SWITCHBLADE (Choi Ziyi Book 1)

by Mike Morris

  Jim pulled her back down. "It does now, love. You picked the wrong man to go on a date with."

  Wing held up both hands in surrender. "Look, go easy on her. As she said, it's got nothing to do with her."

  "Never took you for the gallant type. Bit late now to find some morals." Jim sniffed and chewed on his mouth. "Now, we're going to sit here nice and friendly-like while I make a call to some people who want to see you very badly."

  "You don't have to do this," pleaded Wing.

  Jim took his arm off Song and reached into his pocket. He laughed. "I think I do. You're my bloody retirement plan."

  "You turn us in, they'll kill us." Wing watched him pull out a mobile, another piece of low-tech crap like his own, unregistered and untraceable. He searched the club hoping to find a hero among the drunks to come to their aid, but the rest of the clientele were wrapped up in their quests to get laid or get blitzed.

  "Not my problem, son." Jim took his eyes off Wing and started to type into his phone. "In life, there're winners and there're losers, and unfortunately, you're one of the losers." He looked up and gave Wing that smug smile of his.

  Wing clenched his fist. "You fucking piece of..."

  "Now, now. There's no need for language like that," said Jim, wagging his finger.

  "You're the only loser here," said Song. Her hand moved up in one fluid motion, gripping her glass. She smashed it against the table edge as she brought it up, and buried the jagged ends into Jim's throat.

  He was dead before Wing realised what had happened. Jim gagged as blood gurgled from his mouth. He made a futile attempt to pull the glass free but already his arms had lost all coordination. Surprise flickered across the gweilo's eyes before the light faded from them. Jim's head smashed against the already red stained table. Blood ran everywhere, dripping to the floor. The gun followed.

  Wing's mouth hung open. He started to rise from his seat when Song grabbed his hand. "Come on," she said. "We need to get out of here."

  "You k... k... killed him." Wing couldn't take his eyes off Jim, sprawled across the table. He was fucking dead.

  "Better him than us," replied Song. "Grab the gun and his mobile. Maybe we can see whom he was going to call. Put some faces to all this."

  Wing did as he was told, too shocked to argue. The gun, wet and clammy, felt heavy for such a small thing. He slipped it into his waistband and covered it with his shirt. He could feel Jim's blood on his skin.

  "Check him. See if he's got anything useful," said Song.

  Wing forced himself to touch the man, dreading his death could be contagious. He moved Jim carefully, seeing nothing but blood everywhere. How could a body hold so much of it? He patted the gweilo's pockets and felt the familiar shape of a pack of smokes, couldn't help a smile despite everything as he found them. At least they'd help his nerves. They went in his pocket.

  "Come on," said Song, grabbing his hand and yanking him into motion. She pushed her way through the crowds to the exit, dragging Wing behind. "How'd he find us?" she asked over her shoulder.

  "I used to meet him here... I...I've known him years." Wing stumbled as he looked back at the dead gweilo. He could've been any fool who'd had too much to drink, passed out on the table if Wing hadn't known better. If he couldn't see the blood all over the floor. Fuck, Song had just killed Jim. It was all too much for Wing. He could feel the edges of his sanity threaten to crumble.

  "Don't stop," commanded Song with another twist on his arm. The pain snapped his mind back into place, and he jogged after her. Any meekness she'd had was long gone. She was tougher than him — that was for sure.

  She dragged him though the door into the street. The sudden burst of artificial light made him blink after the darkness of the Pig. The street was packed with people and cars but no one looked their way. Best of all, there weren't any cops in sight. Song kept them moving all the same. He didn't ask where they were going, more than happy to just follow her lead. Every decision he'd made so far that night had nearly got him killed. She’d done a far better job of keeping them alive.

  "We need to jack in somewhere safe, and work out what's going on," said Song as they crossed over to the next block.

  "But where?" replied Wing. "We can hardly get the equipment we need in any hardware store or a net cafe, and we're not waltzing into Control."

  "I've got one at my place."

  "Fuck all good that is. The police will have that stitched up tight."

  Song glanced at him, a mischievous glint in her eye. Wing wasn't sure he liked the look of it. "What?"

  "They're waiting for me there, not looking for you," she said. "They'd never expect you to turn up."

  Wing shook his head. "You can't be serious. I'd be nicked in a second. No way."

  Song laughed. "Got any better ideas?" She waved at a cab, not waiting for an answer.

  "Killing me is not a good idea," he moaned, but he still climbed into the taxi after her. "You know we can't pay by retina don't you?"

  She showed him a handful of yuan. "I'm not stupid. Now trust me."

  Again Wing wondered how he could have been so wrong about Song. He'd thought her a naive young girl. He just hoped she was right about her ability to keep him alive.

  Wing sank back into the battered seat, and gazed out at the sea of neon flashing past. Half of Hong Kong had been blown up in the morning, the police were ripping the lower levels apart and still the streets were packed with people acting as if they didn't have a care in the world, while his own life had been turned upside down. Fuck, more than that. He'd nearly died twice in the last few hours. Fucking died.

  The tremor started in his hand. It was no more than a twitch at first but then it crawled up his arm until it took hold of his entire body, shaking him. His muscles jumped with tiny spasms. He sucked in small gasps of air, desperately trying to fill his lungs, and failing. Despite the confines of the cab, a jolt of vertigo hit him, taking him back to the escalator, then pulling his mind over the edge and down into the void.

  "Wing!" He jerked around to see Song watching him, her eyes full of concern. She slipped her arm around him, pulling him in close, pressing her body against his to absorb the shakes. "It's okay," she whispered into his ear. "Everything's going to be okay."

  Wing tried to reply but talking felt too much like suffocating. His gasped for air, like a fish out of water. No sound came out, no air went in. His arms flapped, grasping nothing. He squeezed his throat to try and help some air inside.

  "Relax. Concentrate on taking slow, deep breaths." She tried to smother his convulsions. "Everything's going to be okay."

  "What's wrong with your friend?" shouted the driver through the plexi-glass. "He sick? Get the fuck out my cab if he's sick."

  "Just shut up and drive," snarled Song. The venom in her voice startled Wing, like a slap across the face, breaking the panic attack. Oxygen filled his lungs at last. His heart hammered away in his chest, but it no longer felt like it was going to rupture. He nearly wept in relief, and drew strength from the concern he saw in Song.

  "I'm okay. Sorry about that. I... I don't know what came over me," he croaked with a half-hearted smile.

  "Don't worry. We'll be fine. We've got each other." Song's voice was so calm, so reassuring. He almost believed her too.

  His hands shook as he opened the pack of cigarettes. He stuffed one in his mouth and fumbled for his lighter.

  "No smoking," snapped the driver. Wing glared at him but put the cigarette back. It jarred against something in the packet. He looked inside.

  A stash of slice. His mouth went dry. He closed the packet and slipped it back inside his pocket, trying not to think about what he now had in his possession. How much was there? More than enough. Too much. He took deep breaths. Excitement washed away the lingering fear. He rubbed his face, as if that would wipe the stupidity of his thoughts from his mind. It wasn't the time to take some slice but, for the life of him, he couldn't think of anything he'd rather do right then.

 
He could taste the hot smoke in the back of his mouth. The moment everything sorted itself out, he'd drop off the face of the earth. He'd deserve that at least. But, until then, he'd just keep it safe in his pocket.

  "When you get inside, my room's the first on the left."

  "What?" said Wing, dragging his mind back to Song. How long had she been talking? "Sorry. Still shaky."

  She smiled at him like he was five years old. "I said, my room is the first on the left once you're inside."

  "Sure. First left."

  "At the back of the wardrobe is a safe. Old-school combination lock."

  Wing nodded. "Wardrobe."

  She leaned in closer, her mouth almost touching his ear. "The code is 0104194073."

  "01 what?" He pulled away from her so he could see her face, uncomfortable in the intimacy.

  "0104194073."

  "0104194073. Right. Got it."

  "You'll remember it okay?"

  "I'm one of the most intelligent people on this planet," Wing reminded her. "I'll cope." Forgetting the code wasn't going to be a problem. Using it without getting nicked was another matter altogether. He stared at the back of the driver's head and muttered a curse. He needed that cigarette. He needed the slice.

  The cab turned into Fourth Street. "That's my building," said Song, pointing to a depressingly anonymous grey slab of concrete, probably built in the last century. The only good thing going for would've been the price. It screamed low rent. There wasn't any sign of police but there weren't that many people milling around either. Either the cops had been earlier and scared everyone off, or they were still there and were being given a wide berth by normal civilians.

  The cab passed a grey van parked on the other side of the street. It could easily belong to some poor norm who'd left it for the night or be home to a surveillance crew waiting for two stupid operators to turn up. Wing didn't know if he was being paranoid or just careful, but he wanted to throw his guts up all the same.

  Song rapped on the plexi-glass. "Stop here." She thrust some crumpled notes through to the driver before pushing Wing on the shoulder, indicating to get his arse out of the cab.

  Wing hesitated. "There's got to be a better way."

  Song ignored him, nodded at the street. With a sigh, he climbed out. He gazed at a recruitment poster in the window of a convenience store, urging people to sign up for a tour with the army in the Outer Colonies, as Song followed. Didn't seem a bad idea right then to get on a rocket ship and get out of town. Not that he'd be much use in the army. The events of the night had confirmed what he already knew - he wasn't any sort of a fighter.

  He lit a cigarette, aware of the extra weight inside the packet. He snuck a look before he returned the packet to his pocket. The lump of slice was three times bigger than anything he'd bought from Jim before. Its street value was ridiculous. He bet it was pure shit too.

  Forget about it, he told himself as he inhaled deeply. He was grateful for the nicotine but it wasn't the type of smoke he craved right then. Didn't burn his throat with promises of mind-numbing bliss. He shook the thought from his head. At least the nicotine settled his stomach. Two more puffs and he flicked the butt into the road.

  Song slipped her arm through his and snuggled up against him like an old lover. "Remember the code?" she asked.

  "0104194073," grumbled Wing.

  "Think positive. Everything's going to be fine." Song's teeth shone in the store's florescent glow as she smiled. She pressed a small card into his hand. "That's the key for the front door. I'll wait for you at the tea stall just around the corner."

  Wing shook his head again. He must be mad. It was a one-way trip to jail. They may as well measure him up for the coffin right there. He wanted to tell her he wasn't doing it but he didn't want Song to think any less of him either.

  He turned towards her apartment building, but she tugged his arm, stopping him before he could take another step.

  "What?"

  She smiled again and kissed him on the cheek. "For luck."

  "I'll need it," he grumbled and set off without another word, the memory of the kiss pressing on his cheek. He couldn't remember the last time a girl had kissed him, but it felt good. He glanced back when he reached the street corner but Song hadn't hung around. He was surprised by the disappointment he felt as he waited for the traffic lights to change to red. As the cars stopped, the thought crossed his mind that it might be better just to throw himself in front of the traffic and get it all over with.

  His heart hammered away as he reminded himself to be cool. Just be cool. Be cool. He repeated the words over and over, like a mantra, trying to drown the fear in his mind. He dropped his head down, offering any surveillance cameras a view of his hat and nothing else. Last thing he needed was to be picked up by a random retina scan.

  He pushed through the glass double doors into Song's building. It was far too cheap to have a doorman or security guard, and the lobby was empty of any other residents. The strip lighting buzzed angrily, throwing off an artificial light that made Wing wince in pain until his eyes adjusted. He ignored the elevator and took the stairs, not wanting to get trapped inside a metal box, waiting for someone to come along with the handcuffs. Luckily Song's apartment was only three floors up, but he still had to pause halfway up to catch his breath. It was stupid to be so out of shape at his age, but so much of his life was stupid. If he got out of this mess, he promised he'd start taking care of himself. Make the most of the second chance.

  He paused for a moment before he opened the doors to Song's floor. He could see in his mind's eye all the cops waiting for him, ready to blow his brains out. He looked back down the stairs. If he'd any sense, he'd be straight back the way he came. The only thing worse than being a fool was being a dead fool. But then Song would kill him for being a coward if he returned empty handed. He was damned if he did, damned if he didn't.

  With a deep breath, he opened the doors.

  15

  Ziyi

  The missile raced towards Ziyi. She fired the flyer's machine guns in desperation and watched the tracer rounds arc towards it. Time slowed everything to a crawl except the oncoming missile. It was so close. She squeezed the trigger once more, holding her breath, fighting the urge to close her eyes.

  She hit the missile with ten yards to spare. Ziyi's flyer bucked as it rode the shock wave and the scorching heat roared through the broken windshield. She kept her finger down on the trigger, pumping more rounds through the smoke and flames just in case another missile followed in the first's wake.

  The other flyer responded in kind, its bullets zipping from left to right as it fired wildly. Ziyi took her craft up, removing it from danger. She spotted her target, and accelerated down. This time the alarms told her she had the weapons lock. Her finger hovered over the trigger but she couldn't bring herself to pull it. Only the Empire's enemies would die by her hand.

  She pulled the joystick to the left and hit the thrusters. The flyer shot down the Connaught Road Highway with as much speed as she dared. She only had a second or two before the other ship would be after her again and she needed to put as much distance as she could between them if she was to have any hope of losing it.

  A drone moved to cut across her but Ziyi cut it down with two quick bursts. She ripped out the flyer's location transmitter next and put the flyer into a vertical drop. She wasn't going to make it easy for them to follow her. Level after level flashed by before she maxed out the thrusters once more, slipping through a gap on Level Thirty-Five, and headed out over the Harbour. She dropped the craft again to twenty feet above the waves, killed all the lights, but kept moving, constantly checking the skies for pursuit.

  The South China Sea lay ahead of her and again the temptation to run whispered in her ear. She had enough fuel to reach any number of places in China. She could dump the flyer and disappear. Already Hong Kong was a spec in the distance. Xiao could be someone else's problem.

  But she also knew she couldn't leave him at the
mercy of the terrorists, tied up, frightened. Her love for him was too great — as was her love for the Empire and its future. Running would make her whole life a lie — not just the role she played to the public. She'd never be able to face herself in a mirror if she fled.

  She slowed the flyer, dropping to just above sea level, checking her monitors and the sky for pursuit as she did so. Only the stars filled the night. Turning on the auto-pilot, Ziyi could feel the tension ease. She took the opportunity to raid the flyer for it's rations, painfully aware of how dehydrated she was after the adrenaline fuelled events of the night. She also armed herself with a side arm and a knife from the flyer’s weapon’s cache.

  Two hours had passed since Anderson's message and she had no idea where to start looking. Out of the original seven terrorists, she knew two were dead but their resources had also revealed themselves to be far greater than anyone had thought. There'd been two others with them at the ICBB, one of whom was seriously mek'ed up, so that still left at least eight, if not more targets to deal with. Added to their fake retinas, the terrorists had access to mek that rivalled her own, which had created by the finest minds in the Empire at untold expense. How had the AFA become so organised and funded without anyone in the security forces noticing?

  She wished she could talk it all through with Wing, use his resources to figure it all out. His voice in her ear was a crutch she'd become totally reliant on. All her mek and all her training were useless without a target to be aimed at.

  She slid back in the pilot's seat and closed her eyes, suddenly feeling so very tired. The only sound was the hum of the flyer's engines and the lapping of the waves. A warm, ocean-infused breeze found its way inside the cabin and Ziyi filled her lungs as she tried to bring some insight to her thoughts.

  "Agent Choi Ziyi." The man's voice startled her. At first she thought it'd come from the flyer's radio until she remembered she'd destroyed it.

  "Agent Choi Ziyi, this is Control." Her earpiece worked again. "Please respond."