The Supernaturalist Page 10

  A low rumbling came from the back of the hall, like a wolf growling in a tunnel.

  Mona knew every engine signature in the book. “Assault tanks. Here to mop up the mess. We have to get out of this place.”

  Ditto’s head bobbed in mock happiness. “You don’t say?”

  They crawled through years of debris, looking for a crack in the Myishi forces. But the paralegals were efficient as well as deadly. Obviously they had taken a while to survey the building before attacking. Every square inch was covered by a Myishi soldier. They clipped themselves onto railings on the upper levels, triangulating their fire to secure the building. In minutes, most had made their way to ground level and were herding any conscious gang members into the tanks’ holding pens.

  Meanwhile the Parasites were sucking life force with horrifying gusto, glowing bright gold with swirling energy. It was almost too much to bear. A very large part of Mona wanted to crawl under a girder and go to sleep; she wanted to sleep and dream of peace and happiness. If I get out of here, she thought, I’m giving up for good. Maybe go to South America and earn a living diving for shells. Sure, she told herself, if there was an ounce of seawater left on the planet that wouldn’t bleach her skin.

  “I don’t see a way out,” puffed Ditto.

  Mona noticed Miguel being carted away, his features barely recognizable beneath a layer of cellophane. There was a Parasite clamped onto his chest. “Me neither. Stefan will do something. He wouldn’t just leave us here. Or maybe Cosmo can pull another miracle out of the bag.”

  Ditto grimaced. “I like Cosmo, but he’s a kid. The Creeper thing was a fluke, he’s not going to save anyone.”

  Mona rubbed her brow with a knuckle. “You’re wrong about him, Ditto. There’s something about that kid. He’s got guts, brains too. Cosmo will get us out of here. I know he will.”

  Cosmo followed Stefan down a metal ladder surrounded by a tubular cage. Stefan heard his footsteps clanging on the rungs. “I thought I told you to go back to the Pigmobile,” he whispered, wary of the two paralegals forty feet below.

  “Mona and Ditto are trapped down there,” Cosmo replied simply. “I have to help. No one else is running away, so why should I?”

  Stefan lifted his fuzz plate for a moment. Some of the tension seeped from his shoulders. He was glad to have Cosmo with him.

  “Okay, good, you’re a Supernaturalist. Pigheaded, just like the rest of us. I have to make it to that assault tank on the northeast corner. You can open a hole for me.”

  “Open a hole?”

  “We get down to the next level and borrow a few Myishi rods. I’ll make a run for the tank and you knock out anyone pointing a weapon at me.”

  Cosmo swallowed. This was war. Stefan was talking about war. “What about you?”

  Stefan settled his mask over his face. “They’ll probably get me, but you can go out the way we came in. A distraction is the only way to save Mona and Ditto.”

  Cosmo summoned resolve from somewhere. “Okay. I’ll do my best. Let’s go.”

  Stefan actually winked behind his red lenses. “Good. And if you happen to hit a few Parasites, I won’t be too upset.”

  Cosmo swallowed, trying to dislodge his heart, which seemed to be jammed in his throat, and followed Stefan down the ladder. Stefan’s feet seemed to make no sound as they descended, but to Cosmo’s ears his own boots rang out like church bells on the rungs.

  Below, the two paralegals were enjoying themselves, laying down a saturation cellophane blanket in one corner of the factory. Their rifles bucked as they sent cartridges arcing toward a group of Sweethearts.

  “Fish in a barrel,” said one.

  “Candy from a baby,” agreed the other.

  Stefan dropped the final few feet, landing behind the lawyers. Without pause for a movie-hero quip, he bashed their heads together, and the two men slid to the stairwell without so much as a whimper.

  “Lawyers,” grunted Stefan, unclipping their rifles. “I liked them better when they fought with briefcases.” He flipped one over, removing his rappelling rig. Stefan let the straps out to their limits, fastening the rig across his own chest.

  “I’m going in as fast as possible. Hopefully by the time they realize I’m not Myishi Corp, it will be too late.”

  Cosmo dropped onto the walkway. His stomach felt as though it were still halfway up the ladder. Stefan thrust a hefty rod into his arms. “It’s set on cellophane slugs. Aim higher than the target—these shells have a bit of drop on them. Two feet above the head should be fine. You have about twenty slugs in this rod, maybe thirty in the other.”

  Cosmo studied the mystifying array of valves, barrels, and buttons. “I can’t work this.”

  Stefan spun the rod jamming the butt against Cosmo’s shoulder. “Think of it like a computer; you don’t have to know how it works, or even use all the functions. All you need are sights, barrel, and trigger.” He pulled a circular optic from its niche in the barrel, using the suction pad to seal it to Cosmo’s right eye socket. “The sight gives you distance to the target, wind condition, and number of slugs left in the clip. Lie on the walkway and wrap anyone who casts a crooked look in my direction.”

  Cosmo lay down. “But what if . . .”

  “No time for what-ifs,” interrupted Stefan, securing the rappelling spike to a girder. “Do your best. Remember, Mona and Ditto are depending on us.”

  No pressure, thought Cosmo glumly.

  Stefan vaulted the safety rail, plummeting toward the factory floor a hundred feet below. Cosmo followed his progress with the rod’s barrel, the electronic sights feeding magnified images to his right eye. Stefan was descending into a world of madness. Assault tanks rumbled across the floor, bagging any stray fugitives with cannon slugs. Parasites sucked life force from the injured, and gang members struggled in cellophane balloons like souls trapped in hell.

  The rappelling rig slowed Stefan’s drop, but the cord ran out when he was still twenty feet up. His weight popped the reel and the tall youth plummeted earthward. Fortunately a squad of paralegals broke his fall. Stefan was out of the rig and running before the moaning stopped.

  One paralegal made it to his feet, staggering after Stefan. Cosmo moved the rod’s barrel and the eyepiece’s sight moved correspondingly. He centered the crosshairs on the paralegal’s head, then remembered Stefan’s advice and raised the barrel a couple of feet.

  “Hey, you!” called the lawyer, and Cosmo fired.

  A slug sped from the barrel, striking between the man’s shoulder blades. A pool of gunk exploded from the tiny pellet, pinning the man to the factory floor.

  Stefan continued his run, blasting a sea of Parasites from his path. Blue orbs rose like party balloons. He was headed directly for an assault tank. But why? What could he achieve?

  No time for questions and less for answers. Two more paralegals had noticed Stefan, and shrugging off their parachutes, brought their weapons to bear.

  Cosmo aimed and fired. Too low. The slugs splashed across the floor. Two feet above the head. Concentrate. Concentrate.

  He fired again. Two shots in quick succession. The rod jumped in his arms, and the paralegals found themselves entangled in a cellophane envelope.

  One on the left. Down low. The paralegal got off a slug that hit Stefan between the shoulder blades, knocking him forward three stumbling steps. Cosmo couldn’t take his eyes off the Supernaturalist. Experience saved him. Stefan shrugged off his greatcoat. In seconds the leather garment was sealed tighter than a football.

  Lucky, thought Cosmo. Lucky. He fired five slugs at the marksman. Three found their target.

  Stefan had almost reached his goal. Twenty yards to the tank. There was a cluster of troops on a gantry one floor up. The final hurdle, apart from the tank itself. Stefan fired a few Shockers into the gantry. Most of the paralegals were completely insulated, but two had removed their gloves and were holding the rail. They collapsed, smoking. Cosmo covered the rest with a cluster of slugs from his borrowed
rod.

  A red logo flashed in Cosmo’s sights. An ammunition clip. He was out of slugs. Cosmo hefted the gun aside, dragging the second rod across by the strap. He quickly swapped eyepieces and focused on Stefan.

  It was difficult to ignore the surrounding chaos. Parasites swarming, gang members struggling, chargers circling the factory floor in a futile attempt to find an exit. Cellophane coating the floor and walls.

  Focus, Cosmo ordered himself. One emergency at a time.

  The tank gunner noticed the Supernaturalist, revolving the main turret in his direction. Stefan tried weaving, but the gun barrel was locked on and tracked his movements with fluid ease. Stefan appeared to give up, standing stock-still with his hands raised. Through his rod’s eyepiece, Cosmo saw the index finger of Stefan’s right hand. It was pointing at the tank’s barrel. A message. Shoot the barrel! It was a shot in a million, even with the eyepiece.

  Cosmo stood for a better angle, resting the rod on the upper bar. Two feet above the barrel’s nozzle. No point in being delicate about it. Cosmo shot everything in the clip at the tank. At least one found its mark, spiraling into the belly of the tank. At that exact moment a Shocker shell attempted to punch through the gunge. It failed to penetrate, dispersing its charge through the tank itself. Anyone who was touching a control pad got enough of a jolt to knock them unconscious for at least a minute.

  Stefan was on the move again. He leaped high, grabbing the cannon barrel, moving inward hand over hand. Below the main gun was a secondary barrel, stubby, with an adjustable nozzle. A water cannon for crowd control. Of course! Water!

  Stefan swung again and again, slamming his booted feet against the stopcock. Behind that valve lay twenty thousand liters of pressurized water waiting to be unleashed. The stopcock groaned, jerked, and finally popped, allowing the water to burst forth in a powerful jet. It quickly spread across the factory floor. Troops, vehicles, and gang members were scattered before the deluge, but most important, the Parasites abandoned their prizes, scattering quickly to the upper levels.

  Any that were caught in the torrent fizzed and sparked before groggily joining the rest of their kind.

  Cosmo turned his empty weapon toward Mona’s hideout. The sights revealed the girl poking her head out from under the track. Then, taking advantage of the complete confusion caused by Stefan, she tucked Ditto under her arm and made a run for a ventilation shaft on the nearest wall. None of the Myishi troops saw her go. The pair scampered inside, disappearing into the blackness. There was nothing more Cosmo could do for them now.

  Meanwhile, Stefan had released his grip on the cannon barrel, dropping to the factory floor. He was unarmed now, and in the open. His antics had drawn the attention of several Myishi paralegals, who surrounded him like jackals, rods trained on the teenager.

  Stefan raised his arms, fingers spread, but the paralegals were not about to let him come quietly, not after all the destruction he’d wreaked. They hit him with at least a dozen cellophane slugs, each one spreading across his frame like an oil slick. Cosmo saw the Supernaturalist go down, fingers clearly clawing the gunk that threatened to squeeze the life from him. On the wall, several Parasites sensed his pain, and took hesitant steps in his direction. But there was too much water.

  Cosmo pounded clenched fists on the railing. There was nothing he could do except watch.

  “Nice shooting, kid,” said a voice.

  Cosmo turned. A Myishi paralegal was standing farther down the walkway, his rod trained on Cosmo’s chest. Red crosshairs flickered on Cosmo’s jacket. At this range, there was no need to aim high.

  “Do you have any idea how many dinars it’s going to cost to repair that assault tank?”

  Cosmo shook his head. He didn’t speak because he was holding his breath, inflating his chest as far as possible. This would make it easier to breathe if he got wrapped.

  The lawyer noticed the tactic. “Hey, kid. Don’t worry, I’m not going to wrap you. You’re going to come peacefully, right?”

  “Right,” said Cosmo warily.

  “Well, okay, then,” said the paralegal, pulling the trigger on his rod. A cellophane slug arced along the walkway, hitting Cosmo’s chest. He watched helplessly as the virus spread across his torso. In seconds he was inside a malevolent cocoon that squeezed every bone in his body to groaning point.

  Through the silver tint of the cellophane, he saw the lawyer lean over him.

  “Oops,” said the man, his voice dulled by the wrap. “My finger slipped.”

  CHAPTER 6

  Un-Spec 4

  Myishi Tower

  Cosmo didn’t remember much about the trip to the Myishi Corporation HQ on Journey Avenue. Cellophane slugs had some sort of mild sedative in the sealant, which was just as well, because if a person got too excited in there, he could break his own ribs with deep breaths.

  Cosmo was lifted from the back of an assault truck and dumped bodily into an enormous plasti-glass vat full of viscous yellow dissolving agent. Cosmo had been in a vat before at the institute. The agent would have him puking for hours once it got into his system. Cosmo’s nose and mouth were kept above the liquid by a plungerlike device attached to the top of his head. If that was removed before the dissolving agent did its work, he could get plunger burn and end up with a large circular bald patch. But there was no point worrying about that now. There wasn’t anything he could do, even if the sedative allowed him to summon some willpower. The best thing to do was to float here and keep his breathing regular. Short, even breaths that put no pressure on his ribcage.

  In a way, it was a relief to have nothing to do. No crazy missions, no death-defying midnight antics, and no supernatural creatures staring at him through round eyes.

  Then a Parasite did attach itself to the outside of the vat, staring through the plasti-glass. But Cosmo was safe in here. The creatures could not brave the liquid.

  Any other time, it would have been unnerving to have the creature so close. The sparkling blue pads of its four-fingered hands stuck to the plasti-glass. They stared at each other, boy and creature, through a yellow haze. In Cosmo’s mind, the Parasite’s eyes spoke volumes. There is no escape from me, they said.

  After several minutes of implacable staring, the Parasite detached itself from the plasti-glass. Doubtless there was life to be siphoned elsewhere.

  Cosmo sank into a near trancelike state. The events of the past few days bounced around his head like blobs of oil in a lava lamp. Who was he now? Cosmo Hill fugitive no-sponsor, or Cosmo Hill Supernaturalist? Who was Cosmo Hill anyhow? A product of Clarissa Frayne, with no personality to speak of. Fourteen years old and he had never kissed a girl.

  Mona Vasquez. What was it about her that made his stomach lurch? Cosmo had once been injected with a mild strain of malaria as part of a vaccine test. The malaria had had pretty much the same effect on him as Mona had now. It was a pity really. His feelings were pointless. What girl in her right mind would notice Cosmo even if he were standing on a birthday cake wearing a neon heart?

  Nevertheless, Mona’s image grew in Cosmo’s mind until it displaced all others. Her smile, the black hair curling over her collar. Those dark eyes like two chocolate buttons. She seemed to float in the liquid before him, reaching out a hand to stroke his cheek.

  The sedative made Cosmo speak. Might as well, he reasoned. It’s just an hallucination. “Mona,” he said, and strangely there was no cellophane covering his face anymore. “I really like you.”

  “Is that so?” said the large bearded vat man, who was winching Cosmo’s plunger. “I really like you too, sweetie.”

  The bearded man hosed Cosmo down, snickering the entire time, then tossed him shivering into a padded holding cell. As he left, he threw a kiss over his shoulder.

  “Adieu, my prince, until we meet again.”

  Cosmo was too busy throwing up into the aluminium trough to respond. Not that he would say anything even if he could. In Clarissa Frayne you learned to keep your mouth shut. Every one of the no
-sponsors had known that, except Ziplock.

  When he had recovered sufficiently, Cosmo tore some paper from a wall-mounted roll and wiped himself down. Then he dragged a steel cot across the room until it was directly beneath the warm air vent, and lay down.

  His orphanage habits were returning, as if he’d never been away. After all, what was a few days in fourteen years? Not even one percent. Nowhere close. And yet, he felt he had lived more in the past few days than in all those years combined.

  When they threw you in the hole in Clarissa Frayne, there were certain survival methods the no-sponsors all knew. First of all, sleep as much as possible. That took your mind off food and your situation in general. A seasoned orphan could sleep for as much as sixteen hours a day.

  Secondly, don’t think about freedom. Wishing the days away just made them seem longer. And finally, try not to want anything, especially parents. That just broke your heart.

  Cosmo lay on his back, staring at the ceiling. Sleep would not come. There was too much happening inside his head. Supernaturalists, Parasites, Sweethearts, Bulldogs, a Bartoli baby, and, of course, Mona.

  Thank goodness he had only declared his affection for a vat man. Mona would probably laugh in his face. Not that he would ever see her again. Cosmo had no doubt that once they DNA typed him and found out who he was, he’d be on the first tube back to Clarissa Frayne and Marshal Redwood.

  Sometime later, the vat man returned, still grinning hugely. A man happy in his work.

  “Okay, sweetheart,” he said, scratching a patch of stubble between two drooping chins. “On your feet. Someone wants to talk to you.”

  “Who?” asked Cosmo swinging his damp boots to the floor.

  The vat man lifted Cosmo’s chin with a baton. “What did you say? Did you just ask me a question?”