I wake up late, my stomach groaning with hunger. Starving, I rummage around my refrigerator, finding nothing more than some cold rice. I eat all of it. Washing it down with water, I fire up my computer. Its clock reads 10:30. I guess drinking oneself to within an inch of one's life doesn't count as an afternoon nap. MEGAPOL ATTACKS UFOS, CITY IN CHAOS screams the SELF headlines. "The South Projects are in flames this morning after a prolonged midair brawl between several other-dimensional ships and numerous Megapol craft. Stray missile barrages from a Megapol fire support vehicle are blamed for heavy damage sustained in Yokohama and Firenze Blocks; a crippled alien vessel demolished Seoul Block. "Early estimates put the body count at five hundred dead." I gulp down a glass of water, looking over the hi-res images of the roasting arcologies. Blurry pictures of Megapol cruisers sparring with small, organic-looking saucercraft are adjacent to crowd shots of panicking people fleeing down the tubes. A gory view of Yokohama Block's atrium collapsing in a rush of sparks and smoke is permanently burnt into my memory. I glance out my window. Thick, black smoke rises from the north, beyond the wall. The reddish tint of the morning sun casts everything in a surreal hue hinting at everything to come today. I peek at the pictures again. Shit, that must be a mess. "City authorities are begging citizens to remain calm. 'The threat has been neutralized and will remain neutralized,' asserted David Beranek, a Megapol spokesperson. Technocrat Senator K. Yuan cryptically added that 'additional measures to ensure the safety of MegaPrime are already underway. Citizens need not worry.' "However, policy regarding these 'visitors' is still up in the air--pardoning the pun. Extropian Senator Jimmie Han insisted that 'while we must move swiftly to ensure safety for the residents of these devastated neighborhoods, we cannot allow ourselves to become further victims of paranoia--we must not act capriciously and pledge ourselves to an inflexible stance.' Han is of course referring to previous generations' tactics of all-out war against extraterrestrials, a major point of contention over which policy to pursue regarding the UFOs and their 'dimension gates.' "In fact, some have taken the radical view that it was not the UFOs which incited this aerial battle, but instead Megapol. 'We have no evidence--no evidence--suggesting that these beings have any hostile designs,' declared Father Robert Flannery Jr. of the Church of Sirius, speaking from a makeshift shelter in nearby Kiev Block. 'An aggressive and maverick police force provoked these potentially peaceful visitors into defending themselves, and I see nothing but death and suffering as the fruit of Megapol's belligerent behavior.' "Our featured speaker for Friday's rally continued on to ask, 'Where is Megapol now? Are they here in the South Projects, combing through the wreckage of Yokohama for survivors? Are they caring for the hundreds of wounded and crippled? No! There are twenty thousand people down here without homes tonight, and all Megapol can do is fly patrols over the debris! Before they brandish their swords again, it would do them good to consider the cost--the very real human cost--of their actions.' " Attaboy, Flannery. Someone knocks on my door. I pull on some pants and holster my plasma. "Who is it?" I yell. "Charlie Brown," comes the answer. I creep up to my door and peer out the peephole. Chuck and Trevor shift uneasily in the hallway. I pull out my plasma and swing open the doorway, staying behind its heavy plastic and metal bulk. "What do you want?" I ask, letting them in. Chuck spots my plasma. "You hear about it already?" he asks. "Yeah. Bugs in the South Projects." "Naw, fuck that. Upper southside stops at the Wall. I'm talking about the real news." Trevor scans the apartment, pulls a large assault rifle from his dusty drifter, and sits down. I notice that Chuck seems to have grown a gut. I close the door and lock it. "What the fuck is going on?" I whisper. "War," says Trevor. He twists his bulk and looks at the windows. "'Er a swich fo' 'em?" he asks. I nod dumbly and touch a small black circle near the door. The polarization filters go on; the room only becomes a little darker, but it's impossible for anyone outside to see in. "War?" I ask. Chuck unzips his leather jacket. A Popo 'J. Edgar Hoover' submachinegun is nestled inside. He removes it and pulls a banana clip from his ripped up jeans. He loads the weapon. Trevor does the same with his, securing a round drum magazine to his Marsec M4000. "Yeah, war," Chuck finally sighs. "We got the word from further up that you and your shit may be a target if things get real hairy; we're supposed to bunk with you from now on." What the fuck? "What do you mean by 'war'?" I ask, again. Chuck shrugs. "War is war--shooting and killing and shit-" "No, I mean who are we at war with?" "Who else?" The gangster points to the west, towards Morrison Avenue and the three stacks, towards Axemen territory. "We're fighting the Axemen?" "Yeah, Fitzgerald--our jefe--gave the word for a cleanup, starting at dawn. The lower southside amigos are already at Monroe Avenue-" "Where's Monroe Avenue?" "West of Morrison, which is west of Presley, which is right the fuck down there-" Chuck walks over to my kitchen and looks out the windows to the north. He points at the distant knot of the Wall's south gate. "Presley's the only avenue in the Territories which goes through the Wall," he adds. He strides back to my futon and sits down on it. "Anyway, everything south of Wilson and east of Monroe is clean. Those biker fucks are giving the upper southside amigos trouble, but they ain't nothing. Just fast fuckin' drivers, nothing more. We'll take 'em." I think about this for a moment and then walk to the fridge. I pull out a bottle of synth grape and drink it. "You got food 'round here?" inquires Trevor. I shake my head. "I'll get some," he announces, standing. He sets down his M4000. I spot the butt of a nine millimeter jutting out from under his broad gut. Trevor goes to the door, looks out, opens it, and leaves. "Where's he going?" I ask. "He knows a Chinese bitch on the second floor," mumbles Chuck, staring out the windows in the direction of Morrison Avenue. I take a pull from the grape juice. It's too sweet for my taste; I offer it to Chuck. He sniffs it and shakes his head. I stow it in the fridge. "Why did Oscuro decide to go to war?" I ask. Chuck smiles, his stubble twitching. "Word is, you paid him one hundred million plus weapons to go fuck with those yakuza pricks." "One hundred million dollars?" I gulp. "I dunno," says Chuck. "Did you?" "I certainly don't remember it . . ." "Well, I was told that you gave him something, and that something's got amigos at war with Osiron." Nilwar . . . That bastard! Certain incriminating documents my ass! It was just a fucking cash payment--no, probably the number to some bank account . . . "Osiron? I thought we were tangling with the Axemen and the Rough Riders." "And the Jerry Benders, the Pythons, the Brotherhood of Nagoya, the King Davids," rattles off Chuck. "Osiron pricks are suits, and suits don't go to war. All those sissyshit gangs--and another dozen, too,--work for Osiron. Every weak-kneed fucks who thinks they're all bad even though they spread their legs for Osiron every payday . . . everybody on the north and the west of the city is an Osiron whore." "Jesus, that's a shitload of enemies to take on," I mutter. The slum thug smiles wryly. "Yeah, they had it all planned out, everybody getting their fair slice of turf, but El Jefe Grande really fucked up their shit. Once we take the Axemen, we'll take the Rough Riders, and then we'll take the King Davids, and on and on. We're tough fuckers; we'll take 'em all." I meditate on the thought. My stomach rumbles. "What's to the east?" I ask. "Beyond Eddy Avenue? That's Psyche turf. We're cool with them." "Psyche?" "Yeah--specialists in 'psiclone euphoria networks'--heard about 'em?" I think back to Amanda and Pedante. "Kinda. What do they do?" "Euphoria networks ain't like no other drug--it takes a surgeon to put that shit in. They cut right here, here and here-" Chuck touches his fingers to spots right above his ears, one of his thumbs brushing the back of his greasy neck, "-and they hardwire circuitry to your brain's hard-on center. They gotta put timers and remote control shit inside, also, 'cause if they don't, some people just go fuckin' overboard." "What, they start ejaculating out their ears?" Chuck nods, completely serious. "Just about that bad. I mean, it's just like having a fuckin' twenty four hour orgasm seven days a week, fifty two weeks of the year! Without stuff to turn it off, a lot of people would just sit on their asses until they died!" Pleasant. "Nice way to go," I mutter. "El Jefe Grande's wasted some fuckers that way," adds the thug. "And word is he always keeps a naked chick in a cage with her psiclone going full blast--some people get off on that kinda shit." "Jesus." I watch the distant column of smoke. Rolling clouds of thick, black ash pushes up into the sky. So much for an environmentally friendly city. "Man, I wish Trevor would get back here," mutters Chuck. "I mean, there ain't no Axemen for kilometers, but you gotta worry sometimes. You like Chinese?" I bob my head. Chuck walks over to the window and stares down across the Biafra complex. I look out the window also. A few ground transports are parked in the street, and some mangy dogs sniff at their sides. Drying laundry streams from the nearby highrises, their tops covered in the dirty, yellowed glass of amateur greenhouses and television aerials. I spot two men lounging on the roof of a lower, nearby building. "Duane and Frank," says Chuck. "A regular police force," I mumble. Chuck laughs. "Megapol ain't got nothin' on us. The pigs got the fucking Senators behind them, so they don't have to give a fuck about service. Amigos, on the other hand, ain't so goddamn presumptuous. Sure, we sell a little Kay here and there, we sell a little love, but that wouldn't matter jack diddly if we just carried on like the Axemen. I mean, the people let us pull our shit so long as we keep the Territories nice and quiet--none of that turf war shit where little kids get killed." I spot those children playing in the street, toying with the dogs. The gangster rambles on. "Hot blooded young amigos-- Fitzgerald gives 'em guns and gives 'em a chance to make a name wastin' Axemen. All that bad shit happens on the edge of Free Territory--inside that edge, we keep it quiet." He turns to me, as if appealing to my logic: "Hey--amigos wanna grow old just like anybody else." We observe the street below for another long minute. Somebody pounds on the door. "Who is it?" I ask. Chuck touches the .38 tucked inside his jacket. "Go' uh wok fuh uh foo'! Open up, 'ammit!" Chuck opens the door for Trevor. Indeed, he carries a large cast iron pot fulled with fried rice. Disturbingly large amounts of synthbeef, carrots, and broccoli are spread throughout. "Wow. How you get that?" I ask, looking for some spoons. "M' cha'm," boasts Trevor. He sets down the wok and turns away a moment to buckle his belt. I don't want to think about that. I pull some metal spoons from a drawer, and the three of us dine on the psuedo-oriental meal. Just as we're finishing up, someone else knocks on the door. Chuck looks out the peephole, blanches, and opens the door. He quickly steps out of the way. Nat strides in, followed closely by Wolf. She's dressed as always in a cheap white v-neck tee shirt and hakama pants. Wolf wears black jeans, an off-white dress shirt, and a black vest. That large-bored bolt action hangs from his back. "Hi," he says. "We've just killed twenty Axeholes; wanna go for a ride?" Something stupid in me can't refuse. La Paloma is stripped down, its customary chrome ornamentation lacking. In its place are additional armor plates, thick slabs of layered cydonium and ceramics reinforcing its sides, the top of its hood, and its trunk. Its canopy has a second shell of two centimeter thick polymers laced with cydonium strands. It looks like a tank. Hap opens it up for us. He wears a black bodysuit, a nine millimeter pistol in an armpit holster. This time, Wolf takes shotgun; I'm relegated to the back seat with Nat. I climb in behind the driver's seat, noting a new pair of red fire extinguisher canisters on each side. A spare lawpistol is taped down to the fore dash along with three boxy magazines for Wolf's rifle. The back of both front seats are padded, but underneath the flame retardant foam are numerous lawpistol clips. "Strap in," suggests Hap. More monitors than ever surround him; he types away with two BATs, propelling La Paloma forwards even before the canopy is sealed. The groundcar dodges around the parked transports and accelerates east towards Presley. Nat hands me one of her lawpistols. I handle the large pistol uneasily, keeping its barrel pointed at the low opaque back seat roof. La Paloma shakes and shudders as the autopilot swerves and dodges traffic. Nat proceeds to clean her other pistol. "What do you mean you've killed twenty Axemen?" I ask Wolf. He wipes the action of his rifle. "Actually, Hap nailed three and Nat bagged fifteen. I'm heavy weapons--I blew up a car and I think there were at least two people in there." He grins broadly, sickeningly proud of his murders. Disgusted, I turn to Nat. "Shoot any people in the knees today?" I ask. Nat looks up at me with her eyes, her hands stopped in mid- motion. She stares at me like that for a long moment and then returns to cleaning her weapon. Wolf turns around, reaches out to me, and slaps the side of my head. "OK fucker, this is war--who's side are you on?" Hap murmurs, "Don't worry, they were all armed." I snort at Wolf and hunker down in the back seat. Nat brusquely retrieves the pistol I'm holding, proceeding to work it over. I peer over Hap's left shoulder and spot the massive bulk of the Wall ahead of us. I assume that we're going to turn west sometime. Nat checks her clips for ammunition. Satisfied, she stows both weapons on her hips, reaching in through long slits on both sides of her pants. I unconsciously watch her, somewhat out of fear, somewhat out of that omnipresent lust men feel. I spy the thin, tan side of her leg, a hint of black lace- As usual, she spots me and smiles, not at all offended. I grit my teeth and concentrate on watching the scenery over Hap's shoulder. The Wall looms over us, its bulk filling the sky. I feel a thin arm go over my shoulder and the brush of Nat's hair on the side of my face. I turn to her; she's resting her head on my shoulder. I can feel the length of her body through our clothes . . . I clear my throat and point to Wolf. She looks up at me and smiles. I don't believe that she cares. "Why aren't you happy, Peace?" whispers Nat in my ear. "What the fuck?" I ask. "I'm living in the slums, I've got two thugs planted in my apartment, and now-" I speak quieter, "you're drooling in my ear. How can't I be happy?" Nat reaches across my face, grabs my left ear, and pulls. Pain makes me look her in the face. Before I can swear, though, she's kissed me. "Oscuro's making you a junior lieutenant," she whispers. "And I do not drool." "Why is he doing that?" I ask, dodging one of her kisses. Wolf, who has been listening in, states in a flat voice, "That disk of yours had an address to a small warehouse near the spaceport. El Jefe sent Fizzy to check it out; he came back with five trucks filled with M4000's, Popo autocannon, heavy launchers, and a hundred thousand rounds of ammunition. Fizzy also found a lapcomputer with the encrypto for an unregistered bank account." Hap adds, "Loyal man. A real amigo." Wolf snorts. "Fizzy should've taken it and run, 'cause that account had twenty five million dollars in it, along with a note promising another twenty five if amigos waste a dozen or so Osiron people." He turns around and stares at me, exclaiming, "The fucking idiot could've had twenty five million dollars by now! What a moron!" "If you would've retrieved it, would you have run?" I ask. La Paloma is very quiet for a few seconds. "No," he states. I feel Nat breathe again. I notice long lines of ground vehicles in nearby lanes. La Paloma moves slowly past a crowded intersection; I spot the towering pillar of smoke to our left. "South Projects," declares Hap. "Shit," I mutter, craning my neck to get a glimpse. Traffic speeds up as we clear the intersections of Lennon and Starr streets, leaving the devastation far to our rear. "Uh, where are we going?" I ask. "Back door to Rough Rider turf. We're going to see if we can't fuck up some of their hangouts," says Hap. La Paloma speeds north and turns left at Kennedy Boulevard. I watch the Senate--the real Senate--slowly scroll by on my right. It is a gleaming white tower in the midday light, its thousands solar panels and windows sparkling like diamonds. Wolf sticks out his tongue and flicks it off. "Fucking politicians," he mutters. Nat, still wrapped around me, pulls out my plasma and cleans it with a small velvet cloth. She eyes me, her motions over the weapon's chamber and barrel not so subtle. Wolf glowers in the front seat. I try to be the friend I once was. Ignoring Nat, I ask Wolf, "What the hell is that rifle of yours?" "It's not a rifle!" shout Hap and Wolf in unison. Wolf laughs somewhat, his smile back. "Uh, then what is it?" "Marsec Flight Shotgun," he replies. "Marsec's less-than- successful answer to this-" He pulls a huge, multi-barreled weapon from his feet. Its stock is folded back; otherwise it would easily be more than a meter long. "Megapol Autocannon," says Hap. Wolf puts the autocannon down. He displays his shotgun. "Five rounds of stun or concussion, incendiary, high-explosive, or armor piercing. I like the stun rounds 'cause if I won't fucking kill us all if I do this-" He jokingly pulls on the trigger. Hap grimaces. Wolf re-engages the safety. I notice that the weapon's magazine, normally forward of its trigger, is missing. "Monroe coming up," announces Hap. Again, the Wall bears down on us; a miniscule gate is still far ahead. Nat shoves my plasma back into my pants. She pulls out her lawpistols, unloads them, and cleans them . . . again. "What the hell?" I ask. "Is that necessary?" "Pardon?" she replies. "Cleaning your pistols?" "Nat likes a clean gun," jokes Wolf from the front seat. "You can tell the best soldiers by the way they're always taking care of their weapons," asserts Hap. "How they look isn't important; somebody once said you could tell who was going to win a twentieth century war just by looking at the opposing army's uniforms- -whoever had the better uniforms would lose. It's not the uniform, but the weapons that do the killing." "Thank you, Professor," jokes Wolf. "Though I have to disagree with your thesis--I think neat threads make for more entertaining combat. You know--British redcoats marching in line, fur hats bobbing up and down-" "That was nineteenth century combat," corrects Hap. And this is twenty first century combat, I muse. What the fuck--four idiots riding behind enemy lines in a glorified autotaxi? We're gonna die. The Wall passes overhead. "Heads up," says Hap, "though by the way El Jefe holds Peace back there, he should probably keep his down." Nat turns to me. "Stay down, Peace," she says, brushing the crotch of my pants with her hand. I chuckle and look out the windshield. More endless rows of concrete, steel, and glass. The ever dejected slums . . . wow. "Monroe," whispers Hap, putting on a headset. He's got La Paloma in full war mode now, with multiple threat assessment screens raised. A full monitor denotes the make, model, and possible weapons loadout of nearby craft; the windshield's built-in LEDs form a crosshairs that slowly pans from right to left. "What's this sucker armed with?" I ask Nat. "Twin twenty millimeter cannon. Anti-armor depleted uranium, with a soft lead tracer every four rounds." "Soft lead?" "For thin-skinned vehicles," mutters Hap. "Now please shut up, I don't want to get ambushed." He drives La Paloma with a concentrated intensity, obeying every traffic law and staying close to other traffic. We weave our way west, Hap's every second spent considering our route. He spies a pair of turbobikers. He studiously avoids them. "Heroin den ten blocks ahead," he suddenly announces. "I'll pull in and strafe it at ground lev--shit, coded transmission coming in." Wolf, Nat, and I all peer at a his monitors. Small bright green text rattles off on one of them. "BUENOS DIAS AMIGOS OUR OLD BAD FRIEND GOMEZ IS IN RIDER TERRITORY COORDINATES BELOW IS FLEEING NORTH IS ON LIST MAXIMUM PRIORITY TARGET WASTE THE MOTHERFUCKING TRAITOR ADIOS 1390812389753019382 . . . " Hap pulls us off the narrow street and into an even narrower alley. "Gomez," mutters Nat, her voice hard. "What does that mean?" I ask breathlessly. "There he is--somebody inside must've tagged his transponder signal," states Hap. "Better move fast, they'll find it quick," says Wolf. Hap refers to a street map on his monitors. "Tarantino and Almodovar." He carefully backs out of the alley, precisely lines La Paloma up with the worn paint on the street, and guns the engine. We will be facing bad odds. Mr. 'Gomez' is riding in an armored limousine. However, six other transponder signals closely follow its route. Six other vehicles-- anything from turbobikes, in which case Hap's job will be easy, to Wolfhound APCs, in which case we are dead. Very dead; the combined firepower of six vehicles will easily overwhelm any advantage we gain by surprise. La Paloma is backed into Tarantino Street, a narrow passage sandwiched between twenty story apartment buildings and clogged with dumpsters and construction debris. Its twin cannon are sighted on the broader stretch of Calle de Almodovar; we have been here for three minutes . . . "How long will you have to shoot the other car?" I ask. "Window is maybe a quarter second," states Hap, not at all worried. "They're running single-file; it should be enough." "Here they come," mutters Wolf, his Flight Shotgun at the ready. A red streak screams by--a low slung groundcar. A second quickly follows it. La Paloma shudders, and a stream of tracers leap from hidden weapons bays built into its frame. I barely have time to yell "shit" as the third vehicle, a grayish blob, bursts into flame and flips on its side. It crashes back onto the pavement and skids, sparking all the way, out of our view. "Not finished," shouts Hap, throwing La Paloma forwards. The car leaps out into Calle Almodovar, spinning to its left. The crosshairs on the windscreen pinpoint the next target with cold precision, pumping a short burst into an oncoming turbobike. It geysers into the air, showering the street with thermoplastic and steel. Another bike narrowly avoids us. Hap ignores it. Roaring in through the wreckage, another sportscar charges us, a turret on its roof spitting shells at us. It seriously sounds like a fart--but nobody's laughing. The outer shell of the windscreen cracks horribly as a round ricochetes off its sloped surface. La Paloma speaks back, strafing sideways across the wide street and spraying the other vehicle with uranium and lead. Its sympathetic grav drive takes a hit and belches flame, the car tearing into a storefront at eighty kilometers per hour. A burst of tracers rips up the left half of La Paloma. Hap grunts and throws the car in reverse; another red groundcar swerves into view, firing wildly. A lucky volley from La Paloma shatters its windscreen and presumably kills its driver; the car glides to a halt, light smoke pouring out of the hideous wound. "Two to the rear," yells Wolf. The hood of La Paloma is bruised and deformed; a thin spike of cydonium, torn from armor plating, flaps in the smoke-filled wind. Hap spins the groundcar around, loosing a wild shot at the two sportscars far down Almodovar. One of them takes a hit--I spot the wireframe models in one of Hap's monitors. It reads 'Bandit 2 (Stormdog, mod.)' and the vehicle in question blinks red over its right forward gravitron emitter. The Stormdogs limp away, number two sparking where its body drags on the concrete. Hap sights up the smoldering heap that was the limousine. "No--let me finish him," demands Nat. Hap grunts and hits the canopy button, pulling over to the crippled auto. A dazed man staggers out of the vehicle's front door and spots us. He tries to pull a pistol from his hip, but a thundering blast from Wolf's shotgun smears him into the pavement. Nat grips the headrest of Wolf's seat and leaps over him, onto the mangled hood. She then jogs over to the upside-down limo and yanks open one of its rear doors. A screaming man bolts from the other side, sprinting for the shelter of the low tenements. Nat steps around the bulk of the totaled car, sights up his back, and guns him down, putting three bullets through either side of his spine. His intestines paint the street red. "Hurry up!" bellows Hap, nervously eyeing the transponder screens. He delicately floats La Paloma closer to the smoldering limousine, watching the far end of Almodovar with growing apprehension. Nat strides back around the car and reaches into the opened doorway. She pulls a bloody, wounded man from the back seat. His black hair frames a hansom, Spanish face and balding head. He wears a suit splattered with his own crimson. "Oscuro te dice 'hola'," she says. "Picame," spits back the man. Nat releases his collar, dropping him to the concrete. He defiantly stares up at her. "Hurry up!" yells Hap. "Adios, amigo mio," she whispers over the crackling of flames and the hum of La Paloma's engine. Her lawpistols recoil twice, spreading a nasty, dark stain across Gomez' dirty suit. She reaches down and brushes his eyelids shut. The stormdogs return, ripping around the corner but a block away. La Paloma's autocannon instantly open up. Nat springs into the car, landing on top of me. I frantically pull her legs in as the canopy goes down, rounds filling the air. Hap slams the car in reverse, rattling out cover fire. The canopy hisses shut, and not a moment too soon; a shell crashes through the outer layer and spiderwebs the inner just centimeters from Wolf's head. A stormdog's engine flames out, and the maimed car helplessly floats across La Paloma's field of fire. Its magazine takes a hit before its crew can bail . . . Hap spins the auto into a westerly sidestreet, and for a moment, we are safe. He looses the engine, and we rumble forwards. A hail of rounds into the stores at the mouth of the street break the serenity. A stormdog screams through the intersection ahead of us, a single missile flitting from its roof. La Paloma fires wildly, but misses. The projectile arcs up into the afternoon sun. Hap momentarily punches the full antigrav drives, skipping us off the street surface. The warhead goes to ground meters behind our tailfins, spraying concrete and structural cydonium into the sky. We barrel across the street, narrowly dodging a transport truck. Rough Riders on General Metro turbobikes pull their sidearms and take chase; they howl into the next alley hot on our tail. Lawpistol rounds bounce from La Paloma's rear armor; Hap snarls and taps a button atop his flight yoke. A bright white light flashes off the buildings around us; I hear the sounds of bikes crashing and exploding. "What the fuck-" "Phosphor flare," yells Wolf. We hang a hard left, heading south. A cluster of Rough Riders bear down on us--it's time to play chicken! Hap, however, is not game; he taps his trigger, and La Paloma mows down the bikers. "Eat that shit, mothefuckers!" laughs Wolf, displaying his middle finger to the dead Riders. A stormdog swerves in behind us. Hap targets a nearby alley, and none too soon; the vehicle in pursuit ripple-fires FOUR fucking missiles. We are gonna die--the bright red dots close in on the center of the transponder screen. La Paloma crashes into the alley, going up on one side; I nearly fall into Nat. "Fuck!" yells Wolf. The car slams back onto the grid; the concrete wall behind us is consumed in a tremendous blast. Hap swerves past a heap of cinderblocks; Nat falls into me. Her arms go around me; Wolf swears again. I raise my eyes to peer through the blistered windshield; a mountain of trash and construction waste blocks the alley. A sportscar pulls into the alley behind us, raking the cinderblocks with cannon fire. Hap grins and dives La Paloma straight at certain death. The anti-grav engines kick in. We fly up the hill. A loose rod of reinforcing steel rubs the underside of the Phoenix. Hap groans, but there is no damage. We fly. The stormdog uselessly sprays the empty sky. La Paloma picks up speed, turning to the south. And then Hap swears. "Fuck!" he roars, his big hands frantically sending the Phoenix into a mad downward spiral. The hood flashes white; when my eyes lose their spots, it's entirely charred. Hap swings La Paloma low, following a stretch of what I presume to be Almodovar. Silent, probing fingers of a heavy laser cannon burn the sky around us. A stray shot touches a ground transport. The big green truck explodes, its heavy alloy sides flung outward in every direction. Another bolt lances an apartment building; every window in the upper five stories of the building flares up and shatters. White knuckled, Hap taps on his BAT and touches the flight yoke. La Paloma dives down into an alley behind an old factory. A laser beam rips into the abandoned building's roof. It collapses. We streak along the backside of the cavernous factory, the walls bursting open behind us and in front of us from laser shots. "Shitshitshitshitshit-" rants Wolf. A near miss sends a steel beam bouncing off La Paloma's canopy. "What's shooting at us?" I stammer. "Valkyrie," whispers Nat in my ear. La Paloma screams between two highrises, a thick mesh of fire escapes and laundry lines between the two. Hap fires a burst to clear the way, ropes go taut and snap as we crash through. The buildings shake from laser shots. A black blur whistles by our side, followed by another-- hoverbikes. "Shit," I mutter, looking up towards heaven. "We're dead." Wolf is smiling, though, yelling, "Here comes the cavalry! You're gonna die motherfucker! Hahahaha-" Hap takes La Paloma low and turns us around. "We're attacking?" I squeal. "These guys are good," he yells back. "I want to watch." The laser fire towards us has slacked off; the Valk's got problems of its own. I spot Hap's transponder chart--a half dozen friendly hoverbikes are charging the heavy flyer! La Paloma's nose goes up. I spot the Valk--a big grey rocket ship canting around near the twin apartment towers. Its heavy lasers are useless against its agile assailants. The little black flies spit out laser fire, tracers of autocannon bursts, and missiles; the big ship shudders, explosions going off all across its six airfoils and its rotund fuselage. Hap rattles off a long burst at the Valk; chips of cydonium armor and shattered sensors spray from its sides. A missile rips into its left wingtip laser; the warbird dives and heads for home. The hoverbikes harry it back to Osiron territory before breaking off the attack. "Hola, Los Seis Diablos!" yells Hap into the radio. "Hola, matador de Gomez el combarde! Salutations!" "Did you really kill him?" asks another pilot. "Did he bleed red or was it yellow piss running through his veins?" "Thorne wasted him in the street like a dog!" howls Wolf. "He smelled so bad cause his pants were filled with shit before we blew up his car! He's fucked up but good!" "Caramba!" shouts a not-so-Hispanic pilot. "Time for a fiesta!" Hap breaks in. "Let's go home, amigos. Gomez, the traitor, is dead. Let's tell El Jefe the good news." He touches off the radio and points La Paloma's battered nose towards home. Hap sets down on Wilson Boulevard, La Paloma's transponder signal shifting to avoid the attentions of the numerous Popo cruisers in the air above us. "I hope they hunt down that Valk," mutters Wolf as we slowly return to the Free Territory's Senate. Hap smiles wanly. "They'll be very interested to find out who's ship that is." A Popo scout car whistles by, searching for a lone Phoenix that doesn't exist any more. I lay in the back seat, the adrenaline slowly draining from my body. Nat lays on top of me, idly cleaning her lawpistols and replacing the spent rounds. We turn north on Dale Street. A half dozen turbobikes pull out of the shadows and flank us; even though Megapol craft and their spy cameras are everywhere, the bikers shake their sidearms in the wind triumphantly. "How did the lower southside amigos make out?" Hap asks over the radio. "Like fuckin' bandits!" replies one of the bikers. "There ain't one Axehole between us and Brando! South of Fogerty, it's all ours!" Hap raises his eyes, muttering, "Better than anyone thought." "Where's Brando?" I ask. "Twenty blocks west of Monroe," answers Wolf. "Practically everything the Axeholes called home." "Shit," I mutter, impressed. "Won't that be hard to keep?" "Megapol will help us," whispers Nat. "What--how?" "Nobody's going to pull anything with all that shit in the air," says Wolf. "They'll patrol heavily for a few days, trying to catch some goats to blame it all on. Then they'll go hide behind the wall and wait for the next war." "Fitz and Pedante should have things shored up by then," states Hap. "Sex, drugs, rock and roll!" hollers Wolf. "That's what'll keep those Axes down!" La Paloma and its escorts weave into the Diablo compound. He cruises up to the central highrise. Gang members hang out the windows, screaming and cheering. The canopy pops open; Wolf jumps out and helps Nat from the car. The audience goes silent. "Gomez is dead! The motherfucker is dead!" yells Wolf, waving his shotgun above his head. The thugs roar with approval, pitching litter and paper scraps from the highrise. Nat holds up her hands, her index fingers out like the barrels of her lawpistols. Amigos whistle at her. She blows a kiss up on the wind to the audience. They laugh and cheer louder. "Hero's welcome," announces Hap to me. "Let's go park the car." He drives away from the central apartment's lobby, around a few small warehouses, and into a parking garage under one of the 'Senate' towers. We cruise down a level, through musty passages lit only by yellowish incandescent lightbulbs. At least a hundred turbobikes are parked down here, their snub, barrel bodies leaning on their kickstands. Most are painted schemes of red and black. A rare stormdog hides among them; Hap pulls up next to one. Canopy still open, we clamber out and survey the damage. The left front and hood of La Paloma are buckled and blistered from several dozen rounds cannon rounds and that laser hit. Hap sighs when he examines the Phoenix's front; its left headlight array is a crushed mass of glass, thermoplastic, and cydonium. "I gotta take her to the shop," he says. "Yeah, the windshield is shit." Hap snorts and grins. "Happens every time. We might get a jump on an APC and cripple it before it can get off a shot, but the driver or somebody will always jump out and pop the glass-" he brings down a fist in the center of the bashed-up canopy "smack in the middle. Every time, I tell you--the guys at the shop think it's a curse." He leans against the side of the big car, sighing. "Nope, it's not a war unless the Paloma takes one in the glass." I stare at the car for a few moments, waiting for Hap do something, say something. He's someplace else, though. I look over the dozens of General Metro bikes. There are quite a few . . . the lone stormdog and La Paloma are the only multi- passenger vehicles in sight. "What happened to the other six modified Phoenixes?" I ask. Hap's eyes are closed. He slowly opens them. "I'm sorry, what did you say?" "You said you modified seven of these--what happened to the other six?" "Well, El Jefe Grande has one of his own, and so do Pedante and Fitzgerald . . . one is in storage, and Fitz got the other two demolished trying to kill Seger, the Axehole boss." "That sucks." Hap chuckles. "Yes it does. I'm still sort of ticked at Fitz for wasting them like that; but considering that both birds took three direct GLM hits before they went down, I guess I'm also sort of proud." "GLM's?" I ask. "Ground Launched Missiles," clarifies Hap. "That thing which nearly wasted us in the alley today. GLM's are supposed to kill all hovercars with one hit; Marsec might be lying about their strength, but I chalk up Fitzgerald's life to my superior workmanship. Until the Seger hit, I'd never had the chance to test it, though." I laugh a little. "Awfully expensive way to find out." "Yeah, but at least I was a little less worried today. I didn't want to put the Paloma through that shit, but knowing that Fitz, who is an awful pilot, could make it back to the Territories alive . . . that helped me a lot." We are silent for a moment. "Well, let's get back to Oscuro's house. I'll have all of the Megapol pacification period to fix up the Paloma--more than enough time." Hap and I walk back up the ramp and through the dirty streets. The warm air of the afternoon is harsh on my lungs, and I walk unsteadily, the excitement ebbing from my blood. I don't want to know how many people Nat and Hap and Wolf have killed today. These are my friends; I don't need to know that they're all murderers. Murderers? Or soldiers? Are they just gang members, doing the bidding of some power-mad psychopath named Oscuro? Or are they all crusaders, cleaning out the slums one apartment at a time? Nat--Nat is a samurai. That I am sure of. But samurai don't wear frilly lace underthings. At least I don't think so. What the hell. I guess I'm not so sure. Wolf--Wolf is . . . His smile is the same as before, broad and bright. But have his teeth gone yellow? Have his incisors grown pointed? "I blew up a car and I think there were at least two people in there." What kind of man can say that and smile? Is this the Warren Fangman I grew up with in Buenos Aires? I look over at Hap. His hands are jammed down into the pockets of his environmental suit and he wears a worried expression on his face. He frowns. He walks like a man in pain. Somehow, I don't think that he's contemplating the difficulties of repairing La Paloma. Well, at least I can say this of my friends--they're anything but two-dimensional. We stagger into the lobby of 'Oscuro's house'. The decor is neo- grunge; thermoplastic barrels filled with empty Nutrivend wrappers lurk in the corners. Loose circles of ratty overstuffed chairs and vinyl couches surround low coffee tables. Ashtrays heaped with cigarette butts are scattered over the furniture and the floor along with a menagerie of vaguely-militant looking youth. I smell beer. A lean biker wearing small round UV goggles notes our entrance. "It's the Hapster!" he announces; most of the synth-leather- clad warriors look away from their conversations or drinks. The lean dude turns back to the audience; "Hey, how 'bout an applause? Three fuckin' Stormdogs! Three fuckin' Stormdogs and Gomez!" Most of the amigos clap politely, but the bikers--those wearing the most synth-leather--howl and whistle, beating their hands on the walls and barrels and generably making a racket. Hap blushes. The tall guy strides over and throws a lanky arm over Hap's shoulder. A smoldering cigarette rests in his hand. "Want a Pedron?" he asks. "Thanks," says Hap. The biker pulls a slim plastic tube from his jacket. He pops its cap off with his thumb and coaxes out a cigar. He holds it in front of Hap's mouth; the driver chomps on it. "Fabulous shit out there," praises the biker. "Sucks that we couldn't get that Valk, though. It'd make a helluva trophy." Hap turns to me and says, out of the corner of his mouth, "This is Devito. He's squadron leader of the Seis Diablos." I nod and wave hi. Devito waves back. Hap returns to the conversation. "Good luck, Don. It'll take more than six hoverbikes to bring one of those turkeys down." Devito narrows his eyes behind his shades. "Really? Like what--La Paloma?" Hap grunts and pulls out a lighter. Devito reaches over with a miniature guillotine; he trims off the tip of the cigar. Hap proceeds to light it. He pulls the Pedron from his mouth. "Maybe in an ambush. But not in a stand-up fight. That would take something real heavy, like an Elephant . . ." Hap looks off into the distance. He's not here with us. "Elephant shmelephant. You--you're the man. You could take it with La Paloma." Hap shakes his head slowly, still distracted. "What's an 'Elephant'?" I ask, feeling quite stupid. Hap blinks. "Megapol fire support ship. Two hundred tons of mean-" Somebody shouts from deeper inside the highrise. I spot people being flung aside- A giant crashes through the crowd. He is dressed in a black tee shirt and black jeans and his arm muscles are larger than my thighs. His hair is long, black, and tied into a pony tail behind his head. A thick, rough beard covers the lower half of his face. His skin is olive. His nose is broad with flaring nostrils. His lips are thick, his jawline sharp. His eyes are touched with fire. It is Oscuro. He walks through people, tossing them aside if they lack the sense of self-preservation to get out of the way. Most do. He leaps up on a scuffed up pool table, bikers and thugs edging away from his imposing presence. He crouches, one broad, veined hand resting on his kneecap, the other pressed against the felt, fingers outspread. "Amigos!" he rumbles. "Amigos, where are your comrades? Surely this is not the sum of my friends?" The crowd is silent, stunned. I'm pretty sure they have no idea what he's saying. I don't either. "Amigo!" he roars, grabbing a thin Latino boy by his throat. "Dime, have you killed Seger?" "Wha-aa?" "Amigo! Have you killed Seger, the coward, neutered grand whore of the Axemen?" "No-oo-" He flings the kid aside, his heavy, dread eyes scanning the assembly. He stands. "You who have killed Seger, step forward! Step forward so I may commend you for your bravery!" Nobody moves a muscle. Oscuro frowns, enraged and puzzled. "Well then, if the slayer of that bastard child of a whore and a homosexual is not here, then where is he?" Everybody's throat goes dry. I swallow, slowly. He's gonna kill someone . . . "AMIGOS! DIME! IS SEGER DEAD?" Somebody at his feet shakes their head. "THEN WHAT ARE YOU DOING HERE?" he bellows, his clenched right fist trembling in fury. I swear that the ceiling shakes. "Out!" he shouts, pointing at the lobby doors. "Out! Do not come back until you have dyed your shirts in his blood! TRAIGAME LA CABEZA DE ESO COMBARDE!" The thugs, cowed, rub out their cigarettes, gulp down the rest of their beer, and shuffle out of the lobby, all too eager to leave. "Gotta go," whispers Devito. He pats Hap on the back and disappears into the rush. "We should probably fly," mutters Hap. We head for the door. "Reynolds and Williams," speaks El Jefe Grande. His voice is much more controlled, much more like last night than the stark raving maniac of thirty seconds ago. But I'm still scared out of my mind; my bladder almost weakens. "Seņor?" asks Hap, turning to face him. He slowly pulls his cigar from his mouth, plants it in an ashtray, and rubs it out. His hand shakes. Oscuro hops down from his soapbox and sits on the edge of the pool table, his feet touching the floor. "Ven aqui," says the gangster, beckoning with his fingers. Hap marches over and stands before him. Even though the driver is not at all a small person like myself, he seems almost child- sized when compared to the brooding mass that is Oscuro. "I want to thank you," says Oscuro, quietly, "for your heroism today. You are truly un hombre con valor," he nearly whispers, slipping back into Spanish. Hap looks down at the floor and then looks up at the leader's eyes. "Helping kill Gomez was a pleasure, sir. I only wish I hadn't rushed Miss Hawthorne; I was too worried about getting out of there." Oscuro grins and shakes his head. "You are too modest," he chides. "Gomez would mean nothing to me if I had lost my delicate rose . . . in order to kill him. For after all, is it not much easier to enter the territory of the enemy than it is to leave, no? My spring blossom was so eager to push our crusade so deep into the infidel's lands . . . I was a fool; I shouldn't have let her go. So I thank you profoundly, Seņor Reynolds, for your skill and artistry in returning her to me." Hap is silent. I can see that his ears have gone deep, deep red. "La Paloma was damaged greatly, was it not?" asks Oscuro. "It's nothing," mumbles Hap. "Then it will be a simple task for my mechanics." He rests a tremendous hand on Hap's shoulder. "Use whoever and whatever you need, amigo mio. The garages are yours." "Thank you," says Hap. "Wealth is nothing, amigo. Bravery," Oscuro holds up a broad finger, "is priceless. If there is anything more, please ask me. I am in your debt, Seņor." Hap salutes him smartly. "Thank you, sir." Hap hesitantly backs away from El Jefe. Oscuro's eyes turn to me. "Mister Williams," he says. "Yes, sir?" I reply. "You have seen my face." The gang boss stands and strides away, a large entourage of heavily-armed bodyguards in tow. They leech from the lobby shadows and follow in his footsteps. Creepy. "What did he mean by that?" I ask, turning to Hap. He shrugs. We leave. "This is the shop." Heavy machinery hangs off the ceiling and clutters up this entire parking level. Dozens of groundcars in various states of disrepair loiter about; some nonenthusiastic amigos slowly disassemble them, breaking them down into various base components that can, I presume, be resold at a profit. This is a chop-shop, I'm sure of it. Expensive Mercedes and General Metro limousines and luxury cars parked here--in the 'Senate', capital of the Free Territories? "We do custom repairs for corporate executives," explains Hap, a perfectly fine General Metro Duke of Monaco limo getting its electronics ripped out. Yeah, sure. He powers down La Paloma and we hop out the open top. "Roberto!" yells Hap. "Roberto, I want this armor removed! Are you even listening?" A thin, dark-complexioned man weaves his way through heaps of radios and salvaged hi-fi speakers. "Hap! I tole you to bringer back with the gloss on or don bringer back at all, din I?" shouts the mechanic. "An whatsis--yew damn fucker up drivin to Gomez that fucker's funeral?" He punches Hap in the shoulder. "Wayta go, Hap. Amigos can res easy now tha tha traider's dead." Hap smiles. "Word gets around fast, doesn't it?" "Popo ran a big all-bands bulledin on it. Tha fucker Gomez was summin impordan to summun an them somebuddies ain't too happy a-all." Roberto nudges Hap again with his fist. "Your a wanned man now, Hap!" Hap frowns, somehow displeased. "Just strip the war plating and rebuilt the front left. Oh, get me a new canopy, too." "Yew bus up tha drive a-all?" asks the mechanic. "Might of banged it into some debris," he replies. "Yew wan tha war armor back?" "Not if it takes you three weeks to get the Paloma back in flight shape." "Tha only happen once, Hap, thas no fair." "Fine, leave it off. But I want it showroom. You hear me? Showroom." Roberto nods. A thick cloud of black smoke pours out of a nearby luxury automobile. A worker pops open a side door and stumbles out, hacking up his lungs. "Fire," he stammers. Orange flames lick from under the back hood of the vehicle. Robert punches Hap for the last time. "Ga-a go," he slurs, rushing for a fire extinguisher. Hap and I watch the two struggle to save the leather interior of the Mercedes from certain destruction. "Is there a tube connection somewhere around here?" I ask. "No," he replies. "You want to take off?" "Yeah," I say, recalling that I've got two thugs planted in my apartment . . . doing who knows what. The sooner I get back there and kick them out the door--threat from the Axemen, yeah right--the sooner I can get . . . a good night's rest. "You sure you don't want to hang around here for a while-- 'till Nat and Mike get back?" "Where are they, anyway?" I ask. "I don't know." He is quiet for a moment. "If you really want a lift, I think we can borrow a ride," says Hap, eyeing a fairly whole General Metro Czar. It's a big, white, stretch limousine with a few radio aerials hanging off its canopy. "You're not serious," I ask. "Very," says Hap. "Hey," he shrugs, turning to me, "The Paloma's officially been checked in; we need a loaner." We cruise north on Presley. "What's happening tomorrow?" I ask as we turn off onto the street leading to the Biafra Towers Complex. "Tomorrow," states Hap, "We make good on the sins of today." What the fuck? "Waxing cryptic on me, eh?" I mutter, popping open the back right door. Hap reaches underneath the seat of the Czar. He flashes a frown. "Missing something?" "Reading material," he replies, pulling away from the curb. I wave goodbye to him and shuffle into the lobby of Biafra A. The Otis lift is particularly vibrant on this most violent of days. "We make good on the sins of today"? Shit, how many . . . three from the limo, three of those stormdogs, a few Rough Riders; and that's just the armed casualties! I must have witnessed over a half-dozen deaths in the little time I was in the back seat of La Paloma! I stagger off the lift at the twelfth floor. The heavy plasma presses against my gut. Accessory to murder--that's the term. I also learned that in my pre-law classes. I am an accessory to murder--murders, plural. Did I do a damn thing about it? No. I sat and watched as Wolf blasted a wounded thug. I watched Nat pump rounds into the back of an unarmed man. Gomez, the Axemen of last night . . . I should be having nightmares about this. "Hello, Mister Umeda. We kinda stepped out of your apartment for a moment, and, we, y' see, we didn't have a key . . . that's why we're out here." I grunt to Chuck and Trevor and haul out my keycard. I run it through the door lock and open it. Some life. But at least I'm bothered about it! I'm no Natalie Hawthorne; an unarmed man! I'm no Jack Rawlings; I can't just kill and not think twice about it! I have a conscience. "Uh, is there a problem, Mister Umeda?" "Chuck, have you ever killed a man?" I inquire. He is silent for a moment. "Mind if I ask why you're asking?" "Yeah. I want to know what makes a man do that--to take another human's life and just fucking extinguish it. I mean, why?" Chuck is silent again. "Hate." I frown. "What the hell, Trevor? Hate? What about takin' care of your amigos? What about protectin' the Territory?" I turn around. "Did you just say hate?" I ask, puzzled. Trevor nods. I shake my head. "No, that's not it. "It's fear." "Yeah, that's it," agrees Chuck. "Fear that the other guy'll shoot first. Fear that he'll win if you don't act fast enough. That kinda shit." What the hell? I chuckle, realizing the ludicrous nature of our little conversation. Street philosophy with Chuck and Trevor! Today's guest--Karl Williams, reknowned chemical engineer and Marsec employee. Their topic will be the justification of capital punishment. "Uh, nevermind," I mumble. "You guys can take off; the lower southside amigos really fucked up the Axeholes. Hell, I don't think the Axemen even exist anymore. 'Su casa es nuestro casa ahora' or something." Chuck and Trevor raise their eyebrows. "You sure about that?" Chuck asks. "No," I reply. "But Oscuro's already demanding some Seger guy's head." "Shit," mutters Trevor. Chuck taps his pal on the shoulder. "C'mon, we can check the net." The two head down the hallway. I suddenly remember my empty fridge. "Uh, if it's not too much trouble--can you get me some more of that fried rice?" Trevor faces me. "No probem," he smiles, adjusting his belt buckle. 2/28/98
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