Messenger

by James Walker

  “You probably just feel that way because his plans run so deep that we grunts can't fathom them,” Cena said. “Come on, let's get ready.”

  Vic showered, then retired to his room, a cramped compartment that he shared with three other low-ranking soldiers, and collapsed in his cot for a short rest. Once it was nearly time to join the others, he got up and tossed back a stim pack. Feeling somewhat rejuvenated, he changed into civilian clothes, donned a concealed pistol and several extra magazines, and exited the barracks.

  He made his way to another reserve storage compound for the industrial complex above. The rebels had installed a portable generator in this cavern to enable use of the lift and filled the chamber with vehicles, including several nondescript automobiles. Pierson, Eliot, and Cena, all in civilian clothes, stood next to one of the automobiles. Pierson wore a full-length black trench coat; Eliot a plain gray sweater; and Cena a large flat cap, jacket, and denim skirt.

  “I've already filled Sergeant Northwood in on our disguises,” Pierson said. “We're all set to go. Did you bring a weapon like I asked?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Good. Here's your disguise. You remember how to wear it?”

  Vic accepted the small electronic components that constituted the disguise. He fumbled with them for a few moments, but managed to fit them into the correct places.

  “All right,” Pierson said, “disguises on.”

  They activated their disguises, and once again, the familiar faces of Vic's comrades were replaced with a punk musician; a bald, flabby-necked old man; and a wide-eyed college girl.

  “Let's go,” Pierson said. “Northwood, you're in front with me so you can give me directions.”

  Vic climbed in the back of the car with Eliot while Pierson took the driver's seat and Cena sat next to him. Pierson pressed some buttons on a remote attached to the car's dashboard. In response, the elevator far overhead groaned to life and descended with mechanical humming and grinding. Once it finished descending, Pierson maneuvered the car onto the platform and manipulated the remote again, this time causing the elevator to rise.

  The elevator concluded its noisy ascent within the rusty interior of an abandoned warehouse. With one final manipulation of the remote, Pierson opened a gate, flooding the dim chamber with light, and drove out into the dilapidated streets.

  *

  “OK, we've made it to the outer district,” Hans reported. “Where to now, genius detective?”

  “Just follow my directions,” Omicron said. “Minus the color commentary.”

  At Omicron's instruction, the P.S.A. vehicles made their way deep into the outer district. Despite Hans' dire warnings, they saw no sign of the district's infamous roaming gangs. Since the few lawful residents stayed inside whenever possible, they saw almost no one at all. Finally, after a long time winding through deserted streets, Omicron called for a halt.

  “All right, we're close. Let's get out here.”

  “Industrial Sector Seven, huh?” Hans said. “Our boys have been over this place before. It's no more suspicious than anywhere else.”

  “Yeah, yeah,” Omicron said. “Just pull over.”

  The agency vehicles pulled over to the curb. The agents and augments got out of their vehicles and found themselves standing on a crumbling street surrounded by the rusty, vandalized facades of old industrial buildings—not very different from most of the streets of the outer district.

  “This way,” Omicron beckoned to the others.

  Hans left one agent behind to watch the cars, then he and his other six companions followed the augments. Omicron led them through a labyrinth of alleys until they emerged in an empty parking lot surrounded on three sides by a browning chain link fence. A rusty gate hung open on the far side, broken off one of its hinges.

  “OK,” Hans called, “I think that's far enough.”

  “What the hell are you talking about?” Omicron spun around to face the agent. “We haven't even started—”

  Hans was standing about ten paces away, his pistol leveled at Omicron's chest. Faster than the agents could blink, Omicron and Lambda drew their own weapons and aimed them at Hans.

  “Drop your weapon right now, wipe,” Omicron snarled.

  Hans' mouth stretched into a lopsided grin. “I don't think so.”

  “What, you counting on a death spasm to put a bullet in me as your ventilated head hits the pavement?” Omicron said. “You hate me so much you'll die just to get a shot off at me?”

  “Oh, don't give me that tough act.” Hans gestured to his companions, who began spreading out to surround the augments.

  “Freeze,” Lambda demanded, shifting her aim to one of the other agents. “Stop moving right now or I'll shoot.”

  “Would you give it a rest?” Hans said. “We already know your programming prevents you from deliberately harming your allies.”

  “Who fed you that line of bullshit?” Omicron said. “Have you already forgotten how I whooped your ass when you took a swing at me?”

  “'Whooped my ass,' you say?” Hans paused to adjust his sunglasses. “I think it's a bit of a stretch to call putting me in a harmless submission hold 'whooping my ass.' Interesting how careful you were not to actually hurt me in that encounter. In fact, that little experiment of mine confirmed for me that you'd be helpless in a real fight against us. All I was missing was the opportunity.”

  Realization dawned on the augments' faces. “This whole thing was a set-up?” Omicron hissed.

  Hans shrugged. “Well, it's not like I knew ahead of time that you two would volunteer yourselves to go gallivanting off far away from Union influence, where there's nobody around to intervene. I was just quick on my feet. Pretty good for an impromptu trap, wouldn't you say?”

  “Still a pretty big gamble on your part,” Omicron said. “How do you know the reason I didn't hurt you is because I didn't want the brass bitching to me about breaking one of Pizza Force's dogs?”

  “Good point,” Hans said. “Let's do one last test, then.”

  A gunshot cracked through the air, echoing long and loud. The shot grazed Omicron's arm, causing him to drop his weapon. Blood dripped from his forearm onto the pavement. Lambda spun around and aimed her gun at Hans. Her trigger finger twitched and quivered, but her gun remained silent.

  “Dammit,” she cried, “I can't pull the trigger!”

  “Still got red blood, I see. Maybe they'll change that with the next strain.” Hans lowered his gun. “Well, that's verification if I ever saw it. OK boys, take 'em down.”

  The P.S.A. agents closed on the augments. Omicron and Lambda fought back desperately, but outnumbered and unable to use any damaging attacks, they were finally overwhelmed and pinned to the ground. Even with three agents on each augment, it took all their strength to keep them down.

  Lambda glared up at Hans, anger and confusion mixed in her face. “Why are you doing this?” she gasped.

  “Oh, spare me that outraged tone,” Hans replied. “What part of 'P.S.A. agents get killed out here' did you not understand? These colonist scum are a bunch of animals. Take your eyes off them for two seconds and it's complete anarchy. It's filthy, thankless work keeping the rebels and criminals under control, day after tedious day. Do you have any idea what our casualty count is already this year, battling insurgents and drug lords and gangs and crime rings and Saris knows what other violent filth? We do all the dirty work, and you, you coddled Spacy brats who never do anything, jacked up on kill drugs with computer chips for brains and your D.N.A. hacked up until you can't even be called human anymore, you swoop down like you're heroes and throw your weight around and treat us like shit. What was that about how we don't have any real fighters and one company of yours could wipe out this whole city?”

  Hans stomped over to Omicron and kicked him in the face. “Well, what do you think now, you arrogant wipe? I'm waiting for you to show us your mighty Spacy power. How tough can you be, if you can't even get out of this?”

  “Stop it
,” Lambda shouted.

  “Don't bother, sister.” Omicron spat out a gob of blood and grinned. “This pussy kicks like a girl. I didn't even feel it.”

  Hans kicked Omicron in the face again, then kicked him several times in the torso for good measure. Aside from muffled grunts, Omicron gave little reaction to the blows.

  “This is stupid,” Lambda said. “You're ruining your lives over a petty grudge. What do you think will happen to you when we report this? For assaulting Spacy officers, you'll be lucky if you get off with ten years.”

  Hans laughed derisively. “Oh, Thera's soil. Are all augments this stupid? Did they breed out your brains when they turned you into robotic serial killers? Babe, there isn't a single agent in this whole city who'd arrest us, no matter what we do to you. I guess cold-blooded machines like you wouldn't understand, but we watch out for each other.”

  Hans took off his sunglasses and gave the augments a friendly smile. “In fact, we're not even planning on killing you. We don't hate you that much. Even after you file your little report, we'll get a slap on the wrist and then the report will be swept under the rug and no one will ever speak of it again. Of course,” he tapped a finger against his chin, “that leaves a question: What are we going to do with you?”

  One of the agents holding down Lambda grinned and said, “I know what I'd like to do with this one. Scar or no scar, this is one fine piece of ass.”

  Lambda glared at the agent over her shoulder, her eyes filled with fire, and hissed, “Don't you dare.”

  “Go for it, if auggie pussy is your thing.” Hans turned to Omicron. “Then how about this one? Maybe we can test those enhanced muscles by burying him in rubble and seeing if he can get himself out of it.”

  “Not a bad idea,” another agent said. “I've always wondered just how strong these auggies really are.”

  Lambda thrashed violently as the agents holding her down started trying to tear off her clothes, a prospect that proved difficult from the force of her resistance. “Bastards,” she cried, “you're nothing but filthy animals!”

  Omicron glared at Hans, his eyes opened into near circles, devoid of all human feeling. “Call off your goons,” he said, his voice ice cold. “Do not lay a finger on her, or I will kill you. Programming or no programming, I will find you all and I will murder every last one of you.”

  Hans returned Omicron's animal stare with one of his own. “Bad luck for you,” he said quietly, “I believe you. I was gonna let you live, but now I guess I'd better kill you after all. After the boys have had their fun, I'll put a bullet in each of your brains and then drop you down the nearest garbage chute.” He tapped his pistol against his shoulder. “Should have kept your mouth shut, Lieutenant.”

  29

  “Which way now?” Pierson asked as he approached an intersection, weaving his way around a large pothole.

  “Uh, right,” Cena replied. “There hasn't been any gang activity down this road in weeks.”

  Pierson made a right turn and proceeded down the street. After a few blocks, a truck suddenly emerged from an alley and blocked their way. Pierson slammed on the brakes.

  “Shit,” Cena exclaimed. “Back! Go back!”

  Pierson shifted into reverse and punched the gas just as a pack of youths in ratty clothes poured out of hiding and raked the car with gunfire. A score of tiny cracks erupted in the bullet-proof windshield. One of the bullets hit a tire, blowing it out; and a petrol-filled bottle struck the hood, setting it on fire.

  Despite the blown-out tire, Pierson swung the car around 180 degrees and simultaneously shifted into first gear, accelerating away from the ambush point at full power. After several blocks, he veered around a corner and continued down the new street as fast as the damaged vehicle would allow. The car bounced with every revolution of the blown-out tire, knocking the occupants about.

  Pierson shot an angry glare at Cena. “I thought you said there wasn't any gang activity on that street.”

  “There wasn't,” she protested. “Not last I heard. I swear. Some gang must have expanded their turf in the last few days.”

  “Well, great.” Pierson eyed the black smoke spewing out from under the hood. “I'm worried the fuel is going to ignite. We're getting out now.”

  He slammed on the brakes and the rebels poured out of the car. Pierson grabbed the remote off the dash before he leapt out. They ran down a nearby alley and glanced back just as the entire vehicle burst into flames.

  “Dammit,” Pierson snarled. Then, after a moment, he regained his composure and said, “Well, nothing for it. We'll have to head back to base on foot and get another car. At least we didn't make it too far before they ambushed us.”

  He reached inside his trench coat and deactivated his holo-disguise. “Might as well turn these off. We won't need them until we're closer to the Golden Ward.”

  The rest of the group deactivated their disguises and fell into step behind Pierson. They emerged from the alley, crossed the adjoining street, and began weaving through an old industrial complex, charting a path back to the elevator that connected to the base.

  “I'm sorry,” Cena said in a small voice. “I really thought that street was safe.”

  “Not your fault,” Pierson replied. “You were acting on the latest intelligence. That's all you can do.”

  Only a minute after the rebels began making their way through the industrial complex, a woman's scream filled with mixed rage and fear rent the air, followed by frustrated shouts from several males, then another scream. The rebels froze.

  “Now what?” Pierson exclaimed.

  “It sounds like someone is in trouble,” Cena observed.

  “More gang activity, I'll wager,” Pierson said. “Let's give it a wide berth.”

  Cena looked at Pierson in surprise. “But it sounds like they're hurting someone.”

  Pierson replied in exasperation, “We're on a tight schedule. We're already behind thanks to that ambush. We don't have time for this.”

  Cena stood her ground. “SLIC claims to fight for the people. If we just ignore a cry for help, we're nothing but hypocrites.”

  “All right, fine,” Pierson snapped. “We'll investigate it. But if it's just some inter-gang scuffle, we're leaving it alone.”

  Cena nodded. “Understood.”

  The rebels drew their weapons and made their way toward the sounds of struggle. They came across a chain link fence festooned with barbed wire. Beyond the fence lay a parking lot, empty save for a cluster of people in the center. A group of six men had two people pinned to the ground while a seventh man armed with a pistol watched. One of the victims was a lanky man with spiky hair and bestial features; the other, a petite woman with a scarred face and blonde hair tied in a ponytail. The men piled on the woman seemed to be in the midst of a sexual assault attempt, but they were having a hard time of it. So far, they had only succeeded in pulling off her scarf and jacket. Despite a bloodied face testifying to repeated attempts to subdue her, the woman was still thrashing about so ferociously that her attackers could barely keep her restrained.

  “Don't really look like gang members,” Eliot observed.

  “No, they don't,” Pierson agreed. “What the hell is going on here?”

  “Does it matter?” Cena interjected. “We need to help them.”

  “But we have no idea what's going on,” Pierson said.

  “Does it matter?” Cena repeated, more forcefully this time.

  “No,” Pierson sighed, “I suppose not.”

  “There's an entrance over there,” Vic said, nodding to a broken gate hanging off one hinge.

  “Right.” Pierson motioned to the gate. “If we're doing this, let's be quick about it.”

  The rebels sprinted to the gate. Once through, they spread out and leveled their guns at the attackers.

  “Freeze,” Pierson ordered. “Get off the two on the ground and raise your hands over your heads.”

  The attackers stared at the newcomers in bewilderment. When Pi
erson fired a round near their feet, they scrambled off their victims and raised their hands.

  “Looks like they're packing,” Eliot noted.

  “All right,” Pierson said. “With your thumbs and index fingers, slowly take your weapons out of their holsters and lay them on the ground. Any sudden movements and you're dead.”

  The attackers moved to comply. One of them flipped his gun around into a shooting grip, only to have three bloody holes erupt in his chest, two from Pierson's gun and one from Cena's. He was dead before he hit the ground.

  Pierson pointed his gun from one attacker to the next. “Anyone else want to get cute?”

  The remaining attackers placed their weapons at their feet without further incident.

  “Now kick them over here,” Pierson ordered.

  They complied.

  Pierson nodded to Eliot and Cena. “Frisk them.”

  Eliot and Cena went from attacker to attacker, patting each down in turn. They found a few concealed weapons and tossed them together with the rest. Eliot pulled out one attacker's wallet and flipped through the contents.

  “This one's got a government I.D. card,” he said. “These guys are P.S.A.”

  “This one too,” Cena reported.

  “Now it begins to make sense,” Pierson said. “A bunch of P.S.A. thugs throwing their weight around in the outer district where there's no one to report them. We'd be doing the citizens a favor if we killed you all right here, but we won't sink to your level. Get the hell out and don't ever show your faces around here again. Got it?”

  Vic maneuvered next to Pierson and whispered, “Why not take them prisoner?”

  “They'd just be a liability,” Pierson whispered back.

  “But we could pump them for information,” Vic pressed.

  Pierson shook his head. “A bunch of grunts wouldn't know anything useful to us.”

  “There's one more,” the lanky man lying on the ground said. “Guarding their vehicles.”

  “That so?” Pierson said. “Which way?”