Ashes

by Russ Linton

  "Ah," I grumble. "No pretenses anymore. You did fuck with the tranquilizers before Tomahawk."

  "I did," she says. "A miscalculation on my part."

  "How's that?" I face her as the prototype hums to life, reactive plates shifting into their default position and the faceted eyes flaring with their characteristic ruby glow. Blood on an obsidian tiled floor. Or flowing around my feet in a theater basement.

  "You had it in you," she says, almost surprised. "To be a killer. A hunter." My face has hardened, jaw clenching. Dad killed people when he had to. Any soldier, any Augment has done the same. A fight with an Augment was war, pure and simple. "It will make killing you all the easier."

  "Likewise," I mumble, turning to face the prototype. This could be her weapon as easy as it is mine. In fact, I'm not the weapon, the instrument of death, the Black Beetle is. None of this is me. "I'm only doing what needs to be done," I say, soft enough I'm not sure she'll hear, but she does.

  "Fine, you go fix the things you need to make you feel better. Correct your past mistakes. I will plan for my future."

  Mercifully she keeps her mouth shut through the rest of the pre-flight. When I step into the armor, she barely gives enough time to settle in before she eagerly mashes the tablet. Restraints are loose as she rockets me into the air. Faster than even the first time. I almost don't mind the blackout.

  LAS VEGAS WITHOUT TERAWATTS of power might as well be Mos Eisley. The Strip passes mutely below. Without the electric pulse, this bizarre collection of plagiarized architecture feels as incongruent as it looks. Dark voids gape where giant screens used to broadcast messages of sex and fortune. Fairytale castles, glass pyramids which an architect forgot were another people's tomb, the French Riviera devoid of culture; there's even the Statue of Liberty. A place so divorced from reality, American icons seem exotic. But the light show isn't gone, simply stolen. Stretched across the northern horizon, the Aurora shimmers and shifts.

  Cars line the broad boulevard. Two inner lanes have been cleared, but the rest are clogged with dead vehicles, in some cases stacked one atop another. Outlying areas of the city have fared better than the heart, reliant on tourists and expendable income. Fuel deliveries have been strained, so even travel by bus or car is difficult. The enormous, maze-like casinos and hotels quickly became uninhabitable with rolling blackouts and no air conditioning.

  Despite the desolation, I detect a host of illegal networks on my scans. There's even a few which I know are open to the Collective. Several cluster around a collection of strip clubs adjacent to the main drag.

  Those at least seem to have power.

  Peel back the layers of civilization and America is just a bunch of Puritans who claim to not like pole dancing. Extremist hypocrites. Titan must know this. When the flood of tourism shut off overnight, Titan knew exactly what he needed to survive: a generator, solar panels, and a hacked tether to the stable, and highly illegal, Collective which allowed him to pursue business as usual.

  The Augment's profile is surreal. Sprung from Killcreek, he came to Vegas to work on his bucket list and ended up as a bouncer. Pretty soon, Titan owned his own den of sin.

  This ought to be interesting.

  I ease off the rockets and settle onto the roof of a building behind a flickering neon sign. "Sneaky Pete's", declares the blue and red neon while a purple set of eyes jitters over the roof line. Music thumps through layers of tar and insulation. A generator hums at the center beside a clever homemade cell tower constructed of galvanized pipe and an outdoor antenna. None of this is legal, but I'm not here to make arrests.

  Tearing the antennae free from its moorings with a quick tug feels good. For one, it's a rejection of Eric and Chroma's plans. There's also a more visceral reason.

  I'll miss this bad boy in the fight against Vulkan. Inside Wormfood, there's a sort of disembodied feeling like you might get when playing a VR game. In the prototype, I feel connected to each tiny motion. I forget the suit's strength isn't my own. The ability to fly, not natural.

  Next, I rip out the plug on the generator. The neon sputters and winks out while I jet to the parking lot. The rhythmic pulse of hip hop has been replaced by muffled shouts. People stumble outside, and the HUD tracks each one, boxing in their faces to create drunken portraits of confusion.

  I get the need for a bucket list. Mine is long overdue. I guess if I'm being honest, I might have considered at least a visit to a strip club somewhere on there but way below throwing out the opening pitch for a Giants game.

  Dazed, most of the patrons bumble along the wall or in bleary knots, laughing about their bad luck. Only a few see the dark armor in the unlit space where a valet podium once stood. Intoxicated, one tosses me a ticket and a wad of bills. Another who's had less to drink freezes, then bolts for the street.

  I didn't enter the building because I wanted to do this in the open and save the creepy old dudes from becoming statistics. Getting them all to run is ideal. This doesn't hold for the next group.

  Girls make their way through the door clad in loose robes or remnants of some costume they were half-way through discarding. Once again, I haven't much thought this through. I've got no way to stare at my feet or the starry sky. The HUD relentlessly tracks each swaying body. Ayana's pointed criticism about my sexual experience feels suddenly relevant. I came prepared to fight an Augment not confront...this.

  One of the girls screams and rushes back inside. To my surprise, the rest don't follow suit. One even steps closer, her robe leaving little to the imagination.

  "Calm down, ladies. Even Augment hunters need a lap dance." She smiles, not the least bit intimidated. "You on vacation or something?"

  I've had odd reactions to public appearances ever since FreedomNet played up the whole hero angle. Most of the fights though, I've managed to keep outside population centers. This time, the brief specified Titan worked and lived in this same damn building which gave me little choice. And why would he ever leave?

  "I need to speak to Pete."

  Another one of the exotic dancers comes forward, emboldened by her friend's response. "You here for a job? 'Cause if you be here for a job, strippin' outta that armor gonna take too damn long. Boys be impatient." The night shift at Sneaky Pete's has a good laugh.

  She's bold. The shifting mid-thigh robe isn't even my focus anymore. I get the feeling she's about to get in my face.

  I show her my hands. "Pete. Titan. I need to see him. This doesn't involve you."

  "You a robot?" asks the other. She's slipped in front of the one who seemed ready to pounce. Her own flimsy robe has come undone. "Or you just hidin' in there? No matter to me," she says, her finger tracing the leading edge of an armor plate on my...the armor's...chest. "Maybe you got attachments. I ain't never met a guy who couldn't use a few batteries every now and then."

  I haven't seen this much flesh since that one time in bed with an escaped lab experiment. My hormones had been the first thing to thaw when escaping the bunker, but life put them back into cold storage. Girlfriends, or the vague idea of having one, had always been somewhere behind saving Dad, freeing Mom, trying not to die.

  "I'm not on the market," I say, backing up, giving ground. For fuck's sake.

  "Target locked. Shock deployment set for female, approximately one hundred fifteen pounds," Drake suggests.

  "This ain't a commitment," she replies, moving steadily forward.

  The bold one, or should I say, the other bold one, is checking over her shoulder. Damn, a distraction. I almost want to let it work. Not to see if I can earn a free show, but to see if that same reckless lust is even there anymore. Or has it gone somewhere else?

  Anger. Regret. An overwhelming need to change the past. What do I have left?

  She reaches again, and I intercept her hand. The grip causes a squeak of pain, and she crumples. I'm not holding her that tight, am I? I release her hand and stagger away as her friends rush forward. The HUD tracks their faces as they form a defensive wall around their co-wor
ker. All are shouting and angry. One throws her shoe. A goddamn shoe which Drake tracks, eager to unnecessarily obliterate.

  I have a mission.

  "Kill the audio," I demand, and Drake complies.

  Muted, their protests aren't much easier to ignore. The full horizon HUD tracks them. A knot of half-exposed flesh, huddled protectively, anguished faces contorting with every curse. Who approaches a walking weapon anyway? Lying down in front of a tank would be as effective. And for what? To help a fugitive?

  "Scan the building," I say.

  Doppler imaging reveals several more figures moving around inside. Some are crouched low, breathing stressed and trapped under a solid surface—table, stage, or bar. A pair goes about business as usual, a private dance in the dark. Another stumbles through tighter spaces at the back. Collisions with the wall and heavy, desperate footsteps paint a digital afterimage of escape as somebody familiar enough with the building makes their way to the rear exit in the total darkness.

  I do the ladies a favor and make sure they're clear of the jet wash before I launch. The first one to approach, she stands, the tiny robe a pennant whipping from her shoulders. Lip reading isn't part of the algorithms, but I don't need a computer assist on this one.

  "Don't kill him, asshole!"

  CHAPTER 29

  BEFORE I CREST THE roof line, Drake picks up the whine of a high cc engine. Titan looks ridiculous exploding down the alleyway on his crotch rocket. Since his active duty days, he's really let himself go. He's a seriously stocky dude more suited for one of those hogs with the long, arched handlebars.

  From the rear, he's a fleshy passenger on a high-speed unicycle. Flat out in the narrow alley, the bike hits ninety miles per hour before the far end according to the HUD. Timely braking and an agile turn and he's around the first corner. The engine screams as he whips onto the main drag.

  "Homing missile armed," Drake offers.

  I can't say I'm not tempted. As fast as this guy's bike is, most of the prototype's armaments and own speed are exponentially greater—but not the tranquilizers.

  Every single one of these targets remembers Killcreek. Their powers have even been enhanced or changed by the experience. That's been enough incentive to convince them to not come quietly. Several, as I found out, were eager for a shot at the Black Beetle. A few, they'd hoped to be going toe to toe with the Crimson Mask. Dad's apology about being duped by the government hadn't been fully accepted. And here I was, the living embodiment of both. None of them were about to go quietly.

  Maybe Titan will. I've found Vulkan. I'm not training anymore, I'm buying time.

  I go higher up to watch Titan wind through empty streets. He's headed for The Strip itself. Drake has him painted and won't let go. By the inaudible slosh of the tank and his average speed, I've got a real-time fuel estimate. Top speed shows as a bare fraction of my own. His rear tire is worn. A well-placed puddle and he'd leave his face on the pavement.

  The prototype gives me all this information from five hundred feet in the air. I could even go into low orbit and end his run. I pull up the parking lot of Sneaky Pete's. The woman who challenged me, asked me not to kill him, is still there, alone. Zoom closer and I think she's staring right at this dark stain against a feeble green sky.

  Martin put himself in front of death incarnate. Mom gave herself up for me. Emily came after a world-killer Augment with a metal pipe.

  I know this woman.

  Jets fire and I'm in pursuit. I catch up to Titan as he careens onto the Strip. No traffic, he's got the narrow lanes plowed free of obstructing vehicles to open up his engine. He hits one hundred fifty miles per hour, unaware I'm cruising less than ten feet over his head. The vacant Strip blurs past. His single headlight creates a streak of color against the idle and stacked cars.

  It did have to be that way, Jupiter. You would've buried me in your scrap yard if given the chance. Patriot would have carved me up with his force fields, surgically sealing them around my limbs had I given him the chance. A relentless hammering of his defenses until they failed was the only way. Thor, that crazy fucking Viking. He'd read too much Norse mythology after being Christened a weapon. Valhalla was his calling.

  They had to die.

  Drake scrolls through the options encouraging lethality. A missile, a ballistic round, even the tranquilizers and at this speed on the bike, it's mission complete. He doesn't even have a helmet on.

  "What are you waiting for?"

  Ayana. I almost forgot that she was at the controls. This may only have one way it ends.

  "Don't interfere," I warn her.

  It's a lame response. I know better than to antagonize her though. If this is going to work, I need to stay in control of the situation, not give her a reason.

  "You have no need for a street race. Complete the objective and return to base."

  "I'm waiting until we clear the city," I tell her. "Prevent collateral damage and all, with the media coverage you guys keep providing."

  At this rate, we'll be in the desert in less than four minutes. Assuming he doesn't change course. He's checked his six three times now and not caught sight of me. He might even think he's running free.

  Titan throttles down and leans hard to one side. I start to think he's setting up for a turn, but he takes one hand off the handlebars. Two things happen which I can't fully react to.

  The motorcycle rights itself violently. A sudden redistribution of weight has slung it to the side where his now free hand swats into the air. I almost don't believe the readouts as the distance from his palm to my face instantly disappears.

  The armor reels with the impact. Flesh covers half of my HUD. It's a gargantuan bitch slap which the maneuvering thrusters can't compensate for fast enough.

  Hurtling through the air, Cleopatra's needle shears in two as I splinter the fake monument and keep flying. Rear view of the HUD shows the surprised expression of the Sphinx as he accepts his fate. A blemish on the nose would be too much ask. I shout in surprise as the entire face caves inward, a shower of plaster and wire-framed skin becoming my entire world with the impact. Outside acoustics relay the wail of a dying beast as the facade gnashes and metal screams.

  Free again in the night sky, I haven't stopped yet. Obsidian black against the sickly green sky, the pyramid of glass and steel doesn't stand a chance.

  I careen into the middle stories of the Luxor, a stone into a pond, all the mirrored tranquility wrecked. Empty guest rooms rush by. Carpet rends, wood shatters, sheetrock pulverizes until the collection of furniture and broken innards has piled enough to bring my ride to a stop.

  A dribble then a hiss and water cascades down on the HUD. I'm propped against the edge of the bathtub where my flight stopped.

  Laughter fills the comms. "I must thank you for convincing me not to intervene."

  "Motherfucker," I grumble, though I keep it to myself and off the channel.

  Systems are all online. Minimal damage to subsystems but nothing vital. The suit was designed to take worse hits. There's no way I could've expected that, right? Titan grows, sure. This whole fine-tuned growth of specific limbs? Totally new.

  Drake still shows a reticle tracking where Titan should be. Maybe a missile from orbit wasn't such a bad idea? I position myself to use the tub as a launching pad and go full throttle. Near top speed when I reach the outside air, a sea of glass erupts and explodes in my wake. What's left of the sphinx’s head teeters and rolls to the pavement as I soar past.

  "Keeping that collateral damage to reasonable levels?" Ayana asks, still barely restraining her laughter.

  "Strip's empty. Send Xamse the bill."

  I kill the comms. Sure, Ayana can override and turn them back on, but she's probably too busy hitting the rewind button. Not killing this guy when I find him just got that much harder.

  I pass Titan's last known location outside the city limits on the same trajectory. Even at top speed, he couldn't have gotten so far ahead. I slow to a hover for a visual scan.
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br />   On the southern outskirts of the city, the skyline is a toothy void. South stretches toward a flat horizon and one cluster of lights which Drake reports to be an Army reserve base. Likely that's the acting headquarters for the region's Homeland Security and martial law initiatives. A few lonely cars trace the highways, but nothing Drake identifies as Titan and his crotch rocket. I get some altitude.

  "Overlay a street map. Show me the probably routes from his last known location."

  Surreal, the HUD becomes my personal VR sat nav. Drake highlights the streets where Titan could've peeled off. I rule out the double back. And if he did, I know exactly where he'd go, so no sense in checking that now. With mountains to the east, open highways where he could test the max speed on his bike lie west. Either he's headed for the canyons to try and lose me, or he's hitting the loop around the city and headed north.

  "Lost him?"

  I ignore Ayana.

  "Local military and law enforcement bands, Drake."

  "Affirmative."

  Ayana's chuckles are drowned out by the chatter of law and order. Mostly order. Illegal fuel stores being confiscated, generators creating both power and fines for unauthorized use, looting at a gravel yard of all places – there’s never a dull moment. I wonder, exactly how long this state of emergency can go on?

  A call breaks through from a State Trooper. "Vehicle at excessive speeds on 95. Christ, he's pushing two hundred. Permission to pursue?"

  "Negative. Conserve your fuel."

  "Drake, isolate that radio signal." In seconds I've got two points. One in town where the dispatch is, the other, northeast on highway ninety-five. "Got ya."

  Most didn't run. Those who could didn't have the means. Hurricane, now that would have been a race. Something tells me I'd be eating his dust. Cruising speeds and I'm quickly past the radio signal.

  The red bead of light from Titan's tail end is as good as any tracking device in this darkness. I've got no idea where he's in such a hurry to get to. What I do know, is he's headed in the general direction of California, the same way I'll return. I've gotten over the bitch slap. With nothing but time and a nearly unlimited fuel cell, I don't see any reason not to wait him out. We've tracked maybe fifteen minutes deeper into the desert when Ayana feels it necessary to open communications.