****
"Pity?"
The gangly man in the surprisingly nice suit chuckled. "Victoria Fallbrook
Executive, Willard Capabilities and Solutions. And..."
"She's
Camille Springville, Mr. Lange " his buzz-cut sidekick announced in a
sycophantic tone. Motes of light started to glow along his fingers.
"Yes, Hans, thank you," the gangly man's smile
was strained, as turned back to me with his just luminous eyes. "Quite the
business you run out here. Payroll, insurance, protection."
Camille's
stance shifted and I could just make out her sober expression. We were out
numbered, our comms were down, but time was on our side. The more time we had the better we would be.
Two of the
goons facing her tried to loom. Twins,
over two meters tall, and nearly as wide, they loomed rather well. Though it
was offset by the simple boilersuits and brown coats they wore.
"Ah," I inclined my head ever so slightly in a bow.
Talking was good. "Are you interested in opening an account then?"
Lang's tie
ruffled in the wind. "Don't be so
coy. I know your organization is more than willing to look the other way. Why else are you here instead of letting the
marshals deal with it?"
I put on my
negotiating smile and made a note to have words with Helen about the type of
favors she asked of me. I spread my hands. "You're right." Deescalation was the goal. "We both make use of the... proclivities
of the Descended."
Camille
growled. And the goons around her looked
between themselves. The large bald man
with the thin silver modwork along his neck and head cracked his knuckles.
Lange
leaned on his cane. "Good help is
hard to find. But I've got more."
I held a
hand up. "I'm no shopkeep you can try to muscle in. If you want business we can talk
business."
"What,
in your office?" Lange chuckled.
"You
can bring your men," I assured, smoothly,
bringing my arms back together, one crossed in front of my torso the
other near my wrist.
Lange
smiled. It was a skeptical, mocking
expression.
Damn, he's
not buying it.
I stepped
back and heard Camille's tail slap the
ground. Good.
"Maybe
the problem isn't my men, maybe the problem is your 'man'. Don't worry we can
handle her." Lange tapped the tip of his cane.
I kept from
frowning. That had concerned me, this
gang thought they could muscle a bunch of Descended. They had to have taken
some precautions, that is if they were sane.
The twin
brutes reached into their coats as the one with the artificial hand spread his
fingers and thrust out with it.
However, my
attention was on Lange who had twisted the top of his ridiculous cane and his,
sycophantic partner, Hans's luminous fingers.
Camille
flexed her hands and released her distraction.
A weapon,
fire has its limits. People are mostly
water. Water takes a lot of energy to
heat up. It takes a lot of heat to do structural damage to a
person. Now, in an enclosed space,
carbon monoxide poisoning can be quire effective.
Historical
flamethrowers were great on bunkers for that reason. They killed more by suffocation than by
burning.
Unfortunately,
we were outside. And even those devices were limited by a capacity that could
be measured in a handful of seconds.
Still, fire
had one great advantage as a weapon.
Even against foes protected against it.
It was very
distracting.
Having your
face burned may not kill a person, but it does make fighting a lot harder. And
even if the burns were not debilitating flinching in reaction to fire is a
instinctual reaction.
It was all
about getting a bit more time.
Camille
charged right on the heels of the panicked screaming and blasts, but I had my
own concerns.
Already
across my chest, my hand went in and took the butt of my gun. The holster was more than decorative and my
draw was clean. Hans had his
hand. Electricity cracked in a flashy
way, I shifted my target. The glowing
sight covered his chest and I pulled the trigger.
Three more
shots followed that and he began to fall.
Lange
changed with a thin blade in-hand. At
least that explained what he had in that silly cane.
Ponytail-whipping,
he lunged forward with the sword cane,
putting his whole body from his legs to his hips and up his arms into
it.
He was
tall, and, within striking distance, a big sharpened iron bar was more than
effective enough.
Twisting my
torso, I leaned to the side. It was a
small motion, barely half a meter, but
was enough for the blade to sweep past open air.
Lange shifted
and tried to slash me, but he seemed a bit awkward with that silver grip.
I didn't
give him time to get a better grip. I
released my support hand from my gun and grabbed him on the wrist. That would only keep his sword controlled
for a moment but that's all I needed.
With my gun
hand, I swung around and
That little
weasel Hans slammed into me.
Pain
flashed along my side as he body-checked me and raked my side.
Cursing my
tunnel-vision, I stumbled a bit and fell.
The sparking barbs from his gauntleted
hand shot over my head.
The little
mans beady eyes boiled with hate. Blood
sheeted down his ruined chest, but
between such possibilities as adrenalin, drugs,
sub-dermal armor some people would keep fighting until it became
physically impossible. Hans, for his
slight size, seemed to be one of those
men.
My tumble
didn't quite put me all the way on my back,
but my side hurt and my butt was on the ground. Thankful my skirt was something sensible, I
splayed my legs so I could shoot over them and took sight.
Gasping
Lange starred at the blood sheeting down his toady. Then his attention went to Camille and his
face went white.
Blood flew
from her tail as she whipped it behind her.
One of the twin goons before her was on the ground his head smoking, his leg nearly torn off and a pool of blood
oozing around him.
There was a
long torn crevasse-like slash down his back.
The other
man wobbled and tried to shoot a boxy little carbine that he must have hidden
in his coat.
Her left
wing went out and knocked his aim while a flickering ball of light formed in
her left hand.
Orange fire
ran in an arc that splashed his arms and a face that was already an angry red
from flames. He flinched as his clothes
enflamed and pressed against her wing.
Then the
bald man, his neck and skull glinting
with a sweat and silver light her side and tore at her wing. His mouth practically frothed.
Carbine
free, the remaining twin rotated the compact rifle and fired. Impacts flared on her chest and some blood
spilled, she gasped and with her other
hand returned fire.
Her pistol
was not as pretty as mine, but it was the same perfectly functional
caliber. And it was a perfectly
functional weapon. She was also a better
shot. Bits flew from the twin's head as
she shot through his nose.
Muscles
bulged on the bald man's neck, arms and back, as his mods continued to dump a potent cocktail
into his blood stream.
Howling, he
grabbed onto Camilla's back with a maddened bear-hug and with one hand started
periodically punching her in the face.
Gasping, Camille's tail whipped back and barbed fins began slicing
through his thighs. She twisted her gun
back and started to fire into him.
Then the
short-haired man with the prosthetic arm rushed
in. The bulky cybernetic hummed
as he charged her.
I fired
into his chest but the brute did not slow down. Maybe he hard armor, maybe he had combat
drugs as well. My slide locked back and I put in a fresh magazine. Sighting, I gave a brief frown.
Between the
distance and his weaving I did not trust my ability to hit his head and miss
Camille. Between that and the failure of
hitting his chest, I was left with my third choice.
My sights
lowered. Compared to the head the pelvic
girdle was a far larger target. Anatomically
much of the human skull was empty cavity, mouth, and sloping, thick bone. Shooting a person in the jaw could be quite
debilitating, at least in long term quality of life, but it will not kill them.
In
truth, the pelvic region did not have
the equivalent of a deep brain hit.
Even cutting the femoral artery would take time. However, in addition to a pair of extremely
large blood vessels, the pelvis had large bones, and critical joints.
And person had far less range when it came to
dodging and weaving their hips than their head, or even their torso. And the entire body mass of body was centered
on the pelvis.
Shooting
the chest, stopping the enemy's pumps, failed.
I did not have a clear shot at their brain. But I did have a clear shot
at his mobility. While his chest was
likely armored, reinforcing the pelvic
region was less common. For one, the
ball and socket hip joints made armor, subdermal or other, difficult to
articulate.
I pulled
the trigger. Even with the caliber of
my weapon, handgun penetration, especially here was dodgy. There was also the chance that he was
thoroughly armored.
After a few
controlled pairs, the man screamed as blood started to sheet out from his
crotch. He looked down with horror. Ah yes, I suppose there was a slight
psychological effect to repeal firing in that region as well.
There was s
crumpling as the man's left hip broke and that entire side became unable to
support his weight.
Heat
shimmered around the palm of his prosthetic arm as he tottered, trying to
balance on one leg. The he fell. His meat arm broke his fall and
skittered. Blood spurted out between
his legs, down his chest, and from his broken arm, but he pointed his other arm like it had some
sort of ranged ability.
Still on my
own back I adjusted my aim. Now his
skill was moving only a little bit as he tried to crawl and it was much closer
to the ground. I had a clear view of the
side of his head.
I fired.
After
confirming, I shifted my gaze, sweeping around. The fight had... shifted in the moments I was tunneled in on
the man with the prosthetic arm.
Camille had
charged forward and was on her knees over one of the thrashing attackers. I could not tell which one he was, there was
too much blood and too few limbs.
Behind her
were the viscera and the remains of the man foolish enough to grab a Descended
from behind. There were a few flashes
as the thrashing man's weaponized implants were removed and he stilled.
My grip
tightened on the gun as I lowered the weapon and scanned again. No movement.
Wincing, I put my offhand down
and rolled my legs back and went to a double kneeling position.
Still
scanning, I went up to one knee and then stood up.
Movement!
A familiar suit coat flapped as a man limped
down the alleyway across the street. To
his side was a gangly fellow who was pulling him along.
I exhaled
and watched them flee.
In the near
term, that was the best option.
Holding someone,
or multiple people, at gunpoint with only one person helping is about the most
stressful thing you can do. They were
just trying to kill you, and they know
they have a narrow window until the authorities arrive. Thus they will wait and exploit any
distraction, any weakness and bide their time until they can get their chance.
About the
only thing worse was doing that task alone.
I glanced
back at Camille.
She had
risen up. Her gun was holstered and her
knife had been slipped back into a pocket.
Her loose shirt was ripped and blood dripped from the tips of her fingers
and down cuts on her forehead and cheeks. She idly licked her lips ad a bit of
blood dribbled down and her tail flicked its end.
"Clear?" she asked, stepping over to me.
"Uh... yeah," I blinked.
Her
features shifted. "Holster. Arms
legs, torso," she ordered as she patted me down.
I returned
the gun to my shoulder rig. "It's not-" I stopped when the pain
flared on the opposite side
I turned,
looked down and swore. More in the
embarrassment of being wounded by an absurd sword-cane than in the actual
pain. I was not that shocked that I was
unaware of being injured. I had more
important things to worrya bout at the time
"Your
vest got most of it," Camille noted as she unceremoniously pulled the
trauma kit from my belt, opened it up, and withdrew the foamer and some sealant
pads. "Well
not on the side down here," she noted as she used a claw to slice through my shirt and
then unbuckled my vest. "Eyes
out," she sternly said.
I nodded
and tried to keep watch on the street as she worked. The gang could come back. Also the Marshals could arrive at any
moment. And well, a bloodied Descended
and a armed woman surrounded by a corpses may cause a... counterproductive reaction.
"Okay, you're good," Camille said after she
finished and checked the rest of my body.
By Descended standards I suppose a few inch long gash in my side was not
that much of a concern.
"Your
turn," I ordered.
Camille
blinked but then bowed her horns to me.
She shifted and took a watch position while I quickly ran my hands down
each of her arms, down her torso, then checked her thighs and legs. Her vest
was a bit deformed where the rounds from that carbine hit her. None of them went through so maybe it as a
pistol caliber weapon. Either way, the
bruising under the vest would be unpleasant, but not anything I could do about
right now.
In deference to Descended sensibilities I did
only visually inspected her tail and my
hands went nowhere near her horns.
"You're... not spurting," I noted as I worked the
foamer's nozzle to help spread the clotting aid and sealant.
"I was
already healing," she tersely, stiffly said. As if she were more
uncomfortable by the physical contact than by the trauma she, we, had just
experienced. Her awkwardness was either
out of discomfort or some other Descended emotion.
"Yes,"
I murmured. "Okay, you're
good."
I exhaled
and looked down the street. Now, I could
feel my heart begin to race and my hands flexed.
A few
people had poked up at the end of the main road. Their eyes curious, their
wings fluttering. Right.
"Log
the witnesses," I told Camille.
Nodding,
she took out a phone and started taking pictured of the lollygagging women. They
might have been waiting to see who won before taking the spoils of battle, or they did not want to interfere, or they had honestly just arrived now. I
noted it was not her personal device but a cheaper model that she presumably
carried as a spare.
"We
have signal?" Keeping my gun hand
near my pistol, I took my own phone out and smiled. "Ah." Either Lange took the jamming device with
him, or it was broken in the fight.
Procedure,
checklists helped. Next was calling the
marshals. Doubtless they were on the
way, but it would be nice if dispatch had our descriptions and forwarded that
to the responding officers.
"I
suppose I earned tonight's money," Camille dryly noted as she started to
take pictures of the bodies and their weapons.
"The
night's not over," I warned. "We still need to-"
I stopped
when the line connected and a far too perky to be human voice answered. "Mooring Marshal's Office please state
the nature of your emergency?"
****
No comments:
Post a Comment