Zero Rogue

by Matthew S. Cox

  He pulled himself away from the groaning figures and trotted across the street to his target. Two large windows fronted the fifth building. The lack of power reduced the normal bloom of holographic signage to a few small, dark emitters. However, the front room resembled a beauty salon, complete with chairs looking like they belonged on the set of a cheap horror vid. A patch of less-dirty floor and a scattering of broken bolts indicated a spot where someone had stolen one.

  Aaron nudged the door open from twenty yards away. It let off a faint squeak as the sliding mechanism ground against its rails. When nothing exploded or blared, he crept up and ducked inside. The aroma of Chinese food hung in the air, swirling about with dust and whiskey. Faint whimpering of the feminine variety came from deeper inside. He grabbed at his hip, again forgetting he had no tactical armor. The E-90 didn’t hang under his arm either. His rush to forget had sent him to the Imperial without it.

  Bother.

  Two interior doors led out of the front space, the one on the left an obvious closet. In the center of the wall opposite the entry, a pair of decorative faux-wood double doors fluttered in a weak breeze. He crept up and peered into a leaf-shaped window a little less than eye level.

  Inside, ten stations set up as office cubicles held equipment for more advanced procedures than simple hair treatments. The first four seemed intended for pedicures. The next four had machines for cosmetic implants less permanent than NanoLED tattoos―the so-called ‘forty-two day makeover.’ The last two were the largest, their equipment the most complex. Sample images on the cube walls gave away their intent―facial restructuring. The same woman appeared in multiple pictures, with nine different noses, three alternate eye shapes, and four different jawlines. Aaron let off a noiseless whistle of disbelief.

  The open ceiling stretched two stories up, giving a view into what used to be a mini-mall. A few stores had solid signs instead of holograms, coffee shops, cosmetic places, and a few clothing boutiques. All of it had overgrown with hanging ivy and weeds, watered by holes in the roof from which steady streams continued dribbling. Moss clung to angled slabs of concrete hanging on spindly rebar, glimmering with a sheen of runoff. He figured a pipe had to have burst somewhere above; far too much water than what simple rain could have accounted for pattered to the floor all around him.

  Another whimper echoed off the ceiling of the atrium-like chamber. At the end of the stations, a writhing female body occupied the salon chair missing from the front room, facing away from him. A scrawny woman with a dark bag over her head struggled against some manner of cord securing her entire forearms to the armrests. A bit of short, green sleeve poked around the edge. Bare caramel-colored legs writhed in time with muted grunts. The same type of cord bound her ankles together and went under the chair to the hydraulic base. Green light glowed from the top of her left foot, a NanoLED tattoo of a scorpion about to crawl onto her big toe.

  Two men in black suits occupied themselves with small electronics a short distance past the girl. One’s face lit with flashes of fiery red and orange, his intense look focused on a video game. The other put down his NetMini and reached for a long sandwich. Aaron nudged the door open and slipped in. He stifled a cough at air so thick with the fragrance of vegetation he may as well have chewed on weeds.

  Aaron focused on the man lifting the submarine sandwich to his lips. A telekinetic shove drilled his face into the desk through his lunch, flooding the room with a resounding metallic boom and a spray of shredded lettuce. He slumped forward. The other man, having looked up in time to see his friend deep-throat his sub to the point of unconsciousness, burst into laughter.

  “Must be a damn good deli.” Aaron strolled among the beauty stations.

  Laughter ended with an incredulous stare. The Syndicate man pulled a pistol out from his suit jacket, but it never quite aimed at Aaron. As soon as it emerged from fabric, Aaron seized it with his telekinetic grasp. An outside observer would have assumed the man bashed himself in the face with it four times before sliding out of the chair. Aaron clucked his tongue at the man, face first on the floor with his ass in the air.

  “Flying ostrich, so undignified, mate.”

  The girl tried to say something, but sounded gagged.

  “Hang on, luv.” Aaron looked around and up, seeing no one else. He levitated the pistol over and tucked it in his belt. “I’ll have you out of there in a jif.”

  She mumbled something, shaking herself with a gesture of impatience.

  Aaron kept a wary eye upward at a walkway around the second floor as he edged to the chair, grasped the seatback, and pulled it around. The young woman trapped in it didn’t fit his expectation of what Shimmer would look like. Her lime green miniskirt was tattered and stained, and her half shirt bunched up under an X of cord that pinned her chest to the seatback. Bare feet seemed to be the cleanest part of her, with a lack of grime continuing to the midway point of her shins.

  The stink of a street-dweller clung to her, rivaled only by the odors of booze and rotten food on the wind. Someone had tossed a pair of thick shin-high boots under the desk on top of what looked like a jacket and small backpack. He tore the silver tape from around her neck, freeing the cloth bag, which he pulled off her head. The girl seemed about eighteen. Blood trickled out of her nose, and her left eye appeared well on its way to being black. More silver tape wound around her head several times, over wild, black hair tinged with silver and red. A trace of dingy, pink satin protruded from the gag under her nose. Bruises in the shape of finger marks dotted her legs and arms.

  Her huge, brown eyes widened with urgency. She pointed at her face and tried to say something. Aaron had to look away from her for a moment. Enough ‘little girl’ remained apparent despite her hard outer shell to reawaken a bit of the law officer left in him. Aaron had never imagined himself a cop while in London, but after a few years here, he’d grown to enjoy it. He snarled at the man on the floor. The body jerked upright, but he found control before rage made him snap the neck. She mumbled and wobbled. Even gagged, “Get me out of here” came through clear. Her biceps swelled as she pulled on the cords, fingers clawed at the air toward her face. Tiny round bruises with red points in the center decorated the inside of each forearm―the mark of autoinjectors. The girl’s eyes didn’t glow green; at least she hadn’t dosed Lace.

  “Tape’s in your hair. It’s gonna hurt a bit, luv.”

  She made noises and shook her head, bouncing.

  Aaron recoiled from her surface thoughts, having no interest in knowing what her months-unwashed underwear tasted like. He clamped a hand over his mouth and gurgled.

  Her glare hardened. The next attempt she made to yell sounded like “Do it.” Already, traces of vomit dribbled down her chin. She seemed to be losing the battle to hold it in.

  A surgical telekinetic pull tore all five or six layers of tape, and he unwound it from her head with as much gentleness as possible. As soon as the tape left her lips, a wadded pair of panties burst out of her mouth at the forefront of a sluice of orange-brown liquid, which splattered all over her. She lapsed into a gagging, coughing fit.

  Aaron’s patience attacking the knot at the back of the chair lasted for all of two seconds. Shimmer couldn’t lean forward to throw up as long as the cords pinned her to the chair, and from the gurgling, he figured she had a lot more needing to come out. In an effort not to hurt her, he tensioned the cord with a telekinetic pull and gradually built up strength until the level of exertion reached the point where it felt like he could have lifted a full conversion cyborg. When the wire snapped, it gashed a six-inch slice in the steel desk to her left. Copper strands frayed out of the loose end with bits of cubicle wall cloth stuck to them. The girl slumped forward, still choking, managing to send the next wave of puke off the side to the floor. Though she cried, she looked more furious than angry or scared.

  Aaron patted her on the back until she could breathe again. He pawed at her wrists for a few seconds, unable to find a knot in the thick mass
of electrical cable. Breaking the binding or the chair with his psionic gift was possible, though dangerous. A quick glance at the rent in the steel made him decide against it.

  “How the feck did they tie this?”

  “I gotta blade. On the side of my boot. Cut me out before they come back.”

  “This wouldn’t have happened if you didn’t dodge my calls.” Aaron held up a hand, catching the boots as they flew up.

  “What?” She blinked, giving his suit an up-and-down glance. “Dodge your calls? I don’t have a fuck of a clue who you are, upsec. Wait, I dunno a whole lotta guys as pale as you. You Mike?”

  “No. It’s me, Aaron. It’s a bit past playin’ elusive now, luv. This”―he waved at her predicament―“isn’t my idea. Syndicate’s found you.”

  A sense of indignant embarrassment came over her. According to her surface thoughts, she was grateful for his help, but ashamed to have needed it. She pegged him for an upsec, someone from a wealthy sector with too much money to bother with a place like this or a person like her. His heartbeat slowed at her complete lack of recognition.

  “You’re not Shimmer?”

  The girl wrenched at her arms, squirming. “These assholes jumped my crew a few hours ago. This big son of a bitch goes right for me with that fucking bag. Gave me a shot, and I woke up here. What time is it?” She gave up fighting. “Fuck, what day is it?”

  Aaron blinked. Both boots had a bright green icon bearing the words “Jade Scorpionz” in an exaggerated Asian-looking font around a jumble of geometric shapes attempting to resemble a scorpion. “Jade scorpions? Those six poor sots in the alley over there?”

  “Six?” She looked ready to cry. “There’s like almost thirty of us.”

  A man’s voice echoed across the atrium from above. “Were. Past tense.”

  The girl gurgled up another mouthful of bile; her shiver rattled the chair. For several seconds, only the sound of trickling water broke the ominous quiet.

  “Hold these.” Aaron set the pair of boots in the girl’s lap before taking a step back and looking up to the rear.

  She struggled to reach a combat knife in a sheath strapped to the left one.

  Eleven men, five per side and one at the end, stood on the second floor balcony. All had fancy suits, though the solitary figure had a white hat and no visible weapon. The other ten took their sweet time drawing handguns, checking ammo counters, stretching their arms, and aiming at him.

  Aaron pursed his lips and felt like a jackass. “That isn’t Shimmer.”

  “Very good, Mr. Pryce. She’s a piece of throwaway street trash we borrowed to put on a little show for you. Nothing but a bit of cheese on a mousetrap. Like a good little cop, you ran straight for the innocent… or not so innocent girl.” He pulled a Nicohaler out of his pocket and took a long drag. “Much cheaper rates than hiring an actress from an agency. She’s got the screaming and whimpering down like a pro.”

  “Fuck you,” yelled the girl. “I hope you fuckers all get like ball cancer and die.”

  Aaron held his arms out to the side. “Well, since you wankers appear to have set this whole thing up, you know I haven’t a clue where Shimmer is.”

  “We’re starting to believe you.” White Hat took another puff and gestured at him with the Nicohaler. “This ain’t about Shimmer. Does the name Julian Cray mean anything to you, Pryce? Or, should I call you Galbraith.”

  Aaron shot a quick glance left and right. “It’s not my fault his hired meat-shield went nutters.”

  “You really must think we’re stupid.” White Hat blew a long plume of water vapor past his lips. Cinnamon roll flavoring made for a distasteful combination of scent with whatever the girl had last eaten. “Contrary to popular opinion, the Syndicate has heard of psionics. We know who you are, Pryce. We’re sure Tseng’s fist had a little help.” He waved the Nicohaler back and forth. “Kill him. Try not to hit the bitch. We can dye her Caucasian and sell her off to a colony.”

  “No!” she screamed, thrashing, and rambled off Spanish obscenities.

  Aaron whirled, swinging one arm through the air. He seized upon the mass of the five handguns on the left side and pulled them with enough force to levitate a hovercar. Two men went over the railing, three lost fingers. He extended his telekinesis into the room, gathering a torrent of junk and trash into the air, which joined the five liberated handguns in an orbiting whirlwind of mismatched parts. The men on the other side opened fire.

  Aaron condensed the junk field, moving away from the girl and hoping blind luck worked in his favor as he tried to isolate the floating pistols from everything else swirling around him. Incoming shots glanced off the heavier items and knocked lighter ones out of the turmoil. A hot fleck scored his cheek, something nipped at his leg.

  The girl shrieked an unending stream of curses at White Hat, drifting in and out of English. Aaron almost got the feeling if she wasn’t tied to the chair, the man would’ve had a serious problem.

  It took him a few seconds to work out a mental map of the weapons’ shapes. As soon as he did, five floating pistols erupted with a cavalcade of azure muzzle flares. What he lacked in precision, he made up for with quantity, pelting the right side railing into wood chips. The Syndicate boys abandoned shooting at him in an effort to get away from the erratic barrage. Once no one had a weapon pointed at him, he let go of the orbiting debris. Like a breaking ring of Saturn, the cyclone of steel bits and junk flew outward, pinging and clattering into the far reaches of the chamber.

  One of the men who had fallen came out from behind cover after the wave of metal dissipated. He managed two steps before Aaron noticed him; five floating pistols perforated him before they ran out of ammo. He released his mental hold and the empty handguns clattered to the ground.

  The other three above him on the left had stood in stunned silence at the supernatural display. He latched on to two of them, hurling them across the gap into a storefront on the opposite side. That time, he didn’t throttle his anger. The bodies disintegrated a plate glass window on contact without slowing down before striking the cinder block wall behind it hard enough to leave holes. He raised an eyebrow at the red spatter and glops sliding down. S’pose I’ve gone a bit over the top.

  A still-armed man on the right lunged away from the bloody carnage and took an ill-aimed shot at him between the fence rails. Aaron lofted the man up and over, driving him headfirst into one of the pedicure basins. He burst on impact, smashing the salon chair as if he’d gone off a high-rise building.

  Aaron faced White Hat as the man whirled to flee, dragging him backward and over the railing. An invisible telekinetic ‘hand’ helped itself to the fancy custom pistol in a shoulder holster under White Hat’s left arm and sent it gliding across the room to Aaron’s grasp. He couldn’t quite get his hand all the way around the massive grip, but he didn’t plan to spend all day at the range with it.

  While keeping White Hat floating helpless on his back, Aaron flung the remaining visible thugs at high speed into walls, one after the next. The girl closed her eyes, lapsing into a mantra of “Stop! Stop! Stop!” once a shower of blood hit her.

  He didn’t.

  White Hat’s gun startled him with unexpected loudness, which also made the girl jump and scream as he finished off two moaners with bullets. It seemed both wrong and relaxing to unleash the limit of his power on mere men. Body-shaped cracks in the tiled walls smeared with blood from where thugs had liquefied on impact. By the time he’d found where men nine and ten hid, the effort caught up with him, making him a bit tired. He flung them into the floor with only enough force to kill, rather than splatter.

  After a moment, the room fell quiet except for the soft, disgusted whimpers of the girl and the pitiful whining coming from White Hat. Other, gloopier noises emanated at random in the dark. He stepped over a piece of desk with three bullet holes in it and lowered White Hat to the ground next to a corpse with a mannequin arm stuck in its chest. The girl squirmed, pulling at the cords binding he
r arms and ankles, but couldn’t move.

  White Hat crawled under the desk of one of the facial reconstruction workstations. Aaron tried to stuff the fancy gun in his belt, and it clicked against the one he’d first taken. He chuckled at his forgetfulness, set the huge gun on the desk near the girl, and took the knife from her boot sheath. The plastisteel blade would be more than a match for copper electrical wiring.

  “So, who are you then?” He positioned the knife under her left arm.

  “Andrea.”

  “How old?”

  “Nineteen.”

  “Try sixteen.” A telekinetic shove, far stronger than his arm could manage, sheared the entire wire bundle off in one stroke. “Don’t lie to a psionic, luv.”

  Blood-spattered and shivering, Andrea stared at him for a long moment while he cut her other arm loose. “That was the most awesome, ass-kicking thing I’ve ever fucking seen.”

  A bit of ‘new Aaron’ poked out from under his anger, preening at the jolt of pride. He dropped the knife in her lap and left her to cut her feet loose while he glared at White Hat.

  “Now what?” Andrea slid out of the chair and tore her vomit-covered shirt off before using it as a rag to mop puke from her legs.

  Aaron pinched the bridge of his nose. “Right, get off the street. Stop doing drugs. Go back to school. You should go home to your parents, and so on.”

  “That was the lamest thing I’ve ever heard.” She crawled under the desk to grab her backpack.

  “Yeah well, the ones your age never listen. I’d be more enthusiastic about it if I thought it would mean fuck all.” He let his arm fall. “If you were ten, maybe eleven, I’d almost be willing to try to talk you off the street.”

  “My parents are off-gridders squatting somewhere. I don’t even know where the fuck they are. They’re both crazy as bats, think the government is selling people to alien overlords as food and test subjects. I don’t even have a home to go back to.” Velcro ripped open. “You know they think the Beneath is where all the machinery is that keeps us alive. They don’t believe this is really Earth. They have this elaborate idea we’re on some kind of colony world, the descendants of space colonists kidnapped by aliens. Some kind of ant farm floating around in a giant ship.”