Vigil: Inferno Season (The Cyber Knight Chronicles Book 2)

by Bard Constantine

The feed showed a red-armored man in ninja-priest gear attacking a squad of guards with glowing cross-swords, cutting them down with savage efficiency.

  "Is that a religious cross on his chest?"

  "Appears so. Same with his weapons. Some kind of energy blades shaped like the same symbol."

  "A symbol outlawed by the United Havens Council along with hundreds of other religious emblems."

  "Apparently, this guy doesn't agree with that. Or with the whole turn the other cheek thing, either. Kinda hypocritical."

  "Well, zealots usually are. No wonder this kind of stuff was banned."

  "You can ban a symbol, but you can't ban an idea, Ronnie."

  "What are you, a philosopher now?"

  "I don't sleep anymore, so deep thoughts are all I have." He glanced down at her. "Don't do that."

  "Do what?"

  "Give me the pity look."

  "I'm not giving you any—"

  "You're doing it right now."

  She forced a smile. "I'm sorry, okay? So, it's clear from this feed that another perp was in the building. That clears Vigil from fault."

  "Not really. The feed goes haywire shortly after. I think that's when Vigil showed up. It's clear that he employs some type of counter-surveillance disrupters that allow him to move unseen."

  "Savvy."

  "Yeah. But from preliminary interviews can tell us, the killer priest shows up first, kills the guards, and plants the explosive. Vigil arrives shortly after, frees the captives, and gets them clear of the building before it blows. Digital forensics indicate a signal emitted from the top of the building across the street at the exact time of the explosion."

  "Remote detonation. Means it was the zealot, not Vigil."

  "Maybe. You don't have to sound so relieved, Ronnie."

  She hesitated, surveying the skyline. "It's just … the guy saved my life, Isaac. If not for him, we wouldn't be having this conversation. I know he's breaking the law, but I'd like to think he wouldn't do … this. He's not a killer."

  "Not that we know of, anyway. But it's only a matter of time."

  "He's not a killer, Isaac. Whoever he is, I owe him one. The least I can do is give him the benefit of the doubt."

  He gave her an amused look. "You know, I think I like this new Ronnie."

  "C'mon, give it a break."

  "No—you've been pretty positive lately. I wonder what's changed."

  Her cheeks heated. "Let's change the subject."

  "Yeah, okay. So, this new guy obviously isn't Vigil. Whoever he is, he's similar. Highly skilled, has access to some clearly advanced weaponry and gadgets. Did you see the wings?"

  "They guy has wings? That's it—we're calling him Death Angel."

  "Death Angel? I don't know…"

  "You don't like it?"

  "Sounds like an acid band."

  "You got better?"

  "How about Knightmare?"

  "Ooh, I like that one. Doesn't tie in the religious element, though." Ronnie spoke absently, scanning the area. Zoning out the noise, the static of the disorder, reducing the moving bodies into insubstantial blurs. Certain of the prickling sensation, the undeniable hunch that she was being watched.

  Zeroing on the alley, she finally spotted it—a dark silhouette barely visible against the shadowy backdrop. For a brief moment, they both stared at each other, locking gazes across the mass of shuffling bodies and flashing lights.

  Then, in a quick backward movement, Vigil disappeared.

  Ronnie felt her heart pound against her chest. "Hey, Isaac—let's split up and canvas the area. See if there's something that got overlooked."

  "Can't help being the detective?"

  "Nope. Meet you back here in half an hour."

  "Okay. I'll start with the basement area."

  They went in opposite directions. Ronnie cut across the RCE traffic, brushing past Responders, medical androids, hovering stretchers, and Emergency vehicles with lights flashing, traffic bots attempting to unravel the gridlock. Above her head, orbot drones hovered, covering every inch of the crime scene and surrounding area.

  No way he would just be standing around. Surveillance would have tagged him already.

  Drawing her handgun, she cautiously entered the alley. Head roving, eyes scanning, adjusting to the darkness. The overhead building lights should have been on, providing illumination. She noticed that further down, they were working. It was only around her immediate vicinity that they malfunctioned, almost as if—

  "Don't turn around," a flat, mechanical voice said.

  She took a quivery breath, weighing her options. Quickly turn and shoot, or…

  "I don't want to hurt you," Vigil said.

  "You have a funny way of showing it."

  "I let you see me on purpose. I have something to give you."

  "Maybe I'm not in the habit of accepting gifts from men in masks."

  "The women. What will happen to them?"

  She smirked. "You looking to start a harem?"

  "I'm just trying to help."

  "You wanna help? Go to the Academy and get your badge. You know—like the law allows."

  "Sometimes the law isn't enough, Captain Banks."

  Something about the way he said her name. It was … familiar somehow. Whirling around, she pointed the gun at him.

  "You know me?"

  Her weapon was snatched with irresistible force, flying straight into Vigil's hand. He was imposing—tall, broad-shouldered, black armor gleaming like a newly polished car. A hooded cape swung from his shoulders, blending so well with their surroundings that she nearly got queasy from looking at it. The sleek gauntlets around his forearms glimmered with humming energy and the red, V-shaped visor on the face of his helmet pulsed like a heartbeat.

  She steeled herself, hoping her anxiety didn't show on her face. "First time I get a good look at you. Armor looks nice. I'll have to see if my boss can get me a set like that."

  "I doubt it. They're expensive."

  Ronnie raised an eyebrow. "Humor? That's … unexpected."

  "I'm not your enemy, Captain."

  "You're not my friend, either. This city is ready to blow up like that building because of you and your Vigilant buddies."

  "The Vigilant aren't my buddies. Neither is Heretic."

  "Is that the name of your killer priest?"

  "From his own mouth."

  "Doesn't matter. None of them were around until you showed up. They're inspired by you. At some point, you have to hold yourself accountable. Your actions have repercussions."

  "They also get results." He held up a drive, offering it to her.

  "What's this?"

  "Information. Names, locations, routes. Enough for you to take down a lot of operations just like Moneta. Without outside interference. The police make the busts and get the credit. Not me. Not the Vigilant. And not Heretic."

  She hesitantly took the offered drive. "And you're just giving this to me out of the kindness of your heart?"

  "We're on the same team."

  "Then why don't you turn yourself in, make a deal for amnesty and work on the right side of the law? I'm sure I can pull some strings."

  He shook his head. "All of what I've witnessed can't happen without a lot of people profiting. Powerful people."

  Her eyes narrowed. "What are you saying?"

  "I have to go." He tossed her weapon back to her. By the time she caught it, he was already airborne, propelled by thrusters in the heels of his boots. Clearing the rooftop, he vanished from sight.

  "Ronnie?"

  Isaac ran into the alley with his gun drawn, eyes scanning the skyline. "That was him, wasn't it? Are you all right?"

  "Fine." She looked at the drive. "Just fine."

  He tapped his ear. "All eagles, I'm gonna need a sweep of—"

  She cut him off with a wave. "Cancel that, Isaac."

  He stared at her. "Why?"

  Her fingers closed over the device. "Because we have more important things to do."
/>
  Chapter 6: Amnesia

  Spitfire watched from her vantage point atop a water tower in Brickland, spying on a drug operation on the Red Hook docks. And old cargo boat unloading crates into a battered warehouse for distribution. Dirty water lapped against the coastline, rank with a stench like rotten eggs and dead fish. Seagulls strutted on the pebbly shore and sailed low over the water, calling out with raucous cries. The sun beat down, reflecting off the waters with a near-blinding glare.

  Guards roved over the dock grounds, alert. Grim Reaper Posse, decked out in skull masks, crossbones on their black-and-white attire. Soldiers, not the punks she beat up last week.

  Spitfire tapped her earpiece and whispered. "A lot of bones for a small shipment."

  Viper's voice buzzed over the com. "Must be important. Remember, you're there for recon only. No engagement."

  Spitfire smirked. "Okay, Mom."

  She paused, magnifying her visor when a large man stepped out of the warehouse. His belly protruded so far that his tightly-stretched shirt couldn't cover the bottom portion, leaving it bare to the sun. Sweat stained his chest and armpits, and he constantly wiped his bald head with a thick towel as he shouted at the dock workers.

  "It's him. The one they call Paul Onion. Top Boss."

  "Nothing's changed," Viper said. "Record the deal, tag the truck, and get back to base."

  "Gotta be Amnesia in those crates."

  "Don't let emotion cloud your judgment, Spitfire. Do not engage."

  Spitfire raised into a crouch. "Going in."

  "Don't do it. Do you hear me, Spitfire? This isn't—"

  Spitfire cut off the com, bringing up the remote-control panel on her g-span. From there, she operated Backburn, her customized hoverbike. It rounded the corner, gliding on drift panels, thrusters pulsing from the rear motor. Twin pulse blasters fired from the front faring, knocking over guards with hard-hitting stun rounds. They scrambled, firing erratically while seeking cover behind crates and barrels.

  Spitfire set the Backburn's mode to auto-evade, rappelling from the water tower and approaching the cargo ship while the guards were occupied with the diversion. Pulling a timed explosive from her belt pouch, she crouched down, preparing to plant it on the chassis of the shipping truck.

  "Gonna kill you, jade."

  An explosive gunshot was immediately followed by a painful impact in her back, knocking her flat against the broken concrete. Her back flared with agony, but the armor did its job. She flipped over, avoiding a second blast from Paul Onion's sawed-off shotgun. Sharp pieces of debris stung her face, but she managed to fire knockout darts from her wrist rocket, scoring hits on Paul Onion's flabby belly. He stared downward in confusion before the shotgun dropped from his numbed fingers. His pasty face sagged, drool hung from his quivery lips before he toppled from the steps and landed face-first on the asphalt.

  Spitfire picked herself up gingerly. The bomb. Where did I—?

  A high-pitched, girlish voice called out from the warehouse. "Big Daddy? Oh, no!"

  The wide-eyed girl that emerged looked around Spitfire's age. Her hair was cut in a jagged punk style, died purple and green, and her impish face was painted with large hearts on her cheeks. She wore a garishly colored jumpsuit of bright orange and green, with a mech-harness over her chest that allowed her to manipulate oversized robot arms attached to her skinny ones. Spitfire knew her only by reputation. Paul Onion's personal bodyguard, known for her love of anime, video games, and manslaughter.

  Manic Pixie Girl.

  Looking up from Paul Onion, her eyes narrowed. "You hurt Big Daddy. Now I'm gonna kill ya!"

  Using her mech-arms, she ran on her knuckles like a gorilla. Spitfire narrowly avoided a punch from a fist half the size of her entire body. It struck the body of the truck, buckling the siding like a cheap aluminum can with a crunching sound.

  Manic Pixie Girl shrieked. "Stand still so I can tear your arms off!"

  Spitfire responded by switching her wrist rockets to pulse rounds, firing while leaping backward. Manic Pixie Girl blocked with her massive arms, easily shielding herself from the volleys. Then with a savage grin, she slammed her fingers into the concrete, breaking off huge chunks and hurling them.

  "Die, die, die!"

  Spitfire dodged and somersaulted, narrowly avoiding the first jagged pieces. A third slab slammed into her side. She threw up an arm and heard something crunch; felt pain flare so intensely that she nearly screamed. One arm hung uselessly as she scrambled, gritting her teeth against the pain. Manic Pixie Girl shrieked with laughter when she rushed forward, eyes gleaming with anticipation.

  Spitfire tapped the DETONATE button on her arm panel. The bomb had slid near the front of the truck, blowing the grill and engine apart in a mushrooming cloud of fire. The force slammed into Manic Pixie Girl's back, bowling her over.

  Backburn hummed as it cleared the ledge, slowing only enough for Spitfire to grab the handlebar with her good arm and painfully throw herself into the seat. The thrusters fired while she hung on, head low, blood dripping from her face. The docks were left behind, replaced by blurred buildings and foliage as the bike automatically took her home. Spitfire's suit stimulated her nerves to release endorphins in response to the pain, but her injuries really didn't matter.

  They were nothing compared to the agony of defeat.

  Ⓥ

  Good morning, Neo-Yorkers. You're with Cam Danvers on another NYN Fast Break. What's worse than a relentless heat wave and an uptick in vigilante versus gang violence? How about Amnesia, the newest synthetic narcotic to hit the streets. Targeted to Sensync users and Immersion addicts, this new drug is a memory in a pill. Pre-order memories of choice or receive random ones, either way you get to trip without being connected to any machinery or pay monthly installments on Deep Sleep pods. The downside? Only a twenty-percent chance of brain hemorrhaging, nerve damage, and seizures, usually resulting in death. But hey*if the playback of me feeding my cat and pouring a shot of whiskey over my vanilla bean ice cream before bedtime is worth the risk, knock yourself out, I guess.

  Meanwhile, we still have no verification if last night's brutal attack on the Moneta nightclub was an attack by Vigil or one of his copycat followers, the Vigilant. The RCE has yet to release surveillance footage, and we've received conflicting reports on who exactly was involved. What we do know is that five hundred thirty-three women and teenage girls were held captive in a hidden basement warehouse under the club, which has apparently been a cover for a virtual sex slave operation. Guess that would explain why all the corporate sharks hung out in an area known to be affiliated with the Krazy-Eights syndicate. We have yet to receive a comment from Eight-Baller Enterprises, the company that owns Moneta and several other clubs in the city.

  ***

  Mira winced. "Ow."

  Qhawa paused in the act of dabbing nanocream on Mira's face. "Now you want to complain? You didn't even flinch when I reset the bone in your arm."

  "Painkillers wore off since then."

  "Good. A little pain never hurt anyone. In fact, it's a good reminder sometimes."

  Mira gave her mentor a sidelong look. Qhawa wasn't angry. She didn't yell or threaten when Mira returned to their garage-turned-headquarters battered and bruised. She tended to Mira's injuries with the practiced efficiency of someone who had done similar work many times. Mira wondered if anything got Qhawa upset. She was so even-tempered it was frustrating at times. But Mira was grateful for the attention. She had only faint memories of a mother and never had an older sibling. She was fiercely attached to Qhawa, determined to make her proud.

  That's why it hurt so much to fail her.

  "I'm sorry," she whispered, feeling tears well in her eyes. "I should have listened to you."

  Qhawa looked up, dark eyes full of knowing. "I know you are, Mira. I hope this has taught you something important. You were fortunate that I took over control of the Backburn. What you did is exactly how Arthur was nearly killed. Instead, he remains paralyzed f
or life. Teamwork, Mira. That is the deal you agreed to. If you can't hold up your side, then our time will be at an end."

  "No." Mira clasped both hands around Qhawa's. "I won't let you down again. I promise."

  Qhawa smiled. "I know, Mira."

  She turned when the door alert buzzed. Mira glanced at the camera feed, where a familiar face peered into the lens.

  "Ugh. Don't let him in."

  Qhawa ignored her, tapping a button on the wall. "Admit our guest."

  The heavy-duty locks disengaged, and the security door opened, allowing Jett to enter. His eyes flicked over the operations center, taking in the computer lab, weapons, and gear on the walls and tables, the hoverbike parked at its charging station. He gave Qhawa a pleasant nod. "Hope I'm not interrupting anything."

  "Not really. What brings you here, Jett?"

  "I was in the area and thought I'd—" His eyes widened when he saw Mira. "Holy hell, what happened to you? Why is your arm in a sling? Did you break it?"

  Mira glowered. "Not your business, yo."

  His head jerked. "Not my business? You got hurt playing hero, didn't you? I know all about your little extracurricular activities, Spitfire."

  "So what? No different than you being Vigil."

  Muscles worked in his jaw. "No different? It's a world of difference. I was a soldier before you were born, kiddo. I had years of combat training, even more years of experience fighting enemies you couldn't imagine in your wildest dreams. Imperials, not the five-and-dime knuckleheads that just rearranged your face. You're just a kid with an attitude and a knack for getting into trouble."

  Turning, he pointed an accusing finger at Qhawa. "I can't believe you're condoning this. You're going to get her killed if you both keep up this foolishness."

  Mira watched Qhawa closely, half-expecting her to respond to Jett's rudeness in kind. But instead, she gave him a knowing smile. "I seem to remember having to come to your aid after you were stomped on by Joe Blow only months ago. All things considered, you looked a lot worse than Mira does."

  Mira smiled in satisfaction when Jett sputtered, trying to find a comeback. "Well … that was different. I was just learning how to—"

  "Just as she is trying to learn. You could at least allow her that luxury, especially since it was you who pulled her into your world, Jett. And you brought her to me in the first place. Remember that?"