Diteriorata
… as Greenie flees and finds …
Dusk was falling over the city as I burst onto the tenement roof, closely chased by a mob of candy-striped Waxers, howling to blast me into pottery shards. Turning at the exit door, I spent one of my last scattergun shells, emptying it down the stairwell, taking out the nearest pursuer along with several wooden steps, three feet of bannister, and a huge gout of ancient plaster. The rest of them backed off, darn fast.
Catching my breath, I saw it was a pretty good defensive position,
for the moment. Still, they seemed to have plenty of reinforcements, and ways to outflank me, given time.
Time was one of many things I lacked—along with allies and ammo. Not to mention my fast-draining supply of élan vital, which was due to run out in a few hours, at best.
I’m getting way too old for this kind of thing, I pondered, feeling stale as a loaf of bread several days out of the oven. Those multicolored basdits were still down there. I could hear scuttle movements below. And whispers, urgently debating ways to get at me.
Why me?
All this was rather over the top for a typical gang raid. Nor could I imagine any reason to spend so much expense trying to annihilate the cheap utility-greenie of a dead private eye.
Unless Kaolin is cheesed at me for missing our appointment.
It did appear rather eerie, I recalled. The attackers struck just after Palloid—poor little guy—mentioned slapping Aeneas with a transparency subpoena, forcing the reclusive trillionaire to open his books and camera records, perhaps even requiring him to appear in person. Could that be driving the hermit to desperate measures?
Maybe Kaolin didn’t send these goons after me, but to recover the pictures.
In my pocket lay the spool of photos Queen Irene took, during her meetings with “Vic Collins.” … the co-conspirator she thought was Beta, but who later revealed hints of platinum skin under all that clever makeup. Instinctively, I had grabbed the spool from Pal when shooting broke out. Save the evidence—a good reflex for a gumshoe. But maybe the Waxers wouldn’t be pursuing me right now, if I had left the pictures behind!
Palloid should’ve been the one to snatch the film and run! They’d never have caught the lithe ferret-ditto. Only retreat wasn’t part of my friend’s basic nature. And now Pal would never get those memories.
Too bad. We may have been a couple of disposables, but we sure had some times, Palloid and me.
I kicked the door in frustration. There’s gotta be a way off this roof!
Still listening for another attack, I stepped away from the edge a bit, turning to look around at twilight in dittotown … perhaps my last view of the world. Off to the west and north, realfolk would be sitting on balconies and verandas right about now, sipping cool drinks and watching the sun set while awaiting their other halves—the selves they sent forth to work this morning, with a promise of downloaded continuity as reward for a hard day’s labor.
That’s fine. It’s fair. Only where was a home that I could go to?
Grumbles down the stairwell turned into loud argument. Good. Maybe their command structure had been messed up by the carnage Pal and I dished out, back in the apartment. Or it could just be a ruse, while they prepared a flanking maneuver.
Taking a chance, I hurried over to one parapet and glanced down at the rusting fire escape. No one there. At least not yet.
The opposite end of the roof supported a rickety shed made largely of wire mesh. Small gray shapes bobbed and cooed within. A pigeon coop. Two humanoid figures could be made out beyond—an adult and child, working together at repairing part of the enclosure. Both wore threadbare clothes, suitable for the slum environment, but their skin color was a drably realistic dun shade … almost brown. Probably an illusion in the rapidly dimming light. Still, I beat a hasty retreat just in case. If they were real, I had no business drawing danger toward them.
Returning to the stairwell, I arrived in time to catch two of the red and pink–striped gladiators trying to sneak past the shattered steps by slithering up ropes attached to the ceiling by shock grapnels. They opened fire when I appeared, but the swaying cables spoiled their aim. So I blasted them to fragments that fell, tumbling, six stories to the atrium below.
Only one shell left, I thought, checking the scattergun. It also occurred to me that this artfully contrived slum wasn’t quite as accurate as the designers hoped. Even in the worst of the old days, there were cops who would show up, eventually, if gunfire went on for very long. But here and now, nobody would come.
Well, you had your chance, Gumby. You could have called Inspector Blane. Had him send a bunch of LSA enforcers to pick you up. But you’re too much like Pal. He can’t turn down a fight, while you gotta try and outsmart the forces of darkness. All by yourself, if possible.
Even when you haven’t got a clue.
It was true! More than I had realized. My mood at that particular moment gave it away. Despite everything, I felt strangely … happy.
Oh, there’s no high quite like getting the focused attention of powerful enemies. Nothing is better guaranteed to make you feel important in the world, which may be why conspiracy theories are so popular among frustrated underachievers. In this case, it wasn’t an illusion. The mighty Aeneas Kaolin was apparently willing to spend loads just to get my little green porcelain ass.
Well, bring ’em on! Hey, nothing beats the drama of a last stand.
Maybe …, I thought, though it galled me to admit it. Maybe I am Albert Morris, after all.
In fact, just one thing was spoiling the smug intensity of the moment. Not the fact that everything might end soon, in a blaze of battle. I could accept that.
No, it was another of those strange, brief headaches that had begun coming over me during the last few hours … starting almost too mild to notice, but recurring lately with greater intensity. They would blow in like a hot wind and last only a minute or so, filling me with unexplained feelings of claustrophobia and helplessness, then vanish, leaving no residue. Perhaps it was a side effect of dittolife extension. I had no idea what to expect when the rejuvenation finally wore out. Only that the extra day had been rather more interesting than dissolving into slurry.
Thanks, Aeneas.
A faint clatter drew my attention away to the east, where I hurried to look over the parapet. There, on the fire escape, I now saw a dozen Waxers trying to climb quietly. Only the rusted metal framework kept creaking and popping, spoiling their stealth. It looked so rickety, with any luck the whole thing might give way, sending them crashing to the alley below.
Should I try to help luck along? I wondered. A blast from the scattergun, aimed just right, could remove several bolts from the brickwork, causing a chain reaction, maybe unzipping the whole rickety thing.
Or maybe not. I decided to hold back my last shell, for at least a minute or two.
A quick dash to the south end showed another bunch of ditbulls clambering upward. These were equipped with finger and toe spikes, doing it the hard way, ascending laboriously hand-over-hand by jabbing the sharp tines into crumbly mortarwork. More than ever, I felt flattered by their attention. And eager to return the favor.
A low wall surrounded the roof, looking rather decrepit and ready to go. So I pushed … and had the rapid contentment of feeling the whole mass give way. More than a meter of brickwork collapsed over the side, followed by a satisfying scream below. I ran along, kicking and shoving, sending more sections of wall toppling onto climbers, then turned and hurried back to the stairwell.
Half a dozen figures dived for cover as I brandished the scattergun. That won me about a minute’s reprieve, I figured. Spinning around, I rushed to check the east-side fire escape again.
That group was much closer now. So close, I no longer had any choice. While bullets pelted the rim of the wall, I cocked the hammer and chose a target, firing my final shot where it’d do the most good.
Two warrior-golems screamed and rusty latticework groaned as a bolt popped free … then another.
But the fire escape didn’t collapse. Those ancients built well, dammit.
No time left. What should I do now? Try to hide Irene’s film? They’d search every square centimeter, as soon as I was squashed …
I suddenly thought of the pigeon coop. Maybe I could tie the spool to the leg of a bird, send it flapping away, only to return after the goons departed—
Bullets abruptly splattered the roof nearby. I spied a head and arms poking over the west parapet. Dodging behind the stairhouse, I evaded that threat only to see more hands fumble over the rim on the east side.
Just one thing to do, then. Run for the edge while I still can! Some passerby may see me splat. With any luck, they’ll grab the film spool, and perhaps my head, hoping for a finder’s fee. My pellet code would lead to Albert … or Clara … .
It was a damn thin hope, but all I could muster as voices converged inside the stairhouse less than a meter away. Bullets smacked from nearly all directions now, encroaching on my narrow umbra of shelter, splattering me with sharp slivers.
I gathered my legs, preparing to spring for the precipice—
—then stopped as a new sound arose, burgeoning from nothing to noisy in seconds.
A groaning whine of engines.
The battle-dit who had been shooting at me turned around, stared, then lost his grip with a cry.
A new shape rose to take his place. Compact, sleek, and powerful—a blue and white coupe with downthrusting engines at three corners and a logo in jaunty letters that spelled HARLEY along the nose.
The trim skycycle turned as its cowling opened, revealing a figure who waved insouciantly, his beige spiral motif resembling that of a spinning propeller.
Beta, I thought. So that’s where you vanished during the fighting!
Grinning, my erstwhile nemesis offered a small space behind the pilot seat. “Well, Morris? Coming?”
Believe it or not, I hesitated for a split instant, wondering if the pavement might be a better bet.
Then, dodging bullets all the way, I ran hard to dive for the sanctuary offered by my longtime foe.