by Ren Warom
“You’re fucked up, but they’ll work.” He seems unconvinced, so she gets good and close. “If you want to get out of here, with the one person who may actually be intent on helping you rather than using you, I’d make an effort to move.” Harsh words, but there’s no time for sympathy.
“Then fucking help me up.” His response is no less harsh, and she sees that he already knew. She didn’t expect that.
Shock Pao should be what you find in a dictionary under “waste of space”; jaded and junked up, with a knack for fucking up. She wouldn’t have bet a single unit he’d have a whiff of chutzpah, or any of that rarely seen sense they call common, as if calling it such can conjure it forth where it so grievously lacks. Then again, boy’s from Korea-town, the rabbit warrens, and was born a girl, so it kinda figures he’d have grown somewhat of a carapace, gathered some street smarts. He should use them more.
“C’mon then.” Amiga wraps an arm around his chest, and braces.
He relaxes into the pain as she pulls him up out of the chair, which, again, rather like his non-reaction to her feeling his bones, is the exact opposite to normal. That shouldn’t affect her, but it does, so does his silence, and two clicks together with two, making formative trauma. Now she understands why she heard no screaming: he’s used to pain like this. Fuck, that’s actually a bit heartbreaking. Draping his arm over her shoulders, she supports him as he breathes through the adjustment, clearly fighting the urges his body has to up and quit on him now he’s vertical.
“Ready?”
He nods, and helps her help him by trying his best to hold some of his own weight. She admires that. Unfortunately he’s fighting a losing battle, and she’s forced to haul him to the window and shove him through. He collapses against the balcony, head dangling again, eyes drooping shut. He can’t go on, and they’ve a long way to go. The only way you can help an addict in this predicament is by feeding the addiction. Problematic, and against those withered principles of hers. However, on balance, Amiga finds the evil a necessary one. She snaps out a couple of high-quality bumps, presses them into his neck.
He side-eyes a query.
“I don’t normally enable,” she says, by way of explanation, “but you’re tapping out and we don’t have time for it.” She ties the rappel line around his chest and groin into a makeshift harness. “This is going to hurt like fuck, but if you make a sound, we’ll die.”
He offers her those neon blues, filled with pupils wide as deranged grins, and nods assent. Working quickly, she levers him over, and lets go. He doesn’t make a sound.
Following him down by hand, dropping gently from balcony to balcony, Amiga carries on worrying nonetheless. That bump high is acting in opposition to a total body shut down from blood loss and trauma. In other words, it will not last.
On the ground, the sound of bullets resonates through the alley like the throaty hacking of a tramp. Dragging Shock behind the fire escape, she untangles him from the rappel wire.
Deuce pops into her IM. Silent. Just a nod, and the schematic she asked for. It’s a long way round, has to be, to avoid the fight escalating out front, but way too long for Shock to make it, and any minute now, any second, someone is going to think to check on Pill and find Shock gone. Amiga spends about ten seconds in full-on, free-fall panic. Then it hits her. She looks up.
“Ever blade-surfed?” she murmurs to Shock, her eyes fixed on the distant ribbon of the metro.
Going Underground…
They make it down two alleys and across two streets without Yang’s clean-up crew on their heels. Not the kind of luck that lasts. Shock’s leaving a clear trail of bright red breadcrumbs too, which can’t be helped but makes Amiga downright twitchy. Beyond the second alley, she clocks the mono entrance. It’s a few hundred metres up to their left. So damn close.
Half carrying Shock, who’s stumbling like a liver-whore, she digs deep and speeds up to a run. Literally seconds from safety, their luck collapses in an entirely unexpected direction. A peppering of bullets hits the ’scraper next to Shock, showering his hair and bloodied chest with grey brick dust. Amiga dodges toward the road, yelling out in fury.
“Are they honest to shit actually shooting at you?”
Unable to believe it, she risks a swift, disbelieving glance over her shoulder, spotting brief flutters of movement in the alley. Another volley of shots strike the sidewalk behind Shock’s feet. Okay, so they’re not stupid enough to shoot at him, but close is too close and she doesn’t give these dingbats much credit. Odds are on one of them missing the mark and hitting Shock by accident or ricochet. That’ll be game over.
Gritting her teeth, Amiga hauls Shock to the elevator, trying to anticipate and avoid the bullets pinging all around them. As she waves a hand over the sensor, the firing ceases, replaced by the pounding of feet. She turns to assess the situation. Ten of Yang’s troops, out of the alley and catching up fast. Of course it would be ten. Sometimes she could stab shit out of her loudmouth brain and its self-fulfilling prophecies. How’s she supposed to fight ten with Shock in her arms? She checks her dart supply. Three.
“Hate to tell you this,” she mutters through her teeth, “but we are so screwed.”
In answer to unspoken prayers, the elevator doors sigh open. Amen to that. Dragging Shock inside, she shields him with her body as Yang’s people, scary close now, pull out their guns and begin firing at her. Priorities straight at last. Joy. If only her long-term luck as a Cleaner could hold out. It doesn’t, of course. A bullet ricochets off the metal of the doors as they close, striking clean through her leg and impacting the bulletproof plas-glas with a crack loud enough to hurt her teeth. She staggers, catching herself on the sides as the elevator sets off.
“You okay?” Shock sounds exhausted, his voice a blurry remnant. He’s got about ten minutes of good consciousness left. Maybe fifteen if he hangs onto that high like the good little junkie she knows him to be.
Amiga takes a moment to get stable, and examines her wound. Clean shot, no bone impact, but blood is beginning to ooze in a thick stream out of both entry and exit wounds. Fuck. She tears a strip off her tee, tying it around her thigh, tight enough to hurt like hell.
“I’ll live. How you holding up?”
“Kinda not…”
She turns to find him slumped against the side, bleeding all over the plas-glas. Not enough tee strips in the world to tourniquet that lot.
“Jeez, dude, you’re a fucking state.”
“You keep saying it like it’s going to change.” He lifts his head a fraction as high-pitched whining vibrates into the elevator. Despair clouds the shine of bump high in his eyes. “Mono,” he says, though they both know what it is. What it means.
Amiga closes her eyes. What does she do now? She leans to look for Yang’s troops. They’re on the narrow stairs, running up two at a time. Plans have a way of screwing themselves up when it’s least convenient. Lucky she’s adaptable. Lucky she’s had to be. Funny how it’s never felt particularly lucky. Not even now, when it’s useful.
“We need to get on that mono. C’mon.”
Stepping across to Shock, she pulls him up, her muscles protesting, her leg throbbing bite-sized chunks of raw pain. Designed to self-adjust speed in transit when a mono is approaching, the elevator arrives just as the mono does. There are maybe eight other people waiting. They ignore Amiga and Shock. This is Yang’s territory; violence and bloodshed are things that happen. But when Yang’s troops hit the last rise of stairs with guns firing, the waiting folk hit the deck, leaving Amiga and Shock fully exposed as the doors slide open.
“Gonna push you again,” Amiga says to Shock, dragging him to the mono doors and offering an entirely redundant, “Sorry.”
Shoving him into the end carriage, she jumps in behind and wrestles him along by the belt of his trousers. She dumps him behind a pair of seats at the back. The occupants gape at her, and she smiles, places a finger over her mouth as she turns, stance low, to take whoever comes aboard. Six of
Yang’s troops make it before the doors close. Two of them into their carriage.
The mono lurches out of the station and they barrel straight for her, using the mono’s momentum to barge through the crowded aisle, knocking screaming passengers to the floor. One of them: short, stocky, covered in tattoos, fires his gun wildly. Hits a passenger huddled in his seat, using a briefcase as a shield. He jerks and slides to the floor, curled over his case, and the carriage implodes panic, seething out into the next carriage, not realizing or not caring that there are four more of Yang’s troops ahead.
Taking advantage of the moment, the other soldier, a woman, makes a beeline for Amiga and tries to shoot her in close quarters. Scooting to the side, Amiga tucks into her personal space, pressing her wrist up against the edge of the woman’s armoured vest. One dart under the ribs shreds her heart and she collapses in slow-mo, face still set into a snarl, her second bullet going wide, through the roof, leaving a ragged hole for wind to whistle through. Sounds jaunty. Bizarre.
Grabbing her armoured vest as she falls, Amiga rams the woman backward through the carriage and into her partner. Shouting, he lunges out, his finger trigger-happy as ever. Amiga gets there first, calm and easy. Pops a dart through his neck casual as you please, leaving a gaping hole. He doesn’t realize he’s dead, and the look on his face as he topples is priceless. Amiga yanks his gun from his hand, kicking him aside to finish dying amongst the seats as two more of Yang’s troops enter the carriage.
Ducking down out of sight, she takes them out with the stolen gun. Swift, economic shots to the head. Bullet whiplash. Like the woman and her partner they’re dead before they even realize, and now there’re only two left, struggling through the mass of passengers to get to her. Going about it possibly the worst way ever, guns out and firing, as if that ever pacified a crowd. Not in Nanking. Not in many places in the Gung to be honest.
“Hang on in there,” she mutters to Shock, to the dizziness invading her head. Blood loss is no fun. “Hang the fuck on.”
Amiga checks the gun. Four bullets left. It’s a piece of crap, though. Disposable. Probably printed. These things aim for shit over anything longer than a few metres, meaning the bullets earlier were indeed meant for her and the shot to her thigh was pure chance. If she wants to take out the other two without further injury to herself, she has to wait for them to come in, and they’re taking their time. They’ve quit firing too, which is interesting. Probably clocked the fact that the others are dead.
She has one dart left. Use it, or save it?
No thought required. One arsehole with a gun is easier to handle than two.
Utilizing Deuce’s goggles again, which she may never give back, she cops the sights on a sweet shot and takes out the bigger one, enjoying the reaction of the one left. Honestly, people forget there’s a difference between being a general thug and a paid killer. Swift and quiet, she makes her way back to Shock. He’s still going, just about. Thank fuck he knows how to hang on to a high.
“Two stops to go,” she says, trying to offer a little boost, knowing it’s worth nothing with him dying by degrees and all too aware of it. “Your limo waiting?”
He nods. Murmurs, “Shark’s angry.”
“Will it eat me?”
“Don’t know.”
“Comforting.”
“How many left?”
“One.”
“Impressive.”
She shrugs. “It’s my job.”
He laughs, and more blood dribbles out of his mouth, down his chest. If it doesn’t stop soon he’ll have none left.
“Hell of a job.”
“Dude, I’m not the one avis out, carrying hell on a stick in my head and cut half to fuck.”
“Tou-fuckin’-che.”
He grins at her like a lunatic. She finds herself grinning back. Crap, she genuinely likes the fuck-up. When will she learn? Protecting her own back is a full-time job in itself; she needs to stop collecting other backs to protect. Mind you, stupid and reckless he might be, but the boy has heart, same as her Hornets, and she’d rather have friends like this than friends like Twist. Twist, and people like him, have done nothing but blight her life. Survival is not worth that shit.
Drones gathering, Shock says into her IM, out of nowhere.
“What?” She looks over at him. He’s slumped, head back, eyes closed. Not out yet, but no juice left for vox.
Puss says there’re loads of them headed for Sakkura. The back end. Aren’t your friends there?
Amiga rises a little, wary of Yang’s remaining soldier, and looks out.
Can’t see anything.
They’re almost there, he replies softly.
Her immediate thought pattern bypasses any notion of Queenly interference and strikes a jackpot on the drone they stole, her fears about the collective tracing it to the Hornets. No other thoughts manage to enter her mind after that, they’d have to wade through a rising sea of blind panic and the dead certainty that she’s right and they’ve been busted at the worst possible time. Sod and his law, how very helpful.
Deuce! Get out of there now!
On it, Amiga. We clocked ’em.
Is it the drone we stole?
Goddamn it, Amiga, as if. This is Queens trying for collateral. We need somewhere safe to go, and fast. Somewhere the Haunt will be safe. That block I put on him is all but done. Any ideas?
Helplessness rises, drowning her from inside out. Shit. Where do they go? The only people she can honestly say she trusts at this moment are about to suffer extreme close-up from sec-drone fire. She needs to get everyone to safety. But where’s safe? Then it occurs to her she’s only recently been somewhere so secret maybe only she and two others know about it.
Mollie’s.
More precisely, the server beneath. Shin’s an hour and a half away by the shortest route. Can they get there, get safe, before they’re caught? They have to try.
Shin District, the B-Movies. There’s a square near the BatCave. Fountain. Has a new place called Mollie’s. Go there. Find Maggie Joust, tell her Amiga sent you. Take EVaC, likely he will get you in more than my name.
EVaC’s already benefitted from Maggie’s help—some drug that though it isn’t curing him is making him one hell of a lot more comfortable—and he’s about to again. Amiga hopes to fuck Maggie doesn’t mind.
Done. Just make sure you’re…
He’s gone. Cut off.
Deuce!
For a moment, nothing.
Then he snaps back. They’re firing. We’re outta here. You deal with you, don’t worry about us.
And he’s gone again before she can reply.
Trying not to think about what’s happening at Jong-Phu, she turns her attention to Shock. He’s frighteningly pale and quiet. If she gives him a bump now it won’t hold him to the limo, no matter how close it is. Best wait. Deal with the situation as it stands. That last soldier of Yang’s for instance.
The first of their two stops is approaching. If Amiga were Yang’s man, she’d use what’ll be a mass passenger exodus to attack. Well fuck that, how about she attacks now and saves him the trouble? If he’s dead their chances of making it to the limo increase by a factor of no fucking bullets. Besides, she needs to kill something. Every nerve is screaming.
Slipping out along the seats, ignoring the protest of her damaged thigh, she flips down Deuce’s goggles to check for heat signatures. The guy’s still hunkered down near the door of the other carriage. If she had any darts left, she could take him out no sweat. But no point dwelling on the impossible, she’s going to have to provoke a hand to hand, or a shoot out. Fun. Amiga swiftly checks her leg, just to be sure. Still bleeding. Best not get hit again then. Easy. What she wouldn’t give for a bullet-retardant body suit right now.
“Halle-fucking-luyah,” she mutters, edging closer to the door, one row of seats at a time.
Her advantage here is that Yang’s soldier’s got no goggles, no mods, and Deuce has her blocked more thoroughly than Shock. T
hat covers her until she reaches the doors and they slide open, giving away her position. Yang’s soldier starts firing immediately, over the top of the seats. Throwing herself forward and down, Amiga rolls in, comes up firing herself.
There’s no clean shot, he’s got his head tucked down, his torso protected by the seats. So she takes off his hand, two ugly but serviceable shots to the wrist. Limping down the remaining corridor to his hiding place she ignores his screams for mercy. Puts him out of his misery with a single shot. Swift. Cold. Slick. Her job description in words of one syllable.
At the platform, the mono empties out a stream of silent passengers. No one else boards. They all know better. None of Yang’s troops are waiting either, but Amiga allows no relief. They could be at the next platform, waiting to ambush them. She checks all remaining guns, taking any with more than one bullet and stashing them in her pack, and fetches Shock, supporting him to the doors.
Their stop is deserted, a fact that does zip all for her confidence. At street level she presses another bump into Shock’s neck, praying it won’t kill him. As it hits, blowing his pupils wide, Deuce’s block wears off and Shock’s effed up signal rolls back into her awareness, silent but deadly. She grits her teeth hard against the urge to scream.
“Limo. Now.”
Shock inclines his head to the left, throwing a small schematic into her head with the exact spot. Blanking the pain and growing weakness in her thigh, she takes his weight and they set off at a pace more dangerously slow than she’s comfortable with, considering he’s a beacon for trouble and trouble is not far away.
The limo’s parked in a side road, just beyond the border. Damn near faint with relief, or blood loss, Amiga opens the door and heaves Shock inside, wincing as his battered body falls across the seats, spattering blood on the upholstery, the dash and into the footwell. One and a half hours to Shin. There’s no way he’s surviving that long.
Climbing in carefully after him, she flinches backward as Shark’s nose batters the dividing window in her direction, its vast mouth a golden cavern filled with rows of teeth. There are gobbets of flesh stuck between them, the meat-red outrageous against the purity of Shark’s gold. How the fuck is it trapped in there? It’s a hologram. She should be meaty human goodness right now, considering this hologram can apparently chow down. Thank fuck she’s not. But she cannot, will not, deal with that thrashing all the way to Shin District.
