25
On the drifting Cloud City, over a scarred, barren plain-
Emma Kraft fought as she'd been trained to. No wasted effort or needless shots. (Well, bola-swings, anyhow.) Back to back with the female IR agent, she'd more than held her own against lumbering, old-style security bots. But, d*mn... it was hot! North of ninety degrees and climbing like a monkey, Kraft figured, leaving her sweat-drenched and headachey.
Ragged grey clouds streamed past like phantoms. Wind battered and howled, but didn't break through. Some sort of opaline force-bubble held off that spitting high altitude weather, keeping the game players trapped in a virtual hotbox. Only cure for that was to reach City Centre and find the d*mn shard... but not with the wrong team. Emma refused to win for IR.
As the last of those beeping and flashing attackers collapsed, Lieutenant Kraft switched off her bola and set it back on her tactical harness for recharge. Kayo... the first IR female... gave her a quick, savage grin, then got busy turning her makeshift weapon into a decent spear.
"Nice work," said the other girl.
Kraft merely grunted in response, choosing not to engage. Others had emerged from the maintenance shaft in mid-fight; two more Tracys and Lady Penelope (supposedly one of their girlfriends, but something felt off about that; the vibe was all wrong). The darker-haired male... Virgil... came striding across to join her, battered and sweaty, but grinning all over his face. He'd peeled down to trousers, tee shirt, weapons and charm. Even bruises and dirt looked good on him, Kraft noted sourly.
"City Centre's not far, now," he confided. "Ten minute hike, depending on local hazards."
Emma scowled.
"We're not..."
"Not working together. I know," he cut in, still giving her that same warm 'you belong' sort of look. "But your team will be headed there, too. Best way to find them is to keep moving forward. While you're here, you're one of us and we trust you. Once we've sighted your team, all bets are off and no hard feelings. Deal?"
He thrust out a big hand, then, maybe expecting an old-fashioned shake. Nobody did that, these days, but for some stupid reason, Emma touched his hand with her own, briefly. And just like before, when he'd snatched her out of the air, she felt something. Tension-drain, happiness, bewildering warmth. Didn't show it, though. Just tapped, snarled, "Deal," and turned away.
The other one... John... was working with one of the less battered robots. Kayo and Penny had drifted over to watch. Overheated and uncomfortable as Virgil's sole focus, Kraft stalked off across the debris littered floor. Gain some think time and stir up a breeze, if nothing else.
Only, Virgil fell into step right beside her, humming something complex and sprightly. Very soon broke into words, which was too much for Kraft.
"You're singing out loud!" she hissed.
Virgil smiled.
"Oh, I'm always singing," he told the surly young officer. "Sometimes, people can hear me, is all."
"You'll give away our position," she accused, as though twenty-plus shattered robots and a moving force-bubble hadn't.
He was still looking at her like a cold drink on a hot day, or a treat dipped in chocolate.
"Pretty sure they already know where we are," Virgil laughed, pointing out their mayfly dance video drones. "But if it makes you feel better, I'll switch to sign language."
Did you know hands could sing? Because Kraft hadn't. Rhythmic, poetic and beautiful, his gestures fluttered and swept with a meaning she couldn't quite grasp. Except... how? Besides Morse code, there was only one language, one culture. Right?
"What... how are you doing that? What does it mean?" Emma demanded, leaning forward a little. Moments later, she was utterly hooked, working her way through the finger-spell alphabet, watching Virgil, Kayo and John communicate easily, wordlessly, and trying her d*mndest to learn.
They'd been joined by one of those old-style security bots; ovoid, tracked and apparently angry, its many limbs waving as it clattered and beeped at John. Something about a memory transfer. A ten-minute hike, Virgil had told her. And, maybe it would have been, only something exploded... the temperature spiked over 120 degrees Fahrenheit... and then the whole city started to tilt like a broken-down carnival ride.
XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX
Elsewhere, in heat and noise and super-tight confines-
Alan and Zippy followed the sound of that wailing voice, which drew them up and little bit eastward of north. By this time, the boy could make out actual words, which blent with the screeching and rumbling engine like this:
"They've been working on the motor..."
WHUMP!
"Now I'm gonna be late...
SCREEEEE!
"They've been working on the motor..."
GRIND!
"So, I'll have to sit and wait..."
CRUNCH!
"Stuck at every intersection..."
SLAM!
"Waiting at every light..."
SQUEAL!
"They've been working on the motor, I should have left last niiiight!"
Tune was familiar, but Al could've sworn it had something to do with railroads, not engines. The singer had started a second chorus when Alan rounded a bend in the maintenance tunnel and found a slender, tousle-haired guy trapped behind some kind of metal-mesh barrier. He? Yeah... he, definitely (maybe) had a vid-drone, too, buzzing in idle circles over his head.
"Hey!" called Al, squeezing between a thudding air compressor and crankshaft. "How's it going? I'm Alan. This is Zippy Mc Drone-Face, the chief of all excellent bots. You stuck? Need help getting out? We followed your awesome song."
The singer cocked his (?) head, and then smiled.
"Hi, Al. I'm Frog. Just me, without labels, able to be. Didn't think of naming my drone, though. Yes, we'd like to get out of here and back to making music. That's my job. Not performance, Al-pal. Just writing lyrics and beats. Saw you at orientation, but... team secrets, y'know? Blud said not to mingle. He said, keep it single."
"Uh-huh." The guy seemed pretty cool, but couldn't talk long without rhyming. By this time, Alan had reached that rusted steel barrier and taken hold of the mesh, trying to get a feel for its stiffness. Live and learn, right? Those links were electrified, and his gloves were all that saved Al from a serious burn.
KA-ZAP!
He got a sharp jolt, gloves or no, leaping backward nearly into the whirring crankshaft.
"Ow! Hey, no fair!" yelped Alan, clenching and un-clenching spasming hands. "That's how you wanna play? Sure. Gotcha. Nooo problem!"
See, nothing stopped IR. Not floods, landslides, fires, tornadoes or stupid electric shock fences.
"You alright?" Asked Frog, coming forward as far as he (?) dared. "I've got some first aid cream and Nu-Skin right here. Bandage that sear."
Alan shook his blond head.
"Nah, I'm fine. Just feel pretty stupid, is all. Check out your surroundings and establish potential hazards. Rule number three in the Scott book of ultimate wisdom." Then, "If the grating's electrically charged, there's gotta be a power source, and that means wires. All I've gotta do is cut off the juice, and slam, bam, thank you ma'am, we're back in business. Good thing John told me to bring an extendable pole," he added, pulling a telescoped rod from one of his many pockets. Work of a moment to draw the pole out to full length, adjust its setting to "insulate" and then dial up the tip to "blade".
He, Frog and Zippy then searched the mesh to find its power connections, calling,
"Bingo!"
"ZzzzzZZT!"
and,
"Got it!"
...when they spotted suspicious wires. There were five in all, but Al got them slashed apart in a matter of minutes. Very carefully, he next re-tested that grating.
"Stand back some, Frog. I know what I'm doing, and it might not be all the way safe, still." Not the way Triumph played ball, anyways. The maybe-guy nodded, edging aside.
"In electrical throes, we summons the pros! Feeling nervous and flurried, those zaps got us scurried, but rescue has neared. A hero's appeared." And so on, like that.
Grinning, Alan reached carefully forward, brushing that mesh with the back of one hand. Nothing. No zap, no reaction.
"Cool!" he exulted, feeling a mighty surge of relief. "I'm gonna cut a few strands, then brace myself and pull. The whole thing's kinda corroded, so it should come loose without a big hassle."
Three more snips, then a couple of good, hard yanks curled most of that grating away from the bulkhead. Rolled up with a clattering sproing! and a shower of rusty flakes.
"Hah!" Crowed Alan, performing his own little victory dance.
'Course, that's when all heck broke loose because, yeah... why wouldn't it?