MARKABIA SHIPYARDS, SECTOR 641
A FEW MINUTES AGO
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The lightning sphere drew a glowing curve in the air, slicing through the darkness of the alley. It burst on the floor and spread electrical sparks. Then another one hit the wall, kicking up bits of brick and clouds of dust.
The young woman used her arms to shield herself; debris particles splattered her face, and she nearly lost her balance and tripped over some garbage cans heaped to the side. Regaining stability, she continued her marathon. The heels of her tall black boots echoed off the walls; that frantic cluck, cluck, cluck-sound created a cacophony that, had she been somewhere else or at a different time, might have alerted someone to come to her aid, but here and now, it only confirmed how alone she was in this.
She pierced through pockets of vapor coming out of the drainage sewer grates, vapors rising like spectral claws in search of her ankles, and behind her was her attacker.
In such a narrow passage, there was only one direction left for her to go: forward; there was no going back. And, after a few curtains of mist and a pile of stacked cardboard boxes, the alley revealed itself to be a dead end. There, at the end, was the back door of a warehouse lit by a flickering light bulb, and above it, nothing but a brick wall and the blackness of the night.
“Hit the damn breaks, babe!” said the man. “I’m tired already!”
Driven by adrenaline, she continued to make her way through layers and layers of humidity and smelly waste, until she reached the back door. She tried to open it, but it was locked, as she expected. She could have forced it, but she didn’t. Just like her pursuer, she too was exhausted.
And there, as she stood still for the first time in the last few minutes, the ravages caused by the electric shock she’d received at the start of the chase became present. The energy grenade had hit her right shoulder, just above the strap of her T-shirt. She reached back and held back a grunt of pain. The bruise burned… a lot. The dampness she touched could be sweating, but no. She knew it before looking at what was on her fingertips. It was blood.
How could she have been so foolish as to let herself be caught from behind again? Hadn’t she learned her lesson when she got attacked at the nightclub?
You should be ashamed, dear, she told herself. If her father had been present there, he would have been so humiliated to see his daughter caught in such a foolish way that he himself would have handed her over to the enemy. Juzo, on the other hand, might have disapproved of her with that hard look he had, a look she would have hated to receive, but then he would have advised her something like, ‘Now that you’re in this mess, see how you go about reversing it and make something out of it.’
And that was exactly what she was trying to do.
Having traversed the port area and the city slums without any other hunters joining the hunt, she had ascertained that his attacker was indeed operating alone. She had given herself over to her easy-victim role long enough; if there had been another fox hiding out there, by now he would have jumped on her looking to seize the opportunity. Most likely now, under the poor lighting and shadows of the night, she was alone with her pursuer.
“Juzo, this one’s for you,” whispered, and her eyes watered, not from pain.
She turned to face her enemy, and as she spread her legs in a defensive position, put her foot on the drainage grate by the door and felt a slight movement followed by a metal click! Unintentionally, with the heel of her boot, she had detached it. A good soldier knows how to get by with what she has at hand, she told herself. Now what she needed was for that man to make a mistake, and then she could put a value on the wound on her shoulder.
Out of the shadows, a guy appeared in front of her, a guy who, despite wearing a radiant olive-green military uniform, his gait and his appearance betrayed, more than a full-fledged soldier, a brawler auto mechanic man who hadn’t yet tasted the pleasure of a shower after a hard day’s work. He wore the combat jacket with the sleeves rolled up above his elbows and totally unbuttoned, shirtless underneath, exposing a bare torso so covered with hair that it would have made any refined male stylist uncomfortable. His face was lean, full of stubble and thick dark mustaches that only added to the impression that he smelled bad.
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“Hell, Malin!” the man said. “How come you don’t kiss the pavement with those beautiful lips of yours every time you run with those heels?”
“Would you like me to lend you my boots, Simon? That way, you can strip away the doubts by yourself,” she provoked him, making an effort to make her voice sound natural and as mocking as possible, without traces of pain. And, pointing to his outfit, she added, “I doubt the military has ever welcomed a deserter like you back into their ranks. If you love costumes so much, why don’t you come and try on these heels?” And fixing her big light-blue eyes on his dark and shining eyes, she beckoned him to come closer. “Come on, Simon. Who knows, maybe you’ll discover something new about yourself by changing your boots for mine.”
But Simon kept his distance. “You’re still the same whore who wouldn’t shut up even when sitting in the electric chair.”
“And you’re still the same nobody who once betrayed Juzo and me,” she said. “A piece of garbage.”
Simon wiped his hairy arm across his face, wiping away the sweat.
Malin looked down at the black and chrome bracelets he wore on his wrists: some Auriga just like the ones she had worn before and now lost. On him, they looked more like a prisoner’s shackles than the sophisticated equipment they were, though.
“Let’s make a deal, Malin.” Simon’s eyes gleamed lustfully. “I can look the other way and pretend I never saw you if you… You know.” He licked his mustaches. “C’mon! I already told you. Your little boyfriend is quite dead; he won’t be jealous. Why don’t you come with me? I’ll give you my shoulder so you can cry for a while.”
“You damn creeping son of a bitch,” Malin muttered through tight lips. Pain and fury touched every inch of her body as if she were being sprayed with acid. But she mustn’t let her emotions control her, not now.
“What do you say, Malin? Huh?” Simon insisted. “I’m gonna treat you like no one ever treated you, you’ll see.”
Malin forced a smile again. Give me that mistake I’m waiting for, you prick.
“I must first congratulate you because you learned a new concept: to treat someone,” she said. “Second, a beer-breath kiss or a pool game at one of those sleazy bars you like to hang out in doesn’t count as a treat.”
Simon bared his teeth and clenched his fists. Good, Malin was getting there. “I’m gonna shove a Photia up your throat to shut you up, you bitch,” he threatened, and contracting his left hand’s fingers, he formed an energy grenade and fired.
Malin dodged it easily. Rain of sparks by her side.
Simon created another grenade with the same hand and shot it. Malin ducked it again.
“Huh! Always with the same hand, right?” she pointed out and scoffed. “I forgot you only have one implant! But don’t feel bad, dear; the morgue is full of bastards who didn’t interrupt treatment early. At least you were honest and said, ‘Thanks, but I’m fine with this.’”
Simon was fuming.
“Look, I’ll show you how we, the strong, do it.” Malin extended both arms, activated the trigger command with the movement of her fingers, and created a sphere of power in each hand; then, with a few slaps, she disintegrated them. “See, Simon? How does it feel that I, a woman, have resisted the full treatment, and you, being so macho, have stayed in the middle?”
“I’m gonna kill you!” Screaming in rage, Simon lunged at her, clutching a Photia in his left hand and ready to strangle her with his right hand.
Malin hit the loose drainage grate with her boot and made it hop. Simon tripped over it, and while it wasn’t enough to make him fall, it distracted him, leaving him exposed for her to plunge her heel into his crotch, right in there.
Simon’s Photia dissipated.
The mustache man fell to his knees, writhing in pain. Malin wasted no time; she grabbed him by the hair and pulled him back.
“I don’t understand how you can be so stupid,” she told him. “If I don’t respond to your attack from the get-go, it’s because I have something in mind, Simon.”
And resting the open palm of her hand on his bare chest, she released a light discharge of energy that painted the alley with its blue light. She might not have held back and unleashed an electric barrage equivalent to a real Photia, but she didn’t want to become a cold-blooded killer for a wretch like Simon. Besides, she had to be careful; she couldn’t risk harming what she truly needed.
The guy let out one last groan and fell to the ground, spasming slightly.
“Just look at yourself. You squirm like a poison-kissed roach.” Standing beside him, Malin took his arms, unfastened the dark bracelets, and put them on herself. Proving that her discharge hadn’t damaged them, she slid her fingers over the chrome surface of both Auriga and unfolded the holographic screens, then closed them again. Everything was perfect. “That’s more like it,” she said, gave her new bracelets a little tap, and left Simon in the alley, disappearing into the night.