a very mellow person either.
The challenge was to make it angry enough to draw it away from its course again, but not so angry that it caused wanton damage to itself or the two ADP cops. If I overdid it, well, I was hoping that more ADP forces would show up and at least slow it down a bit while I changed gears and songs. But I didn't plan on overdoing it.
I'd been dodging around, above and below Ol' Abominababble, getting in a hit here and there without doing any real damage. It had been built as a front line combat monster, as a terror weapon -- even its weak points were tough. But I didn't actually have to *hurt* it to achieve my goal.
Inspired by the silent voice of my combat muse, I abruptly changed the direction in which I was running, dodged a pair of lumbering blows from those huge arms, and shot between its legs and out behind it. I was still combat-hyped, of course, and I poured on the speed until I was a couple dozen yards from it in the exact opposite direction from the Tower. It was still turning about (with painful, ponderous slowness, in my frame of reference) when I stretched out my arms with palms toward the giant bot. I suppressed a wince at the pain in my left wrist, and let loose with the power that had been simmering in me since the song began.
With a metallic rattle, a pair of glowing golden chains made of hand-sized links shot out of the air just in front of my palms. They darted at the boomer like snakes, rearing back just the slightest bit before striking forward to wrap themselves around its legs. The boomer actually managed to look surprised, and I snorted at the comical expression on its partially-immobile face.
Then I yelped, because it triggered its jumpjets and launched itself at me. I threw myself to one side, just barely avoiding evisceration from those huge claws. I didn't stop myself, but let my momentum carry me as far away as I could. I came to a stop on my hands and knees, not quite facing it. Its swipe at me had continued on to rip through the concrete wall of a small office building on the north edge of the plaza. Ouch.
My wrist protested at the weight I'd been forced to put on it. Fucking ouch.
The boomer seemed to have forgotten me as it turned its attention to trying to rip the chains off its legs. They'd already linked back upon themselves -- there wasn't a loose end it could pull out -- so the bot sawed away at the links with its claws. It raised sparks but was getting nowhere; they were solid-energy and, like the song says, "you will never break the chain."
I took a long, quiet breath, considered the situation, and struck.
On either side of the entangled boomer the pavement shattered and exploded as a pair of familiar golden chains erupted upwards. Startled, it flinched, but with its legs bound it ended up only knocking itself off-balance. As it tottered and began to fall, the chains looped down and wrapped themselves around the boomer, binding it neatly before it hit the ground.
As the tail ends of the chains snapped out of the ground and melded into the whole, I pushed myself up with another suppressed wince. In front of me were two holes punched into the stone where I'd sent the chains down into the ground. As I got to my feet, the boomer thudded to the pavement, rebounding once, then twice. Meters away, I could feel the force of the impact through my boots.
"Well, whaddaya know," I said, mostly to myself. "Boomers bounce."
I turned to Inspector Wong and his parter, switching on my helmet's PA. "It's all yo..." I began, but suddenly my danger sense screamed at me and I threw myself into a forward roll. Before I could pop back up onto my feet some meters away, I heard rapid multiple "whoosh-thunk" noises over and behind me, followed closely by an equal number of sharp cracks.
I knew that noise, and to hear it now chilled me to the bone. It meant I'd failed, that the slave I had sought to rescue had instead been summarily executed. Without trial, without jury, without justice; executed for the sole crime of being nonhuman and free. I had just been made an accessory to a murder.
Slowly I turned, knowing just what I would see: the Knight Sabers. Lady Blue was still in motion, landing from some long jump to stand over the fallen giant. She had some new accessories to go with her outfit, in the same fetching shade of blue: two large gauss cannons set up in an avant-garde over-the- shoulder mount, with ring grips for her hands near their front ends. They were the obvious source of a set of fucking huge spikes -- still glowing faintly azure from the bleed-off of their induced electrical field -- that had driven into and through the skull of the boomer I'd tried so hard to save. A boomer whose suddenly still body in its tight wrapping of chains bespoke a quick and quiet death. Behind Blue, the other three Knights approached more cautiously, and stood off to the side.
A cold rage formed in my chest. I snapped out a hand, and a golden chain exploded forth to wrap itself around the blue Knight Saber's chest and trap her arms. Instead of releasing the chain to let it envelope her, I grabbed its end and yanked, at the same time willing the chain to shorten itself. "Get over here!" I yelled. Before she knew what was happening, Lady Blue found herself dragged into a cozy little tete-a-tete with yours truly.
"Why did you do that?" I hissed at her as I dissolved the chain. The PA amplified my almost silent challenge and set it bouncing off the walls near us. "Please tell me."
Blue had been surprised by the attack, but she recovered quickly. Her left hand (the one that was basically in a lightly-armored glove) shot forward, fingers spread; she obviously wanted to grab me by the front of my jacket. It slid off my field to the left. "It was a boomer," she growled and tried again, this time only to have her hand forced uncontrollably to the right. Through her voder came a wordless sound of frustration, and she stood there, clenching and unclenching both hands at chest height.
"You had it down," she continued in a low, dangerous snarl. The familiar voxmod buzz somehow managed to transmit the aggressive and challenging tone of her voice. "I finished the job for you." That tone made it clear -- she was daring me to object.
I nodded slowly. "Oh." I turned as if to go, took a step, then snapped a spin kick at her. I caught her as she was starting to lunge for me and got a solid hit on her midriff, folding her in half and propelling her backwards to smash against the concrete wall the late boomer had rent with its claws. I followed and yanked her out of the rubble by the chin of her helmet.
"NO!" I yelled at her, and the PA boosted it to almost painful levels. "You did *not* finish it for me. You *fucked it up* for me!" I found myself bizarrely wishing that her armor had lapels, because I wanted to grab them and shake her violently. "This was *my* operation, Blue. Understand this -- you Knights do what you like on your own missions, but you do *not* interfere in mine. Got it?"
"Fuck you, you son of a bitch! Fuck you!" she bellowed and flung her left arm back; with a quiet click some kind of flat-fronted guard pivoted around her forearm and locked into place over the lightly-armored hand. High-tech brass knuckles. Interesting.
I shoved her away and hopped backwards to get out of hand-to-hand range. She stumbled and fell back into the pile of shattered wall. As she scrambled to return to her feet, I turned back to the boomer, shooting a glance at the other Knights as I did so. Olive was jittering nervously in place, while White and Pink stood statue-still. *Is this some kind of sick test?* I wondered, then turned my attention back to the six-meter armored corpse.
Behind me, I heard concrete scraping on concrete. My danger sense screamed, and without thinking -- or looking -- I dodged the punch Blue threw at me. Her right hand, little more than an armored bludgeon, whipped past my head, an electric crackle and a smell of ozone in its wake. I grabbed her forearm and redirected her momentum to pivot her completely around and then send her rolling across the plaza with a clatter of armor on cement and an explosive discharge of electricity. Nasty.
As she slowly rose to her feet again, Priss snarled at Sangnoir. *I'm going to pound you into the sidewalk, you smug asshole!* she fumed silently. *I don't need *you* to make me doubt myself.* Self-doubt was an old friend, after all, in the years since Sylvie had died. *Hell, say it true, Priss. Since I murdered her.* But it was getting harder and harder to stoke the fires of her anger enough to drown out the doubt.
It didn't help that Linna had begun interrogating Sylia about the nature of boomer brains as they were donning their hardsuits, and kept it up all the way here. Sylia had replied in terse, uninformative monosyllables. An uncharacteristic tension had underlaid her voice, and it grew with each of Linna's inquiries. And Nene... Nene was positively *bloodthirsty* today. Priss had never seen her like that before.
Part of her wanted to scream at Linna for asking questions whose answers Priss didn't want to hear. Another part of her -- the part that despaired and railed at Sylvie's death -- wanted desperately to *know* as much as Linna wanted to. Confused at the conflict in her own soul, Priss turned to her familiar anger for comfort, hoping for a chance to take it all out on Sangnoir for starting all this trouble. Hadn't her life been a big enough pile of shit without him stirring it up and forcing her to look at things she didn't want to see?
And how *dare* he refuse to bring them back from the dead? To bring even *one* back? If he only knew what just *asking* him had done to her...
No. No more *thinking*. The only way she'd feel better would be to grind the smirking bastard into the ground.
I glared at the other Knights. Olive looked at her compatriots, then triggered her jump jets. She passed out of my field of view, and I didn't turn to follow her. Behind me, as I started walking away again, I heard that odd hollow "poink" sound their steps made as she landed.
Ignoring them, I stalked back to the giant boomer, which now lay in a growing pool of yellow fluid. The song timer in my HUD was under 45 seconds and blinking red, but instead of letting it run out, I muttered, "<System. Song off.>" Buckingham and Nicks shut up in mid-syllable, and the golden chains wrapping the boomer vanished. No longer held in tension by the energy constructs, the bot's body slumped. The armor plating made dull impact noises against the stone, not unlike Blue's.
I knelt next to the monstrous corpse and reached out to touch its head when I heard that rapid "poink-poink-poink" coming up behind me. I was still combat-hyped, and my spin-and-stand reaction startled Blue. Her hands rose to the D-rings that hung under from shoulder-mounted gauss cannons.
"Try it," I said softly and with considerably more confidence than I felt. If even one of those spikes got through my field... "Just try it."
"What the fuck is your problem?" she said after a moment's silence, releasing the D-rings. "You pissed because we killed it first?"
I'd had just about enough. I was tired and frustrated, I was cold and damp and half-cramped from a day of squatting on wet rooftops, I'd just fought my way alone through three of the ugliest and deadliest bots I'd ever encountered in my entire career, had the boomer I wanted to save killed right under my nose, my ribs were probably broken and my wrist was still screaming bloody murder at me. And most of all, I realized that I was sick and tired of clueless do-gooder crunchies who ought to know better running around in high-powered armor at the behest of a woman with an obvious private agenda.
"No, you testosterone-poisoned bimbo, I'm pissed because you killed it, *period*!" Behind me, I thought I heard one of the ADP inspectors say, "Uh-oh," but I didn't care. "I was trying to save its life, you microcephalic excuse for a mercenary!" I glared at her, then shared it with the other Knights. "I give you four notice right now. You interfere with one of my operations again, and I *will* treat you as hostiles."
The two ADP officers were starting to get restless; I could hear whispers and mutters to my rear. Best to end this quickly.
"Don't you think your declaration is a bit hypocritical, Colonel?" White asked with an obvious sneer in her voice. "You are, after all, a visitor to MegaTokyo, while we have long been the city's defenders."
"'Colonel'?" Daley murmured. "Looks like they've found out something new since you last dealt with them, Leon-chan."
"Not really," Leon replied absently. "I got an update on Monday."
"In case you haven't noticed, Lady White, you four are as much illegal vigilantes as I am. I don't think that being the first to commit a particular crime grants you exclusive rights to it." From his position near the crumpled patrol car I heard McNichol laugh softly.
In front of me, Blue seemed to hover between distraction and combat-readiness. At least once, her head jerked as if someone had called her. It was obvious that at least one of the other Knights was using their private channel to try to talk her into or out of something, judging from her body language. I flicked my eyes over to a small display at the edge of the HUD. My sampling program almost had enough for me to work with.
"Nevertheless," White continued. "Rogue boomers such as this one are a threat to this city. We may well choose to interpret your attempts to... 'save their lives'... as being a danger to the safety of MegaTokyo's people."
"Don't give me this sanctimonious shit, White. Your boomers are *people*, too. Just as much as the full biologicals who live in this city. Making slaves of them doesn't change that fact."
"The safest way of dealing with a rogue is to destroy it. This is one of the duties we owe to the people of MegaTokyo."
I shook my head. "You just don't get it, do you, White? You're not fulfilling a duty, you're serving a master. You're pro bono slave hunters! You take care of the rogues, the loose cannons and the inconveniently rebellious for GENOM, and you do it for free. What a wonderful bonus for their bottom line! You're nothing more than GENOM's volunteer clean-up squad."
Blue growled at me again, then her voxmod cut off suddenly. She was back on the private channel the Knights shared. Pink and Olive hesitantly stepped forward a few feet, then glanced back at White. Only Blue had a weapon close to trained on me at the moment, but I had to wonder just how much ordnance might be brought to bear on Momma Sangnoir's favorite son should they break form and fire on me.
I was starting to get fed up with all of this. "Listen to me, White, and listen good. You know my mind. You want to dispute it with me, fine, I'll take you all on. You're just four crunchies in tin suits, after all. I'll rip you right out of your armor. And don't think I can't do it." I whirled back to the dead bot, mentally daring Blue to just try something. "<System. 'Dust in the Wind'. Play,>" I murmured, and the helmet obliged. At the same time, the sampler's readout in my HUD suddenly blinked green as it reached a critical mass of data.
"Take this as a warning, White. Don't get in my way," I called back over my shoulder, and punched down.
In the plaza the Loon stood over the fallen boomer and punched downward with his right hand. A vortex of swirling air sprang up in a column around him, then channeled itself down his arm to engulf the boomer.
The body of giant cyberdroid exploded into a silver mist, a cloud of fine powder that was caught up by the blast of wind and carried out of the plaza. All that was left was the pool of nutrient fluid in which the cyberdroid had lain, and a few blackened and scorched masses that might have been organic, once. "Rest in peace, my friend," the Loon murmured, but the PA in his helmet carried it to everyone. "You're free now."
He turned back to the Sabers. Raising his arm, he pointed at them; something like a dust devil swirled along its length, a trumpet bell of moving air flaring out around his hand. He fixed a warning look on the Blue Saber in particular, then trained it on the others. "Mess with me, and I'll vaporize your oh-so-pretty armor just like that. I'll leave you in the street four very identifiable women in their underwear. Got it?"
Even through her hardsuit, Leon could see that Priss was trembling with rage, and glanced at the white Saber. To his shock, he realized that she was just as angry as Priss. It screamed out to him in her posture and her body language, which Sylia normally kept under strict control. *Shit,* he thought as he watched the tension between the Loon and the Sabers rise with every exchange. *This is bad, really bad...*
"I believe, Colonel, that the phrase in your particular idiom would be, 'Of course you realize, this means war,'" said the white Saber quietly.
"Yes," he replied slowly. "War it is. So be it. For what it's worth, Lady White, I'm sorry it has to be like this."
She nodded. "Understood. And believe me when I tell you, I feel the same. You are, after all, acting on your own sincere beliefs, and you *are* saving lives as well." Sylia's tones still rang with anger even as she made the grudging admission.
The Loon returned the nod. "As are you. It's a pity we cannot come to a better understanding, Lady White. If only you would see what it is you are really doing..." In the distance, the sirens of the approaching ADP backup became audible, and he cocked his head. "I hear the herald of more audience than I care to perform for. I do believe I will be going. I cannot wish you well in your crusade, White, but I will at least wish you well, period." He returned his attention to Priss. "And you, Blue... I owe you a life for the death you inflicted here."
"What the fuck is that supposed to mean?" she snarled, the hardsuit voder not filtering out the savage anger in her voice at all.
Within his helmet, he smiled enigmatically. "Figure it out for yourself." He stepped back, murmuring, "<System. Song off,>" and the tiny twister enveloping his arm vanished. As the Blue Saber looked on, he stood over the fragment of Doberman he'd salvaged earlier. He spread his arms and held them high. "And now, for my next trick... <System. 'Fly Like an Eagle'. Play.>" He swept his arms down, and brought them back up as great golden-feathered wings. In an eyeblink, the Loon had been replaced by an enormous eagle, monstrous and majestic, which seized the wreckage in its talons. A single flap of its immense wings and it was airborne, startling the pilot of an incoming FireBee as the raptor silently hurtled into the overcast sky. It shimmered in the reflected light of a million street lamps, and vanished.
The Knight Sabers stood staring into the sky for a long moment afterward. Then the White Saber triggered her jumpjets and bounded away, followed by the others. The Pink Saber was the last to leave; for several seconds more she stared at the seared and blackened scraps which were all that remained of the boomer giant, until she jerked as if in surprise and triggered her own jets.
*What are you thinking, Nene?* Leon mused. *I'd give a week's pay to know...*
As he stood absorbed in thought, his eyes on the overcast sky, the approaching sirens grew in volume, reaching a crescendo and then cutting off abruptly. He turned to see that a half dozen or more armored personnel carriers had pulled up around the edges of the plaza and were now disgorging troopers.
Leon glanced around. Next to the remains of the patrol car, Daley was deep in an energetic conversation with the assembled squad leaders. The forensic team had already unpacked its gear; its members were vigorously studying, measuring and photographing the scene. Leon chuckled at a woebegone-looking Sgt. Kenichi Altonji, relegated to drawing a chalk circle not only around the Dobermans and the giant's ashes, but also around every scrap of metal, Abotex and syntheflesh for 30 meters in every direction.
"Good work, Leon," came a feminine voice from behind and to his left.
He turned to see Fuko, pad and pencil box in hand, walking up to him with Vong at her side, and he laughed without emotion. "Not me this time. Our friend the Loon, and the Knight Sabers. The poor boomers got caught in the crossfire."
Leon shook his head as Fuko studied the scene. "Not entirely," he replied quietly. "There's a new Cold War in town, Lieutenant. And it just might flash hot at any moment." He drew a deep breath. "God help us if it does."
By any objective measure of time, if such a thing really exists, I landed next to my cycle some three hours after I took off from the plaza. *Subjectively,* it was less than 25 seconds later. "Fly Like An Eagle" is a nice showy song that gives me a top flight speed well in excess of 200 kph, but it has a side-effect that is usually quite inconvenient: any time I'm actually in flight, it also propels me into the near future. We measured it once; the ratio of objective to subjective duration floats between 450 and 500 to 1. If I spent the whole song in flight, I could lose over 25 hours. Obviously, the song does not lend itself well to tactical combat use, or fast response to an emergency.
However, if I wanted to make a quick getaway and stay lost for a while, it's the perfect song. As long as I remain airborne, I'm outside the normal flow of time, and thus undetectable by anyone short of another metahuman with a temporal metatalent. Or a god. Even better, I can still see the world around me. Sort of. It's like watching a film running at 12,000 frames a second -- only the things that stay in one place more than about 5 real-time minutes are really visible, however briefly. It's like flying through a ghost city, populated with bizarre flickers and flashes of light. And there's *always* something you're just catching out of the corner of your eye, only to turn and see nothing there. It can actually be a bit creepy.
It only took me a couple of seconds to get back to my bike, but that wouldn't be long enough to be safe. So I flapped around some more until the ADP vehicles and the wrecked patrol car all flickered and vanished, along with the various roadblocks around the plaza. I dropped to the ground, carefully released my talon- hold on the gravity weapon, and waited for the song to end.
Once back in human form, I packed the weapon in one of the bike's panniers. It was heavy, which is to be expected of a primitive gravtech device, but it wasn't so much so that it would threaten the cycle's stability. Then, with my bike's color returned to its normal black-and-flames, my spare (normal) helmet on my head, and wearing my duster, I made my way back to my crappy little hidey-hole, carefully avoiding any police (be they "N" or "AD") along the way.
Once inside, I carefully put the gravgun (which had come inside with me wrapped in my coat) on the top shelf of one of the kitchenette cabinets. I would see what IDEC had in the way of facilities first before deciding what would happen with the weapon. Then I made myself a cup ramen and began to analyze the combat with the Dobies and the giant.
Technically it had come out well enough, save for the last-moment murder of the giant itself. If I hadn't had the node to draw upon, I doubt I would have done as well, but at the moment, that was irrelevant. There were other conclusions to draw from the fight. And the number one conclusion was, again, what the hell was I thinking of when I decided on this course of action?
I mean, I was one single person. Even with a polymorphically perverse metatalent, I still didn't pack nearly as much firepower as even the weakest Knight Saber did. I hadn't taken down those Dobermans by the strength of my attack; I simply set them up so that the giant would do the job for me. (I'd barely managed to keep those quantum black holes stabilized long enough for them to impact the attack-dogs' armor, let alone punch through it. "Black Hole Sun" was far better for defense against gravity attacks than it was as an attack itself.)
That's what it amounted to. And despite the intoxicating freedom of vigilante action, it was all ultimately futile. GENOM could build boomers faster than I could knock them down. One person could not wage a personal war against a multinational power and hope to win. Nor could four, no matter how well-armed they were.
I shook my head as I slurped noodles. Lady White was either an obsessive-compulsive, or an idealistic fool. And I knew from first-hand experience that she was no fool. I would have preferred that she were; it would have made things far less dangerous if I didn't have to deal with a fanatic.
The problem was, despite my charge from the Three and the fact that it was futile as a means of thwarting GENOM, I couldn't very well *stop* vigging on boomers. They would keep on berserking, and people would keep on getting hurt as a result. I couldn't sit by and not do anything just because boomers were *also* people. I had to act. I had no choice -- if I were to be able to live with myself, I had to defend the innocent from the aggressors, and that meant taking out boomers. Unfortunately, many of the boomers would be innocents, too, in their own way. What made it even worse was that I would be spending all my time treating a *symptom*, not the disease. No matter how gently I brought those boomers down, they would -- as I had already realized earlier -- *still* be enslaved. A purely military approach was pointless and wantonly destructive.
I still needed something that destroyed the blocks that made a boomer a slave without harming it. Only then would I have any chance to free even a single boomer. Let alone the entire race.
Sylia fastidiously perched herself on the edge of the sloshing mass that aspired to the title of "bed". Studiously ignoring the array of brightly-colored silicone and latex objects sorted by both size and hue on the night stand to her right, she said, "I'm beginning to think you enjoy trying to embarrass me."
Unabashed, the man in the rumpled suit simply gave her a rakish smile. "I'm just a born romantic, Sylia. I keep hoping I'll find just the right setting to fan into flame that spark of feeling you have for me deep in your heart."
She sniffed in amusement and disdain. "A 1000-yen per hour love motel is *not* the setting *I* would have chosen."
Fargo simply spread his hands and grinned. Sylia sighed. "What do you have for me?" she asked, a touch of fatigue creeping into her voice.
Fargo took another long drag on the glowing butt, and exhaled a cloud of fragrant smoke. "Last night I had some people check out apartment 2532 in Building 4 of the Morita Federal Housing Complex in Ota ward." He paused, looking to her as though to confirm the address once more. Sylia nodded impatiently, and he continued.
"They weren't the first to get there. Someone else had already gone over the place, thoroughly and professionally." Sylia swore softly to herself. "My specialists think that the first bunch didn't find whatever they were looking for, because they'd done everything but pull out the plumbing and punch holes in the walls. My people went through what was left, though. They found a dozen or so pieces of handmade clothing in a distinctly European medieval style, a supply of food and cheap cookware, and assorted pieces of scrap paper." He smiled at her again. "One of which you may be interested in."
With the hand unoccupied by the cigarette, Fargo fished through the pockets of his jacket, finally pulling out a folded piece of paper. He snapped it open with a shake and handed it to Sylia. Her eyes widened as she realized what it was.
"According to my sources," Fargo continued, "that's a page from the schematics for the new radios the ADP purchased several months ago. As you can see, it's been... altered."
Sylia nodded absently as she studied the English annotations scrawled across the sheet in a strong masculine hand, sometimes in ink, frequently in pencil. Most were changes to the circuit designs printed on the sheet, but others were commentary, often colorful: "This is stupid!" "What moron designed this?" "No no no -- replace!" "Not bad, but tweak register access." And next to the blocky symbol which represented the radio's encryption chip: "Unacceptable. Trash, replace with SQUID42 -- use 1991/pre-'Lord Chess' release."
She cloaked her surprise and shock in studied indifference as she refolded the sheet and slipped it into her skirt pocket. "Excellent work as always. And the other half of the job?"
"The devices you specified were installed in apartment 2533 per your instructions," he replied, reaching into another pocket. He drew out a microdisk and passed it to her. "These are the frequencies and the encryption key for monitoring their signals."
Already deep in thought, Sylia merely waved her hand dismissively in his direction. Familiar with the state of concentration his employer had entered, Fargo simply smiled and let himself out.
Alone in the motel room, Sylia sat with cigarette in hand and contemplated.
So GENOM has discovered Sangnoir's identity. Little good may it do them. Sylia smiled at the thought of how baffled GENOM must be without the knowledge about him that the Sabers alone possessed. Then she grew serious again.
One question answered, at least. Sangnoir had, at some point, worked on the new AD Police radio system. Which not only explained the similarity between his system's encryption and theirs, but also raised a new, troubling question: why give the ADP an encryption algorithm that may well have been unbreakable by anyone, were it not for Nene? If he had simply wanted to eavesdrop, it would have been easier to keep a copy of the algorithm that had already been in place. The only obvious answer was to help them, to protect them, to enable them to do their jobs better.
It was so much easier when the enemy was demonstrably *evil* in some way. Mason, Largo, Miriam Yoshida, even J.B. Gibson to a lesser extent -- all were focused on their own desires and lusts and treated other people as obstacles or tools, when they considered them at all.
*There was a time when Priss, Linna and Nene were only tools for your vengeance,* it whispered. *Conveniently skilled and motivated, malleable, aimable.*
And *that* attitude hadn't lasted through the first month, she reminded herself. I never *used* them; instead, they saved me from becoming like the monsters I fought. Long before our first mission together.
No, damn it all, not the boomers. The boomers are only tools, too. Intelligent tools, yes, thanks to her father's genius. But unstable tools, thanks to his willingness to take shortcuts to make his prototype work, and thanks to GENOM's further massacres of his delicate designs in their rush to turn a development project into a production item. Sometimes they were even tools that gleefully embraced their use. But the boomers were not the enemy, any more than a tank, or a gun, could be the enemy.
*Could you say that to Priss' face? Can you even say it to your own?*
Naive, in a bizarrely sophisticated way. Sincere, ethical. And possessed of an immense power whose very nature she found profoundly abhorrent.
And Sylia wondered if she could kill a good man who acted with the best of intentions -- and upon the orders of the gods, if he were to be believed -- simply because he stood in the way of *her* plans.
Frowning at the dubious odors drifting up into his nose, Daley Wong surveyed the tables in the ADP cafeteria, looking for a familiar face.
It wasn't a difficult job. The afternoon-to-evening shift he and Leon had pulled today pretty much guaranteed that the current selection of diners would be made up of late stragglers like himself and a few folks from the graveyard shift who'd come in early. Leon himself had turned down Daley's invitation to join him. "Wedding planning," was all he'd said, and Daley had ushered him out with a grin. The thought still made him smile -- Leon and Priss tying the knot, finally. And Leon had asked *him* to be best man. The idea made still him chuckle. Now if only he could find himself his own Mr. Right...
Daley started and realized he had begun to drift off while standing in the archway that separated the serving area from the dining room. Fortunately there was no aggrieved crowd behind him, as there might have been earlier in the day. He stepped fully into the room anyway, and scanned it once more. There were perhaps a dozen members of the ADP scattered around the large, brightly-lit space.
One was Fuko MacNamara, a sketchpad propped up in her lap and leaning against the edge of her table. A tray of empty plates sat to one side as she concentrated, tongue tip peeking from the corner of her mouth, on a series of fine pencil strokes. Daley waited until she lifted the pencil from the paper and studied her work before walking briskly to the table and asking, "Mind if I join you?"
Fuko looked up in surprise. "Oh, hi, Daley. Sure, sit down." She gave a vague wave at the seat across from her, using the hand still holding the pencil.
"Thanks." Daley set his tray down and made himself comfortable. "No big rush to get home tonight?"
"Nah." Fuko frowned at her pad, picked up a blob of grey rubber and began carefully erasing something. "Hiroshi's in New York for some business deal, so all I have to go home to is an empty apartment that smells of my last attempt at an oil painting."
"Hiroshi?" Daley said as he unwrapped his chopsticks and folded their paper covering into an improvised rest for them. "Oh, right, your finance."
Pencil back in hand, Fuko nodded, a goofy grin spreading across her face. "Yep. Just two months to go, too, until the big day."
He sighed. "Seems like everyone's getting married but me -- you, Leon, even Bochinski and Wadderson."
"It's not good to feel so desperate about it, Daley," she replied as she shaded in part of the pad with flat, rapid strokes of the pencil. "You get desperate, you might jump at the wrong opportunity, and then get stuck with someone like Leon for the rest of your life."
Daley sighed again, this time with a theatrical excess that made Fuko snort. "I *wish* I were so lucky."
"Cheer up. You're still young and healthy. You just need to make it clear that you're available, and you'll find someone in no time." She made a few minute additions to the sketch and studied it, chewing her lip.
Shifting his attention to the soup, Daley murmured, "If you really think so..."
He gave a half-smile. "I'll try to keep that in mind." Bringing the bowl to his lips, he added, "So, what are you working on there?" just before taking a long sip.
Fuko frowned half-heartedly at the pad. "Just a little something fanciful based on the reports you two submitted today. Nothing official, just for myself." She turned the pad around to reveal an intricate sketch of the Loon and the White Saber locked nose to determined nose in close combat, her sword blade checking and held in check by the miniature tornado swirling around his right arm. The style was somewhere between the clean-lined stylization of most manga and the realism Fuko used in her official sketches; it took Daley a moment to identify it as somewhat reminiscent of late 20th-Century American comic books.
"Niiiice," he said appreciatively, nodding his head as he set down the soup bowl.
"You think so?" she asked. Then she shrugged and closed up the pad. "It could be better; I think I'll work on it some more tonight." Carefully setting the pad to one side, she laid her pencil on top of it and mused, "It's strange, isn't it? I mean, this time last week the Sabers were ADP's unofficial allies, and the Loon was wanted. And then four days ago, everything spins around and turns upside down."
"Not really," Daley corrected as he popped a chunk of carrot into his mouth with his chopsticks. "The Loon's still wanted, officially."
"'Officially,'" Fuko agreed, "but really? He's said a few times that he prefers working with the police -- whatever that implies about where he's from -- and it looks like you guys are taking him at his word. And I heard about him offering to let Leon arrest him."
Daley snorted. "You didn't hear the whole rapid-fire spiel he gave, Fuko. He never said Leon could arrest him. He only said he'd let Leon *try*." Raising his cup to his lips, Daley took a long sip of his tea. A look of concentration settled around his eyes. "More like he was offering a sporting chance rather than turning himself in."
"Strangely enough, I don't doubt that if Leon could actually physically catch him, the Loon would really let himself be taken into custody, now. He strikes me as having exactly that kind of twisted sense of honor." Daley took another sip from the tea and then turned to his rice with a smile. "It's the actual catching part that I think Leon-chan's going to have a problem with."
Fuko stifled a giggle, then grew serious. "It's a shame about the whole attitude reversal the ADP's got over the Knight Sabers now, though."
"Right! That's exactly what it is. I mean, think about it. The Pink Saber steps in to stop a bunch of loose cannons and disciplinary problems from going off half-cocked in the middle of an incident, and suddenly the Sabers are bad guys? Says who?"
"God knows they've made the department look bad enough a time or two before without showing up on the 'most wanted' list," Fuko muttered.
"Exactly!" Daley laid his chopsticks down on the folded paper rest and cupped his hands under his chin while resting his elbows on the table. "It's almost as if someone is taking advantage of this to undermine some of the goodwill the Sabers have generated among us. But who?"
Fuko shrugged. "I think you're reading too much conspiracy into this, Daley. People are fickle, especially en masse. There doesn't have to be a puppet master pulling strings here -- the usual scuttlebutt run through the rumor mill will do the job all by itself, you know?" She leaned forward. "If you're intent on looking for a prime mover behind it, though, find out who put their silhouettes on the range's 'active targets' list. That'll at least give you a starting point."
*The fact that cotton denim can reach a point of perfect softness and comfort *proves* there is a God,* Katherine Madigan mused silently as she settled herself back down on her sofa, a quickly- made snack in her hands. She was dressed, true to her thoughts, in a pair of faded Levi's and a cardigan; a white terrycloth house slipper dangled from the toes of one foot while the other was tucked carelessly under herself. A royal purple scrunchie in the precise center of the back of her head gathered her long lavender hair into a deceptively casual-looking ponytail.
Few in GENOM ever saw her dressed like this -- and she took extensive pains to make sure it stayed that way. While image was by no means *everything* in the corp, it still counted for a lot; her reputation as GENOM's implacable ice queen would suffer if she were seen schlepping about in jeans and a sweater. But in the privacy of her own apartment, there was no reason not to be as comfortable as possible.
Especially when one is engaged in a task as intensive as the one she had set for herself this evening.
Before her, arrayed carefully across the crystal top of her coffee table, lay several stacks of papers and folders, a wireless keyboard, and her household remote control. To one side lay the hours-old remains of her dinner, not yet cleaned away. The large wall-mounted video screen which faced her currently displayed the desktop interface for her apartment's computer system.
After finding a comfortable position on the couch once again, Katherine reached for the remote -- set for the moment to act as a wireless mouse -- and resumed the night's brainstorming session. Purely mental constructs were insufficient to the task of working with the amount of data she had to collate, and so she returned to HARUSPEX 2.1, the free-form information manager/ analysis package (product of a GENOM subsidiary, of course) currently running on the apartment microframe.
The topic at hand (as it had been every night since Sunday) was, of course, the Visitor. Every scrap of information gathered on him in the previous eight months -- be it audio, video, or text -- now resided in the indexed dataspace of the powerful software. Programmed to seek out patterns from the scantest of data with a dogged intelligence and imagination that seemed almost human, the package was practically an AI, lacking only a sense of self- awareness among its features. Katherine was quite adept at its use -- HARUSPEX was one her primary management tools, after all, and was quite handy at detecting both financial and social trends within GENOM.
If only she dared use it to help her solve the problem of Chairman Quincy's relationship to the Visitor...
Immediately upon launching HARUSPEX several hours ago, she had detached the financial packages which she habitually loaded with the program, replacing them with a full suite of GENOM's military- grade analysis modules. Since then, the program had been carefully churning over the dataset which comprised everything GENOM knew about the Visitor.
Some of her tasks that evening hadn't required HARUSPEX's talents. Examining the disappointing report of the team she had dispatched to Sangnoir's apartment was one. Dismissing the recent report of security glitches from IDEC as just more evidence that the subsidiary was composed chiefly of narrowly- gifted bumblers was another. And determining the reason for the Chairman's injunction against music in the presence of the Visitor...
This last had been gnawing at her, because of its seeming irrationality. But there was no denying that the Visitor *used* music, almost obsessively -- nearly every reported encounter with him mentioned music, be it loud and blaring, or muted as if heard distantly. She refused to believe that it was for something as simple as amusement; her every instinct cried out against the idea.
HARUSPEX provided part of the answer, at least, buried in the lists of patterns it produced: in several of the rare audio recordings of him in action, the Visitor had spoken the title of a song from the late Twentieth Century immediately before deploying one of his mind-boggling technologies. And not just the titles -- they were invariably bracketed by the English words "system," "load" and "play". He had been deliberately invoking a voice-operated device of some sort -- probably in the helmet -- before activating his more arcane combat systems. Why?
*Shabon spray!* whispered a young girl's voice in the back of Katherine's mind. *Mercury bubble blast!*
Ten minutes and a handful of Net searches later, she wasn't so sure that it was so ridiculous. The correlations between song and subsequently demonstrated technology were sometimes tenuous, but always at least possible. Combined with the Chairman's warning, it led her to conclusions she felt uncomfortable drawing, but whose logic was compelling... But if the Visitor weren't employing *technology*...
Katherine shook her head vigorously and changed focus before that avenue of pursuit led her to a place of uncomfortable conclusions and introspection. She didn't need that right now. She needed to focus on the issues at hand.
There was one other pattern -- hardly discovered by HARUSPEX, though the program had easily expanded upon it -- that could adversely impact any possible capture attempt: the Visitor's enigmatic on-again/off-again "force field."
With a wave of the remote, she gathered together the existing data on the "force field" and tiled the individual files across the apartment video display. There was more to work with than she expected -- between the boomer logs, the ADP records GENOM had acquired and the news footage, she had far more data available than she had on the music question. Another sweeping motion and a click of a button, and a half-dozen different encounters played out simultaneously, each in its own frame, each in agonizing slow motion.
Quietly, in the background, HARUSPEX noted the change in her focus and modified its pattern-seeking priorities accordingly. General combat analysis slipped lower in the queue, while close- fighting modules were opened and inserted at the top of the list.
It didn't take long for Katherine to realize that what she was watching was not a "force field" in action -- at least, not as she'd define one, based on pop culture and science fiction. She'd drawn this conclusion while watching a boomer combat log which clearly showed several hundred rounds of Vulcan ammunition turning into cherry blossoms. Bemused and off-balance, she made a mental note to see if Bunko's still had any of those blossoms. Or if they had turned back into bullets, or had simply vanished. Surely someone must have samples...
Not long after, a HARUSPEX alert appeared over the other windows; "STATISTICAL ANOMALY" it blared at her in red letters on black. A click on "Details" displayed its report: according to its hand- to-hand combat models, a statistically significant fraction of attacks aimed at the Visitor did not hit him when analysis insisted that they should have. When she acknowledged a desire for more information, the video windows minimized. A new window appeared, showing two wire frame figures, one large and blue, the other smaller and red, on a black background. Next to the blue figure floated a blue tag reading simply "Boomer"; a similar red tag read "Visitor". White text scrolled across the bottom of the frame: "Essential motion capture, video fragment 27 September 2036."
In excrutiatingly slow motion, the wire frames recreated a brief exchange of blows, then looped back again, and again. With each cycle, the window flashed when two of the "boomer"'s punches inexplicably failed to hit.
Madigan gestured with the remote as if conducting an orchestra, and the image panned and zoomed to show a closeup of the action. *This would be easier if I had a full holo display,* she mused, frowning, as she set a single blow on multiple replay and watched it from all angles. *Mental note: Have apartment AV system upgraded tomorrow.* Another series of swipes and clicks displayed a flat gray pseudosurface along the path of the blow. On a hunch, she instructed HARUSPEX to eliminate the boomer wire frame and then overlay similar surfaces from all other extant "anomaly" exchanges on the Visitor model.
The resulting image was an almost complete bubble of gray, vaguely human-shaped.
*This is getting me nowhere.* With a savage punch of a button, Katherine shut down HARUSPEX, leaving behind the sparse desktop of her home system. With a groan, she flopped over to lay full- length on the couch, staring at the ceiling. "Physically, he's protected too well," she murmured, "between that... whatever-it- is and the body armor it seems he's wearing."
She closed her eyes and rubbed the bridge of her nose with one hand. *The helmet seems to be key,* she thought. *Whether they are technology or... other... it seems central to his abilities. If we take that away, damage or disable it...* She considered this for a moment. *No. Too risky. One unlucky shot and he's either dead or a vegetable. Then the Chairman finds out, and *I* won't even get the option of being a vegetable. No, we can't use *any* plan that involves overwhelming his considerable defenses in any way.*
She sighed. *While I'm thinking of that, we could probably shoot enough tranquilizer darts at him at once to guarantee that some get through, but we might risk fatally overdosing him in the process, if more get through than we expect. Another lose-lose situation.*
Tea. She needed tea. Katherine swung her legs off the couch and let their momentum lever her upright. A minute later, she was waiting for her tiny electric teakettle to heat. *Still,* she continued to muse, *sedating him is about the only way we can go, if we're to be non-lethal and ultimately non-incapacitating, per the Chairman's orders. There's no guarantee his defenses won't make simple physical restraints useless. For all we know, they may simply slip right off of him.*
The kettle's piercing whistle roused her from her contemplations. Katherine reached for its handle, then froze as her eyes fell upon the jet of steam emitting from the tiny hole in its spout.
It was perfect. The Visitor had to breathe, after all, "force field" or no "force field". And there was no evidence that he had any kind of respirator or gas mask installed in that helmet of his.
For a moment, the flush of her "Eureka!" suffused her. Then the insistent whistle of the kettle cut through the glow, and she returned to earth. As she poured the hot water over the tea leaves, Katherine realized to her surprise that outside of the satisfaction she got from successfully solving the problem she'd set for herself, she found no joy in the matter.
With a start, she realized that of late, much of her job felt that way.
"I need a vacation," she muttered as she returned to the living room to set her tea upon the coffee table. A click of the remote returned the screen to television mode, and another displayed a menu of the videorom cubes currently installed in her system. "Sailor Moon" episodes dominated the top of the list, and she browsed through them, looking for something to lighten her mood. "A vacation," she repeated to herself. "And not at the executive retreat. No GENOM resorts, either, for that matter."
Underneath the menu, an ancient American movie played, unnoticed by her. "...I could shoot all the blue jays I wanted, if I could hit 'em, but to remember it was a sin to kill a mockingbird," lectured the dubbed Japanese voice of a mature man, heavy with a bucolic Kansai accent. Without knowing why, Katherine shuddered and convulsively pressed "play."
"I *do*! I'm really sorry. I got carried away and... well, I'm just sorry, that's all. I don't want to talk to you about this on the phone -- I'd rather talk to you in person. Can we meet for lunch tomorrow?"
"Oh, okay, Nene, you wore me down. You know where the Olympia Grill is?"
"Great! I'm so glad! I've been just so *miserable* these last couple days and..."
There. It was all in place. She would have the Visitor in her hands -- and the Chairman's office -- within ten days. Just another unpleasant matter settled. Just another assignment complete. And all her questions answered, just coincidentally.
Madigan frowned and looked out over the city. *I wish I could talk to someone about why I feel as I do. But I dare not show weakness.* The corporation's in-house counselors were a joke -- bait for the unstable and the malcontents among the employee base, their doctor-patient confidentiality a sham to serve GENOM's interests. And any attempt to use an independent practitioner -- almost as bad. It'd be known to sharks below her almost as soon as she made an appointment. And it would not escape GENOM's watchful eye; a note would go into her records, flagging her as a potential security risk. She couldn't afford that. Not now.
She tried to build a logic tree to solve the problem, but could not concentrate enough to lay out the first branch.
Instead, she found herself staring, unthinking, at the city below.
Lisa dropped into her seat with a palpable thud, an uncharacteristically ferocious scowl upon her face. "Damned officious, inflexible, humorless, bureaucratic little twit! How dare he threaten my access!" she growled.
Nene blinked. "Was it something I said?" she asked, half- seriously.
Her lunch companion took a deep breath and composed herself. "Hi, Nene-chan," she finally said, with a smile that seemed a little forced. "No, not you. I just got the bad side of a co- worker. Garrett Kelau'ep'pai runs the morgue at the 16 Times..."
"You keep dead bodies where you work? Eewwww!" Nene interrupted in a horrified whisper.
"Nene!" Lisa rolled her eyes in mock exasperation. "You *know* I mean the paper's back-issue archive."
The redhead giggled. "It was too good an opportunity to pass up."
"Tell me about it," Lisa sighed. "I made the same joke this morning and Kelau'ep'pai gets all huffy and threatens to cut off my access. Twit!" she spat.
"Here." Nene poured a cup of tea and set it in front of Lisa. "You need to relax. It's not that important."
Lisa took another deep breath, then raised the cup to her lips and sipped, eyes closed. It was a mint tea, and she inhaled deeply, filling her lungs with the sweet scent. Lowering the cup, she opened her eyes again, and the hint of a smile reappeared on her face.
"Good. And now that you've relaxed a bit, I..." Nene squirmed in her seat, nervousness suddenly washing over her as though Lisa had absorbed all her calm. "I just wanted to say I'm sorry about pushing at you. I had no right to demand what I did."
"I mean, I don't understand why... never mind, I don't want to get into that right now." The redhead slumped slightly. "I just..." Staring at the table top, she bit her lip. "I don't want us to stop being friends because of what I did. Said. Because of what I said."
Lisa frowned over her cup, then caught Nene's eyes. "You can relax, Nene, I'm not going to end our friendship. But I'll be honest with you. I'm not happy with you right now. It's going to take me a little while to get over that. But I *am* going to get over it. Eventually."
Nene's visible relief brought a brief, small smile to Lisa's lips.
*Well,* Lisa thought as she waved to the receptionist, *that went well enough, I guess.* She passed her ID over the scanner and the door unlocked with a buzz. *It's so strange, though... I felt so much *older* and more mature than Nene. I wonder why that was?*
That line of thought was cut short as she entered the hallway which led to the city room. As always, it was bustling with activity -- even with electronic layout and communications, it seemed that someone always needed to run somewhere else on the floor -- but the bustle was strangely subdued compared to the morning's usual frantic activity.
Warning bells began to ring in the back of Lisa's mind. "This is not good," she murmured to herself as her suspicions began to coalesce. She turned the corner and halted in the doorway to the city room, positively alarmed. Many of the staff were still at work at their stations, but a few...
*More than just a few,* she corrected herself with her second glance across the room. *Some.*
*A lot,* she corrected herself a third time as she looked again. Maybe a quarter of her coworkers were in the process of clearing out their desks or workstations.
"It's begun." The gravelly voice to her left startled her, and she barely suppressed a flinch. She looked over to see who had spoken.
Lafcadio Nguyen sat at his workstation. A cardboard box that once had held several reams of paper for the laser printers resting in his lap. Its stark black-and-white shark logo (topped by the English words "Great White") echoed his salt-and-pepper ponytail and contrasted with the riotous paisley shirt he wore. As far as she could tell, the box contained everything that had ever personalized the graphic artist's workspace, and he held it clasped protectively in his arms.
"What's begun?" she said after a moment watching him slumped in his chair.
He didn't look up at her. "The layoffs. The rumors were right," he rasped in a low voice. "At least a third gone... like that." He snapped his fingers.
"Lisa-chan!" rang out across the office. This time, she jumped in surprise, then spun about to see Kiyoshi leaning through his door into the city room. "My office, right now," the editor continued, somewhat more gently.
"Yes, sir!" she called back, already threading her way around the banks of desks and terminals.
"Good luck, kid," Lafcadio murmured behind her. "You'll need it."
Most of the explanation of how and why sped past her as she sat numbly wondering what she would do next. Something about a quiet merger of unfamiliar, almost anonymous parent companies of parent companies, and how it meant that the 16 Times would become a part of another online newspaper. She couldn't remember which. It didn't matter; she was sure it was all detailed in the packet which Kiyoshi had placed on his desk directly in front of her. If she really cared to know.
As Kiyoshi nattered on with a quiet monotony so unlike his usual hyperactive energy, she found her attention drifting off into an almost drowsy no-space built of equal parts emotional exhaustion and embittered fatalism. His words faded into a wearisome drone that she tuned out almost completely as her attention drifted towards her options.
The market for reporters and journalists in Megatokyo was steady and unchanging, rarely expanding even during the best of times. She'd been extraordinarily lucky to get this job with the 16 Day Times, and Kiyoshi's claims to the contrary, she suspected it was her father's reputation which had given her -- unknowingly -- the edge over her competition.
She couldn't count on that happening again, and she wouldn't drop his name. She didn't dare look like she was trading on his reputation and contacts; that would hurt her far more than it would help her. Which left her competing in the suddenly contracted market against her former coworkers, most of whom had years more experience, untold credits and even the occasional award. And she had... nothing. A few flower shows. Some lifestyle pieces. "Sailor Loon." And a top page story on the Knight Sabers which had left a black mark on her record because she'd tried to keep Doug out of the spotlight. Doug...
*I wonder where he is, now,* she thought. *Still in the city, somewhere, if yesterday's news is any indication. Damn, I wish I knew where. I think I'm really going to need someone to talk to tonight...*
"...*is* an alternative to letting you go, though." Kiyoshi's sudden change in tone cut right through the sleepy haze of Lisa's introspection and grabbed her attention.
She blinked herself back into awareness. "I'm sorry, sir. What was that?"
Kiyoshi smiled, and Lisa shivered; it wasn't the friendly grin he usually bore. "Even with the merger, we need good reporters, reporters with energy and drive and determination, regardless of their experience. I'd like to think you're one of those reporters."
Lisa sat up straight. "Oh, I am, sir! I am!" she replied brightly.
The editor nodded, still smiling. "I'm sure of it. But I need to demonstrate to my superiors your... value to the 16 Times. I need to show them something outstanding from you. Something that will convince the bean-counters in charge of the merger."
"Sure!" she chirped. "Anything! Name the assignment, and I'll give you an article that'll win the Aoba award!"
Kiyoshi nodded again. "I'm happy to see that you have the right attitude, Lisa-chan. Your father would be proud of you." He reached out and picked up the severance packet from where it still lay on the desk in front of her, opened a drawer, and dropped it in. "Very well, then. Over the past few months, you've demonstrated remarkable luck in obtaining photographs and interviews with some of MegaTokyo's more... unusual... residents." He leaned toward her. "The Knight Sabers. The one the ADP calls the 'Loon.' The mystery sailor-girl." He leaned back. "If you can bring me something outstanding about any of them by next Friday -- a real blockbuster of a piece, not something any other news site could stumble over by accident -- well, I'll see to it that you stay on the payroll. Is it a deal, Lisa-chan?"
Despite the misgivings that sent a pang through her gut, Lisa considered the offer. One more week's work would mean she could pay the rent on her apartment for another month. It would give her almost four weeks to look for another job. *And it's not like I'm promising to bring back pictures or a story; I don't actually have to *deliver* anything, just "try". Still, it wouldn't be *that* hard... Maybe...*
But a sudden flash of guilt and self-loathing washed over her at the thought. *What am I *thinking*? This is just as bad -- worse, even -- than Nene's demands. Just agreeing to *try* would be tantamount to admitting my connection to the Sabers and Doug! And for what? Another hundred thousand yen or so.* Inwardly, she frowned. *More like 30 pieces of silver...* Then a sudden, liberating realization struck her. *Why do I need their money? I have all my Sabers pay still sitting in the accounts Sylia set up for me! I don't need to prostitute myself for a week's wages from this rinky-dink outfit!*
With a grave expression of great dignity, Lisa stood and bowed deeply to the editor. "Thank you, Kiyoshi-san, but I regret that I cannot accept your offer," she said with utmost formality. "I cannot in good conscience promise to deliver that which is beyond my power, simply to preserve my position with the 16 Day Times. I shall accept the severance package the company has graciously provided and will seek new employment elsewhere." And while the editor stared at her, gape-mouthed, she bowed again. Then she turned crisply and strode from his office.
Back in the city room, Lisa sighed softly and allowed a faint smile to grace her lips. "That felt good," she murmured to no one in particular. *I wonder if any of the other papers are in the market for a stringer,* she mused as she made her way to her desk, her steps so light she was almost skipping.
For once, the drones who sat to either side of her were gone. With a genuine grin, she dropped into her seat and pulled out her palmtop. *If I go to them with just the right story, too... I wonder what they might say about an expose of IDEC?* A flick of the stylus, and the screen displayed the folder containing all her data on the GENOM subsidiary, and she nodded happily. *Yes... I'll have to do a little snooping to supplement this with fresh material, but then again, I'll have all the time I need to do it, won't I?*
And with that thought, Lisa stood up again, palmtop in hand and a broad smile on her face. Gathering unknowingly the puzzled stares of her more funereal co-workers, she strode off in search of a box in which to pack her belongings.
Inside her heavy coat, she shivered. The night air was much colder than she had expected, but it wasn't the cause for her shakes. The process by which she had gotten this far had been nerve-wracking beyond all her previous experience. Silently she vowed to herself never to attempt anything like it again. But there it was, her objective, now far too close for her to even consider turning back now.
As far as she could tell, she was, for the moment at least, in the clear. She had slipped past the GENOM security posts -- a conveniently-timed distraction as she approached them had ensured that. She felt confident that she hadn't been detected afterwards; dressed as she was, she looked just like anyone else likely to be seen in the vicinity of her target. Short of major cosmetic alteration, her current looks were as unlike her usual appearance as she could get. Or at least she hoped so.
Trying to be casual, she glanced in either direction -- a quick check for any suspicious figures nearby who might be trailing her, of which there were, fortunately, none -- before she approached the building. The front door was right out, though. Too obvious. Skirting around to the side, she sought out the rear entrance that she knew had to be there. She was in luck -- it was out of direct line of sight and unguarded. She tried the black metal handle. She allowed herself a brief smile when it turned out to be unlocked. Hauling the heavy door open, she slipped inside.
Within, the light was dim and yellow, radiating weakly from sconce-like fixtures of black iron spaced evenly along the walls. As she expected, the interior was deserted except for her. The nighttime staff was minimal -- one or two persons at the most; the usual flock of visitors were almost entirely day traffic. She relaxed infinitesimally, then scanned the sides of the great central space, looking for her ultimate goal.
She slid along the edges, avoiding the many rows of benches that filled most of the floor and stopping only briefly at the display set on and above the raised dais which made up one narrowed end of the huge room. Passing this, she made her way to the booths.
A moment later, and she stood before them. Reaching out one hand, she traced the smooth surface of one wooden door with her fingertip. Fear gripped her, right here on the threshold, and she fought down the panic that threatened to drive her back out into the street. She would not let herself come *this* far, to stand here, touching the door, and not complete the task she had set before herself. No. Acknowledge the fear and worry, but do not let them rule.
She took several long, deep breaths, then yanked open the door by its simple iron handle. A single step took her into the dark, fragrant interior. Turning, she pulled the door shut and threw the bolt, then dropped heavily into the velvet-cushioned seat beneath her. With a sigh, she leaned wearily against the wall to her right.
After spending a moment trying to get her racing heart under control, she knocked once, timidly, on the sliding panel in the wall next to her face. Although she was expecting it, the sharp report it made in opening almost made her jump. Then a deep, gentle voice murmured, "Yes, my child?"
"Bless me, Father, for I have sinned," Katherine Madigan said after a moment's hesitation. Reaching up, she pulled off her black wool cap, letting her long lavender hair spill down around her dirt-smudged face. "It has been fifteen years since my last confession."
"Why did you keep us from attacking him yesterday, Sylia?" Nene demanded with a scowl as she pounded the bench top with her fist. "I thought you wanted to wipe him off the map as fast as possible."
Sylia did not look up from the workbench over which she bent. "We're not ready. Not yet."
"Soon, Nene, soon." Sylia lay down the probe she held and rubbed her eyes. "A couple more days at the most. Your unit is just about complete. Linna's simply needs optical alignment. And all mine needs is final testing." She suppressed a sigh. Since she'd finally gotten a couple of nights' sleep in a row, she had begun to doubt the righteous outrage which had fueled her through much of the week. The Loon was a threat, no argument there. But maybe the Sabers didn't need to take as antagonistic a course as she had originally mapped out. True, her last attempt to be reasonable had failed. Then again, it been punctuated by Priss's violent outbursts and her own anger at the man. At least she'd managed to be civil, even in the midst of publicly declaring war on him.
"Sylia?" Nene asked, her own anger evaporating instantly to be replaced by concern.
Sylia shook her head and managed a small, faint smile. "I'm okay, Nene. Just wishing for the golden days of Largo, when the enemy was someone you could feel proud about fighting." She rubbed her eyes once more. "The worst part is, even after we win, those accusations he made will stay with me. I know I'm right, but I'll never again feel as... clean... about what we do as I used to. Do you know what I mean?"
A tired Katherine Madigan yawned cavernously as she re-entered her apartment in GENOM Tower. It had taken her just as long to return from the Cathedral of St. Jude as it had taken to get there -- longer even, since she had had to clean up and dispose of the "street scum" disguise she'd worn before she could risk returning home.
Now that she was back, Katherine was utterly exhausted, and worse, frustrated. While there had been a certain liberation and release in going to her first confession in years, it hadn't been enough. She wasn't any closer to resolving her moral dilemma. Worse yet, doubts and fears still played across the stage of her mind, gaining an almost hallucinatory solidity from the combination of her lack of sleep and her surfeit of paranoid imagination. She shook her head vigorously as if to drive the worst of the images from her head, absently tossed her jacket onto the sofa, and then froze. She snapped her cellphone out of her pocket and hit a speed dial button.
"This is Madigan. Has there been *any* entry into my apartment since I left it earlier this evening?"
"Just a moment, ma'am, let me check." The sound of rapid keystrokes filtered through the line, followed by a brief silence. "No, ma'am. None at all. The securi-cam and cardkey logs show that you were the only one in and out of your apartment for the past twenty-four hours."
A muscle spasmed in her face. "That will be all, then." She closed the phone with a flip of her wrist and set it down, her eyes on a small stack of videoroms that was serving to hold down a sheet of paper atop the walnut and crystal coffee table in the center of her living room. She approached it cautiously.
Unfolded, the paper was a short note in curiously antique calligraphy.
"Katherine Madigan was always a smart woman.
But before there was Katherine, there was
Katie. And Katie was a smart one. Perhaps