He ejected the shells from the shotgun and threw them to the left. He tossed the shotgun to the right, compared the employees to biological waste elimination mechanisms and left.
How much time had that cost him? Probably about two minutes. He ducked into an alley and poured the whiskey in his hair and over his clothes. Then he filled up the bottle with apple juice. No one would question it. He moved quickly until he knew he had made up the lost time. He slowed down to a drunk's staggering pace and entered the Free Zone.
The streets overflowed with partygoers which was unusual for around 5:20 in the afternoon. Wait, it's Friday! Everyone celebrates early on Friday. The evening would witness more than half of the week's prostitution, drugs, and gambling sales. He passed through what he called the Fascist Strip. Almost two blocks of Nazis, KKK white supremacists, and racial purity focused extremist loonies. You'd think the junkies and transvestites would get together to evict this kind of trash from the neighborhood. The fascists provided outdoor seminars on the government promoting the mixing of the races. They should hope it's true. If the government is trying to make it happen, it's almost a guarantee that it won't.
Mission came to the Leather Boys, although they boasted an equal number of women. Dressed in black leather with cutouts to reveal buttocks, breasts, whatever. Some wore leather masks and carried whips. Pathetic old white men on leashes crawled around on all fours. The weird ones that sported hundreds of rings and pins piercing their bodies. Small cages lined the sidewalks with males or females inside. You found one you liked, paid for a certain amount of time, and then climbed inside the cage to do whatever you could. All in view of the world.
Now Mission reached the junkies and the hookers, the offspring of heroin use. Junkies did not maintain a rigid class structure and allowed drunks and other rejects to rest in their area. Why anyone else would choose to stop here was the real question. Junkies are necessarily without friends or morals, and they will screw anyone without consideration or remorse, just to get one more fix.
Anyway, another drunk wouldn't look out of place here. He had to admit the prospect of dropping the syns that killed Miller excited him. Mission wanted a cigarette, but first he carefully inspected his clothes. They were dry enough. He didn't want to risk setting himself on fire. He pulled on the cigarette and it relaxed him. He could wait as long as it took.
Mission watched as the Free Zone took on its own life, and led its citizens into the escape of celebration, of glorious abandon. The world had branded these people as unfit and unacceptable. On Friday nights, they showed the world that they were the only ones left who knew how to have a good time.
Loud, distorted music blanketed the Zone, and its rhythmic pulse drove the crowd. Scores of bare breasted women danced through the mob. Some men shot their guns in the air. Junkies wandered in and out of the crowd, trying to pick pockets. Some succeeded, some failed. Mission saw a big, burly man catch a junkie with his hand on his wallet, and break his neck. Individual acts like that couldn't dampen the festive air, though. These people were inured to violence and alcohol or drugs fueled most of their joy.
Mission considered surrender. Jones could walk right past him and he would never know. He stepped into the crowd to head back to his apartment, and Jones almost ran into him. Mission staggered and fell, took a swig of his apple juice, and finally turned around to pinpoint Jones. He spotted him over by the burrito vendor. Mission stood up unsteadily and headed in his direction. He lost sight of Jones several times, but didn't let it bother him. He had flowers! Mission hadn't noticed before.
Jones ambled into a bar without a posted name and kissed a woman waiting there. It was her, that mechanical monster that killed Miller. He'd bet anything on it. He memorized her features as he walked past. Then he crossed the street, doubled back, and climbed to the first landing of a fire escape trying to surrender to gravity.
Mission propped his head against the steps going up and relaxed. This could be a long wait. It was probably 5:50.
At 7:30, Mission started to wonder where he could get another pack of cigarettes. He watched the crowd, now in full debauch, ebbing and flowing. He remembered one of the last incidents here that led to declaration of the Free Zone. A celebration much like this one burned hotter than the police could stand, and they sent one of their new aircars to the scene. They were very high tech and very expensive. The aircar hovered over the crowd and ordered the celebrators to disperse. When they ignored the orders, the police dropped canisters of gas, and then fired on the remaining fun lovers.
The news shows featured the police commissioner declaring a great victory for law enforcement. The mayor and the policeman's union showed equal enthusiasm. The next Friday came, and everyone turned out again for a celebration. The aircars showed up and started the same routine. During that time, the Jamaican gangs controlled much of the inner city, and they brought a certain discipline and organization to areas under their control. They sent people out on the rooftops to pour a flammable, tarlike mixture on the aircar, followed by Molotov cocktails. The flaming aircar hit the side of a building and dropped to the sidewalk. The newsreel showed the crew, strapped in and burning alive, while the crowd cheered and roasted hot-dogs on sticks. Less than a month later, the city designated the area a Free Zone.
Mission decided the hot-dog vendor would have cigarettes and wandered over that way. He caught a glimpse inside the bar. Jones and the female sat at a table with maybe ten other people. His cigarettes in hand, Mission returned to his fire escape perch.
Around 11:30, Jones emerged with the female on his arm and headed up the street. Mission exercised more care than ever before. Why hide it? The combat models scared the hell out of him. He wished he had brought the battery pack, but this was to be a routine stakeout. Well, this stakeout materialized as something far removed from the routine. Mission vowed that from here on out, he would always carry the battery pack.
Jones and his companion looked like young lovers. They laughed and giggled, they stopped to kiss, and she held tightly to the flowers he gave her. Mission didn't understand the behavior for synthetics, but he resolved to remember as much as possible. Perhaps Susan could make sense of all this.
Six blocks later, they turned into a building that Mission labeled as bad news. A thriving hotel long ago, but now abandoned to the anarchy of the zone. For the last seven or eight years, the strongest group in the area controlled it. Sometimes a street gang, sometimes a drug operation, and sometimes a brothel stronghold. Drug operations had the hardest time because rumors circulated about the big amounts of money or drugs inside. From there it was just a matter of time before a well-armed and desperate group made a grab for the golden ring.
Mission wouldn't even consider going inside one of those places. You needed to decide before you went in, that you didn't care if you lived or died. Despite the risks inherent in his profession, Mission felt relatively certain that he didn't want to die.
What would syns be doing in a place like that? Protecting a place like that took bodies and bucks. You had to generate a big income to pay that kind of overhead. Jones worked a legit job that didn't pay big money. Maybe the female ...
Mission shook his head. He couldn't puzzle this one out tonight. If all else failed, long boring observation would tell him who ran the place and the nature of the business. Tonight, he just wanted to see if Jones went any place else. Anything he could pick up about the building would be a bonus.
By 1:00, Mission decided that one more hour would be enough for the night. He started his thirtieth cigarette of the day and worked at relaxing. He tried to picture the added processors and programming for a combat model, when the female syn rushed past. Now he definitely wouldn't watch the building for another hour. It hadn't moved all night. Mission walked in the opposite direction so he could run down the parallel street and pick her up at the Free Zone border. He felt good. He promised Miller that he would soon settle this score.
9
At 5'6" and a slim 1
15 pounds, she was one incredible physical specimen. She pulled her dark brown hair back in a ponytail and wore one of those fancy skintight workout uniforms with a green army jacket over it. Watching her glide effortlessly through the streets was like watching a gazelle trotting through the high grasses, and Mission had to hustle to keep up. He reminded himself as to how good she was.
"No mistakes. No second chances with this one. You have to bide your time and take her on when you are ready. Not a second before. Don't care if it takes three months. Not until you're ready."
Mission saw no reason to delude himself. She scared him. "Fear is good", he told himself. "Nature's way of protecting you."
He swung out behind her and followed her for twenty blocks, leaving as much as a block in between them. Now her demeanor changed to that of a panther stalking its prey. Mission took his bearings. A very posh high rise apartment building sat on the right with an exclusive shopping complex on the left. He couldn't be sure, but he thought the two connected underground.
At first she caused him to wonder, but soon he realized she approached the apartment high rise in a slow, cautious 360. Apparently satisfied, she advanced to the rear of the building with confidence. She stopped at a service entrance and stared at the door. Finally, she reached out, turned the knob, opened the door and went in.
Mission didn't assume coincidences, he assumed purposeful events and reactions until proven wrong. So he assumed someone left that door unlocked for her. He pulled out his Glock and moved to the door very cautiously. He heard a ping and then a series of indistinct noises. He thought he just heard her get on an elevator. He had to see. He also had to prepare in case she stood there. Do a 180 and set. Squeeze the trigger. Okay.
The adrenaline flooded his system. He whirled around and saw ... an empty room. He looked over the elevator door. It stopped on 27 and then sat there. He had to know. He pressed the up button and a car opened its doors for him. Mission stepped in, pressed DOOR CLOSE, and held his Glock in the ready position.
The doors opened on 26 and Mission saw an empty wall yawning at him. He took five seconds to study the layout of the hall. He glanced at the stairwell exit at the hallway end. No good. He would need a security key to get onto the next floor. He looked back at the elevator car balking at Mission holding it open. It was his only chance at checking the syn's movements. But chance didn't describe it. More like lottery. If she happened to look at the elevator when he exited (and that was a common reaction), the odds favored her, not Mission. A single bead of sweat rolled down his forehead and onto his nose.
He stepped inside the elevator and pressed 27. As it took him up, he considered. Cartwheel out the door onto the opposite wall into a firing position that provided the syn a minimal target? Or walk out like he lived there and stroll nonchalantly down the hall? Aggressive? Passive? The door opened as Mission pulled out his Glock and flattened against the wall to give him an unobstructed view down one half of the hall.
He tucked his hand holding the Glock into his jacket and eased into the shadows in the hall. This looked like a place that turned out the lights at 11:00 and then burned just enough night lights to make sure everyone could find their way. It worked in Mission's favor. He could stay in the shadows and move almost the entire length of the hall without risking exposure.
He saw the syn, close to the end of the hall on the right hand side. She alternately rang the bell and knocked on the door. Mission crept within forty feet of her, as near as he dared. Then the door opened and a handsome, muscular young man stepped out into the hall. On his right hand he balanced a round silver tray with a bottle of champagne and two glasses. He said, "Hey, I was wo ... "
The syn didn't waste time. She struck like a cobra, using a flat hand to the sternum to send him flying back inside the apartment. The tray and its contents hit the floor as the syn moved inside. Mission had already cheated toward the door, and now he ran. The broken glass kept the door from closing and Mission flattened beside it, wondering what to do.
A woman screamed. A bloodcurdling scream. "Well, so much for waiting till I'm ready." Mission took a deep breath and exploded into the apartment, gun at the ready.
He saw the kid who answered the door, flying across the room to land on a cherry dining room table that collapsed into splinters. Mission crouched in a foyer with brick columns and as he moved through it into the living area, the syn turned on him at incredible speed, kicking the Glock out of his hand and under the furniture on the far wall. Before he could even react, she bolted inside his defensive perimeter to snap his neck.
Bu then she sensed the kid coming up behind her. He surprised Mission by getting up so quickly. He gripped a table leg in his hands and took a home run cut at her head. The syn shoved Mission into one of the brick columns and then ducked into a crouch with both hands on the floor. As the table leg whizzed over her head, she took out the kid's legs with a sweep kick.
She rose and turned to check Mission. He cheated toward the general direction of his lost gun. She took a single step to cut him off, and when Mission moved in the opposite direction, she took two lightning steps, grabbed him by the waistband and jerked him skyward. As Mission lifted off the ground, the syn put her other hand on his chest and tossed him across the room into a six foot mirror on the wall. He crashed into the mirror with devastating impact, and fell to the floor with the mirror breaking into shards over his head, cutting his face, his hands and his forearms. He screamed as much from frustration as from pain.
The kid crouched in the entrance to the hall where the bedrooms would be. The syn took a couple of steps toward him and hissed, "Don't be a fool. I only want the bitch!"
The kid shook his head. "No way."
She pounced, landing on his torso and wrapping her legs around his midsection for a disabling takedown. The kid shifted quickly and bounced her on the floor. She moved a hair quicker than he did in getting to her feet, and she managed to wrap an arm around his neck. As she moved in for the kill, the kid caught her free hand, but that only bought him a few seconds.
Meanwhile, Mission untangled himself from the glass shards and tried to position himself to help the kid. He saw her pull her other hand toward his head and he knew it had to be now. He took three running steps (as many as he dared) and smashed her with all of his weight in the small of her back with his shoulder. He was trying to push her into the kitchen, and she tried to steer them back into the living room. Mission saw that they would smash into the 100 gallon aquarium right next to the hall entrance.
The syn hit the aquarium with Mission's arms around her waist and he let go of her as his arms hit the glass splinters. It drenched them both in water and glass and slashed them all to hell. They hit the wall behind the aquarium and squirted to the left to fall on an end table with a brass lamp and a crystal vase. The table legs collapsed and they hit the floor with jarring force. Mission landed on his back with the syn on her stomach at about his thighs. He could feel the fish thrashing in the three or four inches of water on the floor. He spotted his Glock just under the sofa, less than four feet away. It might as well have been a mile.
The syn reached out with her left hand and found Mission's right pectoral. Her fingers dug right into the flesh of his chest as she pulled herself up onto him. Mission screamed from the pain. From the terror. This was it. She extended her stiffened right index finger, stopped it an inch from his left eye, and smiled at him. "Time for your lobotomy."
Mission saw the brass lamp lying there beside him. He grabbed the base and smashed the bulb on her, leaving the exposed ends touching her wet clothes. The world stopped spinning as Mission felt the current pulsing through him, felt the powerful tingling vibrating every cell in his body. He thought the syn's expression might fade into oblivion, but no. Her eyes closed, then opened, then closed.
The lights flickered and the current died. Mission never struggled like this before. He just knew the syn wasn't dead, and the panic overwhelmed him as he tried to get out from under her. His wor
st nightmares couldn't compare to this. Facing death, trying to get away, and not a single muscle would answer his summons. Suddenly a leg responded and he pushed and kicked frantically. He jerked free and dove under the sofa. As he came back out, the syn pulled herself into a crouch. As her head swiveled toward him, Mission put a single shot through her right eye. For an instant nothing happened except for lubricant leaking out the socket. Then the charge flashed out the eye as it hit her brain.
The syn jumped eight feet directly into the wall, screaming an ungodly sound. The sound of a dozen mothers who had just lost their sons. When she hit the wall, her every muscle still contracted at full strength and speed, and she tore a hole through the plaster into the next room and then collapsed in the wreckage, brain dead.
Mission tossed his apple juice and then tried to lift his head. His head waved from side to side and he searched his frazzled brain for any indication that he could walk or stand or even crawl. He realized he heard a woman crying and he managed to tilt his head up enough to see her standing in the dining room, with her hand on the light switch. She had saved him. She threw the switch to cut the electricity. As a few of his faculties returned, Mission noticed more of this sobbing woman, in a black nightie, hair all over her face.
He crawled at first and then eventually took halting steps over to her. "You're okay. Listen, you're okay. Can you get dressed?"
The sobbing slowed and she pulled her hair back to look at Mission. His addled mind could not reconcile what he saw with what he could believe. He hurt and blood kept running into his eyes and he smelled faint traces of burned hair that was probably his. Now this woman pushed him right into shock. It was Susan St. Jean!
10
Susan dropped to her knees beside the kid, sobbing, "Oh God, she killed him, Mission. " She looked up at him in anguish and her expression asked how and why someone would do such a thing. He kneeled down beside her.
Living in Syn Page 5