The autotaxi pulls over to the curb, its sympathetic grav engine fading to a dull hum. "Hey, this isn't-" "Sorry, bud. I can't get no closer. They don't let me do that." "How the hell am I supposed to- ?" "One of your damn 'amigos' has to drive you." The left passenger door springs open. I glare at the driver and slide out of the taxi. The car whirrs away before I'm on the sidewalk. "Fuck you," I mumble at its fading taillights. I kick the dusty concrete at my feet and stare up at the steel tangle that is the Senate of the Free Territories. Thousands of soft yellow lights dot the four corner towers, the skyways and the assorted lesser buildings within its center. I watch the lazy swing of a spotlight as it sweeps across the debris-filled no-man's land before me; I must cross it. As per Wolf's instructions, I went home, ate some crap from the lobby people, and slept. For my troubles I got another one of those nightmares of Nilwar speaking of Nat. "I TOO HAVE KILLED. . ." God, why can't I dream of something a tad more palatable--such as Grocke? Short of turning myself into Megapol and asking to be interrogated by "Casey", I can't think of any way to meet her again. Not that I'm worried we won't; something deep inside of me assures me that our meeting was not coincidence . . . "Hey, fucker! Hands up!" Great. Now I get to be mugged. I slowly pull my hands away from my body. "What the shit, he's an amigo!" exclaims another voice. I turn around, lowering my hands. A goggle-wearing lad in black synth-leather grabs my right hand and investigates the bronze band around my ring finger. "What's in Jehovah's name are you doing here?" asks a third voice. "Ring's good," states the kid. He hops back behind a dumpster--no, a dumpster-sized man. The huge amigo brandishes a six-barreled Popo autocannon and strides towards me. "I'm supposed to be at Oscuro's party," I mumble. "What kind of dumb-assed, fucked up lie is that?" asks the big guy. "Must be an Axehole who killed an amigo! Let's skin his yellow ass!" squeals the kid. "Hold it, Mark. Who's your fuckin' jefe?" "Nat Hawthorne, assholes." The big dude walks up and grabs my jaw. My vision flashes white--I twitch in a brief spasm of pain that slowly dissolves to acute discomfort. "You must be one of her fuckin' boy toys," says the giant, "if you ain't some dumb-ass Axehole who thinks they can waltz into the damn Senate behind a fuckin' stupid lie like that." I stand on tiptoes, unable to answer. "In Christ's name," mutters the voice which is neither big man's or monkey-boy's. "Let's throw him into the DMZ and ventilate his yellow dick!" suggests the aforementioned kid. "Say we caught him trying to get in!" "Fuck that," says the big guy. "Give him five seconds down the street and then plug his butt with a fire round." "Human fuckin' torch!" giggles the kid, surely rolling with mirth. "Hold it--looks like this amigo's what he says he is," says the third voice. "Nat's consort just paged the perimeter, wondering where this guy was. Looks like our little Cinderella is late for the ball." The giant sets me down. "Thank you," I manage, my jaw sore. "Mark, give this fool a ride," orders the big dude. I hear the little punk jog away, the soles of his boots clapping on the dry pavement. A turbobike hums to life, its twin headlights flaring up and swinging about to focus on me. I close my eyes; the bike hums over to me, and the giant manhandles me onto the back of the vinyl seat. "Grab the handles under your ass and squeeze your legs together," yells the kid. I open my eyes; his greasy black hair is about ten centimeters from my face. I reach down and clutch the thermoplastic grips . . . Not a moment too soon. The whiny punk slams the accelerator, and the bike screams down the three hundred meter stretch of the 'DMZ'. We careen away at an insane speed and I cling to the bike for dear life. A spotlight beam flits over us; I spot the distinctive gleam and coil of barbed wire to both our sides. Slowing down only slightly to weave through the dense pack of warehouses and low tenements nestled within the cube of the Senate, Mark pulls before an inferno-emblazoned warehouse. Two black-clad thugs with Popo Edgars slung over their shoulders step out of a small doorway. "He says he's with Thorne--we found him fucking around at the edge of the DMZ," blares the kid. I hop off the bike. The guard reaches in a pocket on his black jumpsuit, fishes out a cigarette, and lights it. He pulls on it, taking his sweet time. "Get lost," he mutters at the kid. Mark tears away, his bike's exposed symp-grav drive doing the whining for him. I shift nervously before the two guards. "Weapons?" asks the smoking one. I pull out my plasma, flip it over, and hand it to his companion. He pockets it and runs a weapons detection baton over my body. "Arms," he orders. I raise them and he checks my armpits for weapons. "Clean," he grunts to the smoking guard. That man raises his eyebrows. "Honesty's the best policy?" I mumble. "Damn straight," the smoker replies. A long moment passes. "Downstairs," says the other one. The doorway is a dark, black hole into the ground. A dull, throbbing crimson tint colors my vision as I descend the steps. On every landing or so is a black-clad guard, seated on a barstool and cleaning their Edgar or M4000 machine gun. They eye me as I pass; and the distant pulse of some demonic breakbeat grows. I stride down three flights of stairs, my breath growing shorter with every step. I recognize the stink of nicotine and the stench of spilt beer, and I even remember the names of the composers who cursed the world with the rhythm that now shakes my bone marrow, but I cannot name that particular sensation with which I am now gripped. Before me is a pair of wide, steel kitchen doors. A wicked wave of laughter and applause seeps through the cracks. Ah. Its name is fear. I slam them open. The shockwave strikes me. Music--if you can call it that-- inundates the atmosphere of the room, a sheer pulse of ultra-low frequency compressions that crush back the hairs on my arms and neck. Free-form drumming welts my eardrums but I stagger onward. A pit in the center of this hellish room overflows with people. Four hollow pillars lined chain link fencing denote its corners. Thugs, punks and generally fucked-up slummers slam into each other in rough time to the throb of the breakbeat and the flare of a multicolored strobe light array hanging above. Screaming, hooting, ricocheting off walls and other ravers, the insane throng reeks of alcohol and Kay. The aroma within is a potpourri of a thousand odors. Besides the overwhelming stench of sweat and spilt beer, I can detect putrid urine, sickly vomit, stale nicotine, a trace of marijuana, and the subtle flowery scent of aerosol Kay. Straight across from me is a long bar, a dirty mirror behind hundreds of bottles of liquors, some familiar and some unrecognizable. The stretch of formica is raised out of the mosh pit, and dozens of synth-leather clad bikers lean over it, shiny chains and zippers hanging out of their pockets. I smell wine. To my right is another raised area, occupied by heaped speakers. Old 'eighteen inch' models seem to be the smallest of them-- two huge matte black boxes, easily my shoulder height, are the main subwoofers. They render the very act of walking difficult. I unsteadily step towards the mosh pit; it feels like a goddamn earthquake. I turn my eyes to the left just as I reach the first step of the short stairway down into the mosh pit. Opposite the speakers sits Oscuro, lounging in a massive carved . . . throne? Indeed, it is him, his evil dark brown eyes closed, a smile on his bearded lips. Pedante and another man flank him. Hap lounges in a couch to Oscuro's left with some prostitute; Wolf lies on the floor like a dog. Nat sits in the Diablo jefe's lap. She notices that I've finally spotted her and waves me over. Sensory overload. I muscle my way through the mosh pit, receiving an elbow in my ribs and numerous jabs to my abdomen. A chain presses across my back; I lose my sense of direction and become prisoner to the satanic breakbeat. And then I collapse out of the pit, my breath gone, at the feet of the steps leading up to Oscuro. "Mister Williams!" bellows Oscuro over the music. "Peace!" yells Wolf. He stands up and helps me to the top of the platform. "Fucking crazy," I stammer. "Fucking crazy." "Fucking awesome!" retorts Wolf. The breakbeat crashes to halt. The thin, mousy man to Oscuro's left draws a finger across his throat; I glance over the pit behind me, spotting the pair of mixers manning the consoles controlling the speaker system. The long-haired, white-robed men sit in a high, thermoplastic encased box, working synthesizers and chained samplers and generally looking like the gods of Mount Olympus. "Mister Williams," repeats Oscuro. "I trust that your masters are pleased?" The cavern goes surprisingly quiet. I can hear my heartbeat over the assorted bodily noises of the ravers behind me. I clear my throat, Oscuro still waiting for my response. "Um, no disrespect, sir, but I haven't the faintest idea what you're talking about." The Diablo chieftain grins, his broad face somewhat less than demonic. "The communication you relayed to me informed me that you wouldn't. As an interesting note, I recall that a significant majority of the message was devoted to the sheer extent of what you don't know or are misinformed about." I answer him with some sort of apparently amusing and ignorant facial expression. He chuckles, a bass rumble. "It struck me that someone was perhaps a little overconcerned with validating your idiocy." "They didn't need to go to all that trouble," chirps Wolf. Oscuro, Pedante, and Wolf share a good laugh. "But enough is enough. You are too high-strung, Mister Williams. Get drunk and enjoy yourself." "Wine!" yells Wolf to a harried barkeeper. The frazzled man looks up and underhands a bottle at him. Wolf barely catches it. He hands it to me and pops off the plastic cap. I sniff it-- cheap synth-grape shit. Oh hell. I knock down a slug. The familiar warmth is a welcome familiarity in this bizarre post-midnight dream. The couch next to Hap's "friend" looks inviting, so I fall into it. The springs are shot, and I find myself nearly staring up at the ceiling. Hap looks across the shapely chest of his companion and nods hello. I salute him with my bottle. "Who's this?" I ask as the mixers break out a fresh track of bass-heavy thudding sprinkled with unintelligible vocal samples. "Nicole," he yells back. "Hello," I shout. "Hi," she replies. My brain's gears slowly set to work, but the whacked-out beat of this composition hijacks my brain, and I can't think straight. I embrace the failure of my faculties with another long slurp of the wine--which seems to be getting better the more of it I ingest. However, my consciousness gives ground only grudgingly. Despite the combined assault of one hundred fifty beat-per-minute tom breaks and whatever Nutrivend fermented soy juice I'm sucking down at an alarming rate, synapses still fire. "Have we met before?" I ask the girl to my right. "Morrison Avenue," she replies. A decisive victory for my intuition! "Is this--are you the poor--did we pick you up that night?" She nods her head. "Why aren't you--with Pedante?" I stammer. "The Church is buying out her obligation," states Hap. I lean forwards and look over Nicole to the driver. "Obligation? What the fuck is that?" "It's a debt," states Hap. "An obligation means you owe something big to all the other amigos. It's why Nick's here," he says, touching her arm, "it's why Wolf's here, and it's why I'm here." The furious beat dies in midmeasure; Nat slides off Oscuro and nonchalantly salutes the two mixer men in their plastic cage. They respond by crossing their fisted arms and nodding goodnight. The speaker stage goes dark. Oscuro stands. Thugs and punks clear the floor, finding seats on the edge of the mosh pit or standing next to the bar. Nat sits on the throne's armrest. "Amigos mio," rumbles Oscuro, "Tonight we celebrate a decisive victory . . . " "We have gone to war against Osiron and won!" The partiers scream and holler various obscenities. Fists are shaken in the smoky cavern air, some gangsters spitting at the name of the other gang, some crossing themselves and looking skyward. Oscuro quiets them with a wave of his hand. "Thousands of amigos affirmed their bravery in this guerra by driving the out the twin pestilences known as the Axemen and the Rough Riders. Many more people may now breath the sweet air of the Free Territories, air earned with the blood of amigos. Courageous, honorable amigos . . ." He stares over the crowd, his deep brown eyes silencing drunks and dopeheads. "Amigos added five hundred city blocks to the Territories and buried one thousand Osiron whores in this guerra," he states. The crowd voices its approval. "But we bought that victory with two hundred dead." The crowd goes silent. The Diablo jefe turns to Hap and orders him to rise with a sweep of his arm. Wolf stands also, grabbing my shoulder and pulling me up. I blush heavily, realizing that everybody in this whole damn subbasement is staring at us. "These three amigos are Mike Force, Karl Williams and Seņor Reynolds," says Oscuro. He delicately wraps a massive, muscled arm around Nat's waist. The jefe lightly kisses her forehead. "And this is my dove," he murmurs. "Of those thousand enemies of the Free Territories, these four took one of great importance to myself . . . " Oscuro releases Nat, steps forward, and falls on his knees. "GOMEZ, MI HERMANITO, ES MUERTO!" he bellows. The floor beneath me shivers. Somebody yells "Fuck yeah!" but is quickly silenced by the other members of the audience. All eyes are on the jefe. I assume that this is not a regular occurrence. Oscuro covers his face with one hand and holds the other out to the crowd. "You, you may cheer--he betrayed you as well--but stay your hurrahs for a little while so that I may tell you the story of Gomez." "What the-" "Shut up," whispers Wolf. "Arturo and I grew up together--in the dark times, before the Free Territories. We met on the streets, and learned to watch out for each other, for neither of us had any families--mi mama had died in childbirth and Arturo had been abandoned. "We became like this-" the giant holds a clenched fist to his heart, "and soon we called each other family. "Arturo was mi hermanito! He was my little brother and I was his big brother. He would watch my back, and I would watch his. Together, we were respected. Together, we survived. "But the streets were no place for us, so we found work for the big construction company. Arturo and I were strong, smart, and hard workers. I became a foreman, Arturo my right hand. "We were their best employees," Oscuro smiles. "But hanging from the high steel, I could see our old barrio, our old streets. I remembered the fear and the pain that flowed through the alleys and basements down there, and I knew that something was not right, no era justo--and I could not just be content to flee from the streets. I could not spend my life working for the rich- -I had to work for the people, la gente. I had to do something. "That something meant returning to the streets. I spoke with Arturo for weeks. He was hesitant at first--but when I told him that I had decided to go back no matter what, he joined me. It was he who first learned of my plan to create the Free Territories." Oscuro looks to both his sides. Pedante and the man on his left step forward. "He was one of us! Los cuatro caballeros!" The three hold their right arms up, fists clenched and knuckles white. They close their eyes and bow their heads. Oscuro looks up, Pedante and the other stepping back. "That was when there were only four amigos. Now we number in the thousands. Why? Because I was right--the people wanted a safe place to raise their children. A refuge from wars and Megapol. A place to grow gray hair. I was right, and we made it big. "Arturo was no small part of that. Four years ago, when everyone went hungry for so long, he came to me and said, 'Enrique, the people are starving. We must get them food.' I asked him, 'But how? Nutrivend will not sell to us!' "He smiled and said, 'Then we will grow our own.' And that is how the Territories survived! We grew our own! We had the greenhouses," Oscuro shrugs, "I just needed to be reminded of what was important." I spot the side of Oscuro's face; he beams broadly . . . and then it all crashes down--storm clouds roll down from his thick eyebrows and his irises go red. "But Arturo did not heed his own advice. "He fell in love." The jefe reaches back with his left hand. Nat kneels down and takes it. "If she had been a woman, I would have understood. But no-- Arturo fell in love with money! Con dinero!" He reaches into his side pocket and pulls out a roll of bills. The jefe pitches it to the floor before him. None of the partiers even eye the fat wad of cash. "And I watched as mi hermanito died! Arturo Gomez died and was replaced by Avaricio Gomez! "More, more, more! Where he once told me to grow vegetables, he cursed me for wasting water and greenhouses on food, not marijuana! Where he once stopped and jumped rope with the young children, he sped through in his big car and nearly hit them! He forgot about the Territories! He forgot about the people! Oscuro closes his eyes. "It was a short time later that he left me." The cavern is silent. "So, when I heard of the news, I cried. 'Gomez is dead,' mi hermanito is dead. But I did not mourn his passing. Arturo died long ago to me; his body was just delayed in following his soul. I cried because I was happy, happy that mi hermanito was finally laid to rest." He looks with bloodshot eyes over the crowd, turning on his knees to we who stand behind him. "When a soul no longer resides in its physical form . . ." The giant Latino collapses into Nat's arms, the words "it is not murder" muffled by her body. The partiers are silent, somewhat sobered by the unfamiliar emotions of their great and precocious leader. Some of the more intoxicated ones stir around restlessly, and the quiet buzz of whispered conversations breaks out. Someone even gets around to reaching for Oscuro's cash. A black boot heel comes down on the bills. The thin, tan- faced man hops down from the stage and kicks away the thug. With lean fingers he reaches down and retrieves the money. Climbing back on stage, scans the crowd. He sneers and strides back to his spot on the left side of the throne. "Takes a real man to say something like that," he mutters. Oscuro stands, eyes somewhat redder. He is supported by Nat. "Amigos," he speaks, the party people shutting up in a hurry, "Two more things before the conclusion of this celebration." He gestures Hap to join him before the audience. The driver uneasily walks over. Oscuro throws his free arm over Hap's shoulder. "A few minutes ago, I referred to this man as Seņor Reynolds. For his display of incredible skill and courage in maintaining my beautiful flower's life," Oscuro kisses Nat again, "I hereby declare that everyone shall call him Seņor, not just myself." The bikers at the bar turn to Hap and salute him with a wide variety of alcoholic beverages. He touches his fingers to his brow in return, smiling. "Mister Williams!" says Oscuro. Jesus. I unsteadily march over to face the gang boss. "Yes?" I ask. Nat grabs my hand and slips off my bronze ring. Am I free? Is this the end of my tenure among the psychotic? Subtly wicked grin on her anime face, she reaches into one of the long slits on her pants. Her delicate hand returns holding a silver band . . . She slides it on slowly and kisses me. Great. "Mister Karl Williams is the man footing our catering bill," declares Oscuro. When nobody seems to get it, he roars, "Say 'Thank You, Karl!'" "Thank you Karl," replies the crowd. I feel something bounce off my left leg. It's another bottle of wine. I reach down, pick it up, and nod to the crowd. Oscuro staggers back to his throne. "Bring them in," he says. Black-clad guards haul in big aluminum posts through a door to one side of the bar. They plant them in four holes located in the center of the pit, creating a square with about five meters to a side. Thin razor wire is strung around this boundary . . . The main entrance bursts open, guards manhandling in a pair of roughed-up men. One wears shredded blue jeans and a dirty trenchcoat, the other black synth leather. Both sport burlap bags over their heads. The guards force them to their knees before Oscuro. "Edward Seger! Mickey Takayama!" he bellows down at the trenchcoat and the biker, the full fury of his anger restored, "you are not men! Seger, former so-called leader of the Axemen, you are a moral degenerate who preys upon allies and enemies alike. Takayama, former so-called leader of the Rough Riders, you are a coward who has never fought a fair fight in your short life! I would sooner cut off both your testicles and finish off the job you yourselves have already started than waste my breath addressing your deaf ears! "However, tonight I offer you the chance to redeem yourselves! Call it a crash course in courage and honor, if you will." Oscuro raises a broad hand to the cage being assembled behind the pair. "Both of you will be provided weapons and placed in the ring. Conduct yourselves with honor, and I may grant the survivor a new life." The Jefe Grande pulls a minidisk from his black tee shirt pocket. He holds it above the blinded men. "I hold in my hand a single Transtellar pass out of MegaPrime." Wolf sits on the couch's arm next to me. "What- ?" "Pokestick," he answers. The razor wire is strung unevenly around the sides, leaving a large gap on the far side. Seger and Takayama are pulled up by their collars. "Left hands out," growls a guard. He roughly grips the extended hands, presses their palms together, and holds a vice-like tool around them. I hear a low "thunk"; Seger and Takayama writhe in soundless, agonizing pain. The guard steps away with the cruel device; a shiny metal bolt ringed with blood and bone shards protrudes from the back of Seger's hand. "Ouch," I mutter. Nicole squirms next to me. "Industrial riveter," whispers Hap. Linked together, the maimed pair are escorted around to the open side of the cage. Their masks are pulled off, and the surly, heavyset brow of Seger glares up at Oscuro. "You will not commence until I give the signal," announces Oscuro. Seger spits on the floor. A guard immediately muscles him down, snapping the Axeman's jaw on the concrete. "Clean it off!" he rasps. Seger makes an ugly face as he licks up his saliva. He leaves a long wet patch. "Inside," orders the guard. Takayama looks through black and blue eyes at Seger. The Axeman eyes the dozen guards and the pistols poking out from behind their belts. He glares back. This isn't going to be pretty. Seger steps through the gap in the wire, followed closely by the Japanese. "Right hands," says the guard. The duo reach out of the cage for their weapons--broad butcher's cleavers, the kind used in Sensovision horror flicks. Jesus. "Isn't Oscuro worried that they'll throw them?" I ask Wolf. "What?" he replies. The guard with the vice presses it over Seger's right hand. Other guards firmly grasp his arm . . . A bolt goes through the handle of the cleaver . . . and Seger's right hand. The guards repeat the procedure with a pale Takayama. "Never mind," I mumble, my stomach going weak. "Honor! Courage!" demands Oscuro. The crowd roars in accordance. The two thugs, in immense pain, stumble to the center of the cage. "May the best man win," speaks Oscuro. The ravers go wild, pitching plastic cups of beer and insults at the already bleeding contenders. Seger and Takayama, blades drawn back, stare at each other, somewhat dumbfounded at their predicament. "What are you shits waiting for? KILL THE FUCKER!" a gangster shouts as beer splashes over Seger's jeans. The two captured gang leaders are statues, Seger breathing fast and hard and Takayama consciously breathing slow. "They're not going to fight!" yells Wolf. "Cowardice, not friendship, stays their hands," asserts Oscuro. "They'll fight," rasps the thin man standing to Oscuro's left. "When they do, one grand says the Jap cuts Seger into meat confetti," smiles the jackal Pedante. He scratches his groin. Seger's eyes flash, and he pulls on his left arm, drawing Takayama in. The biker swings his cleaver high, aiming for Seger's head. The Axeman ducks and hacks the Japanese's kneecap. The crowd roars with approval, and Oscuro sadly beams down upon the two. "Like animals," he loudly whispers. Takayama is not done, however, and he yanks Seger in, delivering a savage strike into the Axeman's left shoulder. He strikes bone and blood splashes as he withdraws his blade. Insane with hurt, the Axeman leader dodges the next blow and wraps his left leg around Takayama's. The two go down in a pile, cracking skulls on the bloody cement; Seger brings down his cleaver millimeters from the other slummer's head. A meaty slice of Takayama's outer ear graces Seger's axe. "Shit," murmurs my old 'friend' from Buenos. Pedante wrings his hands. But the Japanese man reaches up around the Axeman's torso, dragging the near corner of his cleaver down across Seger's rib cage. The jagged blade slices through trenchcoat, tee shirt, and flesh easily. A geyser of crimson splatters down on the Rider. "Fuck YEAH!" shouts Wolf, his fist clenched. Seger staggers up, recieving brutal swipes across his thighs. He's in rough shape; blood bubbles from the corner of his mouth. Dragging Takayama after him, he retreats to a corner. The biker stumbles up, and Seger hammers his head with the handle of his weapon. Takayama grunts in pant, blood running down the side of his head. The Axeman chief desperately hacks at the Japanese's left arm, mangling muscles, tendons and nerves. Takayama snarls like an animal and draws his cleaver back. Seger backs up into the razor wire. The scruff of his neck catches in the tangle. He howls in pain. The Rider brings his blade around at incredible speed, a silver blur that is only stopped by Seger's neck. Mouth agape, a torrent of vermilion pouring down his shirt, the Axeman slowly slides down the wire, the back of his scalp torn off in the process. Takayama, still breathing slow and controlled, sits down on his knees. Guards are already ripping down the razor wire, rewinding it for some other night's use. Two of them crouch through the far side. One firmly grips Takayama's right arm while the other pulls out the rivet and the cleaver with a big pair of pliers. The exhausted, battered biker doesn't fight them. The next man through sprays some green goo onto the Japanese man's wounds. Nobody bothers helping Seger, though they do yank him out of the wire so they can put it away. As soon as the nasty twine is wound up around heavy steel spindles, Takayama is dragged forwards. Goop hangs off of his head, his knee, his left arm and both his hands. I watch the guards pump painkillers into him . . . "Mickey, you have proven yourself," rumbles Oscuro, like some sort of demented god. "Here is your reward." The jefe flicks the minidisk to the floor. Takayama scrambles after it, trying to clutch it with his limp, dumb hands. He just manages to smear the concrete with green glop. He starts to cry when he can't even hold it between the palms of his shattered appendages. Oscuro leans over to the man to his left. "Stick him on the six PM to Brannock." "Economy class?" "Yes, but supply him with a speech impediment so he doesn't give the other passengers a hard time." The man nods. The guards hoist up Takayama, who is still desperately scratching at the disk. He squeals, a long, rasping cough, and then black blood flows down his pants. "Shit!" yells a guard, reattaching a portable medikit to the wounded man. I look away. I can taste bile in my mouth. "Two birds with one stone," repeats Hap. "I am going to puke," I stammer. Hap stands and whispers to the unnamed man next to Oscuro. The thin man nods as the last pole is removed from the floor. Gray- suited janitors wipe the floor clean with wide, damp mops reeking of ammonia. Hap strides for the floor. "Where are you going?" I ask. "Bathroom," he replies. My stomach gurgles--between the two bottles of wine and that barbaric trial-by-meataxe ritual I just witnessed, I really feel the vomit rising in my throat. "Wait for me," I gurgle. I lean over a garbage dumpster behind the party building, the bitter taste of Chinese food rehashed only matched by the putrid reek of decomposing . . . something. I pull my head up and spit on the concrete. "Jesus Fucking Christ," I stammer, "how can they do shit like that?" "That's how Diablo works, Karl." I rest my head on a cold brick wall. "Fuck, sure." A random thought beats its way from my subconscious. If this is how Diablo works, then why the fuck are you here? "If you were Popo, then why are you here?" Hap lights a cigarette and leans against a graffiti mural. "Easy. I owe them big." "How--what?" "I owe them a standing obligation." "For what?" Hap closes his eyes and sucks on the cigarette. "They saved my life." I sit down on the warm pavement. "Huh?" "It was supposed to be a typical SWAT raid. Small-time Nagoya Brother who'd inhaled a little too much Kay and gotten a fat head. He forgot just who was in charge of MegaPrime and made some people on the force dead. Unofficial Megapol policy is that cop killers don't get a trial--they just get a pair of bullets in their head. "So a SWAT assault team was sent to deliver those bullets. I was a Captain back then; my squadron landed escort duty. "I pulled strings and got extra ships released for this mission; I didn't want to lose anybody to some stupid hoverbiker. Plus, I figured that if the Brother tried to skip in a Phoenix, we'd get a fat piece of the glory pie. Hap eyes me. "I'm boring you, right?" I shake my head. "If it's important to you, then it's important to me." He continues. "There were six craft in my squadron. Four Gazelle scoutcars, my Lion cruiser, and Frank, my number two, in an Elephant heavy. The SWAT people were riding in a pair of modified Lion gunships. I won't go into the specifics, but we were comfortably armed for bear. "The raid was scheduled for late evening, around twelve. Twelve oh eight, actually. The target was sixty blocks to the west of the Wall; we came in low, fast, and hard all the way. I was five hundred meters off the lead Gazelle's tail when it took a missile in its drive. "It was some Nagoya idiot standing out on a rooftop with a portable SAM launcher. The scout he hit went down immediately, but the fool didn't know that I would be right behind it, strafing his pretty behind. "I later figured out that this particular moron had fired prematurely. I have to thank him; he saved a lot of lives." Hap takes a long drag. "Because of that missile, I ordered the SWAT people to drop back behind Frank's Elephant. They were braking hard when the first volley of rockets went up--maybe twenty or so. The SWAT ships dodged and scrambled immediately--mission profile didn't account for a hot LZ. They weren't prepared, so they ran. Hap stares up at the stars. "Frank couldn't run. Elephants aren't built for speed, and I'll admit that he wasn't gifted for a pilot. He took a most of the first volley, so he stood his air and emptied his missile racks at the likely offenders' buildings. An unlucky SAM in the second volley caught his cockpit's oxygen tank." "Was he killed?" Hap flicks his cigarette butt onto the dirty pavement and stamps it out, little red coals still glowing. "Yes." Hap just stares up at the faint twinkle of distant stars through the yellow haze of the city. I feel stupid for asking the question. "With my number two down, I scrubbed the whole mission. My cruiser was banged up, and one of my Gazelles was limping from a rocket. I took off with my remaining scouts and booked it for base." Hap sighs and pulls out another cigarette. "That was when the Valk lifted." He lights it with a thin green butane torch. "The Brothers weren't content to have simply ambushed us; they wanted a fucking massacre. Like I said, the SWAT people were already on the way; they somehow dodged that damn gray bird, but me and my Gazelles weren't so lucky. The Valkyrie had maybe ten hoverbikes and two Phoenixes as friends." "What did you do? Ditch?" Hap just glares at me. "I do not ditch," he mutters darkly. He burns me with his eyes for a few more moments and then sucks on his cigarette greedily. "I pulled the ships into a tight formation and tore into the Nagoya ships. I might've made it--except that these weren't any damn Nagoya trash. The Valk and the Phoenixes were on rent from Vulture Squadron--Osiron mercenaries, tough as they come. "They cut apart my scout screen like they were cleaning off a windshield. All three Gazelles went down within about thirty seconds of each other. They took maybe two hoverbikes with them. Hap stares at me--not so much in anger, though. "I promise you that Tuesday's ride was a Sunday drive compared to that night. I took about five laser hits and half my cruiser's weight in depleted uranium slugs beating my way up to that Valk. I nailed a bike coming in--but that was by accident. The only ship I wanted down was that Valk." I recall last Tuesday's mad flight--the searing flash of that near miss . . . "I take it that you didn't kill it." Hap shakes his head. "I ran my cannons red pumping shells into that damn gray Valkyrie, and in return I lost my engine, my computer, and by luck, my transponders, both main and emergency. My cruiser was one crispy biscuit." Hap closes his eyes and sucks in much of the cancer stick. "I was gliding on my Lion's airfoil coming away from the Valk--and believe me, Megapol cruisers were not made to glide. I crashed my way across a pair of rooftops before dropping about ten stories into a vacant lot. "The Valk left me for dead. I pretty much was. I crawled out of my cruiser with both of my legs snapped from the impact while my magazine cooked off. I thank God that those Lions are compartmentalized; I made it to the street before the Elerium went up." Hap waves the stub of his cigarette at me. "A sight I hope you never have to see, Karl. It's like a nuclear blast." He pitches this butt into the dumpster where I puked. Hands slightly shaking, he pulls out another . . . "So I was twenty blocks out from the wall, with both my legs broken and only a nine millimeter and a pair of tear gas grenades to defend myself. Not good. I had packed a medikit in my cruiser, but that was more or less slag . . . I knew I was going to die of blood loss or shock if I didn't get medivac." "Did they come?" Hap shakes his head. "Seven years on the force, and they didn't sent a squad car to scrape up my ashes. Seven years! You don't want to know what I was thinking . . . for a while I had that nine millimeter aimed at my head. But I lost consciousness before I could do anything stupid. "I figured I must've lay on that sidewalk for thirty minutes before Nat drove by." "Nat? I thought you were flying in Nagoya territory?" "There aren't ten places in the city where you can buy ginseng, and all of them are in Nagoya turf." "What's ginseng?" "Oriental spice." "She was shopping?" "Yeah--but that's not important. What's important is that she hauled my ass back from the edge. She saw the air battle and wondered who the guy was in the unmarked vehicle charging the big Osiron Valk. She drove by the wreckage, saw my body, and pulled me in." "Didn't you try to, uh, shoot her or anything?" Hap looks at me with an ugly face. "Like I said, my body and my soul were about fifteen seconds away from permanently saying goodbye to each other. I don't remember much about her picking me up--mainly that I thought she was an angel." More like angel of death. "She didn't know that you were Popo?" "It's Megapol, moron," Hap looks down the dead-end alley towards its entrance. Two wings of the rave warehouse border it. "And no, she didn't know I was Megapol. Like I said, my transponder was fried and my jumpsuit was all ripped up. She thought I was some gang hotshot." Which, I suppose he now is. No. Judging by the way he handled La Paloma last Tuesday, Megapol must train their pilots pretty damn well. I don't think there's another man in Diablo who can fly like that . . . I hope I don't hang around here long enough to find out. "So what happened?" I ask. "Nat hauled you back here, patched you up, and made you drive her around?" Hap flicks the ash off the tip of his cigarette. "Almost." He pulls on it. "Yeah, they put me back together at no small expense. Of course, they could've just shot me once they found out that I was Megapol, but Nat wouldn't have that." Hap grits his teeth. "No, she didn't want that. "She wanted me as an amigo." Hap tosses aside the unfinished cigarette. "Back then I would've died before working for somebody like Oscuro. Nat figured that out in a hurry--they weren't going to beat me into becoming an amigo. They weren't going to blackmail me, either." "No family?" "I'm an orphan." I snort. In this age of impotence and waiting lines for stock-gene babies, there is nothing more disgusting than the thousands of orphaned children, taken from Kayhead mothers in the slums, that create an infinite well of cheap, skilled labor for the corporations. Raise a child, teach him all the math and engineering he needs, and then have him work for you . . . another brilliant idea courtesy of Jack Rawlings. "So why aren't you . . . flying cruisers and busting bikers?" Hap looks away from me, again casting his eyes on the rows of dumpsters and debris, the thin beams of the tower-mounted searchlights drifting by. "I have to thank Megapol for my current situation," he sneers. "Nat dumped me off at the Clinic after she decided that I wasn't any good to Diablo in my current state. My old pals on the force," and he forces the words from his mouth, "took me from the Clinic and dropped me into a holding cell." "What?" "They fucking arrested me. Word was that the destruction of my entire squadron wasn't any accident--no, someone inside had warned the Brothers that we were coming. Why they suspected me, I have no fucking clue--I mean, it was physically impossible for me to do that! We were in the air before I received the coordinates of the target site." "They thought you were on the gang rolls?" "Yeah, and having Diablo fingerprints all over me didn't help at all. I figure it must've been someone further up the chain--someone in command--who got Frank killed and my squadron dead." "Who was driving the Gazelles?" "Intels. Megapol has a hard enough time keeping decent pilots; they don't want to waste them in scoutcars." Hap sits down across from me, his broad back pressed against a steel dumpster. "And that's why you're here?" Hap looks up at me with bloodshot eyes. "Like I said before, Megapol is real, real harsh on cop killers. But two bullets aren't anything compared to what they'll do to a traitor. I've seen the unofficial memos that would get passed around--guys who drew pay from less-than-legit organizations winding up castrated and hanging naked from their apartment windows . . . "I'm told that some of the Internal Affairs people are really handy with laser scalpels. Cut you apart, right down to your internal organs--all without killing you or making you faint." Hap rests his head in his hands. "How did you-" Hap glares at me. "Just for the record, let me tell you this. I never took any money from the Brothers while I was with Megapol. I didn't get Frank killed. I'm here because I don't feel like going quietly--letting the real motherfuckers 'terminate my contract' and keep up business as usual. Diablo protects me, and in exchange, I help them out a little." I nod. What else can I do? "So nobody really wants to be part of Diablo?" Hap snorts, his eyes closed. "Sure," he mutters, "there are amigos who don't know any better. There are always sheep; kids who need a father, a family. But there are more than a few of us here who don't have that . . . love inside of us. I don't want to be here, Mike doesn't, and I'm pretty sure you don't. A merry bunch we are." "Surely." We are silent for a dozen seconds. I stand up and brush off my pants. "Are tonight's festivities over?" "Yeah. Just make sure you say goodbye to el Jefe on the way out. He appreciates good manners." "You're not coming with me?" Hap shakes his head. "You brought back some things I want to think over . . ." I bob my head and go for the door. A trio of flatpanel monitors sit in the deserted mosh pit. A thin, seedy looking woman peers through them--Oscuro glares back. "Two hundred thousand advance. Half a million after each success--which is defined as dead. No incapacitations. Dead, proof being the removal of at least two of their cervical vertebrae. One submitted to me, the other for your files. One million bonus if you eliminate all five within the designated time. Am I understood?" "It's steep," she replies, furtively glancing around. She spots me walking into the camera's field of view. "Who's that?" she asks, panic in her voice. "Karl Williams, Junior Lieutenant," announces the unnamed man to Oscuro's left. Pedante, Wolf, and Nicole are gone. Oscuro, Nat and the strange man stare back into the monitors. Oscuro returns to the previous line of conversation. "Yes, I demand much--in turn, I offer more than sufficient compensation." "Five hundred thousand advance. I have expenses to cover." Oscuro's right arm twitches violently. "You bleed me, Miss May." "Quico, you can always get some street shit for a hundredth my fee. But will they get the job done? No. You get what you pay for, and I need that extra three hundred thousand." "Very well-" "And what if one of the targets dies a 'natural death' before I can get to them? Do I lose that one mil bonus? Quico, don't fuck with me about this--if your people can take one of these jokers themselves, don't waste my time." Oscuro throws up his arms, chuckling and peeved. "I am constantly amazed by the dexterity of your cognitive processes," he smiles. "Knock off the flattery, you big teddy bear. Which one is the easy?" The boss nods to the thin man at his side. He taps on an arm- mounted PDA. The person on the monitors snorts. "The Marsec Vice-President? That's the last one I'd ever think amigos would have inroads to. Very well. Four targets, five hundred thousand each, advance of five hundred thousand, and one million bonus for completion-" "With only four targets? A million bonus-" The woman glares at Oscuro. "Quico-" "Fine, fine, chica. But no incapacitations. And I want those spinal fragments!" "You'll have your proofs." "Very well then. Adios, Miss May." "Goodbye, Quico." The monitors fade to black. Oscuro turns and beams at me. "Tell your masters at Solmine that we shall fulfill their requests," he says. "Solmine?" "Or Marsec, or whatever the mind-benders programmed into your little Asian head. We will complete the tasks outlined." Wolf stops me on the stairs. "You going to be at the big rally tomorrow?" "Rally?" "The SELF rally with Flannery speaking--come on, you know-" "Isn't Megapol going to show up?" "They won't dare--the Senators themselves will be watching." "I don't know-" Wolf pats me on the shoulder. "Nat and I will pick you up around ten in the morning." Nat brushes by my side. "Later, Peace," she purrs. I go home, sleep in late, and eat food from the reception for lunch. The rest of the day is spent on trivial tasks like the laundry and reading smut off the intranet. I'm so bored I even glance through the instruction manual for my plasma pistol. After cleaning the lint out of its barrel, I lean back and check for mail--I seem to recall having an alert for messages a few days ago. Nothing is there. I raise my eyebrows and resume reading about the penetration capabilities of the Type Two plasma. 3/26/98
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