Rath's Reckoning (The Janus Group #3)

by Piers Platt

  Two down, three to go.

  On the screen, Paisen watched as the assaulters on the left side of the door backed away from the open entrance. The rear man scanned the waiting room, and she saw him point his weapon at the camera. She heard the gun fire, and the feed went dead, but not before she caught a glimpse of the man’s burn-ravaged face.

  Hello again, dickhead.

  Paisen kept her pistol pointed at the door. Through the open frame, she heard sounds of movement outside in the waiting area.

  They’re planning something. Gotta catch them in the doorway – engage them one-by-one. That’s where they’re most vulnerable.

  A flicker of movement caught her eye – she zoomed in and saw that a micro-drone identical to the one she had used on Fusoria had crept onto the door’s frame. Paisen took careful aim and fired once, then again, knocking it down, but the contractors had already located her. She ducked behind the desk as a fusillade of guided bullets arced in through the door, slamming into the picture window behind her.

  Paisen dropped onto the floor, lying flat, with her hands and head peeking past the end of the desk. She brought the pistol up just as the first assaulter dashed into the room, hot on the heels of the guided bullets. He saw her down on the floor and shifted aim, but the split second delay was all Paisen needed – two rounds to the forehead knocked him down. The next assaulter was already in the doorway taking aim; Paisen squeezed off a quick round, then pulled her head back behind the desk as his rounds impacted the carpet where she had just been. The contractor kept firing, shifting his point of aim and sending round after round into and over the desk.

  He’s laying down suppressive fire.

  Paisen put her back to the desk, squatting next to Mastic’s unconscious form. The viewport behind the desk was cracked from bullet impacts, but in the fractured glass, she could just make out the contractor’s reflection. He was moving clockwise away from the door, seeking a better angle on her position. She reversed her grip on the pistol, then held it up over the edge of the desk above her head, pointing behind her.

  Paisen opened fire, tracking the contractor as he moved. He fired back, and she heard the desk’s wood splinter as his rounds landed near her pistol. She hit him with her fourth shot, but his body armor absorbed the weaker pistol round. She had found her aim, however, and hit him four more times, finally dropping him.

  “I know that sound,” 700 told her.

  She panicked, scanning the viewport glass, and saw his reflection – he had entered while she was distracted, and moved to the other side of the room.

  “That was the sound of a pistol’s slide locking open on an empty chamber. You’re empty.”

  Paisen checked the pistol – he was right.

  “Stand up, 339,” he ordered.

  Paisen stood, and set the empty pistol on the desk.

  700 smiled, covering her with his auto-rifle. “Back away from the senator.”

  Paisen complied, coming out from behind the desk. She shuffled toward the contractor she had killed last, glancing at his rifle.

  “That’s far enough,” 700 told her.

  He moved to the back of the desk, watching Paisen carefully. He indicated Mastic with the barrel of the gun.

  “Is she dead?”

  “Yeah,” Paisen said.

  700 arched an eyebrow at her, then stepped back. He fired twice, hitting Mastic in the head. The senator slumped over onto the floor.

  “Now she’s dead.”

  “Jesus,” Paisen said, grimacing.

  “What did she tell you?” 700 asked.

  “Nothing. She just wanted to know if she could count on my vote in the next election.”

  700 laughed. He slung his rifle across his chest, and Paisen watched as he drew his pistol, and then unloaded it. “Do you know something?”

  “What?”

  “They can’t hear us in here. Headquarters, I mean. They can’t see my feed.”

  He crossed the room, keeping one hand on his rifle, and squatted, unloading the other two contractors’ weapons.

  “So?” Paisen asked.

  “So … that means we have some privacy. Just like last time. The director is desperate to get you back in custody – she feels we owe you some special treatment after all the grief you’ve caused.”

  700 stood up and dropped the magazine out of his rifle. He pulled on the charging handle, ejecting the weapon’s remaining round.

  “But I’ve been a good little contractor for her, considering. So I think I deserve to have some fun. But bullets are so impersonal … and efficient.”

  “You want to fight me?” Paisen asked.

  “No. I want to hurt you,” he said, licking his lips, “and then I want to kill you.”

  Paisen shifted into a ready stance. “Come on then, psycho. I have a feeling there are women out there who will be glad to hear you’re dead. A number of women.”

  “Seventy-two.” The scars on 700’s face twisted awkwardly as he smiled. “That’s the number of women. But they’re all dead.”

  He moved more quickly than she had anticipated, and planted a vicious kick on her stomach, knocking her back into Mastic’s desk. Paisen recovered and circled toward the office’s door, but 700 blocked her, forcing her away from the exit and the weapons lying in the lobby.

  Paisen feinted, and then tagged him with a right hook to the jaw, but her left missed, and opened her up to a brutal punch to her kidneys. She cried out in pain.

  He’s stronger than I am.

  She kicked him in the shin, closing with him and grappling for a second, seeking a good arm-hold for a throw. But 700 broke away and dodged back, batting away the knee she sent toward his ribs. She tried a punch, but he ducked under it easily.

  And maybe faster, too.

  He grinned at her, then moved in close, shrugging off another of her right hooks to grab her by the arm and then flip her to the ground. Paisen landed heavily, and groaned. He kicked her hard in the ribs, and then dropped quickly on top of her, straddling her with his legs. She brought her arms up to shield her head, and winced as he battered her with a flurry of heavy punches. He drew back and then leaned into the final blow with all of his weight. His fist found her jaw, and she saw stars for several seconds.

  700 stood up and backed away. “Get up,” he said.

  She rolled onto her stomach, and spat a gob of blood onto the carpet. She tongued her teeth experimentally, and felt one of them move. Paisen scanned the floor near her, but it was devoid of anything she could use as a weapon. She sighed and pushed herself off the floor, then straightened up.

  700 grabbed for her again, but she twisted this time, and knocked the wind from him with a swift elbow to the solar plexus. He stepped back, wheezing and laughing.

  “Nice one,” he coughed.

  They grappled again, both searching for an advantageous position. Paisen tried to gouge his eyes, but he shook his head, and grabbed her by the hair. He yanked her head down, bringing his knee up at the same time. Paisen felt her nose break; she collapsed onto her knees.

  700 circled her, then kicked her in the back, knocking her to the floor. He grabbed her hair again and pulled her back to her knees, wrapping his arm around her neck and cinching the choke-hold tight. Paisen grabbed at his arm, but she could not budge it. 700 squeezed. Paisen elbowed him once, twice, and a third time, but she couldn’t shake him loose. Her hemobots sent a low oxygen warning notification to her heads-up display. They went into emergency mode automatically, collecting in her lungs to convert some of the carbon dioxide back into oxygen. But the pressure on her neck prevented them from carrying the oxygenated blood to her brain, and she could feel her consciousness beginning to fade.

  Abruptly, 700 let go. Paisen collapsed onto the floor, gasping for air. He turned her onto her back, sat on her stomach, and wrapped both hands around her neck.

  “Goodbye, 339,” he said watching her face as she struggled.

  “I’ll see you in hell,” she managed. She chec
ked that the metal disc was still tucked inside her shirt pocket, found the detonator bracelet on her wrist, and pressed the button.

  Nothing happened.

  Damn it. The signal’s blocked by the office’s communications shielding!

  She felt 700’s fingers tighten around her neck. She scratched at him, and tried to heave him off by bucking her hips, but he was too heavy. Her vision blurred, and then a gunshot rang out. 700 slumped over, blood pouring from a massive head wound.

  Paisen gasped, sucking in air. After a few breaths, she pushed the lifeless form off of her and stood up, wiping blood from her face. Dasi stood in the doorway, a look of surprise and alarm on her face, and an auto-pistol in one hand.

  “Next time, hold the pistol with two hands,” Paisen croaked. “One-handed shooting is a great way to waste ammunition.” She cleared her throat. “Not that I’m complaining, or anything ….”

  Dasi lowered the gun. “It kind of sounds like you are.”

  Paisen grimaced. “Yeah, well … it’s been a little tense around here, you know?” She took the pistol from Dasi and wiped down the trigger and grip with her shirt, removing the younger woman’s fingerprints. Then she dropped the gun next to one of the dead contractors. Dasi stood rooted in the doorway.

  “Are you okay?” Paisen asked.

  “I think so,” Dasi said, shivering. She tore her eyes away from 700’s body.

  “Well, then, let’s get the hell out of here.”

  Dasi noticed Senator Mastic’s body. “Did you get to her in time?”

  “Mastic? Yeah. She gave me the location, but 700 came in before I could get her out. Now come on … the Senate Guards will be swarming all over this place any minute.”

  They walked through the waiting area, side-stepping the blood pooling on the carpeted floor. As they reached the reception area, they saw Giron and two other staffers peering cautiously out the door that led into the main office area. Giron’s jaw dropped when he saw the two women, one covered in blood.

  “I’d stay there, if I were you,” Dasi told him.

  He nodded dumbly.

  Outside, Paisen scanned the wide roadway, searching for signs of the police.

  “Mikolos, do you read me?”

  “I’m here,” he radioed back.

  “We’re going to need a new plan for pickup,” Paisen told him. “We can’t get out of this section and back to the docking bays. Lift off and come to my location.”

  “Understood,” he said. “You’d best figure it out quickly, air traffic control is about to shut down all civilian traffic. Some kind of emergency situation. I imagine you’re in the middle of it.”

  “Yeah, that’s us.”

  Paisen opened the door to their ground car and climbed behind the wheel. “You still have that high energy prototype disc I gave you?” she asked Dasi.

  “Uh huh,” Dasi said. “Why?”

  “I’m thinking we’re going to try something stupid.”

  Dasi handed her the disc, and Paisen stuck it in her shirt pocket. She backed out of the parking spot and drove the wrong way up the street, back toward the multi-story viewport they had passed on their way in. Several cars honked as they dodged to avoid her. Paisen ignored them, and screeched to a halt next to the floor-to-ceiling viewport.

  “Got any gum?” she asked.

  Dasi shook her head. “No.”

  “Check the glove compartment for tape, or glue, or something.”

  “Nope,” Dasi reported. “Just the rental paperwork.”

  Paisen climbed out of the car and lay down, sticking her head and arms under the wheel-well. She appeared a moment later, and Dasi watched, frowning, as the older woman smeared axle grease on both of the metal discs. Then Paisen jogged over to the viewport and pressed the grease-covered discs onto the glass several feet apart, at shoulder height. She wiped her hands on her pants and then jumped back into the car.

  “Mikolos, ETA?” she asked.

  The bright yellow ship pulled into view several hundred meters outside the viewport a second later.

  “Disregard, I see you.”

  “I’m getting a lot of angry radio messages from air traffic control,” he warned.

  Farther down the road, a massive bulkhead lifted upwards, revealing a squadron of emergency vehicles, their lights flashing. Paisen put the car in gear and roared toward them. Then she braked hard, spinning the wheel to turn them around. She drove forward a few feet, lining the car up with the viewport.

  “Paisen,” Dasi said nervously. “Is this car pressurized?”

  “I doubt it,” Paisen said. “Hold your breath.”

  Dasi buckled her seatbelt.

  “Mikolos, remember how we got back on board on Emerist?”

  “Yes,” he said.

  Paisen checked her rear view mirror – the police vehicles were approaching fast. “Okay, same plan. And stand by to rapidly repressurize the cargo bay once we’re in.”

  Out in the vacuum, the Hurasu spun on its axis, and Paisen could just make out the cargo bay door opening up. She threw the car into gear and pushed the accelerator to the floor. Dasi closed her eyes and braced her arms against the dashboard. As they raced toward the window, Paisen held up her detonator bracelet, selected the setting to detonate all of the discs at once, and pressed the button. The discs exploded, shattering the lower half of the window, and a second later, the car punched through the gaping hole, arcing out into space toward the waiting ship.

  21

  Through the window of the senator’s mansion, Rath spotted an air car streaking away from the airship. It angled west, and Rath saw the Hurasu appear from out of a bank of cloud, on an intercept course.

  Good. Paisen and Dasi made it out.

  Then a movement in his peripheral vision caught his attention. Rath bellowed a warning to Beauceron and threw himself back from the doorway. Out in the hall, the grenade exploded before Rath could kick the door closed; the shockwave knocked both men to the floor. Rath rolled to his side, pointing the pistol through the smoke of the hall. He switched to infrared vision on his optical implants, and a second later, saw a white-hot form duck around the corner of the stairs. Rath fired once, and the form yanked back behind cover.

  Shit. I missed.

  He stood and dashed over to Beauceron, pulling the detective to his feet, and wincing as his broken ribs burned in response.

  “You okay?”

  Beauceron coughed, nodding. Rath pushed him toward the back of the room, at a set of tall double doors.

  Gotta get out of here … though I have no fucking clue where those doors lead.

  Beauceron fumbled with the latch, while Rath covered their rear. Another grenade rolled into the room.

  Fucking spamming us with the grenades!

  Rath pulled Beauceron down behind a large, wooden bed. The grenade exploded harmlessly, and Rath leapt up, tugging at the double doors, until finally they gave way, and swung open. But instead of another room, the doors opened onto a small balcony, looking out over the clouds of Emerist.

  “Fuck!” Rath swore. “Come on, Martin – maybe we can climb over.”

  A rifle appeared at the doorway into the room, and fired a sustained burst, sweeping across the room. Rath and Beauceron stepped out onto the balcony and took cover on either side of the doors. Rath fired a single round in return, then took a better look at the balcony. The walls on either side were sheer, without handholds, and though there was another balcony below them, it was at least four stories down.

  We’re trapped.

  He looked at Beauceron, who had reached the same conclusion. The detective shrugged.

  “Well, this can’t much get worse,” Rath told him.

  The second air car swung into view. Rath brought his pistol up, but before he could fire, he heard a distant explosion, and felt the airship tilt drunkenly to one side. The air car swerved backwards, careful to avoid a collision with the larger vessel. It disappeared over the roof of the mansion. Another explosion jolted the
airship, and Rath felt them tilt suddenly backwards – he and Beauceron were thrown against the railing of the balcony. He looked down through the railing and saw the yawning void of Emerist’s clouds below him.

  With a lurch, he felt the great ship start falling.

  Rath heard a shout of alarm, and looked up to see a contractor sliding down the floor of the room, which was now perpendicular to the ground. The man scrabbled for purchase, before catching hold of the balcony door above Rath. The contractor’s rifle tumbled past Rath, and the man caught Rath’s eye. He let go with one hand, and reached for the auto-pistol in his belt holster. Rath shot him once, and the man fell, bouncing off the railing next to Rath before vanishing into the mists below.

  The ship was nearly standing on its end, and Rath glanced over to see Beauceron holding tight to the railing with both hands, trying to position his feet against the railing’s supports so that he could stand up.

  “We’re not just tipping, we’re falling!” Rath shouted.

  “I know!” Beauceron replied.

  The mists thickened as they plunged deeper into Emerist’s atmosphere, and Rath coughed as the acrid gas irritated his throat. When he looked up again, the air car was there, hovering near them, matching the airship’s speed as it fell. Rath fired two rounds at it before his pistol locked open on an empty chamber. The bullets bounced harmlessly off the car’s exterior plating. Rath watched in fascination as the barrels on the car’s cannon spun up, gathering speed. He closed his eyes.

  This is how it ends.

  With a sound like a massive sheet of metal being torn in two, a cannon fired, and Rath heard Beauceron give an incoherent cheer. Confused, Rath opened his eyes.

  The Group air car, leaking smoke and flames from numerous cannon holes, plummeted down and smashed into the side of Lizelle’s mansion with an ear-splitting crash. An Interstellar Police cruiser swept into view.

  Rath turned away from the police car, shielding his head from view while he transformed himself. After a second, he turned back, and waved one arm frantically above his head. The cruiser nosed in toward them, closing the gap. Rath saw a police officer climb out the side wearing a harness – as the car turned its side toward the balcony, the man tossed them another harness attached to a rope, and motioned that Rath should get into it. Rath pulled it on and then stepped off the balcony, letting the rope take his weight.