Time and Chance

by Jeff Mariotte

  "We can take these mooks," Grunge said from the backseat.

  "Sure we can," Caitlin said. "But we don't want to. They haven't done anything to us."

  "Mr. L. said Perrine might not be too anxious to see unannounced visitors," Roxy reminded them. She rode shotgun, and had spent most of the trip fiddling with the radio as stations drifted in and out of range.

  "Why didn't we make an appointment, again?" Grunge asked.

  "Because Mr. Lynch said the only thing worse than showing up unannounced would be letting him know we were coming," Caitlin pointed out. "Perrine would be in Canada by now if he'd heard we were on our way."

  "It's not like we want anything from him," Grunge said.

  "We want information," Caitlin said. "For years, when he was with I.O., that was what he bought and sold. It's a valuable commodity in his world."

  "You think these clowns with the guns are I.O.?"

  "Probably," Roxy said. "They have that abused loser look to them. You can smell it on ex-International Operations goons. Like you can tell when leftover turkey's been in the fridge too long."

  "Or a grilled cheese sandwich that you find behind the TV, and you're not sure if it's just dusty or if it's got actual mold on it, so you have to taste a corner of it," Grunge added.

  "Okay, more than I wanted to know, big guy," Roxy told him.

  "I help you kids?" the guard at the gate asked.

  Caitlin thumbed her window button. As it slid down, she stuck her head out. "We're looking for Sam."

  "You on the list?"

  "I doubt it," she replied. "We're friends of a friend. He doesn't know we're coming."

  "Then he ain't here."

  Grunge opened the rear door, stepped out of the car. This move prompted both of the guys in the guardhouse to come outside. The sound of their weapons being cocked was loud in the rural silence. The only other noise was the car's engine idling.

  "Grunge," Caitlin hissed. But it was too late. The move had been made.

  "Look, dude," Grunge said. "We know he's here. We just wanna shoot the breeze with him for a coupla minutes, then we'll motor. No big."

  "I told you, dude" the guard at the gate said. "He ain't home."

  "You told us he lives here, which was stupid to begin with. Now you're gonna get out of our way before you get hurt."

  The guard raised his weapon, turning it to point out through the gate. "I don't think I'm the one who's going to get hurt."

  "C'mon, Rox," Caitlin whispered. "This could get ugly."

  "When you're talking about Grunge," Roxy said, "it's almost a guarantee."

  The girls left the car. The other guards brought their guns up. Caitlin could see the play of emotions across their faces—they were looking at three young people who seemed to be unarmed, and didn't really look like much of a threat. But could they take that chance? Most people would've turned tail as soon as the firepower came out, and been halfway back to Manhattan by now.

  "I think you should listen to our friend," Roxy told them. "Just let Mr. Perrine know we're here, and we can all still be pals."

  "We never were pals," the gate guard said. "We won't start now."

  Grunge leaned back, casually, and touched the car with one hand. A wave of familiar sensations passed over him—a slight salty taste in his mouth, a faint ringing in his ears. His stomach flip-flopped once, then began to calm again. His heart sped up.

  He was changing.

  As everyone watched, Grunge went from being encased in flesh to being wrapped in automotive-grade steel. His molecules mimicked exactly the surface of the car he had just touched—so close that the most sophisticated lab equipment wouldn't be able to find a difference.

  His skin wouldn't stop bullets fired point blank, he knew. But it might deflect any that came at him glancingly. And it would be disconcerting enough to the guards that their aim might be thrown off anyway.

  "Oh," one of the guards said, his voice sounding unconcerned. "Gen-Actives." He flicked a switch on the stock of his gun, and the weapon began to hum. The other two guards followed suit.

  Convertibles, Caitlin thought. These guys are tougher than they look. If we were normal, their bullets would have been good enough, but they've just converted their guns to plasma mode.

  Nasty enough to kill us.

  Mr. Lynch was right about this Perrine guy. He doesn't take chances.

  Grunge held up his hands. "Listen, maybe we got the wrong house," he said.

  "Yeah, and maybe you think you can just waltz in here and push people around," the guard came back. "Isn't that the way you super-clowns are?"

  "We don't want any trouble, really," Caitlin said. "We just really need to talk to Mr. Perrine. Like we said, we're friends of an old friend of his from I.O."

  "Then you should have made an appointment." The guard raised his weapon to firing height. Aimed it at Grunge. Squeezed the trigger.

  And suddenly, the ground disappeared from beneath his feet. "Hey!" he shouted.

  Roxy had used her anti-gravity powers to float him into the air before he realized what was happening. Without giving him a chance to regain his equilibrium, she tumbled him through the air and against the brick wall of the guardhouse.

  Grunge took advantage of their momentary distraction to lunge through the bars of the cast-iron gate and grab the barrel of another guard's weapon. He changed again, instantly taking on the properties of that weapon and effectively fusing himself to it. He yanked.

  The gun came through the bars. The guard remained on the other side, face smashed against the cold iron. Grunge flicked one metal finger against the guard's chin, and the man fell sprawling to the drive.

  Caitlin took out the third one with even less subtlety. She kicked the gate, in the center where the two sides were held together by a lock. The lock shattered and the gate swung on its hinges, into the third guard. He braced himself for the impact, but he wasn't counting on Caitlin's additional weight. Just before it hit him, she jumped onto the swinging gate and rode it.

  The gate hit him with the force of a speeding truck. He was slammed off the driveway, winding up in the lush grass beyond.

  Grunge reverted to his human form. "They got the guns, but they didn't get the training," he said. "These guys worked for Ivana, she would have had 'em canned before lunch."

  Roxy was pushing the gate the rest of the way open when they were surprised by a voice from the guardhouse. It sounded electronic.

  "Bravo," it said. "Well done."

  Caitlin turned toward the brick structure. "Mr. Perrine?" she ventured.

  "You said something about knowing a friend of mine?"

  "His name's John Lynch," Caitlin said. "He's kind of our mentor."

  "Lynch, sure," the voice said. "Come on up to the house."

  "What about these guards?"

  "I'll send some replacements down, have these guys hauled off to a medic," Samuel Perrine said. "Don't you worry about them."

  * * *

  "That was some nice work," Perrine said.

  They were seated in a cozy office, decorated in a very masculine fashion, lots of leather and dark wood, mahogany, maybe, Caitlin thought. Perrine sat behind a heavy desk with a computer on top, a couple of telephones next to it, and a pad of legal paper to one side. A steaming mug of coffee sat on a coaster. He didn't seem to fit the office, as if he'd rented the house furnished. He looked like a scientist—thick glasses, an unruly shock of thin, graying hair, a small mouth with a weak chin. He was thin and short, with a bit of a potbelly and tiny hands that looked as if they'd be at home rummaging about inside a computer. The office said successful manly guy, but Perrine was techno-geek.

  Of course, in an age where the richest people are techno-geeks, Caitlin reflected, the two aren't necessarily mutually exclusive.

  "Sorry about the gate," Caitlin said.

  "Don't worry about it," he assured her.

  "Guards could be better," Grunge observed.

  "They try," Perrine said. "Maybe
they'll have learned something." He took a sip from the coffee cup on his desk, tilted back in his swivel chair, and regarded them. "I'm sure you didn't just come here to knock my guards around, though."

  "You're right," Caitlin said. After quickly introducing the team, she got right down to business. "Here's what's happening. A lot of weaponry that used to belong to International Operations is winding up on the streets of New York. You know these weapons, right?"

  "I invented a lot of 'em."

  "That's what Mr. Lynch said. So you know that it's deadly stuff. That even I.O. agents were carefully trained before they were assigned it."

  "That's true."

  "But the kids using it now have had no training. Some of them have never even held a .22 revolver, and suddenly they've got a Stunburst or a plasma blaster or something like that in their hands."

  Perrine massaged the bridge of his nose. "That's not what they were designed for."

  "Right," Caitlin pressed. "But it's what's happening."

  "I still don't see what this has to do with me."

  Grunge lost his temper. "Dude, you're selling it!"

  Perrine looked shocked. "You think I'm selling I.O. armament? That would be illegal. I'd have had to have stolen it in the first place."

  "Mr. Lynch thought you were one of the most likely prospects," Caitlin added. "He said if there're I.O. guns out there, Samuel Perrine is part of the process."

  "Just because I created weapons doesn't mean I deal in them," Perrine protested.

  "Your guards have some pretty this-week firepower," Roxy said.

  "Sure, I kept a few pieces," Perrine said.

  "Look, Mr. Perrine," Caitlin said. "We aren't here to arrest you or anything like that. I happen to think selling arms is wrong. And selling arms to people who aren't checked out to use them is even worse. But what we want now is to get a line on who is buying and selling the guns to the kids in the city. If you are selling, I doubt you're dealing directly with the gang members. We want to dry up the supply in Manhattan, but to do that we have to find out who's moving the stuff. What you do to make a living now that I.O. is gone, however awful it is, is your own business."

  "Ms. Fairchild, I assure you that I never expected any of my pieces to end up in the hands of children, or criminals of any age."

  "Dude, you're heinous, but we can look past that," Grunge offered. "Just let us see your customer list or whatever so we can track down the guns."

  Perrine threw his head back and laughed. "Customer lists?" he asked. "There are no customer lists, young man. Guns are a cash business, at least on the level you're talking. You don't keep records, you don't ask for I.D., you don't tell the government anything. You deliver the merchandise and you take the money. With luck, nobody pulls a gun on anyone else, and everyone goes home with what they came for."

  "So you aren't denying it anymore?" Roxy asked.

  "Why bother?" Perrine said. "You can't prove anything. You have no jurisdiction, no authority here. Yes, I may have sold some guns. I may have had access to I.O.'s New York, armory in the last days. But I assure you, I thought those guns would wind up in the hands of law enforcement professionals, or people who wanted simply to defend their homes."

  "Don't law enforcement professionals usually buy their weapons through legal channels?" Caitlin asked. "Never mind that. Here's what I really want. There's a weapon I saw the other night. It was firing energy blasts that practically ripped the walls of the building."

  "Sounds like a Decimator," Perrine said. "Maybe a 3-aught-3. Not many of those around."

  "That's what I thought," Caitlin said. "Even Mr. Lynch didn't know for certain. Do you think you'd remember who bought something as rare as that?"

  Perrine steepled his fingers, touched his chin with them. "I might."

  "Try really hard," Grunge said, a threatening edge in his voice.

  "I know this much," Perrine said. "I didn't deal directly with the client."

  "How does that work?" Roxy asked. "You just toss the gun out the window of your car, and he throws money at you?"

  "Not quite," Perrine replied. "He had someone make the transaction for him. Two men. They seemed like underlings to me, no one of much importance in his operation."

  "Operation? You think it's a big organization?" Caitlin asked.

  "I don't know how big," Perrine said. "But I'd guess well-financed."

  "Why?"

  "Whoever was in charge was watching the whole thing, and giving instructions, via a highly sophisticated video link device. The men I dealt with were both wearing tiny cameras concealed in their clothing. They had microphones, and earpieces. It was apparent that their employer could see and hear everything that went on, as if he were right there in the room with us." Perrine smiled. "I wouldn't have minded getting a look at their gear, I can tell you that."

  "You have a fondness for high tech, do you?" Caitlin asked him. "I.O. must have been your dream job."

  "Even dreams have to end," Perrine said. "You always wake up sometime."

  "The kids your weapons have killed won't," Grunge said. "I were you, I'd stop thinking so much about how to make them kill better and start worrying about the end results. These ain't video games you're making, man. People really die."

  "I understand that, Mr. Chang."

  Grunge gave him a look. "I hope you do," he said.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Cipher had been given a partner. It was about the last thing he wanted or needed, but this was Wager's will, and he did not question the commands of his benefactor.

  His partner's name was Jay. He was a trim, good-looking guy in an Armani suit with short-cropped black hair and dark blue eyes. Cipher stood beside him, invisible, intangible, unseen and unknown, while Jay "chatted" with a trio of equally well-dressed gangsters. They stood on the pier, near a garbage reclamation dump. A trawler drifted away on the sparkling waters, bearing waste that would be dumped at sea rather than stuck in another landfill.

  Cipher knew that he should be paying attention to the words of his partner and the crimelords. But Wager had made their roles clear. Jay was the mouth, Cipher the muscle. If things got brutal, if Jay's very reasonable arguments did not win over the punks before them, it would be Cipher's turn to convince them.

  His words were lost on Cipher. He looked to the sea and thought of his time on the water. The peace. The adventure. The sheer joy of being out there…

  Shaking himself, he trained his gaze on Jay. His partner possessed a Rolex, Raybans, a cell phone, pager, and the other piece of standard equipment Wager's operatives carried: a titanium blade, electrified. Thin latex gloves that looked and felt just like skin and carried untraceable fingerprints. A Kevlar-style vest no thicker than a tee-shirt that could stop Teflon rounds if necessary. Two firearms, neatly hidden, one braced near his ankle, the other beneath his left armpit. Flesh colored stingers mounted in his palms—just by shaking his wrists, he could choose between any of ten drugs ranging from sedatives that would mellow his victim out to poisons that could paralyze instantly. With a handshake, he could deploy them.

  Jay didn't seem like the typical thug. He was easygoing and friendly, a great listener, and a very intelligent man. He had a B.A. from Harvard Business and had minored in Psych. He could talk about any subject, and put anyone at ease.

  Cipher's new partner could also make it very clear that when he spoke, he was laying down the law. Wager's law. The only law that mattered.

  Jay had just finished dictating terms to the trio of neatly groomed crimelords and was waiting politely for a response.

  All three laughed in his face. They sat on one side of a picnic table while Jay sat on the other.

  Jay sighed.

  Suddenly, Wager's voice thundered in Cipher's ears. "Make them understand!"

  Cipher moved into action. He became visible and tangible, startling the crimelords. He didn't know their names. In an hour, he would barely even remember what they looked like. It hardly mattered to him. All he cared about
was keeping track of their positions—and the positions of the snipers and other gunmen these three had stationed all around them.

  "He's—he's real," the closest of the targets hissed. He was bald with a dragon tattoo that was mostly hidden by his dark suit, but the tips of its wings spread across his neck and the sides of his face. He wore a single gold earring and his teeth had been capped. His eyebrows had been shaved and his skin was perfectly tanned.

  He grabbed at his lapel, as his to speak a command into a hidden microphone.

  Cipher didn't give him the chance to speak. He smashed the picnic table with a single blow. He had struck it at precisely the spot Wager had commanded and with exactly the correct amount of force to achieve his goal. As Wager had predicted, bits of wood and steel exploded like shrapnel, missing Jay completely, seemingly miraculously, while slicing into the bodies of the crimelords.

  The bald man who had been closest to Cipher lost two fingers, an ear, and sustained a scar that ruined his tattoo. The others were impaled in the stomach, legs, shoulders, and hands. Wager had predicted the odds of exactly these wounds to the last decimal.

  Jay grabbed two of the wounded, dazed men and pulled them close, as shields. The snipers and other shooters wouldn't dare fire at him for fear of hitting their employers.

  That meant the rest of the play was up to Cipher. He leaped at a stack of crates piled thirty feet high, landed on top of them, and took the gun from a sniper. Clubbing the man unconscious, he fired at six of the remaining ten gunmen spread out among the pier. His shots disarmed them with pinpoint accuracy, leaving a half-dozen wounded, bloody victims—all of whom would live.

  Four left. The heavy-duty hitters.

  Cipher casually dropped back down to the pier. His opponents came at him with precisely as little finesse as he had come to expect from their kind: untrained, undisciplined, probably Special Forces washouts. One carried a rocket launcher, another an I.O. Cobra-Covert Ion Gun, the last two simple bazookas. They came at him from four directions, firing all they had.