Electric Church

XXV HAS DEFINITELY BEEN YOUR LUCKY FUCKING DAY

Immediately, there was a volley of shots behind me, like firecrackers. I ducked into the ruined lot behind the crumbling wall and pushed myself to run faster, chalky dust billowing up around me. But the fucking Pigs-despite a Cainnic Orel pretender slinging bullets at them, despite Kev Gatz scurrying away-within a few seconds I knew there were at least three hot on my trail. I tore my dark glasses off and yanked one of the guns from my sack, wondering if there was enough luck left in the universe for it to be loaded.

I didn’t know anything about London-if there were Safe Rooms buried in these sagging, ancient buildings, where the sewers might lead me, if there were any friendlies nearby who might take me in. I didn’t even know where to hide, and I cursed everything under my breath as I ran. I’d somehow slipped behind the curtain, and was running through a ruined section, all rubble and uncleared streets, staggered walls looking ready to collapse on top of me. To lighten the load and gain a fraction of speed, I tossed the bag with the rest of the guns and popped the clip from the old Roon 85 I’d selected-three lonely armor-piercing bullets shining inside it. Armor-piercers were rare; the cops themselves had stopped using them years ago due to their expense, and they were highly prized in the underground-Jerry must not have realized he had an extra hundred yen in profit sitting in this gun. With one in the chamber that made four shots. Three cops, four shots. It was the biggest break I’d gotten in a while, and it made me nervous.

The hover displacement in the air got louder; I knew they were trying to find me on the ground in order to guide the streetside cops. I ducked into the nearest doorway, instantly enveloped in stale, dusty dark-and blinded after the relative brightness of the day. I fumbled forward a few steps and then tripped, landing hard on a loose pile of sharp, uneven things. Instinct took over and I went still and silent, biting down on my tongue hard enough to draw blood, cutting off any noise. My breath whistling through my nose sounded thunderous. The only thing I could do was wait for my eyes to adjust and try to be ready.

It took the cops longer than I expected. After thirty seconds or so, I carefully rolled over onto my back and squinted at the faint outline of the doorway. I raised my gun just in time; a figure appeared, framed in the doorway. I pulled the trigger reflexively, the shot loud enough to bring the whole sagging structure down on me. The shadow crumpled.

I stared for a moment. Killing System Pigs was starting to be a habit with me, and yet I was still alive. I’d seen what the Pigs did to cop-killers, back in New York. They usually put the body on display once they were done with it, sometimes with an educational sign pinned to it. A few months ago I’d been sick with worry over one mistakenly killed SSF officer. Now I stared blankly and thought it likely I’d manage to kill a few more before fate finally caught up with me. No matter what I did, I was already marked for the rest of my life. The only good news was that my life was probably going to be pretty short.

I heard a scrape of boot on dust behind me, and like a wire snapping my body rushed back to me. I scrambled backward on my hands, cutting them on the broken rock, still staring at the dimly lit doorway where the cop had been.

“Cates!” an unfamiliar feminine voice shouted from somewhere within the building. “Colonel Moje sends his regards, and has a message for you: You didn’t run far enough, rat.”

I spun around onto my hands and knees and rolled until I hit a wall, then went limp. Fuck it. Moje had pronounced his death sentence on me already. Everybody in the fucking world wanted Avery Cates dead, and after twenty-seven years maybe it was time. I could remember my father, coming home from work-a real job-and being greeted by the men in our building, shaking hands, smiling. I could remember the world before, and knew this one wasn’t worth fighting for.

All this in an instant, in a heartbeat. Then it was just me on the floor, staying low, rapidly losing my sight advantage, and two trained cops trying to kill me. And then I thought: I’ve already killed cops, I can kill as many as I want. Fuck it, no more running. The cops were about to find out what I was really capable of.

I closed my eyes and drew a long, deep, silent breath, calming my nerves. If I were a System Pig, capable, arrogant, healthy, and well-equipped, how would I go after Avery Cates? Keeping my eyes closed, I listened. There-over my left shoulder, creak of a leather boot. I pictured the room: three windows to my left, small squares of watery light over a low mound of rubble, and I imagined him there, third window, peering in from the outside.

Then-the smell of smoke, faint, off to my right. I could see him, coming in from another entrance. I strained and heard light steps. Too light for a man-this was a woman. She was prowling along the wall, feeling her way in the gloom, I imagined I could see the fucking cigarette dangling from her lips, eyes wide as she searched the darkness.

For a moment, I just imagined their orbits, moving slowly in a standard pattern around me, staying out of each other’s crossfire, listening quietly to the data streams from the hover in the air and their fellow cops on the ground. I knew the moment I made any noise at all, I would have seconds before they gunned me down. I was going to have to make my three bullets count. So I stayed down, eyes shut, smelling the choking dust in the air and feeling the sharp corners of smashed masonry stabbing me in the back.

When I moved, they moved, instantly.

I took the guy at the window first-standing behind cover, peering into pitch black from the daylight, he would subconsciously imagine himself safe. I jumped up and spun, opening my eyes. There he was, a big black fat unshaven motherfucker in a huge raincoat, the sort of cop I’d seen a million times shaking down whores and beating some poor kid who stepped the wrong way. Even as I brought the gun up he moved his own arm and ducked down. I tracked him and put the armor-piercing bullet through the wall, and was rewarded by a strangled cry. I could tell from the gurgling noise he made that it wasn’t a kill-shot, but fuck it, he was out of the game for a moment. A moment was all I had anyway.

I ran.

Behind me, bullets popped new holes into the load-bearing wall, cement dust flowering and sparks flying, each just centimeters from paralyzing me for life. I didn’t stop to admire them. I ran straight for the wall and threw myself into one of the empty windows, leaping with arms outstretched. I misjudged the opening and slammed my shoulder into the wall, which whipped me around. My feet got caught on the sill. I bent at the waist and slammed into the outside wall, cracking my skull hard enough to make my vision swim. I shook my head and pulled myself through, and was on the damp ground outside again.

A gurgle next to me made me scramble to my feet, gun ready. The first cop lay on the ground; to my light-shocked eyes the blood looked the same shade as his coffee-colored skin, as if he was melting into a puddle of himself. He moved his arms feebly and kept opening his mouth as if to speak, but nothing came out but a wet sound, like he was swallowing his tongue. I decided that he wasn’t much of a threat. My lungs hurt and my mouth was full of dust. I crawled to the wall and pushed myself against it, listening.

I didn’t hear anything, except the wind and hover displacement. I risked a look up and couldn’t see the SSF ship, but knew it wouldn’t be long before it circled back and spotted me-maybe already had if they were equipped with infrared. Putting myself in the cop’s shoes, I imagined what I would do, trying to feel their disdain for me, their arrogance. What would I do if hunting rats?

Staying low, I got down on my bloody, shredded knees and began making my way around to the back of the crumbling building. I breathed shallowly and steadily despite my aching chest, and I kept my gun up despite the trembling weariness of my arm. When I’d cleared the windows I stood up carefully, staying flat against the wall, and moved faster. I could almost feel our gravity, pulling us toward each other-and then I heard a faint rustle of fabric, and caught the same scent of smoke. I waited until the last moment, counting heartbeats, and then stepped away from the wall, gun up, a bullet to spare.

She was just around the corner. Plain-looking; dark hair, olive complexion, husky and formidable. When I popped into her field of vision, there was a split-second when our eyes met, hers a light green I’d never seen before. I saw the most remarkable thing. Fear.

I’d seen System Pigs laughing and carrying on conversations while they beat suspects to death, I’d seen them take down gangs of people while outnumbered and outgunned without breaking a sweat. I’d never seen one scared before.

Then she moved, and it was close-the deciding factor not skill, but my armor-piercing bullets. Dumb luck. She feinted left-just a facial tic and a ripple of air, but enough to get my gut going-and then dived fearlessly right, scraping herself on scrap metal and jagged rocks, attaining the cover of a ruined wall.

I tracked her movement behind the wall and shot twice through it. When I crept around to the other side, she was just lying there, staring at me, eyes flat, chest torn open.

Weariness swept through me. My legs were soaked in blood from the knees down. My shoulder ached where I’d slammed it in the window. There was no time to contemplate or rest; I could hear the hover in the near distance, searching for me. I jammed my empty gun into my coat and started limping as fast as I could back to the black cop. I stood over him and stared down at him. Still gurgling breath in painful hitches of his chest, he stared back at me, his eyes pink and bloodshot and wide.

“If you live,” I said slowly, panting, “tell Colonel Moje that Avery Cates says to come do his own dirty work.”

For a second or two we stared at each other, and then I whirled at a noise, the sound of boots hitting the rubble, as if someone had jumped down from a second story. Despite my exhaustion, amazement crackled through me, because Dick Marin was marching determinedly toward me, a wicked-looking gun stretched out before him.

He looked like he had that first night: a short, smiling man with pale, pale skin and wrap-around sunglasses, dressed in an expensive suit and overcoat. His mirror-polished leather shoes glinted as he crunched over stone and debris. He held the gun out stiffly as he walked and fucking smiled at me. I had nothing left to fight him off with. If he tries to shoot me, I doubt I’ll even have the energy to fall down.

“Sorry, Mr. Cates,” he said evenly. “But you’re going to have to give that message to Colonel Moje yourself.”

He stopped when he was standing directly over the gurgling SSF officer, and without pause or ceremony pumped two shells into the Pig’s face. The cop twitched once and then lay still.

Marin immediately looked at me, a sharp, sudden twitch of the neck. His grin widened.

“Smile, Mr. Cates. This has definitely been your lucky fucking day.”