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  He wasn’t, but the man swallowed and nodded his head anyway. I made a mental note to stay as far away from him as I possibly could. They guy had “casualty” written all over him, and I had no desire to die.

  After that we were issued one-size-fits-damned-near-everybody body armor, feather-light headsets, and a call sign. Norris invented them on the spot, and mine was “Lurch.” It could have been worse, so I didn’t complain.

  Then, exactly one hour and fifteen minutes after Jaspers had started his presentation, we were ready to go. And not through the public walkways as I had assumed, but down through the nearly empty lift tubes, stairways, and corridors normally reserved for Zeebs and other officials. It had taken me the better part of an hour to reach the surface from Sub-Level 38 of the Sea-Tac Residential-Industrial Urboplex. It took less than fifteen minutes to make the trip back down. Not to Sub-Level 38, but to Sub-Level 35, which is almost the same thing. A fact which I found to be rather interesting, since it meant the entire transportation system was intentionally rather than accidentally screwed up. I had just started to ask myself why when my call sign surfaced in the middle of the mumbo-jumbo that had passed through my ears but missed my mind. “Is that okay with you, Lurch?”

  I had absolutely no idea what Norris was talking about and decided to take a chance. “Umblepop. I mean, yeah, sure.”

  “Good,” Norris said smoothly, “then come up here with me so you’ll be handy when the time comes.”

  I groaned internally, worked my way forward, and joined Norris at the head of the column. “Never volunteer for anything.” That’s the second or third maxim of every military organization I ever heard of, and I had somehow managed to violate it.

  A pair of Zeebs approached. The Zeebs take their name from the skin-tight suits they wear. Suits that are white with diagonal black stripes. They look great on Olympic athletes and terrible on everyone else. Including this pair.

  Norris motioned us against the wall. The first cop, a nasty piece of work with meaty thighs, started to say something but bit the words off when Norris flashed some interactive I.D. It recognized the Zeeb, read out some code, and the police continued on their way. I don’t know about the others, but I was impressed.

  I waited for the order to move out, but Norris stared into space, listened to a voice via her earplugs, and subvocalized a response. She nodded, said something else, and turned to us. “Okay, boys and girls, take five but stay off the air. We’re waiting for teams three, eight, and sixteen to reach their launch points.”

  I leaned against the wall. You had to give the corpies credit.

  They might be assholes, but they were competent assholes, and knew how to get things done. Like launching all the teams at once so it would be impossible for one set of scrappers to warn the rest. Yeah, the plan was well conceived. But even the best laid plans have a tendency to come apart when the shooting starts. Norris interrupted my thoughts.

  “Okay, people, time to rock and roll…Now remember, don’t fire unless fired at, and watch out for noncombatants.”

  The truth was that it was damned hard to find any noncombatants below Sub-Level 15 or so, but we understood what she meant, and nodded obediently. I had no desire to grease the pathetic slobs that worked in the scrappers’ sweat shops, and the others didn’t either.

  Still, it didn’t hurt to check our weapons and the backup mags slotted into pockets on the front of our chest armor. I didn’t like the Glock’s teeny-weeny grips, but the laser sight was nice, as was the heavy-duty magazine capacity. I was scared and felt an almost overwhelming need to go to the bathroom.

  Norris pushed an access card into the slot by the door and waited for it to slide open. She stepped out and I followed. The corridor was packed with people. They took one look at us and ran, or tried to, since the bodies behind them blocked the way. Someone screamed, neon shimmered, and the usual flow of down-level water splashed out from under our boots as the crowd parted and Norris led us to the right.

  I saw a sign. It was shaped like an arrow. Angry red letters jerked down towards a pair of graffiti-covered metal doors. When Norris spoke, her voice sounded a full register higher than it had before. “Those are the doors, Lurch! Break ’em down!”

  I suddenly knew what I had unintentionally volunteered for and damned near shit my pants. But there didn’t seem to be a whole lot of choice, so I picked up speed, aimed my shoulder at the doors, and hit them as hard as I could. They gave, thank god, a lot more easily than I was ready for, and I fell forward. Somebody stepped on my back in their eagerness to follow Norris wherever she was going, and I gave them a silent blessing. They were welcome to my share of whatever bullets happened to be waiting.

  The whole team had splashed past by the time I did a push-up, wiped the water from my chin, and staggered to my feet. I heard a confused babble of voices through my earplugs and stumbled forward, not so much out of loyalty to the team as from a sense of self-preservation. The hallway was long and dark, punctuated here and there by rectangles of light with a lot of deep, dark shadows in between. I knew that any one of them could conceal a gun-toting, fire-breathing, homicidally inclined free-market capitalist. The team represented safety in numbers, and I had a strong desire to be safe.

  I glanced into the doorways as I ran by and was treated to the sight of dismal rooms packed with ragged-looking pieceworkers. Most were adults, but a third or more were children, their eyes dull as they clipped one component to the next. Some of the brighter workers had seen the team, the guns, and the body armor and jumped to the correct conclusion. They were on their feet and headed for the nearest exits.

  The rest sat where they were, parts clutched in grimy hands, waiting for instructions that would never come. I wanted to tell them it was a bad idea, that it was quitting time, but doubted they would listen. Jobs were hard to come by, even crappy ones, and they weren’t about to split without one helluva good reason.

  A sledgehammer hit me between the shoulder blades. I heard the boom of a handgun and hit the floor facedown. I’d been doing a lot of that lately, and I hoped it wouldn’t ruin my good looks. The combination of inertia and the slime-covered floor carried me down the corridor. I rolled, thumbed the laser sight, and watched the ruby-red dot dance across the ceiling. I forced it down, found the scrapper, and squeezed the trigger.

  The Droidware body armor had saved my life. The scrapper wasn’t so lucky. Either he wasn’t wearing any, or what he had was too thin. The outcome was the same. My slugs picked the man up, threw him backwards, and bounced him off a wall. He was still in the process of falling when Norris blasted my ears. “Hey, Lurch! Where the hell are you, anyway? We could use some help up here.”

  I felt like telling her to kiss my ass, but old military habits kicked in, and I did what I was told. I lumbered up the hall, aiming my weapon at every shadow I encountered, half expecting to catch one between the eyes. Any hint of radio discipline had disappeared, and my plugs were filled with garbage.

  “Watch it…watch it…the little one has a gun.” “Cover my back, damn it…” “Come to poppa, little robot…daddy has a present for you.” “…Not a god-damned scrapper in sight…” “Whoa, momma! Check those buns!”

  It was about then that I caught up with the rear guard, a scrawny little weasel with the rather appropriate call sign of “Snotface.” He motioned me forward, and I had just pulled up alongside him when the fecal matter hit the fan.

  The scrappers seemed to come from nowhere and everywhere at once. They poured out of the shadows, dropped from overhead accessways, and popped out of doorways like so many jack-in-the-boxes. And every friggin’ one of them had a little kid strapped across their chests, leaving their hands free to do other things. Like blow our heads off.

  The kids screamed, the scrappers opened fire, and Snotface took one through his open mouth. I sensed more people fall and heard Norris give the only order she could. “Ignore the kids! Shoot the bastards!”

  She was right, I knew that, but could
n’t bring myself to do it. The rest of the shooters opened fire while I stood there with a gun in my hand, unable to pull the trigger. The children came apart like so many cheap dolls as a hail of bullets hit them and were stopped by the body armor between them and the scrappers.

  That’s when I saw her. A little girl with straight black hair, doll-fine features, and a thumb in her mouth. She didn’t scream, struggle against the straps that held her in place, or do any of the other things you would have expected. She just hung there, watching the destruction, waiting to die.

  Something primal worked its way up through my throat and came screaming out my mouth. I felt the slugs hit my body armor as I made my way forward. A smaller man might have stumbled, might have fallen, but my size worked in my favor. The bullets hit and I kept coming.

  I saw the scrapper had long greasy locks, bad teeth, and a two-day growth of beard. He grinned, knowing that I couldn’t shoot without hitting the girl, tilted his gun up towards my highly reflective head, and started to squeeze the trigger.

  I guess I’ll never know why the little girl took her thumb out of her mouth and grabbed his hand, but I’m real glad that she did, because it gave me sufficient time to cross the intervening space, grab the bastard’s head and spin it halfway around.

  The move was all strength and no science, but it worked anyway. Bones crunched, the scrapper’s eyes rolled back in his head, and he slumped towards the deck. I grabbed and held him long enough to free the girl. She looked into my eyes, smiled approvingly, and pointed towards my skull plate. “Shiny!”

  I smiled in return. “Very shiny. Do you like it?”

  The little girl nodded, slipped her thumb back into her mouth, and waited for whatever life would bring next. The firefight was over by then. It took the better part of an hour to find the girl’s terrified mother and hand her over.

  Norris was super-pissed by the time I got back, and threatened me with all sorts of dire consequences, but so what? It wasn’t like she was my boss or anything, so I kissed up enough to get paid, double-checked to make sure the right amount of money had been dumped into my account, and headed for home. I was tired, and a shower seemed like the best idea I’d ever had.

  2

  “Death to Droids!”

  Graffiti found in the main corridor of Sub-Level 31, Sea-Tac Residential Industrial Urboplex

  I live on Sub-Level 38 of the Sea-Tac Residential-Industrial Urboplex. Not a very pleasant place to hang your hat, but a lot less expensive than Level 37.

  The door buzzed, and, having just sent out for a pizza, I made the reasonable assumption. But reasonable assumptions are almost always wrong, and this was no exception.

  I opened the door and found myself face-to-tentacle with two of the ugliest-looking androids you ever saw. One looked like a recently buried corpse, and the other resembled Hollywood’s idea of what aliens should look like, but probably don’t. A grotesque thing with lots of facial tentacles, pointy teeth, and a bad case of artificial halitosis.

  Well, form has a tendency to follow function, and androids look the way they do for a reason. But I missed that. Just like I miss a lot of other things. I was polite. “Yes? May I help you?”

  A micro-robotic maggot crawled out of the corpse’s nose, took a look around, and disappeared under his coat collar.

  “Are you Max Maxon?” The words came along with the almost overwhelming stench of rotting carrion.

  I held my breath and considered the possibilities. A bill collector? No, I had debts alright, plenty of them, but none large enough to rate one droid, much less two.

  Old enemies? Possibly, but given how low I’d sunk, why kill me? A real enemy would let me live.

  That left clients, a rare and exotic breed that almost never, repeat never, samples life thirty-eight levels underground. Still, there’s a first time for everything. I hadn’t worked for androids before, but what the hell, I’m a liberal kinda guy, so I took the chance.

  “Yeah, I’m Maxon. What can I do for you?”

  “We work for Seculor Inc.,” tentacle-face said politely.

  I swallowed hard. Damn my screwed-up cerebral cortex anyway! Competitors. A category of visitor I hadn’t thought of. And it made sense too, ‘cause Seculor was big, real big, and had a fondness for weird-looking robots. You know, intimidate the opposition first, and if that doesn’t work, blow their brains out. But why waste billable staff time killing something as insignificant as me?

  I smiled and allowed my right hand to drift back towards the .38 Super. It’s a custom job with an over-sized safety, polished magazine well, squared-off trigger guard, and a triple-port compensator. There’s nothing like a few rounds through the ol’ CPU to show a droid who’s boss.

  “Don’t do it,” corpse-breath said conversationally. “You’ll be dead before you can drag that cannon out of your waistband.”

  I should’ve known. Androids, especially those designed for security work, are loaded with fancy detection gear. I let my hand drop.

  “So what do you want?”

  “Thumb this,” the alien thing said flatly, and handed me the latest in comp cubes. I almost asked why, saw their expressions, and let it slide. Hey, if the droids wanted my signature they could have it. The cube gave slightly under my thumb, chirped its satisfaction, and gave birth to a tiny disk.

  “Your copy,” the alien droid said matter-of-factly. He grabbed the cube, popped it into his mouth, and swallowed. God only knows where it went from there.

  That was the point at which both droids stepped back, shoved a teenage girl in my direction, and headed down-corridor. People scattered. A zonie looked, dropped his injector, and ran. The girl gave me the look most people do, amazed and somewhat alarmed. There was something else in her expression too. Something that didn’t make sense. Compassion? Pity? Awe? I wasn’t sure.

  So the kid scoped me and I scoped her. She stood about five feet tall, had a pretty face, huge brown eyes, and long, well-shaped limbs. She wore a beret, a black body stocking, a vest, a pouch-belt, a leather miniskirt, and high-heeled boots. Her voice was calm and a little sarcastic. She reminded me of someone, but I couldn’t remember who.

  “So, are you going to ask me in? Or leave me standing here in the hall?”

  Surprised, and a bit taken aback, I gestured for her to enter. She did, gave the room a slow once-over, and wrinkled her nose in disgust. “Have you considered cleaning this dump?”

  I looked around. My clothes were where they belonged, tossed in a corner, and the day bed was rumpled, but so what? Most of the empties had made it into the garbage can, and the dishes could wait for a while. I frowned. “And who the hell are you? My mother?”

  The kid shook her head sadly, as if she was dealing with a head case, which she definitely was. She pointed at my right hand. “Take a look at the disk.”

  I brought my hand up and opened my fist. Light winked off the surface of the disk. I had forgotten it was there.

  My all-in-one home computer, communications console, and entertainment complex consists of a secondhand Artel 3000. Its basic claim to fame is low-cost, high-quality 3-D imagery. The basic technology was hijacked from the now defunct Ibo Corporation, which copied it from Toshiba.

  How can I remember things like that? And forget the disk in my hand? Beats the hell out of me. Ask the pill pushers. Maybe they know. I inserted the disk and pushed the power button.

  Video swirled, locked up, and revealed a middle-aged woman. She looked the way lifers always look. Too old for their bodies and slightly smug. That’s what the guarantee of life-long employment does for you, I guess; it frees you from mundane problems like feeding your face, and lifts you above the common herd. People like me and, judging from the way the girl looked, people like her.

  When the woman spoke, her eyelids rose and fell like old-fashioned windowshades, and her words came in bursts, like bullets from a machine gun. “I am Administrator Tella. Seculor Inc. has a temporary personnel shortage. We would appreciate your assistan
ce. Keep Ms. Casad alive, get her to Europa Station, and we will pay you fifty thousand credits. Ms. Casad has some expense money. Use it wisely. Do not request help from our company or staff. Your contract follows.”

  Legal jargon flooded the screen and I hit the power switch. The screen snapped to black. Looking back, I realize I should’ve questioned how an outfit like Seculor Inc. could possibly run short of staff, trained or otherwise, and if they did, why they’d hire a scumbag like me, but I was brain-damaged and, more than that, blinded by the prospect of fifty big ones.

  Fifty grand was nothing prior to the war, when inflation ran two hundred percent per month, and a can of beer cost a hundred credits. But the Consortium won, the executives collectively known as “The Board” got the lid on, and fifty K means something now.

  Like the opportunity to be solvent, or better yet to buy my own hole-in-the-wall restaurant. Yeah, that would be great, leaning on the counter and watching the world go by. Pathetic, you say? Well, you have your ambitions, and I have mine.

  So, rather than ask the kind of questions I should have, I turned to the girl and said, “Pleased to meet you, Casad. Is there a first name to go with the last?”

  She crossed her arms in front of a nearly nonexistent chest. “Sasha.”

  “Sasha Casad. I like it. All right, Sasha, who’s after you, and why?”

  “Nobody’s after me.”

  And they call me stupid. I heaved a sigh. “Look, Sasha, somebody’s willing to insure your health to the tune of fifty big ones. That means snatchers or poppers. Which is the more likely? I need to know.”

  She shrugged. “Snatchers, I guess. My mother works for the Protech Corporation.”

  “The new one? That grew up after the war?”

  Sasha nodded.

  It made a weird kind of sense. The original Protech Corporation had been the victim of an employee takeover, had allied itself with the unionists, and paid the ultimate price when the Consortium won.