Chapter 9
THE FLIGHT BACK TO THE house is, I feel justified in saying, less than pleasant.
I’m dangling upside down for most of it, of course.
Alternately yelling curses at the Hed to ease up on my leg, which I’m no longer convinced has blood flowing through it, and mildly concerned that the thing will actually listen.
The creature, fortunately or not, ignores me, flying low and fast along the forest. Too low, at points.
I need to do some wildly swinging stomach crunches to avoid several treetops to the face.
I don’t manage to do all of them in time, either.
The five minutes it takes for the house to appear below feels like one hell of a lot longer.
Appear it does, though, eventually. Small at first. Then larger at an alarming rate as the Hed dives.
Just before I’m sure I’m about to be delivered at an entirely unnecessary speed into the ground, the Hed’s wings unfurl and it slams to a stop midair just a few metres short.
The relief I feel that the motion hasn’t torn off my leg is tempered by the realisation that there’s no pressure on it at all any more.
Some twisting midair acrobatics, and my somatics, prevent any serious injury as I hit the grass. I still glower up at my ride. “Didn’t have to be a jerk about it.”
The Hed chirps, then turns and launches itself back toward the EMP ring.
I take quick note of its direction—there’s a possibility it’s picked up Old Woman’s trail and is heading her way—and then duck behind a nearby low wall, allowing some hurried self-assessment.
Scratches across my arms and face, mostly.
I massage my left leg, then carefully ease off its pain-blocking revs.
There’s the sharp prickle of blood still gushing back into it, and definitely some tenderness.
Not anything problematic, though. If I had to guess, I’d say the internal reconstructive work is still intact.
There’s no one at the house entrance, and Old Woman will have disabled the cameras along with all the other security. I stand straight. Stamp until the needles in my left foot vanish.
Move.
The door is unlocked; I slip in silently, cognitive revs primed.
There’s empty silence. It’s a massive house; the intruder could still be moving room to room, or—more likely, in my opinion—scouting using the fish tank.
It’s what I’d do. What any half-decent assassin would do as long as they had air in reserve, actually.
The damned thing covers most of the house, and half of it’s concealed from view. If only every lifer had one installed.
I keep my cogs primed as I slip smoothly down the first flight of stairs.
Now I’m no longer dangling thirty metres above the ground like some sort of flesh-trophy, I’m feeling better about the situation.
So much of protection is preparing to react.
Waiting to react. Hoping there will be no reason to react.
But this? Sneaking into a building to kill another assassin, who may or may not know I’m coming?
This is much more my speed.
The house sensors are off, and the digiglass roof maintains its perfect imitation of the near-dark sky outside, no gentle ambient light to guide my path.
I flit along hallways, using my revs as much as my eyes to check rooms as I pass, part of my focus always on the rippling beneath my feet.
It’s not the end of the world if my opponent spots me from the tank—EMP shielding on the intake pipe will have ensured they don’t have the tech to shoot from underwater through reinforced glass—but ideally, their first inkling that I’m here will be my Ceramic opening something vital.
I reach the stairs and start heading down. Schools of smaller fish glitter as they dart amongst strands of seaweed to my left and right.
My revs prickle.
There’s nothing physical. No movement I’ve spotted, no discrepancy.
But there’s something. Farther in, hidden deep amongst the thick kelp and rocks and sand on my left.
I keep my downward motion smooth, as if I haven’t noticed.
Damn it. They’ll have seen me. Not a stupid spot to hide; whoever’s in there will have a clear view not only of the stairs, but the entryway room above.
Old Woman would have been gone by the time the assassin made it here, so they won’t know their target’s absconded.
With enough air, they could stay where they are for hours.
I sigh. Stop, and turn to the glass wall. Make a weary beckoning gesture in the general direction my revs are protesting. “She’s not here.”
There’s no movement.
After a long few seconds I roll my eyes. Knock on the glass. “Seriously. Just us, friend. Come on out, and let’s get this over with.”
Still nothing. I growl. Their target’s gone, as has any element of surprise. Whoever’s in there is drawing this out far longer than necessary. Just inconveniencing me, now, really.
“Fine.” I can’t go in there; even with my revs, a lack of breathing apparatus would be a major disadvantage. I’m impatient, not stupid. “I can wait.”
I make myself comfortable on the steps, tucking my hands behind my head and reclining so that I’m facing roughly in the intruder’s direction.
Cross my legs and give an exaggerated yawn, then pointedly close my eyes.
My revs are still sharp, of course, but there’s no way whoever’s in there will know that.
I’m almost drifting off to sleep for real when there’s finally movement.
It’s just stirrings, at first—small and slow, followed by long seconds of inactivity—and I don’t react physically at all, allowing the assassin to reveal themselves properly before I admit I’m aware of them. Another infinitesimal motion. Another. Then, a creeping upward, more regular this time.
I open my eyes. The young man inching his way along is clad almost entirely in grey. He freezes when he sees me move. I wave to him cheerfully.
“Son of a bitch,” I mutter as I take in his attire, even as I continue to smile.
The oxysuit is a creepy mess of rippling motion.
Bioengineered, I hate the things. They’re like wearing the skin of a fish, if the fish was still alive and made up entirely of gills and had no scales and was greyish-green and plugged directly into your bloodstream.
It’s very gross. It’s also very expensive and very annoying.
If this guy has had even a little training, he’s probably able to stay in there indefinitely.
“Come out.” I gesture irritably to him, then the space next to me.
He shakes his head.
“Yes,” I retort, nodding with an exaggerated motion. “Out of there now, Fish Boy.”
He shakes his head again. Points to me, then the water.
“Oh, ha ha.”
He shrugs at me.
“Alright then.” He could sit there for days. And Old Woman can’t sit out in the EMP ring indefinitely. Time is on his side.
Fortunately, I’m fairly sure Old Woman’s printer requires high-temperature industrial cleaning.
I stretch, then head for the supply room.
Fish Boy trails along beneath me curiously—out of sight, of course, but my revs as well as common sense tell me that he wants to know what I’m up to.
No fancy see-through floor in the storeroom, though, so he doesn’t see me locate the CIF3, or pour it—carefully holding my breath—into a plastic spray bottle.
I secure the bottle in an empty duffel bag lying on one of the nearby shelves, and hope to hell the lid doesn’t come off.
Grab a fire axe off the wall, when I spot it, and tuck it in there too. Perfect.
I do the calculations as I stroll back down the stairs to the lowest level of the house.
Into the hallway with the hidden door out into the Loop tunnel on one side, and the base of the aquarium on the other.
There isn’t anywhere for Fish Boy to watch me discreetly down here, so he doesn’t bother hiding.
Just kind of floats along after me. Clearly curious about the bag I’m carrying, but not looking especially worried.
I open the way to the Loop tunnel using the code I memorised with my cogs when Old Woman punched it in last time. Through it, I can hear machinery whirring as the maintenance bots work busily on their repairs.
Then I go back over to the aquarium wall opposite, and pull out the bottle. Hold my breath and give the glass a quick, but thorough, spray across an area of several metres.
There’s an ominous hissing sound as I reach back into the bag, and this time heft the axe.
“Don’t tap on the glass,” I murmur to myself in Old Woman’s voice. A pretty spot-on impersonation, if I do say so myself.
Inside the aquarium, Fish Boy’s eyes go wide. He turns and starts swimming madly away.
I slam the axe into the rapidly widening weak spot, and run.