They clatter around on jointed silver legs and jab those needle snouts into the bodies. They must inject some kind of acid or digestive enzyme because the stuff they suck back out looks more like pus and semen than blood and guts. It splatters like pus when you squash them. They’re easy enough tokill, the repulsive little fuckers. You crush them with your bare hands but there are so
many
of them. There’s just no point.
I’ve had enough of that after about five minutes, take the next exit, climb back into the first daylight I can find. I end up on a pedestrian skywalk connecting a couple of office towers at the second floor. I’m about halfway across when I see a squad of CELLulites charging up the street below, waving their guns; I’m cloaked and down on my belly by the time they open fire; I’ve backed off a good ten meters before I realize they’re not even shooting at
me
.
And then something smashes through the walkway and I’m down on the street just like
that
and I stop worrying about the fucking mercs altogether.
My whole BUD’s flashing red. I’m flat on my back and the whole damn suit’s seized up. I’ve taken some kind of hit but nobody’s bothering to close for the kill; I’m nothing but collateral. The actual
target
screams past not ten meters overhead and I’d know what it was even if I wasn’t staring right up at it, even if I was
blind
, because I’ve only heard that sound once before: not eight hours ago, swimming for my life while my whole squad got cut down around me.
Same two glowing hoops sticking out the sides. Must be some kind of antigravity thing, lift elements. Two rows of modules in between, about the size and shape of industrial cement mixers. Cylinder-cone things, lined up like eggs in a carton. The ship’s staggering through the airspace, weaving and wobbling, and part of that might be evasive maneuvers but I don’t care how
alien
this bird is, you can tell it’s wounded. It might as well be skywriting HOLY SHIT I’M FUCKED in black smoke.
And here comes the mofo that’s kicked its ass and its one of
ours
, it’s a goddamn
Apache
. A 64D, I think, not even bleeding-edge. I mean, this is a flying saucer we’re talking about—built by creatures from
another fucking solar system
—and it’s getting its asshanded to it by a bunch of apes in a ten-year-old helicopter. Fuck yeah. Somehow it’s got its nose back up, it’s climbing again, it
almost
clears the building down the street but not quite: skips off the edge like a stone on water, bounces back into the sky, but there are
three
Apaches on its tail now and they’re not giving up. One scores a direct hit just as the alien arcs away behind an office tower and I think that’s it, end of show—but a few seconds later it punches back into view,
right through the building
, leaves a glowing hole four stories high. I can see right through it to the cloud bank on the other side. This ship’s not going anywhere but
down
. It exits stage left, down some city canyon a few blocks ahead. Big orange flash. Smoke billows around the corner.
It’s like watching someone shoot down an X-35 with a slingshot.
Gould’s voice comes back to me as my suit reboots. “Did you fucking
see
that? I swear, it came down not five blocks from you!” He sounds like an eight-year-old girl who’s just gotten a pony for her birthday. “Dude, you
do
realize what this means, right? No one ever shot one of these things down before! This is our chance! This is it! There’ll be—I mean—let me think, just let me think …”
I do a little thinking myself. According to GPS, Gould’s in a warehouse all the way over on the East River. It’s just barely possible that he might have looked out his window and seen a tiny distant dot fall out of the sky—but how the hell does he know where I am in relation to it?
This isn’t just a comm link. Either this Gould fucker has access to high-rez realtime satcam surveillance, or the N2’s putting
many
of them. There’s just no point.
I’ve had enough of that after about five minutes, take the next exit, climb back into the first daylight I can find. I end up on a pedestrian skywalk connecting a couple of office towers at the second floor. I’m about halfway across when I see a squad of CELLulites charging up the street below, waving their guns; I’m cloaked and down on my belly by the time they open fire; I’ve backed off a good ten meters before I realize they’re not even shooting at
me
.
And then something smashes through the walkway and I’m down on the street just like
that
and I stop worrying about the fucking mercs altogether.
My whole BUD’s flashing red. I’m flat on my back and the whole damn suit’s seized up. I’ve taken some kind of hit but nobody’s bothering to close for the kill; I’m nothing but collateral. The actual
target
screams past not ten meters overhead and I’d know what it was even if I wasn’t staring right up at it, even if I was
blind
, because I’ve only heard that sound once before: not eight hours ago, swimming for my life while my whole squad got cut down around me.
Same two glowing hoops sticking out the sides. Must be some kind of antigravity thing, lift elements. Two rows of modules in between, about the size and shape of industrial cement mixers. Cylinder-cone things, lined up like eggs in a carton. The ship’s staggering through the airspace, weaving and wobbling, and part of that might be evasive maneuvers but I don’t care how
alien
this bird is, you can tell it’s wounded. It might as well be skywriting HOLY SHIT I’M FUCKED in black smoke.
And here comes the mofo that’s kicked its ass and its one of
ours
, it’s a goddamn
Apache
. A 64D, I think, not even bleeding-edge. I mean, this is a flying saucer we’re talking about—built by creatures from
another fucking solar system
—and it’s getting its asshanded to it by a bunch of apes in a ten-year-old helicopter. Fuck yeah. Somehow it’s got its nose back up, it’s climbing again, it
almost
clears the building down the street but not quite: skips off the edge like a stone on water, bounces back into the sky, but there are
three
Apaches on its tail now and they’re not giving up. One scores a direct hit just as the alien arcs away behind an office tower and I think that’s it, end of show—but a few seconds later it punches back into view,
right through the building
, leaves a glowing hole four stories high. I can see right through it to the cloud bank on the other side. This ship’s not going anywhere but
down
. It exits stage left, down some city canyon a few blocks ahead. Big orange flash. Smoke billows around the corner.
It’s like watching someone shoot down an X-35 with a slingshot.
Gould’s voice comes back to me as my suit reboots. “Did you fucking
see
that? I swear, it came down not five blocks from you!” He sounds like an eight-year-old girl who’s just gotten a pony for her birthday. “Dude, you
do
realize what this means, right? No one ever shot one of these things down before! This is our chance! This is it! There’ll be—I mean—let me think, just let me think …”
I do a little thinking myself. According to GPS, Gould’s in a warehouse all the way over on the East River. It’s just barely possible that he might have looked out his window and seen a tiny distant dot fall out of the sky—but how the hell does he know where I am in relation to it?
This isn’t just a comm link. Either this Gould fucker has access to high-rez realtime satcam surveillance, or the N2’s putting
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