Angel Island
1:00 hours, local time
Past the sweeping vistas of glittering Echidnapolis, the buildings of glass and steel, the paved roads and well maintained parks; beyond the crowned spires of Auroriums, and the slums of the dingo quarter, miles from the city, and hundreds of feet below ground, it lay. Amid pillars and machinery, delicate circuitry and sensors, and ancient stoneworks, nestled in a bed of marble and titanium, it slept. There were those who guarded it, in this isolated sanctuary, and they were known as:
The Brotherhood of Guardians.
This was Haven: their home. For many, the word had special significance, as they had lived for well over a century within its labyrinthine halls, never leaving to sample the outside world. It was a place of refuge. It was a place of contemplation.
It was almost empty.
Five individuals resided there full time, with a sixth coming and going in unconventional fashion. Down long, plain corridors, not a sound could be heard, except the automated environmental systems recycling the air - the same oxygen passing in and out of the same lungs, over and over, only made bearable by complex chemical reactions and well maintained machinery.
Haven's builders had been anything but short sighted, and they had dug many rooms and labs in anticipation of it housing dozens of Guardians. Three hundred years later, rooms remained unused: empty shells, not having felt the weight of a living creature in centuries.
Haven.
In one of those rooms, a lavender furred echidna groaned, and turned in his sleep, hands clenched amid bundled sheets. Thunderhawk hissed in his sleep, slowly shaking his head. Further down the same hall, his son, Sojourner slept no better. He too tossed and turned, unable to find peace in dreams. He winced, as if struck, and flailed before seeming to give into exhaustion, mumbling half words and nonsense.
Down that hall, past an intersection, was the room of the oldest living Guardian, after the death of Hawking two years earlier. His room, set up in stark contrasts of black and white, seemed an eerie pockmarked jumble of shadows cast by personal possessions. In a Spartan bed, Spectre slept, his hands over his face, curled into a tight ball.
In an entirely different wing, down a flight of stairs, the brown furred, blue-eyed Guardian known as Sabre poured himself a cup of coffee. The room was lit brightly, like a beacon holding off the all-permeating darkness that came from living – no: existing – underground. It was a poor substitute for the sun, or the moon. Sabre rubbed his temples, as he waited for the coffee to pour into his mug.
Eagerly, before it was even finished, he lifted the liquid to his lips, and drank.
The effect was immediate, and he felt the buzz work through his system. Coffee had much the same affect on mobians as it did on humans, but much stronger and much faster, and the Guardians were powerful and resourceful enough to get the very best of whatever they desired, coffee included. Warmth permeated Sabre's body, staving off the weariness and the fatigue.
Finishing the drink in only a few seconds, he quickly set to work pouring out another. As he did, he heard the machine work, and focused on it. As soon as the mug was full, he downed it, not caring how hot it was. Only that it was in him; empowering him; forcing away the siren song of sleep. The drip-drip of the maker, as it worked its magic, became like music to Sabre's ears.
Taking yet another cup, he sat back in one of the lounge's chairs, and stared up at the ceiling. The only sound, besides the almost inaudible hum of the climate controls, was the drip-drip of the coffee machine. Sabre felt his eyelids grow heavy, but kept them open on willpower and caffeine. Gradually, though, every inevitable blink became longer, and longer, and longer…
Sabre gasped, and quickly finished off his lukewarm coffee.
So suddenly, everything was silent.
Not even a hum.
Above him, the lounge's lights glowed protectively, shielding him from the darkness. His head lolled around, in a half awake manner, and he stared at the pictures and posters on the walls. Some were of Echidnapolis, and the skyline none of them would ever likely see in their remaining endless decades of life. Some were pinups of females, and at that, Sabre smiled a little. Even an old man like Spectre still had a libido.
Only nothing and no one to spend it on.
A few other posters were old ones, from previous Guardians. These were further back, and only half illuminated. One of them caught Sabre's eyes, both real and prosthetic – it was a picture of Echidnapolis, engulfed in a fiery cloud of orange and black that rose into the sky. Two simple words were under the picture: "Never Again."
"Never again…" Sabre mumbled, as he started long and hard at the picture, half in the light, half in the dark. His eyelids again began to feel heavy, and they took his body with them. Then, slowly, he saw tiny motes of dust begin to move in the air, and before his eyes, the old poster began to move. Within it, the pillar of flame rose and crackled with life, feeding a black mushroom cloud that darkened the sky. Tiny shrill voices became mixed in with the thunderous roar.
Sabre blinked, and the picture was still again.
"Coffee. Coffee…" He reminded himself, and slowly got to his feet. He half walked, half stumbled, over to the coffee machine, and made ready to refill it with water. There was a sink nearby, with a tall glass under the faucet, and Sabre turned the knob for cold water.
But nothing happened.
Narrowing his eyes, he twisted and twisted the cold water knob, and the hot one. Still, nothing came out.
"Tee hee!"
"Who's there?" Sabre whirled at the giggling laughter, dropping his mug. It shattered at his feet, breaking into a million pieces. Sabre looked down at it and frowned deeply. Locke had given that mug to him. Then Sabre looked over his shoulder, and saw water coming out of the faucet at full force, spraying water everywhere. The former Guardian looked down, and saw that he, too, was wet.
"Hee hee hee!" The same girlish laughter echoed from down the hall. Sabre shook his head, knowing full well that there were no females, much less young girls, in Haven. He backed up against the sink, and reached behind him, his eyes never leaving the entrance to the lounge as his free right hand stumbled to find the faucet knobs. It took some bumbling, but he found first the hot, and then the cold, and turned them off.
Letting out a ragged breath, Sabre rubbed his eyes with the back of his left hand.
How long he stood there, afraid to step into the hall, he didn't know. What he did know, what he did realize, was that he was getting more and more tired. A nearby clock told him the time: 2:35 in the morning. Walking hesitantly towards the entrance to the hall, Sabre completely forgot about the broken bits of ceramic on the floor until he stepped on the first one. Hissing in pain, he edged away from the remaining shards.
'Later,' he promised himself. 'I'll clean them up later.'
Slowly, Sabre stepped out of the light and into the long empty hall. He paused, waiting for the hall sensors to recognize his presence, and turn on the lights. They never did.
"Computer!" He said, nervously. "Haven! Hall lights on!"
It took a few seconds, but they finally came to life.
Sabre breathed a sigh of relief, as he walked towards his room. Just as before, it was eerily silent. It was the soft of deathly silence found only deep underground in a bunker, or in a grave. Sabre finally made it to his quarters, but stopped before opening the door. Briskly, he headed farther down the hall, just about to open a door to one of Haven's lavatories.
He was on the verge of doing so, when he heard a voice, very faint:
"my baby…"
And, to Sabre's horror; he recognized it.
"Jenna?" He asked, looked down the well-lit hall, and seeing no one. No thing.
"You took my baby…"
Sabre shook his head, and spun around, desperately searching for the source of the voice. It seemed to be all around him, and the lights became brighter and brighter, hurting his natural eye and even causing the artificial one to cloud over with glare.
"You took my baby…!"
"Jenna!" Sabre covered his eyes with one hand, and tried to find a surface to steady himself on with the other. "Jenna, please… I had to…"
"You took my baby! YOU TOOK MY BABY!" The voice screamed, mixed in with the squall of an infant. Louder and louder the voices cursed him, until the former Guardian fell backward, hitting his head hard against the wall. Then, mercifully, he passed out, and heard no more.
Overhead, the lights flickered off.
And Haven fell into Darkness.
THE CYCLE OF AGES: A NEW WORLD ORDER
CHAPTER FOUR:
Dancing With the Devil
The small convoy of hovercars passed an intersection in the middle of Echidnapolis without stopping. The roads had been cleared for them twenty minutes earlier, and carefully scanned for any sort of explosives or tampering. The great capital city of the Echidna race was blessed with the most advanced network of roads in the world, not because of their simple gridlike layout, but because they allowed cheap and efficient hovertraffic through the implantation of magnesium rods every sixteen feet, buried under a half centimeter of asphalt. Hover-class vehicles could operate in Echidnapolis with the efficiency of their normal wheeled counterparts here, and here alone.
The passengers in the trio of cars, however, paid this little detail no heed.
As Prolocutor Gala-Na knew first hand: when technology worked well, it was usually ignored and taken for granted. It was only when things began to malfunction and break down that it received much attention. Such was the situation in Albion, and everyone in that ancient city's ruling Council knew it. The city was a marvel, and its builders had been geniuses of legendary skill and knowledge.
Sadly, the same could not really be said for their descendants.
Albion had functioned so well, and for so long, keeping its residents insulated from the outside world that, when actual problems and malfunctions occurred, no one had any idea how to fix them. Much of the knowledge in the City Database was either corrupted (either by age, or by tampering), or simply too complex for anyone in the city to understand. For hundreds of years, there had been no need to change or improve on their great city, nor had there been a desire to. So, much to their present regret, the technical and organizational skills had simply faded due to disuse.
Riding in the comfort of the Echidnapolis-made vehicle, one far more efficient and ergonomic than any from Albion, Gala-Na wondered whether the Ancients had factored for their descendants sloth. Maybe they had not, in the end, thought things well enough, or far enough into the future. Albion could no longer hide from the world, nor could she simply remove herself from it forcefully. Centuries of isolation and peace had atrophied any skill at warmaking they may once have had.
It was truly a… sad… turn of events.
After all, Albion was the Birthplace of the Echidna race, and its Holy Promised Land. Yet, how could it live up to that boast, and that claim, if it were… inferior, or secondary, to a mundane city like Echidnapolis? Looking out the car window, Gala-Na saw very new looking buildings, and towers of glass and steel. The whole city seemed almost infantile to her. Echidnapolis was a neophyte compared to Albion. The Great City had not erected a new building in the last thousand years! Every structure, every fountain and statue and structure was at least a millennium old!
Could any other city boast the same?
No. Of course not.
Albion was Babylon – it was the Holy City and the Promised Land. What was sad was that the Fallen and Exiled Echidna did not recognize this fact, and acknowledge the ancient authority of their Elders. Couldn't they see that Albion needed them? The Caretakers and Elders, despite their wisdom and ancient authority, were willing to return all the Exiles back into the fold, and in the process restore Albion to its previous Perfection. Maybe, just maybe, it could even be made MORE perfect!
Wouldn't that be amazing!
Of course, the Exiles and Fallen Echidna were not immediately amicable to such a wise and benevolent bargain. A gift of return to Paradise just wasn't enough for them! They wanted power. Such had always been the failing of the Exiled. They always wanted and desired more and more, beyond that which had been graciously given to them by their Elders. They were still childlike and selfish. The very thought that Albion, the Holy City itself, would take a secondary role to Echidnapolis was… ridiculous.
Laughable.
Still, in time, Gala-Na was sure that they would see the Light.
It was her responsibility to make sure that they did.
"Is there a problem, ma'am?" The Echidna across from her asked. The inside of the car was quite spacious, with a minibar and television and other wonderful amenities. One of her two companions, a former member of the so-called "Lost Tribe" of Echidnas that had recently resettled in Albion, seemed transfixed by the luxury. The plain-faced Captain Yanar seemed more curious than anything, eager to try out the many new things put before him. Her other companion, a serious faced dignitary from the Albion City Council sent to record her diplomatic mission to Echidnapolis, barely moved and hardly blinked.
The other two occupants of the car were local Echidna: one Constable Remington, and one of the Constable's deputies. The former had posed the question, and Gala-Na favored him with a slightly flirtatious glance.
"Nothing at all, Constable," She lied. There were many problems on her mind, but there was nothing he could do to help her with them. The Constable's brows creased, and his blue eyes went from left to right.
"Don't worry, ma'am. Security is Air Tight." Remington made a fist in the air, as if to demonstrate how tight it was. Gala-Na smiled, nodded, and cautiously looked back out a nearby window. The Constable was a rather exotic specimen, with darker-than-normal coloring and an interesting tuft of black hair where most echidna males were bald. Gala-Na inwardly wondered what his station in Echidna society here was, and how much influence he had. It could be potentially beneficial to establish close contacts with him…
Several minutes ago, a mile down the road, and two blocks removed from the convoy route, a Dingo whistled as he rode the elevator. Next to him, another dingo, a janitor, also waited as the elevator climbed the tall building. For a few seconds, the two stood in relative silence.
"Good to see one of us who isn't some sort of menial laborer," The janitor finally said, and scratched under his chin. "You got business here?"
"You could say that." The other dingo said, calmly.
The janitor looked closer at the other dingo's heavy duffle bag. "Office supplies?"
This time, the other dingo smirked. "Sort of."
He then looked up at the two flashing numbers on the elevator display: 64 and 60. The express elevator was almost at 60. He started to whistle an upbeat tune, and retrieved a pair of black gloves from his duffle bag. The janitor raised an eyebrow at this.
"I don't recognize that melody," he admitted. "Where'd you hear it?"
"You mean this?" And the other dingo whistled the short little tune, and put the gloves on, tightening them to make sure the fit was snug. The janitor nodded, and he shrugged. "You know… I don't remember. But I can't get it out of my head."
"Heh. I know what that's like…" The elevator reached 60, and the doors opened just as the janitor's sentence trailed off. The hallway in front of them was empty. He turned quickly to the other dingo, and tipped his cap. "See ya."
"Bye," the other dingo said with a small smile.
The second the janitor turned his head and started to walk through the doors of the elevator, the other dingo moved, quick as lightning. His hands grabbed the janitor's left cheek and the right side of his neck, and in a single swift motion, snapped the two a few inches too close together. There was a single sharp CRACK, and then silence. The janitor hardly made more than a gurgle before slumping back against the other dingo, who caught him before he fell.
The doors closed.
Still whistling the same short tune, the remaining living dingo slowly let the other dingo's body slide against the wall, and closed his eyes. A few floors later, he stepped out of the elevator, walked quickly down a short hallway, and up a flight of steps. He paused at the door to the roof, noted that it was unlocked, and walked out anyway. The roof was relatively bare except for a few vents for the air conditioning, and a small number of antennae and a large cursed satellite dish. He saw three surveillance cameras, but knew they were already disabled. He'd been on the roof two days ago, and rigged a tiny explosive to a timer on each of them that would cut the wiring exactly when it was necessary and desired.
What was unexpected was an echidna on the roof, too.
She was currently lighting a cigarette – one of the many luxury drugs that were legal but generally frowned upon in Echidnapolis. He waved to her in a friendly manner. She looked at him, first with a bit of shock, and then with a supposedly knowing smile.
"You're up here to sneak in a coffin nail, too?" She asked, and blew a cloud of smoke past her lips. She was pink in color, and by her dress, likely a secretary. He quickly evaluated her, and walked calmly over. He could see her grow more nervous as he approached, and he could see how she tried to cover it by puffing out her chest and acting dominant.
"I've never seen you before, but I suppose if anyone needs a good smoke, it'd be the help."
"You're probably right." He put the duffle bag down, and gave her a big smile before opening it and fiddling with something inside. "What brand is that, if you don't mind me asking?"
"This?" She plucked the cigarette out of her lips, and blew another small cloud. "Nothing too fancy. Just a…"
She never finished her sentence.
The dingo whistled, and lowered the Volker-Ruth R-7A Semiautomatic Handgun in his right hand to the ground. A small wisp of smoke wafted from the front where he had screwed on a silencer. Behind him, a body thumped to the ground, a jacketed hollow point round deeply imbedded in several ruined layers of gray matter. Ignoring the growing pool of blood nearby, the dingo began to remove equipment from his bag.
Still whistling, he quickly and expertly began to assemble something from what had been unpacked. Different parts clicked together, including a long tube like body, and a sophisticated optical scope. In only a minute, it was all together, and the dingo carefully finished sealing the long, matted white and gray tube into a single functional unit. A few more minor adjustments, and he stood up, adjusted the scope on the side, and set up position at the edge of the rooftop.
At the same time, now just two blocks away, three hovercars moved in a perfectly straight line. The dingo narrowed his eyes, leveled the CLAW anti-tank missile launcher, and took careful, professional, aim. His aim didn't have to be perfect, really – the software and hardware in the missile and in the launcher, connected as they were by a long spool of super thin wire, could do a superb job of guiding a projectile to hit a moving target at this distance, even without external help. When he fired, the missile would streak towards his target, and a millisecond after actual impact, the delayed proximity fuse would trigger an explosion sending shrapnel and molten metal in a wide forward cone at speeds in excess of the speed of sound.
Nothing would survive.
The dingo whistled that same strange tune, and wondered why he couldn't remember where he had heard it. He vaguely remembered that he had overheard it… overheard it in a dark place… a strange place… For the first time, he paused, his hand on the trigger of the CLAW, his mind racing. Then he smiled and remembered his orders.
KILL.
He was supposed to kill this echidna dignitary, and anyone who got in his way or saw him at what would be the crime scene. Those were his orders. Nothing else mattered. This echidna woman would die, and anyone in his way would meet a similar fate. It was as simple as that.
His finger tightened on the trigger.
Forty-two floors below, and two minutes twenty-three seconds earlier…
A dingo in a black trench coat and wearing a gray dress uniform examined the body. His clothes were impeccably clean and crease free, and decorated on lapels and collar with symbols and medals. Most prominent were the letters: AKE, on his left lapel, a blood red eagle, its wings wrapped around a globe, hooked over the nape of his tie, and a black, white and red armband, with concentric circles around a stylized dingo face, tied tightly around his left arm. The same design was on open display on his right lapel as well.
It was a symbol that most dingo hoped never to see.
Next to him, another dingo dressed in the same manner, but without the black tie or the blood red eagle medal, narrowed his eyes.
"The roof," The leader with the eagle medal said, simply. He made two quick motions with his hands, and two other dingos, dressed in black and gray, ran to the stairs. The other followed his leader into the elevator, and watched silently as he punched the key for the topmost floor.
They stood in silence, until the junior of the pair spoke his mind, "Will we make it, sir?"
"I think so," The leader replied, calmly.
The elevator climbed, slowly.
"However, it is best not to take chances…" The leader closed his eyes for a few seconds. "Anasztaizia? I want a smooth ride to the top, understood?"
'Already on it.' A voice in his head replied. 'This building's security system is an easy crack. I have hijacked the elevator control subroutines.'
"Situation up top?" He asked.
'Unknown. The cameras are disabled, and have been since five minutes ago.'
"Pity. We'll just have to make due." The leader's voice remained cool. "Continue monitoring comm. traffic."
'Yes, sir.' The voice in his head replied.
"Nothing to do but wait." The leader assured his comrade, his amber colored eyes half lidded. "We've all been forwarded the building schematics. Follow my lead when we get to the top."
"Yes, sir!" The other dingo said, not hiding his enthusiasm.
Major General Kage von Stryker crossed his arms, and waited patiently. It was all he could do, at least until the elevator reached the top floor. Then, and only then, did he uncoil like a snake, and shoot down the hall towards the stairs to the roof. He didn't particularly care about the echidna lives about to be snuffed out, but this assassination was not planned or authorized by Central Command or any of its remaining Governmental or Army branches.
That made it criminal.
And no criminal, living or dead, ever escaped the Dingo Military Police.
The echidna named Remington had gone through more than a few trials in the last few years, most of which had taught him that sitting and waiting was the most difficult and trying part of his job. Over the years, through dingo riots, Dark Legion insurrections, attacks from beings of godlike power, intermittent inter-city gang warfare, and invasions by shambling robot hordes, he had learned to trust his instincts, and his trigger finger. And, for the last few minutes of the ride, both had been trembling just enough to make him nervous.
Something was amiss.
He looked across the car's interior at Gala-Na, and silently wished that EchidGov had gone with his suggestion to move her quickly via aircar. Naturally, they had rejected his idea, in favor of trying to impress and overawe the Albion dignitary with a slow drive through the heart of Echidnapolis. Inwardly, Constable Remington wondered if it was working, and if so, would any benefit from that psychological ploy offset the increased danger they were all put in?
Politics.
How he hated politics!
Almost as much as he hated waiting for an attack instead of cutting one off in midstrike. Unfortunately (or fortunately), none of his sources had any leads on planned attacks on Gala-Na, which meant that either one was planned well enough that it didn't have a leak he could pick out, or they were in the clear and he had nothing to worry about. Naturally, he chose to err on the side of caution.
The car behind and in front of the one he was in were both drones; piloted remotely by officers of the Echidnapolis Security Agency. All three cars had radar activated electromagnetic shields, which were rated at over thirty kilojoules per square meter – more than enough to shrug off an assassin's bullet or beam. A dingo renegade could unload more than half a clip from an ACS-112 and the shield would hold. Still, it was no guarantee of safety, and so Remington had positioned guards at choke points and exposed areas, thoroughly scanned the road for mines or other surprises, and kept constant surveillance, both aerial, ground based, and electronic.
He took a moment from his concerns to evaluate the cause of all his efforts: Gala-Na and Captain Yanar. The latter was a plain looking echidna male, of the most unremarkable red coloring, not yet middle aged, wearing white echidna-styled gloves and a plain brown and black vest. He had dark eyes, also unremarkable among echidna, and a somewhat anxious demeanor, as if he felt both uncomfortable and excited in his new surroundings. From what Remington knew, Yanar was a leader (a "Mitre" the reports had indicated) among the Lost Tribe of Echidna, just prior to their resettlement in Albion. After the now infamous raid on Albion by Cat Country felines, he had appointed himself head of the Albion City Militia.
PsychOps indicated him to be an honest and heartfelt patriot of his people.
That, at least, Remington could relate to.
Gala-Na, however, was like Yanar's polar opposite. Remington stole a look at her from where she sat, legs crossed, across from him. Her coloring was fascinating: a sort of violet or purple, but much lighter than that of local girls. Among the Echidnapolis population, purple was a rare coloration, and that sort of light violet even rarer. He suspected that in the somewhat inbred population of Albion it was much more common. Gala-Na also had sparkling light blue eyes, which by themselves would have made her a remarkable beauty… but coupled with her strange dress, an intricate weave of gold and silks, it made her seem as truly exotic as an echidna could be.
PsychOps, however, had classified her as a zealot, and a manipulative one at that.
He wondered what that said about Albion, which had sent her to represent them. She was supposed to be an important instrument in the eventual reunification of Albion and Echidnapolis, but Remington could see that she would be the type to only make deals under her own terms. Frankly, he was skeptical that the two halves of Echidna-kind would ever be reunited, but the idea did have some intrinsic appeal. Of course, there were numerous and varied parties who had a vested interest in the talks failing, and an equally large number who would probably just want to eliminate Gala-Na as a rival.
Politics!
"Sir!" A voice sounded, in Remington's left ear. The hidden earphone was loud enough so that only he could hear what words left it. "We have a disturbance at 24 Flower Street. The Tanner Tower."
Remington nodded, and pressed a hidden microphone glued to his lower left jaw. "Go on."
"An unauthorized AI has entered the Tower's Security System. We've sent a Hunter Killer after it, but so far we've only caught ghosts."
Remington frowned at that. "Dingo?"
"Undoubtedly sir."
Constable Remington ground his teeth together. With the collapse of the Eggman Empire, the dingo were the only other major group on mobius to make extensive use of AIs. Albion had them, he knew, but they were generally antiquated and not suited for infiltration or intelligence gathering. Prower Dynamics also had them, but had never utilized them in an offensive manner. The Dark Legion, too, occasionally used AIs, but they were a small organization compared to the others, and certainly not a nation state in any sense of the word. The Kingdom of Acorn probably had some AIs at its disposal, and the Terran Protectorate definitely had them as well, but neither had ever been encountered in an Echidnapolis system.
The dingo, however, had smuggled many advanced AIs out of Dingo City before it was destroyed, and did not hesitate to use them whenever it suited their needs. These AIs were well designed and programmed for information warfare, and had come as a nasty surprise at first. Echidnapolis Security always responded with ever-improved versions of HKs (Hunter-Killer Programs) and Dynamic Firewalls, but in the last three years, only four dingo AIs had been caught. The ones that were left were the craftiest and most capable, able to slip past multiple HKs on a single closed network long enough to be physically extracted.
"Do whatever you can to catch that AI. Direct another four PatComs to the area, and seal the building's computer network." Remington looked up and saw that Gala-Na was staring at him. He lowered his left hand from the hidden microphone on his jaw, and smiled at her.
"Is there a problem?" She asked, raising an imperious eyebrow.
"No, ma'am. Everything is under control," He lied, but hoped that saying it would make it true.
"Good," Gala-Na said, and leaned forward slightly. "Because I…"
"Sir!" The ESA controller yelled, this time, his voice more panicked. "Jacobs' hoverplatform light just went out! So did Blake's! Both PatComs are down! There's someone or something on that roof!"
"Damn it!!" Remington suddenly leapt forward, covering Gala-Na with his body. She barely had time for an indignant yelp, before a thunderous explosion rocked the hovercar, and everything went black.
One of the two hoverplatforms crashed onto the roof, a gaping hole where its rider's left temple used to be. The other Patrol Combatant, its driver similarly dead, smashed up against the edge of the roof before plummeting down five dozen floors to crash into the sidewalk below – a jumbled heap of twisted metal and bloody flesh. On the roof, a lone dingo whistled to himself as he lowered his R-7A semiautomatic.
He then smiled and shook his head.
Echidnapolis Security hoverplatforms were fine for moving around, but only a fool tried to fight from them. They left one exposed, out in the open, and on an inherently unstable firing platform. It was a mistake no dingo would have made, but the echidna had nothing if not (over) confidence in their technology, and the supposed edge it gave them. Holstering the weapon, in one smooth motion, the dingo reshouldered his CLAW, and reacquired his target.
This time, where was no distraction.
With a roar of flame out the back of the firing tube, the missile took off, moving in a very slight zig zag pattern, to throw off any attempted laser or anti-missile weaponry between it and its target. It needn't have bothered. There was not a single thing standing between it and the center hovercar in the convoy. It was then that the dingo assassin heard an electric ''vvvum' sound, and felt the empty CLAW casing in his hands and against his shoulder get a dozen degrees hotter.
And, as fast as the missile was, compared to the speed of light, it was a snail racing a bullet train. An electric impulse shot down the length of the super thin wire connecting the in fight rocket and its launch command electronics. A hundred feet from its target, the missile's guidance controls spasmed, and it veered off course. Twirling in a narrow spiral, it hit the ground twenty feet from the middle hovercar and exploded, blowing fist sized chunks of asphalt and a cloud of dust into the air. The shields of the three cars, activated by their detection of incoming projectiles, glowed as the bits of road smashed into the barrier only to bounce off harmlessly.
Back on the roof, the dingo assassin looked over his shoulder, and saw two others of his kind, dressed in black and gray uniforms. One had his left arm out, and the dingo killer could see that the forearm and hand were encased in a black and metal red gauntlet. Protruding from the gauntlet was a small cylinder, which glowed neon blue. He knew instantly what these newcomers were.
'Military Police?' He briefly wondered. 'What…? Why…?'
Then, drowning out any instinct to question the situation, he remembered his orders. When he moved, he did so with incredible speed, spinning and using his momentum to throw the discarded CLAW at the two other dingo. At the same time, and without any less speed, he reached for and drew out his favored R-7A handgun. The brief whine of a capacitor charging heralded the two bright blue plasma bolts fired in his direction.
But he was ready.
One of the two police, the leader, had overloaded and ruined the assassination attempt by shooting the CLAW before the missile hit its target. The plasma bolts were 'cool,' and primarily electronic and not thermal. Being hit by them would not be lethal, but they would stun him, and he had orders not to be taken alive by any of the local authorities. He assumed that that included dingo ones.
He twisted and turned, one of the plasma bolts missing by inches, the other by almost half a meter, as it hit the thrown CLAW, further frying that weapon's useless electronics. Taking careful aim, the assassin fired a semiautomatic burst of rounds at the closest of the two dingo military police. Normally, he would have preferred headshots, but there was no opportunity to take precise aim. As a result, two of the three shots squarely hit the other dingo in the chest, sending him flying backwards.
The one left, the leader, meanwhile swatted the broken CLAW out of the air before it could hit him. He leaned forward, his left arm leveled to get another shot. The light plasma projector on a Justitia Gauntlet was not particularly fast firing, and had no capacity for automatic fire at all. Each plasma bolt had to be charged, stored, targeted, and accelerated. It wasn't a particularly efficient weapon, but then it wasn't meant to kill targets, only to incapacitate them. It had a kill setting, of course, in which the bolt was more thermal than electric, but that was not designed to be its preferred operational setting.
Army Troops and Special Forces were used to kill a target.
Military Police were sent to bring them in for questioning.
That gave the assassin the advantage. Steadying himself, he jumped forward and to the left, knowing that it was harder to track a target with your arm if it was moving away from the center of mass, instead of towards. Surprisingly, the other dingo didn't fire, which didn't open a target window for the assassin. Instead, he also moved forward, his right arm in an open palm strike.
Like most dingo, the assassin had, over years of Army training, developed both dislike and fear for what many called the "Toyboys" of the Interior Kommissariat. The response was, in a way, only natural. The Military Police were the authority they had no say in – an organization that operated independently of the Army and outside its normal command structure. Those who ran afoul of it simply disappeared. Yet, while the organization as a whole was intimidating, most regular troops had disdain for the police themselves, who didn't seem to go through the rigorous training of the Army, and lived in relative luxury.
Most thought of Kommissariat "Justices" as soft and pampered.
Setting his footing, the assassin grappled his opponent with confidence. A confidence born of years of training, and an indoctrination in the superiority of dingo warmaking and physical prowess. His left hand countered the Policeman's right one, and his right hand grabbed the other dingo's left by the wrist. For a second or two, the assassin's confidence remained high, as he shifted his weight and balance for a simple throw maneuver.
The trenchcoat-wearing dingo didn't budge.
For a few seconds, the two struggled against each other, and the policeman's eyes narrowed dangerously.
"Surrender or be taken by force," he said, in an even tone. "Living or Dead, you belong to us now."
Such was the Dingo Judicial System.
The Assassin growled in response. His muscles strained as he tried to break out of the grapple he found himself in, but it quickly became apparent that he couldn't overpower his opponent. Quite the contrary – the other dingo seemed to not be struggling in the slightest. He leaned forward, and took a small step, pushing the assassin back. In desperation, the weakening dingo thrust his head forward, in a brutal head-butt.
Instantly, pain filled his head, and he felt the beginnings of a concussion. It did, however, surprise or stun the dingo policeman enough for the assassin to slip out of the grapple. Turning, the killer ran for the edge of the roof, and with all his strength, jumped. For what seemed like a minute, he was in freefall, flying forward and downward towards the closest rooftop. The assassin timed his landing perfectly, and rolled before half the bones in his legs broke from the impact.
Turning, to see if the officer would try and take a potshot in his direction, the assassin saw the policeman in midair. Surprised, and more than a little amazed, he nonetheless remembered to get to his feet and head for the closest way off the roof: a fire exit on the building's south side. Behind him, the dingo Military Police Justice landed with a thunderous crash, one far beyond his apparent weight, creating a small broken crater where he landed.
Then, the Justice stood up, apparently unharmed by the landing.
The assassin sneered, and kept running. He was halfway to the fire escape when something that felt almost like a snowball hit his lower back. He felt chilling cold up his spine, which quickly turned from numbness to paralysis. He managed only a few more feet before his legs gave out, and he fell on his face. Seconds later, the assassin felt himself being turned over. With his last bit of strength, he reached down to his right boot and pulled out a small knife. He aimed to stab the officer in the heart, but only hit the palm of the Justice's left hand, stabbing straight through it.
The other dingo hardly flinched.
"You're tenacious," the Justice said, and the assassin could see the other dingo's name tag. It said: Kage, Stryker. Mjr.Gen.
"Just what I'd expect… from Special Forces training," Kage continued, and with his right hand pulled the knife out of his left palm. "But man, woman, or child, Private or General, no one escapes the Kommissariat. No one is beyond our reach, our law, or our punishment."
"Kage…?" The assassin's eyes widened. "Stryker's son… How? How can you not know that…. That…"
And then the assassin choked, gasped, and went limp.
Standing over his prize, Major General Kage's frown deepened. Kneeling, he bent over and took the other dingo's pulse, both at the wrist and neck. He then opened the other mobian's mouth, looking for any evidence of a broken cyanide capsule. But there was nothing. In the distance, the wailing of sirens promised further interruptions and investigations, but not by the Armee Kommissariat Enterior. In minutes, the roofs would be swarming with echidnas under the direction of Constable Remington, and his ESA.
Standing back up, Kage's mind worked a mile a minute.
"Anasztaizia," he said, after a handful of seconds. "Give the order to the others. We're Extracting. Target is Deceased."
He paused, then added: "Mission Failure."
-----
Echidnapolis weather didn't suit itself well to setting a Noir settling. The skies were generally very clear, it didn't rain that often and when it did it was usually only a light shower, and the city was well lit with relatively wide roads. It was, really, a nice place to live, especially if you were and echidna. For non-echida it was worse, naturally, but even then it had enough positives to it to continually attract immigrants from on and off-island.
Vector smiled and wiped a small hint of dust from the plaque that hung on the plaster wall. It said, simple:
Chaotix Detective Agency
Registration # 4591-78002
This organization conforms to Echidnapolis Zoning Ordinances, and is licensed to operate for so long as its lease entitles it, or until terminated by criminal negligence, contractual infringement, or dissolution by controlling interests. This document, upon signature by the District Comptroller, permits all manner of legal protections of rights available to Class (D) businesses, including the right to file for protection from bankruptcy.
Below that, three signatures:
District
Comptroller Jameli-Ra, May 3237 MC
Vector
Espio
Mighty
At the very bottom was more legalese, but Vector ignored that. He liked the luster of the document: the pearly white paper and the curling gold leaf inlay along the edges. Even then, it was more than just a document. It was an entitlement – it was an entrance into a class of citizens relatively rare in Echidnapolis. Those signatures made him, Espio, and Mighty into businessmen.
Respected members of the Echidnapolis community.
It was something he had, years ago, never given a lot of thought to. He had been used to a nomadic lifestyle, before he met Knuckles and joined the Chaotix. He had always wanted to be strong and independent – it was just his way. He had never thought all too much about joining a group of community, even after he started to gain the first true friends he'd ever had. Back then, he had been happy just to wander and do what he liked, with little concern for the rest of the world outside his small clique.
That changed, only half a year ago.
At the time, he had been spending nights trying to get a singing career going, since the whole band thing had fallen apart. He frequented two or three clubs, trying to get a handle on his prospects, and had met another crocodilian who worked in one of the bars. She was female (Vector vaguely knew than most mobians had trouble telling male and female crocs apart), and a bartender, and after a week of building up courage, he asked her out. The relationship went well, at least compared to the often rocky-patchy nature of Knuckles and Julie-Su's affair.
One day, after a performance that attracted a particularly large number of fellow crocodilians, he began speculating that crocs heard music differently from other mobians. She, however, had disagreed. She flat out told him that he didn't sing particularly well, but that so many other crocs came out to listen to him anyway, because they admired him. In a society that was whole echidna dominated, Vector of the Chaotix was a symbol that "other races" could become famous and important as well.
Maybe it would have happened anyway, but he remembered that as the catalyst.
He could not go back to, or simply resume, the lifestyle he had started off with. Knuckles had changed him. The years had changed him. The fight had changed him. Of course, perhaps he was simply getting older. Regardless, he needed a way to pay the bills anyway, and Vector was not the type of crocodile to be happy working in a convenience store or in the lobby of a hotel. Knuckles really had nothing to worry about financially (even if all the influence and power of the Guardians evaporated, the state would support him like any other echidna), but for himself, Espio, and Mighty the choice came down to getting a job, or eventually going back to wandering.
And none of the three were the same mobians they had been five years ago.
None of them wanted to go back to being vagrants and drifters.
So, while they were out saving the world and helping people, it made sense to get paid for it too, once in a while. Vector "tsked," and halfheartedly wished that Echidnapolis allowed a Bounty System, like they had in parts of continental Mobius. It would certainly be convenient to go out and hunt down the bad guys, instead of waiting for someone to come to them with their problems. Then again, Bounty Hunting led down a dark and seductive road: one that was deceptively steep, and difficult to turn from.
At least Hunters never lacked for work.
Vector sighed, his eyes lingering on Mighty's rather sloppy signature. The strong-armed armadillo had disappeared, only a few weeks after signing onto the Chaotix Detective Agency project, somewhere in western mainland Mobius. Mighty's extended family lived there Vector knew, as he was the only member of the Chaotix not born on Angel Island. After not hearing from their friend for several weeks, the rest of the Chaotix minus Charmy (who was then, and still is, with his people in Goldenhive) went to investigate. It was their first case, in a way…
And it had ended in failure.
Mighty was gone. No one had seen him, and no one had seen any of his family either. There had been signs of fighting in westernmost Mobius, both from Eggman robots and from assorted groups of bandits. The region was much better now that Echidnapolis had sent troops to help stabilize the area and prevent a flood of refugees from fleeing to Angel Island. Still, there was no sign of Mighty.
But he, like all the members of Chaotix, was tough as nails.
Plus, he'd disappeared for months on end before.
Vector was sure that he'd be back, eventually. In the meantime, he and Espio worked overtime to try and pay the bills on the Agency, their apartments, AND Mighty's. When their friend came back, he'd find everything as he left it. Of course, it wasn't easy. Business was sometimes (hell, often times) slow. Simply put, the Agency couldn't afford to turn away anyone willing to pay.
Not that Vector liked tailing some housewife and telling her husband that she was cheating on him. It wasn't the kind of work he really imagined doing, as a Detective and Private Eye. But "never turning away a paying customer" became an essential motto, one he insisted on honoring. So he did the boring routine stuff, knowing full well that sooner or later, something big would drop in his lap.
"Something really big," he whispered. "I can feel it."
He heard a chime, as someone opened the front door. Was it Espio, back from the Kanne-Lae Case? No. No, he had just left a few hours ago. A customer then! The floor of the building they rented out only had a few rooms: a main one, with three desks, one of which was empty, a lounge, a bathroom, and a small front lobby with some magazines and chairs. Not that there was ever exactly a need to wait very long, but it helped to be prepared. Vector left the main room, and put his hand on the doorknob in preparation for an impressive entrance.
Instead, he felt a chill down his spine.
Slowly opening the door, he put on a helpful smile, and opened his mouth to greet this new arrival. The words never left his tooth filled maw. In front of him was a girl, an echidna, but she looked to be only an adolescent. She also looked like she'd been in a fight – her lower lip was bruised, and her left eye was closed because of swelling. Her clothes, strange looking as they were, had been torn as well. Her bizarre orange coloring (a shade Vector had never seen before in echidnas) was matted in places, and she seemed to be shivering.
"By the Source…" Vector rushed forward, and caught her as she fell forward into his arms. "Are you alright? Who did this to you?"
She turned her head slightly, and looked up at him with crazed blue eyes. "You… Guardian…"
"Guardian?" Vector asked, eyes widening. "Do you mean Knuckles? Who… who are you?"
"My name is…" She seemed to struggle with finishing that sentence, and cocked her head slightly. "My… my name is Tikal…"
Vector nodded.
"My name is Tikal," she repeated, and smiled hysterically. "And I… I bring word of doom…"
Vector felt another chill, up his arms and into the base of his skull. It was a primal animal fear. In his arms, Tikal started to giggle, tears welling up in her eyes.
"Tell the Guardian I was here," she said, still with a mad smile. "And… and tell the Guardian that he is doomed… That in my footsteps walks a monster that will devour us all!"
She laughed, eyes fully dilated, as if she was looking straight through him. Unsteadily, she reached up, and grabbed him by the back of his head, pulling him closer.
"I have looked into the Eyes of the Devourer…" she whispered, as if afraid someone would overhear her. "And even now, his gaze eats away at my soul… He dreams of a city in flames, and hears the deafening roar of a hundred thousand wings… Tell the Guardian this, and then flee. Flee if you value your life…"
And then, quietly, she died, her head flopping back.
It took almost a minute for Vector to come to terms with what had happened.
"Oh gods…"
Deep underground, a heart of evil, in the shape of a giant emerald, began to glow with awakening power.
