by R S Penney
Bending his knees, Jack leaped. He landed on the crate, drawing the pistol from his belt. He dashed across the metal surface, then dropped to the floor on the other side. Now he was in another aisle, this one blessedly free of enemies.
A man in a hoodie came around the corner.
Jack turned to his left, raising the pistol in both hands. He fired by sheer instinct. An electrically-charged round sped down the aisle and struck the hooded man square in the chest, causing him to flail about.
He fell forward, landing face-down on the concrete floor. Stun rounds only hit hard enough to leave a nasty bruise, but the charge they carried was as bad as the jolt from any taser. Even with clothes for insulation.
Jack stepped around a crate.
Pressing his back to its surface, he let his head hang. Sweat washed over his face, matting dark hair to his brow. “Stay in the game, Hunter,” he said, shaking his head. “Do not lose your focus.”
He spun around the corner.
The man with the assault rifle was down on one knee, turned so that Jack saw him in profile and firing up at the catwalk. Apparently the guy had figured out that Ben was the true threat here.
Jack fired, releasing a bullet that sped down the aisle and hit Mr. Kalashnikov in the side of the head. Current surged through his body, and he spasmed, dropping the rifle and falling to the floor.
“Over there!” someone shouted.
A large man in a Nirvana t-shirt with a beard that fell to his chest came around the corner and froze when he saw Jack. He raised a pistol in both hands.
A bullet took him square in the forehead, bouncing off and leaving a nice red spot on his skin. Nirvana-guy threw his head back, then tumbled backward to land hard on his fallen comrade.
More guys appeared at the end of the aisle.
Jack ducked behind the crate, pressing his back to the metal. In that moment, he was very much aware of the pounding of his heart. No matter how many times you faced death, it never got any easier.
Gunfire rushed past him, bullets speeding through the space where he had just been standing. Many of them hit the concrete wall at the end of the aisle with sharp little pings.
Baring his teeth, Jack closed his eyes. He tilted his head back with a hiss that sent saliva flying. “We're still in the game, Summer,” he whispered. “Three mooks down, and we haven't even broken out the fancy stuff.”
In the corner of his eye, he noticed something. A screen of white static flickering up on the catwalk. Ben had put up a force-field to deflect the gunfire. So, of course, several of the goons kept shooting at it.
In the three years since the Leyrian arrival, Earth's criminal element had learned a thing or two about the new alien technology. Force-fields lasted for only half a minute at best. They were hoping to catch Ben when his protection failed.
The force-field winked out.
Bullets hit the wall.
Ben popped up on the exact opposite side of the catwalk, pointing a small rifle over the railing. A look of concentration passed over his face as he fired down at the gangsters. The force-field had been a distraction.
Jack grinned.
He moved around the side of the crate, into the aisle where the man in the hoodie was passed out on the floor. If he was still down, it was a good sign. You never knew just how long the effects of a stun round would last. Half an hour was common, but there had been cases of people getting back on their feet in less than a minute.
Jack moved forward with the pistol held in both hands, pressing his shoulder up against the side of the crate. He looked around for adversaries.
One popped out from behind a crate.
A tall man in a leather jacket with greasy black hair stepped out so that Jack saw him in profile. He noticed his predicament, turned on his heel and thrust a hand out to aim a small pistol.
Jack reached up and seized the barrel in his gloved fist, pushing it aside before the gun went off with a CRACK! He ripped the weapon from the other man's hand, the metal hot against his skin.
Lifting the pistol by its barrel, Jack brought the grip down on the other man's skull. The sharp blow to the head left his opponent dazed. Moments later, yet another body was lying on the ground.
Jack slipped the other man's pistol into his belt holster, keeping his own weapon in hand. Unfortunately, it was impossible to enlist Summer's aid in finding the stragglers – there were too many crates in the way – but he could use his ears.
Not a peep echoed through the entire warehouse, not one scuff of shoes on concrete or one sharp intake of breath. If Ben had done his job, the last of the Petrov's muscle might well be down for the count.
Jack frowned, turning his head to stare up at the catwalk. “Do you think that's all of them?” he asked, creases forming in his brow. “Because, you know, if anyone else wants to come out and play…”
Ben's head popped up over the railing, a big smile on his face. He nodded once in confirmation. “I think that's all of them,” he said. “I took down four from up here while you were doing your thing.”
Grinning down at the floor, Jack squeezed his eyes shut. He reached up to run his fingers through sweat-slick hair. “Well, you know, if you want to be all coy about it,” he teased. “I prefer to get up-close and personal.”
“Justice Keepers,” Ben muttered.
“Damn straight.”
Now all they had to do was inspect the contents of the crates, no small task given their size. Each one was large enough to merit the use of a forklift. If his suspicions were correct and these bastards had weapons, then they sure had a lot of them. And those stun rounds would wear off.
Jack paced down the aisle.
Crossing his arms, he shuffled through the narrow space with his head down. “So, how should we begin?” he asked with a shrug. “Count up the boxes and then decide who takes the odds and-”
The sound of a door opening gave him pause, and he stretched. Nassai could detect solid objects in all directions, but they could not see through solid objects. Whoever had come in had done so several aisles away.
He heard footsteps and readied his pistol. “Okay, let's stop and assess the situation,” he called out to the newcomer. “All of your buddies are down, and you're coming at us alone. You might want to reconsider.”
Several paces down the aisle, a man stepped out from between two crates. This one was dressed in some kind of glossy green jumpsuit that reflected the light, his black hair slicked back.
Jack fired.
Stun rounds bounced off the fabric of his jumpsuit, blue sparks spreading out in ripples over the glossy material. They seemed to have no effect on him. Dismay left a sick sensation in Jack's chest. For every weapon, there was a defense.
The man turned and snarled at Jack, a scar stretching across his fair-skinned face from brow to cheek. “Perhaps not,” he said in a thick Russian accent. “Perhaps I just kill you where you stand.”
He thrust a hand out.
A screen of white static flashed into existence in front of the guy, crackling with deadly energy. At his gesture, it sped down the aisle with all the momentum of a freight train.
Jack leaped.
He back-flipped through the air, allowing the screen to rush past beneath him, then turned upright to land on his feet. He brought the pistol up in both hands, ordering it to switch to standard ammunition.
A few squeezes of the trigger sent bullets into the other man's chest at full force. They made him stagger, stumbling backward, but not a single one managed to pierce the fabric of that jumpsuit.
The man pulled something from his pocket – a small steel ball – and lobbed it down the aisle. Panic welled up in Jack's belly as he watched it bounce along the concrete floor. He began a Bending.
The ball let out a pulse of energy.
It was a shock to realize that he was unharmed, and another to realize that his gun was now uncharacteristically warm. He lifted it and tried to fire.
Nothing happened.
The o
ther man stood in the middle of the aisle, tilting his head with a lopsided grin. “You dislike EMP tech?” he said, eyebrows rising. “Ironic given that it was developed by your people.”
He raised a hand.
Jack spun around, placing his back to the side of a crate before another force-field could barrel down the aisle. So the guy had Leyrian tech. That meant his suspicions were indeed correct. These people were dealing in alien weapons. Depending on the intensity, an EMP flash like that might have taken out Ben's weapons as well.
The Russian accent put a name to the newcomer's face. Based on the reports that Jack had read, that man could only be Nicolae Petrov, the leader of this syndicate. He now had twice as much urge to bring him down.
Abandoning his weapon, Jack drew the gun that he had stolen from Mr. Greasy Hair. Electromagnetic pulses had no effect on chemically-propelled weapons. Say what you will about primitive Earth tech, there were times when it had its advantages.
He crept around the other side of the crate.
Now in the aisle with Mr. Nirvana T-shirt, Jack ran through the narrow space and jumped over the pair of bodies. He leaped and used Bent Gravity to propel himself onto one of the crates.
This allowed him to drop back into the aisle he had come from.
Spinning around, he found Petrov standing with his back turned, scanning the room for any sign of him. The other man twisted around and raised a gloved hand with a throaty growl.
Jack fired.
Another force-field flashed into existence, deflecting the slug before it could make contact. Through the curtain of flickering sparks, Jack saw his opponent duck behind one of the crates.
“This just keeps getting worse,” Jack said, starting forward. “Anyone care to remind me why I signed up for this.”
He approached the other man's last position.
As he moved to glance around the corner, Jack heard the soft buzzing sound of yet another force-field. Only then did he realize that Petrov had taken refuge behind a stack of crates that stood a good fifteen feet high.
The highest crate toppled over, propelled by the impact of a force-field on the other side. It fell toward Jack, threatening to flatten him.
By instinct, he called on Summer's aid. Bending his knees, Jack raised both hands to intercept the crate with his palms. Energy flowed through him, setting every nerve on fire while he crafted a Bending that reversed gravity's pull and multiplied its power.
He gave a shove.
The crate went flying up to the ceiling as if someone had set off a rocket under its bottom side. It collided with the roof of the warehouse, then dropped back to the floor – Bendings lasted only a few seconds – to land in the aisle behind him with a sound that made him think of rhinos stampeding.
His vision fuzzed, and thousands of little pinpricks left a fiery sting in his skin. A Bending like that could leave a Keeper passed out on the ground. He had to fight to hold onto consciousness.
Petrov stepped into the aisle in front of him with a pistol in hand. Giggling with delight, the mob boss lifted his gun. No! No!
Jack brought a hand up to strike the man's wrist and knock the weapon aside. He punched Petrov square in the nose. That left the bastard stumbling and flailing about in confusion.
Jack spun, driving his elbow into the other man's chest. Driven backward by the hit, Petrov staggered all the way to the concrete wall at the end of the aisle. He wheezed and tried to raise his weapon again.
One more time, Summer.
With the aid of his symbiont, Jack crafted a bending that made light refract, images blurred into streaks of colour until it seemed as though they had bent back on themselves. A deafening CRACK filled the air.
He saw a bullet appear in front of him, watched it curve off to the right, then bend back in the direction it had come from. He watched the bullet zip away only to lose track of it mere fractions of a second later.
The Bending vanished.
Petrov doubled over, huffing and puffing. The suit would have protected him from gunfire as well as any Kevlar vest, but a shot to the stomach was enough to leave most people on their knees, and he had taken several already.
That last Bending might not have been such a good idea. Everything went hazy, and Jack was barely aware of the sensation of falling to his knees. His skin was aflame, his head ringing like a struck gong.
Overtaxing your symbiont could be fatal, and not just because it put too much strain on your body. With a great deal of concentration, he was able to pierce the mental fog and watch Petrov stand. The man lifted a gun in a shaky hand.
Jack could watch, but he couldn't react. His limbs were so heavy that even thinking about motion made him want to sick up. For all intents and purposes, he was helpless.
“Drop it!” Ben's voice shouted.
The man stepped around the corner with a gun held in both hands, eyes narrowed as he stared down Petrov. “You're gonna want to put that down now,” he said, nodding once. “I'm quite comfortable ending your miserable existence.”
By some miracle, Petrov relented.
Fluorescent lights cast a harsh glare down upon gray metal lockers with chips and scratches in their doors. They lined all four walls, and wooden benches were set in front of each set.
Jack stood alone in the locker room, still dressed in black clothing. Every muscle in his body ached, and he still felt a tingle from the strain he had put on Summer. Sadly, his night was only just beginning.
Closing his eyes, Jack scrubbed a hand across his forehead. “What do you think, Summer?” he muttered. “Any chance we can just sneak out of here before all hell breaks loose?”
The door flew open.
A man in black pants and matching shirt under a gray jacket came striding into the room. Tall and well-muscled, he had a handsome face and thick blonde hair. “You went after Petrov!”
“Guess that's a no,” Jack muttered.
Director Cal Breslan stood before him with arms folded, wearing a scowl that could melt concrete. “You went after Petrov!” he repeated. “After I specifically told you to wait for further instruction.”
Lifting his chin, Jack squinted at the man. “Yes, Sir, I did,” he said, nodding. “I had a warrant to search his warehouse. You were stalling and stonewalling me every time we met; so I took matters into my own hands.”
Breslan went red, then lowered his eyes to the floor. He drew in a sharp, hissing breath. “Did it occur to you that I might have wanted to leave Petrov in play?” he asked. “That I was hoping to use him to trace his suppliers?”
“No, Sir, it didn't.”
“And this reckless insubordination-”
Jack stepped up to the man.
Maintaining his composure was difficult in light of the anxiety that had wormed its way into his belly – defying the orders of a senior officer was questionable at best – but he managed to keep his voice even. “It never occurred to me,” Jack began, “because you refused to tell me what you were thinking. We've had several murders in the last month, Director, all committed with Leyrian weapons.
“Now, we have a lead on who might be supplying those weapons, and you choose to stall for two weeks? Petrov could have gone to ground and then we'd never have found him. The proliferation of weapons would have continued.”
Pale as a ghost, Breslan studied him with pursed lips. “I am not required to explain myself to you,” he said, blinking. “The chain of command exists for a reason; you have proven that you cannot respect it.”
“Justice Keepers are supposed to think for-”
“And since you cannot respect it, Agent Hunter, you are no longer a member of my division.” Those words seemed to hang in the air for several seconds. “Report to Director Slade for debriefing, and then get your Bleakness-kissed ass off this space station.”
Jack left without another word.
After the altercation with Breslan, the last thing Jack wanted to do was argue with yet another superior officer. Nevertheless, he found himself on th
e way to an office on the far side of Station One, and this time, his stomach was roiling. Breslan was something of a pompous man full of bluster, but the man who stood one wrung above him…
Grecken Slade's office was big enough to host a cocktail party, complete with black tiled floors that ran all the way to rectangular windows where stars twinkled faintly in the distance. A desk of polished glass sat atop a dais with a leather chair tucked underneath.
Slade stood at the window.
The man wore fine black pants and a blue silk coat, his long dark hair falling over his shoulders almost to the small of his back. If he noticed the presence of another human being, he gave no sign of it.
Jack shook his head in disgust. “All right, let's get this over with,” he said, striding into the office. “Write all my failings on a sheet of eight-and-a-half by eleven; I'll sign it, and we can be on our way.”
Slade turned.
The guy's face belonged on a department store mannequin, complete with smooth skin and tilted eyes that seemed to catch the light. “I see you're planning to add 'conduct unbecoming' to 'insubordination'.”
Clamping his mouth shut, Jack turned his face away from the man. “I don't mean to pick a fight,” he began. “But you and I both know that you aren't going to convince me I was wrong to go after Petrov.”
“I see.”
With hands clasped behind himself, Slade puffed up his chest and studied Jack like a stern father sizing up his errant child. The intensity of his scrutiny sent a powerful wave of nausea through Jack. “If that is your attitude then.” Simple words delivered without a spec of anger. No passion of any kind. Men who chose to keep such a tight rein on their emotions always felt unreal to Jack. “A formal reprimand will be added to your Record of Service, and you are no longer on active duty.”
Slade took a step forward to stand just behind the desk, his posture stiff enough for a marble statue. Did the guy really need a dais on top of everything else? “We need every Keeper we can get,” he went on. “If you can find a Director willing to take you on, you may return to active duty, but I will not force one of my people to accept an insubordinate officer. You will, of course, retain your… monthly stipend. We are not monsters.”
