Flannery Quinn glided through the dark, silent London streets like a cat. The centuries had not been kind to the Earth. Despite the Global Unification Treaty of 2384, which ostensibly created a central government led by duly elected officials trained from boyhood to rule, undercurrents of unrest ebbed and flowed.
Only the occasional sweep of a Guard Security Team searchlight as their transport made its rounds disturbed the deserted streets. The Resistance was worrisome enough to the Lords of Discipline that strict sanctions closed the cities at 0200. It was well after the curfew--a hollow edict easily flaunted by a well-placed credit or two but effective for keeping the poverty-stricken penned up late at night. Standing orders were to shoot on sight, and if you had no credit case to hide behind, the Guards' aim was exceptional.
Dressed in unrelieved black, Flannery carried his disrupter drawn as he advanced toward his goal. The heavy sidearm was an antique compared to the slimmer models that most field agents preferred. However, Flannery found comfort in the fact that if they forced him to carry a gun at least his weapon looked like one. Unlike some of the tiny, easily concealed weapons his teammates used. The entire function of a disrupter was to damage or destroy the integrity of the cellular structure itself. It should look dangerous, not like some toy off a vidreel.
A pulsing microcircuit in his left wrist cloaked his progress, rendering him invisible to ordinary sensors. If they had no lurking SkyBirds, he was safe--though an observant human eye might spot him in the shadows….
As if conjured up by his thoughts, his ears caught a high-pitched whine from the darkness overhead. Throwing himself under the projecting overhang of a nouveau chic servosteel boutique fronting the street, he jammed his gloved hands deep into the pockets of his thick jacket. Scarcely daring to breathe, Flannery traced the passage of the airborne surveillance globe with his eyes. The device was a standard mecho-sentry; electronic scanning detectors housed in a round servosteel casing and set into a predetermined flight pattern. Any physical movement and biomolecular feedback filtered through the globe's detectors. More importantly for him, the sentries automatically destroyed any unauthorized sensory devices detected by such a scan. While a SkyEye might herd a harmless wandering human in for interrogation, it would automatically fire an energy beam at a passing aircar that strayed too close. Or a potential two-legged spy armed with data retrieval or collection equipment.
Falling as he did into the latter category, and unable to rid himself of his tell-tale sensors, Flannery prayed to the Son that the metal surrounding him would distort the SkyEye's data. After what seemed an infinite space of time, the SkyEye passed out-of-sight, never even slowing in its movement. Letting out a shaky sigh, Flannery stepped out into the street once more. That was too close for comfort.
A rime of frost crunched softly beneath his boots as he slipped forward. The clear January night was bitterly cold, and Flannery shivered despite his heavy jacket. Above him, the brittle Heavens glittered with stars in spattered profusion, no longer paled by the pre-curfew lights of a restless city.
He had roamed the London streets for hours. It was safer to berth the aircar outside the border perimeter and walk to his goal deep within the sprawling metropolis. He didn't mind. The frigid beauty of the night walk helped him to forget its inescapable conclusion. After he accomplished the mission, he'd hole up somewhere and sleep before returning home…the night before he hadn't managed to get much rest.
Chewing his lip out of nervous habit, he winced, exploring the painfully lacerated area with his tongue. The entire inside of his mouth was in shreds. He chuckled bitterly--more air than sound. This was all so stupid.
Here he was, not only sanctioned, but under Lords' orders to terminate his victim, and yet in mortal fear of every transport sweep. If the Guard caught him out after curfew, no one would bail him out. No one would lift a finger. In all probability, no one who might try would even know until after it was too late.
Mentally, he reviewed his mission. A minor official on the London Lord General's staff had indiscreetly voiced his dissatisfactions in a public house, and had been brought to the Board of Rule's attention. Flannery's assignment was to silence the man's complaining. There was no room for dissension in the governmental ranks; Lord and Council eliminated any individual who was not absolutely loyal--for the good of the State.
God's Son, he despised himself for the death he dealt. He wasn't sure why he continued…. Was the true reason why he accepted these assignments because he would lose his own life if he did not-and it was more precious to him than he realized? He fingered the scar at the base of his windpipe absently. Even as he slit his own throat hadn't he subconsciously hoped someone would stop him? He sighed. Philosophizing served no purpose. He was what he was--his only other choice was death, and he couldn't quite take that final step.
At length, he reached his destination in an old section of town, quietly scaling the outer wall of the compound. Daggers built into his fingertips dug into the soft mortar between the bricks like cat's claws.
Reaching the top, he paused to reconnoiter the grounds. Sensors swept the air, seeking a security system. He snorted derisively--either this civil servant was so lowly that he didn't rate protection, or the Board of Rule had withdrawn it to make the hit easier.
Leaping lightly from the wall, Flannery crouched at the bottom, adjusting to the darker shadows of a snow-covered garden. He breathed in the heady scent of living greenery sleeping beneath the snow. Concrete, cobbles, and servosteel covered the majority of space in the European states. Gardens were the playthings of the rich and powerful--or, as in this case, their stooges. As a child of the Dublin docks, the beauty of living growth always stirred Flannery's soul, even in winter.
Stealing through the garden to the rear of the house, he searched for a way in. He touched a wrist control and a panel opened beneath his hand as he reversed its magnetic catch. He slipped inside the residence like a shadow.
Flannery swore under his breath as he registered three human forms within the house. The mission profile assured him that the man would be alone! He almost walked out of the dwelling--but the bitter realization that such action would rain down retribution upon the rest of his team kept him moving.
In one room, he found a sleeping boy about seven years old. His teeth grated together as he pondered what would happen to this child when they discovered his father's body. The scandal would ruin the boy's future. Another innocent victim of the Lords. Flannery wished he could do something…but knew that nothing would change the future.
In the main sleeping chamber, he discovered the bureaucrat entwined with a woman upon an antique bedstead. There wasn't a clear shot at his target. Any blast would awaken the companion, and Flannery refused to kill her too.
He carefully eased off his right glove, staring down at the sleek craftsmanship of the silver cybernetic device revealed in the dim rays of a night light. The slim, artisan fingers of his artificial hands contained the sensitive equipment he couldn't conceal from the SkyEye's sensors.
Flannery had lost his hands at thirteen to the Discipline Tribunal, the judicial branch of the Lords. Accused of theft, the penniless orphan had been unable to buy defense, and the tribunal inflicted the maximum punishment as an example to the other street denizens. He had been dying in an alleyway when an agent of Uniglobal Surveillance had found him and unofficially adopted him.
His sponsor had convinced the scientists at Uniglobal Surveillance that Flannery was a perfect test case for their latest cybernetic developments. So here he was-fifteen years and twelve sets of appliances later-using his hands for their designed purposes.
He stared down at his prosthetics in disgust. The scientists had long ago dispensed with the synthoskin that would have disguised the missing extremities because they felt it was "non-cost-effective". The gleaming silver of his appendages was a jarring reminder every time he began to feel normal. He wore his gloves at every possible opportunity.
In the fifteen years that he had been without his natural hands, the period of adjustment he had with each new pair of appliances had been declining. His new hands were less than three months old.
In addition to the sensitive detection devices, his hands had a number of other uses. One of the favorites among the controlling body of Uniglobal was the built-in laserscope that made it a near impossibility for him to miss with his disrupter. Flannery was US's top hitman and expected to like it. He did his job...but they couldn't make him like it.
He flicked out the hidden needle in the thumb of his hand. While his fingers housed daggers, the thumbs had other functions. There was the syringe in the right--with the tiny vials of various lethal compounds stored in the wrist. Within the left thumb, there coiled a single long strand of adamantine wire strong enough to lower him down a four-story height.
Now, he slipped a vial into the syringe and stepped to the side of the bed. Leaning over the sleeping diplomat, he jabbed the needle home in the man's neck, eliciting a tiny cry of pain. He activated the plunger instantly, but the noise had been enough to awaken the woman. Seeing Flannery bending over her lover, she screamed.
He ripped the needle free and vaulted the corner of the bed, heading for the hallway door. Standing in the opening was the sleepy child, roused by his mother's continuing screams. Flannery drew his disrupter, gaze raking the room for a way out. Peripherally, he registered that the woman was sobbing hysterically into an activated vidphone. A well-placed blast from his weapon blew out the screen, but he knew instinctively that it was too late. He had only two choices--kill the pair of them or flee the scene. He leveled the disrupter on the boy, then pulled it out-of-line. He would not kill the innocent!
The only weak spot in the room was a double window overlooking the garden. A heavy gauge servosteel mesh, designed to keep the ordinary intruder out, screened the window--but Flannery was no ordinary intruder, and it had no prayer of keeping him in.
He ripped out large sections of the wire with his daggers. The window itself was five centimeters of heavy glass, and he kicked it out, heedless of the noise. A security squad would doubtless be here any moment--he had no time for niceties. In the back of his mind, he realized he was a fool to leave the woman and child alive to identify him, but killing them was not in his orders. He refused to commit cold-blooded murder--not even to save his own neck.
Flannery dove through the remains of the window, rolling to his feet and sprinting through the frozen garden towards the wall. He no longer cared as his boots trampled carefully bordered beds. He scrambled up the wall and dropped to the street.
Far away, Flannery's escapades had not gone undetected; indeed, in a hidden stronghold, an anonymous watcher avidly followed his every move. Unknown to the agent, a homing beacon imbedded in the complex circuitry of his prosthetics transmitted his constant whereabouts to a personal computer terminal in Spain. There, the watcher traced him through the London streets to his final destination. Hitting another relay, the entire scene within the victim's home played out, chronicled by hidden cameras.
The watcher's eyes narrowed in frustration at the outcome of the scenario. Flannery wasn't playing by the rules. As an Enforcer, he should have automatically terminated the woman and child--the watcher had purposefully called the pair home from a vacation period so that both would complicate the kill. The idea had been to dirty up the hit, to make it a messy scene indeed.
However, Flannery did the unexpected and spared the innocents at the risk of his own neck….
In the distance, he saw the sweeping beam of a Security transport heading his way with a juggernaut's steady implacability. The distance to his aircar stretched infinitely before him, and he began to run. He longed to keep to the deep shadows verging the buildings, but knew he could make much better time in the empty street. His sensors warned him that the transport was closing the gap behind him. Any instant now, the blinding beam would pin him in its pitiless glare--just before the Security disrupter shot him from behind.…
Flannery poured his heart into his running, spurred forward by the thought. Images of bodies flashed through his mind, twisted in agonized attitudes of death.
The search beam flared about him with a sudden brilliance. His heart threatened to choke him as it leapt into his throat. Willing his feet to go even faster, he forced himself onward.
A burst of familiar blue fire struck the street scant inches to his left, leaving an ugly scorched burn in the pavement. He dodged instinctively to the right and a second flash singed through the heavy sleeve of his coat.
His breath tore from his throat in a ripping gasp. There was no greater fear in Flannery's heart than death by disrupter. Intellectually, he realized that with his lifestyle it was a high probability, but emotionally, the thought terrified him as nothing else.
He put on a final spurt of speed and threw himself into the shadows along the edge of the street. As God's Luck would have it, there was a gap between two buildings, too narrow for an alleyway, but wide enough for him to slip into.
Hugging the wall of the building before him, Flannery fought to catch his breath. His cheek pressed tightly against the rough surface of the synthobrick. His sensors told him that the transport had stopped and was disgorging Security troops. In seconds, they would locate his niche. He drove his blade tips into the wall before him instinctively, quickly climbing up the surface until he hung suspended several meters above the pavement.
He jammed the blades of both hands into the mortar up to their housings and allowed himself to dangle. He turned his face into the crook of his arm; a black shadow clinging to a shade. The entire operation took him less than ten seconds.
As the agent hit the street, the watcher switched his perspective to the camera relays in the Security transport closest to the house. Within minutes, the Guards had the young assassin in their sights, but his agility proved too much for them. Flannery dove out of vidrange, and the watcher turned back to the homing beacon….
Flannery held his breath as the search team pounded into the passageway, armed with rifle-model lasers and disrupters. He swallowed hard, closing his eyes and willing them to go away. His cloaking sensors continued to mask his presence on the portable tracking unit one of the guards carried. Flannery held himself perfectly still and silent while the Security men called back and forth, searching the crevice with a fine tooth comb. Mercifully, none of the searchers looked up.
An approving chuckle escaped the watcher as he realized the trick Flannery was employing, and his hand toyed with the control that would connect him instantly with the Guard detachment. He could easily expose the agent's location...but a grudging respect for ingenuity stayed his hand….
Nerves and sinews of adamantine and carbonite augmented Flannery's muscles from his wrists to his shoulders. Even so, after several minutes of supporting his dead weight, his arms were numb. For once, he thanked the Son for his tireless hands and wrists--not daring to move until his sensors registered the departure of all Guards within a kilometer radius.
Setting his boot tips against the wall for purchase, Flannery gingerly yanked one hand free of the synthobrick. He tried to reinsert his blades further down, but there was no force behind the effort even with his enhanced strength. He couldn't overcome the fatigue in his tortured muscles. Gritting his teeth, he jerked his other hand free, letting himself fall.
He hit the pavement and rolled automatically, coming to his feet and staggering further down the crevice. Cradling his numbed arms to his chest, he knew he had to hide somewhere until he could continue to the air field safely. It would be stupid to go on until he had a prayer of defending himself.
The narrow passage took a downturn, and ended in a slightly wider courtyard cut off by a third building. There were several doors opening into the space, but a quick examination found them all locked. It appeared that he had stumbled into a refuse pit--garbage littered the wet, slippery pavement of the alleyway. The sickly-sweet smell of rotting meat and vegetation almost made him gag.
Flannery sank into the recess of a doorway, with his arms folded across his chest protectively. He let his head fall back against the solid comfort of the door panel behind him. Hell's flames, what a bloody mess.
He was sure that he'd accomplished his mission--but under circumstances that a raw cadet would have scorned. The Guards had nearly taken him. He'd let witnesses live. He'd used a method of disposal that could potentially pinpoint him as the perpetrator. To top it all off--he mused ruefully, staring down at the gleam of silver in the moonlight--he'd left his glove at the scene of the hit. Thank the Son none of the Security detachment had seen a glint of metal against the brick.
He banged his head repeatedly against the door--self imposed penance for stupidity. Ah, well...it wouldn't help to continue going over and over it.
What he needed now was ten hours sleep, and a good, hot bath--not necessarily in that order. He huddled into his heavy jacket, shivering miserably as the dampness of the doorstep began to penetrate his clothing, his forehead resting on his bent knees.Maybe he could catch an hour's sleep--that would assure him that the chase was long over, and his sensors would alert him if anyone approached. It should be easy to avoid the Security patrols now that he was behind them, and the return to The Deck should be strictest routine from here on.
Mentally setting his mental alarm clock to awaken him in an hour, Flannery let himself drift off. Years of field agent work had given him the ability to sleep any where at any time, and he welcomed the peace.
Exactly one hour later, he snapped into wakefulness. Carefully testing his arm muscles, he found he had full control of them again and rose clumsily to his feet. The chill damp had done its work--his entire body was stiff and sore.
Slowly and painfully, he made his way back to the aircar, crawling inside and gratefully setting the autopilot to take him home.
Flannery berthed the aircar in its accustomed spot just as the first rays of dawn tinged the sky with blood. He leapt from the vehicle, barely catching himself as he stumbled from weariness. God's Son, he was so very tired….
The Dublin streets were ill-lit in these neighborhoods, the buildings ramshackle constructions of servosteel and concrete, mixed with a few ancient wooden structures from the days when lumber was plentiful and cheap. Desperate men and women fought to eke out a living amid the squalor of centuries in the surrounding slums.
Flannery put himself on automatic pilot now, trusting his sensors to alert him to any incoming danger. When they automated the docks, the government seriously curtailed one of the region's traditional means of employment. They still needed human beings to run the equipment, but it now took only one person to handle work that would once have occupied a dozen. Many of the women--and some of the men--had turned to the vixen trade as a means of staying alive. Other individuals roamed in packs like vicious dogs, pulling down stray travelers foolish enough to venture forth alone after dark.
A noise to his left broke his reverie, and Flannery nonchalantly eased the side of his jacket back to bare the heavy disrupter slung on his hip. It was illegal to carry a weapon on the streets, but unless those trailing him were Guards, they were unlikely to dispute with him about it. The citizens of the docks knew Flannery's face well, and all acknowledged that one did not trifle with the young agent lightly. The tingling in his sensors dissipated as those following him drifted off, and his thoughts turned inward once more.
Despite the decay, there were pockets here and there which were quasi-respectable. Society's playboys and their latest sex kittens even deigned to frequent some of these less villainous dives. One of these was the seedy tavern called The Deck.
A low-slung wooden structure with a massive front porch and nautical trappings, The Deck tried to be a building of stature, but failed. It had the reputation for being a hang-out for rebels and gunrunners, as well as danger and thrill seekers, and it suited US's purposes to allow the Resistance to feel safe within its walls.
This was Flannery's world. Although officially Flannery Quinn was a public nuisance mustered out of Uniglobal Surveillance in disgrace for brawling, privately he had no choice in his role of enforcer. His only solace lay in The Deck.
In actuality, he owned The Deck outright. Revenue from various songs published under a number of aliases had enabled him to make the purchase. In addition, the beautiful voice he had inherited from his Spanish mother allowed Flannery to maintain the cover of singing for his keep in the tavern. His private quarters were behind the bar, which suited his austere tastes. He performed two sets of music most nights, playing for drinks and the occasional bit of gossip to feed into US's voracious maw. This was another aspect of his position that Flannery hated, feeling as much a prostitute in his own way as the vixens on the corner outside, but not as honest.
He used his security code to open the rear door of The Deck. Stealing into the hushed stillness of the early morning tavern, he moved quietly to his own room. One hand on the latch, he froze. A tell-tale tingle radiated from his fingertips to his shoulder, and he eased his disrupter out of its holster. Soundlessly, he moved across the hallway and braced himself. Launching into the air, he kicked the door open, and rolled into the room with his weapon leveled. As he came up on one knee, the laser sights built into his hands homed in on the intruder he'd sensed in the chamber.
He put down the weapon when he saw Melissa asleep on the lounge, and sat on the floor with a half-smile. She must have been waiting all night.
With a sigh, he turned and pressed the security lock code on the doorway, then moved to perch on the edge of the lounge. He reached out to awaken her, and was jarringly reminded that he had lost a glove in London. Slipping into another pair, he brushed back the chestnut curls, bending his head to whisper in her ear. "'Lissa...wake up, girl."
She stretched and blinked sleepily. "Where have you been?"
He chuckled hollowly. "'I been to London to visit the Queen.' What are you doin' in here?"
Melissa yawned. "I was waiting for you. Ace had a message for you, and I told him I'd deliver it. He needs to see you at 1100."
"Hell's Flames, what is it now, I wonder? Well, he'll just have to wait. It's bone weary I am. I need me sleep more than he could possibly need to see me."
"You don't mean that."
"Yes, I do...but I'll be a good little boy and be there." He glanced at his chronometer. "At least I can catch a couple of hours sleep."
"Do you want some company?"
"It isn't very good company I'd be, me darlin'. I been up most of the night."
"I don't mind." She moved behind him to massage his neck.
Flannery shut his eyes, letting his head fall back on her shoulder. "That feels wonderful, girl."
"Pull off that jacket so I can do a proper job," she ordered, reaching for the fastening. Her fingers brushed his sleeve, and he let out a gasp. "What is it? Are you hurt?"
"I don't know. I guess I must be…." He fumbled with the coat, easing it off carefully. An angry burn cut his right arm from elbow to wrist. "I didn't even feel it," he murmured, with a rueful shake of his head. "I guess I was too busy runnin' to notice."
"What happened?"
He exhaled heavily, hand to his upper arm to assess the damage. The burn was only superficial. It would be tender for a few days, but his arm should heal with only an easily removable scar. However, there was some distortion in his sensor readings, and experimentation revealed that his daggers would only extend halfway on the injured arm. "Great," he growled. "Back to the garage for a tune-up."
"Let me do something for that burn."
"Leave it be, 'Lissa. I need the sleep more at the moment."
She leaned back against the wall of the room, and eased him around to rest against her. "Go to sleep then. I'll keep the wolves from the door."
"You're a comfort, me darlin', and that's a true fact." Flannery surrendered to the overwhelming exhaustion tugging at him, closing his eyes with a grateful sigh. He ran through the events of the night in his mind...spiraling into sleep with visions of the transport bearing inexorably down upon him.
"Sleep well, little mouse…the game has only just begun…," murmured the distant watcher.
He would bide his time with Quinn. There might still be a use for the man. Reaching forward lazily, he clicked off
the receiver for Flannery's beacon. Enough for today. It was late, and duties of state were waiting. It was so
time-consuming ruling the world….
