Nina leaned back in the chair, and pulled her right heel up to the seat. She stared at the terminal, cheek resting on the side of her knee, and tried to find sense in it. Hackers love to brag about their exploits―but to claim to be the one that pulled off the Silver would be dangerous. Even in the UCF, corporations hold grudges for a long time. She found it too convenient that her route change happened on the same night; it looked so much like a deliberate distraction. Alas, all her poking around had so far failed to turn up any credible proof.
She rotated away from the screen and stretched out. There had been a series of prostitute murders in the past few months but Division 1 had not paid them much attention. She wondered if the same beast was responsible; at least two victims had been mutilated beyond recognition. Few within the police command cared if the street filth ate itself; that just meant one less drug-crazed fringer to worry about later down the line. Division 9 only got involved when foreign nationals, corporate fat cats, or dirty cops came into play.
With a flick of her foot against the rug, she spun in the chair and sighed. The thing that had killed Vincent vanished without a trace, and only one man bothered looking for him. She could pick it up in her spare time; if anyone asked, she could claim she was just following up on an old case. Technically, it was not a lie.
Maybe if I dangle myself as bait he’ll find me.
After staring at her wardrobe, she slammed the cabinet closed. Not one bit of clothing in there looked anything like what a prostitute would wear. Living Nina had been a demure creature, and had issues even using the showers at the station. She let the door slide closed, feeling surprised relief. A little piece of her still clung to some dignity.
I have to get out of this apartment; I need some air.
Her ballistic stealth armor lay draped over the back of her chair where she had left it some hours ago. A full body suit infused with a layer of nanobot enhanced non-Newtonian gel that could harden almost instantly when exposed to high stress. The microscopic machines stitched plastisteel threads together as it hardened, adding strength to the impromptu plate in much the same way as steel rods in poured concrete.
The cold rubbery material made her gasp as she slipped her legs in. She stiffened out of reflex, her subconscious reaction unaware of her new body. A moment later, she shrugged it up and over her shoulders. The suit stretched to fit; within seconds, it had become a form-fitting layer of gloss black with only her face, hands, and feet uncovered. Black socks, combat boots, a shoulder holster, and a long sand colored coat finished her gear.
A glint ran down the housing of her MCP 50 as she checked the feed. It was a much larger sidearm than she had that night, chambered for 15mm slugs instead of 8mm, but she still doubted its effectiveness against that monster. Considered a class 6 weapon, the largest handguns available, they were usually the purview of huge men.
She took it because of protocol; she did not intend to use it if she found him. Her nightmare often dwelled on the sight of bullets stalling on his chest, feeble and useless. She had more faith in her new body and months of training in Wushu, a combat style that lent itself to her superhuman agility. Nina had only to learn the mechanics of the technique; this body did not need to be conditioned. She relished the thought of a distinct advantage. As one sided as their last meeting went, the next would be the opposite. The thought of avenging Vincent got her blood moving.
She imagined him in front of her as a pair of Nano blades shot out through the back of her fist and locked in place. Most times, she forgot they were even there, and had not yet used them in a real situation. Such things inside her felt alien; they broke her fantasy of being human.
Nina stared through the clear synthetic diamond blades, wondering if they would meet the same futile fate as the bullets. Their edge, sharpened to the width of a single molecule, could cut through anything their user had enough strength to force them through. Deadly in the hands of normal people, on a doll they became far worse.
She would dismantle him piece by piece, saving the claws for the coup de grace. Nina closed her eyes and pictured the face he would make once he knew death was imminent. She opened them and frowned; would she go this far off the deep end of sanity? The fantasies felt like those of an addled mind, even to herself.
The claws retracted, sliding noiseless into her arm.
No, I’m not sinking to his level.
Nina traced a finger over the back of her hand, the slit through which the blades emerged already sealed to the point of invisibility. She only wanted him to know who she was before he died, only wanted him to realize her revenge. Her mother’s voice haunted her as she left her apartment, asking if she would feel any sense of closure by taking another life.
He’s not alive, Mother. He’s a creature. Someone has to stop him… greater good, and all that.
Who knew how many more women he had killed since that night, and no one seemed to care.
She was already damaged; it did not matter if she killed again.
rifting in a silent descent on the outside face of the building, the glass bubble elevator vibrated in the glow of a loose lamp. The orange-yellow light of the endless city swallowed the black, starless sky as she sank towards the ground. Vincent’s voice wafted through her mind, cracking a joke about the angel of death descending to Earth. A lump grew in her throat as she stared at the empty courtyard where he always parked to wait for her. She remembered how she looked like a kid dressed up as a cop for Halloween, and a single tear ran down her face.
A flicker of static shimmered on the barren grey. Vincent stepped out from behind the fountain, smiling at her. She stared at him until the elevator sank into the enclosed chamber at the bottom.
She sprinted through the lobby, racing out into an empty courtyard. In silence, she stared at the spot of ground where she had seen him, turning to look up at the rising silver blister on the side of the building. It was solid plastisteel. Cameras and a curved video display created the illusion of it being a bubble of glass―just like the windows of police hovercars. Nina squatted, tracing her fingers over the cold ground where she had seen him for a moment before storming back inside.
The lobby was still empty save for a red-haired Class 1 doll behind the information desk. Its uniform made her look like a flight attendant. The mouth and joints had small gaps through which underlying mechanisms peeked out. Nina did not bother to waste a pleasant greeting on her. She, rather it, had no living brain and a rudimentary artificial intelligence―just a data terminal that could talk.
Helping herself to the terminal, she ignored the receptionist’s protests and drew an M3 cable from the back of her neck, plugging in. The building’s system logs had no recorded traces of anyone interacting with the pass-through display on elevator 6.
Could Vincent be trying to reach her?
Frigid wind embraced her outside. At this time of night, the city had long ago given up any stored warmth from the day before. Shivering, she savored the feeling of feeling. In this state somewhere between alive and not, the most banal things could cause her to stop and appreciate normality. She tried to ignore the fact her body was immune to the effects of temperature, instead embracing the concept of being a twenty-five year old woman walking down a street at four in the morning―and feeling cold.
Her training included how to assume other identities. Learning languages became as simple as a trip to the tech lab and the addition of a data chip filled with a mimic of cortical imprints. Her French was almost as good as her English, and for her current assignment, she had requisitioned a language chip for German.
As she walked through the deserted streets, she thought about acting like a lost German tourist, to give the chip a test drive. She changed her mind, not trusting herself to pull it off just yet. The desolation reminded her of the place she spent her last night as a normal person. Melancholy set in and she tucked her hands into her coat pockets.
What if we weren’t cops?
Under the glow of a corner streetl
amp, she concocted an alter ego based on that concept. An innocent young wife who just emigrated to the UCF from France witnessed a horrible assault as she left a show with her husband. She had only been in the country for a month and her valiant beau tried to help a poor woman under attack. The augmented monstrosity became a group of common thugs to fit the scene; and she had run away in fright―escaping rape but leaving her husband to die at their hands.
A loud hiss startled her as a PubTran came to a halt at the traffic signal. She had the green, but paused to look at the side of the vehicle. A smiling Indian woman wearing a white doctor’s coat over a dark business suit greeted her from an ad panel. As soon as she looked at it, it projected audio at her. Dr. Preeti Khan, a psychologist who specialized in grief counseling, spoke about her cyberspace friendly practice that went by the name “The New Hope Center.”
Her concocted identity could accomplish two things. She would visit this doctor and see if she could fool a professional. With a story so close to reality, she might find some benefit if the therapist was any good. It seemed logical that her dainty French doppelganger would look into something like that, and in cyberspace, she could be anyone she wanted to be. Her mother always said things happen for a reason; the timing of that bus was almost too convenient.
Walking around at random felt futile. A terminal window painted itself into her vision as she connected to the police net petty crimes database. A parser line below a graphic overlay map flashed with the computer’s translation of her mental commands. Search parameters reduced a chaotic mass of color to distinct dots that appeared like a buildup of spray paint wherever prostitution arrests had occurred over the past two years. Solicitation was a rare charge these days; the cops had better things to worry about.
Targeting the thickest concentration of dots, she tried to think like her old self, before the police training. She took on the walk of a frightened girl that just wanted to get inside as soon as possible. Her gaze fell to the street, and she shrank into a decent mimic of someone going out of her way to be victimized.
Passing cars sent mist into the air as they whooshed along. Perpetual wetness blanketed this part of the city, as if it had stopped raining an hour ago despite none having fallen for at least a week. Damp chilly air swirled around as she crossed another street and went down an alley. The smell of decay, urine, and sour trash hung in her throat. A few prostitutes, three women and two men, took shelter under the awning of a closed market, lit by glowing signs advertising cosmetic cyberware and replacement eyes.
An animated hologram woman danced around in the window with disappearing and reappearing cat ears, chirping “Aha!” each time they came back. Nina felt bad for whoever had to hear that all day long.
She disregarded the prostitutes, walking past them without an obvious glance. The five of them seemed at ease, and unconcerned with what might lurk in the night. If her nightmare still walked the streets, he was not in this part of the city. She grumbled, feeling stupid for entertaining the thought of finding him within blocks of her apartment building. Fate was cruel but irony was not that indelicate. She paused at the next curb, as an idea hit her. The grieving widow had a name:
Avril Boudreau.
ina’s mental back and forth came to an abrupt halt when a tactical overlay jumped into her field of view. Two dots approached from behind at a threatening speed. Her gaze shifted left, catching a reflection in the window of a shop; magnifying it until she saw the two men moving up on her.
Both wore tattered pants and heavy boots. The one on the left had a black tank top and a red mesh jacket, the other a simulated leather coat with gold skull-shaped buttons. Both had outlandish hair. Skull Buttons had a bald stripe down the center of his head with neon blue hair on either side. Mesh’s hair gathered into four thick spikes. Both carried, but neither had pulled a gun out yet. Glimmering green text identified their firearms―small Class 2 pistols that could not pierce her armor.
I go fishing for a shark and find a pair of mackerel.
She whirled. Her sudden movement spooked them to a halt. Nina kept her forlorn stare at the street as she spoke.
“You boys need something?” she asked, her tone taciturn, menacing.
The men exchanged a glance before blue hair grinned. “Ya got a pretty face.”
Spikey nodded. “Yeah… no tits tho.”
“I’ll take what I can get.” The other ganger chuckled. “Take it easy honey, play nice and this won’t hurt at all. Just ‘ave a little fun.”
Nina did not move. “Oh, I’m sure it will hurt. Just not me.”
A full strength strike to either of these two unaugmented idiots would tear them in half; she did not want to kill them. Spiky frowned. Holding his hands apart, he took a step back. The faintest hint of a tremble settled into his fingers.
Blue pointed, as if to say something, and made a grimace but could not form the words.
Nina’s head snapped up, making them both jump. “You two fine young men wouldn’t be looking to assault me, would you?”
Her intent look set Spiky’s entire body shivering. His hand drifted to his gun and his eyes darted between her and the alley behind him. Blue stepped closer, oblivious to the warning in her gaze. Even at her new height, he stood a head taller and already touched her in dirty ways with his eyes. Statue-like, she left her hands in her pockets as he approached and pulled at the belt of her coat. Nina held her stare on Spiky as his friend put his arm around her waist.
A hand slid up her chest, cupping a breast through her ballistic suit, as the other did the same to her ass. Nina smiled faintly at the thought of how good a job the engineers did if this idiot had not sensed anything unusual. Even squeezing her, he did not act as if anything were amiss. She smiled at passing for normal during such close contact. Blue let go of her breast; the impression of his fingers remained for a few seconds in the pliable armor.
Spiky broke out in a sweat watching her just stand there being pawed without so much as a whimper or even the slightest attempt to avoid it. His eyes widened with anticipation as his fear mutated into arousal and wonder at what kind of psycho they found.
“Yo, Buzzard… This one’s fucked up.” He laughed. “I think she likes it.”
“Uh huh.” The hand left her ass and rode up her left side. “What the…?”
The ridge of his hand had grazed the tip of her sidearm, and he pulled her coat away to expose it. The massive thing seemed out of place next to her waifish frame. The men exchanged a glance before breaking into cackling laughter.
“The only thing you’ll do with that fucker is break your goddamn hand,” said Buzzard.
Spiky patted her gun. “It’s bigger than you are.”
Something in his tone flipped a switch in her mind; he sounded a little too much like Eddie Alvin. With Buzzard chuckling back at his friend, Nina grabbed his wrist and yanked. Two hundred pounds of ganger flipped over in midair before crashing face-first into the street. Spiky’s eyes widened, he babbled, and his hand swiped at his belt three times before it managed to find his gun.
Her perception of time slowed to a crawl. Enhanced reflexes moved her body and mind beyond human limitations. Spiky’s gun slid from its holster, not quite half-way aimed by the time she had taken two steps. Her left arm swung to the side, swatting the weapon away at the same time as her right elbow smashed into his chest.
The gun flew out of his fingers; his arm bent around hers as if made of rubber―bones shattered on impact. The strike to his chest lifted him off his feet amid the cracking of ribs and sent a fine spray of blood from his mouth, which misted her face. The weapon flew through the window of a parked car, landing on the seat in a rain of glass fragments. Spiky hit the ground on his back almost ten feet away, wheezing and gasping. Disregarding him, she turned back to watch Buzzard stagger to his feet. He charged at her, howling a guttural war cry.
Nina considered a spin kick, but did not want to liquefy him. She waited for him to get closer, watching the skin of his f
ace distort like a latex mask in his slow motion run. His arms circled about her chest. Nina sank through the closing bear hug and, with a palm on his chest, shoved him away and up. His feet left the ground as his momentum held him in midair against her hand and carried his legs forward. As soon as his body went horizontal, she drove him into the pavement flat on his back. The punk hit the ground hard, but broke no bones. He stared up at her with stunned disbelief, breathless.
She squatted beside him, removed the gun from his belt, and thumbed the release. The magazine bounced onto the pavement sending several blocks of loose ammo skittering off along the sidewalk. Holding the weapon over his face so he could see it, she closed her hand and crushed it into a useless hunk of metal and plastic.
“You’re not too hurt right now. Let’s keep it that way. If I see you move I’ll do that to your other gun.”
He babbled something unintelligible through his effort to breathe. She stood, tossing the ruined gun on his chest and dividing her attention between the two men motionless on the sidewalk. Once certain no fight remained in them, she opened a comm.
“Ops, this is Lieutenant Nina Duchenne, Division 9 ID 804332C3.”
“Proceed, Lieutenant,” said a pleasant female voice. The face of one of the dispatch dolls, a class 1 AI unit, appeared in midair.
“I need a pickup in Sector 108, City Road 17. Two white males, approximate age late 20s, assault and attempted rape.”
“Acknowledged, victim status?”
“Unhurt.”
“Acknowledged, suspect status?”
“One suspect is injured; I think it’s a broken rib with a pierced lung. Send a medical unit. The area is secure, I’ll wait for them.”
“Acknowledged. Units are on the way Lieutenant. Have a pleasant morning.”
Virtual Immortality Page 8
