I set the spent canister on the floor. I check the server wall. No more smoke, no sparks or flares. “I think we’re good here.”
I see Geek nod. He’s driving manually. The traffic monitors display the curious faces of pedestrians. Most seem to be pointing at us. And I see trailing smoke. Not a good thing.
Time to make an exit plan. Before I say anything, Nikki dons her canvas bag. She looks at me with a simple, hard smile that says, ‘Protect me, bodyguard’.
I nod. I’m on it.
I look to Liz. She’s calm, standing next to Geek. As Nikki and I approach the pair, I can see Liz is working the keypads alongside Geek. What the hell is this? She’s like his co-pilot. I missed a lot when he took me offline.
“Thank you,” Geek says to Liz.
“Glad I can help.”
“You got a place to ditch?” I ask Geek.
“About three minutes away.”
We may not have three minutes. “I can see left and right and front but not rear or above. Can you re-establish those views?” I ask the pair.
“I’ll work on it,” Liz replies.
“Weapons, Geek?” I say.
He nods. “Weapons not damaged. If you see something, say something and I’ll blast it.”
I scan the three working monitors, gawkers pointing, most with cameras aimed our way.
Other monitors blink on, but the static is so thick I can’t make out the scenes through the mass of pixels. Then the screens clear up.
I don’t see any cops.
“You got that Bolt thing, right?”
I look at Nikki and nod.
“Good boy.”
We see police units approaching from the rear and descending. Three units in total.
“I spy with my little eye…” Nikki starts.
“I see ’em,” Geek states, slightly agitated.
“Are you going to hit them with the blue light? Is it safe for us?” Nikki asks.
“Relax woman! We got this.” He shakes his head.
The monitors blink off. “I’ll keep us on course,” says a calm Liz.
Geek nods. He works his keypads.
“When did you learn to fly this thing?” I ask Liz.
“While you were under repair,” she says with a smile.
“What else did you guys do while I was out?”
A collective silence coupled with a quiet laughter emits from the trio.
“Aw … c’mon! You coulda woke me up for that!”
“For what, love?” Nikki asks.
I meet her smiling eyes. I just want to make love to her.
I notice Geek touch the back of Liz’s hand. She responds by tapping a few keys.
“How far do we have to go?” Liz asks.
Geek says, “Another click or so. Go to dock msxy. Punch in code; s, a, v, e.”
Liz moves to the far left of the workbench. She works the keypads at that station.
We ride in silence. I reach into my right pants pocket and pull out the gloves for the Bolt. I put them on. I leave the Bolt in my pocket.
Nikki rolls her shoulders, like a boxer before the bell starts the fight.
“So what are we gonna do, bodyguard?”
“First, get to a safe place. Second, stay in that safe place. Third, find direct links to Gliddin, Space and The Event. Screw Griffin, I’m sticking with my theory.”
“Okay, then what? You heard what that explosive asshole said. What am I going to get from all of this?”
I think about what she said and smile. I’m proud of myself for not laughing.
“We’re done,” states Geek as he rises from his chair. “I’m going to have to give up the mot. We’re about three blocks east of the Canal terminal.”
“Underground,” I say as I lead the way toward the exit.
“Yeah, that’s our best bet.”
I nod my agreement. I hear no objection from the girls.
I pull the Bolt out. I look back and see my crew is ready to exit. I note that each of them have similar-styled canvas messenger bags.
The scene makes me pause. It’s like an orchestrated ad campaign. Now I want a canvas messenger bag so I can be like the cool kids.
I say, “Here we go.”
I open the door.
Twelve rounds hit me before I fire back. I take out seven officers. I rush out of the mot, fire at a POD, it explodes. Guess those things really piss me off. I see over a dozen officers silently roar toward us. I wave at my crew and point them east. We rush down the avenue with Nikki in the lead. She’s not shy about knocking people over. It’s easier to run straight than trying to dodge and weave, and you only have to knock over three or four people before the collective get the idea and get the hell out of the way. So now we’re running a dead heat down the block. I stop and fire at the nearest three units. Glass shatters, metal buckles and one of the police units slams into a building. That causes nine police vehicles to come to an abrupt stop. They don’t fire on me because I’m surrounded by people. So I rush down the street.
Two meters into my dash and I’m fairly clear of civilians and that’s when I feel metal rounds crash into my flesh. The impacts cause me to jerk-step backward but nothing more. And yet they keep shooting, which annoys me so I stop, spin and fire. I strike five police mots. The vehicles come to a stop in heaps of shredded metal, hot smoke and, sometimes, blood against glass.
I see lights flash but feel no impact on my body.
More flashing lights from six hovering police units.
I see the missile launch and I sprint away. I leap as I hear and feel the pressure of the approaching weapon slicing through the air. I roll on the ground to avoid a direct strike from the missile then bound back to my feet – the explosion knocks me to the left.
My back is hot and bare and I spin and bounce like trash blown in the wind. I stop smack against a mot like wet debris.
All body parts accounted for. I’m still here. Get up.
Crawl.
Stop shaking. Need shelter.
Crawl toward the trash.
Concrete bay. Get beneath the heavy bins.
Don’t need total darkness to disappear. Just shade.
Feeling better as I fade. Just need a moment to compose then I’m back in the action. I flex my hands. Re-grip the Bolt with my right.
Six cops in heavy gear rush past me. A few cops scout the area.
One cop drops to his knees, bends over and stares me in the eyes. The barrel of his weapon is aimed at my body as he checks beneath the trash bin. He’s probably wondering why he can’t see through me, yet, since he can’t see me, he thinks it’s a trick of the light.
Déjà vu. I’m the hunted. How the mind wanders when under stress.
The cop looks away from me. I watch his boots move as I hear him cautiously lift a panel atop the big metal container. He sets the panel down quietly once he finds nothing of interest.
From what I can see and hear, the foot patrols move on. I know there are hovering units scanning the area for heat signatures and any abnormal movement. So I’ll lie still for a few more minutes. I started this deal in a paper and rubbish warehouse, was kicked to the curb, and am now lying beneath garbage bins.
I need a new gig.
Ahh… what the hell! Mind, my mind…
“…Apollo, respond.”
“Geek?”
“You okay, son?”
“I’m alive – what the hell, how are you in my mind?”
“Nikki’s computer is amazing. Proto built a marvelous unit for her.”
“Cool.”
“The girls and I are secure. Liz got us sanctuary in a hash bar.”
“I know the one. I’ll be there as soon as I can.”
“You need anything from me? How can I help?”
“Can you access police frequencies? I’d like to know what I’m dealing with.”
“Will do. Hold.”
And just like that, the pressure is off. Wow, Nikki’s computer in Geek’s hands. He may be a
ble to shut down the power grids and such. Cause some civilian havoc, a diversion large enough to warrant redeployment of these immediate troops.
I find it strange that I don’t hear dogs. I bet they’re en route. I figure by now they know who I am and realize that I couldn’t have left the immediate area so completely. They can’t find me on any of the sensors and they know I can beat everything but smell so it’s time to bring in the hounds.
The pressure…“Apollo, I’m going to blow my ship.”
I wanted a distraction. “You sure about that?”
“Yeah, it’s better this way. Liz saved everything. I’ll lose some of the personal stuff but I’ll learn to live without it.”
“Right. Okay. Give me a countdown.”
“On my mark… ten, nine,” the pressure is off.
I take a deep breath. I’m ready … in five.
I see boots rush away from me. I hear frantic, “Negative! Negative!”
37
The concrete ripples and shakes beneath me as the air screams.
Eerie silence floods the scene. I don’t hear voices or footfalls or cries… I worm out from beneath the metal bin. I feel the sun on my skin and so I’ve lost my shade. I grip the Bolt tight, ready to unload on anything in a uniform or combat gear. I look up, the sky is clear of police units. No PODs visible. I look right and see the street is clean. I look left and see smoke and burning debris and the parade of uniforms and official-acting people. I look ahead and behind, at the buildings, I see hundreds of eyes looking toward the smoke and fire and cops. I’m sure someone is looking at me but I can’t tell.
I leave the trash bay and rush away from the action. I rip the tattered shirt from my body. I hold the strips of fabric as I run down the avenue. My goal is to hit the Underground at Eighth Avenue. Not the same one that Geek and the girls entered but I can work back to Yellow Bob’s on that line.
I pitch the shirt in a trash receptacle and keep racing down the street.
I see the entrance a block ahead. I slow, from mad sprint to hard run, to power walk.
I look back, no one or nothing in pursuit. Cool. I break it down to the gait of a normal shirtless person enjoying the day. I remove the Bolt and gloves and shove the unit in my pant pockets.
I look down and see my shoes are dirty and beaten. My pants are oily and worn. And I’m shirtless. I look around. I see three stores to shop in before I hit the Underground. Then again, I can enter the Underground as I am. The cops won’t give me a second look as long as I pass the eye scan. But this is me … I can’t walk around like this.
On second study, two of the stores, Isabella and Bad Bitch, are for women. So I enter Majestic.
Eye scan as I pass through the portal into the quiet store. No music. The shop is well lit. The walls, high ceiling and floor are brushed stainless steel. No visible rivets or seams so the room appears as one hollowed metal brick. I like this place already. The shop is busy, but it’s a large, open space so people aren’t standing atop each other. Some clients have two people fawning over them. Others are solo, flicking through wardrobes while standing before the FitMirrors.
“Hello, Jack, I’m Cole,” says the pretty, thin Asian man. A small, circular unit hovers just off his shoulder. He doesn’t flinch at my appearance. He offers a huge smile and bright eyes. He sizes me up with his hands.
“Just in today, new from Italy, Mr. Robolini’s Gray collection. May I suggest….” he places his slender forefinger against his playful lips. The floating unit at his shoulder emits a ray over my body.
I’m now suited. I look at myself in the mirror. The classic soft gray jacket and pants, thin black tie, white shirt, black shoes, with a black bucket hat. This is good. And I’m not in a real shopping mode right now. Yet I know this collection came out last month, so ‘just in today’ my ass.
Damn, now I’m in shopping mode.
I look deep into the pretty little boy’s green eyes. “Cole, show me something from Marin Inaki.”
His eyes light up, “He’s my personal fave! This is so exciting.” He sizes me with his hands once again. He steps back, his little head tilted to the left.
Now a white light washes over me, courtesy of the style unit at his shoulder. I’m wearing a green knit turtleneck pullover. The jacket and pants are a shiny off-olive color. The jacket has no pockets or buttons. The shoes are camel with a long flow and blunt toe.
“This is sweet,” I say.
“Yes it is!” I think he’s more excited than I am.
“I’ll take it.”
“Yes! Just follow me to the dressing rooms.”
I do. We walk quickly through the store.
Cole opens a door for me and I see the clothes hanging from a hook with the shoes on the floor.
“Take your time,” he says.
“Thank you.”
I see that they even provide underwear. What the hell. I strip down and put the new clothes on. The turtleneck is a thin knit: very light and flexible. The material for the jacket and pants is so soft I feel it will melt in my hands. The tags say eighty-percent wool. So what’s the other twenty? And like I care.
Digging the hell out of the shoes. Snug and comfortable. Those style units are spot-on when it comes to fitting.
I look in the mirror. I like it a lot. I bring the jacket together and the magnetic lining hems shut. Yeah, this is working for me. Spin. Looking good from the rear. Back to the front and I pull gently on the lapels and the jacket swings open.
“Price,” I say to the mirror.
Little yellow tags appear next to each item in the mirror. The jacket is seven nineteen. Turtleneck is two fifty-nine. Pants, one sixteen. Shoes are six forty-five. Socks, thirty-two. Shorts and t-shirt combo, fifty-two. Not a problem.
I reach down and retrieve the Bolt and gloves from my old pants. I place the unit into the pockets of my new pants. I look around for my wallet … and it floods back to me.
My wallet is – was – on the dresser in Geek’s mot. Dammit.
Okay, it’s not a problem. I can get another Lifecard with little effort. Don’t stress. This can work.
I exit the dressing room. Cole is waiting for me. His eyes light up as if we’re lovers meeting after a long absence.
“You are fabulous,” he says softly but with much intensity.
“Thank you.”
We walk over to the check out.
“Should I charge your A1 account?”
“Yes.” Of course, the new contacts are registered to the new account that Geek set up. Sweet.
“We’re good. Now you go out and kick some ass.” Cole says with a sincerity that makes me want to kiss him.
“Thank you for the wonderful service.”
“My pleasure.”
I leave the store feeling fine.
I turn left – I’m immediately face to glass eye with a POD. I’m amazed that I don’t smash it. Damn things just sneak up on you.
Eye scan. Satisfied I’m not the one, the POD floats away.
I hurry toward the Underground, escorted by a personal Public Service Announcement. There is a picture of a man and a woman displaying their tattoos. The man’s tattoo is of a black widow spider and it travels across this body. The woman’s tattoo is of a butterfly whose wings continually change color. The PSA advises men and women against digital tattoos. The body art has been linked to birth defects. Consult physicians for deactivation and removal of units prior to conception or, sperm or egg donation.
The pressure returns. Gotta be Geek.
“Apollo?”
“I’m here and about to enter the Eighth Avenue port. I’ll work back to Yellow Bob’s.”
“Good. We’ll stay put. See Ed at the bar and just say, housekeeping.”
“Okay, you know, communicating with you is very uncomfortable on my mind. It’s like pressure. Not like the normal Allround communication.”
“Well, I’m hijacking that signal and of course there is a lot of resistance. The pressure you feel is probabl
y the result of my breach on the Allround’s security protocols and defenses.”
“Right. Sure. I’ll see you in ten.”
“Cool.”
The pressure is off.
I think dark brown … and grow my hair to shoulder length. I darken my skin a few shades and lighten my eyes by the same degree.
I step over a small gold Masonic stamp in the concrete as I mix with the horde and walk through the VIP-Cola advert that curtains the down ramp to the gates of the Underground.
Cops hang about and watch the swarming crowd.
I approach the gate and look for the slender Control booth. There, at the far right.
Without a Lifecard, I have to give blood. I always take that unit for granted. The card has a rough face and back, collecting dust-like skin particles from indiscriminate contact. The card immediately analyzes the owner’s DNA. The information is passed to the central computer and one is allowed or denied access based on health in the time it takes to flash the card.
Without the card … blood is the cost of admission.
Three cops stand about and stare me down as I approach the Control booth.
I slip my forefinger into the oval slot in the wall. My finger is immobilized, prick, a cool spray.
I look straight ahead. Eye scan.
Now we wait.
Three cops are getting paid to watch me and they’re not saying a word. The least they can do is make annoying small talk, if just amongst each other. Quiet cops don’t set right with me.
I receive a green light. My finger is released. The cop on my immediate left steps aside.
I walk a few paces then step through the clear, shimmering barrier.
38
A screaming guitar, in the drop behind the drum and bass, forms a nice dance beat, part of the tunnel groove that defines the Underground. I gotta say, the best DJs in the city are at this Underground terminal.
I turn left, into the bazaar. No name brands or knock-offs here and no chain stores of any kind in the Underground. Just hand made wares from families or solo artists. One-of-a-kind, not to be found anywhere else: rugs, clothing and accessories, drugs, black ink tattoo artists; jewelry and sculptures made of wood, glass, ceramic, metal – anything that’s been discarded has some paint splashed on it and is now called decorative art. And of course, paintings on canvas, wood, glass, ceramic and metal. Books and magazines, all manner of archaic media and the apparatus required for listening or viewing the material.
Glass Shore Page 24