Cerberus agent, he fought against such things on a daily basis and on a far grander scale. But right now, he couldn’t take the risk of freeing the prisoners. He needed to keep moving; speed was his only advantage.
Kane moved toward the interior door, tensing his wrist tendons in a practised flinch. In less than a second, a weapon had dropped into the palm of his right hand, a compact handblaster that unfurled to a barrel length of approximately fourteen inches as it met with his hand. This was the Sin Eater, a 9 mm semiautomatic that had once served as the official sidearm of the magistrate division. The trigger did not have a guard. Its necessity had never been foreseen, since the magistrates were believed to be above question or error. As such, if the user’s index finger was crooked at the time the weapon reached his hand, the pistol would begin firing automatically. Though no longer a magistrate, Kane had retained his weapon from his days in service at Cobaltville, and he felt most comfortable with the weapon in hand. It was a natural weight to him, like an extension of his body, the way a wristwatch seems natural to the wearer.
“Free us,” one of the muties pleaded from behind Kane as he strode past. There was desperation in his hoarse voice, a desperation that was hard to ignore.
Kane turned back, perhaps to apologize or explain to the mutie who had requested his help. As he did so, the interior door swung open and a startled figure stood there, staring into Kane’s face. “What the—?”
* * *
“R EMEMBER WHERE YOU ARE ,” Brigid told herself again as she gunned the Turbo’s engine. “Keep heading north.”
She was tearing across the skyway at 130 miles per hour, and the car showed no signs of flagging. Behind her, the pursuit vehicles were losing ground as they worked up the elevated street’s incline, their laser turrets cycling through their power-up sequences before unleashing another storm of bloodred heat across the blacktop. Brigid bumped over a ruined bit of road as a laser beam split it in two. Sure, she could outrun her pursuers in time, but only if she had a road to drive on.
Brigid wrenched the steering wheel to the right, bumping over another slab of ruined roadway and hurtling past a stalled hatchback so close that they exchanged paint in a shower of sparks.
“Come on,” Brigid urged herself. “Forget the escape route—what was your reason for nabbing the codes in the first place?”
Brigid noticed in her rearview that her pursuers were holding back a little, driving three abreast to block the raised street in its entirety. They’ve called for backup, she realized. They’re hemming me in toward it, making sure I can’t turn back .
The Turbo 190 roared like an unchained beast as Brigid weaved through the skyway traffic, horns blaring all about her as she cut off the other users of the road. A moment later, the three tanklike pursuit vehicles followed, bumping out of their way anyone who didn’t move aside quickly enough, lasers flashing to literally cut a path through the traffic.
Then, up ahead, Brigid saw what they were forcing her toward. It was bigger than her other pursuers, covered in thick armor plate, and it hovered just above the elevated road, great rotor blades cutting the air with a heavy thrum. Painted a glossy black, the Deathbird had two great laser turrets on its underside, front and back, as well as a plethora of bullet-fed chain guns along its sides. Both lasers and chain guns worked on swiveling pivots, sufficient to cover all fields of fire between them.
Twelve seconds to impact, the lasers were cycling around to pinpoint her. Eleven seconds. Ten. Brigid eyed the Deathbird, estimating the clearing distance beneath its skids. There wasn’t enough. Even if she managed to somehow outlast the lasers and all that other hardware the thing was packing, she simply couldn’t make the route.
Nine seconds.
Frantically, Brigid scoured up ahead, searching for all
Kane moved toward the interior door, tensing his wrist tendons in a practised flinch. In less than a second, a weapon had dropped into the palm of his right hand, a compact handblaster that unfurled to a barrel length of approximately fourteen inches as it met with his hand. This was the Sin Eater, a 9 mm semiautomatic that had once served as the official sidearm of the magistrate division. The trigger did not have a guard. Its necessity had never been foreseen, since the magistrates were believed to be above question or error. As such, if the user’s index finger was crooked at the time the weapon reached his hand, the pistol would begin firing automatically. Though no longer a magistrate, Kane had retained his weapon from his days in service at Cobaltville, and he felt most comfortable with the weapon in hand. It was a natural weight to him, like an extension of his body, the way a wristwatch seems natural to the wearer.
“Free us,” one of the muties pleaded from behind Kane as he strode past. There was desperation in his hoarse voice, a desperation that was hard to ignore.
Kane turned back, perhaps to apologize or explain to the mutie who had requested his help. As he did so, the interior door swung open and a startled figure stood there, staring into Kane’s face. “What the—?”
* * *
“R EMEMBER WHERE YOU ARE ,” Brigid told herself again as she gunned the Turbo’s engine. “Keep heading north.”
She was tearing across the skyway at 130 miles per hour, and the car showed no signs of flagging. Behind her, the pursuit vehicles were losing ground as they worked up the elevated street’s incline, their laser turrets cycling through their power-up sequences before unleashing another storm of bloodred heat across the blacktop. Brigid bumped over a ruined bit of road as a laser beam split it in two. Sure, she could outrun her pursuers in time, but only if she had a road to drive on.
Brigid wrenched the steering wheel to the right, bumping over another slab of ruined roadway and hurtling past a stalled hatchback so close that they exchanged paint in a shower of sparks.
“Come on,” Brigid urged herself. “Forget the escape route—what was your reason for nabbing the codes in the first place?”
Brigid noticed in her rearview that her pursuers were holding back a little, driving three abreast to block the raised street in its entirety. They’ve called for backup, she realized. They’re hemming me in toward it, making sure I can’t turn back .
The Turbo 190 roared like an unchained beast as Brigid weaved through the skyway traffic, horns blaring all about her as she cut off the other users of the road. A moment later, the three tanklike pursuit vehicles followed, bumping out of their way anyone who didn’t move aside quickly enough, lasers flashing to literally cut a path through the traffic.
Then, up ahead, Brigid saw what they were forcing her toward. It was bigger than her other pursuers, covered in thick armor plate, and it hovered just above the elevated road, great rotor blades cutting the air with a heavy thrum. Painted a glossy black, the Deathbird had two great laser turrets on its underside, front and back, as well as a plethora of bullet-fed chain guns along its sides. Both lasers and chain guns worked on swiveling pivots, sufficient to cover all fields of fire between them.
Twelve seconds to impact, the lasers were cycling around to pinpoint her. Eleven seconds. Ten. Brigid eyed the Deathbird, estimating the clearing distance beneath its skids. There wasn’t enough. Even if she managed to somehow outlast the lasers and all that other hardware the thing was packing, she simply couldn’t make the route.
Nine seconds.
Frantically, Brigid scoured up ahead, searching for all
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