Judas Unchained

The assassin’s impact had left a human-shaped indentation in the Park Avenue tarmac close to the smoldering craters of the plasma bolts. There was a lot of blood in and around it. Bruce was staggering away across the road, weaving unsteadily around the stationary cars. Blood soaked the charred, tattered rags that he wore, splattering a wide trail behind him. Each step produced a strange crackling sound. It came from the spikes of bone sticking through his shins that were grinding against each other at every motion. The integral force field was holding his legs together, which was the only reason he was lurching forward; even so the jerky movement was that of a late-night drunk.

Gore grinned in satisfaction, and jumped. He soared effortlessly over the cars to drop in front of Bruce. As he landed, he bent forward and kicked back in one smooth motion, his heel smashing into Bruce’s chest. The assassin was flung backward as his force field cloaked him in a pale crimson light; he rolled over and over until he thudded into the front fender of a yellow taxi, denting the bodywork. One shin was bent at a right angle. The force field strengthened around it, trying to straighten it again. It emitted a loud squelching sound as the mangled flesh was further abused.

Bruce’s head was shaking as he tried to look around at Gore; dark blood gurgled out of his mouth. He raised an arm and fired a plasma bolt at the nude golden human. The intense globe of energized atoms simply splashed off Gore’s metallic skin without even straining his force field. The taxi’s terrified passengers were yelling frantically; they ducked down below the windows.

“This is not a good day for you, is it?” Gore sneered. “First Illuminatus, now here. How many of these corrupted humans have you got left? I wonder.”

Bruce rolled onto his chest and started to crawl. Gore moved fast and clamped a hand around his neck. Their clashing force fields buzzed like a high voltage cable shorting out.

Bruce was hauled off the ground, and turned so Gore could study him in profile.

“You’re not going anywhere,” Gore told him. “From a tactical point of view I should take you in and try to break your conditioning. We’d probably learn a lot from that, Bruce.”

Bruce McFoster’s eye twitched.

“But you tried to kill my daughter and my grandchild. So fuck that.”

Bruce’s jaw opened, sending out a spray of blood, as he tried to say something. Then his contorted face calmed. “Do it. Kill the alien.” His force field switched off.

“Good for you, son,” Gore said in benediction. His hand closed around the man’s neck, snapping the spine.

***

The last time Hoshe had visited the High Angel there had been a couple of bored Diplomatic Police reviewing the ID of everyone who entered the transit station, and scanning their baggage. Today it was a little different. There were now eight transit stations, all of them a lot bigger than the single original. All of them were guarded by a squad of fully armored navy troopers.

Hoshe, who had seen quite enough of armor suits in the last twenty-four hours, eyed them warily as he approached the entrance to a transit station marked CIVILIAN PERSONNEL. The big trollybot carrying Isabella’s suspension shell rolled along quietly behind him, screened from any scan by an e-shield. He called Paula while he was still fifty meters away along the white concourse. “I’m being chicken. I think I need help already.”

“Okay, Hoshe,” she told him. “I’m calling the High Angel now.”

The navy troopers watched him approach, and moved to form a protective cordon around the entrance. Two of them walked out to meet him.

One of them had a captain’s star, and the name Turvill printed on his chest. He held out a hand, stopping Hoshe. “What the hell is in that?”

Hoshe stared at the captain’s helmet, seeing a curving reflection of himself in the gold-mirror dome. “Luggage.”

“What’s in it?”

“That’s not your concern, Officer.”

The squad around the entrance raised their plasma rifles.

“Oh, yes it is. Open it.”

Hoshe gave him a pleasant smile. “No.”

“We are taking you into custody. Sergeant, get a team to scan the box.”

Hoshe stood his ground, smiling in what he hoped was a natural fashion, while praying he wasn’t sweating too obviously. The squad started to advance, their rifles still raised. Some were covering the trolleybot and its large oblong shell.

Captain Turvill suddenly became very still. The squad halted. Their rifles were lowered. The captain saluted. “Sorry, sir. There has been a misunderstanding. Please go through. Your shuttle is waiting. Can my men be of any assistance?”

“No. Thank you,” Hoshe said. “I’ll just, er…” His hand waved at the entrance to the civilian transit station. He felt like tiptoeing past the squad. A schoolboy smirk was trying to break out on his face; it was hard not to laugh.