All of which was to say that even a tank was too small for him.
Crawling through the hatch in the underside had been its own pain in the ass, even after ditching his backpack. He now sat in the small and sweltering cab of the All-Terrain Combat Vehicle with his knees raised up near his eyeballs, feeling like the world’s largest sardine. These things were supposed to accommodate up to three operators, but he didn’t have the first clue as to how they were all expected to fit. Seated in the driver’s chair, Kai’s bulk left little room for a moth’s tit, let alone two more fully-grown humans. They’d have to be stacked like Tetris blocks.
Infiltrating Chilton’s crew had been simple enough. After a few days of scouting he had the patrols memorized, had been able to isolate a guard, neutralize him, and repurpose his outfit. It was a snug fit and wouldn’t be much of a disguise if anyone got a good look at him, but it had allowed him to skirt the darker edges of the camp with relative safety.
So far everything had been going pretty smoothly on his end. None of Chilton’s crew had called him out, and Rick had snuck into the museum without raising the alarm. Kai had almost been able to convince himself that they wouldn’t even need the tank.
Given Rick’s track-record, he should have known better.
Muffled sounds came through the armored hull. Some commotion had started up outside a few minutes ago, lots of shouting and scurrying about, and just now he’d gotten Rick’s five-minute warning. No explanation, and none was needed. The plan had changed. It was Kai’s time to spring into action.
Except the damn tank wouldn’t start.
He checked the time on his wristband. Over thirty minutes had passed since he positioned the Tesla Inductive PowerPack beneath the charging plate on the ATCV’s belly. It wasn’t technically up to spec – the PowerPack had been designed to charge roadsters, not mobile weapons platforms – and the tank’s battery had a full charge time of two hours. But Kai didn’t need a full charge. He just needed enough to do some damage.
According to the stubborn darkness of the tank’s cab, he didn’t have enough juice to squash a frog.
The shouting was growing louder, and Kai could just make out a few words. Spread out and to kill set the tone for the evening. Chilton’s people were on the hunt. Judging by the lack of grenades raining down through the tank’s cupola, nobody had seen him crawl beneath the vehicle. But he had to assume it was only a matter of time.
Speaking of time: he checked his wristband again. Two minutes down; hopefully Rick wasn’t working with a hard deadline.
An amber light twinkled to life on the tank’s control panel. Kai grunted. He now had auxiliary power. According to the 1200-page manual he’d downloaded, auxiliary power gave you just enough juice to limp into the garage, maybe deploy a few countermeasures if your life really depended on it. Kai decided it would have to do; the PowerPack was probably drained by now.
“Ok,” he breathed. “Time to pretend I know what the fuck I’m doing.”
He settled into the driver’s bucket seat and slid his arms into the steering gauntlets up to his elbows. Toggle, top-left grip. Kai found the switch where it was supposed to be and thumbed it.
The ATCV came to life with a low, dangerous thrum, and the cab was filled with a nebula of twinkling lights. Control panels and readouts surrounded him; not a single inch of space had been wasted. Kai ignored most of them. Only a few functions required his focus.
He flipped another toggle, and the navigation visor dropped down in front of his nose. Kai raised his head and pressed his brow against the foam-rubber lining, and was granted a bizarre 270-degree view of the museum campground. His field of vision was stretched, extending to what felt like just behind his ears. By fiddling with a roller on the right gauntlet grip, he could swivel the top-mounted camera and scan the entire shantytown.
A mass of Chilton’s people was moving methodically through the narrow alleys. Most of them were behind him, headed away from the museum and towards the end of the green. So far, it seemed, nobody had noticed the sudden activity coming from the tank.
A klaxon began to blare and a Low Power warning flashed in his vision, reminding him that he was on borrowed time. Kai grit his teeth, sweat making his face itchy against the visor, and swiveled the camera back to the museum façade. More soldiers were streaming through the front door, so that was probably a good place to target.
He cocked both wrists, twisting them from vertical to horizontal. The view through the visor changed, taking on a battle-red tinge. It bristled with readouts and meters and ticking numbers, none of which meant anything to him. He knew only one thing: there was exactly a single shell loaded into the tank’s cannon. Missed or disregarded by Chilton’s men, he wasn’t sure. Either way, they’d be regretting it in about two seconds.
Kai flipped another toggle. Armed blinked into his vision. He swung the cannon around, bringing it to bear on the museum façade.
Someone shouted. The timbre suggested his actions had finally been noticed. A second later, a shot pinged off the tank’s hull. Kai ignored it for the moment, focusing on the task at hand. He raised the cannon’s angle until he was fairly confident he wouldn’t be taking Rick’s head off.
Chilton’s people had realized their mistake and were creeping back into his wide field of view. The closest started to unload, their fire rattling against the hull like a strong hail. Something about automatic countermeasures flashed in the corner of the HUD; the tank emitted a weird whistle and shuddered. Through the visor he saw a ring of smoke appear around the tank, and about a dozen of Chilton’s people went down. The rest were forced back towards the museum with something to think about.
“Huh. Thanks.” He pulled his hand from the gauntlets to tap his wristband, sending Rick a friendly warning. Then he gripped the controls again and squeezed both at the same time.
The cannon fired with a hard, metallic whang that bounced around the cabin and made his ears ring. The ejection of the shell forced the tank to rock back on its treads, in the same instant that the austere facade of the Museum of Fine Arts crumpled in on itself.
* * *
Rick hit the floor as the room exploded. A cloud of dust rolled over him, choking out the lanterns and filling his nose. He pulled his shirt up over his face and, squinting, crawled towards the lumpy shape that was Augustus Chilton.
The old man recovered more quickly than he’d expected. Chilton rolled onto his back, a massive Desert Eagle aimed down past his legs. Rick shot out an arm, batting the gun aside half a second before it fired roughly two inches from his face. Something hot blazed past his cheek, and the report was loud enough to cut through the cotton stuffed into his ears by the most recent explosion.
Rick launched himself forward. He landed on top of Chilton, the man snarling beneath him, and introduced his fist to the man’s face. Chilton’s head snapped back and bounced against the floor. God, he’d been waiting twelve years to do that. Rick gave him another, just for good measure, then wrestled the gun from his grip and jammed it into the folds of his chin.
He put his mouth close to Chilton’s ear. “Stay down.”
“Fug you.” But he didn’t move.
Carefully, keeping the Desert Eagle’s barrel firmly in place, Rick removed the golden necklace from Chilton’s wattles.
“Looting an old man before he’s even cold? You always were an uppity shit, Álvarez.”
“I learned from the best.”
It was a Myrtle wreath, ancient Greek, circa 200 BCE. The circlet of vines, leaves, and tiny flowers was wrought in delicate gold foil. Rick removed it with as much care as he could spare, given the current situation.
“You’re not supposed to wear these, asshole. Too fragile.”
Chilton chuckled, an odd, wet gasping sound. “Another gift for your master, you fucking dog?”
“No, this one’s for me. You should’ve picked a different place to squat, fucknuts. Should’ve been nicer to the archives. Kai and me might’ve left the CDZ, but thi
s place will always be ours.”
“You’re a slave out there. You dance for them.”
“And you rule over a pile of shit in a steaming toilet.” Rick carefully stowed the wreath in his satchel. The ivory flask had fallen from Chilton’s grip and lay on the floor beside him; Rick snatched it up.
It split in half in his hand.
“Oh, you motherfucker, Chilton.”
“Shistains can’t be choosers, Alva-aaarrrggh.”
Rick stood, pressing one boot down on Chilton’s flabby chest and channeling all his frustration into it. A hundred grand, down the drain, thanks to Chilton and his butterfingers. He had the Myrtle wreath, though. Not exactly what his client had asked for, but…
He tucked the broken flask into his satchel. “You better hope our client’s good taste is flexible, or I’m coming back for your balls.”
Chilton gargled.
The dust in the atrium was beginning to settle, and Rick’s hearing was returning to normal. A large hole had been punched in the wall above the front entrance, dropping a considerable amount of masonry in front of the doors. Shouts were coming from outside, and not a few gunshots. Chilton quivered like a bowl of gelatin beneath his boot. It took Rick a moment to realize he was laughing.
“What now, oh ingenious one? The front door may be blocked, but my men will find a way in. Once they’re finished with your ape.”
Rick casually leaned on Chilton to shut him up. “Well, Kai’s in a tank, so…”
“It doesn’t work,” Chilton gasped.
“Now, Auggy, I think you’re having a senior moment. Remember that big boom just a moment ago? Lots of dust and shit flying everywhere?”
“One shell. That’s all. Think I didn’t know about it? But that’s it. And the treads – locked up. Villeneuve is going nowhere, and sooner or later my people will pry him out of that can –”
There was an awful lot of shooting going on out there. Rick tapped his wristband. “Kai, how’s it looking?”
It was a moment before Kai’s deep voice buzzed through his earring. He sounded strained, as if physically fighting off the whole of Chilton’s army. “Still alive? Good. I’m coming to pick you up now. Running on fumes, though, so it’s gonna be close. You in the atrium?”
“Yup.”Rick pulled Chilton to his feet and jammed the Desert Eagle into the small of his back. “My ride’s coming. I don’t anticipate too much trouble, but just in case – we’ll see how loyal your dogs are.”
The gunfire took on a new, more sporadic timbre. Below it all, a deep electric thrum filled the air like distant thunder. Then, amid a few screams, the ground quite literally began to shake.
Something loomed beyond the hole in the wall. It cut off the light of the lamps and fire barrels set up outside. The walls quaked, more rubble and dust raining down. A series of heavy boom-boom-booms, coming in a mechanical rhythm. Then what looked like two large, metal claws gripped the bottom edge of the hole.
The All-Terrain Combat Vehicle 1303 had another, more poetic name: the Spider. When the landscape dictated the tread components were capable of unfolding, telescoping and reorienting themselves, to become –
Rick grinned like a little boy at his first drone derby as the tank crawled inside, scuttling along on four extended limbs and widening the hole in the process. It paused for a moment, half-in and half-out of the museum, as if considering its next move. Then, with a drawn-out groan, it teetered forward and plummeted to the floor, front limbs extended to catch itself. It landed hard enough to put both Rick and Chilton off balance, and became motionless.
“Auggy – don’t you ever get tired of being wrong?”
“Well, fuck me,” Chilton said matter-of-factly.
The hatch popped open and Kai’s massive torso emerged. His beard and ponytail were soaked with sweat. “And that’s all she wrote. Dry as a bone, Rick, so we better get moving.” He pulled the rest of himself from the vehicle and slid down the front, dropping two meters to the floor. “Hey, Chilton. You got fat.”
“We’ll be seeing ourselves out,” Rick said as Kai joined him. “Rear entrance, I think. And we’ll also be borrowing one of those airboats you have docked. After that, you’ll never see us, hear us, or smell us again. How’s that sound?”
“Fucking magnificent,” Chilton said mildly.
They left him standing there, an old man in his robe, staring at the dead tank in the ruin of what, in truth, had been a shitty ruin already. And to think Augustus Chilton had ever terrorized them.
Just as they were about to leave the atrium Chilton called: “Álvarez! Was it worth it? All this trouble and mayhem, just for those baubles?”
Rick paused in the doorway, putting a hand on his satchel. The flask was broken, the wreath a modest consolation prize. Then he flashed back to the archives and the state he’d found them in. Rows of cabinets holding priceless pieces from ages long gone. As a child they’d given him comfort, transported him from the hellhole that was Houston with stories of ancient mystery. Chilton and his people had left them in ruins, ransacking the cabinets for their own stupid ends. Half-empty shelves, cabinets hanging open, drawers overturned and broken on the floor. He’d been lucky to find the Mughal flask at all, let alone in one piece.
“Yeah. It was.”
Three
Rue des Salles
Courbevoie, Paris
As per usual, Estelle Kingston awoke exactly two minutes before her alarm went off.
For those two minutes she kept her eyes closed, relishing the brief moment of serenity between sleep and the start of the day. When her internal countdown reached zero, a soft orange glow began to press gently against her eyelids, slowly increasing in intensity until it was as bright as the rising sun. Distant birds began to chirp.
Only then did Estelle open her eyes. The glow was coming from her full-spectrum ceiling lights, the chirping from speakers placed throughout her flat. The bedroom window, a pane of black glass that kept out the lights and sounds of local nightlife, was now clearing to let in the morning sun.
Yawning hugely, she rolled out of bed, ignoring Toulouse as he gave a resentful yowl from the bundle of blankets near her feet. She took her glasses from the bedside table, the translucent HUD unfurling across the lenses as she put them on. Her flat’s smart system greeted her via scrolling text: Bonjour, Estelle. Shall I open the windows?
“Yes, please,” Estelle said aloud.
Water hissed from the en suite bathroom, the shower starting of its own impetus, and her bedroom window cracked open, letting in the clamor of the street and a warm breeze. Wes Montgomery played over her flat’s speakers as Estelle showered, checking her messages and reviewing the day’s schedule on the translucent display of the glass door.
05:05 – Shower and breakfast
05:20 – Call from dad
06:05 – Get a head start on Chen portfolio
07:15 – Morning meeting/present risk analysis…
It was all there, broken down into manageable chunks. Just looking at it made Estelle feel invigorated: it was like having a crystal ball that displayed the future, one step at a time. Some might feel that knowing exactly what the day had in store would take all the surprise and excitement out of life, but seeing exactly what her path was and where it would take her only made Estelle more eager to get started, like looking down the trail at the start of a hike.
Once dressed (business casual, jeans and a tech jacket) she went to the kitchen, the windows untinting as she moved through the flat. Toulouse was already pacing and meowing impatiently; Estelle plopped a pate of raw chicken into his dish and prepared her own breakfast, a warm croissant and a tumbler of cold-press coffee. She tore a chunk out of the pastry with her teeth, scratched Toulouse under his chin, and browsed the morning news feeds on her glasses. International eco-disasters made the headlines, as usual; she scrolled past them and began reading up on more inspiring news. The upcoming Paris Jazz Festival, headway on geoengineering in the Netherlands, the latest developmen
ts from the Lunar Gateway Space Station.
At exactly 05:20, she received the call notification. “Good morning, dad.”
“Morning, Esta.” His voice buzzed through the frames of her glasses, bone conduction translating the vibration into sound. Martin Kingston sounded raspy as usual, but no less energetic than he had been when she was a child. “Ready to save the world again?”
She smiled, finishing her croissant and setting the plate down so Toulouse could polish off the buttery residue. “Always. Making progress on your writing?”
He grunted. “I think I’ll take your job. Sounds easier.”
“You’ll finish it, dad. You always do.”
Another grunt. “Yeah, maybe…”
Estelle frowned. There was an undercurrent of genuine anxiety to their usual morning banter. “What’s wrong?”
“Ah, nothing. Just… been doing some thinking. After that last trip… Might be time for a change of pace.”
“Change how?”
“Not sure. We can talk about it over dinner tonight. I’m making brats. Also, I’ll need you to pick up some brats.”
Estelle nodded. “Of course.”
“Real brats, Esta. I know you’ve got your convictions, but they just can’t get the damn texture right.”
“Of course, dad.”
She continued to frown at her window. Change of pace. What did that mean? Her father had been comfortably set in his ways for almost ten years now, having finally found some peace after her mother passed. What could have happened to upset that? Could the book really be coming along that poorly?
He clearly didn’t want to talk about it right now, so she put it from her mind. They continued to chat as she left her flat, about the news and the weather and the latest binge-worthy shows as she left her place on Rue des Salles. It was already hot and, according to the weather forecast displayed on her glasses, it would only get hotter as the day progressed. Paris had already endured three grueling heatwaves this summer, each one lasting a full week or more.
And it would only get worse; they were in the deep-end now, the dominos of climate shift tumbling one after the other. It was no longer a matter of stopping the shift, but of surviving it. Cities like Paris were adapting as best they could, but not everyone would be able to weather what was coming.
A Covenant of Thieves Page 5