by Ashanti Luke
Milliken had been raised in Navarre, an autonomous province in Spain next to the Basque lands of Euskal Herria. Navarre had been reluctant to join the Uni, and Euskal had vehemently opposed unification. In an attempt to get them to come crawling to the Uni for help, Spain had introduced monkeys into the ecosystem of the Basque lands that resisted. His father ran a chicken lab on the Euskal border where chickens were pod-raised for research and consumption. The lab had good countermeasures against rodents and vermin, but Fringe monkeys learned fast, and they were persistent. Assault rifles had been completely outlawed by the Uni, but it didn’t matter so close to the Fringe. Milliken had learned at an early age how to use one, especially against groups of attacking animals, and here, as he had disengaged the safety, he had raised the rifle. He had rested the butt against the inside of his arm, and he had remembered to aim low, two steps in front of the rushing animal, and he had pulled the trigger.
He had fired three short bursts, putting one of the animals down. The other two, apparently programmed to respect guns without startling, had recoiled and then had fanned farther away from each other.
Milliken turned to his left and fired another burst into the hound still circling away from the initial volley.
As the hound rolled through a spray of its own blood, Toutopolus noticed a soldier on the dais taking aim at Milliken. Whatever edict had been issued that had made so many men with guns resort to using these ridiculous lightning boxes most certainly had been lifted now. Toutopolus took aim, not even sure how to aim with this overgrown lev bay opener.
Cyrus heard muffled gunfire as he rushed the door. He told himself he should turn around, go back to the dock, but his legs, his shin stinging with each step, kept him moving toward the door as he pressed the blue button on the black box.
Villichez watched the guard in front of him, Colfax he believed, focus on some order from his earwig and then flip a switch on his rifle. The soldier next to him had flipped the same switch on his own weapon and had tensed his body as another cadence of gunfire had rung out. The second soldier had taken aim over the edge of the dais, but his body had flown back toward Villichez, a sparkle of blue dancing across his face and neck.
That was when the door to the stairwell flew open.
Cyrus had dived at the floor as soon as he opened the door and had heard the volley of gunfire he had feared echo through the hall. He could feel the swirling air rent by bullets coursing over him as he turned and landed on his side. As his momentum carried him through the water on the floor, he expected his body to erupt in a fit of convulsions as it reacted to the bullets tearing into him—but the bullets had all missed their mark. Then, as he rolled on his back to make himself a smaller target, Cyrus realized, with horror, what mark they had found.
Villichez’s body shook and then froze. To Cyrus, he looked like a man who had just had all his loved ones snatched away from him, watching in still horror as they were ushered mercilessly into the sunset, never to be seen again. Or maybe that was what he himself felt. The air was thick, oily, and things moved in the gel as if gravity itself was stunned. Even the water cascading from the sprinklers seemed to fall slower, each drop discernable as it struggled to push its way through the aspic air. Villichez fell amidst a shower of his own blood, which stubbornly mixed with the deluge. He outstretched his arms toward Cyrus, but he could not reach him.
Darius, Xander, the Arcology, even Feralynn, and now Villichez—the weight of everything he had lost since he had arrived on this barren lavpool kept his fists clenched, nails digging into the palm of his right hand, as the corner of the black box pierced his left palm.
“Anák na laláki,” Villichez muttered, and then his gaze turned inward, as if he had just realized he was late for some engagement of dire import. The ground hungrily pulled Villichez down, and Cyrus felt a pressure in his own chest as Villichez’s blank stare met his on the ground. The gel made the senses unreliable. Sight wavered, sound muffled, touch and smell distorted. His senses twisted in on each other, mingled, and Cyrus felt more than heard the cry that erupted from his own center, guttural and deep, as he turned to face 43235, smoke issuing from his rifle barrel in brazen lack of remorse.
Soldier 43235 was over him now, gun pointed downward, yelling something that Cyrus neither could, nor cared to, hear. The ambiance of the room was still peculiar, and Cyrus felt the heat from the barrel of the gun despite the half-meter distance. The heat drew him in, lifted his left leg from the ground, and brought his foot into the barrel sending it upward. The volley that issued from the gun in response to Cyrus’s kick was muffled by the mire around them. Cyrus swung his left hand around, jammed the black box into the inside of 43235’s knee, and pressed the green button.
The jolt knocked Cyrus’s hand away, debilitating his hand, which was already too wracked with numbness to matter. The box disappeared into the falling water, but Cyrus pulled his legs beneath him and stood, wrenching the rifle away from 43235 as his body collapsed on a useless knee. The collapsing soldier lifted his hands to defend himself, but Cyrus was already stepping past him, dipping his shoulder, dropping his knee, and swinging the rifle, strap still looped around 43235’s neck, with both hands. Cyrus’s shoulder protested but he ignored it as he flipped 43235 onto his face. Villichez’s murderer scrambled to get his arms and legs beneath him and he coughed spraying water from his nostrils as he reached for another of the black boxes still attached to another soldier’s belt. Cyrus saw him reaching, but also saw an errant set of manacles behind him—and the remote on 43235’s belt. Cyrus dropped the rifle and kicked 43235’s supporting arm from under him. He fell to the ground again as Cyrus moved beside him, snatching the remote from his belt while simultaneously scooping the cuffs from the floor. As 43235 tried to get to his feet again, Cyrus had already extended the chain between the cuffs. The box was in 43235’s grasp now, but Cyrus had looped the chain of the cuffs around his neck and had locked the wristlocks together before he could turn. Cyrus lifted him by the cuffs and threw him against the wall with his forearm. Cyrus looked 43235 in the eyes, spreading droplets of water across the soldier’s face as hard breaths escaped his lungs. Then he pressed the button to tighten the cuffs.
“It’s not the same when you have to earn it, is it? Is it?” Cyrus yelled into the soldier’s face as he frantically scratched and scraped at the chain tightening around his neck, gouging his own flesh in an attempt to tear the restraints away. His tongue slipped from his mouth, and his body twitched in a spasm, and then there was a pop, a sound like someone dropping a wet rag, and his body went loose.
Cyrus let the body drop and, as his hearing became clear again, he heard barking. But not the same barking he had heard earlier. This was closer and was moving toward him. Cyrus snatched up the rifle that had belonged to 43235. He had never used one before, but he knew this one would fire when he pulled the trigger. As he ran to the stairwell, he heard more footfalls than he could count. As feeling returned to his left hand, he could tell his fingers were shaking and they were cold. Cyrus heard the whoosh of a door sliding open in the hallway at the edge of the dais. It must have been the door of the observation room, which reduced his options to one. He flipped the strap of the rifle over his head, lifted it with his right hand, and as the barking closed in on him, he ran toward the dais. As he cleared the corner just before the edge of the dais, he squeezed the trigger of the rifle and fired a volley down the walkway. He saw khaki forms duck and dodge as he launched himself, for the second time, over the edge of the balcony. As he fell, gunfire issued after him. Splinters of plaster and concrete fell with him as the ground rushed up again, even slower it seemed. As he landed, he tried to brace himself, and he rolled. When he stood into a run, he realized his left ankle had not fared as well as it had the first time—or maybe he just hadn’t noticed until now.
He saw metal louvers, which had looked like mullions during the brawl, slowly beginning to close. And even though he was reluctant to look back over his shoulder, he swor
e he saw two uberhounds clear the railing of the dais after him. Then, gunfire sounded from in front of him and he instinctively shielded his face. He then realized Milliken and Uzziah had stepped inside the closing louvers and were firing past him to cover his retreat. As Cyrus reached the doors, Uzziah and Milliken backed through the closing louvers, and they leaped onto the back of the float. Toutopolus patted Cyrus on the back and smiled, but Cyrus had difficulty returning it. “I can’t believe we made it!” Toutopolus exclaimed.
“We’re a far cry from done here, son,” Uzziah said as he checked the clip on his rifle. Jang pulled the float away from the dock hastily, in response to the ominous looking assault-lev rounding the corner of the ave behind them.
seventeen
• • • • •
—More trouble at school, Dari?
—When isn’t there?
—Terry or Genivere?
—Terry.
—So what now?
—He took my Monster Mashup holodeck card.
—Well I told you not to take your games to school.
—Come on Dada, I don’t need a lecture right now. I already know.
—You tell Miss Hasabe?
—Yeah, she said the same thing you did about having it there in the first place, cuz Terry said he didn’t have it. Problem is, I told him if he didn’t give it back, I’d pop him good.
—So?
—So, I don’t know. I’m scared.
—Well, I don’t know if you poppin’ people because of something you could have avoided is on the axis, but maybe I can answer your question with a story.
—Okay...
—So this monkey walks into a toy store one day, and the manager asks if he can help him.
—Wait, why’s the manager talking to the monkey? Why doesn’t he just tranq him.
—Because it’s a fable. You remember, anthropomorphization.
—Oh yeah, well, I don’t like talking monkeys very much.
—Well neither do I, but that’s the story I got. Savvy?
—Savvy.
—So, the manager asks if he can help, and the monkey says, “Yeah, you got any sweetbars?” And the manager says, “No, sorry, we only sell toys.” So the monkey says, “Okay,” and leaves. The next day, the monkey comes back to the store and he sees the manager and asks, “Got any sweetbars?” The manager is baffled, but not sure it’s the same monkey. He replies politely, “No, we don’t have any sweetbars.” And the monkey says, “Okay,” and walks off. So another day goes by, and the monkey comes in again, sees the manager, and says, “Hey.” But this time the manager recognizes him and braces himself, already prepared to be irritated. “You got any sweetbars?” the monkey asks again, and the manager loses it. “Look we don’t have any sweetbars, we didn’t have any yesterday, and we’re not gonna have any tomorrow! If you want sweetbars, go to a bakery!” So the monkey says, “Okay,” and goes on about his business. So two days go by, and the manager thinks he’s seen the last of the monkey, but on the third day, the monkey shows up again. He catches the manager talking to an employee and tugs on his shirt, “You got any sweetbars?” And the manager completely loses his y-drive. “Look you stupid monkey,” he says, “if you come in here one more time and ask for sweetbars, I’m gonna nail you to that wall right there!” The monkey looks at the wall, then calmly looks back at the manager and says, “Okay,” and walks off. Well the next day, the monkey shows up again, and the manager’s head fills with steam on sight. “What?” he yells as soon as he sees him. “You got any nails?” the monkey asks. “No, we don’t have any stinking nails!” he yells. So the monkey looks at him, right in his eye, smiling, and asks, “You got any sweetbars?”
—Ha, that’s funny, but I don’t get what it has to do with me and Terry.
—Well, what’s the moral of the story?
—That toy stores should carry sweetbars and keep out monkeys?
—No, smarty pants. The moral is you shouldn’t make a threat you’re not prepared to keep, or monkeys will take advantage of you.
—Isn’t a threat you can’t keep called a bluff? Don’t people do it in poker all the time?
—Sure they do, and lots of them lose when their cards are called. Point is, a man should follow through with his threats, or he should keep his mouth shut.
—So you’re sayin’, when I see Terry I should pop him?
—No Dari, I’m saying there’s nothing worse than a man who doesn’t do what he says he will, and he, and only he, has to live with the misery that comes with being that man.
• • • • •
“Maybe we should have procured a more solid vehicle than a parade float,” Uzziah said as he held the sights of his assault rifle on the hovering tank lumbering after them.
“If you see a better vehicle, you’re welcome to go get it!” Cyrus yelled over the wind coursing between them as they sped down the ave over the heads of onlookers who seemed to think it was an elaborate stunt. Jang handled the vehicle as if he had been driving parade floats his entire life. And his instincts were good, probably honed from more than one mishap involving the Seoul municipal police. He kept the lev low, only a few meters above the people on the ave, and he hugged the corners tightly, taking a corner whenever the assault vehicle got too close. There was no way the pilots of the assault-lev would risk using heavy munitions in this environment, but as one of the nodes on the front of the tank began to glow, Cyrus realized the pilots felt their planetary lasers would only cause acceptable collateral damage.
“Get down!” Uzziah yelled, pressing himself to the stucco deck of the float. Tanner and a dazed Davidson rode in the cabin with Jang, while the others, on the back of what must have originally been a flatbed lorry, flattened themselves into the sculpting that had transformed the craft into an eastern dragon. A line of orange light stretched from the node on the tank behind them and sliced over the vehicle. Jang dipped closer to the crowd as the razor of light clipped the tip of the craft’s tail. He swung left around a turn as a second laser stretched over the right side of the float.
Tanner stuck his head out of a hole in the side of the dragon’s chest. “What now?” he yelled over the wind.
“Get to the gate!” Uzziah yelled.
Tanner nodded as Cyrus looked around. He noticed part of the molding that formed one of the dragon’s scales looked like a seat, which led his eyes to a panel on the back of the dragon’s neck. They sped over another cheering mob as the tank rounded the corner behind them. The four large caliber guns of the assault-lev’s artillery cannon followed them as the turret stood in place; there was no way they would use them here, but as soon as they got into the open…
Cyrus pressed one of the buttons and the float shook as a roar sounded. He pressed the button next to it and bluish flame erupted from the dragon’s mouth, eliciting another round of cheers and plaudits from the crowd.
“Should we fire?” Milliken asked, keeping the tank in his own sites as best he could.
“Don’t think it will do much good!” Uzziah yelled back.
The lasers fired again, but Jang dipped the dragon to the right and then pulled around another turn, leaving the lasers crossing beneath the float. Toutopolus slipped, but Torvald caught his shoulder before he could roll out of his nook.
“Are you a marksman?” Cyrus asked, tapping Uzziah on his shoulder.
“What? Yeah, best in class. Why?”
Cyrus lifted a tank marked ‘combustible’ and pointed back to an open compartment in one of the rolls of the dragon’s body. “Two more of these!” he yelled.
Cyrus left the canister in the cranny behind Uzziah and crawled back to the front of the converted lorry. He banged the flat of his hand against the body of the dragon where Tanner had popped out his head. Tanner’s head craned out the little window and Cyrus leaned forward. “Tell Jang to slow down!”
“What?” Tanner looked like he had heard, but wasn’t sure of his own understanding.
“Take another turn and
slow down!”
Cyrus grabbed the other two canisters from the compartment and crawled back to where Uzziah sat. Milliken sat on the opposite side of the dragon’s body. “Okay, after the next turn get ready!”
The dragon accelerated, and just as the tank loomed around the corner, Jang dipped left again and slowed. Cyrus readied himself, grasping the handholds along the top of the canister. Jang rose to a level halfway between ave levels as the people beneath them looked on. For the first time Cyrus noticed all the adboards, both large and small, displayed the same image. The man they called the Knight of Swords was giving an impassioned speech. A transcript ran beneath him in subtitles but there was no time for reading. Cyrus hunkered down as he saw a hint of gunmetal peek from around the corner. Then, as the tank began coming around the corner, he stood and he heaved the gas canister at the tank. The canister spun through the air, and just as the node of the tank lit up again, Uzziah fired a burst from his rifle.
The canister exploded in a blue fireball in front of the node rounding the corner. Jang hit the throttle again and dove back to just above the lower ave as a laser stretched across the street over them.
Tanner’s head poked from the window again, “We can’t keep this up all day!”
“I know! I know!” Cyrus yelled back, losing his balance as they rounded another corner. As they came around the corner, they were met with another cheer. On a large adboard just above them, the image of the Knight of Swords faded into an image of Earth, solitary and frozen, gibbous in the rays of a sun Cyrus would never feel the warmth of again.
“Move up! Move up to the base of the board!” Cyrus yelled to the cabin. Torvald leaned over the left side and relayed the message. The float rose and jinked to its left. Cyrus leapt off the float onto the catwalk that supported the board. He held the remaining canisters in each hand and placed one next to a support of the board.