Chapter Fourteen
The last physical at Section X, they had handed him his walking papers. A last medical check-up was required to set his pension level for any existing injuries. Deckard was still in a daze and kept Kitka close to him, closer than usual. He thought they might surround him with guards and tell him they changed their minds. Channelle was property of the Section after all and he must sign her back in at once. Deckard was determined that if any situation presented itself that was even remotely close to this, they would make a break for it. Deckard had no idea where to go and he had none of his usual equipment. They would probably be able to stop him at the gates, if not before. Now, if he could get a hold of his gear, it would be another matter. The guards would have guns; he would be able to take one from them.
Deckard formulated a basic plan as they were led along the tile-covered corridors to the medical wing by a lady in a white coat. There seemed to be no one following, no one paying any mind at all, in fact. The lady handed him over to the doctor who began the exam on both of them. Deckard relaxed a little, but then another thought came to him, one even more devastating. A problem that he could not fight his way out of nor think his way through it.
Parting with Kitka was inconceivable. She was closer to him than any family had ever been, closer than a lover, more important to him than an arm or leg. She was the projection of his inner most soul. His visible doppelganger, his conscious shadow that reminded him of who he was and what he was doing. Without her, he wouldn't be sure of what to do. Who would go ahead of him to check out the way? Who would lag behind to make sure that nothing was there? It made him tremble to think of her dead and gone, but he had to know. He asked the doctor.
"How long will Channelle live?" The words caught in his throat and made him shake. He was sitting on an exam table covered with white paper, shirt off. Kitka was nosing around the room.
The doctor was a Section specialist, skilled at both ultra-human and ultra-animal treatments, but one that Deckard had not seen before. The exam had already been completed for the first patient: Channelle Kitka. The doctor fetched a chart from off the counter, covered with Pyrex jars and containers. He flipped through the pages and looked up.
"While an ordinary cat might live to be fifteen years old or so, I think that we can put her age safely at, say, twenty five or thirty years." The doctor said with a small grin of confidence.
Deckard's heart sank in his chest. A human's lifespan had reached one hundred and twenty through medical science. He would live half his life alone, all alone.
"She might even outlive you, Captain." He commented, replacing the chart.
Wait a minute. "What's that you said, outlive me?"
The doctor realized that he had overstepped his bounds. He had assumed the patient had been informed of the side effects of his "therapy". Weighing the repercussions in his head, he looked at Deckard. Deckard looked back at him. The patient did not know. The doctor made up his mind.
"Yes, Captain." The doctor said. "The genetic treatments have left you with an extremely shortened life span. You can expect to live to thirty five, forty at the most if you take it easy, but no longer."
Deckard sat there. The skin variations referred to as 'stripes' seemed to glow for a moment in the eyes of the doctor and he grew apprehensive. Subjects of the Ultra program were reputed to be unpredictably violent. Still this man was a patient and had a shock. He deserved compassion.
"Can I do anything? Do you need a tranquilizer? Water, maybe?" The doctor moved closer.
Deckard looked up to the ceiling. His expression was clearly one of relief. A single tear welled up and ran down his cheek. Deckard closed his eyes and made a strange vocal sound. Kitka leapt up to the table and head bumped his elbow.
"No, I'm fine, doctor, thanks." He grabbed Kitka and rubbed her head roughly, she pulled his hand to her mouth with outstretched claws and bit around on it.
The doctor watched them for a moment and then finished Deckard's exam. Kitka continued her investigation of the room. She knocked one of the Pyrex jar over and pulled out some of the swabs. When the Doctor looked over at her, she returned a look of complete innocence. He decided it would be best if he left her alone.
.
Houston had not changed from how he remembered it. The sun tried to break through the layer of smog that peppered the city with acid rain, but it usually failed. The acid rain was now splattering on the city in big fat drops. It was still daytime, but you could not tell from the sky. It looked like both day and night. The population that was on the sidewalks donned protective slickers in different colors and designs.
Kitka and Deckard went from the train station, which was underground, up to a store front with a red and silver awning. From there, they watched the crowd move up and down. The rain slickers were obviously a part of the Houstonian wardrobe. It was obvious from the make and design that someone was making a lot of money. Indeed, in the very store that they were in front of was a display. They came in all types of material and were all ranges of price.
The aircars zipped about, up above them. Deckard could hardly see the upper levels of the antigrav pathways. The street, by contrast, was almost empty of cars. There was a tram that zoomed along at the far lane, but private ground cars mostly seemed to be for the lower class. The newest ground car he saw was ten years old. The acid rain didn't do the paint any good either.
An air car sedan from the lowest level floated down and hovered before him. A gull-wing passenger door opened up and a dowager stepped out, clad in a teal slicker with geometric designs on it in red. She had a matching hat. She stepped from the car onto the walk. With a disdainful look at Deckard she went passed him and into the store. He entered the store and went down to the subway station that was within. All the high-class stores had subway stops inside them. The store, Niehmans, was packed with people. It was so crowded that one could hardly move, but with the flow of the crowd.
Deckard managed to get over to the station stop escalator and went down. He held Kitka in his arms; or rather, she lay in his arms, content to let him carry her. They squeezed in the first car and rode it for an hour and a half. The car cleared out slowly, as they left the shopping district and went into the business district. Deckard pondered how he would approach Mawson. He had a number to call, but that was it. The best way to find out where she was, without tipping her off seemed to be a GPS search. He would have to find a suitable rooftop and punch it in. First, though, he had to get a base to operate out of.
With a wry grin, Deckard decided on the Ambassador hotel. It had fifty-six floors. The subways last stop.
The staff was obsequious and attentive. They checked Deckard in and led him to the second to top floor. He checked in with one of many false credit chits that he had, as an actual credit card was out of the questions. The hotel would probably call the police if cash were used. The charges of the fake credit chit went to a subsection of Racecar site and were paid by the Section. It was one service that the Section had managed to hang on to, or maybe one they had managed to hide.
The DNA sample taken (from the residue of a users skin) would be altered by the chit itself from the customer to the vendor. This way, the actual user of the credit chit would be hidden from online snoopers. It was one of the few ways that the chit technology could be subverted, was fiendishly complicated and could only be used once.
Deckard dumped his pack on the bed. He had picked up a lot junk along the way; some matches from the train, an ashtray from the night crawler hideout, a bar towel from The Impaler's Pointe, a corkscrew, a small bottle of wine from Tubby's Chapeau, a scarf from Daria's house, and some other stuff. There was a couple of dead mice and a dead bird in there as well. 'Gifts' from Kitka, or maybe snacks. She regarded the pack as hers, too, after all.
Deckard picked up the scarf and pressed it to his face. It smelled somewhat flowery, like Daria did. Kitka sat on the bed, cleaning her tail. Deckard held up her 'gifts' one by one. She took no notice of them. Deckard tossed them i
nto the trash bin by the dresser. He swept all of the souvenirs back into the bag. Deckard always seemed to wind up with small trinkets from where he had been. Souvenirs, knickknacks, or trophies, he didn't know.
It had been that way ever since his first mission. When checking his gear and equipment back in, there was a coffee cup bearing the corporation's logo that the mission had been run against. Deckard hadn't remembered taking it, he just felt mad when they took it away from him. He smiled at the loot he had collected so far. No one would take this away.
Everything would have to be accounted for, though. Rounds and charges spent, hooks, darts, charges, credit chits, the whole kit would have to be given the once over. The only piece of equipment he had checked over had been his wrist guns, so far. Sorting it all out, he got his MIL and a connecting cable. The controls were calibrated and the batteries were fully charged. The way to the roof was barred with a stoutly chained door. It was easily dealt with. Most padlocks were easy to get through with picks. Locks that could not be picked due to electronic protection were opened with a Morphing key. The key was a flat piece of thin metal implanted in a large black head. The metal part slid into a keyhole. A button pressed on the head. The metal rearranged its shape until it fit the lock. While the metal did this, the sensors in the head sent out signals until one was recognized. When this procedure was complete, a green light lit up on the head. The key was turned and door opened. The key could be used repeatedly. Deckard had at least five with him on any given mission.
The roof boasted a landing pad, a huge DV receptor, several dozen heat pumps, and a tall spidery antenna. They went to the antennae, found the repeater controls, and plugged into it. Kitka walked over and stood by the door, ready to warn and attack in that order. When the MIL was giving a locality reading, Deckard dialed the number that Starkweather had given him. The number rang on the other end, once, twice, three times. The GPS located the address and displayed it. A man's bass voice sounded on the other end of the phone.
"Yeah?"
"Wrong number." Deckard said and hung up the phone. The address was a high rise about sixteen miles away. The information reported by the GPS was not only the address, but also the layout of the building. Deckard went back down to his room to study it. The GPS report could be run through the DV unit to present a more distinct image. A little tweaking and the skeletal 3-D building became a little more fleshed out. The image could only display the floors and large pieces of furniture.
Deckard would find out about auto sentries, armed guards and alarm systems first hand. When to go was the question. Moreover, should she be alerted? That was another. Yes, The direct approach should work in this situation. Mawson had the answers, they wouldn't be in a safe or data base. No matter what she had to throw at him, he was confident he could handle it, but he was in no mood to play games. Deckard rang her up.
"Yeah," The male bass voice came again.
"I'd like to speak with Leila Mawson. This is Deckard Blaine. Karl Starkweather told her I'd be stopping by."
"Hold." Dead silence on the line. She could have sprung for a music program.
"Yes, Mr. Blaine? I'm Leila Mawson." Her voice was older. He placed it at late 40s.
"I have a few questions to ask you."
"Okay, go ahead."
Deckard brighten up at this. Maybe this would be easier than he thought.
"Okay, I'd like to ask you about Dr. Wouk and some dealings you had with him."
Silence. "Oh, well, that's a different matter. I thought this might be about Karl and some trouble he had."
Waiting.
"This has to do with that. I just have a few questions."
"Perhaps you had better come by my office tomorrow at around noon." There was faint talking in the background. "I break for lunch around then, I could give you a few moments."
"That's be fine, my secretary will provide you with the address and pass number." She switched over to the bass voiced man without so much as a good-bye.
Deckard listened to the address, made note of the pass number, and rang off. The pass number would probably be only good for that certain time and would not do anything more than permit him access to the first floor. Until then, he had some planning to do. Mawson wanted to talk to him, find out what he knew. That is, unless she wanted to keep him on the line long enough for a location lock. In that case, he could expect assassination attempts before the hour was through. This thought caused him to set up some surveillance on his floor. The Ambassador really was a nice place, the carpets felt nice and thick on his bare feet, as he placed DV pickups at both stairwell ends and one on the elevator. Using his MIL creatively, he tapped into the hotels security cameras in the lobby and displayed them on the split screen of the DV set in his room.
Kitka did not seem overly wound up, and that was always a good sign. Her sixth sense was tuned quite fine, and he nearly always had advance warning. Sure, sometimes it was nothing more bugs flying around the light post, but other times it was something more dangerous. The fact that she was twisting around on the hallway carpet, as he placed the cameras, was a reassuring sign. Deckard also set up some flashers here and there. They got back to the room and ordered up a feast. Beef Wellington and smoked salmon among them. The cameras worked perfectly. The waiter came and went without incidence. The whole hotel was somewhat empty. They spent the night watching and waiting.
The next morning dawned; such as it did, with no action taken against the pair. They slept until eight and then Deckard got up and put on his creeper, taking care to place his equipment in the correct leg or sleeve pockets. He loaded up the 10mm and the grappler. The rest of his stuff, he put back in the pack. Even if this turned out to be nothing, He and Kitka wouldn't come back here. This whole situation might be a set-up, but if they just wanted to kill him, they certainly would have come last night. She wanted to hear what he had to say, even if she planned to kill him afterwards. Starkweather may or may not have told her what happened at the club. Even if he did, he gave no indication that he knew the extent of Deckard's abilities and therefore Mawson didn't know either. In the lobby, he called an aircab and took it over to Mawson's headquarters. It was still overcast, but the drizzle had relented for the time being. He attracted a few looks, but they were coolly appraising, devoid of threat or malice. The air cabbie was behind three inches of plexar, which was badly scratched, distorting his features. Some comedian had added a heavy beard and glasses to his hack permit to make his true features hidden. He was dropped off a block before his target and walked the rest of the way.
Kitka had shrouded before getting into the cab, as most cabbies allowed only service animals. She became visible again, but was warned back by Deckard's signal. He did not know who would be watching them or how when they would start. They might be observed even now.
Mostly awnings and overhangs covered the wide sidewalk, and the pedestrians bustled under them, avoiding the near empty street. The high-rise was of a newer construction. Deco framed steel and reflective glass, it stretched up and up. Its lobby was wide and long, decorated with a fountain in the middle with large planters. Wide columns stood in lines by them. The plants were leaf oriented rather than ornamental flowers. The revolving door didn't budge when he pushed it.
"Can I help you?" An electronic voice sounded. Deckard glanced about a saw a speaker in the ceiling next to a small camera eye. Automated. Deckard repeated the number he had been told. The door began to revolve after a small beep. They went through and into the sanctorum of the Houston Triumvirate, at the end of the lobby was a single elevator, large enough to park in. It had no buttons. Deckard took a slow even pace to get to it, allowing Kita plenty of time to check out the nooks and crannies. The elevator doors swished closed and it rose with a hypnotic hiss sound. It did have an exit hatch in the roof, hidden behind a framework of light panels.
He felt Kitka brush unseen by his leg. He flexed his hands and cracked his neck. If was going to come, let it come in the first second or not at all. r />
The doors swished open to a large room. He stepped out slowly, eyes darting around. It was empty. The room had more leafy plants in pots up against the walls. The walls were covered with abstract paintings. He advanced forward, his creeper footwear making no sound. At the end of the room was a large doorway lined with metal. It was a weapons detector or an x-ray. He stopped in front of it. Nothing. He looked at his watch, signaling to Kitka with a tap. They entered together.
The metal frame glittered with lights and a man came out of a side door. He was a large man, the size of a linebacker. His immense form was sheathed in a brown sharkskin suit with a black turtleneck. Deckard tensed, but the man merely showed the way with an outstretched arm. Deckard replied with an after-you-first gesture. The linebacker shrugged and went first. The man was wearing cowboy boots, and the heels clacked along, echoing off the clean, white walls. Clack. Clack. Clack. Clack. The hallway wound around to a large open area. A few windows that they passed looked down upon the city of horror. It was a bleak and uninviting view. Leila Mawson sat a mahogany desk the size of a coffin at the end of it all. She was about 40ish, blonde hair piled up in a complex style. Behind here looked like a window, but the view was a mountainous terrain. The sun even shone through it, lighting up the haze in the room. Around the desk were several pedestals with vases on them. They looked like Grecian urns or Orientals. She was bent over a cradle screen that was slightly recessed in the desktop. The images flicked back and forth. Her chin was resting upon gracefully folded hands. Deckard guessed that she must have the point control by her feet. She looked up at her secretary and Deckard for a millisecond, the back to her screen. The guard clasped his hands behind his back and waited. So much the better, Kitka was eye balling ever inch of this place while this little game was being played out. Deckard clasped his hands behind his back in intentional imitation of the guard.
After a few minutes, the screen went dark. Leila Mawson looked up at her guard.
"Yes?"
"Deckard Blaine to see you, Ms. Mawson. He's the one that called about the matters you had me look into yesterday."
Her eyes became hard for a moment, the retained their mash of detached interest.
"Is he armed?"
"There were indications that he has some devices, some of which I would have to assume can be used lethal ends."
"Hmm, you know what they say about assumption."
"Yes, Ms. Mawson. I did not search him because of your standing rule. Shall I search him now?"
Leila stood up. Deckard got a better look at her. She was wearing a two-piece suit in French blue, with pearls at her throat. She had on high heels that made a klek sound. Klek, Klek, Klek. She took a couple of step closer to him. She had on a lot of makeup and perfume.
"No," She stretched out the word. "I don't think he's all that dangerous. You may go, but stay close. He may be in a frisky mood." She waved him away. The man bowed slightly and backed out of the room, shooting Deckard a warning look.
Mawson returned to her seat and pressed a button under her desk. A single leg stool of metal rose out of the floor two meters from the desk.
"Please sit, Mr. Deckard."
"No thanks, Ms. Mawson. I've been in the hot seat before, I'll stand."
"As you wish." She tapped her fingers on the desk, chin in one hand.
"I've come to ask you some questions about Yurgei Mallos, or Mark Essex, as you know him, and Dr. Wouk."
"I've been in touch with Mr. Essex. He was not very happy that you detained him in the manner that you did. He would not have hindered your way out of his warehouse."
"He'll get over it. What can you tell me about him."
"He is a smuggler; he has ties to our organization. My father knew him through Dr. Wouk. I'm sure you know more about him, I only know that he pays his tribute on time."
Deckard was watching her. She was making no threatening gestures. She was just sitting there. He had an uneasy feeling just the same. He'd had it when they had gotten off the elevator and it had grown since.
"Okay, how about Dr. Wouk. What can you tell me about him?"
She did not alter her position.
"About the same, really. I know he worked for the OSS during the infowar and that he resigned one day and disappeared. He and my father had dealings. I used to see him out at the ranch house on weekends occasionally, but he never stayed more than an hour or so. He and my father made a lot of money together. He was a master at importing technology, either complete, or the plans for them. As I understand, he helped the Texas Guard get a hold of those laser guns used to free us."
Deckard nodded. OSS. She had used that term for Section X. She couldn't know more. No one on the inside called it that. Only civilians and outsiders called it that.
"Mr. Deckard, Have you ever heard of the 'Head Thief'? She asked suddenly.
"Yes, of course." He said, distractedly.
"Then I won't repeat the details, but there is something I would like you to see." She got up, walked over to the left wall, and hit a switch. A section of wall parted and a light came on. In glass display cases behind a thick barrier of plastex were four decapitated heads. They were perfectly persevered. Below each one were small signs bearing a name and a number. Number 1, 3, 12, and 5 were before him.
Deckard stared at them with incomprehensible horror.
"When I was younger, I thought my father was the 'Head Thief'. He seemed so capable of it, even though the real Head Thief was a long time ago. He came by the first head in an underground auction. He paid quite a lot for it." She kleked back to her desk.
"I have just made arrangements to purchase the forth victims head. It's my hobby. It's always presented a fascination for me, so I've endeavored to collect all the heads." She sat down and the screen lit up again. She tapped it. "I've just now acquired it. I was so excited I had to share it with someone."
"Why me?" The feeling of apprehension had multiplied. He could feel Kitka near and as tense as he was.
"Well, that's what brings me around to it. Even the law enforcement agencies, which we work so closely with, would not stand for such a thing. Even I wouldn't be able to pay my way out of this one. But, I know that you'll never tell anyone of my little hobby." She sighed. "Dr Wouk did leave a message for you. He left it by about three months ago in case you dropped by."
She waited for him to ask. One move by her and she would have a full clip of 10mm. It was coming, whatever it was.
"Okay, I'll spring it. What was the message?"
"Die!" She said it savory relish. Her image faded. It had been a hologram. The perfume had masked the lack of human scent! A four-barreled mini gun folded out from the ceiling above her desk and began to spin around. The bullets began to pump out with a high-pitched whistle accented by sharp shuttering reports.
As steel jacketed lead tore into the walls, Deckard dove under the mahogany desk and watched the fiery tongue 'walk' toward him with evident slowness. Mawson thought to get him with the first burst, but she hadn't counted on his speed. Deckard rolled out from the other side of the desk, and behind the mini gun. He sprang onto the desk and looked at the deadly weapon. There was control arm. Deckard ripped it out. There were sparks, but the gun kept firing. Deckard aimed it at the collection of heads.
The plastex cracked and shattered away and then the heads flew into millions of bits. Deckard turned slowly, blasting out all the windows. The elegant picture window that was displaying a forest path with deer calmly eating grass. It shattered and fell away, revealing the ugly landscape beyond. The ammo ran out and the gun wined to a stop. Thick gray smoke began to pour out of the four barrels bringing out the reek of cheap Baltic gunpowder. Deckard shook with anger and let out a barking laugh. With a quick tug, the mini gun broke out of its housing. A look of contempt and Deckard threw it out the window to crash on the street far below.
"Meooorr." Kitka sounded off. She was in the corner, close to the window. Deckard pointed his wrist gun down at the desk, pulled a flasher out
of his leg pocket and hissed twice between his teeth. Kitka leapt invisible onto his shoulders, clinging on. Deckard snapped his hand forward and fired his grappler into the desk. The flasher detonated with a crack and begin to strobe out bright white light. The grappler hook plunked firmly into the desktop and Deckard launched himself backwards out of the broken window. He was ten feet out, fifteen, and then twenty. He hit the reel button.
The wire jerked them to a stop and flung them toward the glassed plated building. Deckard took steady aim, his feet out in front and fired his 10mm several times. The window he was hurtling towards grew eyeholes and a large chunk missing. His feet struck the weakened glass, breaking it out. He and Kitka landed just inside. Deckard released the hook. A swift hand swung forward and Kitka was off his back and prowling the room. Deckard's eyes swept the new surroundings. It looked to be an unused office, devoid of everything. He could count on being undisturbed for a moment, so he reeled in his wire and fitted another hook, locking it into place. To the door. Deckard opened it slightly and Kitka went out into the hall. His vid pickup showed an empty hallway. Out through the door.
The hallway was lined with office doors, nothing on the walls, and an elevator at one end. Too risky. They could stop him or let it fall if they choose. At the other end was door marked stairs-use in case of fire. It was a locked steel reinforced door with a small mesh-in-glass window. A morph key subdued the lock quickly. Kitka, cloaked, went down the stairway, Deckard keeping close eyes on his watch. No cameras. Just stairs with several landings. He hadn't known how far they had dropped. A sign on the back of the door read 34. The tri probably used these stairs to conduct the illegal business, like the disposal of his own bullet-ridden corpse. Mawson, thinking of her boiled his blood. He had destroyed her grisly collection and that would have to be enough for now. Starkweather either kept his mouth shut or was too stupid to figure out what was what. Most likely the latter. Starkweather might've had lied about how the death of Leila Mawson would affect him. Kitka reached the bottom of the stairs, and Deckard stole after her, being wary of the doors.
She was uncloaked, waiting for him. He kneeled down and rolled up his sleeve. The 10mm was bright and shiny. The segmented bracelet that held the rounds was undamaged. Deckard reloaded it, watching the door in front of him. It had no window. He placed an ear to it, but it was too thick. Placing his palms together. He pressed hard and took several deep breaths, holding them for seconds. His heartbeat slowed and his pulse beat at an almost sleepy thump.
Kitka rubbed against his leg with a purr. He scratched the top of her head vigorously; which she raised with closed eyes. The morph key opened the lock. He would have to leave it this time. Deckard ripped opened the door and charged out, 10mm in front of him. The lobby was full of Tri soldiers. They all had subguns; most of them were pointed towards the elevators. Deckard stopped, knelt and began targeting them. Two were facing him. They each fell with a shot to the head. The noise caused two more to turn. One of them fell to his knees, clutching his throat. The other fell backwards, screaming wildly.
Kitka had gotten him. His yells made the rest turn, some of them letting the bullets fly. They tore over his head. One more fell with a shot to the gut, falling back into the tickling fountain. Deckard moved forward to behind on of the pillars. The subguns rattled off, rounds digging into the stone. He heard a scream of agony, a clatter and another thug fall. Two for her. The remaining guards stopped firing, spoke to each other in low, harsh tones and spread out. They were fond of cowboy boots; he could hear the heels clacking along the floor.
Deckard looked up. The ceiling was fairly far up and appeared sturdy. He fired up his grappler and the hook sunk deep. Deckard reeled up slowly behind the pillar. From up here, he could see the rest of the guards. Five left. Two of them were coming for him at opposite ends. He could see the confusion on their faces. The one from the left made a gagging sound, as blood began to brighten his dark suit. The other one made a cry of alarm and lifted his gun. Deckard pressed the trigger and the man fell, third eye blind. Three to go. Two of them ran to help their bleeding comrade, eyes searching for him. They both fell from hits in the chest, neck and head. One to go.
Kitka was below somewhere. He wanted this last one alive, at least for a couple of hours. The wrist rocket was snapped back into place and he activated his watch and whispered into it.
"Alive. Alive."
The last guard seemed frozen on the spot. He was between the elevator and the stairway door. He yelled out suddenly and fell forward on his face. The subgun skittered along the floor out of his grasp. Deckard let his hook go and landed on all fours, slapped out his 10mm and was on the last guard. He turned him over. Kitka unshrouded near his head, making intimidating noises of anger. It was Mawson's secretary from before. Deckard kneeled on his chest and pressed his face close to secretary's, gun under the chin. The bass voiced man's face was covered in fear and tears. Kitka had shredded his calves.
"Tell Sissy there will be... a reckoning." He growled. He got off him and walked towards the door, watching for one last trick. Kitka trotted along before him, ready to be out of the building. There was a red button on the wall next to the revolving door. Deckard pressed it and the door began to revolve. Kitka shrouded and they walked through. The sky was just as gloomy outside as it had been before. It was quiet and also menacing.
Deckard crossed the vacant street, and they descended on him. Police air cars. Seven of them. They were marked in black and orange with stenciled letters proclaiming who they were and where they came from. Five of them landed around him, two staying afloat, keeping him covered. The cops deployed in a professional manner. Taking cover behind their machines, large guns were pointed. They were dressed in black jumpsuits and blue street armor and helmets. One with a gold badge decal on the left breast approached him. He had no gun. Deckard lifted his hands above his head and closed his eyes in disgust. The tri had set him up to fall either way. If Mawson's picture show didn't work, they'd just have the law sit on him and wait. In his head, he was trying to work out several different plans of escape and evasion. Kitka, no doubt, was scouting the police cars. It all started with taking the gold badge copper hostage. Gold badge halted ten feet away from him.
"Hit it, Ortiz!" He said over his shoulder.
Deckard felt several pinpricks in his chest. He looked down, but his vision was already un-focusing. His sense of balance tipped uncertainly and then slammed him on the ground. He could feel Kitka's form, but she was still hidden. His body felt like a wet sandbag. When he tried to move, he felt violently ill. It was better to lie still. He could hear the police discussing his fate.
"Okay, boys, get a wagon over here and let's chuck him into it."
"Aren't we gonna search him? What about booking him?"
"No." The man in charge declared. "I've got my orders and they say that we chuck 'em in the wagon and ship him to departures."
"Without searching him? Couldn't that be dangerous?"
"Dangerous to who? By the time the slappy juice wears off, he'll be on his way. And I told you; I've got orders from on high. He's to be chucked in, intact was the word they used. They can search him if they want."
Deckard stared into space and then closed his eyes. His rage of spirit of quelled, forgotten. He was torn between wanting Kitka to keep close to him and for her to run away and not share his fate. She was keeping near him, but staying quiet as well. Deckard felt rough hands pull at his knees and shoulders and place him on a bare metal floor. The floor was vibrating slowly; He was in the wagon they had referred to. Through a force of will, he turned his head around as the doors were shut and locked. Kitka uncloaked and crawled up on his chest, sniffing his eyes and mouth. They were caught and headed towards an unknown fate, but they were together. That calmed Deckard and he fell into a foul unconsciousness.