One down. Four remained.
The two drones tracking from opposite sides of the jetty did so along the ledges of the buildings. Their claws sprayed jagged brick everywhere. The path shrank to a tight tunnel. Max didn’t let up on the speed as the bike inserted into the opening with no room to spare. Both of the K9Es leapt from the heights just as the kids disappeared inside the gap. The two automatons collided in an explosion of metal fragments.
Two more down.
The other drones entered in a single file formation. The claustrophobic walls blurred as the bike raced through. Marta glanced back to see the lead drone making its move and bearing its jaws. She screeched. A shockwave ripped into the beast, shorting out its circuits.
Forth one down.
The last K9E jumped over the fallen robot, continuing the chase undeterred. They cleared the passage and sped onto a catwalk high above the center of a humongous aero-port. Here, miles on top of miles of connecting walkways overlapped countless platforms and docking ports. Hundreds of airships, moored and underway, clogged the openings between the footbridges.
“How many?”
She looked. “One.”
“I’m getting sick of this crap. Hold on.”
“What are you going to do?”
Max steered the bike headlong at the open gate of a nearby platform. Marta closed her eyes. With nothing but vacant space in front of them, the bike flew off the ledge to what should have been their doom. But, they sloped into a parabolic freefall at the instant an enormous freighter surfaced in the crevice. The wheels slammed atop of the ship’s hull. He regained control and brought the bike to a safe stop. She dared to look. Discovering where they were, she quickly wished she hadn’t.
Up on a catwalk, the drone patrolled, calculating its next action. It jumped to a series of angling platforms, maneuvering to an elevation higher than the airship. When its logic circuits determined it was time to pounce, the machine leapt and landed on the hull fifty meters from them.
Max’s shoulders slumped and a defeated exhale deflated his lungs. He peeled the bike one-eighty and raced off in the opposing direction. The lumpy surface made it impossible to build up speed, giving the drone a chance in overtaking its prey.
Marta watched helplessly as he aimed for a sloping exhaust vent near the edge of the hull. The bike hit the makeshift ramp and they soared skyward. The drone bounded for them, but lost its prize when the bike’s rear tire hit the deck of a nearby platform. Missing the landing, it smacked its rigid skull against the ledge.
The last drone tumbled head over tail into the industrial abyss.
Max rode out of the port and covered several kilometers to assure their escape. He stopped. Marta cried. He wished he could’ve wept, but it wouldn’t have been his style.
He was angry. Angry at the world and angry at the brigends for getting him mixed up in their crusade. Moreover, he was angry with himself for not avoiding this predicament in the first place. The girl buried her face in his jacket and trembled. He had something else to feel guilty about — helping those who put her in danger.
He flipped out the kickstand and got off the seat. He couldn’t calm his breathing. Sweat trickled down his back.
“Why did you stop? Please, don’t go. Please?”
Her panic nagged at his empathy. He wanted to ditch her and vanish.
Someone will find her wandering the streets and take her back to her home in the clouds.
No, he couldn’t do that. He knew he couldn’t. She wasn’t safe alone.
No, he wasn’t going to leave her.
He got back on the bike. She wrapped her arms around him and buried her face again between his shoulder blades. He kicked the stand in and revved the engine.
There was only one place left for them to find refuge.
The neighborhood was lifeless, thanks mainly to the biohazard warning signs plastered on every vertical edifice. To the public, venturing into this toxic dump was a surefire way to die from some long forgotten contamination. To a select few who knew the truth, the misleading signs were a way to keep out intrusive vagabonds and greedy squatters.
They rolled up on a mini-fortress reinforced with metal plates on all the windows and doors. Max parked on the edge of the curve and got off. “Wait here,” he told Marta as he went to the front door of the centuries old firehouse.
He rapped hard on the steel plates. No answer. He pounded again.
A shrilled voice came from the other side. “Yeah? What do you want?”
“Open the door. It’s me.”
“Me who?”
“Me Max.”
“Don’t know any Max. Go away!”
“Dinx, open the mucking door!”
The door’s dozen lock tumblers clanked one by one. A crack widened just enough for a vague shape to appear through the black opening. “What are you doing here? Everyone’s after you.”
“Let us in.”
“Us?” he highlighted. “Who’s that over there?”
“Dinx, Marta. Marta, this is Dinx.”
“They got your image everywhere. I ain’t letting you in. Go away!” The shape tried to slam the door, but Max forced it open. Dinx, a wiry nineteen year old with disheveled hair shoved back in vain.
Frustrated, Max snapped, “Stop it! We need your help. Please?” He pushed the door fully open.
The fidgety kid verged on a complete freak out. His baggy shirt flopped when he flailed his arms. “I can’t believe this. Ah man, they’re going to come here looking for you.”
“Well, the longer we stand out here, the more likely we’ll get spotted.”
The boy lowered his head and stood aside, inviting his uninvited guests inside.
Max waved her over and they entered the building. The kid slammed the panel closed and secured the locks in a hurry.
“What have they been saying on the network?”
Dinx hyperventilated. “I’m... going... to die. Or worse — end up in a reintegration center. I’m too small to be in prison.”
“Hey, concentrate. What are they saying on the net about us?”
“Something about you and an old ‘codge. They said you killed Markus Nerees.”
Marta twitched at the mention of her father’s name.
“I always knew you were bad news. I should’ve never been your friend. No — no — no — no. This aint’ happening to me.”
Max ignored the tantrum and escorted Marta upstairs. With no one around to hear him throw the fit, Dinx gave up and trudged after them.
The loft was roomy for a Lo-5 dwelling, yet cluttered with outdated and surplus electronics. Through the skylight, an outside security lamp painted a jaundice circle on the cluttered workstation. Hanging from rails were several viewer screens, each displaying a holo-image of Max’s face.
New York’s newest fugitive skirted stacks of biobit processors to get to a partitioned section in the far corner. Separated by a rickety metal frame, tin plates, and bed sheets, the makeshift room served as a crude bedroom.
He yelled from behind the flimsy wall, “Check the network and see if there’s anything about the shootout at Patti’s”.
“Shootout?”
“Cho’s guys jumped us there.”
“What? Ah, man.” The squirmy boy was in danger of a mental overload.
Max came back in carrying a wad of clothes. He handed it to Marta. “Here, try this. You two look about the same size. You can use the bedroom over there.”
While she went to change, he skipped over the clutter to get to the workstation. Spent gelrat packs littered the desktop. From the smell, it meant they had been recently melted to extract the concentrated fructose. Because of their chemical composition, the rush from the caramelized sugar amounted to freebasing. Dinx’s tweaking confirmed it — he was ratting.
Max swiped away the used packs and waved entries on the waveboard. His mug shot on the screens faded, replaced with live video feeds and streaming text of current news events. The Clarion Call was broad
casting stories about the World First Celebration. A few of the text feeds ran the all-alert, but there was nothing indicating the riot at the Luma Lounge.
“Not one mucking thing anywhere,” he lamented.
“That’s not good. If there’s nothing, then someone’s keeping it quiet. What’s going on? Who is this girl?”
“She’s Markus Nerees’s daughter.”
Dinx’s head spun at the mention of the name. He braced against the desk and looted through a separate pile of discards for leftover gel. He found one and sucked out the remaining drops.
Once the sugar-fix kicked in, he flung his arms as if he was swatting at a bug buzzing his head. “You gotta leave! You gotta go, now!”
“No. Cho doesn’t know about you. We’re safe here.” At least Max hoped the gangster didn’t know about the firehouse.
The boy pushed him out of the chair, sat down, and went to work opening security feeds and communication transmissions throughout the district. “I hate you. I hope you know that.”
“I’m sorry to drop this on you.”
“No, you’re not. You don’t care about anybody but yourself.”
Max didn’t have a comeback. He kept quiet and let his friend work digital magic on the network lines.
“What happened with Angelita? You trade up or something?”
He suppressed any thought of his old flame. “She has her thing... I got mine.”
“Typical you. Always using people.”
He didn’t want to talk about Angie. “Hey, you got any of my clothes around here?”
“In there.”
Max went to the bedroom and pulled aside the curtain. Marta snatched the sheet from the bedroll and covered herself with it. Embarrassed by his mistake, yet enamored by her bare skin, he stared dumbfounded.
“Crap! I’m sorry. Sorry. I forgot.” He stumbled out of the room, knocking his head on the low hanging portion of the frame. He dropped hard to the floor.
She rushed to him. Wiggling his head to clear the double vision, he focused on her shimmering hair cascading on his face.
He said without thinking, “You’re beautiful.”
She didn’t know how to accept his compliment.
Realizing what he had blurted out, he flushed bright red and bobbed to his feet. “I gotta go do... something.”
He ran from the room.
Max rolled the bike into the dusty garage and lowered the rollup door. At last, he had a moment for himself. The knot on his forehead throbbed. He needed to sleep, but he was afraid to. Hunters could get the drop on them if he did.
He sat on the bike, rubbed his bloodshot eyes, and wished for his old life back. Remembering the ora in his pocket, he removed it and held it in his open palm. He marveled at how the light passed through its translucent shape. To his surprise, it felt cool.
Running a finger over it, he thought he could hear an ethereal voice sing to him. What it was saying he couldn’t make out, but he swore it was calling. There was one word in particular it repeated until he finally deciphered what it was.
Max. It was calling his name.
He dropped the crystal and it struck the cement with a musical ring. He froze, afraid it was going to bite him. But, the object lay motionless.
I’m losing my mucking mind.
He snatched a rag from the tool bench and used it to pick up the ora. After sealing it in a tin can, he hid it under the workbench. Out of sight and out of mind.
Flipping off the light as he left the garage, the voice beckoned again. This time, he wasn’t around to hear it.
Max walked in and went straight to the bedroom. He knocked on the frame, but she didn’t answer. Lifting the curtain, he discovered her asleep on the bedroll. While she lightly snored, he changed out of the Hi-8 clothes and put on an old pair of pants and a faded undershirt. The girl didn’t move. Even on a dirty mattress with cruddy garments tossed about, she looked angelic.
Pushing a pile of clothes off the bed, he laid beside her. She snuggled up to him and he adjusted to accommodate her weight. She wiggled and ended up with her head on his belly. He unwillingly drifted off with his hand gently caressing her hair.
Chapter 17
Mending broken ties
Zoe was never one to dream — not since that day when her life descended into endless despair. Yet, somehow she was now dreaming of better times.
From the depths of repression, her hidden desires were becoming reality. What she experienced latched to her sanity and refused to free her back to the realm of the living. If it wasn’t for a detached and persistent urge pleading with her to wake up, she might have stayed where happiness existed, even if that joy was a phantom of a thing long since lost.
She woke to see Patti sitting beside her on a soft bed inside a warm bedroom. In the older woman’s hand was a glowing amber ora. Acting on impulse, Zoe pushed the awful thing away.
“Relax,” the old woman whispered, more comforting in tone than was her style. “I was using it to heal you.”
Moaning, Zoe sat up. Her bare torso was wet from a recently broke fever. Examining her side, she touched a shriveled scar where earlier there had been a nasty gash.
The thought of that abhorrent thing being used on her formed revulsion in the pit of her throat. “Why?”
Patti accepted the contempt, as if caught doing something wrong. “I know how you hate these things, but it was the only way to save your life.”
“I would’ve healed just fine on my own,” she contended, wiping sweat off her brow. “You know that.”
“No, you wouldn’t have. The cut was too bad and you lost a lot of blood. Girlie, you’re not invincible anymore.”
She hated when Patti was right. Even in her younger days, a wound that bad would have still killed her. Whatever was in her genome that gave her unnatural restorative abilities, it could only work small miracles.
She averted eye contact. “I guess I owe you one.”
Unconsciously, Patti brushed a lock of wet hair from Zoe’s forehead. “This reminds me of when he first brought you to me. You were so small, and so sick.”
“I don’t want to talk about the past.”
Patti got up, walked over to the bench seat under the bay window, and sat down. She held her hands in her lap. “By the way... you’re welcome.”
“You could’ve used that thing earlier and saved us a lot of problems.”
“I don’t keep it with me anymore. This was the first time I’ve used it in years.”
Zoe looked at the room. It was tastefully furnished and unobtrusive. Nothing about it reflected what she believed were the sensibilities of the woman sitting under the window. “Where are we?”
“My home.”
It was with the slight reflection of home that she remembered Max. He was alone and without her to protect him.
“Where’s Max?” she shouted, making an effort to stand up. The world spun.
Patti rushed over and helped her sit back on the bed. “I have Tank out there looking for him and the girl. He knows most of Max’s hideaways. It won’t be long.”
“I need to help.”
“No, stay put. You’re of no use to him right now. Don’t worry. We have it covered.”
“I got to help.”
She tried to stand again, but the old woman was more forceful the second time. “Damn it. Will you listen to me for once? Rest. I swear you’re so much like him. He doesn’t listen to me either.”
“Well, can you blame him?”
At her wit’s end, she spoke with authority, “We don’t have time for this. I have a clean shirt set out for you. When you’re ready, come and find me.”
She stormed out, slamming the door behind her. Zoe accepted the anger as an indictment of her heartless conduct. Patti Luma could be many things, but she always protected those she loved. It wasn’t her fault she was bad at relationships. It was her nature.
Zoe pulled the comforter up to cover her chilled body. It didn’t take long for it to bring warmth.
While she rested, the lingering scent of sandalwood and wild rose perfume on the fabric brought out childhood recollections of nights spent in the old woman’s arms.
She pulled the comforter closer and drifted asleep.
The respite was reinvigorating, but also short-lived. The unmistakable crash of brutality jolted her. She launched up in the bed. Motionless and quiet, she listened for another muffled sound to tickle her ears. The next time she heard it, she knew exactly what it was. Snatching the clean shirt from the dresser, she ran off to investigate.
The sounds could have come from anywhere. She went down more than three stories of the brownstone, all the way to the basement before discovering its source. The closer she got, the clearer the noises became and she could discern three distinct people talking.
“Did he have it on him?”
“No.”
“Do you always treat your guests this way?”
There was a thud of a blunt object striking flesh, followed by another.
“Enough!” The excited female was Patti. “You got my boy in trouble. If anything, and I mean anything, happens to him, I’m going to kill you.”
“Go ahead and give it your best shot. I’ve had worse.” The other person was Emil.
There was a slap, indicating she didn’t care for his attitude. “Give it to me and I’ll let you go.”
Zoe crept down the stairs.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Don’t lie to me. I know you have it. Tell me where it is.”
There was a long pause.
“You’re one of them!” He was apprehensive. Someone pulled, or maybe shoved, a weighted chair across the floor. He protested in Romanian.
Zoe rushed in just as Patti raised her glowing crystal to the General’s face. Tied to a wooden chair, he looked like how she felt earlier. Scar was not far from his employer’s side. His knuckles bled from the abuse he had just heaped on the captive.
Brigends (The Final War Series Book 1) Page 14