Chapter Six: Taste of the Fantastic
"Well look at you."
Simmons can't keep the grin off his face. The creature standing in front of him is the weirdest thing he's ever seen, and that's saying a lot. At first glance, it looks like a miniaturized version of a NBE with one, striking deviation: it has a human face.
"What kind of hybrid freak are you?" he says.
The NBE frowns. Its hands twitch.
"Nuh uh," Simmons says. "You move and I blow a very large, very messy hole right between those eyes of yours. Now, stand up and walk to your right—slowly. There you go. Why don't you take a seat on the floor?"
Simmons maneuvers himself around so that he's half-sitting on the dresser with a view of both the door and the window, the NBE right in front of him.
It never hurts to be too paranoid.
By now the NBE has settled, legs folded awkwardly beneath it, Indian-style. It keeps staring at him as if it can't decide to be angry or afraid.
"So," Simmons says. "You wanna tell me who you were talking to?"
The NBE doesn't respond.
"Okay. We can go that route." Simmons shifts his gun to point at the thing's legs. "How about this? Every question you don't answer, I put a bullet in you, huh?"
"You won't," The NBE says. Its voice has a faint, mechanical buzz to it.
"You really wanna test that?"
"I'm not testing anything. You start shooting in here and people will hear it. They'll call the cops."
For a second, Simmons stares at the thing.
"Well, I've got a badge," Simmons says. "The cops come in here and all I've gotta do is flash it and explain that I caught someone breaking and entering. I'll be fine. But you?"
Simmons clicks his tongue.
"You screwed up, pal. So why not answer a few questions before my team gets here and we'll see if I can get them to go easier on you, eh? Maybe not cut you apart to see how you work. How about that?"
The muscles—he assumes that's what they are, anyway—bunch up as it clenches its jaw.
"Fine," it says.
Bingo, Simmons thinks. Out loud, he says, "Who were you talking to?"
"A friend."
"Uh huh," he says. He glances out the window and sees nothing but the blur of headlights on the highway beyond. "And should I be expecting this 'friend' of yours anytime soon?"
The NBE doesn't answer for a moment. Then, "No. He's not here."
Simmons can hear the silent "yet" at the end of that sentence. He doesn't have much time. He needs to get Perez and Cantrell down here with a containment and transport unit before something nasty shows up. He looks over to his cell phone, sitting on the dresser to his left.
Shit.
He can't take the gun off the NBE; the thing is watching every move he makes. It'd be all over him in half a second. But his left arm is in a goddamn sling.
"Alright, get up," he says. He hops off the dresser and edges back, toward the door as the NBE climbs to its feet. Even though it's a robot, it moves silently. It's eerie. "Walk over to the dresser and pick up the cell phone."
"What?" the NBE says.
"Pick up the cell phone," Simmons says. "Or we'll see how well that armor of yours works."
The thing actually rolls its eyes at him. For the first time, Simmons notices how young it looks.
What's the reason for that? he wonders. Is it intentional? Some sort of disguise? Or is that the face of some kid they grabbed and dissected for parts?
The NBE picks up the phone and looks to Simmons.
"Dial one," Simmons says.
The NBE pokes the screen. Simmons hears it click. For a moment, nothing happens. Then the NBE says, "It dropped the call."
"So do it again," Simmons says. "And if you think you can play some kind of game with me, pal, you are dead wrong."
"I'm not playing a game. Look. There's no network."
It holds the phone up. It's too far away for Simmons to make out.
"Nice try," Simmons says. "I'm not joking. I will shoot you if you don't—"
"I'm not trying anything. I'm telling you—"
"Please. I wasn't born yesterday, kid—"
"It's your stupid phone! I'm not—"
"—think you can buy some time pulling this—"
"—but it's not—wait. What?"
"—you've got another thing coming!" Simmons finishes. But the NBE isn't looking at him anymore. It's frowning, staring out into empty air.
"What do you mean?" it says. "Who's coming?"
What? Simmons thinks.
"Who the hell are you talking to?" he says. "If this is some kind of rescue, if you think for one second—"
"Oh shit," the NBE says. Its eyes widen. It looks back to him and says, "I'm gonna do something and please, don't freak out, but I need to see something, okay?"
It waits for Simmons to respond. The man's first instinct is to shoot it. Take it down and get his team in here before it manages to smear him all over the walls. But there's another part of him, a deeper part of his brain that does not like the expression on its face. The one that says something is very wrong. Robotic or not, that look is setting off alarm bells in Simmons's head.
His gun is still leveled at its forehead. He nods.
A transparent sheet of plastic slides down over the top half of that oh-so-human face, stopping at the nose. Then it lights up, bright blue, and the NBE turns, looking down and away. Simmons swears the thing's face pales.
"Oh shit," it says again.
"What?" Simmons says.
It doesn't look up. Its head moves, like it's tracking something Simmons can't see.
"We need to get out of here," it says.
"I don't think so," Simmons says, readjusting his grip on the gun.
"No, you need to listen to me. There are seven people coming up the stairs. They're armed. Sideswipe says that they pulled up in some kind of… of SWAT van or something—"
"'Sideswipe?' That your 'friend' from earlier? It's outside?"
"Yes. No! Argh! It doesn't matter. We—"
"Oh yes it does matter young man. You're not going anywhere."
"They're in the hallway. We have to go! Now!"
It moves toward him, reaching up with one hand. Simmons squeezes the trigger. The gun jerks up in his hand and the NBE flinches as the bullet misses its head and buries itself in the wall behind it.
Simmons ignores the ringing in his ears and flicks the muzzle of the weapon to the left. "On the bed."
For one moment, the NBE looks like it's going to do something stupid. It looks past Simmons again with that visor. Its hands clench into fists.
"We don't have time for this," it says.
"Oh I beg to differ," Simmons says. "On the bed. Now. Next time, I'm not going to miss."
"You idiot. They're coming!"
"Who? Who's coming?"
Which is when Simmons hears the pounding outside the door. Footsteps. A lot of them.
"Machination," the NBE says.
Simmons turns.
The door smashes in. He catches a glimpse of black body armor. He has two seconds to open his mouth to demand just what in the hell they think they're doing when the first one grabs his wrist, twists the gun from his fingers, and kicks out his knees. Simmons hits the ground.
Hunter doesn't wait. The moment the agent turns away, he whirls around and dashes for the window. He hears a loud bang and splintering wood. Agent Simmons makes a weird noise in his throat. Hunter's grabs the chair next to the table and swings it into the window. The glass shatters.
Something goes thud! The same something goes, "Oomph!"
He swings the chair again. The air conditioner shudders.
"Freeze!"
"Don't move!"
One more swing. It tumbles out. Hunter spins, the chair still in one hand, and throws it as hard as he can at the nearest gunman. He doesn't watch to see if it hits, just turns and vaults up, over the sill and the jagged edges of glass, and out into the night air.
Ooooh GOD!
For the third time in two days, Hunter feels the distinct rush of air as he plummets toward the ground. Time seems to stretch. He windmills his arms, feels himself turning in the air, senses the building rushing by behind him. He closes his eyes.
He hits hard; his left hip takes the brunt of it. The ground dents beneath him and something makes a hideous crunching noise and he's certain that he's broken himself. He lies there for a moment, waiting for the pain to hit.
Tires squeal. His eyes snap open just in time to see a red Lamborghini tear around the corner, back end fishtailing as it almost smears a silver sedan. It's Sideswipe. He skids to a stop. The passenger side door lifts up.
"Get in!" Sideswipe says.
Hunter lifts himself up out of shattered safety glass. He's landed on a car. He pulls himself out of what used to be someone's windshield and slides off the mangled hood.
Sorry, he thinks.
People are yelling inside the building. He chances a glance up at the window he came out of. He sees no one.
"Come on!"
Sideswipe is twitching. Hunter dives in. He's got one leg in when the door slams back down—almost taking his foot off. Sideswipe takes off. The teenager is thrown back; he loses his balance and lands on the gear stick.
"Watch it!" Sideswipe says.
"Sorry," Hunter says, trying to pull himself back into an upright position. Sideswipe helps by taking a hard left turn. Hunter is thrown against the window. "Ow! Hey!"
The 'bot just speeds up.
"Where are we going?" Hunter says.
"To get your body."
"Why? Can't we just—oomph! Can't we just nab that Simmons guy as they come out of the hotel?"
"Too public. And they've got gear that can damage me. Us. We wait until we get them alone and then we take them out."
"Wait, we?" Hunter says.
"I'm gonna need backup. Right now, that's you."
"Whoa, whoa, whoa. I don't know how to do this stuff."
"You'd better learn fast, then," Sideswipe says. He darts into incoming traffic.
"Whagh!" Hunter says, throwing up his arms as headlights fill his vision. Then Sideswipe whips back into the other lane. A semi blares past.
"Listen," Sideswipe says. Hunter spots a red light up ahead but the alien isn't slowing down. "If you want to work together, you're gonna have to pull your own weight. I don't have time to walk you through this slag. You either keep up or you get out of the way, capiche?"
The red light streaks overhead. An SUV swerves; its grill misses them by inches. Hunter fumbles to connect his seatbelt.
"Don't bother," Sideswipe says. "We're almost there."
There's a field coming up on the left. Before they even reach the turnoff, the mech cuts across a lane of traffic and jolts up and over the curb. Hunter hits the ceiling.
"Ow! Damnit!"
Sideswipe doesn't bother with the driveway. He just cuts straight across the grass. Up ahead, a pond glimmers with reflected lights. Hunter's robotic body is a dark silhouette.
They slide to a stop. The door lifts up.
"Well?" Sideswipe says.
Hunter looks at the dashboard and then back to the body poised in front of a cluster of trees. Wind whispers in the leaves. Traffic rushes past. Sideswipe hums with impatience.
His entire life has descended into some awful, chaotic mess and he doesn't see any way out. Not without Sideswipe's help. Without him, Hunter is alone, with no allies, no backup, no plan.
Hunter looks up at the stars. There was a time, not so long ago, when he would have given his left arm for a taste of the fantastic. Now he's given everything and finds himself drowning in it.
In the glow of Sideswipe's headlights, the yellow, headless body moves.
"Alright then," Sideswipe says.
As soon as they step outside and the night air washes over him, Simmons knows he's in trouble. His hands are cuffed together in front of him, his bad arm still in a sling. He can hear the shuffle of bodies around him, the crunching of boots on gravel and pavement, rustling, and a radio squawking. Cars in the distance. Something clicks and creaks and Simmons, who has pulled this very same operation many times before, finds himself being lifted up into the back of a vehicle and deposited on a metal bench.
He can't see any of this, of course. Not with the black bag over his head.
The irony is staggering.
His assailants pile in around him. The—what had the NBE said? SWAT van?—door closes and a moment later, the engine rumbles to life.
Well shit.
He knows better than to talk. Asking questions or making a nuisance of himself will probably earn a punch to the gut or a gag or a taser. So he stays put, stays quiet, and tries to listen past the loudness of his own breathing.
These guys are professionals. He can tell that much right off the bat. They aren't talking either, didn't say a word as they pinned him to the carpet in his room and bound his hands and threw the bag over his head. Even now, in the relative safety of their own vehicle, they're silent.
It's a good sign, overall. If they don't talk, then he has nothing on them. No way to identify them, which means there's a chance that after they have what they want, they might let him go.
The vehicle turns right, out of the parking lot, the bench lurching underneath him as they pull out, onto the main road.
Christ, his shoulder throbs. His face is beginning to ache, too. His captors had had the decency not to rip his arm out of the sling and cuff him behind his back.
They're slowing. Seconds later and they turn left and start to pick up speed.
Shit. They're making for the highway.
Simmons tries to shift his left arm, take some of the weight off the strained muscles and ligaments.
They hit a pot hole and Simmons falls against the guy to his right. The guy shoves him back into place.
It's amazing how hard it is to maintain his balance without being able to see. The truck or van or whatever it is turns again. He has to brace his feet on the floor to keep himself on the bench. He'd memorized the roadmap around the hotel when he'd checked in, so he knows that to get on the highway, they've got to drive down a stretch or road that runs parallel to it for a while before they hit the on-ramp. Headed for the Dallas/Fort Worth Airport.
Shit.
They hit another bump. Simmons leaves the bench for a second. He slams back down and falls against the guy on his right again. The guy starts to say, "Fuck! Watch—" when the truck suddenly swerves and they're all thrown to the floor.
As Simmons tries to right himself—the van swerves, this time to the left and he bangs his head on the bench—someone else says, "We've got company!"
Sideswipe gives the humans no warning. He spots them long before they're in visual range and he waits until there are no other human vehicles around before kicking in a burst of speed, covering the distance between them in nano-kliks.
((Hunter, go,)) he comms.
The human veers out from behind him, cuts into the opposite lane. He darts past the SWAT vehicle and slides into their lane just in front of them.
((Okay,)) the human says. ((Ready.))
The larger vehicle accelerates. They must know what's going on. Any klik now and they're going to start shooting. He's not going to give them that chance.
((Do it,)) he says.
Hunter mutters some sort of religious incantation. Then he slows down. The SWAT van swerves, starts to go around.
Sideswipe moves in. Before they can so much as tap their brakes he pulls up alongside, driving parallel. He catches a glimpse of one of the humans inside, its squishy optics covered beneath a flimsy plastic covering.
He slams into them.
Their vehicle is much taller than Sideswipe. But it's hollow and made of weaker material than he is. It gives way. Tires screech and then they're both off the road.
((Hunter! Stop! Stop now!))
They're pushing back. The grass is slick. He hits a wet patch and loses traction for a nano-klik. Then one of the flesh-bags pops out of the side window with something on its shoulder.
Is that... he thinks.
It is. The squishy pulls the trigger. The back end of the tube lights up as a small projectile comes streaking out at him.
"Slag!" he says. He skids to the left. The projectile hits his hood, bounces off, and tumbles along his frame. It explodes right behind him. The blast lifts his back end up off the ground and he almost wipes out into the ditch.
Fragging—half-bit—
He fishtails wildly. Organic vegetation and mud sling out behind him before his tires find purchase.
((Ah!)) Hunter says.
Another explosion, this time out in front, and a flash of yellow as Hunter spins off the road. Then Sideswipe is past him, after the vehicle.
((You okay?)) he says.
((Shit!)) Hunter says.
The SWAT van has gotten back on the road. It speeds up.
Sunny.
He's not going to lose his target. Agent Simmons might be his best chance of tracking down a lead before it's too late, before his brother…
They start shooting at him again with the smaller ammunition, the "bullets" that he'd pulled out of Hunter. They sting, yes, piss him off, yes, but they don't do any damage. He comes in low and fast, tucks himself as close to their rear fender as he can.
Hunter seems to have gotten back onto the road. Sideswipe can see him behind, gaining fast. Movement in their target. Another human leans out with the explosive weapon. It fires. This one clips Sideswipe before spinning off behind him.
((Watch out!)) he says.
Hunter is already swerving. It explodes harmlessly to the side.
((They're shooting rockets at us!)) Hunter says. ((Holy shit! They're shooting goddamn rockets at us!))
Don't you dare start glitching out on me now, Sideswipe thinks.
The human makes a few sharp, jittery turns. He's slowing down. Sideswipe is running out of time.
He darts to the side, sees the humans reloading.
All right, that's it. This ends now.
Panels along his back slide apart. His ion cannon jumbles out.
((What is that?)) Hunter says.
((This,)) Sideswipe says. He jerks to the right just in time to catch a human raising its weapon. The cannon hums. Warmth seeps in along his back. The human shoots. So does Sideswipe.
The ion blast catches the explosive in the air, vaporizes it, and continues past it. The human's arm disappears in a burst of carbonized atoms. Sideswipe pulls back behind them.
((Jesus,)) Hunter says.
((Get up alongside them, on the left,)) Sideswipe says.
((But—))
((Now!))
He does as he's told. Sideswipe moves with him, on the right, so that they're both flanking the target.
((I'm going to take off this back wheel,)) he says.
((What? But—))
((When I do that, you need to help me stabilize them. Keep them on the road and keep them upright. I'll give you a warning. You get in as close as possible, right up against them, alright?))
((Oh man.))
((Do you understand?)) The human doesn't answer. ((Hunter?))
((Yeah. I got it.))
He stays where he is. Sideswipe waits another moment, makes sure he isn't going to bolt on him, and takes aim. He's right up against the van, tires skimming the edge of the pavement. The humans must know what he's about to do. Two more of them stick their arms out the window and shoot at him.
((Ow! Damnit!)) Hunter says. ((That stings!))
((Get ready,)) Sideswipe says.
The bullets bounce and ricochet off his windshield. The driver hits the brakes.
((Go!)) he says.
He shoots. The beam hits, obliterates the tire, the wheel, and four centra-metras of the wheel axle. The aft of the vehicle drops in a spray of sparks. Sideswipe is already pushed up against it, pushing it back, toward the center of the road. Hunter chatters, not even using real words, and Sideswipe wonders whether he knows he's broadcasting.
They're not stopping. Even with only three wheels left and the corner of the thing dragging the pavement, they're trying to speed up.
He whirls the cannon around and takes out the front wheel. The jolt shoves him away, off the road. His aft spins out. This time, he can't catch himself. He spins down the hill. When he can see straight, he finds the vehicle has stopped, stretched across both lanes of traffic.
Finally, he thinks. He transforms and picks himself out of the ditch.
For a very long moment, it's all Simmons can do to lie there and not puke. If he does that, it'll just get caught in the hood over his face and there's a chance he could end up breathing it back in and choking on it and drowning in his own vomit. Not a good way to go. So he lies very still and wills the pain and the cramping in his stomach to stop.
He's managed to twist his head around so he isn't lying on his abused nose anymore, but it still hurts so much that he's sure that if he could see, it would be in double. His shoulder is no better. Every breath sends a spike of agony down his arm and up his neck.
His abductors groan around him. Someone's knee digs into his ribs. He doesn't complain, though, doesn't push them off or try to wriggle away. He doesn't want to give away that he's awake, especially since he got his fingers up to the cord holding the bag over his head.
"Shit," someone says.
Another near him, to the left, groans. Somewhere, someone is whimpering and Simmons can tell that it's a bad whimpering, a something-fucked-up-has-happened-to-this-man kind of whimpering.
"Shit," the same guy from before says again.
The one lying next to him shifts. His knee digs in hard for a moment and then withdraws.
"He out?"
Simmons stills. A boot nudges his leg. Seconds later, fingers press into his neck.
"Still alive," a new voice says.
"Get him up. We're bailing. I want two lines around him, shoot anything that gets near. Headquarters already know we're down. All we gotta worry about is keeping him secure until backup arrives."
Damnit! Simmons thinks.
Hands latch underneath each arm. Sudden gunfire breaks out near the front—where he thinks the front is. It's muffled. The men holding him freeze.
"Go! Go!"
"Weapons!"
What the fuck is going on?
"Jesus!" the guy up front screeches.
Something hits the van hard. Simmons, still lying on the floor, feels the impact in his bones. The whole back of the SWAT van jumps up off the ground. The two men standing over him fall away. Simmons scrabbles at the cords, trying to rip them away.
Men move around him; one steps on his elbow. Something has their attention and Simmons has a very bad feeling that he knows what it is.
Another jolt. The vehicle rocks on its remaining tires. Metal shrieks. The van shakes. And then he hears nothing but noise as his abductors open fire. He curls up and covers the ear that isn't pressed to the floor. Two seconds later and a draft of wind ruffles his clothes. The foot next to his elbow disappears.
Oh holy hell, he thinks.
Metal beams wrap around him. The floor drops away. His dinner almost comes back up. The thing holding him—fingers, goddamn giant, metal fingers, oh holy Christ—cups around him. He feels trembling, shockwaves, and hears the snap-hiss of bullets just missing him.
An NBE is lifting him out of the van. He's being abducted by aliens. Despite himself, despite the awful racket and the pain, he can't stop himself from laughing. The world tilts once, twice, three times. The next thing he knows, his feet touch the ground and those giant fingers give him a push and he tumbles through the air.
His right shoulder bangs into something hard, the rest of him lands on something soft, something squishy, something contoured an awful lot like a car seat.
"Get him out of here," a mechanized voice says.
"Where?" another says. This one is near, right by his head, and it's familiar. The hotel room. The one with a human face. Christ, he even sounds young.
"Just… take him back to that park of yours."
"Where are you—"
"Go."
The first NBE doesn't shout. It doesn't raise its voice at all. But Simmons can hear the promise of violence in it. Apparently, the kid NBE can, too; a shudder runs through it.
"Okay," it says.
Simmons hears a hiss and a click.
The door?
He starts digging at the cords again. The car accelerates. The knot is in the back of the hood and he has to lift both of his arms to get at it, but the pain is worth it when, ten seconds of fumbling later, he pulls the thing off his head. He takes a deep breath of cool, dry air, slightly tinted by an odd, burning-ozone smell. He looks at the dashboard.
"Hello again," he says.
Two chapters this week because it's my birthday and I can. Thank you Starfire201 and lildevchick for your continued reviews. And thank you KayDeeBlu for your wonderful input.
Next chapter: Target