Placing the bomb in the space at the centre of the circle of bottles, Morris shrouded several turns of electrical tape around the outer circumference and pulled the whole thing tight. With a last look at the dreamers, he set the timer at the end of the pipe and pressed the button to activate it: five minutes and counting. More than enough time for him to leave the eroto-palace by the rear fire exit and be far away from the scene before the fire started. He had even brought a padlock and chain to lock the door behind him to prevent any of the sinners from escaping. Making his way back behind the counter, Morris mentally reviewed his preparations and was pleased to note how smoothly it had all gone.
Nothing could go wrong.
Tangents, Jard Kelso thought as he hurried through the crowds along Raymond Pedway on his way to Flynt Plaza. That's what the damned things are called.
It had been on the tip of his tongue all night - the vague memory of a word he had last heard in his school days more than twenty years ago, sitting bored and restless in trigonometry class while the robo-teacher droned on and on about arcs and lines and angles. It was the word for intersecting lines that met only at a single point. Tangents. Back then, the word was as dull and irrelevant as everything else they had tried to drum into his head, but now, thanks to the benefit of twenty years of hindsight, Jard was glad he could remember it. It seemed the only word that could even come close to explaining his good fortune.
Catching a glimpse through the crowds of a juve gang loitering further down the pedway, Jard felt unease and tightened his grip on the strap of the satchel hanging from his shoulder. Careful to gaze straight ahead so as not to meet the juves' eyes, Jard tried to look nonchalant, only to see his fears were unfounded - lost in their own conversations, the juves barely glanced his way. Not for the first time that night, Jard forced himself to stay calm. There was no way anybody could know what he had in the satchel. To all appearances he was just another citizen out for an evening stroll. The fact he was carrying a fortune with him and was on his way to making the biggest score of his life was neither here nor there.
Like almost everything else in Jard's life, it had begun in a bar. Last night to be precise, when he had been sitting in his regular backroom booth at McGinty's Tavern, nursing a synthi-beer as he waited to see what business the night would bring him. Jard was a low-level fence and spent most of his nights there, dealing with the endless procession of has-beens, never-would-bes and wannabe big-timers who would come to McGinty's looking to sell the swag from their latest heists. Tap gangers, bat burglars, B&E men, walk-in artists - Jard had dealt with them all. With each customer he would go through the same song and dance, feigning a show of bored disinterest in whatever they were selling in order to drive down the price. It was the same old story, every night. Until yesterday, when a particularly sad-looking case walked into McGinty's and Jard realised his days of haggling with small-timers were over.
Tangents, he found himself thinking again, finding a strange sense of comfort as he repeated the word in his head. Tangents. That's what makes all the difference between being a rich man or just another hardworking schmuck who never gets a break.
Lincolm. That was what the sad case had called himself. Whether or not he was dumb enough to tell him his real name, Jard had no way of knowing. Not that he'd cared much either way. All he'd wanted to know was what kind of goods were on offer, and when Lincolm opened his bag and showed what was for sale, Jard heard the ringing of cred-registers and knew he was looking at the kind of score most fences only ever saw in their dreams.
Gemstones. Fifteen of them, in different sizes, shapes and colours. Jard was no expert when it came to hot rocks, but he figured straight away he was looking at a couple of million credits' worth, easy. Just as he figured the guy Lincolm was probably even dumber than he looked. Dumb as shit and carrying two million in stolen goods. Yeah, it had been a dream score all right.
"They're paste," Jard had said, making a big show of taking out an eyeglass and inspecting each stone in turn. "Synthetics," he said, holding up a diamond and using it to scratch a groove in the plexiplast surface of the table between them. "See what I mean? Real diamonds aren't hard enough to cut plexiplast. Everybody knows that."
"Oh," Lincolm said, before trying to launch into his entire life story as though he hoped Jard might take pity on him. But Jard was not interested in hearing where the gems came from, or why Lincolm had stolen them. If his experience as a fence had taught him nothing else, it was that it was always better to conclude a deal quickly before a sucker could get wise. Besides, it was not as if he would believe Lincolm's story even if he heard it; thieves always lied - it went with the territory.
"I'll give you two hundred credits," Jard said, cutting Lincolm off in mid-flow. "I know a guy who deals in costume jewellery. He might give me something for them."
Of course, Lincolm had held out for more. Eventually, after a few minutes' hard bargaining, they had settled on a price of five hundred credits. With that, Lincolm walked out of McGinty's - no doubt congratulating himself on what a great haggler he was, and none the wiser he had just given away his only chance to ever make it rich. I was right, Jard thought as he watched the man go. As dumb as shit. I'm surprised the bastard's even smart enough to walk and eat a Gooey Bar at the same time.
With the gemstones in his satchel, Jard was on his way to Flynt Plaza for a meeting with a buyer. An hour more at most and he would have all he had ever dreamed of. Like most people, he found it hard to accept good fortune at face value. Which was why, even as he walked the pedway, the word "tangents" was still echoing through his head. To Jard, it seemed to explain everything. Lincolm, the gemstones, himself - they were all tangents: lines that had intersected for seemingly no better purpose than to make Jard Kelso a wealthy man. As far as Jard was concerned, there could be no better purpose than that in the whole damned world.
Tangents, he thought with satisfaction, little realising that elsewhere in the night other tangents were already in motion and headed his way.
With the timer counting down, Morris knew the last place he should be standing was in the alleyway out back of the eroto-palace, waiting for the explosion. No matter how many times he told his legs to move, or reminded himself of the importance of being far away from the scene by the time the Judges arrived, he could not help it. He had planned for this moment for months and he wanted to see the show.
Everything is fine, he thought, glancing up and down the deserted alleyway. There is no one about, no one to see me. After the bomb goes off, they will all be too busy watching the eroto-palace burn to notice me leave. But try as he might to reassure himself, he knew he was lying. He was taking a dangerous chance and, for the first time, it occurred to him he had planned for everything but his emotions.
He tried to check the time, only to remember as he looked at his bare wrist that he had used his watch as part of the timer. Making a mental note to buy a new one tomorrow, he waited impatiently in the shadows, barely registering the chill of the air around him as he stared at the dark window of the eroto-palace. It can't be much longer, he told himself, aware how eager and excited he had become. The five minutes I set the timer for must nearly be up. Any second now.
When the moment came it was something of a disappointment. He heard the dull whoomp of the pipebomb exploding, but nothing else. Where he had expected chaos, flames and a sense of fulfilment, there was only a vague feeling of dissatisfaction. Despite the warning voice he heard in his head telling him he should run down the alley and not look back, Morris found he was moving in entirely the opposite direction. Unable to contain his curiosity, he walked closer to the eroto-palace and looked in through the window.
Inside, he could see the dark eddies of billowing smoke as they were lit by the red glow of the fires burning further within the building. He heard the first screams as the dreaming sinners inside awoke to damnation. Listening to the sound, Morris felt his heart quicken as a dizzying sense of exhilaration flowed through him. This was t
he moment he had longed for. As always in his life, the ache of pleasure as the exhilaration ended brought with it dark feelings of shame. For once, though, Morris refused to allow that shame to claim him.
There is nothing of sin in this, he told himself. There is nothing wrong here. Nothing to cause me shame. If I feel pleasure, then it is only the justifiable pride of a righteous man who knows he has done the Lord Grud's holy work. This is not the excitement a man feels looking upon the nakedness of women. It is a pure, holy feeling. Tonight, I am no longer Morris Weems. I have transcended the limits of flesh to become a holy instrument. I am the angel Uriel. I am the fire and the flame. I sit in judgement. I bring retribution to those who would put the laws of man before the laws of Grud.
As he stood there, watching the shifting patterns of darkness in the smoke and hearing the screams, he found his confidence in his own righteousness suddenly waning in the face of an inconvenient reality. He noticed the way his excitement at his work had chosen to physically manifest itself, and all the old feelings of shame returned, and with shame, as ever, came doubt. He found himself wondering if he was not really an angel as he had thought. Not unless, against all expectation and contrary to the received wisdoms of religious savants down through the ages, an angel could perhaps get an erection after all.
Abruptly, he heard the thud of something striking the window from inside, the sound making him jump. Again it happened, and he saw the window shake. Morris wondered if some unforeseen effect of the fire was about to make the window explode, catching him in the blast. Then, as the window shook once more, the smoke cleared enough for him to see the cause.
It was the fat man whom Morris had knocked unconscious and left to die in the fire. Head and arms haloed in flame, he beat against the window with his fists, pleading for escape as Morris stared at him blankly. Finding no answer, the fat man began to throw himself bodily against the plexiplast, trying to break through the window by sheer force of will. Taking a step backwards in case by some miracle the fat man actually managed to smash his way through, Morris moved his hand to the gun in his pocket and waited. He had often tried to imagine what it must be like for a man to die by fire. Now, he found he had the opportunity to see it for himself.
Then, incredibly, weakened by the fat man's frantic blows, the plexiplast started to crack. At last, with a final superhuman effort, the fat man leapt head first through the window to land facedown in the alley. Taking the gun from his pocket and tightening his finger on the trigger, Morris prepared to shoot the man in the head and be done with him. But as he aimed, he realised it was not needed. The fat man was dead already, as evidenced by the spreading pool of blood. Looking closely, Morris saw a jagged piece of plexiplast embedded in the fat man's neck. For all his desperation, the fat man had simply exchanged one death for another.
But even as he gazed down at the man's lifeless body, Morris felt a strange new inspiration run through him. Before he knew what he was doing, he was squatting down by the corpse and dipping his hand into the blood. Next, moving over to the wall, he began to write on it, feeling the rough surface of the plascrete under his fingertips mix with the warmth of the blood that covered his hand.
It is not enough to simply bring retribution to this city, he thought. I should leave a message. Something to let all the other sinners know I claim this act and that I will be coming for them all in time.
He was halfway through the message when he heard the scream. Looking at the letters "J", "U", and "D" written in blood on the wall before him, at first he dismissed the sound as nothing more than the cry of one of the dying customers caught inside the blazing eroto-palace. Until it occurred to him that the direction of this scream was different. It had come from behind him.
Whirling as he heard another scream, Morris saw a man and a woman standing in the alleyway, their faces aghast. For a moment, he stood staring at them, the dead man's blood still dripping from his fingers. Coming round, he did the only thing he could. Something that, Morris now realised, he should have done long ago.
He ran.
"Control to any unit vicinity Larry Flynt Recreational Plaza! Firebombing at Blue Dreams Eroto-Palace. Suspected perp reported fleeing scene in direction of Raymond Pedway. Available units please respond."
He had just taken down a gang of wreckers working the skedways when the call came in to him, the bike radio on his Lawmaster crackling as the calm yet urgent tones of Sector Control broke through the static. Chaining the last of the surviving perps to a holding post, Judge William Brophy strode quickly to his bike and patched his helmet mike into the local Sector frequency.
"Acknowledged, Control," he said, mounting the bike and revving its engine into noisy life. "Judge Brophy responding. ETA to Raymond - two minutes. Request Pat-Wagon to Skedway Twenty-Twelve, off Gibson Junction. Three perps for pickup. Also notify Resyk there's two more for disposal."
"Received and understood. Fleeing perp is described as gaunt-featured, wearing a black overcoat with matching kneepads. Control out." The radio fell silent as Brophy pointed his bike in the direction of Raymond and gunned it down the skedway. Another tangent, moving inexorably towards its destination.
He heard the screaming first. Not the shrill cries of individuals in pain, but the collective animal moans of a crowd in panic. Hearing it coming from further down the pedway ahead of him, Jard stopped in his tracks, got a firmer grip on his satchel and wondered whether he should hold on to see what was happening or just turn and get the drokk out while the going was good. The fact he even paused at all was a mark of how much he had riding on the decision. If he was going to move the gemstones he needed to meet his buyer in Flynt Plaza by midnight. It was a strictly one-time proposition: the buyer had been nervous enough that if Jard did not make this meeting, there was not going to be another one. It was no show, no go. Jard nearly wet himself as he heard a Lawmaster siren shrieking its way closer and realised he should have had the sense to run while he still had the chance.
It's too late to run now, he told himself, aware of the sweat soaking through his collar. Damn Judges! If you run, they always figure you for being guilty of something. Got to play this like I'm John-Q-Innocent-Drokking-Citizen and hope it's not me they're after. Of all the drokking luck.
Clutching the satchel to his chest like he was cradling a baby, Jard stepped to a safe place at the side of the pedway and waited to see whether his dreams were over. Ahead of him, as the siren grew louder, the crowd seemed to flow and shift with a mind of its own as frightened citizens saw what was coming their way and decided to make themselves scarce. Through a gap in the crowd, Jard saw a gaunt man in a long black overcoat running towards him with a Judge on a Lawmaster bike in hot pursuit.
Stupid drokker, Jard thought. Why don't you just give yourself up and let the rest of us go about in peace?
Realising there was no way he could outrun the bike, the perp pulled a slim semi-auto from inside his overcoat and started shooting at the Judge behind him. The shots did not even come close, although Jard saw a woman behind the Judge fall screaming to the ground with blood gushing from her throat. In response, the Judge drew his Lawgiver pistol and fired it in a single fluid motion, the bullet hitting the perp in the small of the back and sending him stumbling sideways across the pedway. With a dawning sensation of horror, Jard realised the dying perp was heading right for him, his spasming limbs carrying him towards a collision.
Jard tried to move out of the way, but it was too late. Seemingly in slow motion, the perp fell into him, a flailing arm inadvertently tangling in the strap of the satchel and ripping it from Jard's grasp. Appalled, Jard watched as the satchel went flying into the air, the flap pulling open and spilling the gemstones inside it onto the plascrete to land beside the body of the fallen perp. Jard heard a strange voice screaming in outraged disbelief as a thousand broken dreams fell glittering to the ground. It was his voice, he thought distantly, as he realised the sound would only make him seem even more guilty. But it did not matter. Th
e way his luck was running, the Judge had no doubt seen everything. What was more, he was probably already calculating just how much cube time Jard had coming to him. As he watched the Judge bring his bike to a halt and come striding towards him, with a sinking heart Jard realised this was the big one. A repeat offender, the only way they would let him out of the iso-cubes this time was as an eldster. Always assuming, of course, they ever let him out at all.
Maybe if I get lucky they'll tag me as an obsessive/compulsive type and give me a pre-frontal, he thought, though it gave him little by way of comfort. Least that way I won't be able to count how many years I'm serving.
"You, stay where you are!" the Judge said, pausing to prod a menacing finger in Jard's direction, before kicking the fallen perp's gun away and kneeling to check his pulse. "I'll deal with you in a minute."
So much for tangents, thought Jard bitterly. Looks like maybe they ain't such a good thing after all.
Morris Weems was dying. Confused, his mind reeling at the realisation that these were the last moments he would ever know, he lay on his back on the pedway feeling the heat drain from him as he bled out the remains of his life onto the plascrete. Around him, the shapes and shadows of the world were growing fainter and less distinct. He was fading - all that he was, or had been, or would be, diminishing by the second. Where other men might have felt a sense of resignation, where they might have felt peace or even contentment, Morris felt only rage.
The world grew so dark that to Morris it seemed as though the darkness was consuming him, stripping away all he was and leaving nothing behind. He raged against that darkness. In fear he struggled to speak, to call out, to give some kind of voice to his despair, but he could no longer move or talk. All those things he had once taken for granted were now denied him. He was alone, blanketed in endless darkness and far from the light. Crushed, suffocated, drowning. Until, at last, summoning his final reserves of strength as his body grew finally cold, he screamed out. Not with a scream that could be heard, but with a scream of the mind. A scream of the soul.
Fear the Darkness Page 2
