Future Crimes Part 75

"Well, okay, just tell me what you want."

The microchip in his mouth buzzed once and then again.

It was time.

Turning around from the rail, the addict smiled and said, "I want it all."

The man frowned, gave a half-smile, not understanding.

"You want it--"

The addict kicked out once and sent the man's helmet skittering along the gantry, where it spun and swirled a few times, taking it closer and closer to the edge until it disappeared over the side- The next kick took the man in the crotch, like the next kick and the one after it, each one delivered by the addict in quick succession with alternate feet.

The addict pulled his hand back, flexed the fingers into a right angle, and plunged the hand forward into the man's chest, a single Jab. There was a dull crunch and the man coughed. He coughed again, dropped his weapon, and fell to his knees. The next cough brought up what looked like food and some pieces of splintered bone.

Lifting the weapon from the floor, the addict brought the b.u.t.t down on the top of the man's head.

The man was dead even before he fell face forward.

He wiped the blood in a long smear along the man's plastic coveralls and, after a quick inspection, flicked off the safety guard. The barrel hummed quietly.

He turned to the rail and quickly scanned the gantries in front of him.

n.o.body seemed to have noticed the scuffle. But he was still going to have to move quickly. He backed along the gantry until his back was against the wall. He was a little more sheltered here, safe from a casual glance by one of the people tending the stacks of paper. He crouched down to make his presence still harder to detect and turned to face the wall through which he had stepped just minutes earlier.

It was a simple destabilized molecular sheet. Although the outside had been treated to give the appearance of brickwork, the inside bore no such illusion--just a flat expanse grafted onto the real brickwork at either side. Fixed to the wall at the right was a small panel with four b.u.t.tons. There was no writing on the panel.

The addict duck-walked to the panel and studied it.

Four b.u.t.tons. Two red, one green, one black.

He shook his head. What was he thinking about?

The color coding could mean anything, and time was already against him.

As if on cue, he heard a metallic voice talking through static.

The addict moved to the side of the rail and cautiously looked over.

Just a few feet below, on a protruding stanchion, was the helmet. The voice was coming from inside. The addict knew it was asking about him.

He shuffled back to the panel, took a deep breath and pressed the green b.u.t.ton.

Nothing happened.

He pressed one of the red b.u.t.tons.

He almost dropped the weapon when the siren started. It whooped and wailed, so loud he could feel its vibrations in the metallic gantry beneath his feet.

Somewhere behind him he could hear the sound of shouting voices, almost lost beneath the siren.

He pressed the black b.u.t.ton.

The wall s.h.i.+mmered and became translucent. He could see shapes standing beyond it, outside on the street.

Then he pressed the other red b.u.t.ton.

The siren stopped.

But the voices continued. And now he could feel other vibrations .. .

running feet.

He span around as the first shape came through the wall, crouched down, gun at the ready. The shape looked down at him, just a glance, the black visored helmet nodding once, and then it moved forward, further along the gantry.

A second shape appeared, then a third and a fourth, each of them moving quickly to the side, computerized laser rifles primed and already sweeping the tiered gantry system for signs of movement.

A fifth shape handed the addict a telephonic headset.

A sixth dropped a rope and grapple at his feet and then moved forward.

The addict slipped the headset on. Immediately there were voices, voices shouting instructions ... to get the ones on the ground first; the others had a long way to go. To watch out for anyone moving toward wall panels which could mean self-destruct instructions.

Then one voice said, "You okay. Reader One?"

He nodded, looking up at the shapes. He couldn't tell which one was asking the question.

"Then get down to ground level," the voice said.

"Main office must be down there. They'll be aiming to get rid of it all. And when they do that, they'll do it from the ground."

The addict looked at the rail.

"We must preserve the pages," the voice added.

"Jesus Christ, I have never seen so many as this."

There was a pause and, turning back, the addict caught sight of a black shape standing just inside the wall, staring up and down, shaking its head. The figure fitted the grapple onto the rail and tossed the rope over the side; then it turned to face him and waved a hand.

"Go," the voice said.

The addict shouldered the strapped weapon and rolled over the edge, allowing his hands to slide down the rope as it swirled beneath his interlocked legs and feet.

Already the sound of the lasers was deafening, drowning out the voices from the headset. But it wasn't deafening enough to drown out the screams.

Or maybe it was just that he knew they were there ... could imagine what they sounded like.

He allowed himself to slide down.

As he pa.s.sed each gantry tier, he slowed and stared at the piles.

So many sheets of paper. So many pages. So many millions and billions and trillions of words.

A shot hit the metal alongside him and he braced himself, expecting the man to get a better aim, trying to spin himself around and jam one foot onto the gantry to steady himself enough to be able to train his own weapon.

Halfway around, already swinging the rifle up to let off a few hopeful shots, the addict saw an overalled man burst apart as one of the lasers. .h.i.t him from behind. The arm that bounced against the gantry to his side still held its weapon.

Through the smoke, covering his face against the smell of burned flesh, the addict saw the black shapes swinging across the gantries up above, ropes attached to the roof by suction pads. It was almost balletic. If it were a TAPped presentation, there would probably be music piped over the top of all the noise .. . the sounds of people shouting, people screaming.

People dying.

He let go of the rifle and felt it swing by his side as he let himself slide down to the floor.

He landed awkwardly, a few feet in front of a man in an overall punching the ammunition clip on his rifle.

The man's head raised to look at him and the addict could see the eyes .. . just for a second.

They were filled with fear and with anger.

Then the head dropped down again as he de clipped and then pressed it home again.