“Let me through?” Roland’s voice was incredulous, “LET!?” Roland, Lucia realized for the second time that day, was fucking terrifying sometimes. The tone of his voice alone triggered her augmentation and her perception of the next eighth of a second seemed to stretch out to four or five.
A right hand like wrecking ball hit the door and crumpled the steel like so much aluminum foil. The door, frame, and part of the ceiling blew inward with a noise like thunder that left her ears ringing. Sparks flew and rubble fell like bulky rain for two full seconds after the door stopped vibrating on the floor. To Lucia’s accelerated perceptions, it felt much longer.
In eerie slow-motion, Lucia saw the shadowy figure in the dim room beyond raise some sort of weapon. She tried to shout a warning to Roland, but he seemed not to hear because the only move he made was to take one step forward to block the door completely. There was a loud pop followed by a bright flash that silhouetted Roland in stark relief. Lucia screamed in spite of herself.
She heard Roland’s growl and a wet thud, followed by a yelp and a string of profanity so long and verbose that Lucia was forced to acknowledge the rhetorical virtuosity of the speaker despite her abject terror.
She made herself creep forward and peek around the towering cyborg into the room beyond. On the floor was a man. Well… she assumed it was a man. He was short. Very short. Five feet tall at most, with an enormous shock of unkempt white hair wreathing his head in a ridiculous mane. He had a beard, an enormous thing that obscured his lips and cascaded down over a barrel chest. Completing the laughable picture, he was wearing a pinstriped purple three-piece suit that had the right sleeve removed. That, she thought, must be the Dwarf.
The right sleeve was unnecessary, for one obvious reason. His right arm was entirely mechanical, and obviously so. No attempt had been made to make the arm look remotely human. It was an oversized mass of steel and actuators, terminating in a three-digit claw that was snapping and clamping in futile rage.
Roland had one foot on the Dwarf’s chest, and he was holding the industrial claw thing in his left hand while the Dwarf kicked, spat and, swore profusely.
Roland kneeled and shoved the bionic claw in his left hand into the floor with enough force to crack the floor plates. The Dwarf howled and Roland clamped a giant hand over his face to silence the torrent of invective that was forthcoming.
“I hate this fucking place, Rodney. I hate coming here.” Roland’s growl was a subterranean base that Lucia could feel in her guts. “You know where I do like to go?” He shifted and yanked the Dwarf up and held him aloft by his head and that bionic arm. Lucia realized that the Dwarf’s arm must have been very strong, because Roland never loosened his grip on it for an instant.
Roland smiled a slow, terrifying smile, “I like to go to the Wreck, Rodney. I’m happy there. They don’t let druggies and assholes and shit bands in there.”
Roland’s tone lightened, “Now, when I decide to put on my walking shoes and take a stroll to this shit-hole, it’s because I have a damn good reason to do it, Rodney. When I take the walk down here, and I am polite enough to knock first, I do so under the assumption you will open the fucking door.” Roland extended his left arm, stretching the Dwarf’s bionic limb out to the side.
“When you don’t respect my attempt at polite discourse, Rodney, when you don’t show me the courtesy that I tried to show you? Well, then I start to think you don’t respect me anymore.”
Roland’s next question was a whisper, “Don’t you respect me anymore, Rodney?” The muscles in Roland’s left forearm flexed, and there was the barest hint of clenched teeth, as the cords of Roland’s neck muscles bulged. With a crunch, the wrist area of the metal claw clutched in Roland’s left hand collapsed like a tin can in his fist. Sparks erupted in a hissing fountain from the elbow and the claw clenched spastically one more time before going limp.
The Dwarf tried to scream, but the platter-sized hand over his mouth made a mockery of the attempt.
“Oh, shut up,” Roland drawled, “That thing doesn’t feel pain.” He removed his hand and dropped the little man to the floor.
“Yea’, but it’s muthafookin’ expensive to fix, yah fookin’ shite-brained baldie bastard.” The Dwarf stood up and stalked over to an overturned chair. His right arm hung loosely and belched random sparks into the air with muffled pops. There was a loud snap and a hiss of coolant evaporated in cloud of noxious steam, “ahhhh fookin’ hell!” The Dwarf shouted as the sound startled him and he sat heavily in the chair.
“I fookin’ told yer over-sized half-a-tard arse that I had nae ta do wit’ that row!” He tried to make an adjustment to the arm but it was stubbornly unresponsive, “Why the fook are ye’ here fookin, wi’ my shite?”
Roland shrugged, “Should have opened the door, then.”
The Dwarf waved with his good arm at the destruction around him and pointed to his wrecked arm, “You doin’ shite like this is exactly why I dinnae open it, ye fookin’ dip-shite! Fook!”
He threw his good hand in the air, “Ye don’ think we are all up shite’s creek as is, what with some cork-sookin’ fookwad sending arse-buggerin’ androids ta Dockside, already?”
Roland barked, “Who?”
“How tha’ fook should I know?” was grumpy retort from the hairy little man.
Roland took a menacing step forward, “Goddamnit, Rodney, I came here because I need to know who is sending uptown muscle onto your turf. I dare you to sit there and tell me you have no idea at all who might have that sort of cash and be willing to risk pissing off your boss.”
The Dwarf looked torn, and Roland pressed his advantage, “Please tell me you don’t know anything, Rodney. Because you just ruined my shirt, and I’d love an excuse to kill you right now.”
“Don’t start comin’ over all hasty and assertive, ye big shite-stain.” The Dwarf said calmly as he shifted in his chair to rest the broken appendage on an armrest, “I’m already workin’ on that, and killin’ me just means ye’ll have ta start over.”
Roland leaned forward, “What do you know right now?”
“Well, it ain’t anyone from any of our little Dockside family crews, ye kin bet yer oversized chrome arse on that much. Them uptown slags, the Combine, have been makin’ noise about encroachin’ here, and dem shites have the money and brass ta’ take a swing without clearin’ it. But my first pass at ’em says they’re fooked if they know shite about this, either.”
He looked past Roland, “Besides, ye know damn well this ain’t about local politics, anyway, don’t ye?”
“I suspect things. Educate me.” This was Roland’s version of being coy. It was terrible and any effect it might have had was lost on the Dwarf. Fortunately, the tiny criminal was still sufficiently intimidated from having his arm crushed to be forthcoming.
“Word is, there’s a VIP on our dirty streets worth seven fookin’ zeroes to a certain party or parties what’s lookin’ for her.” He looked at Lucia with unvarnished avarice. It made her skin crawl.
Roland suppressed a wince. Seven zeroes? This was beyond bad. This was a catastrophe.
“Who are these parties?” Roland asked evenly, betraying nothing.
The Dwarf smiled, “No fookin’ clue, boyo.” Roland took a step forward, and the Dwarf held out his good hand in a conciliatory gesture, “But I sure as shite know who put that word out, now, don’t I just?”
Roland stopped and crossed his arms over the gaping burnt hole in his shirt. He cocked his head, and the Dwarf smiled, “It was that ball-garglin’ fook-stain piece-o-shite shyster from Big Woo. Ye know… Marko.”
Roland raised an eyebrow, and the Dwarf grinned even more, “Ye’re a right fookin’ arsehole, Tank me boy, and I happily await the day somebody nukes ye’ from orbit like ye’ rightly deserve. But the thought of ol’ Marko getting a visit from ye’ when ye’re in such a right fookin ‘ dandy of a mood just warms tha’ cockles of me wee heart.”
Roland growled, “If you’re fucking with m
e on this, Rodney…”
“Yeah yeah yea, ye’ll kill me. I’ve heard it before. Get on wit’ ya, now. I need to get someone in here to clean up this mess, now.”
He looked over at Lucia and waggled his bushy eyebrows, “Good luck there, lass. Ye’ll need it. All of the fookin’ universe is about to shite right on ye’, I’ll tell ye’ that for free.”
He gave her an appraising gaze, “Tell ye’ what girly; if ye ever get tired of that great big arsehole yer walkin’ about wit’, just come back here. I’m sure I’ve got a few positions you ken fill, if ye know what I mean!”
He never got to laugh at his own joke because Lucia’s heel connected with his front teeth at a speed no human could hope to match. She might have damaged her foot if not for the sturdy shoes she was wearing and technique honed flawless by expensive private lessons throughout her childhood. The Dwarf shrieked and sprayed blood and teeth all over the wall as he toppled off his chair and cashed to the floor.
“You wouldn’t survive the experience, dickhead, “she spat at the crumpled mess sobbing at her feet.
Roland gave her an approving look, but then scowled, “I don’t think you father would approve of the type of influence I appear to be having on you, kid.”
Lucia gave him a sharp look, “Who do you think paid for the goddamn lessons? And don’t call me kid.”
Roland laughed, “Yes ma’am.” He saluted sharply, and then smiled again, “But you best save some of that mustard for the crowd.”
“Crowd?” she asked.
“Yup. Crowd. Thanks to your temper and daddy’s muay thai lessons, we get to fight our way out of here, now.”
Lucia’s face was a mask of petulant irritation, “But you smashed his arm first!”
“That’s different. It was business,” He chuckled at the drooling prostrate Dwarf. “We might have walked out unmolested before you defenestrated ol’ Rodney, there. But now?” He shrugged, “Rodney’s crew won’t let a girl thump him like that without a response. Too much damage to his rep. I get a pass because I’m… well…” he gestured to his mass, “… me.”
Lucia winced, “Oh. Sorry. Got caught up in the moment, I guess.”
Roland stretched to his full height and grinned, “Don’t sweat it, ki—er—ma’am. I’ve been meaning to do this for a while now and I am very much in the mood tonight.”
“What should I do?” She asked.
“If they have guns, stay behind me. If they don’t have guns, get your money’s worth out of all those expensive lessons you got and kick as many asses as you can.”
Lucia swallowed hard, “Ok.”
Roland gave the Dwarf’s crumpled form a savage kick and headed for the exit. This was going to be fun.
Chapter Nine
They had guns.
The first door was still closed and, apparently, locked from the other side. Why anyone thought this would make a difference, Roland didn’t know. But he figured that on the other side of the door would be half a dozen or so of the Dwarf’s goons waiting to extract punishment for the insult he had just received.
He suppressed a chuckle, thinking about how an Uptown girl had just reorganized the face of a serious Dockside crime boss. He was starting to like this chick despite his better judgment. He could not suppress a smirk, Dockside could use the kind of shake-up she could bring. Things have been getting boring around here.
His attention returned to the matter at hand. Respect was important in Dockside, and whether the Dwarf’s crew had a prayer of winning this fight or not, tradition demanded that they try. The Dwarf would lose too much valuable respect otherwise.
Roland knew they’d be waiting because the awful music had stopped and he could hear the voices of several men murmuring and muttering on the other side of the door. The fact that the crew was there already told Roland that the Dwarf had figured ahead of time that something would probably go wrong and had sent for the crew as soon as Roland showed up. Roland was forced to concede that while the Dwarf was scum, he wasn’t stupid.
He considered going back to the other room and using the Dwarf as a hostage to walk out of there, but rejected that idea. Doing that would imply that Rodney’s goons could take Roland in a fight, and that would never do. Roland had a reputation to maintain. It had been a while since Roland had flexed his muscles in public, and Dockside was due for a refresher on why Roland was to be left alone. This would be as good an opportunity as any to reinforce that point.
Roland searched his memory for the Dwarf’s roster of heavies, checking for anyone who might pose a challenge or require special attention.
There was Mook, a big dumb mutant who was strong as an ox or three, but he had a misshapen spine and couldn’t move very well. Roland didn’t anticipate he’d be much trouble. There were the Garibaldi brothers, but they were mostly triggermen. Roland wasn’t worried about guns; anything light enough for those guys to carry wouldn’t be heavy enough to hurt him. Of course, he had to keep Lucia alive too, so he made a mental note to take out the Garibaldis first, if he saw them. Roland seemed to remember an augmented ex-cop who had been running with this crew, but he couldn’t remember the guy’s name or how tough he was, so he put it out of his mind.
He looked at Lucia. “When I go through this door, things are going to go very slowly for you, you know?” He tapped the side of his head with a finger, referring to her augmentation.
She nodded, pale with fear. It was easy to forget she was an Uptown girl. While it was just another Friday night in this part of town for him, this was probably the most tense moment of her life.
“Well, use that. You are going to have lots of time to react to what’s going on, but don’t panic and try to move as fast as you can. Your brain is quick as hell, but your body is still just your body. If you try to turn too quickly or move too fast, you are going to break an ankle or pull a muscle. Move deliberately. You are already the fastest one in the room, so don’t rush, OK? Got it?”
Her nervous system was already cranking, he could tell.
She nodded again, “Got it. Move slow. Don’t rush. Don’t panic. I’m fast. Got it.” She was speaking like a hopped-up chipmunk and her hands were twitching.
“Hey!” He barked, grabbing her attention, “Stay. Behind. Me.” He pointed to the charred hole in his shirt and the pristine, unmarked onyx muscles underneath, “Indestructible cyborg tank-man.” He pointed at her, “Squishy flesh-critter. Got it?”
“Got it. Stay behind. Don’t Panic. Move slow. I’m fast.”
Roland shrugged. She was very inexperienced with her enhancements, and this was as good as he would get from her right now. Time to go to work.
For the second time in twenty minutes, a metal door flew from its moorings and crashed to the floor in a shower of debris. Roland had half a second to register the room full of thugs when the two men in black coveralls near the exit pulled two pistols each and opened fire.
They were using SpyderCo HVB-92 pistols that fired 5mm ceramic beads at twenty-five times the speed of sound, which made a terrific racket. The Garibaldis were firing in semi-automatic and making every bead hit dead center on Roland’s chest. The friction they created set the air on fire as the beads flew, and on impact the beads carried huge amounts of both thermal and kinetic energy. These were serious weapons for serious men. Roland allowed himself to acknowledge the quality of both the technology and the marksmanship. Sparks showered and cascaded from every impact, turning the surrounding room into a holiday pyrotechnics display complete with orange blossoms of fire and burning acrid smoke.
Which was entirely irrelevant because Roland was wholly impervious to small arms fire. At the time of his creation, there was a very small, very discrete set of man-portable weapon systems on earth that could do more than minor damage to his skin. Small, concealable pistols were not on that list.
In the space of eight seconds the Garibaldis had dumped fifty rounds apiece. The barrage had drained their weapons dry, and one hundred rounds of potent ammunition h
ad done precisely zero damage to Roland. It had, however, done an excellent job of wounding half of their own men with ricochets. Various goons lay sprawled about with neat 5mm holes in their clothes and faces, oozing blood and wafting smoke.
There was a very pregnant, silent pause for a moment while everyone assessed what had just happened. Aside from the groans of the wounded, there was very little to listen to as the gunmen stared open-mouthed at the tableau. Their target had just taken a hundred direct hits from four very nice guns. They had finished the job their boss had started in ruining his shirt, but that seemed to be about the extent of their effectiveness. They blinked at each other, faces frozen in stark incredulity. This was not a situation the famous Garibaldi brothers had come prepared to deal with.
Somewhat panicked, the two identical dark-haired and dark-eyed men dropped their magazines and fumbled for reloads, while the rest of their motley crew attacked.
This included Mook, a seven-foot gray-skinned mutant with a grossly asymmetrical face and very stooped posture. Flanked on either side, Mook advanced with four other local enforcers for back-up. Roland didn’t recognize them and dispatched the first one to reach him with a casual backhanded slap. He was pretty sure the guy didn’t die from the love tap. Probably not, anyway. Roland couldn’t check because he had more pressing concerns.
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