Jeff Somers - Electric Church

“Director Marin,” Moje started to say, and I brought my gun out of its holster and leveled it at Moje’s face with practiced ease. He blinked, closing his mouth with a click, and then smiled again.

“You wouldn’t dare, Mr. Cates. Your life wouldn’t be worth spit.”

I shrugged. “It isn’t worth much now.”

“Don’t forget our deal, Mr. Cates,” Marin said smoothly, jerking his head down and to the left to stare at a dead Monk for a moment, receiving reports from his other avatars. “You’ve got a chance to start over, rich, anonymous-secure.”

Moje was still smiling. “Pull that trigger, and my team will eat you alive.”

I waited a moment, then moved my gun just a tick to the left and put a bullet into Dick Marin’s face, then moved the gun back level with Moje.

He stared at me, his smile forgotten and rotting on his face. He didn’t know Marin was an avatar. He thought I’d just shot the King Worm dead right in front of him.

Around us, the Stormers all tensed and leaned forward, as if blown by a strong wind. But they were well-trained, waiting on Moje’s order.

“Colonel Moje,” I said steadily, prepared for the headshot, ready for it to end if it had to. “I’m tired of the System. I’m tired of System Cops. I’m hereby dedicating the rest of my life to destroying this fucked-up world. I may not live more than a minute longer, but in that minute all I will do with my time is fight against all of it-all of it, including the goddamn SSF. Understand?” I nodded. “Starting with you.”

He squinted at me, wondering. I could sense Wa Belling next to me, standing tense.

Moje drew a deep breath and opened his mouth. I put a bullet in it.

I moved, and Belling moved with me. Even Kieth moved, instead of standing there pop-eyed in terror. I rolled right, firing, and Belling rolled left, firing, while Kieth fired wildly at the Stormers nearest him, screaming. He even managed to hit one before emptying his clip.

Belling and I hit three of the others as we rolled, good, clean killshots. I tried to pull myself up, keep moving, but my legs couldn’t move quickly enough and got caught up in each other. I saw ObFu boots out of the corner of my eye and dove for them, wrenching my back in the effort as I wrapped my arms around the boots and knocked the Stormer off her feet. I held on to her legs with all my strength, until the sound of a racked chamber rang through the still air, and the Stormer went still. I looked up, and Wa Belling, formerly Canny Orel, stood over us, gun pointed at the Stormer’s head.

“I’m sick of System Pigs, too,” Belling said, nodding. “Sick of it all.”

“Holy shit,” I heard Kieth say weakly. “I can’t believe we just did that.”

I couldn’t either. I was still on borrowed time, and a thrill of triumph went through me. Not dead yet, I thought.

I let go of the Stormer’s legs and rolled over painfully. “They’re just goddamn men and women, and they die the same.” I pulled myself to my feet and turned to the last Stormer, who panted on the ground, and stared down at her. “They make the same mistakes we do, and they’re fucking arrogant.” I kicked her gun away, trying to catch my breath. “You, I’m letting go,” I said. “Go tell them. Tell the fucking SSF that Avery Cates has gone apeshit. Tell them there’s nothing they can offer me. Tell them I’m going to start tearing the world apart, brick by brick, cop by cop. Tell them I don’t think it will take me as long as they might think. Tell them I dare them to stop me.”

We all stood in our places for a moment, nothing moving, not even a hint of breeze. Then Belling kicked the Stormer in the side.

“Go,” he said.

I looked around. London was on fire, and the sounds of rioting filled the air. We weren’t going to have any trouble getting out of the city.

We watched the Stormer climb painfully to her feet, stare at us for a moment, and then begin backing away warily.

“Don’t worry,” Belling called out. “We’ll kill you later.”

Pickering’s was crowded. It was a rainy, dismal night in rotting New York, the heavy rain wearing down the melted stone of the old buildings and breaking up the crumbling asphalt of the dirty, trash-swamped streets. The regulars had gotten in early to drink blinding gin, smoke stolen cigarettes, and guard their seats against the influx of newbies. Fights broke out over the unsteady wooden chairs in Pickering’s, and people had been cut up and almost killed over territorial skirmishes. The place had always been crowded, especially on crappy nights, but within the last year things had begun getting beyond Pick’s ability to control. So many people were crowding into the place every night the fights were continuous, and he was approaching a point where he wouldn’t be able to bribe away the Crushers that showed up, sniffing suspiciously at so much underground talent drinking in one place.

The kid wasn’t more than seventeen years old. Tall, skinny, with broken teeth and long, delicate fingers, he stepped into the bar uncertainly, furtively peering around. His greasy dark hair was pasted to his forehead; his pale, blemished skin shone in Pickering’s weak light. The crowd eyed him surreptitiously and almost everyone came to the same unflattering conclusion: amateur.

The kid didn’t try for one of the seats. He looked around once, shrugged his cheap, tattered coat onto his narrow shoulders, and moved confidently toward the back of the room, where the metal security door led to Pick’s office. A tall, amazingly muscled man stood with his back against the door, arms crossed, illegally augmented muscles twitching with their own intelligence.

Halfway there, a leather-gloved hand shot out and took hold of the kid’s arm. The owner of the hand was a squat, gray-skinned man whose face was an intricate maze of broken blood vessels. A ragged, ugly scar trailed from his scalp to his throat. He licked his lips and looked the kid up and down before speaking.

“Tell ya what, kiddo,” he said in a thick, slurred voice, “gimme whatever it is ya got an’ I’ll let ya walk outta here alive.”

Soft, unenthusiastic laughter rippled around him-interested to see how the kid would react, but seeing no real sport in it.

“Let go,” the kid said, looking down. “Or I’ll feed your fingers to you.”

More laughter, this time mocking, and the squat man in leather took it to be mocking him. He might have let the kid past if he’d squirmed a little, begged a little, but a smart-mouth had to be taught a lesson. “Watch yer mouth, pup,” he growled, squeezing the kid’s arm tight. “This ain’t a place you get to smart-mouth, see?”

The kid continued to stare for a moment. Then, without warning, he whipped out his free arm, a knife popping from his sleeve into his open palm. Grasping the knife firmly, he slashed downward at the squat man, opening up a gash on his face. Blood splashed onto the table, and the squat man threw himself backward, hands slapped over his face, screeching.

“You fucking cut me! You little runt!”

The kid stared at him for a second or two, then wiped the knife on his coat and returned it to its spring-loaded holster in his sleeve. He continued to the guarded door.

The big man standing in front of the door eyed him warily. “ Versuchen sie nicht das mit mir, zicklein. I’ll schnдpper sie in zwei, ” The big man said. “Ya?”

The kid shook his head. “I don’t understand that shit, man.”

The big man sighed petulantly. “Fucking Americans,” he said in thickly accented English. “Don’t fucking know shit about the rest of the world. What the fuck do you want?”