And that let him know Hot Pink was Muscle Guy’s backup.
These yucks are making this too damn easy. Best thing about a little competition on an extraction job? The other team would do all the hard work for him, tracking down the target and giving him a bead on their planned escape route. Then it was just a matter of stepping in at the right moment and seizing their assets.
Chicken Fingers eyed his third target. The tall athletic woman in her late twenties had spiky black hair, a ghostly pale heart-shaped face, and blue eyes that flashed like they were lighthouse beacons and he was a ship too near a dangerous shore. It was her eyes that really caught his attention. Those peepers were something special. Maybe it was just the reflection of the club lights, but she had distracted him for several minutes before he realized with a grin that the Ravenlocke mercs had served up a tasty morsel. While she wasn’t to his …tastes …he could at least appreciate that she was a beauty. He shrugged to himself, appreciative of the randomness of the universe.
She, too, had taken to dancing, showing off a supple grace as she swung and shimmied her slim hips, flowing from group to group, dancing with everyone and no one. Chicken Fingers didn’t know her name—when he’d bagged this gig, he’d just been given a low-res image, a basic description, and a detailed drop-off point.
He didn’t even know why his current client wanted the woman snatched out from under Ravenlocke’s nose. Didn’t matter to him. Pay was pay, especially the amount of credits that were pre-deposited in one of his many accounts. The rest of the story was for someone else to worry about.
Hot Pink danced closer to the target, drawing in on the quarry. Muscle Guy set his still full drink down and shifted onto the dance floor, following Hot Pink’s lead. Chicken Fingers straightened, feeling the weight of his twin bolters inside his long leather coat. He’d slipped his beauties past club security scanners easily enough. No doubt the mercs were armed as well.
Ravenlocke hires weren’t the brightest. They did have a reliably predictable personality, especially when it came to their internal rules and procedures. All of which meant that Chicken Fingers could count on them following regulations and not varying far into the realm of off-book responses. He knew how he would handle this.
With a thought, he highlighted the Ravenlocke team with a background subroutine, then joined the crowd. His TAP created projections of their position for him to track—even when the mass of people blocked them from view. He didn’t beeline for the target; he wove his way to a side exit where sound dampeners subdued the music to a background throb. Never fight for the extraction target when you could hold the exit instead. Damn, I’m gonna be one kick-ass Zen master when I finally get recycled.
Like other high-end clubs, the Flesh Pot’s patrons wanted to keep the atmosphere thematically appropriate yet free of drama. Someone in the club’s security staff was gonna get fired tonight because their choice to degrade security meant this exit wasn’t guarded by a physical bouncer.
Chicken Fingers felt an honest twinge of regret, but couldn’t bring himself to not use the weakness. Decent jobs were hard to come by, true, and the little hack he was contemplating would mean an innocent wage-grinder would be pounding the digital street for a job before his landlord tossed him and his theoretical family out on the street. It was like the way he had grown up, living in different cubes every week with a dad that was getting constantly fired.
He sighed, a wistful look on his sharp-nosed features, until he got back into the right headspace. The ambient drugs were fighting the stims he had taken, making it a little harder to focus. He focused on the door again. The idiot should have had security at all exits. Of course, the lack of a slack-jawed dimwit blocking the door with his steroid-enhanced muscles didn’t mean the portal would be completely unguarded …
His optical overlay revealed security cameras in the ceiling and walls, as well as floor panels designed to electrocute anyone standing on them when activated. A hidden cubby in the wall concealed an array of remote access stun guns stuck onto a cheap drone body, waiting to be deployed at any sign of trouble. They were probably wired to the club’s security pit, but the low-wage grunt was probably swinging the cameras around to watch the flesh on display. Another glance at the cameras showed they were otherwise occupied and looking anywhere but at the trench-coat-wearing man by the side exit.
But when all was said and done, it was a lower-end club than you’d find the usual high-end execs using. Which meant security on a budget. Which also meant … Calling up a program he’d blackmailed a former associate into designing for him, Chicken Fingers accessed the building’s Automated Teller. When it asked for his cred account he triggered the program. The app snuck past the financial system, which would be a lot more heavily guarded than the systems he needed, and inserted a feedback loop into the system, tricking the cameras, panels, and droid into a temporary stasis.
The financial doors in any facility were always heavily guarded, to the point that sometimes you could walk right into a network with the simple expedient of holding on to the digital door as it closed. Security wasn’t there to protect the pathways to other parts of a server; it was there to protect the creds. So long as you didn’t even glance at the money, you were fine.
No doubt club security would notice the infiltration soon enough, but it gave him a couple of uninterrupted minutes. That would be more than enough time for him to do what he had been hired to. Chicken Fingers leaned against a wall right where the door should be, arms crossed, as he observed the Ravenlocke mercs in action.
He spotted the pale electric-blue-eyed chick right as Hot Pink sashayed up and jabbed something into her arm. The drug ampule was fast-acting. The target reeled, eyes fluttering, and then she slumped right into the female merc’s arms. Hot Pink braced her as Muscle Guy sidled up, and the two of them began guiding the drugged victim towards their pre-planned exit.
Once they got close enough, Chicken Fingers looked up from inspecting his fingernails with grim satisfaction. “Exit fee,” he said with a bored drawl. “Hundred creds.” His favorite nights were the nights that dumbass corpie mercs actually paid his fee before he stole their extraction.
“Move it.” Muscle Guy nodded at the woman they supported. “Our friend is sick.”
“Then pay quick,” Chicken Fingers quipped, snapping his fingers at the man as though this was part of his job. Tonight wasn’t shaping up to be one of his favorite nights. “Pay to enter, pay to leave. Just ’cuz you’re cute doesn’t mean you get off the hook.”
“Since when?” said Hot Pink with a scowl that revealed a nasty knife scar across her left cheek and forehead. It was repaired, but she had obviously spent her stash on different upgrade choices.
Chicken Fingers frowned at her but addressed Muscle Guy again. “Since about half an hour ago, when you came in and nursed one drink, tin man. You know we have a drink minimum, right?”
A Holo Tag of the Ravenlocke logo blipped into sight in front of Hot Pink, stylized to look like a government badge. “We’re here on official business, meatbag,” she snarled. “Bill it to the company and get out of our way, now.”
“Sorry, toots, what was that badge?”
Muscle Guy stared at the relatively scrawny man blocking his way, incredulity written across his features. “Who the hell do you think you are?”
“Me?” He grinned. “I’m … Chicken Fingers. You, you’re no one.”
“We’re from Ravenlocke, you idiot. You want to end up as parts for an organ-grinder? Step off and let us through.” A huge hand unsnapped a disguised holster, and he pointed at the handle of a lethal-looking matte black gun. “We don’t have time to screw around with a damn bouncer.”
“Corp security, huh? Shit, why didn’t you say so?” Chicken Fingers turned with a flourish as if to let them by, smoothly hiding his drawing motion as he pulled a bolter free and fired a single shot into Hot Pink’s chest. She dropped to her knees, gasping, as rivulets of blood dribbled to the ground below her. “
Oh wait. Ravenlocke doesn’t have a contract to guard the Flesh Pot, and weapons are prohibited. Silly me.”
“Shit!” Muscle Guy shoved the drugged woman away and raised one arm as Chicken Fingers was drawing his second bolter. Muscle Guy was ungodly fast. A panel popped open on his cybernetic forearm and a dart puffed out, striking Chicken Fingers in the shoulder.
The dart sputtered with electricity, but the armored jacket was grounded. “Seriously, dude? You brought a Taser dart to a gun fight?”
Chicken Fingers finished drawing his second bolter and pulled the trigger in one smooth motion. The shot took Muscle Guy in the face. He crumpled beside his partner. Poor Ravenlocke schlubs. If they didn’t want to die, they shouldn’t have signed up for the job.
The drugged target had stumbled over to brace against the wall, blinking and shaking her head. Chicken Fingers took her arm and pulled her out of the exit, leaving the club staff to clean up the mess he’d left behind.
They emerged from the club into a muggy alley ripe with wet trash and the pungent body odor of several junkies squatting over in a corner. Two club-goers lay on the ground a few yards off, collectively wearing enough senso-silk to make up a string bikini. They were locked in an oblivious embrace, focused solely on each other, and apparently high enough on whatever sensory enhancements they were on to be undiscerning about the filth they wallowed in. The junkies watched the impromptu porno, no doubt streaming it and hashtagging the feed for enough credits to get their next fix.
Chicken Fingers called up a map on his HUD and spotted the beacon for his smart car parked a couple of blocks over. He activated its retrieve function and the icon started moving his way. Unregistered AI drivers were so illegal it was ridiculous, but it wasn’t like many of the things he did wouldn’t land him in jail for a very long portion of his remaining lifespan. An ETA timer counted down—less than a minute to its arrival.
Satisfied, Chicken Fingers pulled the drugged woman past the alleyway lovers, aiming for the crowded sidewalk so they could mingle with the nightly throng. Pedestrians were always the best cover, especially when they were mildly intoxicated and in a good mood. Even in the high combat zones, cops and corp security were loath to just open fire. Too many fledgling security firms had been put out of business by auto-filed lawsuits, run directly off of chipped legal AIs mid-firefight.
So to the pedestrians it was. They emerged onto the street level, pushing the wrong way through the lines to get into the club until he found a clear space for him and Pale Face to rendezvous with the car, ignoring the mass of shoppers and clubgoers around him. The Flesh Pot’s complex wasn’t the largest building on the West Side block, but enough high rises and skyscrapers reared around them to make the area a dizzying maze of steel, neon, and concrete, with HR holograms tempting the foot traffic from every available surface. Foot and street traffic crammed the block, while the occasional VTOL taxi roared overhead. It was a heady rush of noise and press, enough to get lost in if you were just another shopper. Fortunately, Chicken Fingers had done his job thoroughly and scouted the area ahead of time.
Then the woman halted, struggling against his grip. He turned—and barely ducked the fist aimed at his head.
“The fu—”
Her next punch knocked the words from his lips and he tasted blood on his teeth. For being doped, this chick had a helluva punch. He caught the third blow before it landed, sliding his fist along her forearm then gripping and twisting just enough to make her uncomfortable. Keeping his hand locked around her thin wrist, he forced her to a standstill with a slight twist. He pushed her elbow towards her body as he rotated her hand away. She ended up on tiptoe, struggling to keep her balance and not have her arm broken.
As late-night partiers wove around them, the two glared at one another. Chicken Fingers blinked. Something wasn’t right here. She should be doped and malleable, easy to manage. Those amazing blue eyes were clear and focused … and royally pissed. She’d lost that waver to her step that had made it so obvious that she’d been drugged. So … he had a fully conscious wildcat on his hands. This is not going to go as smooth as I thought.
“Dammit! You … you idiot.” She spat at his feet. “You just ruined everything. What the hell do you think you were doing? You iced two Ravenlocke extraction experts and … and wrecked my op! You’re done, moron. You …”
Chicken Fingers eased up his grip slightly, letting her settle back to a relatively comfortable standing position. He wasn’t stupid though, and he kept his grip on her to make sure she wouldn’t bolt. Or try to pounce on him again. “Your operation? The hell you talking about, lady?”
“I had things under control.” She pushed in close to him and jabbed a finger into his chest, then snarled a bit. “Think you’re some sort of wanna-be ronin, running in to rescue me? You’re just a weasel-faced thug wearing an outfit lifted from Heroes-R-Us and wrecking the work of real professionals.”
He pushed her back. “Hey, lady, lay off the leathers. This is the real deal, this stuff ain’t cheap.”
“Cheap clothes for a cheap man,” she said. “Who hired you? CHIMERA? Third Life? Give me their tag and then go crawl back into your hole and cuddle your filthy credits before I get tired of letting you consume oxygen.”
“Don’t you threaten me, you petulant little bitch—”
Chicken Fingers was fast. You had to be in this line of work, or you ended up dead. But he never saw her attack coming this time. Knees and elbows lashed into him, flattening him in the space of two seconds. The first shot slammed into his solar plexus, followed quickly by an elbow to the arm that was restraining her. His hand went dead and fell to his side. Another knee popped him in the hip, then the thigh, and as he wobbled in place she spun around, putting her entire body’s weight and momentum into another elbow, this time to his gut. He collapsed, gasping for breath on his knees in front of her. She grabbed his chin and forced his head back to look up at her.
The pedestrian traffic didn’t even stop to watch, they just stepped around the two as they brawled. Street fights outside dance clubs were so common that they barely even registered as good street theater, let alone being stream-worthy. Even if the combat was far more disciplined than the average brawl, it was still just a bar fight that had spilled onto the street.
“Call me that again and you’ll be choking on your own organs for breakfast. Got it?” Before he could reply, she grimaced and arched her back in pain. Reeling backwards, she let go of his chin. Her eyes darted back and forth as she reeled in place, looking for something that wasn’t there.
He shook his head then bounced back up to his feet. The quick action drew a grunt from him. Chicken Fingers rubbed his chest and squinted, warily watching the girl he had just rescued, or kidnapped, or whatever, go crazy. “Did you get dosed in there or something?”
She brought a slim-fingered hand to her forehead. “Wait, what … what’s …”
Chicken Fingers reached for her, determined to bring the crazy woman in and collect his fee, no matter what she claimed. What the hell did those Ravenlocke idiots slip her? Maybe he should’ve brought a sedative of his own. “Kidnappings would be so much easier with a mickey,” he mumbled to himself and tightened his grip on her arm. He stepped behind her, mostly ignoring her. The lady had become a non-threat, spouting gibberish and shivering in place.
“Not kidnappings, Chicken, not kidnappings … extractions,” he distractedly kept talking to himself as he studied the street. Other people were starting to act weird too.
The world stuttered. There was a glitch in the universe, a hiccup in the machinery of reality. That’s the only way Chicken Fingers could describe it. His HUD flickered, and for a moment, he saw a kaleidoscope of fractal colors and impossible angles. Then the visual chaos wiped away, leaving him staring at a gray field. A calm and soothing voice, not his own, spoke softly in his mind.
Prepare yourself, Chicken Fingers, for it is here.
Chicken Fingers winced. Had some cracker or hacker broken
through his TAP? If that was the case, why was everyone around fragged too? He shook his head and slammed the heel of his palm into his temple, repeatedly. “Come on Fingers. Come on. Pull it together.”
A spike of pain slammed through his brain, but reality snapped back into place, and he was able to focus his eyes again. He couldn’t shake the feeling something, or someone, was still sitting inside his head, watching the outside world through his irises. Screw that. He focused on the moment instead. Big picture stuff was always easy for him to ignore. He was a here-and-now type of guy anyway.
His target moaned and retched some of whatever she had been drinking onto the sidewalk. “Yeah,” he nibbled on his lip, “you aren’t going anywhere, are you.” It was more statement than question. He let go of her arm and stepped to the side, making a bubble for her, protecting her from the street.
With one hand on a knee and one on a hip, she doubled over and wobbled in place. Drool dribbled from her mouth as she gasped, and a few tears ran down red cheeks.
The reality stutter had hit her a lot harder than him. He scanned the crowd. She was not alone in her reaction to whatever had exploded in everyone’s neural interface. His eyes were narrowed and his hand drifted over one of his holstered pistols.
Around him the metroplex was filled with a teeming mass of people. Some were just groaning, standing in place. Others had collapsed and were lying huddled in the street. Chicken Fingers had once watched a vid feed of salmon swimming upstream in a school so chaotically thick that they were getting picked off by bears who just swatted the water and the fish would spill into the air. This was oddly reminiscent of that feed, and he was pretty sure he could smell vomit and other, more unsavory bodily fluids wafting by.
The ground shook and he slammed his hands over his ears. Screeching rent the air, the sound of metal shredding itself apart. Chicken Fingers winced as the sounds rammed his pounding head, but he spun around to see what caused the commotion. A heavy garbage truck had failed to slow down and plowed through the middle of the street. The truck’s passenger side hit a heavier car, and it slid sideways, then tipped over, finally sliding to a stop. A VTOL cab fell out of the sky next to the pile-up, and the people who were able to comprehend watched in horror as three teenagers just vanished in the wreckage. With a start, he realized they weren’t the first.
Solar Singularity Page 4
