by Andy Remic
“Over here,” said Jim. They were halfway to the precinct doors. They tried to quicken their pace, but it was impossible.
Dex felt like he was swimming with sharks. Or, at least, piranhas.
His mind screamed with a million questions. Where were his family? Why was this policeman helping him? In fact, why had he killed a fellow officer? Not exactly normal police procedure!
They were ten metres from the door when somebody screamed. Alarms screeched from wall-mounted PopBots. Jim pushed Dex forward and they started to run.
“There!” somebody yelled.
Dex heard a blast, felt a whoosh of superheated air and the woman next to him was picked up and tossed violently across the precinct, her body horizontal, spinning, slamming into other police and mowing them down. Dex ducked, and Jim, ahead of him, turned and started firing with the Makarov.
Policemen were smashed from their feet in a ballet of collapsing bodies. Dex ran for the door, head down, cursing as more people around him were hurled from their feet or, even worse, exploded, showering the precinct with blood - red and milk. They’re fucking firing on their own! screamed his mind. What the fuck’s going on? Since when do your own people become expendable?
He leapt through the scanners and hit the doors with his back, spinning through as they opened, and then stood on the high marble steps, stunned for a moment by the sunshine. In the distance, on a three-klick-high rollercoaster, people put their arms in the air and screamed in joy and pleasure on the long descent. Dex could hear the rumble of wheels on track, even from this distance.
Jim burst out behind him. His cream suit was stained with blood, and his eyes were hard, hard like Dex had seen in the war. During Helix. During the Bad Times.
He shivered.
“This way,” growled Jim.
Dex ran down the steps, needing little urging, and there was a traffic cop’s parked hover bike. The cop was standing five feet away, smart uniform, goldfish-bowl helmet with blue and white stripes, flashing red light atop the helmet. Even as they ran, Jim’s gun came up. Dex wanted to cry, “No!” because this man was an innocent, a victim, a human-fucking-being, but the gun gave a blast and Dex felt the suck of rushing wind, and the traffic policeman’s head was blown clean off, to roll clattering down the street, like a penalty football, rattling and bouncing and spraying red blood. Human blood.
The woman who’d been speaking to the cop ran, face behind her hands, screaming.
Jim levelled his gun, but Dex shoulder-charged him and the blast howled off into the sky, over towards a cluster of whirling, whizzing machines containing screaming, laughing tourists.
“No!” he snarled.
Jim stared at him for a moment, then shrugged. “Get on the bike.”
Jim leapt on, and Dex climbed on behind him, frowning at his submissive role. But he had to admit, between clenched teeth, that he was being rescued. By a psycho cop-killer, oh, yes, but rescued he was.
Now, a platoon of police were piling out of the precinct. They scattered onto the steps like fire-ants from a burning nest. Jim kicked the hover bike from its leash and they leapt up into the sky, nearly vertical. Dex felt immediately, violently sick as Theme Planet was tossed away and the islands and towering rides and posh hotels and sandy snaking beaches all grew quickly small; became toys scattered in a sandbox.
Dex held on tight, as if fearful of falling, but the BMW had fieldgrips which made sure he didn’t topple from the bike and die in a mangled heap of man and rollercoaster far below. Still, he clung to Jim like a drowning man to an Olympic swimmer, mouth opening and closing at the sheer insane acceleration of this powerful bike.
They soared across Theme Planet, taking in the sights and sounds from a God’s-eye-view.
“Shit,” muttered Jim, and Dex felt his body tense. He glanced behind. Three hover bikes were in pursuit, and the body language of the traffic cops said grim. Jim - and Dex by association - were cop-killers. Not a good thing to be.
Suddenly the bike dropped, and Dex felt his stomach crawl up his oesophagus and claw its way past his teeth. Every atom of his being screamed at this abuse of physics. Beneath him, the engine throbbed like a missile - which was, in fact, what it was.
They slammed towards the ocean, the three bikes in pursuit. Fumes left tracer across the sky. Roars from the abused engine bounced around the heavens over Theme Planet. Dex watched helplessly as they jigged right and veered towards high gleaming rails of a vast, high rollercoaster. The cars passed, holding people with open mouths and wide eyes, staring at them as they dropped and hammered through an O of curling track. Dex ducked involuntarily and the people in the CARS screamed for a different reason...
Behind, the three cop bikes spread out, tearing past the ride.
Jim dropped them towards the sea once more, turning inland and skimming low over the beach. The three cop bikes followed, unshakeable. Then their guns began to fire, blatting and clacking. The bike rocked as the shells came close, superheating the air and scorching Dex’s legs. Jim dropped them towards the sand and they smashed through a collection of wooden deckchairs. Splinters spun off behind them, accompanied by colourful streamers of torn fabric.
Jim turned. “Shoot them!” he screamed, and Dex remembered the gun in his hand. He leaned back, sighted through the slipstream of hazy hot air, and fired off two shots, three, four, five. The bikes jigged in evasive action, but he must have hit something, because one cop bike suddenly lifted its nose and, faster than Dex could blink, looped-the-loop, ploughed into the beach, and exploded. Black smoke billowed up in a thick pillar. Tourists ran up the beach screaming, dripping sun-tan cream and coral dust.
“Good shooting,” yelled Jim.
Dex felt sick.
Through the cloud of smoke screamed the two remaining bikes. Jim veered left, inland, and at mere inches above road level, headed for Tengall, the nearest city. Dex felt even more cold inside.
The cop bikes followed. They fired again, blats slamming past Dex’s head. Dex lined up his gun to fire, but Jim slammed right and they veered down a narrow alley riddled with steel fire escapes and criss-crossing bridges. They hummed and spun past walkways, which hissed in his ears as they passed. The cops followed, dodging with equal success until Jim jockeyed the bike right, screamed, “Hang on!” and jerked the arse-end of the vehicle into a steel bridge. Sparks scattered behind them like a shower of industrial fireworks, and both bikes came through them - into the path of another bridge. The lead bike saw the obstacle and swept up, over it, but his bulk obscured the obstacle from his companion, who came to a halt with a heavy clang which reverberated up and down the valley. It would take five police with shovels to put their friend in a bodybag.
One more, thought Dex, but felt sicker than sick. There was no pleasure in this. No joy. The whole thing was horseshit. The whole journey was wrong... They were police. They didn’t deserve to die.
But then, neither did his family...
They shot from the alley like a bullet from a gun, veering left and entering a maze of moving traffic. Still at ground level; it was obvious Jim hoped to throw off their final pursuer by ploughing him into a car or truck. But he was good. As good a pilot as Jim, at least.
They slammed along the highway, weaving, dodging, and the police bike gained on them. Dex glanced back, could see the shades on the provax, the grim line of his mouth, the trace of sweat on his upper lip. This was one determined son-of-a-bitch. He was no longer hunting for arrest. This was personal; this was execution. And the sad thing was, Dex understood. And he agreed. But he couldn’t let it happen. Because to die now was to let Kat and the girls down. And they’d have to bury him first...
They came to a wide, high bridge over a mammoth gleaming river, which fed the sea. Large green seagulls cawed and circled, and the banks of the river were thriving with yachts and pleasure cruisers. People were sunbathing, partying. Sunlight sparkled off crystal. Dex imagined he could hear the clink of ice cubes in bourbon.
They slamm
ed along the highway, and Dex glanced right. A large pleasure-liner with three massive black funnels was creeping along the river, obviously on its way out for a slow romantic crawl around the islands. Alarms started sounding on the bridge, and the traffic stopped. Instead of slowing, Jim powered the bike along and lifted it a little, skimming over the rooftops of the groundcars. On the liner, Dex could see high towers with personnel controlling the bridge. Sunlight glittered on car glass. The throb of the cruiser’s engines echoed across the water.
The bridge was rising, and they skimmed over its parting, rising decks, the traffic cop close behind now, a gun in his hand. His face was thunder. His bike vibrated hard and Dex squinted, realising it was damaged. Fuel spilled from a hole in the rear flank. One of his bullets must have cut through the alloy. The rider seemed unaware, or uncaring... shots followed them, and Jim veered right, between tight rungs of steel - and then they were out, roaring over the river, gulls circling above them, screeching in protest, or in hunger.
Dex squeezed Jim’s shoulder. “Go right!” he yelled. “Head over the ship!”
Jim nodded, and dropped the bike towards the pleasure-liner. It honked, a long, low tone which Dex took to be a warning. They dropped further, banking right, and headed straight over the first massive funnel - and Dex glanced down, could see the glow of engines, or whatever method the ship used for propulsion. A heat blast hit them, shaking the bike as if it were a live thing, an uncontrollable bucking bull. The engine screamed -and then they were past, over the funnel, over the glow, and the cop in close pursuit realised his peril a split-second too late...
Close enough to nearly touch, there came a sudden glow of ignition from the rear of his bike. Fire raced up the trail of leaking fuel and Dex, watching, saw the realisation twist the cop’s face as his bike -
Detonated.
A ball of fire expanded fast, uncurling, glowing bright. The bike and rider were gone instantly, either vaporised, or...
“Shit - faster!” screamed Dex as he realised what had happened.
The burning bike had risen, burning, then what remained dropped down into the pleasure liner’s engines...
The whole river shook as if experiencing some massive underground quake. And then the huge cruiser seemed to glow from within, a bright, bright orange, brighter than a provax’s eyes, and there was a stream of quick-fire detonations and Dex fancied he heard screams, and the ship seemed to fold up into a V as a terrible explosion tore the core of the ship apart. Fireballs and shrapnel screamed out, and Dex clung onto the bike, which was buffeted violently as it fled, shrapnel whizzing past it.
The pleasure-liner screamed, a dying behemoth, and everything seemed to happen in slow motion. Fire raged along the decks, eating the tourists. The arms of the V grew tighter as the ship folded itself further in half, accompanied by a terrifying rending and tearing of steel. Then the whole thing seemed to jump a little, out of the water, as more deep detonations rocked it, and then it slid slowly down into the river, waters surging and gurgling as more wailing tourists leapt from the tilting bow and stern...
They flew off up the river, bike whining. It had been damaged sometime during the chase.
“We lost them,” shouted back Jim.
Dex nodded.
They cruised, and were soon out of the city and away from the tourist districts.
A cool breeze caressed Dex.
And he shivered, deep down to his core.
Jim touched down by the side of the river. Orange trees wavered overhead and Dex shuddered in the breeze. What had happened to his life? What happened to his world?
“Why did you help me?”
Jim dismounted from the hover bike and stretched. His eyes were dark, face hooded. “You should never have come here. They should have told you.”
“Told me what?”
“You’re PUF, right? Police Urban Force?”
“Yeah? So?”
“You shouldn’t have come here,” said Jim. “Shit. You slipped through the net. “
“I don’t understand!” snapped Dex, spittle on his lips.
“That doesn’t matter. Here - take the bike. Go back to the hotel, pack your bags and get the fuck off Theme Planet. Then, and only then, might there be a chance your wife and children will live.” He shivered. “They might send them back to you. If you’re lucky.”
“They’ll be waiting for me. At the hotel.”
“No. Trust me.”
“I can’t go back like a fucking puppy with its tail between its legs. I have to find Kat! I have to find Molly and Toffee!”
Jim stared hard at Dex. “Listen. That’s your bravado, your ego, your damn machismo speaking. This is not about you. It’s about them. Now, you mustn’t go down that path,” he said, gently. “You shouldn’t be here. To save them, you must leave.”
“What did I do wrong?” said Dex, feeling small, feeling like a pawn in a very big game. He turned towards the bike. He could hear Jim breathing, slow and cool.
He opened his mouth again, to speak, but something struck the back of his skull and the lights went out.
~ * ~
CHAPTER FIVE
BROKEN
Amba lay still. Gradually, she shut down her systems. One, by one, by one, by one.
Clever, said Zi.
Do they understand?
No, said Zi. Some people never understand.
~ * ~
“What happened?”
“I’m not sure. Get her over here, on the bench. Gods, she’s heavier than she looks. Solid.”
“Stop fucking yammering. Check her pulse.”
“Shit! She’s dead!”
“Impossible, we gave her a blast, yes, but...”
“Remember the man? With the beard? Dodgy heart?”
“Call the medics! Quick! Medics!”
~ * ~
“I can’t believe it. Somebody’s going to get a kicking over this one.”
“Have you checked her documents?”
“Yeah. They check out. I have an idea.”
“And idea which doesn’t involve us all getting locked up?”
“Yes. Only the three of us know, right?”
“Mm-hmm.”
“We can junk her. Nobody will find her down there.”
“What about her family...?”
“Well, she was travelling alone. Here, now, as far as the Port Authorities are concerned, she disembarked, was accepted through immigration, headed out into Theme Planet and simply... disappeared. A missing person. We do get them occasionally, you know. Despite all the failsafes. Despite all the drones and the skycams.”
“Good. Burns, go and sort out the immigration docs. Make sure you tweak the times. You good for that?”
“Consider it done.”
“And remember - all of you. We never fucking heard of Amba Miskalov. Right? Not just your jobs, but your lives depend on it. Monolith won’t allow fuck-ups like this in its organisation.”
~ * ~
Movement. Or, the sense of movement. She was on a stretcher, although it was hard to ascertain because so many bodily functions were shut down. She still had natural internal gyroscopes, though, and she knew they were heading... down.
Down, under the rides, under the islands, under the machines.
Beneath Theme Planet.
She could hear voices, muffled, as if heard from the bottom of a metal well. They continued to move, and she had only a vague sense of time. She had activated her coma call. Play dead. Fool the enemy. Rise like a phoenix from the ashes and execute every motherfucker in her path. It was - almost - a last resort tactic. They’d used some new tech on her; the coldness at the back of her neck remained. What the hell had that been? More importantly, did they realise she was android? And even more importantly, did they realise she was an Anarchy Model? Bad shit. Hardcore shit. Military shit.
Doubt nagged her. They’d taken her out easy. Way too easy. It was as if they’d known. Were primed. Waiting for her?
That’s
a possibility, said Zi.
I’m well aware of it. Hang around, babe, I think I might need a FRIEND soon...
And she meant it. Because, when Amba reversed her fake death, when she restarted her android body and the heart started to pump and brain started to fly, for a while she would be groggy, and slow, and weak, and it would hurt - hurt like a motherfucker. Hurt like falling into a star. She would need Zi then. Need the expertise of her FRIEND...