To Beat the Devil (The Technomancer Novels Book 1)

by M. K. Gibson

  In the few seconds it took me to deal with the two idiots, I had completely blanked on the hellhound. Over 300 pounds of leathery skin and teeth flanked me, driving me into the ground. The beast had a lock on my left forearm and was trying like hell to rip my arm off.

  Good luck getting through this coat, asshole, I thought, as the beast was atop me. On both forearms I wore tech bracers of my own design. With a flick of my free arm, a wide collapsible eighteen-inch blade sprang out, and I drove it deep into the hellhound’s side between the ribs and twisted, gouging a deep, wide wound. The blade retracted and I reached into my coat pocket, found the antique pineapple grenade, thumbed the pin off, and shoved the explosive into the gaping wound.

  My left tech bracer, which was wedged into the beast’s mouth, emitted an electric shock, and the hellhound roared, letting me go. I rolled away and balled up. Quickly I tapped a servo relay on my belt and the density of my coat turned from semi to max. The grenade went off in a muffled crump. I dialed back the coat and stood, dusting myself off. Hellhound guts painted the wet asphalt. Blood mingled with rain, and it all flowed into the harbor.

  The bishop was about ten yards away, his sword still drawn. He looked me up and down. I stared back, dead in the eye.

  “Bishop,” I said, “you are out of idiots.”

  “There are always more.” He started swaying the tip of his sword in an intricate pattern.

  I looked around and windows were open, but lights were off. Locals were watching, but they did not want to announce it. All right, let’s give them a show. I drew both pistols, dialed down the damage to a hard stun, and leveled them at the bishop.

  “Your move, Sally,” I taunted him.

  I began a slow circle to my left. The bishop held his sword in two hands, watching me and grinning. Quick as a viper, he lunged at me. I spun away and fired a quick succession of blasts at his back. The plasma discharge staggered him and set his cloak and coat on fire. He shrugged off the burned garments, freeing his leathery wings. The wings denoted his demon heritage, vastly more purebred than a simple hellion. His red skin and scales looked slick in the lamplight. Blue-white Denochian script tattoos stood out along his chest and arms, intricate and chaotic patterns that denoted his family lineage and battles won in Hell.

  Probably Heaven as well.

  The bishop looked every inch of a classic devil, from the protruding white bone accents along his body and horned head to his tail, reverse-jointed legs, and cloven hooves.

  Adorable.

  The bishop came at me in a flurry. Not mindless chopping, but controlled and practiced motions. While he had height and reach, I had speed and strength. He attacked rhythmically and I evaded. We continued this for several minutes and the bishop was beginning to lose his patience and get winded. His attacks were becoming wilder, more ferocious. I used my pistols to deflect the blade and fire off the occasional shot near his cloven feet, making him misstep and stumble. As much as I was starting to enjoy this little dance, I figured it was time to put it to an end.

  I put my pistols back in their holsters and charged up my tech bracers. As the bishop lunged, I spun to one side and grabbed his sword at the hilt with one hand, wrapping my other arm around his arms at the elbows and locking him into place. Once the bracers reached full charge, I released his arms quickly. He brought his sword into an overhand chop and I slapped a palm against his chest. The bracers released an electro-pulse like a massive taser through my synth-skin glove. The bishop’s jaw locked open in a soundless scream. He went rigid and fell over. The body spasm caused him to drop his sword. I couldn’t help myself; I had to kick the weapon into the harbor. Blame it on the movies. I heard a few hoots and hollers of excitement from the dark windows surrounding us. The locals were enjoying seeing someone make a district’s bishop look foolish.

  I actually stood, arms wide, and gloated for a moment. I turned to face the high-rise slums and loudly voiced in a bad Gladiator impersonation, “Are you not entertained?!”

  That was when the bishop got up and shoulder tackled me from behind into the nearest building. My face made solid impact with duracrete. The bishop grabbed me by the back of the neck and repeated the blow; I felt my nose break and my cheekbone fracture. Blood gushed and I could faintly hear a gasp or two from the windows. That was what I got for showing off.

  A surge of adrenaline hit my system a second later. I pushed off the building wall very hard and threw my head back. The back of my head connected with the bishop’s jaw with a loud crack. He reeled back, his wings extending to buffer his fall and provide balance. I turned left and threw a straight overhand right to the bishop’s nose. I felt it break. Purple-black demon blood spurted from the point of impact.

  We stood there huffing, facing each other with matching fractures and bleeding openly. I brushed the remnants of concrete from my face and body while the bishop spat out a cracked tooth and some more blood.

  “So,” the bishop started, staring me down, “now what?”

  I gave him two middle fingers, turned, and sprinted toward the nearest alley. I may be able to go toe-to-toe with most demons, but I still had a job to do that night, and he was keeping me from it. How did that Robert Frost poem go again? And miles to go before I sleep…

  The bishop pursued. I heard the clip-clop of his hooves on the pavement, his wings giving him the occasional boost of several extra steps per leap. I turned multiple times until I reached a windowless dark alley. Only a single street light in the distance. Perfect.

  I pulled both pistols and waited. Come on you bastard, time is ticking, I thought. In a few moments the bishop caught up to me. He turned down the alley and walked toward me.

  “God damn, Maz!” I yelled at the bishop. “Did you have to go all nine levels of Hell on my face?”

  Bishop Maz’Zael laughed out loud. I quickly held up my pistol to my lips and tried to quiet him. “Shhh! You idiot, you want people to hear?” But in a few moments I realized I was laughing as well. Maz came close and gave me a giant demon hug. A demon hug is like a bear hug, only more diabolic with a faint whiff of decadence and sulfur.

  “You big baby,” Maz said to me, putting me down and looking me over. “Besides, it looks like you are almost healed. Damn, how do you do that?”

  It was true, I was almost completely healed. And I know it infuriated him. No reason to tell him all my secrets.

  Speaking of secrets.

  “Hey, who tipped you off I would be coming through this way tonight?” I asked.

  “Some hopeless case thought it would put him in my good graces. And I let him think that. I always let them think that. Secret is, if you never really show favor, they try, try, try again to win you over.”

  Lessons in demonic manipulation. What a night. At least now I knew that this route was compromised. As I felt the last of my jaw realign and my nose finish resetting, I stared up at my friend.

  “Did you have to ram my head into the wall?”

  Bishop Maz waved his hand dismissively. “It had to look good. Word of mouth has to spread with those bottom feeders by the docks. After that show, they will step in line. And well, honestly …” Maz stopped mid-thought to grin like only a demon can. “It was fun. I am a demon, after all,” he said, winking at me.

  I stared at him, itching to perform fast and violent acts upon him. Perhaps pull my weapons and pistol whip him just on principle? Maybe a nice puncture wound to go with it?

  “How did me beating the crap out of you help you with the locals?” I asked.

  Maz raised his eyebrow. “Beating me? We had a draw and you ran away. The locals know your infamous status. They also know they’re nowhere near your level. If their beloved champion could only get in a few licks and run away, then what could they possibly do to the bishop? No, my friend, you helped me make their miserable lives just that much worse. My word is once again law.”

  Crap. He was right. Damn demon used me and I walked into it. “And here I thought we were friends,” I said in a sarc
astic tone.

  Bishop Maz shrugged. “Whatever.”

  I shook my head. I was applying human emotions and way of thinking to a creature that never was human. Even at my age, I am still learning. We may be “friends,” but Maz would sell me down the river if it meant an advantage for him. But it at least made him predictable. I filed that insight away to revisit later. I decided to change the topic to important matters.

  “Are you going to get in trouble for the loss of the hellions tonight?” I asked.

  “No, the archbishop doesn’t give two soulless shits about the loss of hellions. Those two in particular were serving as informants to another district’s bishop. In fact, since I staged a way to have them killed without doing it myself, by influencing a human to do it for me, it should curry favor. I may get a promotion.” The demon smiled.

  “So they were spying on you?”

  Maz shrugged. “Probably.”

  I laughed. The demon didn’t.

  “Were you telling the truth about your LL? Otherwise it would be a lot of paperwork and I would probably have to organize a squad to kill you. You understand, of course. The death of a deputized hellion killed in the line of duty by an unlicensed wouldn’t fly in my district.”

  “Yeah yeah. I was telling the truth.” I nodded as I lit up another smoke. “But even if I was lapsed, couldn’t you backdate a MP for me?”

  “I could, if you paid. But I wouldn’t. A murder permit would mean you had intent against those specific hellions. The intent to have them killed could be linked back to me, and interpreted as me setting it up. I’d be exposed, and then suddenly my cleverness would look petty and pedestrian.”

  And that, in a nutshell, was the world we lived in. One-time-use murder permits and renewable lethality licenses were just the tip. When the Lords of Hell became the new masters, all the old sins were no longer looked down upon, outlawed, or punished. Instead permits, taxes, and tithes replaced morality. Hell, maybe it was always that way and we just finally accepted it. You want to kill a motherfucker? Apply for a permit. Prove your worth is greater than his, pay the 20% down of his annual taxation, cover the remaining 80% over the course of a year and a day and BAM, you have your own murder permit. Don’t like long lines and complicated math? Have credits to spare? Get a lethality license. Costs more, sure, but in the long run it is cheaper and you can renew it via the Ultra Net.

  “So, I have something going on later tonight. I’m meeting a new client at Dante’s. Think you could watch my back? Preferably without any demonic friendly fire in the process?”

  “Depends. Are you carrying?” Maz asked, looking eager.

  I pulled out a smoke, lit it off the one I already had burning, and flicked away the old butt. “How bad do you want it? Maybe after that tango we just had, you don’t deserve it.”

  Maz smiled and touched his nose and jaw, also already on the mend. “Good. Causing temptation and desire. I will make something evil of you yet. But you gave as good as you got. So cough it up. Unless you want another beating?”

  “Please, goat boy. That act was for the townies. We both know I would make you my bitch in a fair fight,” I said, posturing with male bravado. Yet that had been the seventh time in recent memory Maz had made a passing reference to making me into something evil. Friend or not, I guess a demon will always do what is in its nature.

  “Who said it would be fair?” said Maz. His tone indicated he was dead serious. Ahh, screw it.

  From my inner pocket I pulled the object of his desire and tossed it to him. He caught it midair and unwrapped the bundle furiously, his eyes full of lust and glee.

  “Settle, Maz, it’s just a Hostess pie,” I said to the ravenous demon. But by that point the wrapper was already off and he had eaten the whole thing. He started licking his fingers. I shuddered. If you feel like you need a diet, and want a way to avoid food and turn your stomach, just watch a sugar-starved demon make culinary love to the greatest preservative-filled dessert mankind ever produced.

  “Correction, my friend—a Hostess vanilla pudding pie,” Maz said.

  He fell to the ground and purred like a content cat and then played with his nipples while writhing. I nearly threw up a little and wanted to scour my eyes with bleach after that image. Demons.

  “This mean you are coming tonight?” I asked.

  “Mmmm, yes. I will be there. What does this mystery client look like?”

  “Don’t know,” I said. “I got the message through Jensen, so I know it is reliable. Ricky himself set up the meet on this one. But before I begin work with a new client, I like to have him vetted. Thus far, I cannot dig anything up on him. No one knows him.”

  “Or, no one is talking,” said Maz.

  “Exactly. So I am intrigued and cautious. And the presence of an off-duty district bishop should curtail any asshole from trying to pull anything overt.”

  “Couldn’t hurt,” Maz said as he got to his feet. “I will be there.” He shook my hand and gave me brotherly hug with a firm punch in the back. I turned to leave.

  “Hey Salem,” he called after me.

  “Yeah?”

  “Where do you get those pies?”

  I chuckled to myself. He knows I would never tell him. If I did, he would just raid my stash and I wouldn’t have any leverage on him. And that is a personal rule: Never tell a Gluttony demon where to get a free meal.

  “It’s my job to obtain the unobtainable. To locate the unlocatable. And to transport a myriad of goods at a nominal fee.” I smirked.

  Maz rolled his eyes. “Your job is to be a pain in my ass. You owe me a new coat and sword, by the way.”

  “Put it on my bill. See you tonight.”

  Chapter Two

  Sexual Desire and Booze Lubricant

  After finishing my run, I wandered for a while, moving inland away from the slums. Even late in the night people were on the street, looking. Always looking. Sex, upgrades, drugs, clarity, senseless loss. It was all out there.

  I’ve always liked walking the streets when there were people about, watching people in nameless motion. Dangerous, sure. These days, demons walked among us. But it reminded me of back then. Almost two centuries ago, before He left us. Before the demons came. Before man went under the knife to augment himself. Before we all walked the streets armed like the old West. Well, openly armed, anyway.

  I lit a smoke and walked on, passing clinics, shops, and an amazing amount of prostitutes. Above me, the intricate elevated magna-rails system moved people all over the supercity while the expressways of old allowed traffic to flow in deadly patterns. Street level was what street levels were always like: Shit. The home of the broken, ugly, wet, and poor.

  Hell, I needed to get a move on. I had to meet the new client.

  An hour or so later I made my way toward my favorite drinking spot in Razor Bay, Dante’s. The multi-storied bar and brothel provided every vice you never needed and didn’t know you wanted. It was my second home. Dante’s was situated in a rough section of street-level tenement buildings, warehouses, and abandoned parking garages from the bygone era. All this made up a backdrop of duracrete grey and broken asphalt. Dante’s itself was at one time a massive church. A congregation of sinners still sought refuge there. They just didn’t want to repent.

  The hot neon sign above the double doors depicted nine concentric circles, and gleamed like electric sex, radiating sin for sale. Dante’s was one of the few places where humans and the denizens of Hell mixed openly. The day-to-day grind meant torment and pain. But nighttime at Dante’s was everyone’s drop of ice water in hell.

  Dante’s was not one of those “neutral ground” places like in all the fantasy stories. Here they actually preferred you to be armed and ready to kill. It helped keep the tourists out. I checked my weapons and gear and made my way to the main door.

  Jensen, the front door bouncer, sat outside in a ratty old office chair reading a book. The cyborg was blistered with various augmentations. I didn’t even know what half
of them did. His neural visor was hardwired directly into his brain, recording everything he saw and heard. He was the perfect doorman. Nothing escaped his sight.

  Jensen ran his hands through his haystack hair and flipped the pages of his tattered beaten book, which seemed to be held together by cellophane tape. He was dressed in his usual. Old castoff clothes from ancient days, blue jeans and a sleeveless hoodie. He didn’t look up at me as I approached, but I knew he knew I was there.

  “Salem,” Jensen greeted me.

  “Mr. Jensen,” I nodded to the cyborg. “What literary classic is on the menu tonight?” I asked as I cut in front of the line of people. A few griped or hissed, depending on whether or not they had human or demon tongues. Jensen just raised his muscled arm in a fist and they settled down. I was a VIP after all. When the mob seemed a bit more pliable, he answered me.

  “Paradise Lost,” Jensen said, not really looking up. Not that Jensen needed to. His implants picked up the world around him. In the land of the sighted, the man with 360-degree 20/20 x-ray vision and hypersonic hearing is king.

  “Pretty sure I have seen you with it before. How many times have you read that?” I asked.

  “I don’t know,” he said. “I have deleted it many times, so each reading is new. Apparently I have kept the meaning derived from each reading so when I pick it up again, it is that much more profound. Each time a deeper revelation unto myself.” Jensen licked his fingers, turned the page deliberately, and smirked. “Aren’t I a genius?”

  I offered my hand and Jensen took it. I palmed him a pack of smokes and he smiled beneath his visor. I pulled a smoke out of my pack and offered one to Jensen. He took one and I lit them both.

  “Cheers, bud,” Jensen said.

  “You’re welcome.” I smiled. “Any word on my mystery client?”

  “I have detected 734 bodies which came in tonight either through the main door or the three side and hidden entrances. This includes guests and staff. Of which 127 have left. That leaves 607 people inside.” Jensen deliberately turned the next page and scanned it, nodding to himself. He placed a bookmark in his tattered novel and set it down. He took a deep pull on his smoke and stared right at me.