The assassin was a woman. Her face was chiseled and hard, lined with scars across her right eye and the corners of her mouth, creating a macabre smile of sorts.
He barely had time to register that before she palmed his face and smashed the back of his head into the rooftop. He winced, moaning as his vision went double; watching twin images of the assassin as she quickly covered her face again and hopped onto his zip bike. She glanced down at him.
"Nothing personal, bounty hunter. You know how it works."
Heat washed over him as she took off. Blue and red lights followed, drones and police floaters whirring by as they followed. Cash stayed where he was, covered in dust and bruises, staring upward at the towering buildings glinting in the blazing sunlight. A trail of smoke shot across the sky; another shuttle soaring toward the infinity of space.
He sighed, finding a cigarillo inside his jacket pocket and placing it between his lips. Too tired to light it, he let it dangle there. His eyes closed.
"Yep, Deejay. Should've been a shuttle pilot."
Chapter 2
Mateo Lonergan glanced up from his handheld game when the rumble of distant thunder rattled the glass. Outside the grime of the nearest window, the sky was bright blue and no clouds were visible. He knew firsthand that didn't mean much. He returned his attention to his game. The target swiveled on the holographic screen as he took out three targets in rapid succession.
Rex lifted a shaggy eyebrow from where he sat with a massive mug of beer in hand. "Hear that, Mateo? A megastorm is on the way."
Mateo grinned at his shaggy-haired partner. Rex Maxwell was one of those cool old white dudes, usually walking around in a linen shirt, straw hat, and sunglasses, talking to the natives in fluent Spanish. His long silver hair was pulled back in a ponytail. Still pretty fit for his age. Didn't look all that tough, but most people knew he was a Nimrod who pulled in some of the most vicious bounty heads ever posted. They knew because he told anyone within earshot.
Mateo didn't mind. The nonstop chatter was just one of the side effects of being the partner of a legendary bounty hunter. They were cooling off in the Watering Hole, a ratty old bar unofficially designated for Nimrods and others in related occupations. It was in one of the little border towns outside of the protective shielding of Tijuana. The Watering Hole was neutral ground. No killing was allowed inside its hallowed walls. No grudges. Just shop talk. And boy, did Rex talk.
He was prone to long speeches about hunting and killing, his favorite topic of conversation. He'd been an assassin at one point and had retired to become a Nimrod. Only a few types were crazy enough to employ themselves in either trade because it was an occupation with a short life expectancy, and no benefits other than a license to kill. The fact that Rex was still working at near sixty years old was a testament to his skill.
He slapped a meaty palm against his leg. "I can feel the ol' knee swelling up. Always does that when a storm's coming."
"Yeah, I bet." Mateo kept one eye on his game. "Old-timers always say stuff like that."
"Old-timer, eh?" Rex barked a laugh as another beer was expertly poured by Bolts, the slim, slightly rusty android barkeeper. "Watch your mouth, kid. Just because I'm drinking don't mean I won't pull my iron."
"No killing in the Water Hold, Rex. Better stop while you're ahead."
“I stopped once already. Retired hitman, remember?"
"I can't forget. You tell me every five minutes."
Rex ignored the barb, tilting his head back in reflection. "Killing wasn't such a bad occupation, all things considered. I mean, let’s face it, a lot of people are better off dead, ya know?”
It was around nine in the evening. Rex was at it early, but work was slow, and leads were cold. Thankfully, so was the beer. Or in Mateo's case, root beer. He didn’t see why people drank the other kind.
The place was vacant, the windows rattling from the wind brewing outside. The bar itself wasn't much to brag about. The lights were dim, the air dank and moldy smelling, and the whole place creaked like it was about to collapse. The mugs and glasses were cloudy and chipped, but that was okay. Most customers drank straight from the bottle, anyway.
Rex continued his slightly inebriated deliberation. “Think about it. People will go on and on about how killing is a sin and how bad it is. But say you join the RCE or HSSC, or any other organization with acronyms for names. The first thing they do is put a gun in your hands, tell you to point it at another human being, and pull the trigger. And why? Because he’s the enemy. You see? That makes it ok.” He laughed until he choked. “So it ain't the killing that's wrong. It's unauthorized killing that folks won't stand for."
Mateo glanced outside the window again. Thunderclouds formed on the horizon as if by magic, massing together like a war between darkness and light. A megastorm would be the inevitable result, and heaven help anyone caught outside when it broke. He saw vehicle lights in the distance. A red hovercar approached fast. Probably trying to beat the storm.
Rex stared at the bottom of his beer mug. "Life is cheap, my boy. No one knows that more than me. That’s why I had to stop killing people. Depreciation, you see. Just like a car. I've heard that life had more value back in the day. Got that from a few Defrosts I've run into. The ones who went into hibernation before the Cataclysm and woke up in our time. Helluva thing, to go through that. You could see it in their eyes. They were lost. No idea what to do with their lives when everyone they ever knew was long dead. Dust and ashes.
"But a few of the ones I talked to said that in their time it was still a shock when someone you knew was killed. It was a horrible thing. When someone important, like a president or senator died, the whole damn country mourned. Like that last president — what was his name? The one right before the Cataclysm."
"Alexander Blackwell."
"Yeah, him. Got killed by his best friend. I saw a documentary about it. Should’ve seen it. People were in the streets crying and carrying on. And most of them didn’t even like the man! Wasn’t the point. Lives mattered, in those days. But now… hell, if someone killed a United Havens president, life would go on like nothing."
"Didn't someone assassinate the president a few years ago?"
"Yeah, sure did. Got that new one now. Anderson. Forgot about that. You see — that's the point. No one cares. Depreciation. The value just ain't there anymore. In places like this, it’s even worse. I could walk out this bar right now and shoot some vagrant in the head, and there probably wouldn’t even be an investigation. Who cares? So why do people pretend to make such a big deal about killing? It’s a living, isn’t it?”
“Did you cry?”
Rex glanced up. “What?”
“Did you cry when the UH president was killed?”
Rex looked gave Mateo a keen stare. “Yeah, I cried.” He leaned back, a smile creasing his face. “I cried because I turned that job down.” He burst out laughing.
The door buzzed, admitting a dark-haired man of around forty, hair and goatee dark, jawline unshaven, eyes flicking back and forth with the caution of a man used to unpleasant surprises. Satisfied, he relaxed and sauntered toward the bar.
Rex gave the man a friendly nod. "Hell, if it ain't Cash Murdock, scourge of uncivilization. Haven't seen you in a dog's age."
Cash took a seat next to Rex. "Been working, old man. Can't just sit and let the bounties come to me like you do."
Rex threw back his head and guffawed. "Ha! It's like that, eh? I just make it look easy, is all. How's your ALP buddy? What's her name — Honeybee? No, um… Bunny Hons?"
"Deejay." Cash glanced at the barkeep, motioning for a beer. "And she's not an Artificial Life Partner."