"C'mon, Slick. We ghost." They ran out the alley and vanished.
Jett pulled his shirt over his mouth, looking for the man who saved his life. A gust of wind pushed some of the dust away, allowing him to see a bit clearer. He caught sight of a glint of silver half-buried under a pile of rubble. It was Vigil. He wasn't moving.
Jett grunted, using all his strength to shove away a large piece of broken wall. Vigil groaned in pain as his entire body spasmed. He lifted a trembling hand and tapped something on the back of his helmet. The metallic surface shimmered, then slid back in thin sections into a thick, banded strap. Jett was surprised by the face behind the mask.
Vigil was an old man. His face was chiseled but careworn, wrinkles etched in the skin like lines on a weathered map. White hair plastered to his damp forehead. He grimaced in pain; teeth clamped together in a defiant snarl.
"Take the helmet."
Jett looked at him in surprise. "I have to get you to a hospital. The building fell right on top of you. The injuries…"
"Injuries don't matter." Vigil grimaced again, glaring at Jett with shimmering eyes. "It's my heart."
"Your heart?"
"Yeah. Been coming a long time. Take the helmet. Gauntlets, too."
"I can't just—"
"Do it, kid." Vigil's hand shot forward, grabbing Jett by the collar. "I just saved your ass, so you owe me." He snatched the headgear off. The gauntlets compressed with a flick of his wrists, sliding into metallic bands. He yanked off his trench coat, wrapped the equipment in it, and shoved the bundle into Jett's chest.
"Don't have my body armor. Wouldn't be in this predicament if I'd worn it. Didn't expect to be fighting tonight. Or ever again." He chuckled painfully. "Old habits are hard to break, I guess. Saw what you did. Standing up for the girl. Anyone else would have kept walking. You didn't. Maybe there's hope for this city, after all."
Jett glanced around. "Listen, paramedics should be here any minute. Try to hold on until they—"
Vigil barked a laugh. "In this part of the city? Don't be stupid. I'm a goner. Just don't want anyone to connect the dots. That's why you're taking the gear."
"What am I supposed to do with it?"
"Sell it. Throw it away. Or use it."
"Use it for what?"
"To fight." Vigil's lids drooped, his voice trailed to a whisper. "I made a choice…long time ago. No more…compromise. No more turning a blind eye. You see something wrong…you do something about it. No matter what the cost. You do something."
His head snapped up; his arm gripped Jett's shoulder with surprising strength.
"You do something."
The statement seemed to drain the last of his energy. His eyes closed, his head lolled forward. Jett had seen it many times before. A soldier finally at peace. The faces of his fallen team flashed across his memory. So many dead. So many ghosts. And now another. A stranger who didn't hesitate to give his life to protect others.
Jett carefully leaned Vigil against the wall, feeling a surprising swell of grief for a person he had only known for a few moments. He stood, ignoring the jolts of pain from his injured limbs. For a long stretch he closed his eyes in silence, giving the man a respectful moment. The words came to him before he knew it.
"Raise hell, die well."
He clutched Vigil's gear under his arm and left the alley just as the RCE units approached. Limping and trembling with pain, he made his way back home. The city continued its concert of depression and debauchery around him, but for once Jett didn't feel it. The load on his shoulders had lifted.
He was alive.
Chapter 3
Agent Ronnie Banks walked onto the grounds of another disaster, taking in the damage with a critical eye. The alley was partially obstructed by the collapse of one of the abandoned tenements. Bodies were trapped under the rubble and littered across the ground. And as usual, not a single witness in sight, nor a drone in range that captured anything but the aftermath. She sighed.
Just another night in the Warrens.
"Looks like someone shot off some good ol' contraband." Isaac ran his metallic fingers along the damaged area of the building. "I'll run a scan, but I'm pretty sure this is from a biogun. 358 model, black market version. They're always a bit more unstable."
Ronnie nodded. "If you say it's a biogun, then that's what it is."
"Won't be certain until the scans verify it."
"Don't be shy, Isaac. You haven't made a wrong call yet."
"First time for everything."
Ronnie grinned. Isaac was a simdroid, which meant his calculations were never wrong. Although he wore the same uniform, his gleaming, alloyed shell marked him for anything but a regular officer. When Ronnie made Agent, the promotion came with an upgrade: a partner that wouldn't die near as easily as many of her previous ones.
She lifted the wrist of a prone gang member, where a crown dripping with blood was tattooed. "Crimson Kings. Up to no good as usual." She glanced at the toughs she had cuffed and lined up against the wall. They were a diverse group, but shared a common look with multiple ear and face piercings, shaved and partially shaved heads, and so much ink that skin was barely visible. Every one of them sported injuries ranging from cuts and bruises to broken bones.
"Looks like someone ran through you boys pretty good. Lost about six soldiers. Wanna talk about what happened?"
The usual chorus of streetspeak greeted her.
"You think we rats? No snitch, jade."
"No squeal, no deal. Call a SAUL, pig."
"Not scared of bar duty. Love it. Fam reunion."
"You fab, pig. Sit on my face; I tell what you want."
"Really?" She smiled. "That's a nice proposition. After all, you're already tied up." She pulled a black baton from the holster at her side. A twist of the handle made green lights glimmer on the surface. "Know what this is, big boy?"
The tough swallowed, fighting to maintain his tough veneer. "Vibrator?"
She tapped him on the neck with the baton. His face turned a sickly color, and he doubled over, vomiting everything in his stomach. Ronnie took a few steps back to avoid the disgusting bile. The sickly smell was nearly overwhelming. The tough's knees buckled, and he fell into the pile of puke, dry heaving as if trying to spit out his esophagus.
Ronnie eyed the remaining toughs, who whose faces paled with revulsion and unease. "Anyone else wanna to play?"
"Wait, cop. Put up sick-stick. We talk."
"Yeah, we spill, pig. Love bacon."
She slid the baton back in its holster. "Good. So…?"
"Vigil."
Her mouth twisted. "What? Don't try to play me. You'll get what he got."
"Not playing, pig. Vigil. Shiny helmet. Laser gloves."
"Yeah. He jump us."
"Come from nowhere."
"Minding business, then boom."
"Beating, breaking bones…"
"We shivers."
"Yeah, need protection. Safer behind bars."
Ronnie massaged her forehead. "Shut up. Just shut the hell up. Isaac, round these idiots up and get them processed."
One of the thugs screwed up his face. "What we do, cop?"
"Scanner's not tagging any of your holobands. Means you cloned them. That's a felony. Maybe you'll feel like talking after a few nights in the slammer."
She continued to scan the area. "Got another body over here, Isaac."
"Be there in a minute." Isaac continued to herd the gang into an armored van, ignoring their threats and curses.
Ronnie knelt, examining the corpse. "What were you doing out here, old man?" She scanned his holoband. "Wayne Thomas. Sixty-eight years old. No immediate family. Retired cop." She shook her head. "Damn it. You deserved better than this."
"A former shield soldier?" Isaac walked over, metallic skin glinting in the dim light. "What a shame."
"Yeah. Maybe he saw something, tried to intervene. Or maybe just a case of wrong place, wrong time." She glared at the van. "Don't think those
toughs are gonna be good for info. They know the game. System will kick them out in a day or two."
Isaac pulled a screen of data up on his tablet. "Well, at least one other person knows something."
"You got a ping on a legal band? Wonders never cease."
"Even we catch a break sometimes. Playback from signal transponders places someone else at the scene. Easy to trace and track. Want to ask him some questions?"
Ronnie slid the screen from the tablet to her holoband and glanced at the picture. "Who is this guy?"
Ⓥ
Jett woke up under the blush of newborn sun. The light brightened the linen sheets, brightened the face of the beautiful woman whose face was just inches away from his own.
Tatsu smiled. One her rare, secret smiles. "You're late for work."
The voice was robotic, alien. Jett drew back in surprise. "What's wrong, Tatsu?"
Her blood-streaked face gazed back at him, eyes filmed over in death.
The dream shattered.
"Jett Wolfe, you are late for work."
Jett sat up, nearly screaming from the flare of pain that started from his back and flared across his entire body. He raised a hand to his throbbing temples and glanced at the blinking clock panel on the wall.
"Why didn't you wake me?"
"I woke you several times. You used foul language and requested more time to sleep."
"Still need more time."
"I'm afraid I will have to inform Mr. Brown of your refusal to appear."
Jett's teeth clenched. "You know what—go ahead. Tell him I'm not coming in today."
"Is that your final decision?"
"Yeah. Now quit bothering me."
Jett slumped back down, trying to burrow his face into the flat, hard pillow. He knew exactly what would happen next.
The narrow window next to the bed fizzled; static dancing across the surface before morphing into a heavyset, scowling face.
Harry Brown squinted his beady eyes. "What's this about you not coming into today, Jett?"
"Don't feel good."
"Don't feel good? So what? You know I got a million scabs waiting in line for your job. If you don't show, you go. You know the rules."
Jett groaned and sat up. "Not like I don't want to come in. I can't."
"Can't? You can walk, can't you? What else do you need?"
"Look, I was mugged last night. I can barely move. I need some time to recuperate."
"You were mugged? For what—your pocket lint?" Harry guffawed at his quip. "Well, I still need you at your station, Jett. Tell you what—I'll send you something to take care of your pain, and you get your ass over here ASAP. Deal?"
Jett sighed. "Deal."
"It's still coming out your v-notes. I'll take it back in installments. You know, to make it easier on you."
Jett gingerly rolled out the bed as the screen went blank, becoming a window again. The headgear and gauntlets were where he left them at the foot of the pull-out bed. He pushed the bed up and into the wall, then dropped down to open a hidden latch that the last owner had built into the floor. Dropping the gear into the safe, he closed the latch back and pulled a faded, frayed rug over it.
His boxpad was a rusty, refurbished shipping container, stacked on top of hundreds of others in his area of the Warrens. Eight feet wide, twenty feet long. Shower, toilet, kitchenette, bedroom, all in one rectangular, poorly insulated shell.
A tap on the door was followed by a parcel shoved through the mail slot. Harry's gift, flown by one of the thousands of drones that zipped across the city. Jett opened it. Two containers of pills—one for instant pain relief, the other for platelet cell acceleration, guaranteed to triple the healing period for anything but grievous wounds. He took the pills with water and his breakfast of powdered eggs and a square, hard, blackened ration bar the locals called shit bricks. The quivering sensation of his wounds knitting was nearly as painful as the injuries. He gritted his teeth and tried to ignore the feeling. He had work to do.
Ⓥ
"Okay, Zip. I need a weld right here." Jett pointed to a large pipe, where brownish liquid steadily dripped. His voice echoed in the dark.
"Zip happy. Zip work hard."
Zip's jets sputtered, making his shell rattle like an empty trash can. The cylindrical robot was a rusty hunk of junk that constantly needed repairs, but Harry's Plumbing didn't upgrade or buy anything new until the old equipment literally fell apart. Zip hovered up to the pipe, ejecting an arm that applied a metallic patch. A soldering limb jerked out of another slot, hissing as it ignited a blue flame. Jett slid dark goggles over his eyes as sparks rained down, skittering across the tunnel walls.
He stood ankle-deep in brownish slop that slowly streamed through the tunnel. Somewhere in the process the waste was recycled, some used for fertilizer and slow-burning logs and candles. He didn't want to think about it. He tried to keep his mind focused, ignoring the stench and nearly overpowering sensation of claustrophobia that pressed down on him like a steel vice. He never had a problem with enclosed spaces. Not until the stasis chamber. Locked inside a tiny capsule. Centuries of being sealed in some metal coffin while the world went on around him. Forgotten. Lost.
His holoband buzzed, snapping him out of his dark thoughts. Harry's sour face fizzled onto the screen."
"What the hell have you gotten me into, Jett?"
"What do you mean?"
Harry's beady tiny eyes widened in outrage. "What do I mean? I got the RCE in my office looking for you, ya big buffoon. A dick and her robot partner. You need to get your ass here pronto."
Jett's heart thudded against his chest. "The RCE? What did I do?"
"Don't know. Don't care. You scabs are more trouble than you're worth. You know I got a million other losers waiting for your job. A job that only exists because signals are hard to catch in those tunnels. You babysit a robot, that's what your skill set is. A complete imbecile can do what you do, understand?" Harry rubbed a chubby hand through his comb-over. "Just…don't try to run, okay? If it's a misunderstanding, you can get it straightened up. If not…well, it goes better if you turn yourself in. Got it?"
"Yeah, I got it."
"Then you're coming in?"
"Yeah. Soon as the tram can get me there."
"Just get to the nearest exit. They're sending a unit to your location."
Jett signed off, feeling sick. He knew exactly why the RCE wanted to talk to him. How much did they see? How much do they know?
There was no way to find out other than comply. He glanced at Zip. "Hang it up, Zipster. Head to the charging station. We'll pick this up tomorrow." If I'm not locked up by then.
"Zip not finished."
"Just do it, Zip." Jett splashed toward the wall ladder, where he could ascend to street level.
Ⓥ
"Jett Wolfe. Black male. Thirty-eight years old. Six feet, three inches. Two hundred thirty-six pounds. Employed by Harry's Plumbing, who has a city contract repairing sewage pipes." Ronnie glanced up from her tablet. "Scab work."
The big man sitting across from her didn't appear afraid or nervous. Listless was the word that sprang to her mine. He didn't have the look of someone who'd just entered a high-security building with prospects of leaving anytime soon in doubt. She didn't know if that was foolish or brave. Maybe he just didn't know the stakes.
He didn't appear to hear the last dig, aimed at getting him riled up. Off balance. He just sat there, looking into space with deep brown eyes, face locked in blank mode. He had the chiseled profile, thick neck and broad shoulders of a man who worked out, or worked hard. She figured it was the latter. The scent of his recent sewer dive still clung to him like cologne. His head was shaved, and a thin goatee framed his lips and chin.
He was badly bruised. One side of his face was half-swollen, and purplish-black bruises stood out on his arms. She figured his entire body was covered in injuries. His blood work showed healing accelerators, which meant he had looked much worse earlier.
"Here's the more interesting part. Says here that you're a layover."
He looked puzzled. "Layover?"
"Technical label for recovered hibernation survivors."
"You mean a Defrost."
She smiled. "So you've heard the term. It's considered derogatory; we don't officially use it. Your file states you spent over three hundred years in a stasis pod. You were there." Her voice dropped to a hushed tone. "At the Cataclysm."
He visibly trembled, eyes slowly focusing to stare at her. "I was there."
She leaned forward despite herself. "My God. What…what was it like?"
He was silent for such a long time that she thought he didn't hear her. But finally, the words grated from his mouth. "It was hell."
"You've been here for six months. Nearly in the safe zone."
"Safe zone?"
"According to the stats, most layovers commit suicide or get themselves killed within eight months. Something about the time gap, feelings of loss, not having a place in the world, and the loneliness, depression…it eats at a person. They usually end up quickly turning to increasingly dangerous crimes, or like I said—self-termination."
He met her eyes with a steady gaze. "I'm not a stat."
She smiled. "I think I can see that, Mr. Wolfe."
"Call me Jett."
"Okay, Jett. I'm curious. What was your profession before the Cataclysm?"
His response surprised her. "I was like you."
"You were RCE?"
"No, but I remember when rescue, combat, and enforcement units were all rolled into one cohesive organization. Nathan Ryder was behind that. He was behind a lot of things. I wasn't RCE, though. I was ACU."
Her eyebrows rose. "You fought Imperials? Wow."
"Yeah, I was in an Aberrant Control Unit. Tactical team deployed to combat metahuman threats. You know about the Imperial War?"
"Bits and pieces."
"Well, humanity won. But in doing so, we broke the planet. There was mass chaos in those days. The ACU went from a military institute to a peacekeeping organization. We were law and order. The last line against total anarchy."
Knight in Cyber Armor Page 4
