by Logan Hunder
“MMMPH . . . Oh god, I’m gonna be sick . . .”
“This is ridiculous! This guy’s got a jaw like a Mount Rushmore head.”
“I told you, you have to hit them in the temple. Like this.” This was the last thunk Whisper could take before turning away.
“Please stop . . . please . . .”
Banks checked the end of blaster for blood before letting it fall to his side in resignation.
“This is a lot tougher than I thought it would be.”
“Maybe his head isn’t the way to go,” Kim offered. “I think I read somewhere that if you punch someone in the solar plexus just right they can pass out?”
“I guess it’s worth a shot. I don’t know exactly where the solar plexus is, though.”
“I don’t either . . . I mean, I know it’s somewhere around his midsection? We could just, like, punch him in the stomach repeatedly until he’s out? It’s no worse than anything else we’ve done to him so far.”
“Please don’t do that!!”
“Alright. Whatever shuts him up quicker.”
“No! I’ll be quiet, I swear!”
“Sorry, buddy. Don’t worry, it’ll be over soon.”
And with that. they pinned him down and went to town like a pair of schoolyard bullies. Of the multitude of reasons this was a stupid idea, least considered was the way in which they planned to determine his unconsciousness. The entire idiom of “beating a dead horse” was borne out of the illusion of movement that came from a limp body experiencing a thorough percussing. Any one of the many fists they levied into his abdomen could, according to their theory, have been the blow that punched his ticket. However, every flurry of fists sent a series of convulsions rippling across his limbs, convincing everyone he was still awake, and thus starting the process anew.
Eventually, the tremors did slow, then stop. Maybe one of their swings finally found its mark. Maybe the Vulcan nerve pinch applied by Donald was the attack that turned the tide. Or maybe the poor man passed out from pain much earlier, and they only noticed now because their arms were so tired they had lost the strength to make him move. There was no way to know.
The third one; it was definitely the third one.
Spent and eerily unsatisfied, both involved parties collapsed on either side of him and stared at the ceiling. It was patterned with mirrors that must receive regular cleaning attention, given the vibrancy with which their faces were reflected. Both were red and sweaty and wide-eyed, but still not the worst-looking in the room.
“Well, there . . .” Banks puffed, wiping his bloody knuckles on the downed man’s sleeve. “You happy we picked the more humane option?”
“Shut up.”
Whisper, heretofore temporarily forgotten, called to them from across the room and came running.
“Hey guys, I found some duct tape in a drawer—oh . . .” Kim hopped to her feet and took the roll nonetheless. The stuff always had uses, which was part of the reason it had undergone no improving in the however many years since its invention.
“Gimme. You get his arms, I’ll get his feet, and we’ll put him in a corner until he wakes up.”
It was a good thing she wasn’t Whisper’s actual parent, because bad lessons were being taught today. In fact, with the way things were going, nobody would have much right to be surprised if, in addition to incensed prison guards, vindictive secret agents, Martian bounty hunters, and an antagonized chunk of the Earth’s military, they also received an unfriendly visit from child protective services. You know you’re a bad parent if even they show up packing heat.
“No need to help us or anything,” Kim called sarcastically at the men. “We got it.”
Banks shrugged.
“‘Kay.”
“You better at least be keeping a watch or something. God!”
“You heard your boss lady, kid. Keep an eye out the window.”
“Uhh . . .” Donald began before deciding not to clarify his age for once. “Okay. What do I do if I see anybody?”
“Let me know.”
“Okay, well, I see somebody.”
Not even ten feet away was a pair of identically dressed infantrymen meandering around the halls with all the urgency of an elderly couple. Nothing but the glass partition of a window separated them. With how easily every word of the soldiers’ conversation could be heard, it was safe to assume said window was not soundproofed, and therefore probably not anything else-proofed either.
“ . . . And then my girl was all like ‘Oh yeah? Well, every time we’ve had sex, I faked it’—which might be true for all I know—but it didn’t really matter, cause I just looked at her back and was all like ‘What makes you think I care if you enjoyed it?’”
“Brooooo, no way. That’s savage as fu—hey! Those men are too ugly to be sex robots!”
“That must be them! Kill ’em!”
Like a clock striking noon in the middle of a dusky western town, all who were strapped took the signal to fire. Before Donald could so much as hunch over, he was beset upon by two twin twinkling shots of burning intent. Banks replied with one of his own while buckling his rusty knees in hopes of getting out of the way. For three independently fired shots, their grouping was impressively tight. All hit the window within a few inches of one another, making the display all the more brilliant when the glass refracted their light and sheared each one into different-coloured fragmented beams that split further upon hitting nearby mirrors and displays until the room was bathed in a light show that would put a New York Christmas to shame. And potentially put someone into the ground, if they happened to get hit by enough of them.
When Kim and Whisper emerged from their body-dumping field trip, they found their companions huddled behind the ledge with scorched dots littered all over the floor, walls, and ceiling, like a disco ball had exploded.
“Get down!” Banks yelled, unintentionally picking fitting words to the disco ball simile.
“From what?” Whisper asked before receiving a harsh shove from Kim back into the side room.
“Get down” was on a list of certain commands that generally shouldn’t be questioned; a list that also included “Put your hands up,” and “Don’t forget to tip.” Incidentally, a good portion of that list was fine to ignore if spoken by a DJ. But unless Banks moonlit as DJ Bengay, the order coming from him was to be taken as gospel.
In one fell swoop, Kim tossed her gun in the air, baseball slid behind the conference table, muscled it over onto its side, and caught the blaster, now safely protected by half cover. The blood rushing through her ears drowned out the protestations being levied in her direction when she popped up and peppered a few shots at the assailants. Like all the ones before, they exploded in dancing sprays of rainbow light.
“What the hell kind of glass is this?!” Donald demanded of no one in particular.
“Kid, what am I, a glazier? Says here it was made by ‘Fancy Future Glass’ industries. Give ’em a call if you want, but go block the damn door while you do it.”
“They’re in there!” One of the men outside yelled. “They have some kind of exploding weaponry. It also might turn you gay, we’re not sure yet.”
Banks used the break in the action as an opportunity to dart over the table and put something more substantial between him and the window before the next Fantasia segment started.
“So, what do ya think?” He said as he hit the ground. “Wanna knock all these ones out too?”
“You do realized we’re probably about to die, right? Are you an actual psychopath?”
“Nah. This sort of thing just happens to me so often it’s lost all excitement.”
“Well, good for you! Try not to fall asleep while we’re fighting for our lives.”
A series of bangs on the door jolted them from their banter. Both peeked over the table just in time for an eyeful of Donald’s jiggling torso as he ambled hastily in their direction.
“I told you to block the door!” Banks barked.
Befo
re responding, the coms officer leaned his top half over the sideways table, then lifted his legs over one by one before flopping onto the floor behind it.
“I locked it!” He sputtered. “I’m not standing in front of it. If they can get past the lock they can get past me!”
“Can I come out now?” Whisper asked.
“NO!” The rest shouted in unison.
Apparently lacking the door-bypassing skillset possessed by the protagonists, the breach squad moved onto the window, where they had a similar level of luck. Blaster butts clanged against the transparent barrier, only to be denied entry yet again. It appeared Pia, in her extensive efforts to fancify the place, decided to spring for aluminum glass instead of the fragile rube stuff. Looked like it was something-proof after all. However, it didn’t stop them from shooting again and producing another maelstrom of radiation that bounced about, turning the room into a rave for another few seconds.
“Son of a bitch!” Kim snarled from the foetal position. “Rest of my life be damned, I’m smashing these mirrors.”
And smash she did. Came in like a right wrecking ball. Within seconds, several dozen superstitious lifetimes worth of broken glass rained down and dusted the floor, as well as those cowering against it. Anyone watching the security cameras wouldn’t be remiss to assume Kim for some kind of escaped mental patient, given the way she leaped about swinging a firearm like a seizing drum major. Even Donald seemed a bit freaked out, either by her or by the debris he was inhaling, and beelined towards a panel on the wall.
After finishing with all the nearby mirrors, Kim continued to go to town on every reflective surface she could find, starting with the media displays. She figured she might as well, since the bill for the damage was already far beyond what she could afford. Plus, somewhere deep down, there was some rockstar satisfaction to be gleaned from trashing a place that didn’t belong to you. In conjunction with the light show, the whole thing was quite Floydian.
“Give her suppressing fire!!” Whisper squeaked from her corner. “Give her suppressing fire!”
“Would you shut up!?” Banks roared back. In actuality that may not have been a necessarily bad idea, but his weapon lay in his lap half disassembled at the moment as he tinkered with its innards. What exactly he was doing was anyone’s guess, but nobody had the leverage to get him to do anything else. Whatever it was, it was presumably better than nothing, hopefully.
When Kim’s carnage finally passed its crescendo and she came to a stop with silver flecks in her hair, she had her pick of which monkeying-about man to address. Naturally, her selection was the one over whom she had some tenuous amount of authority. The question to both would be the same, but seeing Donald taking initiative and seeking no input was a rarity worth focusing on.
“Donald, what are you doing?”
“I’m integrating my phone into the servers,” he uttered breathlessly, without looking back. “When whoever owns this place finally gets around to turning on the AI Defense System, I’d rather be the one in charge of telling it who to shoot at.”
“You . . . you can do that?”
“I’d hope so. I invented it.”
Even Banks stopped what he was doing and looked up now. Whisper couldn’t be seen from the side office she was stuffed in, but if she could hear, she would certainly be interested as well. Feeling the silence, Donald turned around.
“You never asked what I got expelled from SIT for,” he continued as he returned to his work. He then muttered a second part, seemingly more for himself than them.
You also never asked why I hate the government so much . . .
Banks cleared his throat.
“So let me get this straight. The fact you claim to be a computer genius who works on a junk liner aside, you’re claiming you can reprogram an entire artificial intelligence just with your phone?”
“Who said anything about reprogramming? I’m just uninstalling the one they got.”
“Then how is it going to operate and pick targets?” Kim asked.
Nobody could see it, but those listening might have been able to hear the smirk on Donald’s face.
“Well, I guess I’ll just have to upload a different AI to take its place.”
20.
SAVING MISTER BANKS.
AND ASSOCIATES.
IF ONE CAME HOME to find one of the fish in their tank L was dead, it would be an unwelcome surprise, but not necessarily cause for alarm right away. However, if one came home to find that the contents of said fish tank had been rearranged and underneath one of the props was their fish’s corpse, then no other assumption could be made but foul play. After all, fish can die from eating too much, too little, or from living in too close of quarters and dying from exposure to filth. Others yet get attacked by the other fish that have emotional imbalances or grew up with an abusive stepdadfish. But no amount of interfishy prejudices could give one of the scaley simpletons the brainwave to try and hide the body after the crime. That type of malice could only be attributed to outsider influence.
Or such was Pia’s thought process regarding her creations. She could call them her children all she wanted; for the time being, they were fish.
Her displeasure towards the situation seemed to stem not from the destruction of her property, but rather the invasion of it. The death of a specimen was highly unlikely to be an end, and thus could only be seriously considered as a means.
Yet it was only her who lived there, and as someone who lived nearly cut off from society, she had no opportunity to foster enemies passionate enough to make an attempt on her life. A scorned lover was also equally unlikely. All of her exes fit a very particular mould, and since she lived with most of them in some kind of genderbent Playboy Mansion setup, if they were the types to get jealous, then one of them surely would have by now. Theft might have been a plausible explanation, since her products were valuable commodities with very high price tags. However, thieves—good ones, at least—tended to avoid destroying the very things they came to claim.
There were other explanations she mulled over, such as saboteur business rivals or some contrived Jason X type situation, but the scientist in her could not discount the principle of Occam’s Razor.
“I have lived here a very long time without incident,” Pia said in tones probably too calm for a person examining the dead body of someone she knew and had been intimate with. “Therefore, I am reluctant to assume it is a coincidence that the day you choose to visit me is also the day my facility is set upon by at least one killer. So, the only question left to ask is: are they with you? Or are they seeking you?”
Cox looked at Willy for backup, quickly realizing the man had none to offer. He sighed, then coughed. Being confronted about his caper by a woman with a much firmer grasp on logic than himself was more than enough leverage to wrench him back to his default setting of up-front honesty.
“We’re wanted fugitives carrying a biological weapon and with several legal agencies pursuing us.”
A bombshell if there ever was one. However, one wouldn’t know it, given the way Pia blinked through it the same way she brushed aside anything else thrown her way.
“That makes you about the rudest guest I’ve ever had. I suppose I understand why you neglected to share that information, though. Most hosts, myself included, would have promptly thrown you out had you told them.”
“So . . . you’re not mad?”
“Don’t be absurd. You chose to subject me to the consequences of your criminal transgressions. So of course I am. I’m unexpressive, not stupid.”
“I get it! I really do. But please don’t turn us in!” Cox pleaded as he reached for her hand, which she quickly jerked away. “I know it doesn’t look like it, but we really are the good guys here!”
“Turn you in?!” She repeated. “To them?” She snuffed out her delicate nose and shook her head, perfectly coiffed hair barely bobbing as she did. “It makes no difference to me whether or not you are the villains. This is a sovereign station
. Your presence here, while no longer welcome, was at least invited. Regardless of intent, they have now invaded my land and vandalized my property.”
The captain glanced down at the body of Joseph Stalin.
“ . . . Is vandalism really the right thing to call this . . . ?”
“From a legal standpoint, yes.”
“Do . . . do you want me to shoot them?” Willy offered again. He also gestured with the gun, in case she was not able to deduce what he was offering to shoot them with.
“That will not be necessary, mister bodyguard . . .”
“Yeah, Mister Padilla. Nobody else needs to get shot!”
“ . . . I am perfectly capable of having them all killed myself.”
“That’s . . . What? No!”
“Dude, this chick is a badass.”
“Pia, please!” Cox begged. He almost reached for her hand again, but caught himself. “This can be worked out without anybody dying. Just let us deal with it!”
Pia’s porcelain face registered the plea about as much as it would have if it had been made of actual porcelain. Yet she did take a complete three seconds to presumably mull it over before replying.
“Less than a minute ago, you told me you are a wanted criminal in possession of a biological weapon. You, out of all of us, should be the least likely to advocate for the sanctity of life.”
“And less than fifty-nine seconds ago I told you it’s not what it sounds like and we’re the good guys! I also said fugitives; we’re not criminals. They’re the criminals!”
“All the more reason to kill them, then.”
“No! I mean, they’re not criminals, technically. They’re acting lawfully according to their own laws! I think so, anyway. I don’t actually know everyone who’s chasing us anymore. The point is, they want the weapon and we’re trying to destroy it before they can take it!”
For the first time Pia’s face let slip some crinkles of the confused variety.
“So you brought it here?! Why?!”
“Because . . . we thought since you were a scientist, you might have a big vat of acid we could throw it in—look, it didn’t sound that dumb when we came up with the plan!”