Jeremy Robinson: From Above

When my arm came off, I knew something wasn’t right. It wasn’t the pain, because there wasn’t any, it was the way it detached from my body—as though a small portion of the world was suddenly freed from the pull of Earth’s gravity. It rose up, cut clean, still clinging to my C130 Magnum, and disintegrated, piece by piece until nothing was left. But not just my arm; a perfect circle of the warehouse was carved out as if by a giant, invisible cookie cutter. Everything within the warehouse and the ground beneath that was inside the affected radius simply floated free and then disappeared—atomized. There was no explosion, no twisting of metal or bursting of pipes, it happened as silent as a mouse fart and was over in seconds.

As far as I could tell, I was standing at the edge of ground zero. Another foot forward and I would have joined the three perps I had cornered in the warehouse. Poor bastards were either in deeper than The Authority thought, or they did something to really piss off God.

I looked up and saw the sky; at least it looked clear during the day. A hole, fifty feet wide had been carved into the roof of the warehouse—one of several warehouses I had been checking for Dretch production. Being a narc wasn’t my idea of important police work, but some of the hot shots up-town didn’t like my style. Of course, that would all change now.

Peering down into the hole, created by whatever invisible force was at work, I came to the realization that this was going to be a big case, maybe the biggest ever. And with me as the only survivor, I’d be back in business.

A tingling in my arm tore my attention away from the gaping hole and thoughts of the future. A stump wiggled below my shoulder. I swore I could still feel my arm moving, but the smell of burnt flesh confirmed my suspicions. Whatever had taken my arm had also cauterized the stump, and it happened so fast that my nervous system didn’t even register the catastrophic wound. What was worse, my leathers were ruined.

I decided that I’d find out who took my arm and make sure they paid for what they did. At the very least, they could buy me a new Tac-suit.

That was a year ago. Shit.

Sure, I’m up-town. I’ve got a new synthetic limb that puts my old arm to shame. But I had to buy my own damn new Tac-suit, and I’m no closer to finding out who put a mile-deep hole in the Earth. The tech-boys tell me it came from an object in orbit, which makes finding the source near impossible. Back in the twentieth century, the human race started putting things in space. Three thousand years later and we haven’t stopped. At night it’s impossible to tell what’s a star and what’s some yuppie’s space-winni.

A layer of crap, a half mile thick, surrounds the Earth on all sides and bulges at the middle, like the rings of Saturn. And with almost as many people living up there as there are down here, finding out who or what owes me for this Tac-suit is near impossible. The fact that only three wanted felons and my arm were taken makes this case a low priority. Until someone decides to take another potshot at the Earth again, I’m grounded. Not that I’m complaining. My new partner is a fox.

“You on Dretch or something, Priest? Watch the freakin lanes.”

Rehna has a way with words that I always enjoy.

I twist the wheel and dodge some old lady driving way too slow for air-trans. She should have stayed on the ground with the rest of the simps. Damn people, afraid of technology. When the human race took to the skies en masse it gave us room to breathe and new freedoms that led to a technological renaissance that lasted for thousands of years. Cities grew up, thousands of feet tall. Vehicles took to the air, traveling faster and safer. Life sped up. Got better.

But not everyone took to the air. Some, afraid of change, stayed on the ground—living slow, unproductive lives; hugging trees, driving cars with wheels and sniffing the damn daisies. Aren’t many simps left now-a-days. Good thing too.

“Daydreaming again?” Rehna asks me with a smirk.

“Not about you, so don’t get your hopes up.” She’s gonna love that.

“Do you want me to land and beat you like a school girl?” Her face is turning red. She’s either embarrassed or about to shoot me. I decide to find out.

“Keep talking. I think I’m fallin in love.”

“That’s it.” She shoves me to the side and I see her take the wheel, but it doesn’t quite register in time to stop what happens next. We’re hurtling straight for the ground. My instincts tell me to take the wheel back, to scream, but I know Rehna. She’s not suicidal.

Our air-trans mobile unit comes to a stop five feet above the ground, face down. If it were a civilian unit we’d be a smudge on the pavement, but these sleek new mobile units can stop on a dime and cruise at nearly the speed of sound. It’s sleek and smooth, the way I like my women, but I can’t say I like the light blue color. Kind of Nancy if you ask me.

The hatch opens and I fall five feet onto the pavement. She knew I wouldn’t be wearing my belt. I hear Rehna’s boots hit the pavement behind me. A second later I hear the hum of her C130 warming up. We have a winner. She’s gonna shoot me. Now I know I’m falling in love.

“On your feet,” Rehna tells me.

I stand and turn to face her; damn she looks hot in a Tac-suit. I gotta remember to thank the man who designed them. They’re projectile proof, which is nice, as most perps can’t afford C130s. In a pinch can even protect the wearer from the depths of the ocean or the vacuum of space. Not that I’ve had occasion to test either claim. The point is, in most cases, they’re nearly indestructible. But the hot laser Rehna’s packing will cut through me like a slab of lard. I admire the curves of her body, which are accentuated by the tightness of the black Tac-suit. Her belt hangs loose on her hip…My eyes linger.

“Ugh. That’s it,” Rehna says. She’s losing patience with me. Her C130 falls to the ground. Her belt falls next. This is getting interesting.

Rehna swings high and then low, missing both times. She’s fast, I’ll give her that. But I’ve got ten years experience on her, and I can scan her like an unsecured porn server.

“This is stupid,” I say, but I don’t think it goes through.

I duck two more swings and a third catches my arm. Too bad for her, she picked the wrong arm. Cling! My synthetic arm is hard as steel, and she hit it with enough force to knock out a Rhino. Her thick glove keeps her fingers from shattering, and she lets out little more than a stifled grunt. She’s tougher than I thought. Her fist comes at me from the other side. I feel a breeze on my chin as her knuckles skim past my face. Too close.

I step back and prepare to end a fight that should have never begun. I told The Authority adding women to up-town was a bad idea. Of course, they didn’t listen and now I have to teach Rehna a lesson. One punch to the side should do. Don’t want to ruin her pretty face.

As I clench the fist in my human arm, a slight aberration in my vision catches my attention. My memory surges back to the warehouse. I saw the same distortion right before I lost my arm. My eyes track up. A wavering visual phenomenon, like heat rising from hot pavement, cuts straight through the center of a ten thousand foot behemoth, constructed a thousand years ago.

Whack! My check burns with pain after Rehna’s punch connects. But my eyes don’t leave the sky. Rehna must have noticed, because I don’t feel a second punch—good thing too, the first almost broke my jaw. What a woman.

Then it happens. Just like before. Gravity ceases to exist. Half of the behemoth and what looks like miles of other buildings come loose and float toward the sky, turning to dust as they move. Then it’s over.