Run Hard, Die Fast

by Mel Odom

  "You did good." Telma said.

  "I did what I had to." Argent replied. He stripped out of the jacket, laying it across Beedle. The street mage was already going into shock. Orienting himself, Argent approached the side of the roof above the front of the tavern four stories below.

  The Commuter VTOL rested in mid-air, the props turned straight up, a little more than six meters below and nearly twice that distance away from the building. Rappelling ropes hung from the open cargo doors, and a man with an assault rifle stood guard there.

  "Now what?" Telma asked, glancing over to the nearest rooftop.

  "Wait." Argent said. He marked the plane's location in his mind, then jogged a few steps away. He turned and faced the rooftop, making sure the twin Ingrams were out of the way.

  "Argent." Telma said softly, suddenly understanding what he was about to do.

  Argent erupted into motion. Although his legs were flesh and blood, he'd had muscle augmentation done that made them incredibly powerful. Coupled with the move-by-wire system and the training he'd undergone, he was an Olympic-class athlete.

  He drove his feet against the rooftop. At the rooftop's edge, he put his right foot on top of the edge and pushed himself out into the air. For a moment, there was no gravity, just him hung out over the street far below.

  But the Commuter VTOL was there as well.

  Gravity asserted itself and sucked Argent down toward the waiting prop at the end of the nearest wing.

  22

  The drone of the Commuter's flashing prop blades grew steadily louder in Argent's ears. He heard the cybernetic dampers cut in, lowering the incoming noise to something he could handle. The balance augmentor inside his ear kicked in, finding his balance point immediately.

  Argent positioned himself as he fell, reaching out with both hands and activating the electromagnetic properties of both. He felt the suction of the madly whirling prop as it threatened to suck him into his deadly orbit.

  He slammed his hands onto the wing when he landed on it, hoping the electromagnets would hold. His weight proved too much, drawing him to the edge. The wing dipped uncertainly beneath his weight, pulling toward the building Argent had leaped from.

  The Commuter pilot compensated quickly, powering the craft up and regaining the lift.

  Argent closed his hands on the wing's edge and held on. His shoulders ached with the strain, already fatigued from carrying Beedle.

  "Argent!" Telma called over the commlink.

  The Commuter dipped and rolled again, struggling with the unaccustomed weight at the end of the wing.

  Argent held on, riding out the sudden shift. He craned his head toward the VTOL craft's cargo doors.

  The sec-man there was having the same problems he was, but the man had seen Argent.

  Argent made his way toward the body of the plane hand-over-hand. He gripped the wing so tightly that his cyberhands left impressions in the metal. He'd nearly reached the cargo doors when the secman recovered his balance and raised his weapon.

  The assault rifle kicked a line of bullet holes through the metal-covered wing with high-pitched pings.

  Argent released one hand and hung from the other. Closing his free hand around the butt of the Ingram, he pulled it up, the smartlink connection painting cross hairs in his vision, and fired at the secman's face, emptying the man's skull.

  Crossing hand-over-hand again, Argent reached the body of the plane. The cargo doors remained less than a meter out of reach. He let go of the wing and twisted forward to grab the lip of the cargo door. A quick pull and he was inside the Commuter. He filled his hands with the Ingrams and went forward to the pilot's section.

  "They know you're aboard the plane." Peg said.

  Argent wasn't surprised. The rigger flying the craft was in constant radio contact with the rest of the teams.

  "They'll consider the plane expendable now." Telma said. Her words proved prophetic when bullets crashed into the Commuter from below.

  Argent didn't worry much about pistol or rifle fire, and the Striker's cannon couldn't adjust to shoot into the air since the plane was well above the turret's elevation. However, with all of the ordnance already in evidence, he wasn't going to believe someone below couldn't pull an anti-aircraft gun out of their hoop.

  The plane shifted, climbing. The flimsy door sectioning the cargo area off from the pilot's cabin didn't even properly slow Argent.

  In the pilot's cabin, the rigger lay jacked into the Commuter and wearing it like a second skin. He was a thin man, human, who'd seen a lot of hard years.

  "Hey." the rigger called out over the cabin's internal speaker system, "you don't need to flatline me. And if you do, who's gonna fly the plane?"

  "I will." Argent yanked the rigger's trodes from the console. Being forcibly ejected from the deck system triggered dump shock that rendered the man unconscious. Argent slipped into the co-pilot's seat and pulled back on the yoke.

  Sluggishly, the Commuter came under his control. Part of his training under Brynnmawr had included a familiarity with most known military aircraft. He was also well versed in boats, ships, subs, and wheeled and tracked vehicles.

  Working the pedals, he turned the rudder and trimmed the flaps, then tilted the props to gain speed. He flew away from the building for a moment. When he had enough speed to gain altitude, he pulled back on the yoke, feeling the nose of the plane come up.

  He accessed the commlink. "Telma."

  "I'm still here, but we're not going to be alone much longer."

  "Another minute." Argent promised, "you won't be there." The engines screamed as he brought the plane around, dropping the right wing and pulling back on the yoke hard enough that it seemed the Commuter was pirouetting on the wingtip. As he came around, he spotted green tracer fire arcing up at him from the ground.

  Flying toward the target building again, he cut power to the props, then tilted them up. The plane settled into a descending glide path, then came to a dead stop over the building rooftop.

  Telma started forward, carrying Beedle over her shoulder. Chandler followed close behind.

  Watching the altimeter gauges on the instrument panel, Argent used the sonar scanner to put the Commuter's belly less than a meter above the rooftop. He locked the autopilot on to hold the plane in position, then reached for the unconscious rigger. Hooking his fingers in the back of the man's shirt, Argent dragged him to the cargo door and tossed him out as Telma reached the plane.

  Argent took Beedle's weight, moving the man quickly but gently, not wanting to break open the cauterized wounds. "Belt him down." he told Telma.

  She knelt to strap Beedle in. "They're on top of us."

  "I know." Argent headed for the pilot's cabin.

  "Company." Chandler called from beside the cargo doors. Bullets slammed into the plane's sides. Some of them were stopped by the reinforced plating in the cargo area, but others ripped through the tail section.

  Chandler fired his weapon.

  Argent settled into the co-pilot's chair and took the autopilot off. "Hold on." He added more power to the tilt wings, pushing the craft toward the roof's edge.

  Without warning, the escape route was suddenly cut off by a wall of fire that flamed up from the rooftop.

  The flames swarmed and grew taller, reaching a height of four meters or more as they twisted violently.

  23

  "That's no normal fire." Telma called from the cargo section.

  Argent knew that. He also knew from experience that a normal fire might or might not explode any munitions that passed through it. But the firewall spell guaranteed detonations every time. If Beedle had been conscious, he might have been able to negate the spell or take out the mage that had used it. At the least, Beedle would have known who had performed the spell.

  Glancing to his right, Argent halted the forward momentum and brought the Commuter around in a tight circle, taking full advantage of the tilt props. When the nose came around facing the group of secmen continuing to
come up through the roof access door, he slid his thumbs over the heavy machine gun triggers mounted on the yoke.

  The machine gun bullets ripped through the secmen, knocking some of them down and driving the others into startled lunges for cover. Return fire smashed against the plastiglass windows of the Commuter's nose, fracturing it till visibility was almost impossible.

  The wall of fire disappeared.

  Turning his attention back to escape, Argent powered the props again and tilted them forward. The Commuter streaked across the rooftop, through the smoky haze left where the fire had burned. Tracers lit up the air around them for a moment when they flew over the roof's edge and across the street below.

  "Rocket!" Telma yelled in warning.

  The plane's warning systems lit up, tracking the approaching anti-aircraft rocket from the Nakatomi ground crews in front of Lookers. Argent pushed the yoke down, losing altitude to gain speed, and dropped the left wing till the Commuter went vertical.

  The rocket screamed by them, barely skimming past the plane's underbelly.

  Argent fought the plane's inclination to continue losing altitude or flip out into one of the buildings they flew past. If the plane had been powered by jet engines, the outcome of the encounter would have been different. The anti-aircraft rockets were usually equipped with heat sensors that would have allowed them to lock on.

  "Peg." he called over the commlink. "I need a place to drop the plane."

  "Where do you have in mind?"

  Argent mentally flicked through the terrain he knew existed around the L.A. area. "The Barrens. It's in Harbor Town."

  "Got it." Peg said. "I'm sending you a map over your headcom that will translate over the Coronas, but without a satlink, I can't vector you into the area."

  "Just find it for me." Argent replied. "I'll get there." He aimed the Commuter south for the Harbor District. The Harbor District ran straight on to the Pacific Ocean.

  The right lens of the Coronas pulsed, then filled with a map. Quickly, the map of Los Angeles grew more detailed, peeling away areas till it got down to the Harbor District. Streets and avenues around the area were clearly marked on the map, but the streets inside the Harbor District started and ended in a confusing maze. Security in the area was also reputed to be lax. The details came from the intel packet Peg had assembled on the areas around El Infierno during the night.

  "You're taking a chance putting down there." Peg said.

  "Yes." Argent agreed, "but it's the best one we have. Lone Star's activity there is minimal at best."

  "That's because the local corps use the area as a dumping ground." Peg pointed out.

  Argent knew that from the reports he'd read. There'd been numerous sightings of strange creatures lurking in the rubble left from the quake. He adjusted his approach, keeping his altitude low but not interfering with the surveillance systems protecting the corp buildings below. Still, he was high enough that he could see the lights of the plex below butt up against the darkness that evidently marked the Harbor District. The deeper black of the San Gabriel River lay beyond.

  "You've got more to worry about than toxic chemicals." Peg said. "A thrill group called the Steppin' Wulfs has laid claim to that district."

  Argent remembered that from the reports as well. The Steppin' Wulfs were reputed to be cybered crazies who zealously guarded their turf. Putting the Commuter down in the Harbor District was going to draw immediate attention. But they were all out of choices.

  "Argent." Telma called from the back. "We've picked up a tail."

  Glancing over at the cam console, Argent brought up the rearward-facing cam. Increasing the magnification, he spotted the wasp shape of the helicopter closing in on them. Green digital numbers marked the distance as 1206 meters and dropping steadily.

  "We're going to need the safe house." Argent told Peg.

  "On it." she said.

  Coming into the area, Argent had known the run might turn dirty early, and he'd figured they might need a bolt-hole to run to. He concentrated on his piloting, watching the darkness that clung to the Harbor District swell till it filled the view behind him. Shoving the yoke forward, he began a sharp descent.

  24

  Tracerfire split the night around Argent, and a few rounds hit the Commuter. The altimeter dropped steadily as he continued the descent toward L.A.'s Harbor District.

  Studying the controls, Argent found a switch that voided the fuel tanks. Normally it was used for flushing the tanks to expel bad fuel. He overrode the security controls.

  At something less than sixty meters above the ground, Argent spotted a street two blocks into the Harbor District. According to the map Peg had sent over the Coronas, Hawaiian Street had initially been a nine-block-long two lane that had ran south down to the train tracks only a few blocks east of Interstate 110. Eight of those blocks still existed.

  Argent hoped it would be enough to bring the Commuter down safely. He dropped more altitude, looking for Los Angeles Harbor College along Interstate 110 to get his bearings.

  He adjusted his approach, locking onto the street between the piles of rubble that filled the Harbor District. The attack chopper was only 400 meters behind, and the sec cam revealed that at least two more were coming into the area. Heavy machine gun fire rocked the plane steadily now.

  Fighting the prop plane's inclination to go nose-up at the landing, Argent guided it onto his chosen flight path. He ignored the bullets shearing through his craft, ignored the sparks that issued from the left tilt prop as machine gun fire strafed the blades. Smoke belched from the rotor housing as oil spilled out and burned across the heated engine.

  The altimeter dropped to 25 meters as the attack chopper zoomed in for the kill, closing to within 200 meters.

  Argent waited, his finger poised above the fuel void switch. He knew the pilot would be getting eager to hammer him to the ground. The smoke steaming from the prop engine grew thicker and blacker.

  The attack chopper's pilot opened up with the machine guns. Tracer fire filled the air.

  Argent voided the fuel tanks in a liquid, gurgling rush loud enough to be heard over the engines. He didn't see the fuel in the rear cam until the tracer fire ignited it.

  A large cloud of twisting, roiling flames lit up the night and wrapped around the helicopter. It wasn't enough to knock the helo from the sky, and wouldn't last long as a diversion.

  Argent powered the plane forward, listening to the gut-wrenching noise made by the engines as they coughed and died, reducing his control. He fought the yoke, forcing the plane onto the path he'd chosen.

  Barely ten meters above ground level, he sped between the huge piles of rubble left by the quake. Chunks of brick, mortar, and concrete created hazards in the street.

  He left the landing gear up, knowing they'd stand a better chance in the landing without risking a wheel that might collapse or get caught on an obstruction. Pulling the nose up, he gave the plane full flaps in an effort to slow their approach speed.

  The Commuter's belly touched, and the grinding rush of the rubble and refuse underneath the craft filled the cockpit. Argent fought the rudder to keep the plane on an even keel. The flaps provided him a little control over the skid, but that was gone the instant the left wing contacted a pile of broken rock that towered seven meters in height.

  The wing tore from the plane like tissue paper. The Commuter dipped forward, riding hard on her nose without the wing to help stabilize her weight. Sparks flared up and bounced against the bullet-shattered windshield.

  The safety belts snugged tight against Argent, helping him maintain his position. They were on top of the railroad tracks before he knew it, cresting the small incline and going airborne again for an instant. When the Commuter came down, it slammed hard, the structure buckling.

  The broken remains of a building filled the windshield. The impact ripped Argent's seat free of its moorings. He crossed his arms in front of him and blocked off most of the collision with the console.

&nbs
p; The plane stopped dead in its tracks, shivering like a BTL junkie.

  Argent ripped the safety harness free and went back to the cargo area. The plane was tilted, making it hard to walk. He switched on his low-light vision.

  Chandler lay across Beedle's lower body while Telma sprawled over the mage's upper body. The vampire showed no signs of stress or damage, but Telma looked like hell.

  "I think I broke my arm." she said, pulling back from Beedle's unconscious form.

  Argent helped her to her feet and ripped free a cargo restraint. He fashioned a sling and cinched her arm into place against her stomach, immobilizing it.

  "Can you handle it?" he asked.

  She nodded, pain touching her dark eyes. "I've been hurt worse than this."

  Argent knelt and picked Beedle up. The young mage was still under the effects of the tranq patch, and some of the bleeding had started up again, though it didn't appear life-threatening.

  Chandler managed the cargo door, shoving it open with metallic squeals. The air outside was laden with noxious-smelling chemicals that burned Argent's nose. The olfactory booster receptors set into his nasal passages and at the back of his mouth damped down the effect immediately, and he kept the gas spectrometer in his main sinus chambers on-line so it would sift through all the unusual smells and identify any that might be biologically harmful to them. Of course, that warning would only activate if the spectrometer identified a chemical trace that was in its programs as harmful.

  Argent settled Beedle over his shoulders in a fireman's carry that left both his hands free. Rotors droned overhead, letting him know the attack helos hadn't given up pursuit. A Lone Star helo had joined the collection of aircraft, circling along the outer perimeter and exchanging nervous fire with the corp helos.

  Chandler scrambled to the top of the plane and wrenched the top off the in-flight fuel valve. "I know you voided the tanks." the vampire said, "but I also know you get more explosive effect from gaseous vapor than you do the liquid itself. I figure maybe this will confuse the issue a little more." He took a Zippo lighter from his pocket and ripped a shred of his torn turtleneck free. "You chummers get going. I won't be long."