"Is it ready?"
"Yes. Here."
The gun was an antique affair, made during a time when brother fought brother. Invented by a Frenchman, it appeared to be like any revolver of the period, until closer examination revealed that it carried more than the expected half-dozen cartridges. In actuality, it carried nine shells of a small, fast caliber and, as an added surprise, a 16-gauge shotgun round. The length of the barrel made the grapeshot impractical at anything but close range, but at close range, it was remarkably effective.
Monsieur LeMat's pistol had never truly developed the following that Colonel Colt's had, but it did have its admirers. One was examining the Navy model LeMat at that very moment. He turned it over in his hands, checking the blued steel for blemishes. There were none; the weaponsmith was an expert. The only sign that it had been worked on was the strange rune freshly etched into the balm side of the stock. A rune that was burned in, but appeared to float behind the grain of the polished wood at the same time.
"Nice work," he commented.
The weaponsmith grunted. The compliment was unnecessary; he had not gained his status by making inferior tools, and his customers knew of his skill before they crossed his threshold. Still, it didn't hurt to have his skill acknowledged. "It's not loaded yet," he said, his thick, Northern accent giving the words a sing-song quality.
The other man nodded. He released the rod and tilted the pistol, letting the cylinder drop out into his other hand. Carefully, he took each of the .40 shells that the weaponsmith handed him and slid it into the cylinder with an almost ritualistic precision. The shot shell went last, and the cylinder was replaced and secured. He hefted the gun for a moment. "Feels heavier."
"The rune has a weight of its own," replied the weaponsmith. Unconsciously, he scratched at the rune that was carved into his forearm. That one seemed to carry the weight of the world sometimes.
The other contemplated this fact briefly. He spun the pistol on his finger, testing the weight. Satisfied that it was not out of balance, he slipped it into the holster under his coat. He then removed a pouch from his pocket and laid it on the counter. "As agreed."
The weaponsmith opened the pouch and examined the contents. Apparently satisfied, he stowed the pouch behind the counter. It clinked slightly as he moved it.
"My thanks, Vidarsson," said the man.
"Use it well, Blackstone," replied the weaponsmith, "and carefully."
Blackstone nodded. He slipped on his dark glasses and stepped out of the shop into the city.
The street outside Vidarsson's Armory was as busy as any city street would be on an average day. The never-ending flow of people, all going somewhere, slipped around him as he stepped through the pedestrian traffic to the curb. He paused next to a lamppost and looked at the city skyline. It was a beautiful day, and promised to be a beautiful evening.
There was a whirring over his head and, with a clank, a small gargoyle landed on top of the lamppost. It was bright blue, dressed in red overalls and a cap. "Message fer ya, Blackstone," it grunted, handing down an envelope sealed with wax.
"Thanks, Fred." Blackstone took the envelope and examined the seal. It bore the imprent of a chess bishop, superimposed over the silhouette of a firebird or phoenix. Business. He cracked the seal and read the letter.
Fred watched him read quietly. When Blackstone had finished, he said, "Good news?"
"You don't want to know, Fred."
"Bad news, then. Tough luck."
Blackstone crumpled the note, absently noting that the paper already warm and crisp. As he dropped it to the street, the exothermic reaction completed, and the paper ignited. They both watched it burn to ash, and Blackstone said, "Message received, Fred."
"Later, Blackstone." With a whir, the gargoyle was gone.
Blackstone reached into his pocket and pulled out his watch. Checking the time showed that it was thirty-four minutes past four. He sighed; he was missing cartoons. Oh well, he thought, replacing the watch. Time to go to work.
"Dammit, Henry! Don't make me kill you!"
It's difficult sometimes, being a Freelance. The cabals, guilds, orders, and societies have numbers on their side, so people tend to take their threats seriously. 'Lancers, on the other hand, only have each other. True, there are more 'Lancers in the city than there are members of many of the aforementioned cabals, etc., but, by our very nature, we Freelance are less organized, unwilling to sacrifice our autonomy for the comfort of a pack (or flock, depending on your perspective). Hence the 'free' in 'Freelance.'
Unfortunately, this means that each 'Lancer speaks for himself or herself, and only for himself or herself. Sometimes 'Lancers will team up, forming partnerships or bands, but many of those are temporary. Sooner or later, our personalities get in the way. Sort of like rock stars.
Anyhoo, I don't currently have a partner. Got a few friends, but they're out of town or on jobs of their own. Which is why I'm pinned down behind a brick wall while a speed-metal junkie named Henry tries to blow my head off with a very large gun.
Speed-metal, for those new to Our Fair City, is a byproduct of the normal digestive processes of the technophages. By itself, I'm told, it's a harmless enzyme. Certain catalysts turn it into a substance that breaks down metal in a rapid and inexorable fashion, not unlike what a human digestion does to complex sugars. This includes the iron found in the bloodstream of humans, and a few other species. The process produces chemical compounds that, in some species, humans included, can produce euphoria, stimulate the muscles, dull pain, and, eventually, cause psychotic episodes. Something having to do with being unable to sleep. In technophages, it sates their hunger. In humans, it has an effect similar to PCP.
Ironically, Angel Dust causes apathy, depression, and, in extreme cases, a comatose state in technophages. They consider it a dangerous toxin and avoid it at all costs, but have no qualms about selling the speed-metal enzyme to humans. So much for synchronicity in the Universe.
So where was I....
"Die, you motherfucking wraith!!!"
Ah, yes. Henry. Tsk. Getting brick dust on my suit. I suppose the black suit was probably a poor choice, given Henry's state. And I think the matching black tie with skull motif probably didn't set his totally wasted mind at rest. In hindsight, not the best idea, but what can I say? I was in the mood for skulls this morning.
Still, I think he's being a bit hostile, even for a totally wigged junkie. Of course, that probably has something to do with me catching him habeas corpus, so to speak. Poor girl; I hope she's alright in there. Kicking the door down seemed to keep him from chewing her face off, and putting a bullet in him definitely got his attention. Of course, I didn't know he had the portable howitzer in there with him. Of course, no one told me how totally blasted he was. Only that he was chewing on people.
That's the other side-effect of speed metal, you see. The drug breaks down the hemoglobin in the blood. You get anemic really damn fast, and your body responds with cravings. For meat. Raw meat. Raw, bloody meat. And, given that, by that time, you're already a drooling, psychotic, playing-in-your-own-feces maniac, well, you can guess where it goes from there.
Right. Cannibalism.
Well, not everybody goes cannibal. Admittedly, some of the milder cases just eat a lot of raw beef, or nosh on the family dog, but a lot of people just don't have that kind of willpower or sense of self. They see someone skin their knee, or cut themselves, or whatever, and whammo! Instant ghoul.
Uh oh. He's stopped shooting. Not good. Better check on him. Make sure that he's not gone back to the girl.
Damn! He's fast! And less of a drooling crazy than I thought. He got up close, and nearly had me. Thank Fortune for that fire escape.
He looks confused. Probably because his target just scrambled faster than he could process and just did a leap up four stories of fire escape. He's probably still wondering why there's not a blood-soaked corpse on the ground in front of him. Poor Henry; never thought to look up. I'll just take advantage of this situation.
Well, he's looking up now. You know, three bullets would put most humans down by now, even a moderately sized cartridge like a .40. Well, not me, but I'm special. Evidently, so is Henry.
So, a change of plans. A brief pause on the roof of this building I appear to be on (It's amazing how fast you can move when you have to), while we wait for our Portrait of a Serial Killer to finish spraying the side of building with bullets. Thank Fortune it's a slugthrower. A big slugthrower, but the building can take it.
Ah, he's reloading. Time to feed him some of what he's been handing out. Let's see how he likes two more to the chest.
Son of a bitch! He's getting up! Who sells Kevlar to a speed-metal junkie? Okay. No problem. We'll just have to shoot him in the face or something. Hey, what's that in his hand?
···
Unnh... Bastard threw a bomb at me. Where in the name of the Mother of Monsters did he get a bomb?! Damn! My ears are ringing! It's a good thing that I had a clear path to this other roof. I didn't so much as jump as throw myself over here. Jeez, from here it looks like about a hundred feet. Well, the shockwave didn't hurt. Didn't help much, either. I think I owe somebody a new pigeon coop. And some new pigeons.
You know, this would be easier if I could just kill this guy. But the Foundation wants him alive. So, I have to shoot to wound, which means no more shooting. Anymore lead in his system, and Henry's going to keel over when he comes down. Great. Hand-to-hand with a junkie. Whoopee.
Well, best get to it while he's reloading. I don't think he saw me move. Probably be able to get a drop on him. Let's see . eyes, fingers, toes . all good. Right. Let's try not to get killed.
["Get the Girl, Kill the Baddies" - Pop Will Eat Itself]
Well, a flying kick from the roof got his attention. And he's a borg. Great. Well, that certainly explains that. The Archbishop is going to hear about this. Okay, gun first.
"Augh! Die, you fucker!"
Didn't he say that already? Nerve strike to the shoulder, knife strike to the wrist. Grab the gun, kick to the chest. That's staggered him. Ow, he feels like he's made of metal. Probably a linear exoskeleton.
Yup. He just pulled an old park bench up off the pavement. That's an exoskeleton. So, lose the gun, dodge the bench. Close, and . solar plexus, duck, armpit, side step, throat stri-
"Gotcha!"
"Shit!" Screw this. The Archbishop can have this guy in pieces. Henry doesn't need both eyes.
"Augh!"
···
Damn. Son of a bitch threw me across the street. "Ow!" I think he broke my arm. "Ow! Damn!" Yeah, I can feel things grating in there. Wonder how he's doing....
Henry appears to have taken the loss of an eye poorly. Oh, that looked painful, tripping over that brick pile and catching his forehead against a step like that. Hmm, I think he just shut down. Time to find out if he's still worth getting paid for.
Ewww, I've got eyeball under my fingernails..
Well, Laughing Boy seems to be down for the count, but still breathing. Looks like the girl is long gone. So, now all I have to do is get Henry back uptown and-
"Do not move!"
"Stand up and turn around!"
Shit. Hammers. I turn around, and there they are, in their red and gray armor. Standard pair of beat-walkers; riot armor, helmet, rapid-fire subguns, probably loaded with rubber bullets. They don't like killing unless absolutely necessary. Of course, they still carry the steel hammers that give them their name, which are quite capable of crushing bones and rendering me very dead. Maybe they just have an aversion to shooting people.
"No sudden moves," the younger one is saying. "I will shoot thee if I have to."
"Believe me, son, if I made a sudden move, you wouldn't have time to shoot me." Before he can respond, I look at the older one, and add, "It's in the top pocket, left-hand side."
"What is he talking about?" The younger one can't have made full brother status more than a month ago. Even Hammerites aren't that naïve for very long in this city. Fortunately, his partner looks seasoned. He comes forward, reaches into my jacket, and pulls out the Card.
Let me tell you about the Order of the Hammer. They're a pain in the ass, with their puritanical, militaristic dogma about the Master Builder. They're nosy, getting into business that isn't theirs and patrolling boroughs not directly under their watch like missionary watchdogs. But, to their credit, they make good gear, strong buildings, and their prisons are nigh inescapable. And, best of all, they follow the rules.
So, when the Hammerite looks over the Card, he knows that he probably has a genuine Freelance on his hands. Still, he's going to have to test it. There are a number of ways to test a Card, but fire's the easiest. He strikes a match off his thumbnail and runs the flame along the Card, which looks like a normal business card. It doesn't burn; it's not supposed to, even though it's made of thin cardboard. Freelance cards are handed out by the City Consuls, and possession of a fraudulent one is a high crime. As in, punishable by high justice.
The Hammerite hands the card back. "It means, Brother Hamish, that he is an appointed Freelance, and that thou shouldst cease pointing thy weapon at him."
The younger Hammerite is clearly confused. He looks at Henry (who is still down, thank Fortune), and says, "But, Brother Thomas.."
"Now, Brother Hamish!" Thomas looks me over. "Thou mayst go, Freelance Blackstone. Doubtless, thou has a bounty to collect."
"Something like that." I turn to Henry. Ugh, toting cyborg across town is going to suck. Especially with a broken arm. Speaking of which, better set that. Grab, pull, twist, and . son-of-a-bitch, but that hurts!
"Art thou hurt?" Brother Thomas looks concerned. Told you that they were nosy.
"Fine. Or I will be." Hamish looks green. Rookies. "You fellows wouldn't have a car?" Blank looks. "Never mind." Time to call a cab.
"We're here."
"Okay. Drop me off and take it around back."
"What about him?"
"...He's still out. Don't worry about it."
"Okay, but it'll cost extra."
The sign says "Fisher's" in glowing neon. The walls are polished hardwood; the chairs comfortable. The boards are inlaid into the tables. The pieces can be gotten from the bar, or you can bring your own. Most of the regulars have their own and keep them here. Some of the regulars keep themselves here as well, not having enough of a home to go home to. They prefer to nurse their drinks, contemplate the board, and ignore the world around them.
Chess players are like that, sometimes.
["One Night in Bangkok" - Chess Soundtrack]
Blackstone steps into the bar. The room is filled with the regular crowd, plus a few new faces. Most are bent over a board in contemplation or examining the moves of the past Grandmasters, as if a universal truth might be found there. A few look up and acknowledged his presence. He, too, is a regular, but for other reasons.
"Evening, Blue," he says, stopping next to a table. "Trying Vulcan again?"
The mechanoid's burnished metal face shows no emotion, but the voice is congenial. "Good evening, Blackstone. Yes. I find it fascinating."
"I'm sure that Spock would appreciate that."
"What?"
"Never mind. It's irrelevant." Blackstone sizes up Blue's opponent. The ensign returns the gaze coolly; a newcomer to Fisher's, brought by tales of the mechanoid's skill, no doubt. "Try not to crush his pride too quickly, Blue."
"Of course." With precise movements, the mechanoid moves a piece. "Mate in fourteen moves," it announces. The ensign looks appropriately flustered.
Blackstone smiles and steps to the bar. Two lizards are playing something that looked like backgammon, but with a mandala-shaped board. The barkeep, an older man in a cardigan, is watching them. "Evening, Fred. Is he in?"
The barkeep nods. "Go on back, Blackstone."
"I have a delivery in the back."
"I'll let them know."
With a nod, Blackstone heads towards the back of the bar. He walks past the restrooms and stops at a door that bears the sign, "Authorized Personnel Only." He pulls out a key ring and unlocks the door, and then steps through. It locks behind him automatically.
The room is small. He has just enough room to move comfortably. He turns around and faces the door in time to see the panel slide in front of it.
NAME? The voice is electronic, coming from somewhere unseen.
"Aaron Blackstone."
POSITION?
"Freelance."
PASSWORD?
Blackstone doesn't say anything. He stands, flexing his arm. It moves with no apparent difficulties. Just about healed.
PASSWORD?
"Inga binga inga binga unga BUNGA!"
INCORRECT. PASSWORD?
"Rrrrreticule!"
There is a pause. The voice comes back, sounding slightly muffled, as if holding back laughter. "INCORRECT. PASSWORD?"
"Blue. You have no fish.."
MACARONI, MACARONI, MACARONI. WE KNOW THAT ONE, BLACKSTONE.
Blackstone sighs. "Then open the door. It's getting stuffy in here, Simon."
With a hiss, the panel disappears, showing the door again. It opens, not into the bar, but into a room filled with computers. A collection of technicians watch the monitors, some of them speaking into headsets. A quartet of armored guards, androgynous under the powered suits they wore, guard the room.
A central technician, his headset larger than the others' and covering not only his ears, but his eyes, turns as Blackstone entered the room. "You have orders to give Freelancers a hard time, Dispatch?" asks Blackstone, using the chief technician's code name.
"Unit Seven, we have a five-fourteen in progress at Berkley and Brynn Mawr," says Dispatch into his microphone. He holds up a hand, indicating th at Blackstone should wait. "Unit Five is having difficulty. Provide backup." The tech listens to his headset for a moment, nodding. He turns away from Blackstone, and addresses a tech next to him. "Going Code 7, Carlos."
"Code 7, aye," responds the other tech. He punches in a command on the system, and adds, "Code 7 for Dispatch in 3, 2, 1 .." He nods to Dispatch.
Dispatch nods back and looks back to Blackstone. "Not Freelancers, Blackstone. Just you." He grins, indicating it was a joke. "How're things?"
"Not bad. One ugly speed-metal ghoul, as requested. Signed, sealed, and delivered, he's yours."
Dispatch nods. "The boys upstairs already got him. He'll be locked down by now." Dispatch scratches his bald head, near the cranial jack that links him to the systems in the base beneath Fisher's. "Anything else you need?"
"Uh, let's see," Blackstone seems to ponder for a minute. "How about... my pay?"
"Right," Dispatch nods. "The boss wanted to talk to you about that when you came in."
"Good. You gonna be on Code 7 for a bit? Wanna get a drink upstairs; make fun of the boss behind his back?"
"Um," Dispatch punches a few controls on a wristcomp. "No can do, Blackstone. Too many Code 2s right now. Maybe later."
Blackstone nods. "You work too hard, Simon. You need to unwind."
The other man laughs. "Sure. Find me another precog with the technical ability and stress levels to handle this job and I'll go on vacation."
"You got a deal. In the meantime, be careful."
Dispatch nods. "You know me, Aaron. Careful by reflex."
Blackstone claps him on the shoulder as he walks up the stairs and out of the control room. Behind him, he can hear Dispatch telling his tech, "Going off Code 7, Carlos. 3, 2, 1... this is Dispatch, Unit 12, we have a...." The voice cuts off as the door slid shut behind him.
The hallway is steel, lit by fluorescents and painted in Navy primer gray. A few technicians move between rooms. Their jumpsuits all bear the firebird logo, superimposed with a chess piece that is indicative of their rank in the organization. A technician, wearing blue with a small castle emblem, escorts four blank-faced men wearing gray and the pawn past him. "Afternoon, Blackstone," he says absently, barely looking up from his telemetry display. The four men track on Blackstone as one, watching him as they march past, until they cannot turn their necks any further. Then they snap their attention back towards their destination, and disappear through a door marked "Robotics."
Blackstone shudders. Pawns bother him. He continues down the hall, passing other Rooks as he walks.
The hall ends in a T, with a door at the crux. Flanking the door are two figures, clad in massive, mechanical armor. The armor is black, with silver highlights, and a skeletal horses head is emblazoned on the shoulder pieces. The armor stood about seven and a half feet tall, and what weapons were visible were big and dangerous-looking. Blackstone grins. The Ghost Riders are on watch duty. "Kowalski, Piretti," he says as he approached, "how goes?"
There is the electronic hum of external speakers turning on, and the armored figure on the left speaks, a New Jersey accent plain through the modulation. "Hey, Blackstone. You can go in. The Boss is expecting you."
"Thanks, Kowalski," replies Blackstone. "You guys on watch-on-watch again?"
"Drake got into another fight with the guys from Rolling Thunder," says Piretti, his Bronx accent as strong as Kowalski's Jersey one. "He and Wiersbowski are on Armory duty."
"Suckage. Well, it's only a duty cycle. Think of it as a vacation from the mean streets." Blackstone opens the door and steps in. "See you around, guys."
He is struck, as always, by the simple and elegant style of the Archbishop's office. The beautiful oak desk and bookshelves, the tastefully matching chairs, the few framed photos of people and places; all of it shows the man to be quietly sophisticated. The only oddity appears to be a collection of chess sets, set up on a table off to one side of the room. Blackstone knows that, if he looked closely, he would find pieces matching every person in this complex in appearance. He, himself, used to be on one of those boards.
The man himself is seated behind the desk, drinking tea from his second-favorite mug (U.S. Secret Service; his favorite was from the Banzai Institute). He is waiting as Blackstone entered. A tall man with the physique of a track runner, softened around the edges with the approach of middle age.
The Archbishop stands and shook Blackstone's hand. "Aaron," he says," how'd it go?"
"Well enough. One speed-metal cannibal captured and tagged, and hopefully not to be released back into the wild. Why didn't you tell me he was a cyborg?"
"I did."
"You did?"
"Yes."
Blackstone thinks back to the briefing. "I don't remember you telling me."
"Nevertheless, I did."
"Hmmm. Well, I'm going to have to ask for danger pay on this one."
"Okay."
"No, Archbishop, I'm serious. It was daylight out there. He got the drop on me."
"So am I. Henry was dangerous and we needed him alive. You accomplished that." He frowns, adding, "We are a bit upset about the eye."
Blackstone looks down at his hand. "Yeah. Well, these things, they happen." He pulls out a pocketknife and begins cleaning his nails.
The Archbishop hands him a tissue to clean the blade of the remnants of Henry's vitreous humor. "So," he asks, "dollars, ducats, or dinars?"
"Ducats, as usual."
"I could pay you more in dollars."
"Yes, but then I could only spend them in regions that took Foundation soft currency. Not many of those. Ducats are gold; I can always fall back on the value of the base metal."
"Some neighborhoods don't value gold."
"True, but they are few and far between. The number of places that take dollars are few. I prefer the diversity of the ducat."
"Hmm."
"You know, you could convert the dollar back to a metal currency."
The Archbishop shakes his head. "We looked into that. The Gnomes control the gold, and the Dwarrow control the silver. We're better of using the dollar to value our services to the neighborhood."
"By 'better off' you mean, of course, 'more independent.'"
"Of course," replies the Archbishop. He studies Blackstone for a moment, and then says, "Aaron -"
"Don't." Blackstone's interruption is terse and his tone indicates no desire for discussion.
The Archbishop ignores his tone. "I just want you to reconsider."
"I said, don't, Erik. We've been through this before. I won't rejoin the Foundation, I won't be one of your Bishops, and I won't relinquish my Freelance status. I'm not that person any more."
"Bull," replies the Archbishop. "I'd expect that kind of comment from Davidson, or whatever he's calling himself this week, just as I'd expect pointless rebellion and rigidity from Talbot, but you were the loyal company man."
"Don't fool yourself," retorts Blackstone. "I was following the path of least resistance. You had the tools and the training I needed to do what was right. Most of the time what you asked for in return was okay, but you crossed the line on that last one."
"The Kymellians would've destroyed us, Aaron," says the Archbishop. "You know. You did the recon when we first came here."
"And I suggested negotiations! Not full assault!"
"We had no footing to negotiate from!"
"Bullshit! You just couldn't see one! You were so used to being in a position of strength that you couldn't conceive of asking for charity! So, you fell back on your old Spook mentality with a preemptive black op. Only your black ops team wasn't going to play that game. We'd seen what was out there and weren't about to commit that assassination. So, you had to go with a frontal assault. Not quite as successful as you had hoped, but it gave you your beachhead. Too bad you had to make an enemy of one of more enlightened races in this part of the City!"
"You aren't working with all the information," protests the Archbishop.
"How could I not be? You said it yourself; I did the recon."
"There were other considerations -"
"Bullshit. Pay me."
"Aaron, if you would just -"
"Fuck you. Pay me."
The Archbishop sighs and pulls out a box. Out of it, he counts Blackstone's pay in sturdy, gold ducats, minted by the Gnomes of Fribourg. Without another word, Blackstone sweeps the coins off the desk and pockets them, turns, and walks out.
As he storms past the two Knights on watch, Piretti says, on the tactical channel that he and his team use, "Same argument every damn time. Why?"
"Because they were friends, Vince," replies Kowalski, watching the Freelancer in black make his way back towards the exit back up to the club, "and because they both know that the other one's right."
"Bastard!"
"Afternoon, Boss."
Man, does that guy just hack me off! Getting stuck here turned him into the biggest imperialist asshole on the block. And he knows it. And he knows I'm right! And he still has the nerve to ask me to join back up with him! Again!
The door slams with a rather impressive bang. I think that's one of the reasons I bought this building.
"We get paid for the retrieval, Boss?"
"Fucking bastard!"
"I'll take that as, 'Why, yes, Tiresias, we got paid, and the Archbishop asked me to join back up again.'"
Nnnrrrr... damn. Caught my coat on my holster. Calm down, Blackstone Ty's trying to talk to you.
Let me tell you about secretaries. You don't have to have one if you're a Freelance, but it helps. It also helps if they'll work cheap, like for room and board. Like Ty.
Ty's an Ailure. Evidently, his people declared sentience about seventy-five years before a stable populace ended up here in Our Fair City. Ailure's are smaller than humans, but they're smart and nimble. They've established themselves in a number of neighborhoods (ones that have low canine population, generally), and many have found jobs in the service industries. Ty sort of came with the building, but he's a great answering service and security guard.
I do have to keep him out of my herb garden, though. And occasionally, I have to fight the urge to scratch him under the chin. He hates that.
"Sorry, bubba. Poor relations with former employers."
"Gee ... never been there, never done that. We get paid?"
"That we did." The ducats make a nice noise as they spill on the desk. Ty bats them about a little. "I'll count these up and make the entry into the ledgers. Should I send the Foundation the standard 'Thank you for your continued patronage' receipt, or should I go with the 'Bugger off, you imperialist monkeys' one this time?"
"Go with the monkeys."
Ty seems surprised. "You sure about that, Boss?"
"Yes ... no."
"Thought not. So, what plans for the rest of the evening? We could have salmon for dinner ... ."
"You had salmon last night."
"Leftovers, then."
"You had salmon the night before, too."
"Leftovers of leftovers, then." Ty really likes salmon, in case you missed it.
"If you want salmon three nights in a row--"
"Actually, it's five, but who's counting?"
"Whatever. If you want it again, you know where it is. I'm having stir-fry."
"Ooo. Stir-fry's good."
"Glutton." One thing that he's really good at is making my mood better I can't help but smile after a few minutes talking to him. "I'll go up and get it started."
I like my place. Well, that's a given; I wouldn't live there if I didn't like it. But I've got it rather nicely laid out, I think. The security is effective, without being oppressively visible. It's four stories, if you count the rooftop greenhouse. Main floor is the office and storage. Second floor is the gym. Third floor is the living space.
Normally, I'd stop off in the gym and work out a little of the frustration. But Henry banged me around enough, and I think that I've had enough of a workout today. So, it's up to three.
The security whirs briefly as I enter the room, but the scanners know it's me, and I pay them as little regard as I usually do. The front room is the living and dining area. Spacious enough, with my bookcases around the walls, plenty of couch space, and the computer desk over in the corner.
My bedroom is nice, but I live here. More bookshelves and plenty of space. King-sized bed and space for meditation. Writing desk and dresser. Hardwood molding and comfy carpet. A genuine Stelfreeze.
First things first. House clothes. Suit goes in the 'fresher, to be cleaned up, pressed, and hung up. Barefoot and jeans, a ratty t-shirt with a picture of my favorite psychopath on the front (actually, Luse is a pretty decent guy; he just hates having people waste his time).
"House."
"Yes, Aaron."
"Music. Random select."
Ah, the Rococo Quartet. Nice. A little tango with my stir-fry. Time to start cooking.
[Rococo Quartet, "La Cumparsita"]
An hour into the full lotus and I realize that I'm not going to get any further this evening. I'm too wound up over the argument with the Archbishop. Normally, I can go under for about two hours and center myself Not tonight. Too tightly wound, even after decompressing over dinner. So, plan B.
What's plan B, you might ask? Well, that's simple. When I can't get centered by sitting in a darkened room meditating, I go for a walk. Taking in the night air clears the head right out. You should try it sometime. You'd be amazed.
Of course, my walks are a little more ... intense than is recommended for the beginner. Sort of a Triple Black Diamond version of the evening walk.
I get dressed and get ready to leave. Nothing so fancy as my working clothes; just my old black pea coat and a t-shirt and jeans. Of course, I take my gun. The City's still a dangerous place.
I don't let Ty know. He probably'll hear me leave. The roof access door is heavy and loud when it closes. I keep it that way for a reason. Of course, the security system will also let him know. I can hear it track on me as I step outside.
It's nice out here. The City's seasons can be a little funny, depending on where you live, but here, it's spring and quite pleasant. The moon is half waxing, and the clouds are few. There's a slight breeze that carries the murmur of the streets and the scents of a thousand different things, blended into a wondrous perfume. I stand and breathe in the night for a few minutes, and then walk to the edge of the roof and step off.
Let me tell you about my walks. A lot of people go on walks like these. Some of them do it during the day, some during the night. They have different names for them. Parker says he's going for a swing. The Detective calls it "patrol" (he's like that ... all dark and serious). Me, I just think of it as a walk.
For your information, I do not fall four stories and hit pavement. Not only would that put a cap on my evening's relaxation, it'd be downright embarrassing. In case you missed it by now, I'm particularly agile and durable. I'm no Bouncer, but for a Ghost, I do okay.
I hit the ledge on the way down, rebounding with just the proper amount of flex, and spring towards the wall of the building opposite the alley. A slight twist, and I hit feet-first, pushing off again before gravity catches up. You have to keep moving; that's the trick of it. It looks easy, especially when Parker does it, but it takes practice to get it right. First time that I tried it, I fell three stories.
It helps to have some insurance. Parker's got those shooters of his, and his stickum feet don't hurt either. I don't use swinglines, they're messy and too easy to cut. But I have the shadows, and they help.
Let me tell you about the shadows. Most people believe that shadows are merely the absence of light, created by objects blocking the passage of photons. Well, I'm here to tell you that there's something else there. Darkness has a palpable nature, and it can be focused or shaped, just as easily as light, if you know how.
The exact nature of it, I can't say. It's no more evil than light, or water, or furniture polish, despite the traditional ties between night and darkness and evil. It simply is, and there are as many beings that live in and work with the darkness as there are in the sunlight.
I perch on the spine of the roof of the Old North Church and take a brief scan of the neighborhood. This is my patch, my turf. In addition to being a Freelancer, I get a stipend from the local Neighborhood Association to keep things quiet. It's not much in free currency; it mostly spells out to be lower taxes and maintenance costs, and some discounts on perishables. It's a nice deal, and keeps me involved with my neighbors.
The boroughs are independent, so there isn't really a unified police force. Several groups offer services to parts of the City, mostly containment of criminals and supply of support personnel and services, but the actual enforcement of laws is dependent on the residents of a particular neighborhood. I suppose that Markville -- that's my neighborhood, by the way -- could throw in with one of the Big Boys, but that would mean giving up some of its independence. Something that my neighbors don't want to do. So, they have a small, but efficient police force, a well-trained and perceptive Neighborhood Watch, and a number of Freelancers that want to keep Markville as a place where they can relax from time to time. Not a bad place to hang your gunbelt, if you ask me. And the local deli makes a kick-ass Reuben.
The view from the top of the church is good, and the moon is full. I tap my earbead, and ask Ty what the word is. There's a moment of silence that goes just long enough for Ty to go check the wires, and then he says, "Looks clean, Boss. Dispatch reports a five-five in the Heights, but the Foundation hasn't requested outside assistance."
"What about the Imperials?"
There's silence for a moment, while he changes channels. "Normal. The Representative of the August Personage of Jade made his usual weekly report Standard dogshit, 'The Empire's benevolent presence within this City remains strong against outside influences ... blah, blah, blah, yackity, schmackity.' They've got that really groovy shakuhachi player on Channel San again. Want me to tape it?"
"Yeah. No video, though. The guy's got the stage presence of a hat rack."
"Very zen, though."
"Yeah. Anything else?"
"Not right now. Looks pretty quiet. How's the streets look?"
"Pretty much the same. I'm gonna move on, see if I see anything lower down."
"Be careful."
"Spoilsport."
A running start down the other side of the church (feet, feet, feet, hands), and I'm in motion again. I take the long way around Chase Oaks. That is, I go around the outside instead of through the garden. The residents are elderly, and they have complained. Besides, with both Brig. General Brooks and Lt. Colonel Mayfair spending at least some of their golden years there, who knows what sort of security they've set up there. It's probably the safest four square blocks in the entire City.
A mugging attracts my attention. The guy is strictly amateur, and it takes about thirty seconds to put the guy down, return the couple their belongings, accept their gratitude, and call it in to the Watch. Several hoof it onto the scene as I take off again, using a fire escape as a vault back up into the air. They'll hold him and the Neighborhood Court will decide what to do with him. Most likely a short incarceration with a bit of community service work. It could be worse; some boroughs follow more traditional punishments. Lots of one-handed thieves and eunuchs occupying their prisons.
A couple more petty criminals cross my path as I check the neighborhood for a few hours. Nothing big; another petty theft and a few whatever and disorderlies. The domestic dispute ends fairly quickly once I knock on the door. Nice couple having an argument and they didn't realize they were getting so loud. I tell them to take a breather, and then come back. I accompany the guy up to the roof for a smoke, and the girl sits down with a soda. I stay with him until he finishes his cigarette; he looks to have calmed down. I let the Watch know; they'll swing by in a little bit.
After about four hours, I let the Watch know that I'm taking a break. Ty's already signed off, but I know he's got the Panic Button on. I let him sleep and head for Tony's.
Antony Czardos used to be full-time 'Lancer like the rest of us. He's retired, now, and he opened a place for 'Lancers to hang and decompress. Sort of like a cop bar, only a lot more firepower. The kitchen serves some of the best souvlaki this side of Athens, and the pita is always fresh. He can do burgers too, if you're a freak who doesn't like souvlaki.
Czardos' is big, and the main entrance is flanked by a pair of Greek marble columns that Tony calls "The Pillars," in deference to an old rival of his. The place is split into the restaurant, which serves most everybody, and the club, which, while not being exclusive to Freelancers, doesn't get too many other patrons. Some of the folks that come in through the club door are ... well, let's just say that they're not the most friendly.
And then there's the crowd. Czardos' always ends up with a bunch of people who just want to hang out with 'Lancers. Whether they're cape-chasers, wannabes, or press, they're all annoying. Tony doesn't discourage them, though. They spend money just like everyone else, and he wants them to spend money in his place. He does, however, keep them out of our hair most of the time, and he makes it easier for us to get in and out without being seen.
Let me tell you about groupies. They're annoying. Don't get me wrong; I love popular support. People who like Freelancers are more likely to let us do our jobs. It makes it easier to stop criminals and save lives. But the far end of "like" is "adoration" and that creates a cult of celebrity. Some Freelancers like being famous and desirable. Personally, I find that it makes the job even harder than if they hated us. Not to mention that the total lack of privacy that it provides.
Admittedly, I exploit this fannish behavior from time to time. It certainly breaks the ice at parties better than, "If I told you that you had a beautiful body, would you hold it against me?" And it makes people more willing to listen to you when you tell them that they need to go someplace or do something. But the cult of celebrity bothers me. People can be willing to do or say almost anything to be near someone that they perceive as "famous." Honesty goes out the window, as does common sense. And respect. I'm fortunate only to be well known. Some of my compatriots have to go by secret identities, just to have a moment's peace.
In any case, I'm in no mood to deal with these people tonight. So, I take the high road. Many of the 'Lancers who decompress at Czardos' make rooftop runs. Rather than go down to street level and deal with all that entails, there's an entrance up on the roof. It drops straight down into club. And that's the way I go in.
It's a matter of a couple of rooftops and a short leap across the street to the roof of Czardos' and I'm there. The entrance is just a glorified skylight. I wave at the security cameras and hope through.
Some folks choose to take the ladder down. I prefer that brief moment of freefall that you can get by falling three stories. Plenty of the 'Lancers enter through the skylight at a full move, so Tony set up a bunch of bars and a few nets up in the rafters for people to grab ahold of. Keeps us from tearing out his light fixtures or impacting with the floor. I grab a convenient one and spin myself up into a perch. Time to take in the room Regular crowd for this time of week. A little more crowded than I expected, but it looks like Talin and the girls are on stage tonight. They're always good for a show. A few other rooftop runners have parked themselves up here. I can see Parker and his missus snuggling in one of his homemade hammocks. I think I see His Dark and Spookiness, but he likes to lurk, and it can be hard to tell.
I'd stay up here, but the service is terrible. I keep telling Tony he needs to hire a teke for his waitstaff, or at least a windling. The dance floor is hopping, and most of the tables are taken. There's room at the bar, though. I spy the tops of a few familiar heads and vault off the bar towards that direction. A few flips and a temporary drogue out of the shadows and I slow enough to take the landing on my feet. Two steps, and I'm sitting at the bar. "Hey, Kit-Kat, what's a nice girl like you doing in a place like this?"
The top of the familiar head is attached (thankfully) to a familiar face. That familiar face (distractingly cute) is attached to a familiar neck, and it turns and the familiar face (fortunately attached to a familiar body) replies, "Looking for Mister Goodbar. Are you him?"
"Nah, baby, I'm Special Dark." We both grin at the old joke. "What's happening, girl?"
She smiles. "Not much. A little R&R after a long day. You?"
"'Bout the same. Got paid, but had to listen to a sermon to do it."
She makes a sympathetic face. "Archbishop try to hire you again?"
"Re-hire, but yeah. Same old, same old. Lost my temper, stormed out. Something about that guy just makes me go off."
She gives me this look, like she's looking for something on my face, and then says, "Maybe, it's because you're so similar."
"Pfft. Yeah, that makes sense. I often consider myself an imperialistic expansionist, willing to overrun and annex other cultures. That's definitely me. You know me so well."
Her face hardens, and I realize that I've stuck my foot in my mouth. Again. "Shit. Look, I'm sorry. I didn't want to talk about this. Can we start over?"
She buys it (why not; it's true) and I get that beautiful smile again. "Sure."
We make with the small talk for a bit, talking about this and that and what we did today. I tell her about Henry; she tells me about the Threshers that are trying to annex Columbus Avenue. Threshers, by the way, are unpleasant monstrosities that some industrious and now-extinct (I think; I hope) race released in the City. They go through areas, harvesting raw materials -- both organic and inorganic -- and converting it to energy and using it to build strange stelae in seemingly random locations. Nobody's sure why they do it, but since they have a tendency to "harvest" buildings, cars, stray pets, people, and the like, most neighborhoods take offense at their presence. We both agree that she's had the harder day.
About this time, an indigo figure with glowing yellow eyes, demonic features, and a spade-tipped tail steps through the crowd. When it sees me, it grins, showing fangs, and reaches forward with an alien, two-fingered hand. Naturally, I meet its grasp and shake its hand. I mean, isn't that what you do when you greet a friend?
"Blackstone," he says, his Bavarian accent faint but noticeable, "Good to see you, mein freund. I trust that you are well."
"Pretty much, Kurt," I respond. "Buy you and Kat a glass of something?"
"Danke. That would be most welcome."
Kurt takes a seat on the other side of Kat, and we continue the conversation. Kurt works with Kat, has for a long time. They used to be part of a larger team (several teams, in fact), but since coming to the city, it's been mostly them and a couple of others. "Where's Slim?"
"The Summers' chose to call it an early evening. The Threshers were quite exhausting."
"Mmm, I don't doubt. Anything new on your end?"
Kurt shakes his head. "The evidence says only that we are here, not how we got here, or where here is. Katzchen could tell you better, she is the scientist. I am just a priest."
Kat shakes her head. "Hardly _just_ a priest, Kurt. Aaron, we've run every kind of test. We even cross-referenced with the Rooks over at the Foundation, and the University Science Department. We'd run it past Doc, if anyone knew where he was."
"Maybe he knows already, and went home."
"Without his boys? Unlikely."
"Yeah, you're right. Our problem is that there are too many neighborhoods, and most of them don't work together. If only they'd cooperate, we might have something."
"You'd have more luck herding slugs."
She looks at me. "Don't you mean herding cats?"
"I mean slugs. Cats can be herded. It just requires the right equipment."
A pint of my favorite beer chooses to arrive at my elbow at this moment, and I choose to greet it politely. I tell Mike, the bartender, to put the next round on my tab. He nods and pours the lady a pint of something dark and British, and Kurt gets a small brandy. Their usuals. "I should've listened to my mother when she warned me about women who drink dark beer."
Kat arches an eyebrow and looks at me across her glass. "Oh? What did she say?"
"No idea. I didn't listen." I kiss her fingers. "Aren't you glad?"
The evening continues much in the same fashion for an hour or so. We talk, banter, flirt, and discuss life in general. ("Was ist dieses Wort, 'thews?'" "Thews? Um ... 'muskeln?'" "Ah. Ha! Funny song.") And, of course, the Universe feels this perverse need to throw something into the works.
Let me tell something else about Tony's. All the 'Lancers in the back room can get a bit crowded. Some of them choose the rafters because of that, but the bar's down on the floor. Where everyone else is. Some of the tough guys, they can make room just by looking hard. Some, like Finney and Dex, let their reps speak for them. Others get space because they're so nice. Others just get space because they give it. And then there's those with something to prove.
Beer, in case you're wondering, is meant to be drunk or cooked with, not worn. Which is what happens to me in mid-story (the one when I met Albert Speer, who turned out to be a really nice guy, aside from the whole Nazi thing) when someone bumps my elbow. "Hey pal, watch where you're going!"
He turns, and I'm looking at this pug-nosed punk in a tweed and a derby "You got a problem?" he asks, in a West Texas drawl that I haven't heard since I started working for the government.
"Yeah. You made me spill my beer." Fortunately, I'm wearing casuals and not my suit. "Waste of good alcohol."
Now, I'd like to point out that I'm smiling. You know, just giving the guy a hard time, no hard feelings, haha and all that. At worst, I expect this guy to flip me off and walk off. At best, maybe he'll buy me a new beer and we can make each other's acquaintance; just two Freelancers networking. Unfortunately, that doesn't happen.
What does happen is that he takes a moment to size me up (at which point a small voice in the back of my head says, "uh oh"), and replies with, "Next time, don't stick yer elbow out where Ah'm walkin'."
Now, the last time that sort of line worked, I think I was in the seventh grade. Maybe earlier. The Pecos Kid here is clearly expecting me to back down. What he gets is a mildly amused look and me saying, "Dude! I'm just sitting here. You were the one that ran into me!"
His eyes sort of narrow at that point, and he says, "You callin' me a liar, mister?"
"No, I'm calling you clumsy. Jeez, man, unclench!"
His hand drifts to his belt, which I notice has a traditional quickdraw holster. From where I'm standing, it looks like a Peacemaker variant, but you can't be sure in this city. "Mister, Ah don't like yer tone. You better apologize, 'n' get outta my way ...."
Okay, let me say that I'm not stupid. I can see this guy's itching for a fight. Why, I don't know; frankly, I couldn't care. But anything more than arm wrestling is generally discouraged by Tony, and I don't want to get thrown out. Time to end this.
I hop off my stool and step in close. I pitch my voice low, under the music and just loud enough for him to hear. "Are you sure you want this?" I ask in my most professional tone.
My directness catches him off guard. "What?"
"Are you sure you want this?" I repeat. "I mean, do you honestly think that you have to take me on? Do you seriously believe that I want to take you on? That I have some need to hurt you?"
He starts to reply, but I press on. "Listen, there's nothing here. You bumped me. An accident in a crowded club. Now, before you start to seriously consider making something happen, let me say four things. One: I'm here with friends, and they won't hesitate to back me up if you decide to go hard on me. Two: this club is neutral ground for all Freelancers; break that rule, and Tony'll break you." I push close, forcing him to back up a step. He hits the figure that has moved in behind him, and I see in his eyes that he registered the size of the other person. "Three, there's a seven-foot tall, solid-steel Russian behind you, wearing a t-shirt that says 'Bouncer.' All of these are good reasons not to start anything."
The kid looks around me at Kat and Kurt, both of whom I'm sure are giving him their best war faces. He tilts his head up, just enough to see that there is, in fact, a seven-foot tall, solid-steel man behind him (the Russian part isn't obvious until you get to know him). He looks back at me, and I see that he realizes that he's in a bad place. He licks his lips, and asks, "Wh-what's the fourth thing?"
I give him my best smile, indulgent and evil. My Scorpio smile. "The fourth thing is ... well, it's that you'd look pretty stupid, getting shot by your own gun." I step back and show him that his piece is in my hand, delicately lifted while we were nose to nose. I spin it over my finger and offer it, butt-first, back to him, smiling. "Relax ... what's your name?"
"Billy."
"Relax, Billy. Let me buy you a drink. Mike! Get this guy something."
So, there you go. Billy warms up a bit, once he realizes that I'm not going to waste him. Pete (that's the bouncer) relaxes and takes a few minutes to talk. He used to work with Kat, but decided to go his own way after coming here. He works for Tony part-time and spends the rest of it painting and drawing. A couple of Big Money types have some of his work hanging in their offices. Portraits mostly. He hangs around long enough to make sure that Billy's not going to cause trouble and then moves on.
Billy turns out to be from around Ruidoso originally, and we talk about New Mexico for a while. We both seem to be in agreement that it's part of God's Country. I introduce him to a few other Gunmen after a while, and he goes off to network.
Talin and the Girls are wrapping up their set, and I'm feeling pretty relaxed, when Kat leans over and whispers, "So, do you have any early work tomorrow?"
I think on this, briefly. "Nope."
"What luck. Neither do I." And she does that thing to my ear that she knows sends all sorts of lovely chills up my spine.
I draw myself up and fix her with a look. "You are trying to get me drunk and take advantage of me, aren't you?"
She grins, and nods her head. "Yup."
"Okay, just checking. Kurt, we're getting out of here. You need me to call somebody?"
"Danke, Aaron, but no. I'm fine. I'll walk home with Pet--"
He's cut off by the chirp of my second brain. I pull the PDA out and engage the phone part. "You are interrupting an important personal negotiation," I announce. "Make it quick."
"Boss, we got a customer."
"Ty, it's late. Can't it wait?"
"A-4s, Boss. The Exterminators need you for point."
"Shit. I'll be there soon." I hang up. "Bad things, Pretty Lady. Gonna have to take a raincheck."
She looks concerned. "Need help."
"Not sure," I admit. "But I've got you on speed dial. You'll be the first ones to know."
She doesn't let me go without appropriate compensation for a lost evening. I'm not exactly in a position to really make the call, but she thinks I'm a good kisser. I shake hands with Kurt, wave at Pete, and snare a overhead beam with a line of darkness. Out through the skylight and over the city back toward home. Time to hunt some bugs.
For this, reflected Blackstone sourly as he surveyed the entrance to the hive, I gave up a warm bed and beautiful company.
The hive was chitin and condensation, a gall growing out of the orderly structure of concrete and steel that was the lowest basement of the office building. Above his head, twenty stories of glass and steel had been quarantined and cordoned off, to prevent anyone from entering the area accidentally and becoming infected. Below him lay the extensive and eclectic collection of sewers and subway tunnels that wove under the City's skin like veins. Behind him sat the first beacon, marking the entrance to the hive.
No soldiers were waiting at the entrance. They would be further in, Blackstone knew. This entrance didn't really need guards; it was concealed behind several dozen meters of twisting climate control machinery, machinery that made the basement warmer than he had expected. He felt sweat bead in the small of his back and run down between his shoulder blades.
For this, he added, I gave up making breakfast for Kat.
He checked the BDU harness a final time. Fatigues were not his ordinary working clothes, but the situation demanded it. Just as it demanded the Sykes-Fairbain sheathed along his right thigh, the M-41 Pulse Rifle in his hands, and the collection of grenades slung over his shoulder. Not to mention the collection of bulky beacons that he had to lay down in the hive, so that the MOX could find the queen.
The harness was loose enough to breathe and not too loose to get caught on something. The grenades were sorted by color codes on the arming caps. The pulse rifle had a full clip, the integral launcher was full, and the safety was off. The beacons would not sit right on his back, but were bearable.
The featherweight headset crackled. "Point, this is Control. Status?"
"Control, this is Point. All gear checks out. Ready when you are."
"Roger, Point. We read you five by five and MOX unit is on standby. You are green."
"Roger, Control. Beginning entry. Over and out."
For this, Blackstone added again, I'm missing good sex, good sleep, and a Denver omelet. Fortune hates me.
The lieutenant's name is Nakamura, and I can already tell that he doesn't want me here.
"I don't want you here, Freelancer."
See? I've got this gift for reading people. "That's fine, Lieutenant. I don't want to be here. However- "
"However, I need someone who can do this job. My pointman is down with the worst case of pneumonia that I've seen ever, and we don't have the time to wait for him to recover."
This is true. The A4 infestation has gotten to the point where people have discovered it and gotten away. That's usually the time when it's too late to do anything about it and the horde of soldier units is about to come boiling out of the ground and cart everyone away to be hive-fodder. At this point is when you call in the Marines. If they can, they'll bomb the area flat. If they can't, they'll send in a MOX unit.
Let me tell you about A4s. The designation comes from one of the aforementioned Marines. Evidently, this fellow had too much time on his hands one tour of duty and came up with a system for classifying xenos that the Corps ran across. The letter designation indicates their hostility towards the human species and the number indicates a scale of the xeno species relative capability of causing humans harm.
These critters, with their parasitic method of reproducing, acidic blood, and generally nasty dispositions, are considered fourth in potential for destroying the human race. Kind of makes you wonder what other nasties the Colonial Marine Corps have run into over the years.
The MOX units, by the way, are the second-most effective way of dealing with hives of A4s. The first being, of course, "take off and nuke the site from orbit." A MOX, or Mobile Offensive ExoWarrior, is a 10-foot tall walking tank, piloted by a psychopath. Normally, the pilot of the MOX is kept restrained and sedated. After a hive is prepped, the sedatives are flushed out of its system by a healthy mixture of adrenalin and combat drugs, and it's pointed at the hive and let loose. Hijinks ensue. Armor-plated, juiced to the gills, protected from claws and acid, and armed with enough high ordinance to level a moderately sized town, a MOX is a force of nature, an tornado or earthquake with sentience.
You might have noticed that I called the pilot "it." That's because whoever is inside the MOX is so far out of touch with reality, gender ceases to become an issue. It wasn't coherent when it went in, and after the cocktail of drugs that the MOX support team pumps into a pilot to keep them controllable does a number on its system, you can pretty much write it off. MOX pilots aren't people; they're organic guidance computers with sadism and homicidal mania plug-ins.
Now, it's pretty obvious that, when you're a drooling frothbucket in a monster suit of battle armor, nobody's going to let you wipe your own ass, much less wander around unsupervised. That's where the support team comes in. The MOX's job is to get into the hive - killing as many A4s as it can on the way in - and kill the Queen (who is, predictably, the root of the problem). Of course, killing the Queen doesn't make the rest of the hive go away. Both preparation of the operation and clean-up are the support team's jobs. And that's where they need me.
The pointman's job is to get into the hive and lay out the beacons for the MOX to follow. Like I said, MOXs aren't human anymore, but they can be taught to follow homing signals. And the beacons need to be as far into the hive as possible, to allow the MOX an effective chance at the Queen. Despite the sheer badassedness of a MOX, the sum total of a hive's drones can take it down. There's no such thing as acid-proof battle armor, and eventually, it takes so much damage that it stops moving. Game over.
So, the pointman has to get into the hive and lay out a spiral of beacons, electronic breadcrumbs for the MOX to follow. Not a job for the faint of heart or the weak of mind. And somehow, this squad's pointman has gotten sick - bad sick - and can't do the job. Given the steady expansion of an A4 hive, they can't wait for him to recover. So, they need a Freelancer. And they called me.
The Lieutenant's been talking all this time, laying out the standard operations. He's been detailing the parts of the job that the other members of the squad handle. Now he gets to me.
"Freelancer Blackstone will be working with us on this operation, since Ghost is laid up. Blackstone, I need you to go in through this entrance and lay out the beacons for Kaiju to follow. I've had Rollins," he gestures to a guy with plugs in his skull that has to be their computer tech, "to download the seismic soundings and maps we have to your PDA. Study them."
"Will do, Lieutenant. Question."
"Yes?"
"Kaiju?"
"The MOX."
"Ah. Should've guessed."
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