“Captain Happling,” he said with a raised eyebrow. “Don’t they teach you about threat analysis in Pig School?”
I heard Happling’s snarl and watched as Belling whirled into motion, streaking to his right as gunshots trailed him. The old man launched himself toward the remnants of a dividing wall that had once held a large Vid screen. As he sailed behind it, his body elegantly stretched out for a rolling landing, a whining burst of shredder fire cut into the wall just above him, carving out chunks of heavy stone.
After a moment, the Stormers all poured it on, shredder fire thumping into the wall, the noise almost palpable in the air, the wall shuddering under the onslaught. I just sat there, twisted around, watching. Happling appeared from behind me, silently padding in a wide arc until he had a view behind the wall. Face red, he turned and made a sharp cutting gesture. The shredder fire stopped immediately.
I watched as Happling crept toward the wall, holding his gun ready, down low, arms extended. My eyes were locked on the big cop. I wasn’t worried about Belling; the old man was slippery and couldn’t be trusted, and if he’d just saved my life it was for his own reasons. But I didn’t want Belling-or any Gunner, any one of us-to go down to a fucking System Pig. I watched him step lightly over two entwined bodies, a man and a woman who looked like they’d died in each other’s arms, and then they both unfurled like flowers blooming, arms curling up almost lazily and taking hold of Big Red.
Happling grunted and looked down with an almost comical expression of surprise. He swung his gun down and oriented on one of their heads, putting two shells into its skull. The body twitched from the impact but otherwise didn’t seem to mind, and kept pulling at the big man relentlessly, staring up at him as blood rushed out of the wound and over its face to form a slick mask of red.
As Happling’s expression took on a more desperate, worried tint, he staggered a little trying to remain upright while the two figures more or less climbed up him. Suddenly Belling streaked from his hiding place, running at full speed and then slowing in astonishment as he took in Happling’s situation. The captain looked up, face reddening, and managed to right himself long enough to throw a quick succession of shots at the old man as he ran. As Belling passed between us, barely ahead of Happling’s awkward fire, he turned his head and looked right at me.
It was time to move. None of the cops were paying any attention to me. As I watched, Belling faded behind a jumble of ruined chairs and Vid Screens. A second later the junk exploded as the shredders turned them into dust, and with a roar Happling swatted his gun down at his attackers, savagely beating them off his body inch by inch, and then he was on the move again, his shirt more or less one huge sweat stain as he sprinted toward the spot where Belling had disappeared. I knew Belling wouldn’t be there. The old man had mapped out the hiding places and could keep them on the run forever, if need be.
I started for the desk at the front of the room, my broken leg aching and protesting. I saw movement off to my right and turned my head in time to see Belling appear atop one of the metal ducts that crisscrossed the room. I paused to suck in air as he fired nonstop for a few seconds, pouring shells into the Stormers. Before they could react he’d thrown himself backward, disappearing the same way he’d gotten up there. Like any Gunner who lived beyond his teens, Belling had done the most basic thing: get to know your venue.
I kept moving, feeling that if I didn’t look at the cops, they wouldn’t look at me-some sort of low-rent psychic invisibility. When I reached the counter, I took two painful breaths and gathered myself, pulling myself up and over it in one clean move and letting myself roll and drop to the floor on the other side, the sound of my landing masked by the cacophony.
I rolled onto my belly and scanned the area beyond the desk. My only option was a flimsy-looking wood-and-glass door marked service rooms, no more than a fancy divider. I wriggled toward it staying low, sweat streaming into my eyes. Behind me things sounded hairy, and the still-hot shredders began to whine again. I dimly wondered whether even a dozen Stormers could take down Wa Belling, who so far seemed immortal. I kept crawling. I was used to crawling. When I reached the door I flipped over onto my back and reached up to try some standard gestures at the lock, but as I put my weight against it the door leaned inward, spilling me into a hallway.
I pulled my legs tight against my chest and rolled over, letting the door slide shut and pushing up onto my knees. Recalling the floor plan Marko had displayed for us, I started down a wide white hallway, a green line painted on the wall to my right. I took a moment to straighten up and force a long, painful breath, rubbing a hand over my bristly head and wiping a sleeve over my mouth. Speed was going to be key. I needed to get Gatz into my sights and get my shot off immediately, faster, the moment I entered the room. Any delay and I’d be Pushed, I had no doubt.
I gripped my gun and launched myself forward, my leg stiff and awkward.
As I turned a corner, the noise behind me dropped away and I was left with my own ragged breathing and the wet sound of my boots on the floor. After the gore of the waiting room, everything was amazingly clean; the floor looked like it had never been walked on. The air-the little of it I could suck in through my swollen nose and ruined throat-even smelled antiseptic, devoid of life. It was a relief. I’d had my fill of bodies, of their smells, their heat, their touch.
Around another corner I saw what had to be my door. It was marked only with the number 655, but Marko’s floor plan and Belling’s intel said this had to be it. I raised my gun and forced myself to move faster despite the pain and my body’s calcification. Breathing hard, I threw myself at the door, smacking into it and then swinging my gun up as a shadow slammed into the wall next to me. For a second I stared at Marko’s bearded face without recognition.
“What the fuck is wrong with you?” I rasped.
He was on his knees, fishing in his bag. “Door’s locked, Mr. Cates,” he said breathlessly. “I think you saved my life back there.” Without another word he pasted two leads against the door’s electronic keypad while I lay there, sucking in air as best I could, blinking rapidly.
“You Techies,” I wheezed. “Think we all need you.”
He nodded as the door lock disengaged with a soft click. “The way things are going, Mr. Cates,” he said, “we’re all going to be Droids with brains. And someone’s gonna have to wind everyone up, right?”
I nodded, pushing him out of the way and putting a hand on the door. “You ever try to wind me up, kid,” I promised, “I will blow your hands off.” I paused and looked at him. “Stay. Out. Here,” I instructed, and with a strained breath I pulled the door open and rushed inside.
I tried to put my eyes everywhere. It was incredibly bright inside, and my eyes burned and watered. I saw a Monk standing near an examination table, standard issue white face and dark coat. I put the gun on it, thinking Fast, fast, squeeze the trigger.
“Stop,” Kev said.
I drained out of myself. I went numb and stopped in my tracks, my momentum almost pulling me down onto my face. Calm, serene happiness floated into me like gas, and I hovered motionless.
Ty Kieth was strapped on the examination table, professionally gagged. His nose quivered and his eyes rolled spastically, but I noticed he didn’t struggle against his bonds. He just lay there.
“Shoot yourself,” Kev said.
Smiling, I turned the gun and pulled the trigger.
XXXVIII
Day Ten: A Goddamn Superhero
I didn’t even feel the bullet smash into the meaty part of my broken leg. Kev hadn’t specified where to shoot myself, and some primitive instinct inside me that still wanted to live chose my nearly useless limb for sacrifice. The leg buckled immediately and I crashed onto the floor, teeth rattling, but there was no pain-my pain circuits, I guessed, were maxed out. For a moment I was a goddamn superhero, impervious to physical suffering.