Jack Yeovil - Krokodil Tears

"Jessamyn, there are things you have to know about the treatment."

His voice was still the same, although she could see the silver ball in his throat where it was generated.

"Zarathustra closed down the project for good reasons, by his lights. There are…side-effects. Psychological, I think."

A cold hand caressed Jessamyn's metal-sheathed spine.

"You'll have to work at it, work at remaining human inside…I'm not sure that I've managed it all that well, myself. Sometimes, I just sit and stare, forgetting…for weeks, Jessamyn, for weeks. I can do almost anything with this improved body, but my mind has got blasé about it. When you're superhuman, so little seems worth the bother. You must resist that. You must…"

"Doc?" She was almost pleading with him. Don't die, don't die!

The servos in his cheeks made a smile, although there was no flesh to pull. His teeth grinned perpetually.

"You're crying. That's good."

Jessamyn put a hand to her face. There was moisture around her optic.

"Biofluid."

"No, I gave you back some tearducts when I inserted the new model. I had some to spare."

The town hall collapsed, sending a cloud of ash and sparks across the square.

0002-0002.

Rodriguez watched from the jailhouse. Jessamyn was talking to the tall thing. He hadn't been able to raise Manolo for minutes. It was down to him. The house-to-house had been called off. He didn't think he had any soldiers left, but himself.

He pulled on his gauntlets, and picked up his helmet. It locked into place.

He picked up his M-29, and silently slipped a new clip into the magazine.

0002-0002.

His left arm hadn't moved since he walked out of the Silver Shuriken. He detached it, and dropped it in the street.

"Let this be a lesson to you, Jesse Frankenstein's-Daughter. You are not invincible."

He didn't know how long he could live like this. His skullplates were leaking biofluid. That meant his greymass would be affected.

There was always the Donovan Treatment, but he didn't think much of the idea of being a disembodied brain in a jar.

"Jessamyn, you have things to do. You'll know, when the time comes, what they are."

He looked up at the half-moon.

"I don't understand myself, but I've been dreaming again. We don't dream, you know. Us improved humans. We use up all that brain capacity that's left dark in normals, and there isn't any room for dreaming. But I've dreamed since you came here, since I began work on you. I've dreamed of the moon, and of a plain of salt. I don't know what that means, but it's important."

There was dismay on her face, now. For the first time, she looked her age.

"Doc?"

"Goodbye, Jessamyn."

He had built a suicide switch into his brain. Blinking in a pattern initiated the shut-down sequence. A vial opened, and a biospunge filled with mercury, then burst…

0001-0002.

Hooray for our side. Rodriguez must have scragged one of the things!

Jessamyn looked down at the smoking remains. The Doc was gone. She hadn't understood everything he had tried to tell her. Again, she was all alone, as she had been after her father's death, and after Spanish Fork. Alone with the dead. He had called her Jesse Frankenstein's-Daughter.

She was not alone. A soldier came out of the old jailhouse, rifle held lightly in one hand, barrel pointed down.

"Jessamyn," his voice was amplified by something inside his helmet. "Do you remember me?"

She laughed. "In that get-up, I wouldn't know you if you were my father."

"I'm sorry. It's Rodriguez. Holm Rodriguez. From Denver."

She did remember him. He was with the Bruyce-Hoare Agency. After she had killed her father, he had been one of the interrogating officers. And before that, she had seen him several times. He had raided the downtown warehouse arena the night she defeated Melanie Squid in the Kumite. As cops go, he had been okay. She tried to recall his face, but got it mixed up with the actor, Edward James Olmos. Swarthy, Hispanic, sharp eyes.

"I know you, Rodriguez. You're a Juvie Op. In case you hadn't heard, I turned eighteen last month. I'm grown-up now."

"I'm not with Bruyce-Hoare any more. I accepted a position in the private sector. Holderness-Manolo."

"Fancy."

He was edging towards her, slowly.

"Look," she said, stopping him in his tracks. "You gave me a break over Daddy. I'll return the favour. Just turn around and walk out of here. You don't have to die."

She wished she could see his face.

"No, really. You can live to an old age, have kids, rent a house on the beach, get into politics."

The rifle wavered. She knew he wasn't going to bite on it.

"Rodriguez, you don't have to be an asshole. It's not a contractual obligation."

The gun jumped, but she wasn't in front of it when it went off.

She extended the forefingers of her right hand in a V, and jabbed at Rodriguez's faceplate. The reinforced darkglass shattered, and she felt warmth around her hand as her durium-laced fingerbones stabbed through the man's skull.

Wiping her fingers off on her trousers, she told him, "You didn't have to die. You didn't have to."

0001-0001.

She knew the procedure. There would be some top cat out there in the desert, sealed up tight in his High Performance Auto, sitting out the slaughter and counting the expenses. Mr Holderness or Mr Manolo, she expected.

There was supposed to be no way to get at the bastard. But she felt she had to try. She needed some leverage to help her attack the Op's ve-hickle. She looked around for a tool, and found a soldier's dropped bayonet. It still had a good edge.

It would have to do.

0001-0001.

Manolo stabbed the dashbuttons, intending to blank the reading. Only one figure disappeared.

0001.

It was 0001 in blue. His own reading. As long as the number was there on the dashscreen, he was alive.

He would have to sit it out, but he would live. He'd spend hours down at the Pyramid talking through his emotions on this one. There would be untold anguish to purge in the group sessions. But Gari would help him cope with it. Guilt was no good, he knew. He had to quash that, and learn to feel good about himself again. That was the main thing, to feel good about yourself.

He wished he hadn't blasted so many beers. His bladder was full to straining, and there was no catheter-tube in the DeLorean. He would have to piss in the backseat, and that was imported Argentine leather hand-tooled by a specialist flown in from Tijuana.

He should never have taken on this penny-ante bounty hunt. Bob Holderness wouldn't have touched it. He had wanted the Agency to specialize in political cases. That was probably why he wasn't around any more. Manolo had always known there were men in suits behind the Surf Nazis, but he'd never carried the vendetta to them.

When he got out of here, he would make that up. He would track down the boardroom where the orders were issued, and he would declare all-out war on whichever Japcorp or state authority had been behind the singe.

The car shifted, and something clanged. She was out there. Jessamyn Bonney.

She couldn't get in, but she was out there. The ve-hickle rang with her blows. She would get frustrated soon, and go away. Bronson Manolo could wait her out.

He had chewed his moustache ragged. His teeth were clogged with hair. That wasn't supposed to happen. His barber-surgeon had guaranteed the attachments against all eventualities.

The banging continued.

0001.

Manolo muttered to himself. "Home freeee, you can't get meee…"

She would have to be an H-M exec to get through the DeLorean's brain, and unseal the system.

The banging stopped, and there was peace for a moment. She must be giving up, walking away. Manolo had pressed his bleep-alert The Insurance people would be here within minutes.