by T. K. Toppin
I held the krima to his neck. He jerked, making gurgling sounds. He staggered backward, the laser cutting through his throat. He fell to the floor twitching as blood started to push past the scorched flesh. I lowered my hand slowly. The air thickened with the smell of burned flesh and blood. I stepped back quickly, blinking, gasping for breath. With my other hand, I scrubbed my mouth, fighting a sudden wave of nausea. I’d just killed someone.
I forced myself to look away, met John’s eyes, and yelled in fright. His face was unreadable.
“Shit!” I exclaimed. “Shit!”
Chapter 51
John had flung through the doors just as the assassin soared through the air; ready to kick Josie in the head. Sailing over the steps, John drew his weapon, a soundless scream locked in his throat. Just then, she ducked low, then rose like a cobra and lashed out in a backhanded slash, smooth and graceful. She kept pivoting, rising higher, and struck again.
John approached her silently, not wanting to alarm her. He knew that moment where the mind shut down all distractions and focused with brilliant clarity on what needed to be done. When instinct took over, when the mind and body fused together—where any sudden movement was a threat to be acted upon. When she turned and saw him, he froze. Then she yelled. Then let out some curses. The spell was broken.
He reached her, gun lowered, other hand held out palm up. She flung herself at him and clutched him in a death grip.
“Shit! Holy, holy shit, John!” she babbled. Her body shook as adrenalin fried her circuits. “What the fuck just happened?”
John pulled her away, and inspected her. Her eyes were rounded like saucers, mirroring shock and fright. Her mouth bled, but otherwise she appeared unharmed. “We can’t stop here. They’ve broken through. Come, let’s go.” Tugging her arm, he led the way. “Mrs. Trudesson has taught you well.” He managed a tight, approving nod.
“I winged most of it,” Josie muttered shakily, and rubbed the back of her head. “Ow. Lost a few hairs back there.”
“Down!” John bellowed, shoving her forcefully to the side. She landed hard on the floor.
John looked up in time to see someone flying through the air from a row of seats six meters up. He aimed his weapon, a large Snare Gun 3, just as something sizzled past his arm from his left. His shield crackled, and he snarled as stinging pain shot through his arm. Turning to face the new attacker, he dove to the ground in a head-over-heels roll, coming up in a crouch, his gun on the floor before him. The flying man landed with a graceful thud, rolled, and assumed a similar pose. They squared off like two large cats ready to fight. From the left, the other attacker jumped over a row of chairs, taking aim with his weapon.
“Shit!” Josie cried out. She scrabbled like an upturned turtle and dug out her Snare Gun. Rising to her knees, she fired wildly—three quick bursts erupted from her gun like spitting cats. They made contact with some chairs and popped like firecrackers. The attacker ducked left behind some seats, sprang up, and fired two shots in succession. They made no sound but for a whistling whine. John watched as one caught Josie’s shield; it crackled, and his heart leapt to his throat. With a curse, Josie clapped a hand to her left temple. She dove for cover, rolling until she was under a table.
Taking advantage of his distraction, the man before him pounced. In a blur of movement, they grappled each other, throwing a series of punches and kicks too fast to see. John deflected and countered every attack with ease—but, he noted, so did his opponent. They were evenly matched. John dipped low, and side-kicked to throw the man off his feet. The man flew up like a bird with his knees raised high, and snapped one leg out, narrowly missing John’s face. John dropped backward on one hand, curled, and jackknifed. He connected with the man’s chest just as he landed on the floor, and sent him flying across the room.
Scrambling, John retrieved his gun. Josie remained under a table.
Still safe.
He spun around seeking the other assailant—gone. He swirled back to finish off the first; he’d vanished too. John launched off the floor in a one-handed somersault to reach Josie’s position in seconds. He heaved the table up and over onto its side, then ducked behind it for cover.
“We have to reach that panel,” he whispered fervently. A dark line at the top of his right wrist stung like a bad burn. He looked at her to make sure she was unhurt. A mottled score on her temple with a few beads of blood was the only injury he could see.
They were now left of the steps that led to the portraits, and directly opposite the platform and podium. Something whistled, speckling the upturned table with crunching pops; splinters flew up around them. One penetrated the thick wood and zinged past Josie’s foot; she yelped and tucked it in close.
“They’re using shield-penetrating rounds. We’ve no protection!” John risked a quick look over the table. He heard movement to his right, behind them, and fired a series of exploding shots into the general area before ducking back for cover. “We have to get to the other side. They’ve encircled us.” He grabbed Josie’s arm. “Go up through the third row of seats, circle around to the other side. I’ll wait here and keep them off you.”
“Okay—What? No!” Josie gaped; her eyes rounded again. “I’m not leaving you here.”
“Just go!” he growled, and gave her a push.
* * *
Fucking hell!
I stayed low until I reached the stairs five feet away, then quickly crawled up to the third row. My back prickled; I expected to be shot at any moment. That thought did nothing to calm me, but prompted my limbs to move faster. I slithered right and wedged in beside the chair legs.
Through the spaces between the legs, I saw I had a ways to go, literally halfway around the Assembly Hall. I turned right, and saw the top of John’s head. Looking up, I wondered if anyone higher could see more. Probably. Just as I turned to begin my long crawl, someone came flying out from the sixth row, directly behind John.
“Behind you!” I yelled, already on my feet firing the Snare Gun. I shot three times at the descending figure. John also fired. A round hit the man in his stomach and exploded. To my relief, the man veered off his descent and thudded to the floor, limp and very dead, just two feet from John.
John turned quickly to me. “No!” he screamed.
A shower of whistling bullets raked the air around me, and peppered the chairs with a cloud of dust and debris. I shrieked and ducked, diving back to the steps and rolling down them. More shots whistled by; one found its mark and raked my arm. I landed on my stomach, winded. Not wanting to be a sitting duck, I scrambled up and moved for cover.
When I looked up, John was launching over chairs, shooting and in pursuit. Small explosions went off, mixed with the whistling bullets. The attacker ran for cover between the chairs. John soared over rows five and six like a high jumper, and fired. The shot hit the man’s leg, and exploded. The man went down between rows eight and nine, gasping. Another vault, and John stood before him. Without a pause, he fired a three-shot round and raised a protective hand to shield his face as the barbed bullets exploded a second later.
Descending quickly, John was at my side, pulling me to my knees. My left arm bled and I was winded, but otherwise still breathing. He looked at the wound, and took my other arm to bring me to my feet. He steadied me even as I nodded I was all right, then made to go. To my horror, a figure rose from behind the podium and threw something silvery. My mind froze, but as if running on primal instinct, I screamed and pulled John to me. He was pliable, already moving, and allowed me to drag him to the ground.
We fell on our sides, face-to-face. Another silvery object, disc-like and flat, sailed toward us. It struck John on his arm; he grunted as it clattered to the floor. Scrambling to my knees, I straddled John, who wriggled beneath me to turn onto his back, and turned to face our attacker. I aimed my gun to fire, just as another disc came right at me. I swerved left, covered my face and twisted my body over John. The disc tore through my side, raking along my back to just behind
my armpit. I gasped from the electrifying pain, felt John move, and heard a three-burst shot as he fired from somewhere under my hip. Then an explosion. I turned my head. The attacker lay smoldering in a heap not ten feet away, the stench of roasting flesh thick and heavy in the air.
John gently rolled me off him, looking wildly left and right, up and down, making sure no one else was around. For now, our attackers gave us a respite. My body contorted in pain, stiff and clenched. With delicate care, John lifted the torn part of my shirt; even that sent sharp jolts of pain shooting through me. I imagined my back in ruins. No-no-no! I twisted, trying to see the lower portion of the injury. I glimpsed the beginning of a snaking red line going up from my ribs. I knew it went around and behind to my shoulder where it sang loudest with agony. The skin had parted like a bloody grin, exposing darker, meaty flesh. The wound bled freely. So much blood! It had even cut through the shield’s inner fabric.
John sucked in a breath. “It’s not too deep.”
Not too—What the…! “It. Fucking. Hurts!”
Writhing in pain, words left me. Whatever. Yet another set of injuries. I growled instead, venting my feelings. Living in this future was ruining my vanity.
“You’ll be fine. Just hold still a moment.” Digging into his jacket, John pulled out an emergency skin-sealer. “We have to stop the bleeding. This will contract the wound and seal it. And…it will sting.” He pushed me down on my side, then sprayed on a solution, white and foamy.
I grunted as the initial stab of antiseptic stung. I felt the skin pulling together, sealing. Then, holy motherload of shit! I jerked wildly as the stab turned into a veritable downpour of corrosive acid rain made of razor blades. John held me down with force. The hissing and bubbling finally subsided, and morphed into a cool, minty burn that soon soothed, then numbed. It turned clear, shiny, like transparent rubber. The wound was sanitized and sealed. Without waiting, he sat me up firmly. Ignoring my gasps and whinges, he took my left arm and sprayed that too. I jerked, slapped him across the chest, and stifled a scream while one leg kicked a rapid beat until the pain subsided.
“Don’t worry,” he said with a grim smile, “you get to do me,” and offered his injured arm.
A loud explosion ten seconds later had us clutching each other. In quick time, a flood of armed soldiers stormed into the hall, guns pointed at us. We were trapped.
A young man, dressed in a dull gray suit strapped about with ammunitions and weapons, sauntered down the steps. With a smug look, he tossed his blond locks, and stood before us.
“Why,” he drawled, directing his gaze at me, “can’t you just die?”
Chapter 52
We were taken to a room near the cabinet offices, a lounge, judging by the way it was furnished. Comfortable chairs and couches were laid out in harmonious clusters. Indoor plants accented corners, and a welcoming beverage bar and kitchenette graced one side. And, like any party gathering, a cluster of ministers and special aides, a few Citadel soldiers, and Simon, stood huddled together under the watchful eyes of six heavily-armed soldiers wearing gray. On the other side of the room, separated by a glass privacy screen, four more soldiers were grouped together around a young man, who sat with his back to us. His hair was brown, stylishly wavy, and groomed to flounce out at one side. He hunched over a table, rapidly tapping into a computer console as he gave hushed instructions to the soldiers.
The blond man who’d captured us cleared his throat. “Look who I found.” Smugness twisted his face.
The young man at the table turned, looked us over with a quick glance, then turned back to his men to mutter something indistinct. The soldiers left immediately, ignoring us as they walked past. He then stood and faced us. I pegged him to be not more than twenty-five. His face was smooth and slightly rounded, with a long, straight nose, gracefully arched brows over hazel eyes, and soft curving lips, which now quirked into a smile.
“Well, if it isn’t the famous Josie Bettencourt.” He gave me a long up and down inspection. His accent had a slight French lilt, especially on my last name. “You are the hardest person to kill.”
I didn’t reply, but returned his inspection with one of my own.
John, his voice laced with menace, spoke. “And just who are you?”
The young man blinked and stared at John. Disgust marred the man’s features, as if being in John’s presence made him ill. “I am not speaking to you.” He turned his attention to the blond man. “Put him with the rest.”
With some difficulty, John was forcibly pushed across the room at gunpoint. He directed a murderous glower at the young man, and grudgingly stood beside Simon. Simon looked just as much worse for wear as we did, with a tear across the front of his suit, the ragged edges dark with blood. More blood smeared his face from a head wound. Otherwise, he looked as normal as only Simon could in the face of danger. He greeted John with a deep incline of his head and his customary smirk.
“I thought I told you to bugger off.” I heard Simon say as he shook his head. John gave him a tight-lipped glare.
Returning my attention to the young man, I mustered up some courage and addressed him as boldly as I could. “Well, if you’re not speaking to him, speak to me. So, who are you, then?”
The man smiled. He reminded me of a college frat boy on some devious initiation prank. You know, the asshole kind. “But of course.” He bowed theatrically. “I am Luc Solange, Vice-President of the New Federation Council.”
“Vice-President?” I snorted. “So you’re not the one in charge then? I only deal with presidents.” I glanced across at John and winked.
Solange puffed out his chest a little. “The president is otherwise engaged. But he’d be most pleased to see you and attend to you personally.”
“Really? And who is the president? What’s his name?”
“Why…” He steepled his fingers together and pressed them to his mouth. “Uron Koh, of course.”
“Well then, no point talking to you, is there?” I folded my arms across my chest, winced as the gash in my side pulled. “Take me to your leader.”
From across the room, I heard Simon groan.
Solange’s face mottled red, nostrils flaring as he inhaled. He kicked the chair he’d been sitting on. “How dare you speak to me like that? I should kill you myself!”
“Oh, now, you don’t want to be upsetting your boss, now do we?” I smiled brilliantly. What the fuck was I playing at? I couldn’t believe my behavior. Armed men surrounded me, and here I was mouthing off like a fool. My weapons had been taken away, but not before I managed to wedge the krima in my ass crack—which was growing sweaty. I surreptitiously hiked up my underwear and hoped no unseemly bulges were exposed.
Solange strode up to me and brought his face close to mine. “Do you know how high the price on your head is? Five million United Dollars! As far as I see it, it’s still open season.”
I pushed my face closer, and gave him my best menacing glare. “Then kill me and get it over with.”
He spun around dramatically, took a breath, and composed himself before facing me again. The charming smile was back in place. If this were any other situation, I would’ve laughed at his pomposity. Instead, I remained aloof and chose a spot over his left shoulder to stare at.
“Inform the president, will you, Grieger?” Solange addressed the blond man. “Tell him I have a present for him. In the meantime, if you will be so kind as to wait right here with me.” He indicated a nearby chair.
It was an antique wooden chair with dark burgundy velvet upholstery, lion-feet legs, and curved armrests. I sat gingerly, mindful of what was concealed between my butt cheeks. Hooking one leg over the other, I settled my weight onto one ass cheek, and stole a look across the room at John. He was, at that very moment, being forcibly held in place by Simon, who had a firm grip on his shoulder. John shot me the darkest of glowers; his mouth had worked itself into a thin line, and his eyes drilled mine with a look that suggested I’d lost my mind.
Luc
Solange daintily righted the kicked chair, flashed me a wide smile as he placed it before the table, sat, and resumed his studious consultation with his computer.
The computer, a personal unit, was one of the flat, rolled-up designs called Rolls, unlike the smaller, extendable Slides I was used to seeing. Just about everyone used the Slide, since once compressed, it was no more than four inches long and one and a half inches wide. Once expanded with a button-press on its side, the unit grew an extra three inches both ways. Most still preferred the Slide compared to the Rolls, as its compact, solid design allowed the user to operate it anywhere, as it didn’t require a flat surface to work on.
“Nice hardware.” I jerked my head to the computer. Max had had one just like it. He’d kept on unrolling it to show me its many features. As I also recalled, he’d kept on reminding me it was the latest technology on offer.
Solange regarded me with a sideways glance. Choosing to ignore me, he returned to his work. We sat in silence for a little longer. As time dragged, my body throbbed with the aches and pains of my various injuries, not to mention that my backside grew very numb with a foreign object stuck between its cheeks. With the toll my body had taken, exhaustion pummeled me, and it was no wonder that without shame, I yawned.
Across the room, I saw John and Simon share odd looks with one another: a twitch of the mouth from Simon, a quick raise of John’s eyebrow, an idle nose scratch from Simon, John clearing his throat to mask…what was that? A nod? These, and various other expressions and meaningful looks passed between them. They were up to something. I’d known them long enough to know they spoke in code; it mesmerized me. They had their own language. Not surprising, considering they’d known one another since childhood. I dearly wanted to know what they planned and, whatever it was, I hoped that when they were ready, I’d be too.