"What was your rank?"
"I was a major."
She was impressed, despite herself. She didn't know what she expected when Jett turned himself in, but she sure didn't expect a relic from the Imperial War. She couldn't help but feel a strange kinship to the man. He wasn't so different from her. Fighting a war where victory was impossible. She knew exactly how that felt.
Isaac shifted from his position in the corner. She knew he was studying her. The interrogation was nothing like they had originally planned. She mentally refocused. Remember what you brought him in for.
"Okay, Jett. I appreciate you coming in voluntarily. But I need you to continue to be honest with me. Can you do that?"
"Sure."
"Let's start with where you were at two-fifteen a.m. this morning."
He narrowed his eyes. "You know exactly where I was. I'm sure my holoband showed up when you ran the crime scene."
"You were there in the alley. What happened?"
He leaned back, folding his arms. "A girl was chased into the alley by a gang of thugs. I tried to intervene."
"By yourself?"
He shifted his shoulders, lowering his gaze. "I had been…drinking. Wasn't thinking straight."
"I guess not. Though if 'not thinking straight' means trying to defend helpless citizens against possible rape and murder, I hope everyone in this city starts drinking what you had."
A stiff smile curved his lips. "I got my ass handed to me."
"Yeah, I can see that. What happened then?"
"One guy pulled out some strange weapon. It…morphed from his holoband. The shot missed but took down the building. I was lucky to get away alive."
"Yeah, biogun. Not the thing a normal thug would carry."
"Biogun?"
"Polymorphic liquid alloy firearm. Basically, it's a handgun powered by the body's energy. Fires thermal rounds capable of…well, you saw what they're capable of."
"Yeah."
"What about the old man?"
He stiffened. "What old man?"
"We found a Mr. Wayne Thomas dead at the scene. Former Agent. Retired from the RCE thirty years ago. Lived a respectable life running a small business and contributing to his community."
Jett shook his head. "I didn't know him."
"Did you see him? We couldn't find any serious wounds other than injuries from the falling building. Coroner says the cause of death was heart failure. But he was far away from his home in Manhaven. Do you have any idea why he would be at a busted-up alleyway in the Warrens?"
He raised his head, looking her in the eyes. "I wish I could help you out, Detective. But the truth is, I never met the man before and have no idea what he was doing there."
Ronnie glanced at Isaac, who shook his head. She turned back to Jett.
"Alright, I think we have everything we need. You're free to go."
Surprise flashed across his face before he suppressed it. "Okay."
"Anything comes up, any follow up questions…we expect you to cooperate."
"I understand."
She watched as he slipped a shabby jacket on and walked to the door.
"Hey, Jett."
He turned around.
"There's help if you need it. Free counseling available to ease layovers into society. You don't have to feel alone."
He silently studied her for a moment. "Do you feel alone, Agent Banks?"
"I…" She hesitated, caught off guard by the question.
A sad, broken smiled crossed his face. Tipping his fingers, he walked out of the room.
She turned to Isaac. "Well?"
"My link to the chair pad secured the proper readings. Pulse, body movement, temperature. And of course, I scanned his face and eyes for accurate evaluation."
"And?"
"He was mostly telling the truth."
"Mostly?"
"That last part. About not knowing what Mr. Thomas was doing in the alley. That was the only detectable lie."
"So…he wasn't lying about trying to save some girl from being attacked?"
"If he was, it wasn't detectable by any of my sensors. I don't think he's that good."
"Yeah, me either." She ran her fingers through her tight, curly hair. "Think it's worth it to chase this any further?"
"Seems an open and shut case. Mr. Thomas died of heart failure, so no homicide investigation. No other deaths except gang members. Their injuries appear to be the result of the building falling on them, save for a few unexplainable broken bones and a stab wound. I think we can chart that up to Mr. Wolfe's rescue attempt."
"He'd have to be a one-man wrecking machine."
"He is ex-military. I ran the data on the unit he described. The ACU units were quite formidable in their day."
"Something still doesn't add up. Hell. It's a dead end. We have a stack of cases more pressing than this one."
"Want to put Mr. Wolfe on our watch list? Keep an electronic eye on him?"
She considered for a moment. "No. I think he's been through enough."
"Surprise, surprise. Veronica Banks having an empathetic moment. This guy must really impress you."
"Don't call me Veronica." She spoke absently, mind working things over. "Something about him. Can't put my finger on it. He's…different."
"He's vintage, for one."
"Yeah, can you imagine sleeping for over three hundred years? The disorientation of waking up to another world, another time…it's a wonder he can even function."
"Not something one could recover swiftly from."
"Yeah." She stared at the door, frowning. "Okay, we're done for now. Unless we can trace the biogun that did the damage, there's not much to go on."
"And what about Vigil?"
She gave him an amused glance. "What?"
"Vigil. Short for vigilante, according to old reports. The name was given to a masked, unidentified, self-proclaimed guardian of the city. Declared a wanted outlaw by authorities, and a scourge by the criminal underworld."
"The last sighting was twenty years ago, Isaac. I was just a kid back then. Besides…most of that talk is exaggerated. Some kook in a suit made a name for himself beating up low-key thugs. Probably was killed or got hurt enough to quit that nonsense."
"So you don't believe—"
"Those idiot toughs? No chance. They're snorting bloom out there. No use taking anything they say seriously. Give it a rest, Isaac. Vigil is just an urban legend. He doesn't exist."
Chapter 4
Qhawa Villca knew the day would come. She had anticipated it arriving much sooner, but her adoptive father surprised her with his discipline. Wayne had put away the suit for good after the terrible incident and inevitable fallout. Put it away and started his new life. A regular civilian. A good life, if uneventful one.
She knew it ate at him, though. The need. The unquenchable thirst to right wrongs that occurred every minute, every hour, every day. She had never seen a person more devoted to justice. That made it all the more amazing that he could withstand the temptation for so long. He had made a promise, true. One he thought he could keep, despite every fiber in his being compelling him to do otherwise. He fooled himself, even fooled Arthur into buying the act after years of inaction.
But he couldn't fool Qhawa. She knew it was a simple matter of time.
She didn't know exactly when it started. But she saw clues over the last few months. It was the way his eyes danced when he stared into space, the anticipatory gleam she recognized from when he used to stalk the streets of Neo York and take down criminals and their enterprises. It was in the impatience of his mannerisms when she visited, as if he couldn't wait for her to leave. She thought of bringing it up. Saying the words that would put the matter in the open, dare him to deny it. But she didn't.
She knew it wouldn't have made a difference.
The quiet hum of the hovering wheelchair made her aware of Arthur's presence. She turned. His blond hair was perfectly styled, his tailored suit impeccable as always. He regarded h
er with red-rimmed eyes. She was surprised by the emotion in his stare. Arthur had made it clear that he never wanted to see Wayne again. Their last words together were sharp and bitter, weapons that stabbed and cut worse than any wounds they had suffered together.
She glanced at the wheelchair. Perhaps not more than that. It was Arthur's crippling injury that ended everything, a parting gift from Mortis in their last battle with him and his minions. Wayne faced a terrible choice: save Arthur, or allow Mortis to succeed in leveling the Warrens and killing thousands. Wayne chose to stop Mortis; a crime Arthur never forgave.
"Hello, Arthur."
"Qhawa." He stared at the tombstone. A simple marker with a name and date engraved, decorated with a small series of indentations.
"He started again, didn't he?"
She nodded.
"He promised he would quit. He promised."
She said nothing, letting Arthur seethe in peace. When he finally broke down in shuddering sobs, only then did she walk over and place a comforting hand on his shoulder. Her own cheeks were wet.
"He tried, Arthur. I know he tried. Sometimes that is all we can do."
He clutched her hand and squeezed, chest heaving. "I know. It's just…I wish I could have told him. Told him…I forgave him. I forgave him a long time ago."
"He knew, Arthur. I believe he knew."
She turned at the sound of soft footsteps. An older man approached, bent over his cane but still steady in stride. His wavy mane of hair and thick beard was entirely white. A bouquet of flowers was in his hand.
He gave her a friendly nod. "Ms. Villca."
She walked over and hugged him. "Abe. Glad you made it."
He harrumphed. "Like I've any better to do. Retirement suits me no better than it suited him."
"You're too old for RCE work. Be happy with your wine cellar and your books."
He chuckled. "You always were too direct for own good, girly. That's why I like you." He gave Arthur a keen glance. "Nice to see you here, Arty. Had my doubts."
Arthur gave him a sad smile. "We were family. Once. Only right to pay my respects."
"Yeah, the dead always get respect." Abe knelt and laid the roses at the foot of the marker. "The living just get ignored. How is the delivery boy business going?"
Arthur sighed. "Do you really want to talk about this now?"
"Goldman is a leech. A spider with webs threaded across the whole city. Wayne would never have let a rotten scumbag like that—"
Qhawa placed a forestalling hand on his arm. "This is not the time, Abe."
He sighed through his thick mustaches. "You're right, of course. My apologies, Arthur."
"It's all right, Abe. We're all upset."
Abe turned to the gravestone. Reaching into his jacket pocket, he withdrew a flask and tipped it, spilling whiskey on the grass before raising it. "To a brave man, and a damn fool. You tried to make a difference, Wayne. It always gets you in the end." He downed a swig, paused, then handed it to Qhawa. She took a swallow, winced at the burn. Offered it to Arthur, who shrugged and downed a swallow. Wiping his mouth, he stared at the gravestone. Qhawa took his hand. Abe continued drinking.
They stayed there for a long time.
Ⓥ
Jett waited until the others left.
He was glad to know the old man had people who cared about him. Even if it was a pitiful amount, just three people to mourn a man who gave his life without complaint. And an odd lot. The man in the high-tech wheelchair was young, in his late twenties. The woman appeared around Jett's age. He couldn't guess her ethnicity. With her bold cheekbones, bronzed skin and almond eyes, she could have claimed a number of indigenous lineages. The old man had the look of someone used to giving orders. Ex-military or law enforcement, Jett guessed. They were all that showed up. It appeared Wayne Thomas was not a popular man. Or perhaps a very private one.
Who will mourn you when you die? Who will cry at your grave?
Jett exhaled a shaky breath. Everyone he knew was long dead. Dust sifted through three hundred years of trembling earth. He was just a ghost, the spirit of a man who died with his team on the eve of the world's destruction. In a way, he was very much like Wayne. He just hadn't been buried yet.
Wayne Thomas. A simple name. Not a simple man. Jett did his research. Examined every bit of info he could pull up on Vigil. Most of it was supposition and urban legend. But some of it was real. Something possessed Wayne to suit up in outlandish attire and take on crime that went unnoticed or untouched by Response units. Sightings were reported everywhere, but most often in the Warrens. The cesspool of a gutter city. The Blind Spot, as its residents dubbed it. Surveillance avoided it, The RCE took their time, often arriving just to clean up the mess. No one cared about what happened in the Warrens.
No one but Vigil.
Why did you care so much, old man?
Sporadic reports indicated a nearly decade-long time-span in which Vigil was active. The most sensational reports told of an archenemy, a terrorist named Mortis with an underground lair. Illustrations depicted a man with theatrical flair, wearing a skull-faced mask and hood like Death himself. Sounded too much like a comic book, but Jett had lived in an era where men developed unimaginable powers before it all came to an end in the Imperial War. Whatever the case, there were many accounts of Vigil's activities during that time.
Then without warning Vigil vanished. No more sightings, no more stories. A city that once dared to dream of something better descended into darkness again. Crime shot up; fear imprisoned the residents. Whatever war Vigil fought was over, with no victor ever declared. Years passed, and despondency became the norm again. Hunters and prey. Takers and losers.
"You see something wrong…you do something about it. No matter what the cost. You do something."
Jett shook his head. "But what do you do when everything is wrong? What then?"
"Take it one day at a time."
Jett's heart leaped in his throat at the sound of the familiar voice. He whirled around.
He almost didn't recognize Agent Ronnie Banks in civilian clothes. Soft leather jacket, tweed pants over ankle boots. Even her face looked softer, a sheen to her mocha skin. Her mass of curly hair was pulled back into a simple ponytail.
She smiled. "Sorry to startle you. Didn't peg you for being froggy. You were so cool in the station."
"Agent Banks. Are you following me?"
"Nope. Just paying my respects to a fallen soldier. Funny to find you here, though. Especially since you never met the man before."
He sighed. "I…was there when he died. The guy saved my life, okay?"
"So you did have an encounter."
"He was the one they shot at. Missed him, but managed to hit the building."
"Yeah, I figured that out already."
He lifted an eyebrow. "Really."
"Crime scene spoke to me. Your position made it impossible for the toughs to be shooting at you. The blast struck right next to Mr. Thomas' body. Not hard to figure out he was the target."
"The shooter got away. Any chance you can trace them like you did me?"
She shook her head. "First thing criminals do is lose their holobands. Half the ones you see on the streets are fake. Some of them are pretty good, too. The only bands that showed up in that alley were yours and Mr. Thomas'."
"Not even the girl?"
"Negative on that. Whoever your mystery girl is, she's streetwise."
"So there's nothing you can do?"
"Depends. You got something for me? A name, some identifying mark?"
Thick arms encircled by glimmering dragon tattoos. C'mon, Slick. We ghost.
He shook his head. "Nothing."
She gave an exasperated sigh. "Come on. You didn't even try."
"I want to help. Just can't remember anything."
"Well, if you get a sudden memory jolt, call me." She gave the gravestone a final glance before turning back the way she came.
He waved her down. "How do I call you?"
/>
"I added the station number to your holoband when I checked you in. You need some friends, by the way. There's not a single other number in there."
He watched her until she entered her black-and-white RCE floater. The doors slid shut with a hiss, and the gleaming, streamlined vehicle propelled upward, joining the sporadic lines of air traffic.
Jett turned back to Wayne Thomas' grave. "You saved my life. I owe you for that. So I'll get the guy that got you. I'll take him down. For you. I can right that wrong, at least. I can do that."
Thrusting his hands in his pockets, he turned and strode away. Every step seemed lighter, despite the long walk to the tram station. Powdery flakes floated down like dirty feathers, melting as they touched the ground, like tears for an unknown soldier.
Ⓥ
Arthur Milton leaned back against the padded support of his hoverchair, hating the comfort of the ergonomic cushions. A prison shouldn't be comfortable. Shouldn't be constructed to make the life of an invalid easy. The lights in the small room were off, but the blush of multiple backlit screens provided more than enough illumination.
He glanced at the screen, where a paused recording of Jett Wolfe was displayed. Hacking into the cemetery's surveillance had been easy. He had a hunch someone else might show up. Someone who might know something about Wayne's last moments.
"Play."
The recording resumed.
The man saved my life, okay? I…was there when he died.
So you did have an encounter.
He was the one they shot at. Missed him, but managed to hit the building.
"Pause."
Arthur poured himself a finger of scotch from a nearby decanter. "Mr. Wolfe."
A Defrost. It was an incredible notion. A man frozen in time, transplanted from one era to another. Lost, alone. So terribly alone.
"Rewind two seconds, then play."
The man saved my life, okay? I…was there when he died.
"Pause. Repeat command."
The man saved my life, okay? I…was there when he died.
"Pause."
Arthur placed his chin on his fist, staring at Jett. It took a bizarre set of circumstances for that to happen. He drummed his fingers on the armrest. Downing his scotch, he tapped a button on his holoband. It buzzed for several seconds before Qhawa's face appeared on the screen. He flicked the holographic display onto the larger screen in front of him.
Knight in Cyber Armor Page 5