Virology

by Ren Warom

  “You had your avi on lookout?” Shock’s never even seen Deuce’s avi. It’s always busy, like Puss is. But then Deuce is way more than he leads people to believe, so his avi has plenty to do too.

  Amiga appears at the door, armed to the teeth, her face a mix of feral snarl and business-mode, gears spinning fit to smoke in that smart arse head of hers. She grabs up Shock’s duffel—packed because they take no chances ever—chucks it into his lap and jerks her head toward the rear of the farm. “Get the priorities out through the terraces.”

  Deuce nods. “Good call.”

  “Wait a minute,” Shock says, shoving his blankets aside. “Where the hell are you going?”

  “Taking a team down to help tenants in the lower levels and find Gail—he’s not in his room. I think the idiot went straight down to help his people.”

  “I could help.”

  She shakes her head. Emphatic. “No. These guys are after you. You need to be getting the hell out of here. We’ll meet at the rendezvous, okay?”

  “Not okay.”

  “Tough. I’m off.” She looks at Deuce, a megaton of pure-grade serious in her gaze. “Catch you on the flip side.”

  “Be safe.”

  She grins. “As much as I can be. You too.” And she’s gone, a gun in each hand and way too much fierce joy in her face.

  Deuce tugs Shock’s foot. “Get some shoes on, stat.” He looks over his shoulder as a couple of dozen sleepy Hornets file past in the hallway and hollers at them like a drill sergeant, “Get a fucking move on! Everyone not going with Amiga is helping to get the injured down the terraces.”

  * * *

  Amiga’s bunch of kill-ready Hornets gather on the landing, clutching a mishmash of guns, swords, knifes and batons, some electric, most simply blunt and brutal. She scans their numbers. Not many, but it’ll do in a pinch, they’re het up on adrenalin and fury and pretty much raring to be unleashed. She feels like the hand of god, bringing the oncoming storm. It feels good.

  She grins at Vivid and Tracker, the two most familiar faces.

  “I want three teams. I’m taking one, Vivid, you have another and the last goes to you, Tracker.” Tracker’s one of the Hornets’ top surveillance J-Hacks. She hasn’t known him well for long, but he’s solid as fuck and twice as vicious. He can handle a strike team in his sleep. “We’ll take stairs down, watch out for smoke. These fuckers look to have masks; steal ’em as and when you can.”

  Prism, one of the code jockeys, steps forward. “Can’t we just use the shoots?” She shouts. “This is ridiculous. People are dying down there whilst we stand here planning.”

  “Too dangerous,” Tracker says, dismissing the idea.

  “It’s the quickest way!”

  Amiga’s getting aggravated, but Vivid steps in before she can run her mouth. “No way in hell we’re using those fucking shoots, Pris. If one of those explosions backdrafts we’ll be cinders and then those people down there are on their own. The stairs is all we’ve got, so let’s get moving.”

  Prism looks mulish. “Well what about backdraft up the stairs?”

  Vivid taps the one behind her with the butt of her gun. It resounds, heavy and metallic. “Hear that? The stairs have fire doors on every level. The shoots? Not so much. They’ll blast out if they get hit hard enough, probably already have. Bad design. Most ’scrapers have shitty designs. No way to be sued after a fire if everyone dies, yeah?”

  “Fuck me.” Prism looks disbelieving.

  “We all lived in a mono tunnel carved through the middle of an equally shitty ’scraper, woman,” Amiga snarls. “What d’you think happened to the people of Jong Phu when the drones attacked?” She raises a brow. “Now can we get moving? Arguing this shit is sure as hell costing lives.”

  Prism’s young. A newer Hornet from just before the shit hit the fan. They shouldn’t be harsh but there isn’t time to break her in gently. Outnumbered heavily and very likely nowhere near as well armed they decide that it’ll be best to triangulate an attack, splitting up to take two of the side staircases and the one at the rear. Amiga grabs that one, wanting to push through forward on the straight line. Pounding the levels with her team in an unholy rush, she blanks the gunfire and screams from below as much as she can, her knuckles flashing white on the grips of her guns.

  She saves all her frustration for the second they have boots on the ground.

  Fire doors might be A-One for saving your arse from fire, but they make stealth impossible, putting the absolute kibosh on a sneaky entrance—immediately drawing enough bullets to turn a tank into a colander. Sending the Hornets out to each side, Amiga runs right into the teeth of trouble, not bothering to waste bullets until she’s up close and personal. All the while she’s trying to place them, these soldiers in black combat gear and face-concealing helmets with goggles. Creepy shit.

  Whoever sent them does not want them easily pegged.

  There’s a single insignia on their lapels, a gold-and-red pin, a dragon coiled into an infinity sign. It’s not familiar. It should be. There’s no criminal element here or on the hubs Amiga hasn’t had dealings with whilst working with Twist. Grabbing one by the lapel, she cracks their helmet against the wall with all her might. Once. Twice. Blood seeps out on to her hand. Arterial blood. The right kind. She drops them underfoot, trampling their chest to get to the next one, who she shoots in the neck, and the next, who gets a bullet up through the groin.

  Amiga is feeling her rage. And feeding it.

  In the corner, one of the soldiers has several farm workers on their knees, hands behind their heads. No one else is close enough, which suits Amiga’s current state of mind just fine. Sprinting over, she grabs the cunt round the throat, jerking hard enough to deprive them of most of their air. The choking noises please her. A lot.

  She hauls them to the window, pure force of will considering this one is a hell of a lot bulkier than her, and half shoves them out, leaning over to say, “Expensive gear you have here, arsehole. Who bought it? Who the fuck bought you?”

  The snarls from behind the helmet tell her nothing except that she’s right. These fucks are bought. Mercenaries. They won’t talk. So she steps back. Pushes. Lets go, slapping hands away from the frame as they scrabble for purchase and smiling as they disappear, screaming. These windows lead to the sides of the mountain—it’ll be a long time before that arsehole meets the ground. A good long time to reconsider the life choices that led to shooting innocent people in a farm ’scraper.

  As she’s stepping away to rescue the workers still on their knees, a vast explosion rocks the entire building.

  “That was up!” Tracker shouts.

  “Get these tenants the hell out,” she calls back. “I’m going to find Gail.”

  Amiga really fucking likes Gail. He’s seriously good people. Even though he looks at her like she’s about to go postal he treats her with nothing but respect and kindness. And what he’s done for her family, her Hornets? That’d earn him her loyalty no matter what. She has to find him. No way is he paying for any of this. No way is she allowing another good person to be fucked over for doing what’s right.

  Tracker runs past, slaps her on the arm, his face deadly serious. “Be careful,” he says.

  Amiga frowns. “Why you all bother to say that I’ll never know.”

  “Just in case you ever listen,” he answers, surprising her.

  Trusting them has been impossibly hard, but when she manages, always worth it. And now she understands how Maggie felt, grasps a portion of that subtext. Giving up control, allowing people to be there for you, allowing yourself to be there for them. It’s one of the hardest, most important things a soul can do. Which is why she can’t— won’t—let Gail, or Mollie, down. Grinding her jaw until it spasms, Amiga speeds off, her heart drumming so loud it’s all she can hear.

  * * *

  Fixated on the very real possibility of having to jump the sheer drop between the terraces he’s sat on the edge of every day, Shock’s first tho
ught is oh hell no, but that’s the exact moment the entire world seems to implode around them. Explosions so loud his hearing is replaced by roaring and ringing, driving all thought into a deep corner, cowering for a second or two until he realizes he’s just standing there.

  Talk about a target. This is not the time to lose his shit.

  Clinging to his duffel, he sprints for the doors, head down, battling panic and pain from injuries not healed enough to allow for this kind of speed and movement. Stinging smoke, showers of debris and choking billows of dust fill the air, leaving him blind as well as deaf, heading for the terraces on instinct alone, trusting his feet to know the path they’ve walked every day for the past four weeks.

  Lost in heat and dust, he can barely breathe, just keeps running until air slaps him in the face, making him cough and cough again. He clutches his duffel harder, bracing his aching scars and runs faster until his feet hit freezing water, plough calf deep into soft, thick fronds, tearing at the hair on his ankles and making him stutter and swear.

  Treading on a stone, he stumbles. Shit, his feet are bare. Why didn’t he put shoes on? And where is everyone? Explosions resonate behind him and the terrace shakes violently, as if the whole building’s threatening to collapse beneath him. It won’t. Like everything in the Gung it’s built to withstand earthquakes, but his heart jolts and stalls nonetheless, anticipating the worst.

  Scattered bursts of gunfire follow the explosions. Shouts. Screaming. The unmistakable sound of masonry coming down. His friends are back there and he’s running away. Struck by the conviction that he should go back or he’ll lose them, Shock freezes in place. Yells incoherently when an arm snags him around the waist and propels him along, barely giving him time to find his feet.

  “C’mon man! Keep moving!” Ravi: moustaches flying back, his face too pale, smudged with dirt and dust, with little flecks and smears of blood.

  “Where is everyone?”

  “I don’t know.” The fear deeply entrenched in Ravi’s jovial voice sinks into Shock, a sub-zero cold filling his bones, leaking into his lungs. “There was too much dust. I only just saw you. I think some got trapped back there.”

  “Is that your blood?”

  Ravi nods as they run for the edge, the shouts and gunfire at their backs not receding but getting closer.

  Deuce barrels past them then, with KJ and several other Hornets, all covered in dust and filth, their duffels slung over their shoulders, their hands full of rappels. Deuce exchanges an agonized look with Ravi and Shock, hollering as he passes.

  “I thought you were fucking gone.”

  “Have you seen anyone else?” Ravi calls out. “How many others are back there?”

  Deuce shakes his head, and throws over his shoulder, “I don’t know, okay? I found who I could.”

  Shock’s head swims with panic, distorting the world to distant buzzing and blurs.

  Avis, he all but screams, doing something he’s never yet done and reaching out for all of them. Most are alive and the relief is dizzying.

  Here. Their collective voice is a harmony. It resonates in his bones.

  Go find your humans. Get them out. And Leopard Seal…

  Shock? Her reply in particular makes his head swim, his eyes blur. Amiga’s alive down there. Still alive.

  Do not let Amiga do anything too dumb. I’ll miss her stupid face.

  Her wave of agreement, fierce and tinged with dark amusement, touches him as they reach the edge of the terrace where the Hornets are coupling rappels to the concrete.

  Too winded to speak now they’ve stopped running, Shock IMs Deuce. I sent avis after everyone.

  Deuce’s face goes carefully blank. All of them?

  Most are still there. Only a few gone. I spoke to Leopard Seal.

  He nods thanks, trying and failing to hide the relief in his eyes. Chucks the rappel rope over the side, allowing it to whisper down into the darkness, and slaps a wrist clip on Shock, holding on to make sure he sees how serious he is. You’re going first; we can’t afford to let you be caught. Hold this with both hands. Allow momentum to carry you down. Keep a look out for the water and drop and roll when it’s a few feet below, like I know Amiga’s shown you. You don’t wanna hit feet first or you’ll snap your ankles. When you’re safe down, run for the next edge. We’ll be right behind you.

  Taking a deep breath, Shock launches, wishing he’d taken time to put his hair up. He’s forced to free a hand to push it out of his eyes, leaving him to swing crazily to and fro, his stomach swinging the other way, lurching like hysteria and sickness. Fuck but he hates heights. Last time he had to do this, he was high as balls—what he wouldn’t give to be high right now, but no chance. Ravi cold cured him. He’ll never get high again, so this better be the last lot of heights he has to jump from.

  The reflection of moonlight on the water below is the only warning he gets of proximity. He barely unclips in time, rolling as he hits mud, trying to keep his duffel dry and making a mess of it instead, pretty much soaking himself from head to toe.

  As promised, Deuce and the others are right on Shock’s tail, almost beating him to the next terrace. They’re faster at this. Practiced. He’s scared of holding them back, but he’s sent ahead every time, getting slower and slower as his body starts to bitch and complain. There’s still gunfire sounding in bursts from the ’scraper, the pops hurting his ears with the roar and ring of the explosion still resounding, making everything sound dim again. Submerged.

  The terraces are lit by the fierce roar of flames, the heat growing at his back with every level. He tries to reach out to avis more than once, but the silence is deafening. He tries not to think about what that means as he drives himself forward, wondering if the last terrace is ever going to appear. Fuck but when you really need to get away, there’s nothing less convenient than a ’scraper this ever-loving tall.

  They’ve made it down a mere ten of the thirty terraces when bullets start to splash the water around them. Without thinking, Shock takes action, spinning out Slip as colour, reeling it out behind him and over the terrace, erasing them from sight. Underneath the illusion, gold glimmers, making the Hornets gasp and stare. He knows they’re staring at him too and refuses to meet their eyes as distant agitated shouts rise up, muffled in his ringing ears.

  Deuce stumbles into him and grabs his shoulder, squeezing tight. Tricked into peeking, Shock’s almost undone by the awe in his face. No. No way. This is not a thing to admire. It’s too much. And when the adrenalin’s faded and reality sets in hard, Deuce will see that more swiftly than anyone. He’ll begin to watch Shock like a hawk and that’ll be the beginning of his end with the Hornets.

  * * *

  Suffocated by smoke, Amiga tackles one of the soldiers slash shitty fucking mercs from behind, smashing her fist into their throat over and over until the air wheezes to a stop. Her knuckles throb like a bitch but she takes the next one out the same way, breathing hard through her teeth against the pain.

  She ran out of bullets three levels ago. Dropped her fucking knife running away from heavy fire on the floor above. She’s pissed beyond measure and still hasn’t found Gail, her heart shrinking by the second—burning a hole in her ribcage.

  Fed up of smoke, she tears the strap of a dead soldier’s helmet loose and yanks it off. Underneath, eyes glazed with death, a woman maybe ten years older than her. She’s not particularly buzzed to put a helmet someone just took their dying breath in on her own head, but she’s going to be drawing her last if she doesn’t.

  The things she does to stay alive.

  Making a mental note to grab one for Gail when she reaches him, she steals the gun and the knife from the dead merc to save her borked knuckles and bulls forward, clicking the helmet’s goggles on to give her some night-vision visibility. With smoke this thick it’s not much use but it’s better than naked eyesight, giving her the apparition-green edges of walls to guide her way.

  Leaving a sloppy trail of bodies, some more categorically d
ead than others as she runs out of patience and moves more for speed than certainty, Amiga makes her way through the ’scraper. She has no idea if everyone else is okay and that’s not okay. Not. At. All. But she still hasn’t found the farm manager. This may be the closest Amiga gets to panic in her entire life. Not the best time to discover that panic makes her incapable of efficiency.

  One of these days she’ll think back to how she left some of these mercs and maybe need to hang her head over a toilet for a while.

  The second to last floor, she finally spots Gail. Unconscious and all the way on the other side of a hall bristling with mercs. About the worst scenario she was envisaging that didn’t involve his corpse if she’s honest. Fact is, that could be his corpse. He could be dead. She can’t tell from here if he’s breathing or not, but what the fuck. Assumptions are a poor substitute for truth. A quick count tells her she’s likely to get badly hurt here, and this is the moment she should be listening to the Hornets and taking care. But Gail’s there, he’s right fucking there and she has to try.

  Fuck safety. She’ll be safe when she dies.

  Taking another swift inventory, Amiga dives at the group of mercs to her left, taking them down with vicious, messy cuts to the throat. Uses the last as a shield to slam forward and take on the room, not realizing that’s she’s screaming until the sound of bullets ricocheting off the walls and floor ceases. Snapping her jaw shut like a trap, she looks across the floor, sending swift prayers to ancestors she neither knows nor cares about and watches with her own breath bated as his chest moves, and keeps moving—he’s breathing. Out cold, not dead. Result.

  She steps over the bodies around her feet to run over to him. She’s maybe six feet away when the corridors behind them fill with mercs. Dozens of them. Too many. There are no guns in reach. No knives. No way. Amiga screams again, right at them, and they all move in perfect sync— their guns raising to fire as she leaps back. Grabbing up the nearest body to cover herself, Amiga backs the hell up, cursing herself out for being too slow to get here, too slow to kill the small groups in her way, too goddamn fucking slow to save the man who risked his life to save them.