by Piers Platt
700 ignored him, tapping a command on the screen. One of the video feeds changed subtly, showing a thermal image of the single-story building. “They’re in this room,” he tapped on the screen. “These windows are slightly hotter than the others – they’re getting warmed from the inside by the lights and their body heat.”
The two other men traded a look. “Maybe,” 883 allowed. “I think one of us goes in posing as an employee, try to lure the research guy out to the front entrance. He’s a witness, we need him out of the way.”
804 nodded. “Removing him would also prevent 621 from cutting off his data connection. As long as he’s connected, he’s at a major disadvantage.”
700 narrowed his eyes, thinking. “The accomplice should be killed, and if we can’t subdue 621 immediately, we should aim to separate him from his Forge and EMP grenade supply. Then HQ can re-establish a connection and disable him, or at a minimum tell us where he is and what he’s doing, which will give us the upper hand. But the minute anyone approaches that building, 621 will get skittish. So we need to go in hard and fast.”
“Breach and clear?” 883 asked. “IP is already on high alert, breaching charges and gunfire are going to bring them running.”
“No,” 700 shook his head. “They’re not out here in force, they’re all concentrated in the city itself – and they’ve been on alert for hours now, they’ll be getting tired. Slow. Disorganized.”
“What if he’s not in that room?” 804 asked.
“Then we sweep room-to-room,” 700 said. “Stun grenades and tear gas. Flush him out.”
“And if he makes a run for it while we’re all inside?”
“We’re not all going in at once – I’ll be monitoring the drone feeds outside.”
“It’s your plan,” 883 pointed out, frowning. “You want to go in shooting, you should be the first one through the door.”
700 smiled, but his eyes stayed cold. “No. I have operational command – you two will go in.”
“Fuck you,” 804 observed. “I’m not getting killed so you can stay safe outside and collect the credit, operational command or not.”
700 moved in a blur of speed. 804 felt himself yanked forward between the seats, 700’s knife pressed against his throat. 700 held him still for a few seconds, staring expressionlessly into the man’s eyes. Then he held his counter bracelet up for the man to see, triggering it. A golden 42 appeared in the air in front of the man’s face.
“Want to whip yours out?” 700 asked. “I bet mine’s bigger.” 804 swallowed carefully, the stubble on his Adam’s apple scraping against the knife’s honed blade. 700 continued: “We do things my way. I’ll kill you both now, and take care of this myself, or you can take your chances inside against 621. What will it be?”
“621,” 883 answered. 804 nodded carefully.
“Good,” 700 replied. He slid his knife back into its sheath. “Now: gear up, grenades and auto-rifles. I’ll prep the demolition charges and noise cancelers.”
* * *
“That’s everything you need?” Rath asked, as he finished attaching the bandage to his leg wound.
“To cut off your data feed? I think so,” the research student answered. He pointed to items he had laid out on the lab table. “Diagram showing your switch layout, scalpel, antiseptic pads, micro-tool, magnifying lens, liquid stitching agent … that’s all I can think of.”
“Okay,” Rath said. “A little over three minutes left on the dialysis machine, then you start cutting.”
The charges went off simultaneously, with a flash of light and a curiously muffled whump. At the far end of the room, a man-sized hole simply appeared in the room’s outer wall, chunks of masonry flying across the room. At the same instant, a section of ceiling ten feet to Rath’s left caved in, and a man wielding an auto-rifle dropped through the hole a split second later. Belatedly, Rath dove forward out of his chair, struggling to bring his auto-pistol to bear as he fell. The man was already tracking him, but he landed facing away from Rath, and in the split second it took for him to turn, Rath managed to fire three rounds. The man fell, and Rath landed heavily on the floor as well, crashing into the lab bench in front of him.
A line of projectiles zipped over Rath’s head, and Stam toppled to the floor a second later, a row of stun darts tattooed across the research assistant’s chest. Rath was hidden behind the lab bench, but he could hear the other shooter moving cautiously toward him, steadily closing the gap.
Stun darts – they want me alive.
Rath checked his IV lines – miraculously, both were still attached, and the dialysis machine appeared to still be running. But the counter on its viewscreen showed two minutes and forty-five seconds still remaining.
Can I please just get these things out of me without any further interruptions!
Rath’s bandolier of spare EMP grenades was on the counter above him, out of reach, but his Forge was closer, and it had just finished making another grenade. Rath held the pistol up and fired several rounds blindly in the second shooter’s direction, then stood briefly to grab the Forge and yank it down next to him. He removed the grenade from the tray, and triggered it a scant five seconds before time ran out on the previous grenade.
Rath checked his pistol instinctively, then did a double take when he saw that the action was locked to the rear, showing an empty bolt.
Fuck!
He scrabbled in his pocket, searching for his spare magazine, but he came up empty: it must have fallen out of his pocket when he dove out of the chair. He scanned the area behind the bench quickly.
Nothing. Shit. Okay, improvise.
Rath heard the other assailant move again, quickly this time, and then stop partway across the room.
He’s repositioning, getting a better angle. Gotta come up with something fast.
He glanced over at Stam’s unconscious body, and then at the dialysis machine, where the last of his blood was being processed.
* * *
Across the room, 883 called up one of the micro-drones in his neural interface, and sent it a new task. The drone dropped out of its orbit around the building and headed across the roof, hovering over the hole the demolition charge had made. It transmitted an image of the 804’s dead body, and then slowly lowered itself through the hole. At the edge of the ceiling it paused, before rapidly dipping down into the room, panning quickly around, and then flying back up into the safety of the hole. 883 checked the footage it had captured – next to the over-turned chair, two other bodies lay draped across the floor – the researcher in his white lab coat, and beside him, propped against the lab bench, 621 sat in a rapidly expanding pool of blood, his wrists apparently slit.
“Damn it!” the contractor swore. “700, get in here – target’s trying to kill himself.”
He sprinted to the end of the room, and swung around the corner of the table, rifle leveled. On the floor, the bleeding man slumped over. The contractor slung his rifle and knelt next to the man, reaching for his wrists to begin first aid. But when he wiped at the blood, he couldn’t find a wound.
* * *
Behind him on the floor, Rath cracked one eye open. He wore Stam’s white lab coat, having hurriedly stripped it from the researcher’s inert body, before yanking the needle from his arm and smearing Stam with blood coming from the dialysis machine. Rath judged the distance, then vaulted to a kneeling position, hamstringing the contractor with a single back-handed knife swipe across the back of his left knee. 883 bellowed in pain and toppled backwards. Rath finished him with a knife thrust to the neck, then stood up.
“You must be 621,” Rath heard a voice say behind him. He turned, and found a third contractor pointing an auto-rifle at his head. Rath had not heard him enter. “I’m 700. Drop the knife.”
Rath sighed, and did as he was ordered. “I’m going to show you something,” he told the other contractor. “Don’t shoot.” He lifted his wrist into the air and triggered the counter bracelet. The gold 50 spun in the air above it.
>
700 studied it, frowning. “What’s your point?”
“They don’t pay you when you reach fifty. The money’s a lie … they just take your hemobots and your implants and leave you to die.”
“Fascinating. Makes sense, I suppose. Can you volunteer to keep working for them?”
Rath’s brow wrinkled. “Why would you want to?”
“They’ve made us into gods. Contractors can go anywhere, and kill anyone.”
Rath fumbled, frowning. “No, they won’t. It doesn’t work like that. But if you help me, we can stop them. We can get our money—”
“I don’t care about the money,” 700 interrupted, laughing. “I appreciate the warning, but I’m not interested in your little rebellion. I am interested to see what they do to you, now that they caught you again, though. Remember the video they showed us? After training was over?”
Rath nodded.
“How long do you think they tortured him for, before they finally let him die?”
A shiver of fear ran through Rath. His eyes flicked across the lab bench and the floor near him, searching for something, anything to use against the other contractor. A slow smile spread across 700’s face.
“No, my friend, no more tricks … it’s over. Your last grenade ran out while we were chatting, by the way – we have your feed again. Disable him, please, Headquarters.”
Rath doubled over, instinctively bracing for the wave of pain, but he felt nothing.
The hemobots are out!
He groaned out loud, pretending to be in pain, and fell to his knees, temporarily disappearing from view behind the lab bench. Still moaning convincingly, he yanked a small propane canister out of the cabinet under the bench, and grabbed a flint-and-steel striker along with it. He stood quickly, twisting the tank’s valve fully open and swinging the striker up into the stream of compressed gas. 700’s eyes went wide, but Rath squeezed the striker and a shower of sparks lit the gas, turning the canister into a makeshift flamethrower. Blue fire blossomed across the room, fully engulfing 700, who screamed in pain. A split second later, the canister rocketed back out of Rath’s arms, crashing into the wall behind him, singeing his hands as it flew.
700 was still screaming, heavy flames wreathed around his head and upper body. Rath ignored him, and, wincing at the pain in his burned hands, grabbed the tools Stam had laid out for surgery. His bandolier of spare EMP grenades had been caught in the blast from the flamethrower, and they looked damaged. Rath tried to activate one, but it merely sparked.
Leave them – cops will be here soon. Get out!
Rath glanced over at 700: the contractor had collapsed and now lay motionless on the floor, fire still licking across his upper body.
If he’s not dead, he’s in shock or unconscious … and in a lot of pain. I could put him out of his misery.
Rath scanned the ruined lab for a weapon. He paused when his eyes fell on the two contractors he had already killed.
No. That’s enough killing for one night.
He shouldered his Forge and jogged toward the building’s exit.
Outside, the night air was cool – there was a crisp breeze rustling the leaves of the trees lining the parking lot. In the far distance, his enhanced hearing picked up the sound of approaching sirens, but Rath stopped for a second, breathing deep.
Almost free.
Rath jogged over to the bike, tucked the surgical kit into a pocket on his Forge, and pulled on his helmet. The bike kicked into gear with a throaty roar, and he rocketed out of the lot, staying low on side streets for nearly a mile before risking some altitude. At several thousand feet, he punched in directions to the spaceport and throttled up, the wind whipping past him. He glanced back over his shoulder, but saw no sign of police pursuit.
But Group Headquarters is still watching my feed. And I bet they’re pissed as hell right now.
2
The hoverbike’s gentle vibrations sputtered to a stop, and Rath pushed out the kick-stand, gingerly slipping his injured leg over the seat as he dismounted. He glanced up and down the short term lot, and, leaving his helmet on, selected a non-descript cover identity, transforming his face and hair. He pulled the helmet off, laid it on the bike’s seat, and picked up his Forge.
Let’s hope the travel embargo has been lifted.
In the terminal, the police were out in force, heavily armed and looking surly. But they were merely guarding the spaceport – flight operations had resumed, Rath saw, letting his breath out in a rush. The Group was still monitoring his location, so Rath kept his distance from the police he saw, on the off chance they decided to report him as a means of catching him, but none of the patrolmen moved to stop him.
He searched through flight options in his neural interface, conscious that the techs back at Group Headquarters were undoubtedly watching him as he made his selection.
Something cheap, in the next hour. At least a couple days’ flight, but not too long – don’t want to give them too much time to set up a reception committee for me.
He found a likely flight and bought his ticket, applying nearly half of the balance remaining on his pre-paid card. Fifteen minutes later his shuttle docked at the orbital transfer station, and ten minutes after that, he boarded his flight. The cabin door slid closed and he dropped the Forge on the desk, sitting heavily on the edge of the bunk.
Christ, I’m tired. Thirty-four hours since I last slept? And that for only about two hours.
He lay back and closed his eyes.
* * *
Rath showered when he woke, but refrained from eating anything, despite a gnawing hunger.
Better to do surgery on an empty stomach.
He had slept for close to thirteen hours, and though his dreams had been as disturbing as ever, he had only woken twice. The ship had launched to FTL travel while he slept, but was still more than a day away from its destination. Rath laid the surgical kit that Stam had hastily assembled out on the desk, and then looked over the schematic the researcher had printed. Next he built a spare mirror and some adhesive using his Forge, and rigged it up across from the mirror in his bathroom, so that he could see the back of his neck. Finally, Rath had the Forge build a small syringe of topical anesthetic, which he injected into the scar at the base of his neck.
Here goes nothing.
He hadn’t waited long enough for the anesthetic to take effect, so the first cut hurt. Rath sucked air in, cursing. He waited a minute, holding toilet paper to the cut, then started again. The hardest part proved to be estimating the right depth – nothing in Stam’s directions mentioned how deep the chip would be, and Rath was surprised to find it several inches deep, within the muscle tissue. His eye implants allowed him to zoom in on the cut and see it in close detail, but the fluorescent bathroom light was not nearly bright enough. Rath took a break, building a small flashlight and mounting it over the mirror. That accomplished, he cut again, and this time the scalpel scraped on something hard.
Is that the neural chip, or my spine?
Rath took the scalpel out for a closer look.
Chip. Phew.
He looked at the schematics once again and realized he was looking at the switches. Stam had circled the leftmost one. Rath picked up the micro-tool, slid it into the cut, fiddled for a second, and then felt the tool grip the switch. He depressed it.
He vision went dark – even his heads-up display disappeared – and the background noises of the room around him were abruptly muted. He had spent the last eleven years relying on those enhanced senses, and he felt their sudden absence keenly. The high-pitched whine of the lights, water flowing through the plumbing in the walls, the bass rumble of the ship’s engines – they all disappeared. He couldn’t even smell the antiseptic cleaner the spaceline had used to sanitize the bathroom during the ship’s last stop.
Rath took a deep breath, shifting his grip on the micro-tool. Easy. This is no time to drop that tool. He flipped the switch back up, and – a long, heart-stopping second later – his se
nses returned. A message popped up on his interface:
Rath selected No. He squirted the wound with antiseptic then used several skingraft stitches to close it. He showered again, quickly, rinsing the blood off his back and hands, and then dressed.
Okay; now I’m truly on my own. I just need to figure out how to get off this ship. But first, breakfast.
* * *
“We’ll have two contractors on station before he lands,” the supervisor reported, pulling up their profiles on the boardroom viewscreen.
“Just two?” the director asked sharply.
“He took a short flight, and all of our assets close to that region were already on Alberon, trying to capture him there.”
She grunted. “Trying, but not succeeding.”
“No,” the supervisor admitted. He decided to change the subject. “I’ll have two more contractors on the ground within twelve hours.”
“Once he’s off that ship, our chances of reacquiring him drop substantially,” she pointed out. “He’ll break contact, change identities, and disappear. It has to be at the docking gate.”
“That’s our plan,” the supervisor agreed. He tapped the viewscreen, and a blueprint schematic appeared. “The two contractors will pose as official security personnel, and they’ll set up a spot-check scanning station right at the gate. Everyone goes through as they exit – call it a new security protocol, random screenings type-of-thing. We’re placing a bribe with the head of security at that station, so he’ll look the other way when they set up, and keep his personnel off our backs. Passengers go through the scanner, and it picks up anyone with implants. Once we see someone with all the right implants, they stun him immediately, and take him to the private passenger facility. We have a ship on standby waiting.”
“I want to include a failsafe protocol,” the director said. “If he manages to kill both of them, I want that to trigger … I don’t know, an explosive device. Build it into the scanner, I suppose. And give yourself remote control, so as you’re monitoring the operation, if it looks like 621 might escape, blow it, even if the other contractors are still alive. As much as I want him alive, he’s better dead than free.”
