by James Wake
“Wow, you’ve really effectively trapped yourself,” Tess said.
Nadia didn’t bite back, blindly following the instinct to run, make space, buy time. This office was bigger than the others, framed on two walls by sheer glass.
“There were no other exits, as far as I could see,” Nadia said. “Surely a fire code violation.”
“Cover!” Someone yelled from outside. “Clear!”
The thud of boots.
“Uh…” Tess’s breathing was heavy as she muttered under her breath. “Uhhhhh?”
“Clear!”
Growing closer.
The glass walls called to Nadia; there was nowhere else to go. She saw one of the extra power cables she and Tess had noticed from outside; it stretched from above the wall down to a shorter building across the chasm of the street.
She pulled out her glass cutter. Scraping the tool against the wall left a pathetic mark, barely biting into it.
“That glass is too thick,” Tess said. “Hang on. I’m prepping the jammer.”
“What do you mean, ‘prepping’?” Nadia held the cutter like a pick and stabbed at the wall a few times. Still barely a mark. “Why wasn’t it already prepped?”
There had to be something in this office, something heavy. She ripped a computer monitor off the desk and slammed one of its sharp corners into the glass.
Still nothing. The screen shattered, the corner of the monitor buckling before breaking into pieces.
“Why are you even trying to break the glass?” Tess huffed. “There’s nowhere to go out there.”
“Cover!” someone yelled outside the door.
Her shoulders sank. Tess was right. A heavy thud came from the other side of the door, making her flinch—the sound of a boot slamming above the handle.
“Jammer’s ready,” Tess said.
Nadia’s body tensed, coiled up to run. “How long can it keep them down for?”
“A few seconds maybe.”
It was better than nothing. She crouched behind the desk, trying to steel herself, trying to be something like ready.
“Try to wait until the last second before—” Nadia started to say.
Sharp cracks blasted into the room, sending splinters of the door flying. The wall snapped and shook, the safety glass cracking into an endless web of small chunks that still stood firmly in place.
Nadia ducked at the gunshots, trying to shield her face with her arms. She couldn’t believe it—indignation cut through the flinch of panic. She’d never been shot at before. The nerve.
When she looked up, the world was a very different place.
“Ha! Thank you, Officers!”
“Were those gunshots? Are you okay?” Tess said.
“Never…” Nadia said, picking up the office chair and lifting it over her head. “…better!”
She sent it crashing through the weakened glass, knocking out more than enough of a hole for her to fit through. Chips of glass sparkled in the flickering light, the wind slamming into her ears, police sirens drifting up at her from the street.
The door was still being pushed open, dragging against the display case. Nadia stepped up to the edge, unslung her empty bag from her back, and hefted it in her hands.
She heard Tess describing the bag as clearly as if it had just happened. So excited about it—ballistic weave, fireproof, its tensile strength rated for hundreds of pounds.
“Holy shit. No way,” Tess said.
“Do you have a better idea?” Nadia said, looking up and looping the straps of her bag around the thick cable that stretched down from the side of the building.
“Yes!” Tess said. “The jammer? Remember?”
“Save it. I might need it later”
Deep breath. Not a single look down. More yelling behind her, splintering wood, a door crashing to pieces. Nadia pushed herself off the open ledge and slid down into the wind outside.
* * *
Officer Jackson loved these calls.
Her lights were on, siren blaring. She gunned the engine, weaving between—and then above—slow-moving cars. That tight lightness in her gut, that little leap of joy when she lifted the handlebars and gained altitude at high speed, like lifting off in a chopper. It made her smile.
“Right behind.” Ortega’s voice in her ears. Her HUD showed him only a few dozen feet back.
“Jackson to base. Responding to reported possible B and E. On scene presently,” she said, watching her position ping in.
“Base, do we have a suspect description?” Ortega said.
Nothing right away. One more corner. Jackson slid into it, counter-steering and hanging her weight off one side, drifting through the turn and letting the motor roar again.
“Suspect is female, approximately five feet tall, wearing black mask, black…clothing?” The dispatcher trailed off; it sounded like he was yelling at someone in the background.
“Ha, good work, Auktoris boys,” Ortega said. “No images?”
“Not yet,” dispatch said back.
Their bikes screamed through the air. Something was in the middle of the empty street below them: an office chair smashed to pieces and surrounded by chunks of glass. Jackson slammed on the brakes, lifting the nose of her bike to a sharp stop.
“What is that?” Ortega said.
Movement above them. A young woman, ziplining down a cable at breakneck speed. Jackson hovered in place, openly staring—it was her, the woman from the jewelry store. Even at this distance, she was certain. Same mask, same turtleneck, same waifish, dainty frame.
“She’s not gonna make it,” Ortega said.
The petite figure didn’t look stable, her legs flailing the entire way down. The suspect picked up speed, smoke trailing from whatever she was hanging off the cable on.
“Yeah, she’s gonna fall,” Jackson said, turning the throttle and leaning over. “Jackson to base. We need medical at the scene right now.”
The suspect didn’t fall. She didn’t stick a great landing either, trying to hold her feet out to land but bouncing off the wall at the end of the cable and scrambling around, panic obvious in her motions. Even through that, she didn’t fall. Instead she did a shaky pull-up onto the roof and disappeared over the edge.
“Visual on suspect,” Jackson said, feeling immeasurable relief. Better an arrest than a messy cleanup. “Female moving on the roof of 511 Pullman. In pursuit.”
By the time she and Ortega crested the top of the building, the suspect was nowhere to be seen—nothing but a flat rooftop with arrays of solar panels on slanting stilts. Jackson clicked her spotlight on; she drifted it over the panels and swept with her eyes, then pointed to her right for Ortega.
He split off, clicking his own light on and sweeping forward at her side.
“Come on. Come on out,” Jackson said, more to herself than anything. She pushed a pedal with her heel, descending to get a look under the panels.
“Visual!” Ortega called out.
Flushed her right out. The woman was fleeing for the opposite edge of the building, the red and blue of Jackson’s lights painting her black clothes. She would make it, but there were no cables to zipline down this time.
Jackson sped toward her, meaning to swoop around and corral her back from open air. The suspect made it to the edge, faltered, glanced back in eyeless panic, then did something that made Jackson gasp.
She jumped.
“Damn it all. I swear if you’re dead…” Jackson gunned her engine to the edge of the building. Thankfully, there was a fire escape down the side, which the suspect was busy fleeing and tripping down in what looked to be a very painful fashion.
“Hey!” Jackson said through her loudspeaker, hovering and descending alongside the woman. “Stop trying to kill yourself, idiot.”
The woman paused and turned at her. Even though her eyes weren’t visible, Jackson could swear she was o
ffended. Indignant even.
“Give it up, we’ve got you… Oh, fer Chrissake!” Jackson said. She banked in close, just missing the girl as she shouldered a window open and scrambled through.
“Second B and E,” Jackson said, launching herself off the bike and leaving it to hover in place as she landed on the fire escape. It was a jump she wouldn’t have thought possible years ago. The synthetic fibers buried in her muscles felt alive, thrumming with strength. “Pursuing on foot.”
She rolled through the open window and landed in a crouch, gun drawn. The room was a dim open floor, with rows of hydroponic crops under low purple light boxes stretching out in every direction.
“Jackson?” It was Ortega on the radio.
“Inside.”
“Base, ETA on air unit?”
“Inbound, one minute.” A different voice in her ears, barely heard. There. Movement through the rows of plants, highlighted by her HUD. Jackson followed, gun low but ready.
“I’m coming in,” Ortega said.
“Negative. Watch the outside.” Curtained dividers split the crop room into sections. Her quarry scrambled behind one. Jackson took the corner wide, ready for something to be hurled at her.
Nothing. She slid down the main row of this section, checking each aisle. Carrots, miniature pumpkins, clumps of soybeans crowded in floating troughs. It was all wrong, a mockery. She knew what a farm was supposed to smell like: that lovely scent of rich, moist earth.
No suspect. The girl was smart enough to stay low and not move.
Only a matter of time. Jackson continued sweeping through, ears pricked but catching only the sirens from outside and the low whirring of water filters all around her.
Something moved at the end of an aisle. Jackson turned toward a source of bright light, a display screen lit up with shifting gradients of neon colors. That stupid cartoon cat face was winking at her again. Growling, she turned around, just in time to see the suspect make a break for it, already crouched on the sill of another open window.
The suspect turned, and their eyes met—would have met anyway. The young woman had no eyes, only flat goggles like the black-ops boys used to wear. There was a look to her, though. Jackson could swear she was winking, just by the cock of her head. The woman gave a dramatic little wave goodbye and jumped.
Jackson made it to the window to see a narrow alleyway and the suspect landing hard on a lower rooftop, a pained oof echoing up into the night air.
“What did I say about killing yourself?” Jackson yelled. She holstered her gun and perched on the windowsill, then effortlessly made the same jump and landed into a roll. Pain stung in her knees in a way that was deeply satisfying. Barely breaking a sweat yet.
The suspect wasn’t quite as frail as she’d guessed—up and running already. Hobbling, really, limping and holding her side. Jackson had chased many people like this, scrappy and desperate; what they lacked in physical strength was made up for by sheer will.
Jackson pursued, boots slapping loud notes on the roof’s concrete. She quickly closed the gap, drawing her gun and snapping the heavy revolver on target with long-honed instinct.
“Police!” she called out. “Stop or I’ll shoot!”
The suspect stopped and turned around, raising her empty hands. Jackson fought her breath to a standstill, willed her hands steady.
“I thought you said I was clear!” the suspect said.
“What?” Jackson said. “On your knees! Keep your hands up!”
“Now! Do it now!”
A screeching, splitting pain tore through Jackson’s head, vibrating out through her ears. Her arms and legs went limp. The rooftop flew up to meet her, grabbing her gun and sending it skittering off on its own.
Jackson had known pain, many kinds. This was akin to a full jolt from a Taser, not just pain but incapacitation, absence of all control. Her limbs twitched, and her teeth ground as a low, growling whine escaped her throat.
As suddenly as it began, it stopped. Jackson peeled her jaw open, her teeth like magnets. A stabbing pain shot through her ears, tearing spikes in her brain.
Her limbs wouldn’t work—not well anyway—making her shuffle up to her knees, slow and numb.
“Jackson?” Ortega’s voice, tinny and distorted, came into her ears. “Jackson, come in.”
She blinked as bright light flooded around her, the whine of jet-driven rotors kicking up a violent draft on the roof. Their requested air unit, finally on the scene.
The suspect was gone. Jackson took a deep breath, feeling it pinch in her arms. “I’m fine,” she said, clearing her throat. “Visual lost.”
Chapter Nine: Date Night
It was dark in Nadia’s apartment, all the lights off save for a small work lamp that cast a harsh circle of light on the table in front of her.
She had wanted to go somewhere else for this. Anywhere else. But it wouldn’t matter where she went—no matter how far, no matter how well hidden—as long as this damn thing was still in her. Inside her, under her skin, always there to remind her who and what she was, whom she belonged to.
Deep breath. She daintily lifted a shot of vodka and smoothly threw it back.
A scalpel lay next to her, the blade resting in a shallow dish of disinfectant. She tapped it dry, then placed it gently against the side of her right wrist.
There. She didn’t have to check again, just feel for the lump. She swore she always felt it in there, no matter what her mother said.
It didn’t hurt. On the contrary, it felt pleasant when she drew the blade down and across, a clean cut oozing red on the smooth pale perfection of her flesh.
A tiny pair of needle nose pliers came next. She inserted the tips into the cut, digging around for only a moment before she found it.
Hardly bigger than a grain of rice.
When she pulled, she did so very slowly and very, very carefully. It didn’t help. The wires attached to the chip pulled with it, tugging, sliding inside the lengths of her fingers.
That hurt. She gritted her teeth as clammy sweat broke out on her face. No turning back.
Last of all, wire cutters. The chip was exposed now, sticking out of the cut on her wrist, a small nub of silicon wrapped in a capsule. Belatedly she realized she couldn’t pull it and cut it at the same time with just one hand.
No matter. She raised her wrist to her mouth, bit down on the capsule, and pulled. She felt that same pull in her fingers, that horrible sharp yanking pain—worse as her hand tensed in reaction. Tears squeezed out of her tightly shut eyes.
She snuck the wire cutters into the small space between her teeth and her wrist, then lined them up against the tiny bundle of exposed bloody wires.
Almost done.
She smiled, blood on her teeth. Dark and vindictive and triumphant.
Almost free.
Snip.
Nadia woke up.
She started to sit up, but that proved a very bad idea. A strangled moan fought its way out of her throat as she slumped back down on the futon.
Her eyes fell shut. Tess’s voice drifted to her from nearby.
“‘Use the jammer,’ I said. ‘Don’t jump out the window,’ I said.” Nadia could tell she was rolling her eyes. “And you’re all like, ‘Dear, that simply just won’t do. I shall have to make my escape all dramatic-like.’”
A tired smile snuck out. “Thank you. Again.”
“Let’s not make a habit of me having to talk your injured ass back here, mm-kay?”
“I shall endeavor to do my best.”
“That’s the spirit.”
A light blanket had been tucked snugly over her. Nadia tossed it off and looked down at her scantily clad body; she wore nothing but last night’s completely unflattering athletic underwear. A very interesting array of bruises decorated her chest and legs, and a thin foam brace had been wrapped around her left ankle.
She forced
herself up, creaky and wincing. A pile of clothes was waiting for her on the floor, what she called her “I’m sick. Don’t look at me” outfit: baggy sweatpants and an even baggier sweater. It took her a few tries to bend over and grab them. It took her a few tries to stand up too.
Tess appeared at her side, wrapping her prosthetic arm around Nadia’s shoulders and holding her hand steady. Nadia managed to get dressed and hobble over to a chair. A bench waited with two pills and a cup of water.
“Two more in four hours,” Tess said, pointing.
Nadia swallowed them. “Coffee?”
“Bad idea.” She sat down next to Nadia, her eyes glazing over with light as she reclined. “I want to see you get a few more hours of sleep, at least.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Nadia said. “May I have something stronger than these pills then? Perhaps some of your private reserve?”
Tess snorted. “You can’t handle my stuff. And relax, you didn’t even break anything.”
“Hmph.” She watched Tess, who was absorbed in whatever was scrolling through her retinas, brow pinched and nose scrunched in concentration. Her right hand flicked to and fro, navigating…something.
“How much did you get?” Nadia said.
“Not much.” Tess frowned. “Because somebody got grabby and set off the alarm system.”
“I thought the whole point of breaking in was to steal things?”
This time she was able to witness the eye roll.
“Sorry,” Nadia said.
“What was that?” Tess grinned. “I didn’t hear you.”
“I acted foolishly and in a rather rash fashion. I apologize.”
“And?”
Nadia blinked. “I believe I’ve already thanked you for helping me escape.”
“You did, but it isn’t getting old.”
“Well, let’s not take all the credit,” Nadia said, crossing her arms and wincing at the motion. “I believe Mr. Cheshire’s contribution was quite important.”
“Nope, that does not count,” Tess said, still scrolling through whatever she was reading.
“Oh, please. He—she, it—purposefully distracted that policewoman.”
