Darkstar8

Darkstar Rising, Part 8: Secrets Revealed

Author's notes: I can't find a good map of the US/Canada Border online. I should go to the library, but I'm not making any money off of this bad boy, so, that's kinda out. So, if there are any mistakes--and there are some proud Canadians from British Columbia that I can talk to, who know the geography, please eMail me, and I'll fix this bad boy up. And we can talk about the Canucks, if you want, too. Oh, and, sorry this took so long. I'm having serious internal dialogue problems. I don't have enough angst for some people, I guess. Sorry if this installment came out flat. Oh, and no poem this time. I'm fresh out of anything that even tangentially relates to this.

Darkstar Rising 8--Secrets Revealed

Max was starving. She hadn't eaten since the night before, and her revved-up metabolism that allowed her to jump higher, run faster, lift more, see farther, sleep less, and heal more quickly also ate up more calories. It was probably hard to engineer something that had more horsepower and was more efficient at the same time, she guessed. She probably ate between 3000 and 4000 calories per day... running deliveries for Jam Pony ate up the K-Cals, and the constant missions for Eyes Only probably ate up the rest. Like everything else, though, she showed it off, eating whatever she wanted, and never gaining a pound. But it sucked in instances like this--where she couldn't get to a source of food very easily. Just one more built-in dependence. Manticore were never supposed to be front-line soldiers, anyway--those who often starved on the front lines--but rather, they were constructed to be better than the best special ops teams in the world--the SEALs, the Green Berets, and those other combat units. This meant short deployments, especially when it was discovered that, as children, they were already burning in the neighborhood of 2500 calories per day. Max didn't know this detail, but often Lydecker was discovering as much about the things that they could and could not do when they were children as the Manticore soldiers were themselves.

She also didn't know that Lydecker considered himself as her father. And, honestly, in some twisted way, he thought he was doing the right thing. If you'd ever asked him what he was doing, or why, he would've said: I'm just training my kids to be the best they can be. I don't care if they hate me. It's the Army way. They'll thank me when they're in some foxhole in a godless crater of a third world country, eating mud, and they'll realize why I made them the way I made them. It's a tough world out there, and you have to be strong to survive. So I made them the strongest. And, in his own way, he loved all of them. Even those demented mutants, the X-1s and those pathetic weaklings, the X-2s. Even them. It took five times before he had a usable prototype--and that's what the X-5s were, a prototype. They still didn't have all the bugs worked out. But somehow, they had what all the other ones before and since didn't have. Firstly, the X-5s were the strongest, fastest group, leaving even the X-7s in the dust. Then again, the X-7s didn't have to eat thousands upon thousands of calories per day. And they didn't have Tryptophan problems. But even beyond those structural differences, the X-5 group had had something else. Will. Determination. Anger. Power.

That's what he wanted for all of his groups. Power. And only one group had it. The X-5s. Sure, the other groups were strong and fast. But the X-5s were the only group that was smart-- smart enough to evade and avoid him for ten years now, smart enough to outwit career soldiers at the age of 10, smart enough to escape.

Sometimes, in the still of the night, Lydecker would wonder if he had mistaken what made a soldier a warrior. It's not speed, it's not strength, it's not brains, it's not guts. I can hype up their fast-twich muscle fibers, I can double the contractile strength of their actin and myosin to make them twice as strong, I can reinforce their bones to take the strain. I can even increase their brains to make them better at plotting, thinking, and working under strain than the unenhanced soldier. But I can't make them warriors. I can't give them will. I can't give them determination. He'd roll over, then, and try to sleep, usually thinking about the X-5s... the only warriors that he'd ever created.

--

Max pulled the Aztek into a little town just north of the Canadian border. She wasn't very sure where she was--the highways in Canada weren't as well maintained. 90% of Canadian cities are within a few hundred miles of the US/Canada border. So when the US got pulsed, Canada got pulsed, too, just by accident. Many people had moved further North in the last ten years, and it showed. This place was a shanty-town. In fact, many people--the rich, mostly, had been going to Alaska and Hawaii for years--two of the only places where everything from before still worked like it had--for the most part.

Max got out and took a long look at the Aztek. Covered in mud, airbag deployed, front end pretty much wrecked, the Aztek had also taken a few bullets from near the end of the chase. She didn't know how much longer it would last. It was probably totaled--it'd be cheaper just to buy Logan a new car.

Food, now! her stomach screamed. She turned, and started walking to what looked like a diner--a greasy spoon.

That's when he came out. Front tooth glinting gold in the dirty lamplight. A sliver flash, there, once... again. A knife. A butterfly knife.

Damn, thought Max, I'm still fucking sore from the car ride.

Gonna roll me, dude? she said, trying to sneer but too tired and hungry to really do so. It came out flat.

He grinned again, that front tooth gleaming.

I'm not easy pickings, she said, trying to sound tougher than she felt.

That's when number two bad dude revealed himself. An aluminum baseball bat. Thugs, thought Max. Dismissive. Even tired, she could take these guys--with one arm tied behind her back.

Max settled into a fighting stance. She looked like Bruce Lee, and completed the transformation into full-on bad-ass mode by scratching her nose twice with her thumb, then putting one hand back by her jaw, while dropping the other hand gunslinger low.

Bring it. I want to hurry up and eat, and that gold tooth might buy me dinner, she said, sounding tougher to herself. Maybe it's the fighting stance, she thought, when in doubt, punch them out.

Bat boy attacked first. He swung the bat in a wide arc--a home run hitter, trying to knock her head into the stands.

Weak, thought Max.

Most people would try to step outside the arc of a bat, to avoid it altogether. Most people are stupid. The end of the bat is moving much, much faster than the handle--it's simple physics. Max knew this. She stepped into him as he swung, checking his hands with hers. She could smell his sickeningly sweet breath--like something rotting--and what was like froot loops covering stale sweat. She turned with the momentum of the bat, left hand still checking, putting her right palm into his chin, jacking the thug's head back. He literally lifted off his feet before he came crashing to the ground as Max completed the circle, exhaling.

That's what you get when you rush the mound, said Max.

Knifer was coming up now, flipping his butterfly knife open, then closed, then open again, the movements so quick as to almost be invisible, except for to an X-5. Max stood with the bat, watching him, each movement catalogued and rated. Fighting was always like this for Max: people seemed to be moving like molasses, and she had forever to decide what to do, how to do it, and what to say when she did it.

Still want to go, chump? If you need money, why don't you just pawn that tooth? Max said, watching his slow motion jiggle forward.

He was in range, now, knife flipping shut, then open one last time. Smiling, gold tooth glinting in the streetlight. Feral, like he wanted to cut Max up and ear her for dinner.

Max choked up on the bat, holding it one handed, spinning it with a flip of her wrist. You're going to have to get a little closer if you want to use that knife, Max said, almost bored.

Je ne crois pas, he said--or something like that. His pronunciation was muddied.

French-Canadian, she thought as she heard bat boy getting up behind her. She threw a back kick, blind, but guided by hearing, feeling the connection as her boot sank into his midsection, feeling him slump over. No time for satisfaction, Maxie, she thought, Heads up.

Knife man was going for a slash on her right arm, her weapon arm. She checked his knife arm with her left hand, rolling the bat with her right, bringing the weapon down fast, hard, on his knife arm. The knife jerked up and out of his hand as his forearm splintered, but she was already moving to the outside, slinging the bat away as she went for his neck. She wrapped her legs around his torso, and grabbed one of her arms with the other. Like molasses, she thought.

he said, right before she sunk the choke, cutting off his blood supply, and he lost consciousness, falling backwards on top of her.

Night night, she said, pushing his body off of hers. Her hands forming dusty clouds that blossomed off of him in the grungy streetlights.

Fighting really does make a girl hungry Max thought. She grabbed their weapons and tossed them into a nearby dumpster, then hopped in the Aztek and took off, looking for another place to eat-- there was no need to extend a conflict between the men by going to the diner.

Meanwhile, the camo-clad girl, known as to her friends, was on a Harley, headed for Max's approximate position, an identical girl in identical clothing riding behind her.

She's going to pay, Elle thought.

Elle had two sisters. They weren't triplets, though. The editions above the X-5 came as clones. Lydecker thought it might be an asset to have identical soldiers, for some reason. It was a control group of some sort: two or more soldiers with the exact same genotype. Elle was the first of three. Her sisters, one of whom Max had disabled, were named Erica and Emo. Lydecker had encouraged them to take names, to distinguish one from the other, and to try to encourage the teamwork that the X-5s had had.

Max had broken Erica's ribs and knocked her out. Emo had been tracking her back to her apartment, and Elle had gone to the Cale man's house to wait for her. They'd been tracking her for a while. She'd either lost some of her edge since Manticore, or the triplets' training was better than hers. Probably both, she thought. Though she did surprise all three of us.

When Elle escaped from Cale's grasp, she had stolen the Harley (that was something all of the X-series did very well: steal) and went back to the rally point. Erica had already gone back with Lydecker--she was in a body cast. All of her ribs were broken. She wasn't very useful to the cause right now.

Emo was pissed, as usual. Where have you been, Elle?

I was... tied up. Her face not betraying how literal that statement was.

I've been monitoring the radio transmissions. The X-5 is headed into Canada.

Then we should pursue. Every statement crisp, with military precision.

Emo hopped on the back of the cycle, and Elle headed north.

They stopped just short of the border, and had a quick conversation with Lydecker via radio. He gave them permission to continue, but they were no longer U.S. soldiers once they were in Canada. They were secret agents. That suited the sisters fine. They owed that bitch Max a big one.

The sisters had never once thought of betraying Lydecker, not really. Each of them had a tiny explosive charge implanted at the base of their skull. If Lydecker didn't like what they were doing--if they challenged an order or tried to run, that small charge would go off, killing them immediately. They used to have another sister. They called her Ex, now--a grisly sort of joke--when they talked about her, which wasn't very often any more.

Meanwhile, the Aztek's cell phone rang.

said Logan.

Max smiled, happy to hear his voice again. she said, her smile audible over the phone, a little out of breath thanks to the ass-kicking she had just handed out.

What would you say to a nice dinner? he said.

I'd say, hell yes. How soon can you be here? Her eyes glancing to the clock on the dash of the Aztek.

Where's here? Logan said.

Max described her position.

I'm going to grab something to eat while I'm waiting, okay? she said. I'm starving, she thought.

Don't spoil your appetite, he said.

I don't think that's going to be a problem.

She hung up the phone and found a nice little pizza joint called the One Love Pizza. The at the end of was burned out. So it said One Love Pizz. Max walked in.

True to form, the walls were decorated with dozens of stickers and posters, many of them proclaiming the wonders of Marijuana, the Grateful Dead, Aliens, and Bob Marley. Sometimes all of them at once. A fairhaired-dreadlocked man took her order.

Talks like Herbal, she thought. But looks like Sketchy. With dreadlocks.

She popped her neck and stretched her shoulders, waiting for her food. Logan had told her during their short conversation that he'd be there soon. She hoped that bitch that they'd captured in the elevator wouldn't be. She'd had quite enough for one day, thanks.

A song came on over the speakers in the One Love, and she immediately felt better. Reggae back beat, organ, wah pedal and Bob Marley making music. She wondered, briefly, if she wasn't picking up a contact high. That's how good this music was making her feel. It was giving her some insight into Herbal's general condition.

Hey, fuzzy! she yelled, impatient, You smokin' somethin' funny back there?

Just the Zion herb, mon... and it's time for another hit. I haven't had one since this morning, he yelled back.

Better lay off until I'm out of the store, Max yelled back, I don't smoke Ganja.
She lowered her voice as he came back with her supreme pizza.

She threw him a wadded up twenty. He smoothed it, looked at it carefully, then looked up at Max. We don't take yankee dollars here, mon.

It's all I got, Max said, the sight of the pizza making her stomach do flips.

They worthless, here, bumbaclot.

Well, them belly full, but we hungry, mon, she said, aping Sketchy as best as she knew how. At this, his face spread from serious into a wide grin, the ratty blonde beard on his face spreading, thinning even more.

You listen to Marley?

A little, Max lied--leading him on a little, smiling now.

Ah. On the house, his smile continued. If yo' change yo' mind bout de herb...

I'll let you know... I could use a beer, though. Still flirting with him. Hungry as hell.

He stared carefully at the twenty that Max had laid in front of him again, then back at Max, who smiled at him.

Bossman kill me for this, he grabbed a beer from a small refrigerator, a Molson, poured it into a pint mug and handed it to her.

He smiled at her again, showing uneven teeth between ratty beard. He was somehow cute beside himself.

Max grabbed the large pizza and the beer and sat down in the corner, ready to eat. The music shifted from Bob Marley to some überragga--a weird combination of Ragga, Dancehall, German Techno-pop and Turkish hip hop--superfast lyrics on top of house beats and weird Turkish melodies.

That's when Elle and Emo came through the door, their hair mussed from the cycle, a bit sweaty from the ride. Max saw them first, before either of them spotted her.

Goddamn it, Max thought. Am I ever going to get to eat?

Two to one, the other girls, though younger, had been trained longer by Lydecker in hand to hand combat. This was not a good scene. Max threw back half the beer in a single swallow, as Emo put her hand on Max's shoulder. Max could smell her before she could turn to see her: sweat and chemical curlicues like fear and hate but with an artificial aftertaste, like metal. She's on something, Max thought, they're both on something.

Fancy meeting you here, Emo said with her ever-present rage just barely under the surface, Max's back still facing her.

You bitch. You broke all of our sister's ribs, Elle said, matter-of-factly, as if she were discussing the latest tennis scores.

Ooh, I see Lydecker's still teaching classes in intimidation. Well, I've been doing this for longer than they have, Max thought. I just want to sit and eat, and then I'll go with you. Okay? Max said, staring straight ahead, not moving. They're both drenched in this smell... what is it?

No. I don't think so, Emo said--the dam on her rage threatening to burst.

We're going to break all of your ribs then tie you up before we send you to Lydecker, Elle said, pleasantly.

Max finished her beer, and put her opposite hand on Emo's pinky finger, which she wrenched suddenly and forcefully upwards. She swiveled and stood, punching forcefully with the mug on her right hand, breaking the mug's heavy glass open on Emo's face. The central bones of Emo's face, from the bottom of her eyes to the top of her teeth, were now concave. Little flecks of beer mixed with the sudden blood spray from her very broken nose. Emo fell to the floor, clutching her face. She had been beautiful, five seconds ago. Now she would need some major reconstructive surgery to be beautiful again.

Dreadlocks came to the front, still smoking the joint that he had started in the back room.

Elle was already moving, bringing one leg up into a chambered position, then throwing a perfect roundhouse kick at Max's head. Lydecker wouldn't have been disappointed.

Max slipped the kick, sliding under the head-hunting blow and bringing what remained of the beer mug underneath the arc of the kick, trying to cut Elle's leg wide open. Instead, Max only got a piece of her fatigues, tearing three wide slashes into the inner thigh side. These cats don't move like molasses, Max thought.

Emo moaned softly from the floor, a gurgling sound. Her mouth was filled with blood.

Dreadlocks had a shotgun out and pointed at Elle. He racked the shotgun, loudly, and for effect.

Elle noticed, and froze. They were trained to freeze, then find safe cover. Elle might have been a little too well trained, as she froze solid in the middle of a hand-to-hand battle. Her pupils are blown, Max thought, looking into the other girl's eyes, whatever they're on must be pretty wack shit. Elle's freeze gave Max the chance she needed, launching a series of kicks, first to Elle's legs, then to her body. Then, as she came to her knees, to her head. Elle's eyes rolled back in her head as she lost consciousness.

What the bumbaclot that all bout, mon? The joint in his mouth bobbing as he said the words.

Just some... sisters of mine. Her hands moving through her hair. I probably look like shit, Max thought.

No brothers or sisters should fight like that, mon. Taking a large drag.

Yeah, well... we from Babylon, you know?

You realize I got to call the cops? Suddenly his Rastafarian accent gone.

Yeah. You better finish that joint first, though, Max trying to remind him of what he was doing.

Right. Right, he said, smoking lazily, the accent back.

While you're doing that, I'm going to eat. Max already sitting down again.

Emo moaned softly from the floor. Max nudged her over with her shoe.

She ripped into the pizza with a vengeancefinishing the whole thing and standing up in a matter of minutes. Dreadlocks was still working on his joint, savoring it, enjoying it.

Well, sweetie, I gotta go. I'm sorry I can't hang around to chat or talk to the police or anything...

No worries, mon. I&I will clean this mess up.

The police had better be here before these two cats wake up, Natty... otherwise, they might be a little angry about your shotgun and all.

Right, right, he said, somehow forming the words and blowing smoke rings at the same time.

Right about then, Elle came back awake, her eyes popping open. There's that smell again, Max thought. What is that?

Elle was up, standing, and ready for round two. Max had just eaten a supreme pizza and she was not in the best shape for fighting, at the moment.

Max took a straight left and a right cross on her forearms, absorbing the blows. She felt like she was going to barf... maybe all that food at once wasn't such a good idea, she thought. Max closed the gap and went into a clinch with Elle. Elle went to knee her in the stomach, but Max stepped on Elle's foot, forcing the leg back down. Max brought her other knee up into Elle's side, feeling the ribs give way slightly. Elle grunted as Max slammed her knee into Elle's ribs over and over, feeling her ribs crack. Elle went for a head butt, and staggered Max. Max stumbled back two or three steps.

That's when Elle's knee exploded. Literally. One second it was there, and the next second, there was blood and bone and flesh flying everywhere. Elle collapsed immediately.

Max looked over to see Dreadlocks with a crooked grin on his face, what was left of the joint clutched in his teeth and a smoking shotgun still pointed at Elle.

Get on out a here, mon. I call the cops now.

said Max, breathlessly.

Jah bless you and keep you! he yelled, as Max ran out the door.

Max hopped in the Aztek. She had a date tonight, and she looked like hell.