"Got a tracer on them?"
"Just cell phone geolocation."
"If the abductors are smart, they'll dump those at a staging area and move on. We should move." He put the coffee down and threw a tip on the table which almost certainly exceeded the price of the coffee he got for free. "Let's go." As we hurried out the door, Cupric said, "Sorry about all the fuss, May."
"Is this where you summon some sort of hero-mobile?" Pam asked, her tone no less caustic than before.
"Sort of," Cupric said, pressing a button on a key fob. A car parked streetside chirped twice.
"It's a pile of junk!" Pam said.
"Can you think of anything more inconspicuous in this neighborhood?" Cupric asked. "Besides, that's just on the outside. On the inside, it's a lemon."
I suppressed the urge to laugh as we piled into the sky blue jalopy. It was borderline absurd, but Cupric's logic was pretty sound. No one was going to look at the rolling pile of scrap and think "hero." The seats had at least been refurbished, so my fears of being impaled on a spring proved baseless. The engine was not quiet, but despite Cupric's remark, started up on the first try.
"Right, where to?" Cupric asked.
"Eighteenth Street."
"Their phones haven't moved. Still within the Technomation Development Center," Pam said.
"Technomation," Cupric said, "Research company working mostly with genetics and biosynthesis. Could easily be a front for any number of things." The car headed off on Avenue C, making fewer rattling noises than its outward appearance might suggest.
"It's also the logo on a suspicious van I saw earlier. It had Quebec plates."
"Technomation is purely local."
"That's why I called it suspicious," I said, "Also, they were fast enough to snag nine gang members in under a minute and stack them like cordwood in the back of their van."
"How do you know how many they took?" Pam asked.
"I guessed. There were ten of you yesterday, and only one still around."
"You're right, but some could have been away at the time."
"So we're looking for nine youths," Cupric said. "Plus evidence as to why they were grabbed in the first place."
We took a left onto Eighteenth. There was a bit more lighting here, letting the security guards patrolling the factories see where they were going. It wasn't a uniform dimness, with plenty of darker patches where someone like me could blend in. Chain link fencing seemed to be in vogue, but smokestacks were noticeably absent from most of the plants.
"It's coming up on the left," Pam said.
Part 5
While I felt the same grip of urgency at being on the trail of the abductors as Pam did, I had to advocate calm. Blundering headlong into a mess wouldn't help anyone. Pam was bright enough to see reason, and understood that we had no idea what might be inside the unassuming compound ringed with a chain link fence. One guard patrolled the perimeter, his flashlight playing over the patchy grass and gravel. A sign with the Technomation logo hung next to the gate, and three low, concrete buildings sat in the middle of the plot behind a parking lot. It looked like an ordinary business. A handful of cars sat in the parking lot, including two white vans like the one I'd seen earlier. Unfortunately, inspection through binoculars showed their plates to be local.
"Their phones are in there," Pam said. "If they're not, there might be something to help us figure out where they went."
"I'd wager that's grounds for us to go in," I said.
"Indeed," Cupric said. "But the little lady has to stay here."
"Is this some sort of sexist--"
"We have licenses to do this sort of thing," I said. "You go in and you're trespassing."
"Right." Pam sighed and slumped against the car. "There is that."
"Best route?" Cupric asked.
"I say over the fence at that corner where there's neither light nor camera cover. Then move behind the guard to the first of the buildings."
"Cameras?" Cupric took the binoculars back and looked over the site again. "I see them now. Your route has a flaw, it still crosses camera view."
"Can we take down the cameras?"
"Small target, lousy angle, long distance. I don't think I could hit that with a jammer."
"This is where an archer or sharpshooter would come in handy."
"Might as well wish for wings," Cupric said. "I mean, I could get over the cameras, but not even the most inattentive guard would miss my entrance."
"I'm guessing rocket-motor-type propulsion."
"I only do it in emergencies. Too easy to lose control and go splat."
"How about an eighteen-wheeler?" Pam asked. We'd grown so preoccupied with our discussion that I almost didn't register the approaching tractor-trailer. It had a red cab pulling a white trailer with the Technomation T on it. We ducked behind Cupric's car as the headlights swept over us. It turned down the drive towards the compound. Cupric tilted his head towards the truck and I nodded. We bolted from cover at the same time, skidding under the trailer as the massive vehicle came to a stop at the front gate. Finding whatever handholds were on offer, I took hold of the grime and rust-encrusted underbelly. Holding myself as far from the pavement as I could, I tried not to think about the eight tires and kingpin assembly not far from my head. I prayed that I'd correctly judged how far it would need to move when making a turn.
A voice muffled by distance and angles called out, "Anyone order a lunatic and forty tons of hardware?"
"How can I be a lunatic if the moon's not out?" a higher pitched voice said.
"What's he doing here?" one of the guards asked.
"Your job! No, no, Robyn, we don't shoot the nice security guards. I say we turn them into frogs, or locusts, or locust-frogs. Morgan, you know we weren't hired to harass the help. Just roll out! All right Breaker, we'll do that."
I swear I mouthed the phrase "What the fuck" as he rambled. Luckily no one saw me. Dad says we're supposed to present a family-friendly image. Yeah, Razordemon is real "family friendly."
The guards took a few wary steps backwards and waved the truck through. As it moved, road grit sprayed off the back tires, and I was pelted with a steady stream of small debris. Clinging perilously to a filthy surface, assaulted by the smell of grease, asphalt and diesel fumes, this was the sort of thing would-be sidekicks should be warned about. Of course, a simple undercarriage check would reveal our presence, but the lunatic in the cab had distracted them from the little details.
The grinding passage of small grit asphalt and the knowledge that a slip meant being fed to eight angry tires made my mind fixate too much on each little slip of my fingers on the undercarriage. The truck passed through a gentle curve, slowing to a stop, then beeping as it backed up. Someone in the cab was saying "Beep, beep, beep" in tune with the truck's reverse warning alarm. It sounded like the rambling man. The truck shuddered slightly as it kissed the loading dock.
"We're here!" the lunatic shouted, leaping from the cab with the crunch of boots on asphalt.
He had large feet and skinny legs, with several belts lashed about the uppers of his boots to keep them around his calves. He wore khaki cargo pants and a flowing yellow coat. Long bandoliers carrying a mass of masks drooped low enough that I could see the bottom few faces. One was that of a green-haired woman, and had a pair of pistol holsters behind it. The 'R' carved into the mask's forehead told me that this was probably the Robyn he'd been talking to. The madman hurried off, "Gotta find a bathroom!"
"Thank God this run is over," the driver said as he climbed out. He approached the trailer to drop the landing gear. "What the?" A round face with a thick layer of stubble appeared below the side of the trailer. With few options, and no time to think, I punched it. The driver went down with one hit, but the pangs of guilt started before I'd even pulled my arm ba
ck. Hurting someone on the bottom rung of an organization always bothered me. The poor sod was just a truck driver, and there was no evidence this was anything other than a job for him. After driving who knows how long with a madman in the cab, his trip ended with my fist in his face. I crawled out from under the trailer and moved the driver to the sleeper compartment of the cab.
"Smooth," Cupric said sarcastically as I approached the door again. "Check the itinerary, see if there's anything useful." I sat in the driver's seat and woke the computer.
"From Ogdensburg to here. Ogdensburg?"
"Canadian border, that's a long haul."
"Says 'scrap metal' as the cargo."
"Not likely. Technomation isn't the sort of place that takes scrap."
"It sounds like somebody is already unloading the trailer," Pam said. Both Cupric and I turned to face her.
"What are you doing here?" we asked, almost in unison.
"Arrest me," she spat sarcastically. "They're my people. I'm getting them out."
"Look," Cupric said, "It was bad enough when it was just corporate security. Masquerade may babble like an idiot and seem like a lunatic-- well, he is a lunatic, but he's also incredibly dangerous."
"You recognized this guy?" I asked.
"Last I heard, he was at a funny farm in Canada. Someone must have let him out."
"And he calls himself Masquerade?"
"Yeah."
"Great. Now I'll have to find a different phrase besides 'keeping up the masquerade' for alter-ego separation." I hopped out of the cab. "But that's not our biggest problem right now."
"Look," Pam said, "I'll take care of myself. Let's just find the prisoners. I got a sneaking suspicion that they're here."
Cupric pointed to a door near the loading dock.
"On it," I said, finding the stealthiest route to advance on the door. While I might not have a line launcher, I did have a wide array of lock picks, both mechanical and electronic. On anyone else, they'd be called burglary tools, but I don't rob the places I break into. The door lock was simple, and the alarm wasn't armed, as the loading dock was in active use. Popping the door, I peered in, mentally adding a fiber optic probe to my wish list. Workmen were using palette jacks and forklifts to unload the cargo. There were canisters for gas and liquid storage, what looked like heavy lab equipment, and plastic crates bearing a red star and the words "Final Star Network." The one thing none of it resembled was scrap metal.
"Hurry hurry hurry," Masquerade called, rushing between the workers. "Sharky needs his stuff. We can't keep Sharky waiting."
"Next time they offer double overtime for special projects, I'm going to say no," one of the workers muttered.
"I gotta go see Sharky, just remember, hurry hurry," Masquerade called, bounding off.
"I'll say this, he has a lot of energy."
"Too bad he doesn't use it to help unload."
I motioned Cupric forward as I mentally plotted a route through the shadows of the loading dock and storage area. I slipped inside as the other two approached, making my way behind the stacks of shelving units that filled the area. Cupric motioned me to the left and indicated he would take the right, where the deeper shadows were. When I saw him dragging Pam towards them, I nodded. We had to search this place, and I had a better chance of sneaking past the workers than the two of them did. I discarded my previous route and climbed, reaching the top of the shelving units. The girders holding up the roof were above the lights, but I would have to hang from them in much the same manner as with the truck. Not my favorite mode of transportation, but the fall to the top of the shelves was only about five feet. Getting up there was easy, and I shimmied along, trying not to rain down dust and dead insects on the workers below.
As I passed over the aisle, I refused to look down, mentally drawing another stack of shelves under me to ward off acrophobia. Logically, it was no harder to hang on over twenty feet than five, but logic had little to do with fear. I forced myself to keep moving; Cupric and Pam were counting on me to carry my own weight. Lucky me, the aisle wasn't that wide and I found myself over another stack soon enough. I took a breather, still hanging from the girder, then continued onward. If I wasn't fighting my fear, this would be a cakewalk. There was a good four inches of grip on either side of the I-beam, and the workers were preoccupied with shifting cargo.
Reaching the far wall, I lowered myself to the top of a pile of palettes holding drums of diesel fuel. It was well away from everything else, and bore a number of prominent warning signs. It was as if Technomation actually wanted to avoid a fire, except for the fact that it was stacked way too high. With a wooden palette between each two layers of barrels, I had no shortage of hand and toe holds on my way down. Once on the floor, I planted myself in the deepest shadow I could find.
"Aaaaaaahhhh," Masquerade called, rushing past me into the room, "Sharky says he's not Sharky!" He grabbed the front of one of the worker's shirts. "What am I going to do? Sharky's not Sharky!"
"Uhh..." the worker said, unsure of what to do. Masquerade dropped him and ran off again.
"Ack! Sharky's not Sharky!" He skidded to a halt, staring right at me. "Shadows don't hide you, demon boy!" Whipping one of his masks onto his face, he spun into a roundhouse kick at my head. Until I rolled out of the way, the workers hadn't paid his raving the slightest heed. His foot hit the concrete wall. Instead of the usual outcry of pain when skinny leg meets concrete, the wall fractured, spitting out chunks as his boot passed through it. I regained my feet as the madman in yellow pulled his boot out of the hole it had made. "Men in tights! Men in tights!" Masquerade shouted, "Sound the alarm!" He switched masks to a white one with flame orange hair and began throwing rapid punches at the air. Each punch sent a tiny fireball hurtling towards me.
Running for cover to the trilling cries of a klaxon signaled an abject failure at infiltration.
"Hey! You're going to burn this place down!" one of the workers called.
"Right right," Masquerade said, flipping to the Robyn mask and drawing the pistols. "Come on Shadowboy, let's dance, I'll lead-- with lead!"
The workers stampeded out of the building as "Robyn" laid down a stream of fire with two handguns rivaling that of most automatic weapons. "Robyn" was scarily accurate, keeping me on the back foot, constantly dashing to stay out of the line of fire. There was an upside to the rate of fire as Masquerade drained the long-barreled handguns quickly despite their obviously extended magazines. As he flicked the spent magazines out, I seized the opening and swung my boot-heel down into the "R" on the mask's forehead.
Masquerade fell backwards in a tumble of limbs, coattails, and bandoliers, rolling through the door I'd been headed towards. I followed. We emerged on a catwalk over a mostly underground space. It was well-lit, with what looked like a hastily-constructed laboratory filling its floor. An insane tangle of cables and tubes snaked about the floor, connecting worktables, machinery I couldn't identify, and rows of glass-walled tanks large enough to fit people in. I couldn't take in too many details, because Masquerade had regained his feet and switched masks. A small metal buckler unfolded around his hand, and he rammed the shield into my chest, pinning me against the doorjamb. This mask resembled the visor of a Gothic sallet. Whatever effect it had, a punch to his chest felt like hitting steel.
"Hey, Not-Sharky, I got him!" Masquerade called out. On a hunch, I reached out and flipped the mask off of his face. He had watery brown eyes and features as thin as the rest of his lanky frame. His eyes went wide as the buckler folded back up. My fist broke his nose and sent him tumbling over the railing onto one of the work benches.
"So that's how you want to play it?" he said. At least, I think that's what he said. The broken nose made it hard to tell.
I realized I was terribly exposed. The workers here were uniformed, unlike those at the loading dock. They wor
e long, double-breasted white coats that buttoned up to where you'd expect to find a chin, with collars that went up to the level of the ear. Their faces were covered in dull metal hoods with amber eyepieces that vanished down the collars of their oversized coats. Black boots and gloves finished the uniform. On the other side of the room, standing on the opposite catwalk from me, was a man in similar attire; but his coat was black, as was his helm, which was polished to a high sheen. His eyepieces were red, matching the buttons on his coat. Someone, I guessed Masquerade, had scribbled the image of a set of shark's teeth over the dome of his hood with a white grease pencil.
I had no idea who this guy was.
Our two catwalks were linked by a third which ran across the center of the room. I bolted for this and made a beeline for the man in black. He just stood there, unconcerned, as I launched into a flying kick for his face.
Gruefield 18 (Tarnished Sterling Omnibus) Page 10
