Jeff Somers: Electric Church

“You lied to me,” I hissed. “Or you’re incompetent. The subject was not alone. You said nothing about professional protection-moonlighting SSF, a fucking cop she looked like, and a lot of goddamn trouble.” I twisted his arm again, savagely. “And there was a child, you shithead. In the room. ”

I looked up. Security had split up, coming around the tables from either side, looking to flank me.

Amazingly, the big guy started to shudder, and I realized he was laughing, whether from reaction or shock or some bizarre sense of humor, I didn’t know. My eyes swept the table, black and tan and white faces, all more interested in their gin than in my little drama-a drama they’d seen, a drama they’d acted in. Boring stuff.

The big guy had suddenly found his voice, slurry and close to unconscious as it was. “A child?” he gasped. “Who gives a shit, a child? You’re hired to eliminate someone, you do it. A child? Fuck, you kill that piece of shit, too.”

I wanted to hurt him more, I wanted to make him feel it. I trembled with the urge to do him violence. But I could see, in my peripheral vision, that security had arrived and were sneaking their way around the table, coming at me from the left and right. I let out an explosive breath, released the big guy, and in one practiced motion reached across my body into my coat and came up with a gun in each hand, each pointed at one twitchy musclebound asshole. Security paused, looking at each other across me. No one at the table moved, or even seemed to be paying attention. The big guy looked to have finally passed out.

“We don’t give a shit,” one of the security guys said with the mushy accent of oft-broken teeth. “Just take it outside.”

I nodded. I was civilized. I didn’t kill children and I did not shoot men whose only crime was doing their job. Not unless I had to. “I’m leaving. No trouble.”

Even shitheads respected you if you played by the rules.

One of them swept an arm toward the door, inviting me to take my shit elsewhere. I was full of terrible gin eating away at my insides, and I was a sweating, unwashed mess. I’d killed someone just a few hours ago, the wrong person, worth exactly zero yen to me, and the mark I had been hired to kill, and the kid, would both likely be dead tomorrow when the contract went out to someone else, some other Gunner with less scruple. Some kid who had never known anything but the System, nothing but a unified world and the Joint Council that ran it. And the cops-the Crushers who walked the streets and kept order, more or less, and the officers, the System Pigs, who cracked heads and shook us all down, who’d grown rich off us like fucking bedbugs sucking for all they were worth. Someone who’d never known anything better was possible.

I took one step backward, slowly, bringing my arms in and holding both guns ready just in case. As if movement had triggered something, a sudden roar filled the air, and I froze.

“Hover displacement!” someone shouted.

“Pigs!” someone else added helpfully, and the whole place was chaos. Everyone leaped up and made for the exit, the fucking morons. I was forgotten. I found myself standing there with guns drawn while everyone in the place pushed past me. For a moment I was frozen in shock, but when the cops kicked on the floods and the whole space filled with harsh, white light, I found my legs. I moved against the current and rolled under one of the tables.

This sort of shit usually didn’t happen-the illegal bars were so common, and the Crushers liked making a little extra money in bribes from what they saw as a victimless crime. When enough was enough and time came to shut things down, everyone knew it was happening and the cops ended up raiding an empty place, confiscating a lot of stale booze, and smashing up some burned-out still; meanwhile a new place opened up in some other toothless shell of a building. The circle of life in the System of Federated Nations.

A hover meant officers, real police. This was a step up, this meant someone in the place was wanted. The Crushers in their sloppy uniforms you knew by name, they cracked some heads but were generally all right, just doing their job-and maybe, on good days, you could even admit they did a necessary job, keeping us jobless wonders from tearing each other apart. But the System Pigs, they were a step up, the elite. They were more dangerous, greedier, and they didn’t crack heads. They put bullets in them.

I reholstered the automatics and drew my lucky gun, made by the Roon Corporation out in California, a modified model 87a (illegal because it was fully automatic, unregistered, and lacking DNA scan locks). Expensive, with action like silk. The exit, as expected, was blocked by the crush of assholes trying to escape. In the bright light of the hover, they were crisp, sharply defined, a mass of desperation. I racked a bullet into the chamber and ran a dry tongue along my lips, my stomach feeling like it was on fire, my head aching. I was old. I’d been old for years.

“Attention!” came the booming metallic voice of the hover’s PA. “This is Captain Jack Hallier of the System Security Force! Stand still and submit to authorized scanning and identification procedure!”

That was formal bullshit. The SSF didn’t give a shit if you submitted or not. They usually preferred you didn’t. The Crushers you could reason with, strike a deal-they were human, even if they carried a badge. The Pigs, though-fuck, they weren’t human.

On cue, I saw a dozen boots drop from above and hit the floor, swirling, headache-inducing patterns on them, Stormers in Obfuscation Kit. No proper SSF raid happened without Stormers in their ObFu, practically invisible when they stood still. From my temporary shelter I looked around, and did a double take: To my left, hiding under their own table, were three Monks. They each turned to look at me with their terrible mask faces, and then looked away. I blinked, twisted around, and began crawling away from the exit, toward the far wall, hands and knees, old-fashioned. Behind me, bullets started flying.

I just kept crawling. I’d killed twenty-six people. I wasn’t going to allow myself to be picked up in some random grab. When I made it to the wall I didn’t waste time: I jumped up, climbed up on the table I’d spied earlier, and threw myself over the wall, landing hard on the other side, my head bouncing on the broken pavement. Lying in the damp shadows, head ringing, I elected to just stay where I was for a moment. Above me, I could see the ass end of the SSF hover floating. In a way, it was beautiful, a rectangle of metal, blurred by displacement, lights blasting through the evening, Stormer tether lines snaking out of it like tentacles, all of it like some horrible, bloated insect.

A pulse of panic shot through me and I blinked, my head clearing. I forced myself up, checked my weapon, and limped for the deepest shadows a few steps away, a painful hitch in my back making me limp a little. Everything in this area of Old New York was a ruin, left over from the Unification Riots decades ago. It was all shadows and sharp edges.

Hidden for a moment, I caught my breath and thought.

The gunfire increased, and I watched more Stormers snake to the ground as a determined contingent of my fellow scum broke out of the bar and took cover behind more ruins. It was all lit up for me perfectly, fifty feet away, clear as day. There were always hardasses who thought they could blast their way out of anything-kids, youngsters who didn’t know shit except how to pull a trigger and so thought they were all grown up, who thought that because they’d outrun some Crusher on his rounds they knew cops. You didn’t know cops until a couple of System Pigs kicked your ass for fun.