by Anthony Ryan
This was when MEC Security Operative Number 12 shot me in the back with a tazer. I never heard a thing. Very slick.
Tazer shock feels a bit like being hit by a jackhammer travelling at a hundred miles an hour. It also makes you piss yourself and gibber around on the floor, all very embarrassing for tough guy detectives.
I was still in paralysis when I resurfaced. Janus was predictably dead with a hole in her forehead and Number 12 was staring down at me. He had those perfect teeth no-one is born with and a leathery face that didn't match the dentistry.
"How you feeling, Inspector?"
"Schlumph," I replied.
"Never mind. Won't last much longer." He wandered over to Joe, still sedated into oblivion on the couch. "Will you look at this size of this guy? Don't appreciate it when you see him on the hol. But up close like this he's really incredible. Had six hundred riding on him for the Ortega fight…"
He droned on as I swivelled my eyes about desperately. The Sig was on the floor a few miles away. Something was scratching nearby, something out of view because I couldn't turn my head.
"… that mega-mutant of yours has shut down the pipe so my colleagues are having to climb down here. It'll take a few hours so I thought I'd pass the time with you."
"Thnshks."
"You're welcome. You know, that job you did on my team was remarkable. 'Course, none of them had our experience."
My eyes flicked up at him.
"Yeah, I'm a Vet too. On the other side of course. Still, all over now eh? No hard feelings."
He was wearing a stealth suit of non-reflective, insulating fabric. That's why Freak missed him. All he had to do was stay in the shadows while I skragged his friends then follow me to the Pipe. Latched onto the carriage somehow when Freak put it in free fall. Real hard-core space commando shit. He must have killed dozens of us in the war.
The scratching got louder. I had regained enough mobility to crane my neck a fraction of an inch. There was a large white box under the operating table about three feet away. The scratching stopped, started, stopped again. I heard something sniff the air.
"…after the war I had some trouble reintegrating into society. Not that there is much of what you'd call a society anymore. You should see it down there, Jesus…"
There was a catch on the front of the box and I was starting to lose the numbness in my arms. But Number 12 was certain to kill me the nano-second I moved.
"…I mean the poverty, you wouldn't believe it. There I was, a three times decorated war hero for Christ's sake, and what do they offer me? Refuse disposal specialist. I guess that's when my anger management issues first manifested themselves…"
"Alex?"
I'd forgotten about Freak. "Yspls?" I kept it to a whisper. Number 12 probably thought I was throwing up.
"I can see the box on the room scanner. If I give you a diversion can you move far enough?"
"Uh."
"OK. Just a sec."
The box was starting to shake as what was inside got angry.
"…one day this MEC suit turned up at the psych ward with a contrac-"
Joe moved, not much, just a spasm as Freak ran a pulse charge through the immersion leads, but it was enough to get Number 12's undivided attention. "What the fuck!"
I lurched across the floor, trailing saliva and piss, scrabbling at the box, finding the catch more through luck than judgement. Number 12 was already putting the laser dot on my forehead when a streak of black erupted from the box and latched onto his face.
The Emperor was trained to put on a show so it took longer than it should and Number 12 made some disgusting noises before it was over. The Emperor sat on the body, licking blood from his snout and regarding me with the cold, baleful stare singular to rats. I knew he was smart enough to tell friend from foe but he was such a vicious little bastard he might kill me just for the hell of it. After a few seconds he turned away, hopped up onto Joe's massive chest, curled up and went to sleep.
"I estimate you will regain full mobility within two hours. That provides us with an adequate window to move Joe and destroy this place before the arrival of MEC Security. I can provide transport but we're lacking a destination. Colonel Riviere has refused asylum for Joe in the Axis…"
"Ishokay."
"Pardon?"
"Isst's OK. Uh've got shumwer fer im."
"I don't really know why I did it," Joe was saying. "I saw the little guy was about to get torn to pieces and I just couldn't leave him there." He paused to look around. "Nice place."
"The Black Forest," I said. "As it was in the thirteenth century. There's a wide selection in the library if you want a change. Just ask Freak."
"Thanks Inspector. How long will it take?"
Shorn of his fur and muscle it was surprising how ordinary Joe was. Big and tough, certainly. But nothing special. I mean that in a nice way.
"About seven months. Standard de-Splicing period. You'll be please to know you died in a shuttle crash last night. Along with most of your management team."
"These things happen."
I smiled. "Gotta go, Joe. I'll come and visit soon."
"I'd like that. And hey, remember what we talked about, you know, about Sniffy."
"I can't believe you called him Sniffy."
"He likes it."
I shook my head. "Jack me out please, Father."
I was standing over Joe's body. The machine grafted onto his chest was already starting the programmed alterations: blood change, DNA realignment, everything he needed to make him human again. In the meantime he could stay here with Father Bob.
I pulled the leads from my temples and turned to Consuela's couch, laid my hand on her face, traced her profile.
"Would you like me to leave?" Father Bob asked.
"No." I bent down and kissed her forehead. "The blue switch, right?"
He nodded.
I looked down at her hawk face for the last time. I had always liked to think she looked as if she was sleeping but I knew now she just looked like a dead woman plugged into a third-rate life-support system. She was right. I had made her a prisoner, a slave. And what do all slaves dream of?
"'Bye Con." I hit the switch and she sighed, face going slack, head lolling to one side. She sounded relieved.
I carried the box to the air ducts on Yang Twenty-Four. They lead directly to the mid-outer hull, Rat Country. I undid the catch and stood well back as he ambled out, stopped at the lip of the duct to sniff the rush of air, ears pricking up at the scent of so many brothers and sisters. He glanced back with that same glittering, baleful stare, then was gone.
I dug my hands into my pockets, feeling something cold and sharp, realising I'd forgotten to give Consuela the dolphin brooch. It was raining as I walked away. I hate the rain.
END
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About the author
Anthony Ryan writes and illustrates fantasy and science fiction. He works full time as a researcher, has a degree in history, and lives in London.
For news and general wittering about stuff he likes, check out Anthony's blog at: http://anthonystuff.wordpress.com
Discover other titles by Anthony Ryan at Smashwords.com:
Slab City Blues: A Song for Madame Choi
Slab City Blues: A Hymn to Gods Long Dead
Slab City Blues: The Ballad of Bad Jack
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