A Teaser from Chapter 2...
04-22-2016, 04:35 PM (This post was last modified: 10-04-2017, 08:08 AM by Bob Schroeck.)
04-22-2016, 04:35 PM (This post was last modified: 10-04-2017, 08:08 AM by Bob Schroeck.)
As Eimi flew all but one of her aerial drones back to the
Birdhouse, I stashed the crawlers in a pannier, then hopped on my
bike and made my way to the Bronze. I'd been ignoring it all
this time, preferring to hunt the hunters in the downtown area.
But I really did need to scope it out, and frankly it was
overdue.
I went vertical from the clearing, then shot arrow-straight
across first the spaghetti twistings of the outlying residential
zones, over the (mostly) regular grid of downtown, and then into
the industrial district, where the faux-underground club made a
none-too-successful show of lurking "disreputably" in a warehouse
that was very clearly well-kept and managed solely to house it.
Gods. Save me from poseurs.
It was almost an hour after sunset, so I didn't have to worry
about anyone spotting me dropping out of the sky into an alley
(unoccupied by anyone living or dead) between two *real* working
warehouses. I cut off the engine noise suppression and shot out
into the street. One right turn and I was at the entrance to the
Bronze's parking lot.
So I parked.
Stashing my helmet in a pannier, I pulled TunePlug r.11 out of my
pocket, stuck it in my ear, and subvocalized "Test, test" as my
body heat fed the thermocouple that powered its circuitry and it
began to play a stream of synthesized music.
"Reading you loud and clear, Doug." Eimi's voice was a couple
decibels louder than the music. The plug was a necessary tool
for the times I needed to work discreetly in an environment where
I was likely to run into songs that might trigger my gift. The
music it generated "confused" my metatalent and kept it from
activating if I should come upon a song that normally gave me a
power. I'd built a lot of different versions of it over the
years, and a radio link to Eimi had been part of it since
revision 8. The link was the only reason I was using it now --
with my metatalent in burnout, I didn't need to block it. "I'm
looking for a back way into the club now."
"You little sneak," I chuckled.
"Well, it's not like I can carry the cash for a cover charge in
one of these things," she mock-huffed. "They don't exactly have
pockets."
"That's what we need to add to the next generation design, then,"
I murmured. "I'll see you inside."
"Right!"
Speaking of cover charges, the bouncers at the door were clearly
for show -- there was no line waiting to get in, and everyone got
past them. All they did was check the occasional ID and collect
the cover. And given some of the clientèle that got past them
with the barest flash of a driver's license, it was pretty
obvious that the ID-checking was a token effort at best. They
didn't even bother when I walked up to the door -- they just took
my five bucks and waved me through.
"I've found an open window," Eimi whispered in my ear just before
the muted music from the dance floor hit me. "Whoa. Way to save
on the interior decorating budget, guys -- love the 'early
warehouse' decor."
"They didn't," I subvocalized as I pushed my way through the mob
of teens and early-post-teens thronging the crudely redressed
"front office" area which served as a foyer and coat room for the
club.
"They did," she giggled. "They had either a very minimalist
aesthetic or a very minimalist budget when they set this place
up. Stage, bar, and a kind of mezzanine which is basically a few
support columns, a floor and a railing. Oh, and a couple
catwalks, among which I am lurking. That's it." As she
described it, I finally pushed past the loiterers at the inner
door and hit the club floor proper.
Recorded music was currently blasting over the sound system, but
the instruments and amps on the small stage promised a live
performance was in the offing. It was noticeably warmer than
room temperature, as the club's air conditioning struggled, not
entirely successfully, against the accumulated body heat of the
two hundred-plus club-goers dancing, flirting and schmoozing in
the irregularly-lit industrial space. (Not exactly the most
comfortable environment in which to be wearing all leather, but
hey, I've coped with worse.)
The average age of the patrons confirmed my guess that any and
all ID checking was token at best -- easily half the club-goers
were obvious high-schoolers. Most of the other half were college
age. And of course there was me, the world's youngest living
centenarian.
I made my way to the bar and ordered a beer -- a local craft brew
that they had on tap. My metabolism would burn through the
alcohol faster than I could drink it -- beer is essentially malt-
and hops-flavored sparkling water as far as my system is
concerned. (Well, as long as I didn't down a six-pack in as many
minutes, at least -- and even then I'd get only a mild, short-
lived buzz.) I took my frosty mug and made my way to one of
those small, tall tables that are pretty much good only for
drinking and snacking and stood there, slowly sipping and
surveying the crowd.
"Anything?" Eimi asked.
"Nope," I mumbled into my beer. "You?"
"I'm tracking a humanoid on the mezzanine with a fashion sense
and a body temperature both in the mid-seventies," she replied.
I raised an eyebrow. "Male or female?"
"Female," Eimi said, a little giggle in her voice. "Are you
going to..."
"Yup." I unbuckled my jacket enough to bare my neck, then
splashed a little beer on myself. Thank gods for wash-and-wear
body armor. "Guide me in, Mission Control."
"Roger that, Hunter One." This time Eimi giggled outright.
A couple minutes later, I came up on the target from behind.
Brunette, Farrah-cut hairdo, wearing a datedly-Mod avocado
pantsuit. I took another swig of my beer, then began my final
approach. I added a little sway-and-stumble to my walk, and
staggered through the thinner crowd on the mezzanine until I
could "accidentally" fall into her and send her drink --
something radioactive green with a slice of citrus and a little
paper umbrella -- flying.
"Ah, geeze, I'm sorry," I slurred lightly at her as she turned
to glare at me. For a moment I saw a flash of gold color her
eyes, then they were some dark shade unidentifiable in the low
light. Just as quickly her expression flickered from annoyed to
assessing. "Lemme buy you 'nother."
She studied me a moment, her nostrils flaring. "It's cool.
Wasn't what I was really interested in drinking."
*I'll bet, lady.* "'m Quinn. So, whatcha want, then?"
She smiled predatorially. "Charlotte." She slid her arm through
mine. "Let's talk about it."
After one outrageously-expensive mixed drink, about ten minutes
of dancing, and a whole lot of snarky commentary from Eimi,
Charlotte finally led me out a side door into a narrow alley
between the club and a tall concrete fence. "Oh, this is nice
and private," she said, turning back to look at me as her face
shifted from human to bestial. "For..."
"This," I finished calmly as I drove the stake from my sleeve
into her chest. She had just enough time to look surprised
before she exploded into ash -- seventies clothing and all.
"I'm *never* gonna get used to that," I said, coughing and waving
the dust away.
"Just look at it this way," Eimi said, her drone dropping out of
the night sky to hover before my face. "At least you're not
leaving a trail of corpses behind you. That would be kind of
hard for the cops to ignore, after all." The drone waggled
insouciantly. "No one notices piles of dust, though."
I nodded. "True, that." I opened the door back into the Bronze.
"Shall we go back to hunting?"
"Yes," Eimi replied. "Let's." The microcopter shot through the
door and I followed.
-- Bob
---------
Then the horns kicked in...
...and my shoes began to squeak.
Birdhouse, I stashed the crawlers in a pannier, then hopped on my
bike and made my way to the Bronze. I'd been ignoring it all
this time, preferring to hunt the hunters in the downtown area.
But I really did need to scope it out, and frankly it was
overdue.
I went vertical from the clearing, then shot arrow-straight
across first the spaghetti twistings of the outlying residential
zones, over the (mostly) regular grid of downtown, and then into
the industrial district, where the faux-underground club made a
none-too-successful show of lurking "disreputably" in a warehouse
that was very clearly well-kept and managed solely to house it.
Gods. Save me from poseurs.
It was almost an hour after sunset, so I didn't have to worry
about anyone spotting me dropping out of the sky into an alley
(unoccupied by anyone living or dead) between two *real* working
warehouses. I cut off the engine noise suppression and shot out
into the street. One right turn and I was at the entrance to the
Bronze's parking lot.
So I parked.
Stashing my helmet in a pannier, I pulled TunePlug r.11 out of my
pocket, stuck it in my ear, and subvocalized "Test, test" as my
body heat fed the thermocouple that powered its circuitry and it
began to play a stream of synthesized music.
"Reading you loud and clear, Doug." Eimi's voice was a couple
decibels louder than the music. The plug was a necessary tool
for the times I needed to work discreetly in an environment where
I was likely to run into songs that might trigger my gift. The
music it generated "confused" my metatalent and kept it from
activating if I should come upon a song that normally gave me a
power. I'd built a lot of different versions of it over the
years, and a radio link to Eimi had been part of it since
revision 8. The link was the only reason I was using it now --
with my metatalent in burnout, I didn't need to block it. "I'm
looking for a back way into the club now."
"You little sneak," I chuckled.
"Well, it's not like I can carry the cash for a cover charge in
one of these things," she mock-huffed. "They don't exactly have
pockets."
"That's what we need to add to the next generation design, then,"
I murmured. "I'll see you inside."
"Right!"
Speaking of cover charges, the bouncers at the door were clearly
for show -- there was no line waiting to get in, and everyone got
past them. All they did was check the occasional ID and collect
the cover. And given some of the clientèle that got past them
with the barest flash of a driver's license, it was pretty
obvious that the ID-checking was a token effort at best. They
didn't even bother when I walked up to the door -- they just took
my five bucks and waved me through.
"I've found an open window," Eimi whispered in my ear just before
the muted music from the dance floor hit me. "Whoa. Way to save
on the interior decorating budget, guys -- love the 'early
warehouse' decor."
"They didn't," I subvocalized as I pushed my way through the mob
of teens and early-post-teens thronging the crudely redressed
"front office" area which served as a foyer and coat room for the
club.
"They did," she giggled. "They had either a very minimalist
aesthetic or a very minimalist budget when they set this place
up. Stage, bar, and a kind of mezzanine which is basically a few
support columns, a floor and a railing. Oh, and a couple
catwalks, among which I am lurking. That's it." As she
described it, I finally pushed past the loiterers at the inner
door and hit the club floor proper.
Recorded music was currently blasting over the sound system, but
the instruments and amps on the small stage promised a live
performance was in the offing. It was noticeably warmer than
room temperature, as the club's air conditioning struggled, not
entirely successfully, against the accumulated body heat of the
two hundred-plus club-goers dancing, flirting and schmoozing in
the irregularly-lit industrial space. (Not exactly the most
comfortable environment in which to be wearing all leather, but
hey, I've coped with worse.)
The average age of the patrons confirmed my guess that any and
all ID checking was token at best -- easily half the club-goers
were obvious high-schoolers. Most of the other half were college
age. And of course there was me, the world's youngest living
centenarian.
I made my way to the bar and ordered a beer -- a local craft brew
that they had on tap. My metabolism would burn through the
alcohol faster than I could drink it -- beer is essentially malt-
and hops-flavored sparkling water as far as my system is
concerned. (Well, as long as I didn't down a six-pack in as many
minutes, at least -- and even then I'd get only a mild, short-
lived buzz.) I took my frosty mug and made my way to one of
those small, tall tables that are pretty much good only for
drinking and snacking and stood there, slowly sipping and
surveying the crowd.
"Anything?" Eimi asked.
"Nope," I mumbled into my beer. "You?"
"I'm tracking a humanoid on the mezzanine with a fashion sense
and a body temperature both in the mid-seventies," she replied.
I raised an eyebrow. "Male or female?"
"Female," Eimi said, a little giggle in her voice. "Are you
going to..."
"Yup." I unbuckled my jacket enough to bare my neck, then
splashed a little beer on myself. Thank gods for wash-and-wear
body armor. "Guide me in, Mission Control."
"Roger that, Hunter One." This time Eimi giggled outright.
A couple minutes later, I came up on the target from behind.
Brunette, Farrah-cut hairdo, wearing a datedly-Mod avocado
pantsuit. I took another swig of my beer, then began my final
approach. I added a little sway-and-stumble to my walk, and
staggered through the thinner crowd on the mezzanine until I
could "accidentally" fall into her and send her drink --
something radioactive green with a slice of citrus and a little
paper umbrella -- flying.
"Ah, geeze, I'm sorry," I slurred lightly at her as she turned
to glare at me. For a moment I saw a flash of gold color her
eyes, then they were some dark shade unidentifiable in the low
light. Just as quickly her expression flickered from annoyed to
assessing. "Lemme buy you 'nother."
She studied me a moment, her nostrils flaring. "It's cool.
Wasn't what I was really interested in drinking."
*I'll bet, lady.* "'m Quinn. So, whatcha want, then?"
She smiled predatorially. "Charlotte." She slid her arm through
mine. "Let's talk about it."
After one outrageously-expensive mixed drink, about ten minutes
of dancing, and a whole lot of snarky commentary from Eimi,
Charlotte finally led me out a side door into a narrow alley
between the club and a tall concrete fence. "Oh, this is nice
and private," she said, turning back to look at me as her face
shifted from human to bestial. "For..."
"This," I finished calmly as I drove the stake from my sleeve
into her chest. She had just enough time to look surprised
before she exploded into ash -- seventies clothing and all.
"I'm *never* gonna get used to that," I said, coughing and waving
the dust away.
"Just look at it this way," Eimi said, her drone dropping out of
the night sky to hover before my face. "At least you're not
leaving a trail of corpses behind you. That would be kind of
hard for the cops to ignore, after all." The drone waggled
insouciantly. "No one notices piles of dust, though."
I nodded. "True, that." I opened the door back into the Bronze.
"Shall we go back to hunting?"
"Yes," Eimi replied. "Let's." The microcopter shot through the
door and I followed.
-- Bob
---------
Then the horns kicked in...
...and my shoes began to squeak.