Chromed- Rogue

by Richard Parry

  Mason tossed images of Zacharies, Laia, and Mike across the link. “I didn’t figure this’d be that easy.”

  “It’s not easy. I’m already an arm down. I’ll probably get torn up.”

  “It’s a common theme. Harry, can I ask you something?”

  “Shoot.”

  “Why are you doing this?”

  “Because of the video. Because of that night.”

  Mason looked at the console, the yoke held steady in his hand. “What video?”

  “Doesn’t matter. Mason, I’m not getting Haraway. Lace found something out. Where are you?”

  “I’m in an APC heading into the city at about two hundred klicks.” Mason eyed the dark skyline.

  “Carter there?”

  “Yes.” Carter sounded subdued.

  “I’m not getting Haraway out because of what she did to you,” said Harry.

  “She didn’t do it,” said Carter.

  “Do what?” asked Mason.

  “Doesn’t matter,” said Carter.

  “Carter, I know about the words.” Harry said it like words weighed more than steel.

  “What words?” Mason glanced at Sadie.

  “Don’t look at me.” Sadie circled a finger at her temple. “All you company people are loco.”

  “What words?” Mason leaned forward. “Carter? What did Haraway do?”

  The link crackled and popped. “It’s not important. I’m tired of fighting them all.”

  “Tell me. Please. I’ll fight for you.”

  The link was quiet a long time. The first person to speak was Harry. “Hello?”

  “Harry, you need to roll.” Mason glanced at Sadie. She ignored him. “There’s not a lot of time.”

  “Sure, Mason. Sure.” His link dropped.

  “Carter?” Mason looked at the console. “Talk to me.”

  “No.” Carter dropped the link too.

  “That didn’t go as expected,” admitted Mason, after a moment’s thought.

  “Your girlfriend not giving it to you anymore?” Sadie didn’t look at him, staring at something fascinating in the rain.

  “It’s not that. She’s usually more observant.”

  Sadie turned at that. “Mason?”

  “Yeah.” He tugged at the APC’s controls, the Federate tower getting closer in the night. It was blurry through the rain, but lit. A bright beacon.

  “She thinks she’s going to die. That kind of shit? It’ll mess you up.”

  Mason nodded, the movement slow. “Okay.”

  “You don’t buy it?”

  “No, I buy it. But it still leaves one question.”

  “I figure it leaves a hundred. What’s top of your list?”

  Mason threw her a look. “Where’s Mike?”

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Stupid, stupid, stupid. Mike knew no bonus was worth this.

  Sure. They’d said if he signed up Floyd, there’d be a little something extra in it. They’d even said that it might be a good opportunity to try actual teamwork.

  What the hell did he need a team for? Mike was doing fine.

  The ground slid past, dead grass and trees giving way to the bright nightscape of the city. Rain lashed below, but he stayed dry, wedged in the well of the gunship’s landing gear.

  Amateur hour, that’s what it was. He’d never be able to stow away on a Metatech gunship. Probably not an Apsel one either, but who knew with them. Those clowns figured the real power was in electricity.

  Guns were power.

  Mike saw Floyd drop like a sack of puppies, going down under the combined effects of the gas and the taser effect arcing through it. He’d played dead himself, his mil-spec upgrades coping just fine with whatever crap Reed fired at them. Mike cracked open an eye as Reed agents stepped through the group of… What are all those people, anyway?

  The crowd acted like zombies from a movie before stopping in their tracks. About the same time as the orbital strikes finished, but he figured that was coincidence. Whoever was pulling the strings at Reed HQ didn’t need ‘em anymore, just tossed the remote control to the couch and moved on.

  They’d grabbed the kid. And his sister. Mike’s stomach soured at that, but he waited. Mil-spec upgrades or not, he wasn’t going toe to toe with a gunship and a bunch of Reed assholes.

  They’d grabbed the doctor as well. Haraway. That clinched the deal for him — the kid was personal, sure, he’d have gone after him anyway. But Haraway was worth dollars on the line, big fat zeroes for an acquisitions contract.

  Stupid. Stupid, stupid, stupid shit.

  Mike turned off his link as he’d crawled through the gas, overlay tugging at his vision as electricity arced through the gas. These Reed guys might be into porn in a big way, but they had scanners same as anyone else.

  Besides, the gas was a good trick. He’d have to get the boys in the lab to work on it. Seemed effective against normals and upgrades both.

  Mike waited while the Reed assholes focused on picking up the kid, his sister, and Haraway. He did a quick roadie run to the gunship, staying low. He’d ducked left first, ramming a piece of shrapnel into the struts, making sure it was wedged in good. Then Mike rolled like a whisper of shadow to the right, clambered inside the landing gear, and held on.

  They’d found the shrapnel. They couldn’t fix the damage to the shocks, so had taken the flight with wheels down. It was slower. It kept him alive.

  It was cold. His hand slipped on the landing gear and he almost tumbled out.

  Stupid.

  The kid was going to owe him after this.

  Something was wrong with the Reed tower. Sure, the place normally looked dark, a kind of gray-black against a gray-black city. It rained a lot in Seattle. Hard to keep things bright and festive, amirite? Usually there were some lights on. A few guys doing the rounds. That kind of thing.

  It was a syndicate combine, after all. He’d seen the sat images, intel on how the guard patterns worked. Metatech had a couple guys on the inside as well, people who fed them solid information about how things went down.

  None of those people had talked about the bodies. No bodies on the sat images either.

  There were people staked around the roof, bodies arched back, dead eyes staring at the sky. People in suits and lab coats. Civilians. Each of them was supported by a strut. Reed decorated the rooftop with their own staff.

  It was a new look.

  It didn’t look like something Jay Montana would be into. The head of Reed was known to be extreme, invested deep into anything that drove a dollar from pleasure. One time he’d invested a cool million in stickers for kids. You licked one side and got a jot of memory sliding down your tongue. Kids could paste ‘em on their jackets and schoolbags. Collect a whole set. It was a good investment right up until the black market versions came out. A bunch of kids started getting porn memories.

  Whatever. That was all Reed’s business. There wasn’t a good line on dead guys on a roof.

  The gunship flew over the line of bodies, all those sightless eyes staring upward, and settled on the pad. The rain lashed, a blast of it spreading under the machine. Mike squinted as water sprayed his black Metatech armor. He waited a few moments, and there it was: the sound of a team moving to the gunship.

  Weird. Normally there’d be chatter in a group like that. Voices, some communication about BPs or spine fracture or tachycardia. Whatever the brains in medical response wanted to say.

  Nothing. These guys were silent as the grave, their feet slamming against the wet landing pad. They threw the kid, his sister, and the doctor on gurneys and then pushed them back through a double set of doors leading off the pad.

  What was weirder was the pilots hadn’t left the gunship.

  Mike eased down from the landing gear, feet slipping onto the concrete without a sound. He moved low and quiet under the machine until he was aft of the side doors, poking his head out for a look.

  The pilot and copilot were in their chairs, still strapped in. Look
ing out the windscreen like a couple of mannequins. Or sex dolls, maybe, considering where Mike was.

  He unclipped his sidearm, the weight of it comforting. Mike looked at the pilot and copilot again, then at the double doors. They weren’t looking at the doors. He didn’t have to kill them. He looked down at his sidearm, then slipped it back into his holster. Stepping away from the gunship, he turned and walked toward the double doors. His route took him next to one of the bodies staked around the roof.

  “Jesus!” Mike jumped as the body’s eyes swiveled in its head to track his movements. A woman, white lab coat transparent with the rain. He dropped the overlay down, a quick scan showing the body cold and blue on thermal. Dead. He flicked back to visual, saw it — Her? It? — looking at him.

  “You’re not supposed to be here,” she said.

  “That’s what you’re going to say?” Mike considered her. Looked like a tech. Maybe medical. “You’re nailed to a piece of metal, stuck on a roof in the rain. You’re going to ask me if I’m supposed to be here?” He leaned forward, staring into her eyes. “Lady? You got some priority issues.”

  “They know, now.” Mike caught movement out of the corner of his eye. Another body turned to face him. “They will come to get you.”

  “Rock on.” Mike readied his sidearm. “Who?”

  Another added its voice from across the landing pad, almost inaudible in the rain. “Your weapon is useless here. We are legion. We are the night, the cries in the dark, the fear between worlds.”

  “Maybe.” Mike faced the doors. “We’ll see.”

  “Warrior,” said the woman.

  “You’re talking to me?”

  “Warrior, ready yourself.”

  The double doors opened, vomiting men and women in gray Reed uniforms like a hose pissing roaches. He snapped his sidearm up.

  The overlay lit up as overtime flowed over him like a cool wind. The tactical system marked that one as stopping, those two still moving. A fourth standing by the door. A fifth lifted a weapon, ready to fire now. The overlay marked him as the first to die.

  The sidearm fired on full automatic, the lattice pulling his arm back and forth like an auto turret. Reed troops jerked, falling to the wet concrete with the sound of tumbling plastic. More troops came from the door, and he kept the trigger pressed down until they stopped moving.

  The magazine dropped from the bottom of the weapon, and he pushed another one in with a smooth, easy motion. He turned to the woman who’d spoken first. “Legion, huh. All you are is a bunch of stick mag merchants.”

  She blinked, rain running into her eyes. “We haven’t finished.”

  “Yeah, you have.” Mike spun, dropping to one knee. His weapon barked twice, the two pilots from the gunship toppling from the machine and onto the landing pad. Mike stood. “Did you assholes even get a shot off?” He spat out the taste of aniseed as the overtime faded away.

  “What do you want?” She stared at him.

  “You’ve got a Metatech asset here. Kid, about so high.” Mike held a hand out just above his head. “I’ve come to get him back. The other two as well. We’ve signed a contract.”

  “I care nothing for your contracts. What is your name?”

  He smiled into the rain. “You fuckers can call me Mike. I’ll see the rest of your freak show downstairs.” Mike turned, padding toward the doors. He tried not to wince, one of his feet leaving pink prints in the water. Okay. They got one shot off. Damn.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  “I know you’re listening, Carter.” Mason wanted to relax a little. Certain death lay ahead, but Harry shared some of the about-to-die risk. The road was only so long, and when he reached the end of it, the dying would start. For him, or someone else.

  “I know she’s listening, too.” Sadie leaned forward, glaring out the windscreen. “It’s really raining.”

  “It’s just water. I’m tough. I can take a little water.” Mason offered her a smile he didn’t feel.

  “It’s not just water,” said Carter, the link snapping and popping in his head. “It’s anything but just water.”

  Mason frowned. “Why aren’t the visions back?”

  “If I had to guess, I’d say it’s because the scary freak at the top of it all has a limited attention span.” Carter sniffed. “He’s only human.”

  “You’re talking to us again?” Mason looked at the Federate building as they neared, the whine of the APC’s drive core winding down. The end of the road. He peered out. “Where the hell is everyone?”

  “They’re busy,” said Carter.

  On the seventy-third floor, six men and women approached the stairwell leading down. The elevator shafts were closed off, red emergency light filling the corridor. Doors to the left and right were shut, sealed, overlays reporting a SECURITY INCIDENT LOCKDOWN.

  They were dressed in crisp white Federate armor. It wasn’t going to stay white for long.

  “Sir,” said one of the men at the back. “What are we doing here?”

  “Trying not to die,” said the woman to his left. “I wish we could have the link up. I feel like I’m trying to hit a piñata in a dark room with a tube sock. And there’s no piñata.” The barcode on the back of her armor was underlaid with a name, DEWINKLE.

  The man at the front of their huddle turned around to Dewinkle, sergeant’s stripes looking black under the red light. “You need to keep a lid on that.” He turned to the man who’d spoken first, then pointed at the stairwell door. “Son, we’re going to breach that door. Then we’re going down these stairs. Anyone who doesn’t look like you or me, we’re going to shoot in the face. We’re going to the basement. Orders are to kill everything down there.”

  “What do you mean, everything? Don’t you mean everyone?”

  “Turn of phrase.” The sergeant held up a hand, fist clenched. The team readied themselves as he counted down on his fingers.

  Overtime slid around them. Each member of the team knew their role. The breach man at the front kicked the door down, rifle high. Two entered behind him, flanking positions. Their weapons were up, ready to fire.

  Nothing. There wasn’t anything there.

  They relaxed, the ripple spreading through the team from the front. The sergeant turned around, and said, “Okay, what we’re going to—”

  An auto turret dropped from the ceiling. It spun up fast and mean, the rounds tearing through the team, shearing limbs from bodies, precise as a surgical laser.

  Dewinkle was lucky. She’d flattened herself against the inside wall of the stairwell. She looked down at the… Well, just pieces, really. Pieces of her team scattered around her. Dewinkle blinked, wiping red from her visor. “Cease fire! Cease fire! Friendlies!”

  “Oh,” said a woman’s voice. “Friendlies? Damn.”

  “Friendlies,” repeated Dewinkle. She stepped from behind the concrete. “The paperwork’s going to be a bitch.”

  “You’ve no idea,” agreed the woman. “Dewinkle, is it?”

  “Copy,” said Dewinkle. “Who’s this?”

  The turret whirred to life, a stream of fire and death tearing Dewinkle to pieces. She tumbled into parts, dropping to the floor amongst the rest of her team.

  “My name’s Carter,” said Carter to the empty corridor.

  Twelve men and women, weapons ready, links offline, moved between the rows of crates in the hangar. It was walking deaf and blind at the same time, but orders were orders.

  Sanders came to stand next to an empty total conversion chassis. The shell was popped open, tubes and wires dangling from the front. The casing was hinged through the Apsel falcon, breaking through the logo, leaving half a bird visible. She shuddered. “Hate to go that way.”

  “What. You don’t want to live forever?” The man at her elbow flashed her a quick grin, all nervous edges. Gorsky used too many stims, drank them up when the coffee stopped working. “When you go, it’s going to be in your old age.”

  “I don’t think so,” said a woman’s voice, the P
A ringing loud in the hangar. The team froze, then moved, quick hand signals directing them to fan out, cover each other, and to provide fire zones.

  Sanders pushed herself against the chassis, using the big metal arms and legs for cover. She looked over her rifle, the sights marking gaps between the crates. “Anyone see her?”

  “Oh, I’m around,” said the woman. “You want to meet me, do you?”

  “Shut it, Sanders.” Gorsky had tried to get into her pants for weeks. Sanders reckoned he hadn’t worked out why he was still jacking off alone in the shower. Such an asshole.

  “You shut it, Gorsky.” Sanders looked up. “Who is this?”

  “The person you’ve been sent to kill,” said the woman. “That’s what you’re doing, isn’t it? The basement. Kill everything that moves.”

  “No.” Gorsky pointed to his eyes. He mouthed, maybe she’s blind. “It’s routine.”

  “What about you, Sanders? You think this is routine?” The woman sounded curious, analytical. “You figure this is how you’d spend your day when you woke up this morning? Going down to the basement to kill one of your own? Gorsky, I’m not blind. I’m not stupid either.”

  Gorsky froze.

  Sanders swallowed. “I was just trying to enjoy my bagel this morning. You’re right. If you’re in the basement, we’ve been tasked to come down and route you out. If it matters, I’m sorry. I don’t like it when we’re not on the same team.”

  The room fell silent, Gorsky looking at Sanders like she’d gone crazy. “Christ, Sanders. Fraternizing with the enem—”

  Whatever he was going to say next was lost to the whine of the chassis Sanders was next to as it powered up. The arc lights on the front flashed, the big reactor humming like a nest of angry hornets. It stood, arms reticulating out.

  “What the fuck?” Sanders’ mouth hung slack. She backed away from it, stumbling and falling on her ass. Sanders scrabbled back like a crab, her rifle dragged along by its sling. The chassis was empty. No pilot. How could it move?

  “Firing!” Gorsky’s weapon barked loud in the hangar. His rifle’s rounds spat metal sparks against the side of the chassis, the small arms fire worthless against the armored side of the machine. The rest of the team scattered, taking cover behind crates.