Orel looked at me, but I kept my eyes on the door. “You, uh, know this Monk?”
I closed my eyes for a moment. “Oh, fuck me.” I looked at him. “Yeah. I think I do. You heard about a System Pig joined the Church a few days ago?”
Orel nodded once, his elegantly lined face vaguely mocking, just the hint of a smile. “Went on a rampage. A fucking malfunction or something.”
“Cates! Come out and let me show you an ENDLESS TRAIL OF SUNSETS!”
“Cainnic Orel, or whoever the fuck you are,” I said slowly, “I’d like you to meet Barnaby Dawson, former captain in the SS-fucking-F.”
Orel raised an eyebrow. In my ear, I heard Ty groan. Orel’s eyes slid down to my hand. “Mr. Cates, that is a charming weapon. Are you sure you’re a professional? If we had a guild I might deny you entrance. Very well. Let’s go out there and control this situation, and tear your old friend Dawson into small pieces so we do not repeat this episode, what say you?”
I nodded. “I don’t see a choice here. Let’s go.”
“I’ll go out first and draw fire,” Orel said immediately.
I felt a brief surge of resistance to this idea, which I ruthlessly ignored. I was not going to get into a pissing contest with the old man and get myself killed for the trouble. If the world’s most famous Gunner wanted to take point, I was going to let him.
With a disconcerting wink, Orel shoved the door open and dove outside, hitting the ground, gunshots drilling divots into the pavement just behind him as he rolled away. I pushed myself after him, racing in the opposite direction. The door snicked shut behind me. I dashed around the corner and flattened myself against the wall, thinking, Well, if the goddamn gun doesn’t explode in my hand when I pull the trigger, I guess I’m ahead of the game.
“Mr. Cates, you’ve doubled!” Dawson called out. His voice was identical to that of every Monk I’d ever had the misfortune of hearing. “Didn’t realize you had the scratch for an illegal clone. But you forget, I got religion, and religion tells me that the partial face shot of the first man out the door goes under the alias Cainnic Orel, male, born Philadelphia, aged fifty-seven. That you, Canny? I doubt it, as I’m pretty sure Cainnic got shot to pieces about six years ago in the Mogadishu operation, but we never did find a body, did we? We always assumed this was because we hadn’t left much of a body to be found, but perhaps you’ve merely risen from the dead. You’re still on several Most Wanted lists-”
I chanced a glance around the corner and was rewarded with an explosion of chipped stone, three shells hitting within centimeters of my face, I whipped backward, cheek stinging. I sat for a moment and contemplated something that could react that fast, that accurately, for whom shadows and rain and my own expertise meant nothing.
“Things are different, now, Cates! I’m air-conditioned and armor-plated. I’m networked and backed-up. Do you know what you did to me? You killed me. I can remember it-dying. Do you know what it’s like to be a System Cop who loses his badge? I didn’t have more than a few days to live. They were fucking lining up to kill me, to torture me. I had nothing. And then this grinning little robot wants to talk to me about salvation? I thought it would be fun to twist off his little head and see what was inside, and you know what that little piece of shit did, Mr. Cates? It fucking shot me in the balls.”
I needed to know exactly where the bastard was. I was contemplating another glance around the corner when Kieth’s voice crackled in my ear.
“To your right, Mr. Cates, against the building across the street, in the shadows,” he said, and clicked off.
I closed my eyes and fixed the location in my mind.
“You know what?” Dawson went on. “I’m-” His voice cut off and there were four quick shots, followed by what I thought was Orel cursing somewhere nearby. “I’m glad you got me booted from the force. Glad! Glad that fucking machine shot me in the goddamn balls and let me bleed out on the street. Glad they ignored my screams of pain and dragged me into a hover, and I’m glad they sawed my head off my neck while I was still alive!”
I felt a tingle down my spine, and then Kieth’s voice was in my ear again.
“Cates! Moving-fast! It’s-”
I lunged down and to the side. Behind me, the wall exploded into chips and dust. I crawled as fast as I could, pushing myself up onto my feet at the expense of several layers of skin on my palms, and ran. Hard. At the next corner, I feinted, whipping myself in the other direction at the last moment, right out into the open, turning and firing three shots as quickly as I could with the old gun, guessing on target position. I didn’t wait to see what happened, I launched myself forward, running for the slim protection of the angle, putting the building between us.
“Missed me!” Dawson shouted. “But don’t be hard on yourself. You don’t have quantum targeting chips and night vision, you don’t have weather analysis calculating air pressure and wind speed. You don’t have anything.”
I kept running, searching for cover. Behind me five more shots cracked, then a whoop that was distinctly human.
“Orel winged it,” Kieth whispered in my ear. Why he was whispering was beyond me. “But those Monks are fast. Superficial damage. It’s still on the move, and on your ass.”
I was tempted to curse him out, but that would be a stupid waste of breath, which was in short supply. I imagined the scene in my head, the positions of each of the players. I veered toward the wall of the building and reversed direction, running back toward Dawson. It was an old trick; Dawson was suddenly pinned between us. The second the dim form of the Monk resolved out of the rainy afternoon gloom, I aimed down and fired my last three bullets. Orel added a volley of his own, five more shots, fully automatic, into the same spot. I threw myself off to the side, into shadows, and lay for a moment, listening. Nothing. After a moment, Kieth’s voice was in my ear.
“It’s gone.”
“Fuck!” I hissed. I sat up, panting. Orel appeared out of his own set of shadows nearby. He didn’t even look mildly out of breath, and it bothered me. He held out his guns and dropped their empty clips.
“I can’t believe what I just saw, Mr. Cates,” Orel said slowly, approaching me as he reloaded. “I hesitate to admit this, but I think if you hadn’t been here to distract that Tin Man, I might be dead right now. I’ve never seen anything move that fast.”
I stared up at him. I was sick to death of being chased. If one more ghost from New York showed up, I was going to have to commit some serious violence. I accepted a hand up from Orel after he holstered his weapons. He held my hand for a moment when I was up, looking me over, and then released me to touch my cheek.
“You got lucky,” he said, holding up his fingers, gleaming blackly with blood. I touched my cheek and found a deep slice. It began to throb immediately. Then Kieth was in my ear again.
“Mr. Cates, you’d better get in here. Tanner got the Vid on the hover working. There’s something you should see.”
XXIII
YOU’LL NEVER BE PRETTY AGAIN
Orel didn’t say anything more as we walked in, and I stayed quiet. My cheek stung and probably needed a stitch or two. I wondered if anyone had thought to bring some basic first-aid. About ten feet inside the door, Orel stopped and turned to face me.
“That was just a probe,” he said.