by Jim Keen
“I caught a couple in my left arm and chest. Went through me like paper.”
“Conner?”
“No idea.”
“Can you run?”
“No, and with the blood loss, I’ve only a few minutes left. Did you call for backup?”
“Rocket busted my phone.”
Xavi closed his eyes and rested his head against the rusted metal.
Alice knew she had to stay calm; panic would kill them up here, cold and alone. She looked up. Snow had started falling, the heavy flakes gaining weight to settle on the deck and melt into the spreading pool of blood. Her mind processed options: no, no, no, yes. She crawled to the ship’s edge and looked down at the maintenance platform. It was six feet away, trundling to the next container. She scuttled back to Xavi.
“Okay, you stay here and keep them occupied. I’m going to climb down to a maintenance gantry. At the next gap between containers, I’ll cross to the other side and come up behind them. How many rounds do you have left?”
Xavi lifted his rifle to show Alice a half-lit row of green lights. She knew of guns like this: disposable single builds designed for assassinations and secret wet work. Favored by drug cartels and hit squads, they were hardly law-enforcement issue.
“I’m half out,” he said. “Maybe another three or four long bursts. Move fast.”
Alice turned to go, but Xavi grabbed her arm. “Remember what Conner said? This is all MI controlled, no humans up here, so no safety protocols. Gaps between containers mean they’re being cycled through the stack. They could close any time.”
“This keeps getting better. Okay, distract them.”
Xavi turned away and fired a short burst while Alice crawled to the edge of the container. The maintenance platform was now seven feet away, the air empty below it. Even without her injuries, it was a long jump. She crouched, undecided.
“My grandmother moves faster than you,” Xavi shouted as more bullets ricocheted around them. “Don’t hesitate. Do it.”
He was right. Alice took a step backward, then launched herself. The void was dizzying in its depth, the weight of her body pulling her down; her heavy boots trailing like anchors, her chest searing with pain, her arms outstretched. Halfway across she realized she had misjudged. The edge of the platform smashed into her elbows, but she held tight and pulled herself inside.
Gunfire rang from above—Xavi’s rifle, then the sniper in return. She had to move. She limped to the front of the platform and stood on the handrail, ready for the next gap in the container stack. One was approaching, hydraulic jacks pushing containers to form a narrow metal slot that cut through the ship. She understood Xavi’s warning better now; this automated alley could slam shut any second. She tensed her muscles, stepped up and into it.
The slot was narrow, and her shoulders pressed against the cold metal sides. Data conduits and hydraulic cables stretched overhead like branches; the air stank of burned oil and stressed hydraulics. Hooks ready to trip her feet covered the floor, while cables dripped lubricants into slippery green pools. She moved inward. Silent gloom descended, the only light coming from the slit of silver-gray sky overhead. Snow fell as the machinery groaned around her—gears meshed beneath her feet as compressed air blew stinking lubricants across the gap. She inched forward, fluids raining down to soak her in seconds.
She was almost through when the environment changed. It was subtle, no clang or thud, just a lowering of the background hum as a load was taken up. Alice pushed herself to move faster, but the slippery and uneven floor made it impossible to run; the best she could do was hop over obstacles and splash through puddles. The container wall shook, and with a squeal jolted forward to knock her across the alley. She had to crab her way along now, feet skipping through pools of foul liquid that rose over her boots, filling them. The walls pressed inward, every inch slowing her. The bitter reek of straining mechanical systems filled the air until she couldn’t breathe, the grinding metal so loud it made her numb.
The exit was just ahead.
She wouldn’t make it.
The light dimmed and went out.
16
The containers crushed Alice—chest against one, back against the other. It was hard to breathe, the air full of toxic chemicals. She looked up; snow settled on her eyelids.
She couldn’t move.
The steel vibrated, the foul liquids rose to her knees as the pressure grew, relentless. Then light, bright, a frosted square became her world. She fell into it, oils and water a universe of bubbles. Her face hit something hard, the shock snapping her awake, and she pushed up to find freezing air. The cargo container in front had dropped down, and she had collapsed onto its roof as it passed.
Something pushed her feet behind, buckling her legs, and she looked around; another canister was moving across to take this space. If she lay here, she would be dead in moments. Alice pulled herself to her knees then stood, filth dripping onto her feet. To her left, a short alley had opened, revealing Manhattan’s gray silhouette in the distance. She limped through to pale silver daylight; a cold wind heavy with snow found her wet clothes. She shivered uncontrollably.
When had she last heard gunfire? She couldn’t tell, but the gunmen had to be close, above and to the right. She drew the Walther and moved north, looking for a way up. Fifty feet ahead, next to a gap in the containers, a ladder stood upon a deserted platform. Alice quickened her pace—she had to hurry.
The blow sent the Walther skittering across the floor. Alice didn’t have time to react before another kick sent her sprawling, bitter-tasting water filling her mouth. She rolled and pushed upright to face her opponent. His black clothing absorbed the faint light, making him more a silhouette than real. She must have taken him by surprise; he stepped back and drew his gun. Alice kicked out to send the weapon spiraling away, followed by a combination, which he parried. They stood, facing each other. She drew her knife. He followed, his blade short and silver, edges glittering. The alley was narrow, the floor flooded with oils, and her feet squelched in her boots as they sized each other up.
He came high and fast. She ducked under the blow and sliced upward, missing him by inches. They parted, turned, and adopted combat stances. Alice kept herself crouched, ready to drive into him; he took a dancer’s pose, light on his feet. She went first this time, a horizontal slice aimed at his torso; he sidestepped to slash down, opening a foot-long gash in her arm. She staggered backward, blood soaking her side, as he kicked her knife into the filth.
Alice ducked under his next blow and aimed a strike at his thigh, trying to bring him down. Instead, her boot slid off, lubricated by the water and oils that had filled it. The man laughed, enjoying himself, as she limped backward trying to protect herself. She was in real trouble now: weak, injured, and weaponless against someone whose training matched hers. He attacked again, and she dodged the blade but was slowing, breath ragged, arms trembling. The walls closed around her, and she remembered something … What? A flicker, the fabric of time paper thin, she pushed through.
—nine years old, her body small and thin; the bathroom long, echoing and empty. Stalls to her left, sinks to her right, then the end wall. Trapped, trapped. He charged at her, bald head sliced with moonlight. She braced her bare feet against the walls and pushed upward—
Alice kicked off her other boot, and her bare skin found traction on the greasy floor. How much room was there behind her? She didn’t know; not much. She edged backward past another connection between containers; a long hydraulic cable snaked overhead. Another step back and she pressed against the end wall—cold metal against her ruined shirt. Snow drifted calm and silent between them, the only sound her ragged breathing.
He came then, fast, wanting this finished. Alice pressed her palms flat against the steel containers on either side and used the grip of her bare feet to lift herself. The blow swept below her as she shimmied up and leaped for the hydraulic line. For a moment, it held her weight, then it split to spray pressurized lubricant into the narrow a
lley. Her assailant tried to turn, but the oil made it impossible, and he slipped onto his front, knife clattering away. Alice fell knees first onto his back, smashing him into the black oil. He struggled, thrashing with his arms, but couldn’t reach her. She wrapped her right arm around his neck and pulled back, the chokehold cutting his air supply. He bucked and tried to roll, legs getting purchase against the side walls, but she used her weight to keep him pinned. The cut in her arm was a line of fire; the stink of the oil everywhere, inside and out, filling her up. He weakened, went limp, and collapsed into the water. She rolled him onto his side and tried to stand but barely had enough energy to breathe, let alone move.
Lacking any other choice, she crawled toward the platform. The Walther PP_R lay on the floor scratched and dented but intact; she shoved it into a pocket then continued to the ladder. There, she rolled to her side and reached up with her right hand, then her left, over and over until her legs shivered with exhaustion. Near the top, she stopped and inched her head over. Twenty feet in front, two men dressed in black were moving, rifles drawn, to the crane that sheltered Xavi. Her Walther couldn’t hurt them at this range, but there was something else it could do.
Alice slid her arm through a rung of the ladder to hang by her elbow and grabbed the gun from her jeans. She flicked off the safety, pressed a small toggle, and held the trigger for ten seconds. It buzzed twice in her palm, and a red light glowed on the handgrip. Using her last shreds of energy, Alice pulled herself onto the deck and threw the gun underhand, like a bowling ball, toward her enemies. It skidded across the space as she dropped to down and covered her head. The explosion was deafening; her ears rang as black smoke blew over her. She sat, spitting the filth from her mouth, then looked up to see the deck had buckled around a sharp-edged crater. Both killers lay to one side. Fires popped and crackled around them, smoke mingling with the snow.
“Xavi,” she tried to shout but only managed a croak as she stood and limped forward.
He staggered from his hiding place, soaked with blood, and moved to the two downed men. She joined him, and they leaned against each other for support.
“What do they look like to you?” he asked.
Alice knelt beside one the assailants. He looked uncannily similar in build to the one she had fought: small, tight, and slim. She removed his balaclava to see an olive-skinned face; did the same on the other man. They were identical. She turned to Xavi. “These are multiple copies. You’ve seen it before?”
“Just rumors. It’s a kick squad—reprinted assassin teams. Exceptionally expensive and totally illegal. The UN catches you doing this and it’s the chair, no trial.”
Alice ignored the heavy smoke billowing in the air and rolled up the assassin’s sleeve; the arm had the faint roughness of a reprint, but there were no registration markings.
“Julia was an unregistered reprint as well. She was a better-quality print, but this has to be connected. Xavi, who has the tech and money to do this?”
He studied her, brown eyes black with pain. “The government.”
17
Alice stirred on the white plastic bench and opened her eyes. A plastic mask filled with frigid oxygen covered her face; energy flowed outward from her lungs like water over a dry river bed.
“Slow now, let the printer finish.” The doctor jammed a digital monocle into his eye and studied the MI surgeon clicking over her. One appendage buzzed at her chest, the other pecked at her arm, its printer head spinning new flesh. The smell of blood and plastic sizzled from its tip while her clothes stank of smoke.
Her Walther had exploded on a container full of cheap toys that burned like rocket fuel; within minutes, flames ten feet high forced them to move. Alice had dragged Xavi a hundred feet away then collapsed, unable to do anything but hold him as he slipped into unconsciousness. The Brigade arrived first, their big red Hoppers combating the conflagration with purple and green foam. Police and ambulances were next, full of people with questions she couldn’t answer. The triage team whisked Xavi away as soon as they saw his injuries. She updated Toko by phone, then followed, alone, in an old automated ambulance. Her feelings of isolation and vulnerability had only grown in the hours since.
The MI surgeon repairing her was a machine designed by a machine, everything functional and sparse. Eight ceramic arms extended from a central battery pack, each ending with a range of print heads, while clear tubes entered the opposite direction carrying blood and tissue into the main body. A glossy black sensor polyp blinked at Alice while it worked; a robot spider licking away at her wounds. The surgeon clicked with happiness as it glued the deep cut on her arm, tissue restoration complete.
The doctor removed his monocle and smiled at her. “Good enough. There’ll be scars—we’re not in the fashion industry here—but you’ll make it.”
“Gee, thanks, Doc. Some bedside manner you got there.”
“If it makes you feel better, I’ve worked here for twenty years and all I do now is sweep up and man the ovens. I’m only seeing you as your team forced their way in.”
“What do you mean?”
“Hospitals are switching over to care for the elderly and infirm only. Everyone else will be seen at their local transmission center.”
“Why?”
“Treatment is dependent upon agreement for transmission.”
“So, you only get treated if you agree to leave? What if you have family here?”
He shrugged. “If you have an issue with it, then take it up with your health care officials.” He reviewed his tablet. “I can’t see the T4 questionnaire here. Did you fill it out at home?”
“My what?”
“The Department of Health and Employment needs everyone to fill out a medical questionnaire, no exceptions pending criminal charges. They need a better understanding of the overall health of the population. Only takes a few minutes. Copies have been sent to everyone in the country, but you can do yours now.” He gave her the tablet, and Alice scanned the form.
Questionnaire 4_East Coast:
DNA tag number: ______
Date of birth:______
Currently employed:______
Employment history:______
Employment frequency:______
Embedded technology owned by others:______
Level of debt:______
How long sick:______
Diagnosis:______
Incurable physical illness: yes/no:______
War casualty: yes/no:______
Remarks:______
Signature of medical director or his representative:______
“Any news on Special Agent Garcia?” Alice asked as she read the form.
“He’s in surgery now. I don’t know the details; you’ll have to ask the machines.” He stood. “Your boss is here, and we’re done.” He nodded to her and left, the MI surgeon following.
Toko’s silhouette loomed at the door, the corridor lights casting halos over his huge head and neck. He sat and placed an NYPD bag near her. “That was a mess.”
“I’m fine, thanks for asking.”
Toko ignored her, leaned back in his chair and spoke, deep voice clipping each sentence like gunfire. “The two gunmen on top were incinerated. Their gear survived. It’s advanced for a gang hit. The third had gone. I’ve checked the DNA database, but this team are ghosts. What’s your take?”
How much to tell him? Alice’s feelings of vulnerability and loneliness returned, only this time multiplied. Everything about this case felt wrong: the way it was being run so hush-hush from DC while the FBI New York office sat idle, the way Julia had a military-grade MI, the way multiple Betas were not only possible but active, and now, if Xavi was right, a branch of the government had just tried to kill them.
She trusted Toko as much as anyone, but what did that mean in the end? If the security services were involved, a loyal NYPD lieutenant would be swept aside in seconds. Yes, she trusted him, but she also didn’t want to put him in the crosshairs, make him have to sell out to
save his family. She’d give him enough to keep going, but for now, she would spare any key details that could get him in trouble.
“I think we’d know if the families had switched up their strike teams,” she said. “These guys were military, either retired or freelancing. Xavi thinks they’re a kick squad hired by the government or rival nation state.”
Toko shifted in his seat, huge face creased in thought. “The FBI are making political enemies with their Six-Thirty investigation. I doubt we’re in the middle of an agency war though. Logic suggests this hit, and Julia’s, were gang related. We should focus there before jumping to theories. I’ll talk to the FBI about B13. See how much muscle they carry. They killed Xavi’s partner. Maybe they’re looking for him as well.”
“You think so?”
“I don’t know. Just follow the facts. What else?”
“Julia had a contact in DC, someone with enough influence to get her an MI that could crack Homeland Security oversight.”
Toko lit a cigarette, the blue smoke shrouding his face. “An MI? That explains a lot. Who was her contact?”
“I don’t know.”
“Next steps?”
“Hymann Boutique was a bust. The Artist said a print like Julia was impossible, so we have to go up the chain. If anyone knows the limits of current reprinting tech, it’s Cortex. I need to speak with someone there smart enough to answer my questions.”
“Well, that is a coincidence. Charles Takamatsu himself wants to talk to you tomorrow morning.”
“What?”
“The most important man in the world heard about your trip to Hymann Boutique. He requested an interview with the cop who’s shouting about illegal prints and unregistered Betas.”
“He wants to talk to me?” People like Takamatsu never dealt with street meat.
“Yes. It’s interesting. God has noticed you through the clouds. Be careful with him. What he wants, and what he says, will not be the same.”
