Flotsam Prison Blues (The Technomancer Novels Book 2)

by M. K. Gibson

  “He said his name was Legion and he was talking to someone named ‘Vox’. From the sound of it, ‘Vox’ was his boss,” I added.

  “Mmm. Gimme a sec.” And damned if it didn’t take only a few seconds. The playback of the battle vanished and was replaced by several data loadouts, images and more.

  “I really need one of these tables. Can you bring up the battle plans of the Death Star on this thing? Or the attack on Endor?” I asked. Grimm gave me his look.

  “Would not matter. It is a trap.” Grimm smiled and studied the image.

  “OK. Legion,” The Field said, “is a fully-licensed assassin that specializes in toying with his prey and learning everything about him. He operates on a global scale and is highly sought after and extremely expensive. Apparently he has never failed.”

  “Until now! High five!” I held up my hand and both Grimm and The Field just looked at me like I was an idiot. I made a fist instead. “Bump knuckles? No? Oh, fuck you both.”

  “I meant what I said,” The Field affirmed. “He has never failed, because he just completed a contract in Trinity Neon.”

  Trinity Neon was what became of Southeast Asia. It was now a man-made floating metropolis that connected former Taiwan, South Korea, and Japan. Trinity Neon was the main reason we have any data on The Deep Ones. As an island, they should be constantly attacked. Yet they not only somehow repel the Deep Ones, but they actively hunt them and dissect them.

  But that did not explain how Headless-Hunts-No-Longer was pulling jobs on the other side of the planet while I sat here with his head guts on my shirt.

  “Are you sure? That shouldn’t be possible,” I said, exasperated.

  “I don’t make mistakes. Legion just completed a kill an hour ago. Details are sketchy from this contract assassin site, but it is confirmed he killed some high-ranking member of the Techkuza. It also says he frequently works as a sub-contract killer for Vox Operations, the premier ‘fixer’ in the business.”

  Vox. “Yeah, Legion mentioned that name when he was bitching about the lack of intel on Grimm.”

  “Who is Vox?” Grimm asked.

  “Now that is interesting,” The Field said as he filtered through the data. A silhouette of a head floated on the holo-table with a question mark. “No one knows who Vox is. Only that Vox Operations has subcontracts out and their work and is near perfect. Looks like you pissed someone important off. Vox Operations is pricey.”

  “Can you find the source of the assassination order?” Grimm asked. “Salem claims that the Archbishop Maz’ael sanctioned the attack as a lesson. I assume if this were to be a lesson, then Maz’ael would be able to call it off. Therefore, he must have a contact.”

  Again, The Field began mining the Ultra Net at breakneck speed. And again, he looked pissed.

  “Locked,” The Field said angrily. “Nothing is locked to me. There is a clearance level here that I’ve never seen before.” The Field went back to his digital attack with a vengeance.

  Having hidden enemies who hire killers to off you is never a fun situation to be in. Just made me really affirm I hated this cloak and dagger shit. Well, only when it was against me and I was losing.

  “Hmm.” The Field paused in his work. Something grabbed his attention with real interest. “I can’t find the source of the contract in the bishop databases. Here is one other piece of intel you may find interesting.”

  “Oh yeah, what’s that?”

  “The conditions of the contract. Apparently Vox Operations was hired to take you out, dead or alive.”

  “Why?”

  “Doesn’t say. But there was a contingency in case Legion should fail.”

  “Which was?”

  The Field tapped the terminal again and the table changed one more time to the interior of Dante’s main level. The display showed a cyborg. Well, cyborg was putting it mildly. This near eight-foot mechanized walking tank-man strolled into the main doors and stood by the bar looking surprisingly causal. He was blistering with tech and weapons.

  “Him. His name is the Ahlray. And it looks to me like he specializes in blowing up whatever the hell is in his way.”

  It was right then that I got a short text message on my CommID from Ricky. It read, “Deal with this.”

  Shit.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Drink or Bloodbath

  Father Grimm and I rode the elevator back up from Ricky’s lair deep below Dante’s in silence. We were going to square off with what I could only describe as a “fuck-me-running cyborg tank.” As the elevator continued up to the pending face-off with said cyborg tank, I developed my plan.

  Yup. My plan.

  Plan plan plan.

  Any moment now, poof! A brilliant plan to bring down a freaking mech who could level the bar and brothel and kill everyone inside.

  The elevator was moments away from the top, which would open and then my brilliant plan would go into effect.

  Plan.

  Plan?

  PLAN!

  Come on, stupid brain! Work! All the alcohol I’ve drunk in that last two hundred years should have killed off all the slow and stupid brain cells, leaving only the best and fastest ones, right? Booze-induced natural selection. Made sense to me. So why won’t my stupid brain think of a plan?

  Plan plan plan plan plan plan!

  Grimm had his hands clasped in front of him and a quiet smirk on his face. Facing the reflective elevator doors, he leaned slightly towards me. “You have no idea what you are going to do, do you?”

  “Not a GODDAMN clue!” I yelled, barely letting Grimm complete his sentence. I immediately lit a smoke and breathed heavily. The feeling of abject cluelessness was maddening. How was I supposed to bring down this behemoth without a firefight and bloodbath inside my second home?

  As I thought about it, I realized there was an upside. If shit did go south and a firefight did break out, it bloody well might scare off these freaking tourists.

  Grimm was still smirking. Why was he still smirking? This was not a smirk-worthy event! That being said, “Smirk Worthy” would have been an awesome underground indie alt band from the 2010s.

  “Why the hell are you smiling?”

  Grimm was near laughter. “Because I can always teleport away.”

  That son of a bitch. “You know, I hope he has Hex Ammo and shoots you in the leg.”

  “That is not funny,” Grimm said, his smirk disappearing.

  “Says you. I’m freaking hilarious.”

  As the elevator reached the top, I turned to Grimm. “OK, sorry. I do not hope the tank-man has Hex Ammo and shoots you in the leg. Cool?”

  “Yes. Cool.” Grimm nodded, satisfied. “Besides, even if he did have the Hex Ammo, I would just shove you in the way when he starts shooting.”

  “Ha!”

  “Now that you have calmed down, do you have a plan?” Grimm asked.

  Ah Grimm, still playing me and manipulating me in the most polite ways. “Nope. Just going to wing it.”

  “So, the usual then.”

  “Sadly, yeah.”

  The elevator dinged and opened to the rushing sensory overload of noise, sex, and sweat. Another great night in Dante’s Bar and Brothel.

  The elevator landing was atop a flight of stairs in Dante’s where everyone could see. Grimm and I stepped out and the lights of the club were blinding. My eyes focused as I saw my target, the big-ass eight-foot cyborg, standing dead center of the club with his massive arms crossed, ignoring everything, just watching the elevator. The scantily-clad incubi and succubi serving staff moved around him as if he were just another pillar.

  The Ahlray, as The Field identified him, saw me come off the elevator and locked his gaze on me. The Field’s cameras were good, but seeing him live was much more impressive.

  The Ahlray was littered with tech, implants, and so, so many weapons. The man, if you could call him that, had a near full-body augmentation. Gleaming metallic blue and pearlescent white was his color scheme, and he kind of re
minded me of a cross between the ED-209 from Robocop and Marvel Comics’ War Machine.

  He had reverse-jointed, wide-based, four-toed legs for enhanced stability complemented with pulse-propelled bomblets and tracker rockets. Full bionic forearm and hand replacements for both arms with prominent drop-down collapsible VULCAN mini-guns. A plate torso piece with sensor array integration, bionic eye implants, autonomous tracking plasma cannons on both shoulders, all types of energy shield deflectors, and other pieces I was unsure about.

  The only thing that humanized the mechanized beast was his surprisingly kind and cherubic face with a cleft chin and recessed hairline. He kind of looked like someone’s nerdy best friend who was armed like the Death Star.

  Which left me feeling a bit like Alderran.

  Getting a good look at him, standing there on the dim dance floor with the various club lights lighting him up, a freaking plan actually popped into my head. I know, sometimes I impress myself.

  “Grimm,” I whispered loud enough for him to hear, “when I say ‘now’, throw some kind of bright strobe light spell thing right at Ahlray. I will take care of the rest.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Not really. Just freaking do it before my brain realizes my balls are writing checks in its name,” I said, and got ready, squatting down, prepared to jump.

  “No one has used checks in two centuries,” Grimm responded.

  I stood back up, semi-deflated. “Oh come on, man. Can you work with me? I mean, seriously. I say a bad-ass line like that and you shit on it? Just do your mojo so we look cool for once.”

  “Are you going to take care of the issue, or do you plan on continuing your bitch-fest?” Grimm asked, his stupid smirk back on his stupid, stupid face.

  “You’re such a dick. Flash this guy, would you?”

  “My pleasure.” Grimm brought his right hand up, palm towards him as if he was holding an apple, and a small ball of blue-white light began to manifest. Grim then snapped his hand away in a “begone” motion. The small ball shot down from elevator platform and exploded just in front of the Ahlray.

  The blast lit up Dante’s like a sun for half a second. The music stopped and the room went angry, then dead silent with what happened next.

  The Ahlray flinched, not expecting the distraction. I didn’t waste any time putting my brilliant but suicidal plan into action.

  I activated my pulse boots and jumped off the elevator dais high into the air. Drawing a blaster in my right hand, I quickly aimed and fired a nano-filament line from my left tech bracer into the Ahlray’s chest plate. The chisel tip penetrated the cyborg’s chest and the micro actuator engaged the grips. The servos in the tech bracer activated and reeled me in fast.

  Right into the Ahlray. Who did not move an inch.

  I landed hard—one foot on his shoulder, one on his chest—and perched on the giant assassin. I shoved the barrel of my blaster into the Ahlray’s left eye.

  “What’s up, tons of fun? Give me a reason not to put a hole through your head!” I yelled at the assassin. I felt like a complete ninja badass doing it.

  “I would like to buy you a drink,” the Ahlray responded as calmly as if he wasn’t bothered by me in the slightest.

  “Um, what?”

  “It’s simple: May I buy you a drink? Or would you prefer we kill innocents and destroy what appears to be a rather appealing bar and whorehouse? I would rather talk it out in a civilized manner, if it is all the same to you.”

  I hazarded a glance over my shoulder at Grimm, who had come down the stair from the elevator dais and was behind us. He nodded his head slightly but looked as baffled as I was. Not only was the Ahlray telling the truth, but he seemed earnest.

  That did not sit well with me. I want my would-be assassins to be like Legion. You know, assholes. That way when I ventilate their skulls, I don’t feel bad for it. This pleasant killer angle? Yuck. What kind of world do we live in when killers are polite?

  “Drink or bloodbath, sir?” the Ahlray asked again. He was still pleasant, but I could tell he wasn’t going to ask again. “What will it be?”

  No one spoke. Dante’s was surprisingly quiet as everyone waited to see what would happen. Grimm cut the silence.

  “Salem?”

  “I’m thinking it over!” I said, holding the gun firm and maintaining my balance on the giant man.

  On one hand, I could just finish this continued assassination attempt crap right now and cement my “I am not the man to F with” reputation. On the other hand, he had made no advances to actually try and kill me. So I would effectively be killing an “innocent” man. Then again, I did just do a pretty cool Spider-Man meets The Matrix aerial zip-line attack. If I shot him, I could ride his body to the ground and wink at a hot succubus. Otherwise, I’d have to awkwardly climb down, while politely excusing myself. While funny to the bystanders, it would paint a bigger target on my back as a pansy. On the other hand . . . hell, I was out of hands.

  Another few seconds went by in silence while the room collectively held its breath. Then the jukebox was suddenly playing the 1982 classic “It’s Raining Men” by The Weather Girls. A sideways glance showed Ricky leaning against the Jukebox cross-armed and cross-legged, smoking a cigar.

  Har-de-freaking-har, Ricky. He made a circular gesture with his hand, telling me to wrap this up.

  “OK, I am going to get down now. Please don’t make me regret this. And would someone please change the damn song?!” I disengaged the nano-filament line from the Ahlray’s chest, hopped down and holstered my weapon. Dante’s patrons went back to drinking and whoring like this was an everyday occurrence. Which it kind of was. Small demonic imps flew about collecting and delivering bets.

  “Excellent. Now, the drink? Whiskey sour I assume?” the Ahlray offered. I accepted. We walked a few steps over to the main horseshoe bar and I noted the bar stools, then looked at the assassin’s massive bulk.

  “Would a booth work better for you?”

  The Ahlray shook his head no. He took two of the freestanding stools and moved them away, setting them aside. He squatted down to normal sitting height along the bar and each of his reverse jointed legs extended stabilizer rods, turning him into a heavily armed and armored coffee table.

  “Two whiskey sours, please. Make mine a triple in the largest glass you have. Thank you,” the Ahlray said in a very affable and cordial manner to Jace the bartender. Jace scuttled off to make the drinks and I pulled out my pack of smokes, lighting one. I looked at the Ahlray and offered him one.

  “I shouldn’t. My wife doesn’t approve. Shortened lifespan already from the implants. But what the hell.” The Ahlray accepted the cigarette and I lit it for him. “Mmmm. Old World smokes. The best. With all the good life-threatening chemicals.”

  Jace returned with our drinks, mine in a standard glass and his, which looked like a mason jar of booze. But in his hands, it looked normal. We clinked glasses, drank, and smoked in silence for a minute or two.

  This was almost pleasant. So of course it had to be ruined.

  “I do plan on bringing you down, you understand. Contract work and all that,” the Ahlray said.

  “Why did you not simply begin firing when you saw us exit the elevator?” Grimm asked as he joined us at the bar, sitting on the other side of the Ahlray.

  “Fair question. Simplest answer is, I abhor useless violence. I am not paid to kill innocents or cause property damage.”

  “I thought that was what you specialized in,” I said.

  The Ahlray took a drag of the comically small smoke. “These are nice. Mmm, that’s when they knew how to make them right.” Ahlray seemed to ignore my statement as he finished his smoke and took another drink from his jug of booze.

  “Just because someone can do a thing doesn’t mean they should do a thing. Yes, I could probably bring down this entire building, killing you and everyone else. But that is very messy. No, I prefer, when possible, a direct and pleasant approach.”

  “You ju
st might be the nicest killer I ever met,” I told the big guy. Hell, I was starting to like him.

  “Thank you,” Ahlray said cheerfully. “Did you know that before all this,” he gestured at his implants, “I taught university level theoretical physics? I loved teaching and debating with students, be them demon or human. But, as most origin stories go, things took a turn for the worse. Woefully unregulated and unsafe building codes led to an explosion on the campus.”

  “I recall that,” Grimm said. “About fifteen years ago, there was some sort of fusion reactor issue that caused massive damage up north in Lemegeton, at Solomon’s Folly University.”

  “Precisely. The reactors power cables ran under-level all over the campus. When the main reactor blew, it caused subsequent power nodes to overload and explode as well. My office was above one of those nodes. The blast left very little of me intact. So, my wife and I sunk our life’s savings into these upgrades. Mostly I work as a strongman bringing down minor corporations and such. But your sub-contract was very profitable. When Legion failed, I was next up to capitalize.”

  “So, are we supposed to go outside and duel it out like Old West gunslingers?” I asked.

  “No. I would prefer if you just turned yourself over to me of your own recognizance,” Ahlray said in his irritatingly polite way. “The contract said dead or incapacitated.”

  “You know we will not do that,” Grimm said.

  “Oh, I figured that out. That’s why I am not going to do anything. Not right now, anyway. I just wanted to get a measure of you both. Determine if mass collateral damage was warranted.”

  “And?” I asked.

  “Not right now,” Ahlray decided.

  “Well, I figured you owed me. For not putting a hole in your face.”

  “You wouldn’t have,” Ahlray said. “That was a nifty attack. I assume you thought the majority of my weapons were long range and thought getting in close quickly would be the best line of attack.”

  “It worked,” I said, growling a little. I’ll be damned if an earnest assassin was going to take my cool swashbuckling moves away from me.