“Recruit then. Find a hired gun or two to bolster your team.”
“This is ridiculous. We have Saber units in 8 cities across America. Send one of them!”
“The White House has personally barred the transfer of Sabers from any other region.”
“Why?”
“Jimenez loves to make life difficult for me, and you parking that Cherokee helicopter in the street did not put me in his good graces.”
The Texan swore, he seemed to do that a lot. “Why not just send them in anyway?”
“I did. They are already en route from Atlanta, but it will be two days before they can arrive. They have to navigate the suburbs to dodge all CPI scanning stations.”
“They will be too late!”
“I can’t move assets any quicker.”
“At least tip off the authorities to put some drug sniffing dogs patrolling the Acela stations.”
“Why?”
“Let’s just say I found out that Tenrel’s shit has some unexpected results with animals. He won’t know what hit him.”
“It’s done. Do not screw this up.”
“I won’t. Lancing, remember?”
The message terminated leaving Qwiz with a pit in his stomach. He still had no consistent contact with Luthor. He didn’t bother replaying the beginning of the message. He had to alert Luthor before he walked into a trap. He called the phone back that had contacted him before. A kindly automated woman informed him he needed to leave a message.
Qwiz mashed his finger on the end button. If only cellphones had the ancient functionality of being able to hang up. Then he could have slammed the phone back hard on the receiver and relieved a bit of stress. It was imperative that he get a hold of Luthor’s new friends. Maybe they could help.
Luthor had mentioned an Italian Restaurant. Qwiz began searching the internet for every Italian restaurant in a multi-kilometer radius around the site of the helicopter crash. He quickly compiled a list of possible candidates. It was not a short list.
He called Bill. It was now 3:00 in the morning. “Were you planning on sleeping tonight?”
“Hell no! Rest is for pussies and hippies. I can sleep when I’m dead.”
#
They decided to try the signal inverter on the subway first. In all likelihood a standard subway terminal wouldn't be crawling with carbon police, it would hopefully only be saturated with them. Michael would have put money down that they had a better chance to escape from a mere subway than from a major rail depot if the damn thing didn’t work.
The inverter looked a lot like most of the other individual scanners he had seen in his life, only this one had a spiky tumor on its ass. Luthor pressed a few buttons then put the device over his own Chip. It beeped conclusively.
“Let’s hope this actually does what the bastard says it does,” he said.
“How do we know?” Michael said, giving voice to his concerns. “Who’s to say that he hasn’t double crossed us with this thing too?”
“I doubt he would have tried to kill us to get it back, if it didn’t work,” Luthor replied. “And I don’t see many other options for getting back to Chicago—unless you really like to walk.”
“If we walk, can I keep the HK?” Vika said hopefully.
“Hell yes,” Michael responded. “Only, I’m not real excited about walking 1500 kilometers in the winter. It’s already September, and with winter beginning earlier and earlier, there’s a chance we’ll be caked in snow before we get out of New York.”
The world’s combined efforts at carbon reduction seemed to be working. Global temperatures had been falling appreciably for the last twenty years, though most scientists attributed it to vastly increased dust in the atmosphere after the war. Unfortunately, lower temps meant longer, colder winters, making overland travel much more difficult.
Luthor nodded in agreement. “Let’s face it. If we want to clear our names, then we need that data. It’s all in Chicago. That means the train.”
A half hour later the guns had been ditched in a pile of refuse in an alley. The bullets—at Roc’s request—were dumped down the sewer. Vika’s expression called to mind a child who had just lost a pet. She’d wanted to keep that assault rifle. Despite protests she had kept a single pistol—just in case. Not that Michael objected to it. He liked the security of knowing she had access to a gun. Having an ally who didn’t miss and could kill without remorse had its advantages. Particularly when one was being pursued around the world by the European government or Sabers or whoever-the-smog this Pain guy worked for.
Guns disposed, each of them scanned their hands under the inverter. Only three of them had chips any more now that Vika had removed her own; hopefully that would be well within the parameters of the device.
That was the only weakness of the CPI system. In situations of mass transit, or anywhere else that required large numbers of people to pass through with a minimum of delay, the overhead scanners rendered a Markless effectively invisible—so long as they managed to get their hands on a ticket. They couldn’t be detected since they weren’t broadcasting a signal. If everything worked right, in a few minutes they would all be just as undetectable as any Markless. As they were about to descend the stairs to the subway, they said goodbye to Roc and Thaddeus. It proved more emotional than Michael expected. They had been invaluable companions, and had proved that at least a small fraction of the homeless population weren’t the mindless zombies or bloodthirsty savages he’d encountered as a kid. They were civilized, generous, and kind. Nothing he could have anticipated.
Tanya gave each a long embrace. Luthor and Michael received a warm handshake. Even Vika seemed sorry to see them leave.
“Don’t give up, my friends,” Roc said. “May the Lord be with you.”
“So you can kick some ass,” Thaddeus added.
As they left Michael wondered if they would ever see them again.
The predawn lavender sky began to push back the blackness overhead, but it exaggerated the looming skyscrapers. The occasional un-vandalized streetlight illuminated the dreary atmosphere.
They flowed into the hoard of morning commuters, following the stream downstairs. The moment of truth was upon them. Would the inverter work? It currently was tucked into the top of the duffel bag, broadcasting the exact opposite signal of each of their chips.
Signage made it abundantly clear that no gloves would be tolerated in the station. They each slipped their tickets into the turnstiles, the digital reader removing the requisite funds, then spitting the tickets out the other side. Michael glanced up at the row of unassuming scanners overhead and could almost see the electromagnetic signals being transmitted and received. He prayed his had been effectively obscured. Not prayed exactly—as much as he liked Roc, he hadn’t developed any desire to convert —more like he thought really hard at the scanners.
Michael winced, fearing the dreaded squeal of the alarm. It didn’t sound. He had made it through! He waited for the others, making sure he stood close enough for the inverter to do its work. Luthor walked through, no siren. Tanya followed, no siren. Vika came last, no siren. Michael realized he had been holding his breath, and took a deep one. Tanya was grinning broadly, excited to not be heading back to carbon police custody.
Suddenly one of the carps blew his whistle. A red light flashed over the top of the scanners. The turnstiles locked up and everyone who had not yet made it through found themselves stuck. He approached them. “Ma’am, you are going to need to come with me,” he said gesturing toward Vika.
#
Vika protested of course. She just wished she could have protested properly. Words were so inadequate. There were inflections to consider, reactions to calculate, not to mention facial expressions or body language. Trying to effectively communicate her intended meaning with all the variables vying for dominance approached impossibility. She was particularly fond of the American saying “actions speak louder than words.” They did. In this particular situation a fist in the proper place could tell h
im exactly how much she wanted to accompany him. Against her wont, and her better judgment—she attempted a diplomatic solution instead.
“Is there a problem officer?” she said in her kindest tone. Michael, who had stayed within earshot of their conversation, winced. Apparently, her vocal calculations were off, again.
“Ma’am, in this state, we do not allow hand coverings through scanning terminals.” His eyes struggled to extricate themselves from her chest, but he finally managed to glance at her right hand. It was still wrapped in bandages from her asinine encounter with Ostafal.
One of the great disappointments in their current adventure were Ostafal’s lungs. They were still breathing. She longed to make them cease doing so. Unfortunately, the coward ran off as soon as they were out of sight, so she had to content herself with killing one of his lackeys and shooting the other in the hand. She didn’t even get to keep that beautiful HK-436.
I liked that gun, she thought.
The stunning weapon played through her mind. Its special-forces custom-built ergonomic mag easily held 90 rounds, making its impressive fire-rate monstrously effective. Yet even in full-auto it boasted scalpel-like accuracy thanks to a next-gen inertial-dampener that independently countered each bullet’s recoil. The standard coalition rounds it fired had such gorgeous stopping power, and the way the stock fit so nicely in the crook of her shoulder… Vika sighed. It was beauty perfected. Now it was in a dumpster. That’s a shame, a smogging shame.
“Ma’am, I am going to need you to scan your hand over here,” he directed her over to a tiny Plexiglas cabinet of an office. She followed him. A lot of good it would do him. She didn’t have a CPI chip for the machine to read. What she did have was a pistol. A sig-Sauer .40, custom grip, stainless steel finish. Another beautiful gun. She didn’t need a caliber that large, 9mm was sufficient for anyone with decent aim, but there was something innately satisfying about the feel of a .40 discharge that made her love it. The gun’s blunt metal exterior felt painfully obvious tucked into her pants. She needed a holster. Only rookies, or the very desperate, thought that a waistband was a good place for a sidearm. Even if the CPI reader didn’t work, a simple pat down would suffice to find the illegal weapon.
“Here you are,” he said, eyes lingering in ways she didn’t appreciate. At least the bulges he focused on were not caused by her concealed sidearm.
Damn men. You’re all the same. If only more women would discover that you all have a weak spot, you bastards might just change. Or go extinct. Yes, extinct would be better. The thought of kicking this carbon cop’s weak spot was appealing, but Vika again restrained herself.
“You won’t find much.”
The guard stiffened. She had messed up the intonation again. Still too terse.
“You are aware it is illegal to travel without proper identification. I can escort you to the nearest CPI clinic for a replacement if you’d like.”
It was unlikely that carbon regulations would permit an officer to leave his post to escort anyone anywhere. But the man looked hopeful. If she agreed he would no-doubt take the longest possible route in order to spend more time with her. Or more accurately, more time mentally fondling her. There was no way she would be able to restrain herself from killing him for more than another minute, let alone a thirty-minute walk.
She needed a lie. And she needed it now. “Negative,” she shook her head. That was the wrong word. “That is not necessary.” Vika tried not to throw up at the sound of her own voice. Michael smirked in the background.
“I insist. What happened to your hand anyway, miss?”
Vika’s mind raced. This whole talking thing needed to go. Leave it to Tanya. She was far better at pretending to be a moron. “I had surgery. The doctor had to remove my chip. I won’t be able to have it re-implanted until it heals.”
“Wow. Sounds serious. What was wrong with it?”
Smog these imbecilic conversations! Go away! After a moment of hesitation she responded, “Cancer… I had a tumor removed.” Not her best lie, but this guy would probably have believed anything, so long as she kept talking. I had an alien tentacle growing off my arm. The doctors had to remove it. It had a tendency to decapitate men who spend too long looking at my breasts.
“That sounds serious. Was it malignant?”
“No,” she tried not to scowl. It didn’t work. She produced a small plastic bag with her very inactive CPI unit. “Here it is. Can I go? I might miss my train.”
“Oh, of course miss,” he said apologetically. “Sorry to bother you. Please be safe.”
“Thank you,” she quickly left the carp’s company, aware that his eyes were fondling her ass continually as she left. Hopefully, he didn’t notice the extra curve from the Sig.
The other three stood against an advertisement, feigning nonchalance as they waited for her. Tanya looked relieved, Luthor implacable and serious, but Michael seemed to barely be able to contain his laughter.
“Is there a problem officer?” Michael said in a faux female voice, as he pretended to twirl his hair.
“Shut up,” Vika said. She meant it. Fists might be the perfect solution here.
“What happened to your one rule? ‘You hit on me, I hit you,’ something like that?” he laughed some more.
“I thought I would pass on his punishment to you. My rule doesn’t specify who, so long as someone gets punched.”
Michael deflated like a balloon. Better. Unexpectedly, a pang of guilt popped as she saw his reaction. She never expected to feel pity, much less guilt, as a result of a man, least of all Michael. But there it was, squeezing her innards like a vice-wrench. He had saved her life after all. Maybe he deserved some pity. Only a little.
“But, since you saved my life, you get another pass.”
“Wait. Really?” Michael relaxed. “Thanks, I was only kidding you know.”
“I know,” she said.
Later, as they boarded the subway, Tanya grabbed her by the arm so they were the last two through the automatic doors. “You’re starting to actually like him, aren’t you?”
“Don’t be stupid,” she said, utterly offended. “Why would you say that?”
“You didn’t hit him,” Tanya said simply, “and you smiled. I have almost never seen you smile.”
“When?”
“Just now, when you were talking with him.”
“I didn’t smile,” she said, though suddenly uncertain if it was true.
“If you say so,” Tanya said wending her way through the seated and standing passengers.
“It wouldn't be the worst thing in the world if you had smiled, you know.”
She grabbed an overhead rail next to Luthor, leaving the seat next to Michael open. Vika stood awkwardly indecisive about where to sit. The rational choice would be to take the open seat. It was open. Sitting required less energy than standing, leaving more energy in reserve for a potential fight. But there were those damn social implications again. So much more difficult than action! If only there were a way to solve this problem with a punch, or a bullet. Yes, a bullet. If she sat, he would likely attempt more conversation with her, and she could possibly be put in another situation to unintentionally smile. If she didn’t sit, there would be questions as to why. Questions she was not particularly interested in answering. Damn it all! If I punched them all hard enough… she clenched her fists until her knuckles turned white, then purple.
She did not punch anyone. Though she did kick herself for getting into this mess. In one swift motion she sat down next to Michael and concentrated on not smiling.
Vika paid so much attention to her facial expressions, or rather lack thereof, that a large, disheveled man, slipped onto the train without being detected. Normally, he would have stood out to her like a smiley face sticker on the Mona Lisa. His muscular bulk was impossible to hide with tattered clothes, and he prowled rather than walked, a symptom of extensive combat training.
He stood ten meters away watching Michael chat with Vika, occasion
ally speaking into a mic hidden under his tattered hood. He undoubtedly saw her smile at least once.
Chapter 20:
Eleven Years Ago: Titan Dome, Antarctica
Jake blasted away with one of the captured dragons against the Chinese counterattack. It had an entire shipping container of ammunition. Jake had used three fourths of it in twenty minutes against a line of Chinese infantry that had managed to advance to a defensive trench a hundred meters back. They fired intermittently, mostly depending on the artillery and missiles to accomplish damage. Luthor and Garcia were almost out of ammo, and Chaz had no rockets. Claptrap patrolled the sky, but failed miserably to counter the missile strikes that continued to bombard their position.
“Where the hell is the goddamned armor?” Jake bellowed. “This thing is so hot, its gotta look like a searchlight to those missiles. I don’t want to be a popsicle, Sarge.”
“Just keep shooting. We have to hold out a few more minutes.” Garcia said.
“You’d better be right,” the dragon roared some more, Jake along with it. “Die you greedy bastards!” he yelled as if it would help the bullets find more skulls. He sprayed the trench for any infantry stupid enough to poke their heads out.
The shells kept falling. All around, the ice vaporized to steam and smoke as shells landed, refreezing to snow before hitting the ground. All Luthor could do was pray that none of them would find the gun he defended. At least the Chinese hadn’t sent in their armor. They wouldn’t have lasted long against that.
What are they waiting for?
The ground began to shake. With a rumble and a crash, a team of Moles burrowed up through the ice behind them. The 7th tunneling division had arrived. Luthor cheered with the rest of the men at the tank-like machines. They were mounted with a massive drill on the front that melted and drilled through solid ice, shunting the slough behind them through giant hoses. The military used them to drill temporary shelters underneath the ice sheet for the men and create safe, undetectable paths to move men and materiel. They were essential for war to be possible in such extreme conditions. It was still unclear if the Chinese had developed a comparable technology.
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