The Electric Church Part 17

Kieth plowed through my hysteria. "You'll possibly feel pain. Don't discount the psychological impact if you do have your wits about you, Mr. Cates-it'll probably be very claustrophobic."

Still giggling, I waved at him. "Come on, Mr. Kieth, hurry it up, now."

Milton tapped the vein that had risen in my arm and nodded with professional satisfaction. Kieth picked up a slender syringe and looked apologetic.

"I tried to scrounge an auto-hypo, but they're scarce, so we'll have to do it the old-fas.h.i.+oned way." He held the syringe up so I could see it. The seriousness on his face almost started me laughing again. He still thought this all mattered. "The, uh, the Monk will have another syringe just like this one, containing a little c.o.c.ktail of chemicals. If Mr. Gatz can really control it, it will be injecting it directly into your heart when the time comes-when you are inside and momentarily secure. Mr. Cates, Ty can't stress this enough: The 'waking up' process is not going to be pleasant. You're going to go from as near dead as you can be and still be alive to fully functional within seconds. It will be much like doing a hard reboot on a computer system. That, Ty knows with certainty, will be very painful."

I nodded, feeling some control coming back to me. "Understood."

Kieth looked unhappy. "Ty doesn't think telling you this serves any purpose, but everyone else seems to feel you should know that you need to come out of stasis within four hours or so. Longer than that and you may not ever ever come out. You can only play dead for so long, eh?" come out. You can only play dead for so long, eh?"

"Understood. Let's get this show on the road. It's time."

Kieth held the syringe up and tapped it with one finger, squinting at it. Then he looked around at the others and back at me. A terrible excuse for a smile came over his face, unpleasant to look at. "See you on the other side, Mr. Cates."

I lay back and they strapped me down tight. Milton held my arm in position, palm up, and I made a fist. I looked around at all of them as Tanner leaned over me with a piece of leather to slip between my teeth. I was still calm, still feeling the last tingle of the laughter rippling inside me, but a coppery taste of terror had oozed into my mouth. I swallowed it back and it stuck in my throat.

"Don't f.u.c.k up," I said, my voice tight and harsh, as if little bits of gla.s.s had gotten lodged in it.

"f.u.c.k you," Tanner snapped, jamming the leather between my teeth roughly. "We don't ever f.u.c.k up."

A bit of motion caught my eye and I turned my head to see Orel pus.h.i.+ng off from the wall and crus.h.i.+ng his discarded cigarette. Our eyes met, and he winked as he sauntered out of the room. I knew that look. That calm determination always preceded a calculated murder. He'd waited until I was tied down, and now he was going to put a bullet in Marilyn Harper's brain. A hot blade of panic sliced through me: How had I not seen this coming? The answer was galling: For all his outward urbanity, our fake Orel was not a civilized man.

I kicked, I screamed, I struggled against the ropes. But Milton and Tanner held me down with surprising strength, and Kieth leaned in like a doctor, grim and serious.

"Sorry, Mr. Cates," he said, sounding almost sad. "But you're worth a lot more money to us dead than alive right now."

I felt hands on my arm, the cold bite of the needle, and

XXVIII.

A Bottom-Feeding Fish, Black and Swollen and Covered In Spikes 10100.

An icepick in my chest, tearing apart blood vessels as it slid along my arteries, propelled by the sluggish, back-and-forth tide of my blood, bloating me with a sudden, razor-sharp heat that sank into every unprotected organ. It was a bottom-feeding fish, black and swollen and covered in spikes, puffing up as it neared the surface, ready to explode. I opened my mouth to scream but found myself biting down on the strip of leather instead. It kept coming. It was too large for my arteries, it tore through and began swimming in my guts, perforating and wriggling, headed unerringly toward my heart. It tore through my pelvis, it lacerated my lungs. Gasping, choking in the open air, it bloated up through my chest and slammed into my heart and exploded there, sending spikes shooting through my insides, landing with wet, s.h.i.+vering force in my spine, my bones, my cartilage.

I stiffened, my whole body going taut as a fuzzy numbness burned its way from my feet upward. I shook and s.h.i.+vered, biting through the leather strip in my mouth, staring pop-eyed at Ty Kieth, who silently took a step backward, eyes on the exits.

Then, suddenly, everything went dark as I pa.s.sed out.

When I came to, my vision snapped on, as if G.o.d or someone had flicked a switch. One second, nothing, the next, I was staring up at Brother West's hideously cheerful mask of a face. It loomed over me, waxy, pale, permanently smiling.

"Mr. Cates? I do not know if you can hear me, but I want to a.s.sure you I will keep my end of the bargain. Mr. Gatz a.s.sures me you will keep yours. It is time to go."

His head floated away, and I was staring up at the ceiling. There was no noise. Then some sounds I couldn't identify: a swis.h.i.+ng sound, a sharp, metallic clang, a tearing sound. I struggled to bring my thoughts into line, but they squirmed and writhed out of my grasp. I wanted to shake my head to clear it, but couldn't.

Then the pain started to come back.

At first it was just a buzzing in the background, a dim memory of something terrible, teasing at the ends of my thoughts. It gathered like distant thunder, growing in ominous volume until it broke over me like terror, like bamboo shoots under my nails going deeper, further, faster.

I wanted to scream, but couldn't. I wanted to howl and writhe and attack anything around me, to pa.s.s along the infection, expend some of it, but couldn't. I stared up at the ceiling, my vision turning red, my skin peeling off, my bones splintering. On top of the pain there was a thick layer of numbness, my arms, legs, every part of me dead and without feeling. Underneath, in the core of me and sinking deeper every second, were razor blades, broken gla.s.s, thumbtacks.

I tried to quiver, and couldn't.

I was lifted, then, the ceiling drawing closer and then sliding away, and carried out of the kitchen area. Gatz's head suddenly loomed into my vision, pale and waxy like the Monk, but with a film of sweat on his taut, gaunt face.

"I Pushed him hard, Ave," he gasped. "If you can hear me, I Pushed him hard. I'll stay close, keep it up as long as I can. I've got your back."

His face disappeared, and there was just the sound of moderate physical effort, and the ceiling, and the pain.

"Set him down a minute," I heard Milton say. The world tilted, and I was lowered to the floor. At the last second Gatz's hand slipped, and I dropped the last foot pretty hard. My head flopped over to the side, and if I could have, I would have crawled backward, cursing, because Marilyn Harper was staring at me.

She was sprawled on the floor and looked startled, as if she'd somehow fallen that moment, and was just lying there in shock. Her hands were still tied, her arms were bent uncomfortably back. Her hair spilled wildly over her face, red and stiff. Her mouth was open slightly. Her eyes were wide open, her face a mask, the ragged hole torn in her forehead still dripping.

"That's a f.u.c.king shame." Tanner sighed, sounding out of breath. "That f.u.c.king old man is pretty harsh, huh, Wonderboy?"

Gatz didn't say anything.

Her accusing eyes bored into mine, and I couldn't look away. I'd lived too long, held on selfishly, and this this was the result? I hadn't had any affection for Marilyn Harper, but this wasn't was the result? I hadn't had any affection for Marilyn Harper, but this wasn't civilized. civilized. She hadn't done anything to rate this, shot in the head by Cainnic Orel. That was how She hadn't done anything to rate this, shot in the head by Cainnic Orel. That was how I I deserved to die, and I couldn't help but think that she'd caught my bullet. deserved to die, and I couldn't help but think that she'd caught my bullet.

With my bones being burned to ash inside me, I wanted nothing more than to turn my head away.

"All right, Wonderboy." Tanner finally sighed. "Let's go. The Tin Man is waiting out back. It makes sense to the Monks if Cates is nailed here. More realistic. So let's go, and then I gotta get into costume."

As I was carried out of the a.s.sembly Room I had a good view of Gatz's shoulder, sweat dripping down from it, and I could hear his breath, strained and phlegmy, rattling in and out of his open mouth. I realized that my life was in his hands. If Brother West came out of the Push too soon I'd either get carved up or just be left to drift away. It was all up to Kev Gatz. I wasn't afraid. I was ready. I was ready for it to be over.

When the pain ate the edges of my vision and things went dark again, I went down eagerly.

I came back groggy. In the distance, hover displacement, shouts, something that might have been a gunshot. Nearer, just above me: humming.

The red pain receded like water evaporating, leaving me blind, inside something, moving. The steady thump of heavy boots on the cracked, damp stone street led the way, wrapped in the dim, quiet hum of hydraulics. I couldn't breathe, couldn't move. I tried again, mentally flailing, screaming, pounding against the sides of whatever I was trapped inside. Nothing. Not even a wheeze of horror. I just lay, staring at blackness, listening to the heavy tread of Brother West as he conveyed me somehow to Westminster Abbey.

All I could see was Marilyn Harper's eyes: wide, staring, just like twenty-six other sets of eyes I'd seen. An old man, startled up from breakfast in a cafe on Morton Street, nailed with a lucky shot that turned his nose into a pit of blood. Twin brothers collapsed back into their hover, staring blankly, blood running down their scalps. A woman, guns falling from both hands, hanging from an ancient fire escape, her foot caught between slats, staring down at me, blood dripping. All of them, bad people. All of them, dead. All of them, killed by me.

I hadn't pulled the trigger, but I'd killed Harper just the same. Twenty-seven dead in twenty-seven years plus all the d.a.m.n cops who'd stepped in front of my gun recently. And now my comeuppance was at hand.

I listened. I could hear-I knew it was probably pitch black inside the little hover I'd been loaded into as a new Church "recruit," so maybe I could see, too. I couldn't move, or breathe, or stop feeling the terrifying sharp-edged pain that lapped at every nerve with a razor tongue. My mind raced through the diagrams and flowcharts we'd worked on, scratched onto any available surface, Kieth's neat script and my own huge scrawl. We must, I thought, be on one of the private transport hovers the Electric Church used to move its cargo-it wouldn't do to have Monks cheerfully transporting recently murdered citizens through the streets, whistling. The Church had its own zoned air lanes for its hovers. All registered religions did, though most of them, I was pretty sure, weren't using them to transport bodies.

I had no idea how much time had pa.s.sed. A weird, electric hum of terror stabbed through me, and then again, and then it became a constant, searing presence. I wanted to scream and wave my arms about and beat myself senseless against the walls of my tiny prison, but I just lay there, my dead body mocking myself. If this was what death was like, if this was even just a second, a momentary horror right before you sailed off into infinity, I was all ready to sign up for my Monk suit.

There was a series of loud clanging noises, and then the scream of displacement. I couldn't feel anything, but I knew the sound, and realized we must be descending. I oriented my mental map of Westminster Abbey, which was a freestanding wall of ancient-looking stone like a broken bone rising out of the ground in a large courtyard, surrounded by a thick, reinforced wall. The hover pad was not far from the building's remnant. Everything was underground, and I knew that once we touched down I'd be wheeled onto a wide conveyor belt and sucked down into the belly of the whole place. I imagined my path as a red line that terminated in one of the small, square rooms that acted as entry points for the corpses. From these small rooms the bodies were conveyed on belts through narrow pa.s.sages into the huge processing center, where the dicing and slicing was performed, largely by Droids, according to West.

If all went well, I'd end in one of the smaller rooms and not proceed past it, except under my own power, by choice-cataclysmically bad bad choice, maybe, but at least by choice. choice, maybe, but at least by choice.

An eternity pa.s.sed, a numb, unreal current running through me, teasing my dead nerves into a believable imitation of pain. Then I was in motion; I could tell from the way I banged around inside the mobile coffin I'd been stuffed into, first this way and that. I did some mild calculations and decided I was being loaded onto one of the belts. According to plan, Brother West was right beside me, standing stock still and grinning mildly at nothing. He'd said that nothing ever varied in this process, that it was machinery and I was to be a cog, so he must must be there, standing ready with the hypo to bring me back to life. be there, standing ready with the hypo to bring me back to life.

The motion stopped. There was a humming sound, a vague, distant sound of voices. Then something heavy slammed into my container. There was a sc.r.a.pe, and then a smooth, rolling sensation. I just saw eyes. As I lay there, the pain swelled up again, the spiky fish bloating, piercing every bone in my body simultaneously until I wanted to claw my eyes out for relief.

When the lid was torn off, I didn't realize it at first, because I was staring at the black side of the container. A thought kept racing through my brain, interrupting everything until I imagined I could see the words scrolling across my field of vision in bright red letters, flas.h.i.+ng and jumping: Let me out! Let me out! Let me out! Let me out! Let me out! Let me out! Letmeoutletmeout! Let me out! Let me out! Let me out! Let me out! Let me out! Let me out! Letmeoutletmeout!

I was turned over, the sudden light stabbing down into my eyes, and Brother West's cheerful-f.u.c.king-face filled my field of vision as it leaned over me. It was so close I kept waiting for the blast of warm breath, but of course there wasn't any. For several long, stretched-out seconds it hovered over me, fake skin and sungla.s.ses.

Let me out! Let me out! Let me out! Let me out! Let me out! Letmeoutletmeout- "We are inside, Mr. Cates," West finally said, but there was something off in its voice. The digitally smoothed, eternally calm tone that all Monks used was frayed at the edges. If I'd had any control over myself, I would have studied its face. As it was, I continued to stare just off-center, over its shoulder. In my peripheral vision, Brother West appeared to vibrate, a fuzziness around its edges as if something vital had come off the rails inside it.

"I will now-" It hesitated, and suddenly jerked its head violently to one side, then back toward me. "I will now inject you with the antidote provided by-" Another violent spasm. "By-" Again. "By Mr. Kieth."

It turned away and disappeared from my sight.

Let me out! Let me out! Let me out! Let me out! Let me out! Letmeoutletmeout- It came back, a rising wave of nerve-shredding pain, burning through everything else and leaving me a dissolved puddle with shards of gla.s.s glinting in the sudden light. Through it, like squinting through a heavy rain, I could sense my clothing being moved aside and the needle being pushed, hard, into my chest. Brother West jerked and stuttered through the whole procedure, almost dancing. I wondered, dreamily, if he was tearing my heart open, if blood was rus.h.i.+ng out of me, if this was where I would just bleed to death, a stupid sort of death.

Its rubbery face loomed over me again. "It is done, Mr. Cates," it said. "I wonder-" It stopped and c.o.c.ked its head, as if listening to something. Then it shuddered and oriented on me again. "I wonder if you will keep your end of the bargain, Mr. Cates. I so looooongggggg long long long to die."

It snapped back to loom over me, suddenly calm. "I wonder," it said, the creepy calm of the Monks back in its voice. "I wonder if you would permit me to speak to you about immortality, if I may, Mr. . . . Cates, isn't it? It will only take a few minutes, and I would appreciate your time."

There was a moment, a part of a second, where everything was balanced. The pain had swollen inside me until I was sure I was going to explode, just pop like a balloon, but it held steady. Brother West stood still, watching me, its face frozen in that subtle smile, all I could see. There was no noise. I still could not move.

And then the pain exploded, shattered into billions of tiny particles scattering throughout my insides, burning on and pock-marking my bones. My body stiffened, my whole existence becoming one endless cramp. I felt my heart spasm and lurch back into motion, pus.h.i.+ng the cooling blood in my veins. I opened my mouth to scream, but nothing came out, my lungs deflated and unwilling to move. I sat up and froze, trembling, eyes wide and staring at Brother West.

"Mr. Cates," it said. "Let me show you an endless-"

A gunshot tore the air, and Brother West's abdomen, so recently repaired by Ty Kieth, exploded outward in a spray of wiring and fluffy white insulation. The Monk collapsed with a strange wheezing noise. My blood felt like splinters moving through me, and I sat in a strange black metallic container, trembling and unable to move.

Heavy, deliberate footsteps approached. I was able to squeeze a trickle of air through my constricted throat. After a few more seconds, as I was slowly forcing my lungs open, hunched over and dry-heaving, a Monk entered my field of vision, stepping carefully over West. I could only see it out of the corner of my eye, but there was obviously something wrong with it: Its robes were tattered and stained, its face smudged with dirt-though it still possessed the eternally satisfied expression of all Monks.

Somehow, when it turned to me and spoke, I knew who it had once been. s.h.i.+vering and still semiparalyzed, a surge of adrenaline, like fresh ice poured directly into my veins, swept through me, making me choke.

"Mr. Cates," the thing that had once been Barnaby Dawson said, "only Monks and dead people are allowed in here. One of us is not playing by the rules."

XXIX.

My Own Personal Angel Of Death 01001.

Outside the walls of the small room, an alarm sprang into life.

Aside from the tattered and dusty robe, Barnaby Dawson looked like every other Monk I'd ever seen. Humanoid, a uniform six feet tall, dressed in black, white fake-looking skin, eyes hidden by dark gla.s.ses. His facial expression was identical to every other Monk's-somehow a combination of amus.e.m.e.nt, concern, and arrogance, though I wasn't sure if I really saw or imagined it. I sat s.h.i.+vering, finally able to curl my hands into fists and track Dawson with my eyes, but unable to do much more than that. I couldn't lift my arms; I couldn't imagine fighting someone, much less a digitally enhanced killing machine. I was f.u.c.ked.

It still didn't bother me.

"You'd think," Dawson said brightly, holding his Roon on me carelessly, "that I would be grateful. You gave me immortality. I could just follow you around making note of your advancing age and wake up every day over the next few thousand years, nuclear-powered, cheered by the memory of your pathetic death. I could wait around just to watch you try to crawl, feebly, away from death." He paused. "And that would would be fun. But now you've gone and had a f.u.c.king be fun. But now you've gone and had a f.u.c.king inspiration, inspiration, Mr. Cates. I underwent my transformation in a place just like this. So why shouldn't you undergo a similar change?" He nodded. "Similar, but not exactly the same, eh? I'm thinking, once we have your brain out of your skull, we'll stop there." Mr. Cates. I underwent my transformation in a place just like this. So why shouldn't you undergo a similar change?" He nodded. "Similar, but not exactly the same, eh? I'm thinking, once we have your brain out of your skull, we'll stop there."

My teeth chattered and I shook violently, but I was slowly regaining some control. I could look around, and I tried to keep Dawson in my line of sight while I got my bearings. I was sitting in a small, coffin-shaped skid that floated, like a hover, swaying a few feet off the ground. It was just big enough for a tall man to stretch out inside, and various LED displays blinked peacefully along its side. It was rapidly filling with my sweat.

The room was small and Spartan; bare concrete walls, a single metal table lit by an overhead bank of harsh, white lights, and a wheeled metal table bearing three motorized surgical tools, clean and painful-looking. Without knowing why, I had an impression of being underground-a dampness in the air, a sense of weight hanging over me.

Dawson leaped up onto the table and sat with legs spread and shoulders slumped, a creepy, human posture that looked bizarre and out of place on his Monk body. He began swinging his legs at the knees, and I could hear the tiny motors whirring.

"When your name popped up on the EC network, all I could think about was splattering your brain all over whatever wall was handy, doing some finger painting with your blood if the mood struck me. Now look at you. I'll be honest with you, you piece of s.h.i.+t. I am not sure how to proceed."

Straining and jerking, I wrenched my head around to look directly at Dawson. I tried to say something, and managed to open my mouth, but only managed to force a gurgling sound out, my mouth filling with saliva.

"What's that?" Dawson said, jumping up and leaning toward me, a hand cupped to his latex ear. "I can access huge translation libraries in seconds, but you don't seem to be speaking any known human language." He walked toward me with quick, mincing steps. "But then, as a piece of s.h.i.+t, you're not human, are you?"

He punctuated this with a sudden backhand blow, so fast it was like a violent nervous tic had seized me.

"So I figure I'll beat the s.h.i.+t out of you until you loosen up."

I stared down at the floor as blood dripped from my broken lip and drooled into a puddle below me. My s.h.i.+vering was slowing and subsiding, being replaced joint by joint with a deep, cold ache. I could feel the hard lump of my gun pressing into my back, but I knew that in my present condition I wouldn't be able to beat Dawson to the draw. Besides, I thought with a weak ripple of tired humor, maybe a good beating would would loosen me up. loosen me up.

His hands were on me, then, and everything tilted as the f.u.c.king cyborg lifted me up out of the skid and held me up in the air. Sweat and blood and spit dripped down onto Dawson's white Monk face.

"I am perfect, Mr. Cates. You perfected me. I don't even need my badge anymore. I walk down the street, you f.u.c.king rats scatter. scatter. I go hunting at night. Word's getting around, and all the rats hide underground, now, because they know Barnaby Dawson's coming." He c.o.c.ked his head at me in a familiar birdlike gesture as I hung on his arms like a piece of slaughtered meat. "And I I go hunting at night. Word's getting around, and all the rats hide underground, now, because they know Barnaby Dawson's coming." He c.o.c.ked his head at me in a familiar birdlike gesture as I hung on his arms like a piece of slaughtered meat. "And I enjoy enjoy it, Mr. Cates. But I have a job to do, you know. I am not it, Mr. Cates. But I have a job to do, you know. I am not completely completely without programming. You're the last thing on my to-do list, and then it's a few centuries of enjoying myself." He looked around, a disturbingly human movement. "Now, what are we doing without programming. You're the last thing on my to-do list, and then it's a few centuries of enjoying myself." He looked around, a disturbingly human movement. "Now, what are we doing here, here, I wonder? Ever since I became Barnaby Dawson Mark Two, Mr. Cates, I have been I wonder? Ever since I became Barnaby Dawson Mark Two, Mr. Cates, I have been seeking seeking you you out. out. I have been tracing you with every resource at my discretion. Church feeds, old SSF contacts, good old-fas.h.i.+oned torturing of the rats. I've been able to piece together all your movements, and only now does it dawn on me what you're here to do. You're going after Squalor, aren't you?" He laughed, an unnatural sound that didn't resemble real laughter in any way. "Tell me one thing: Did you really think a rat like I have been tracing you with every resource at my discretion. Church feeds, old SSF contacts, good old-fas.h.i.+oned torturing of the rats. I've been able to piece together all your movements, and only now does it dawn on me what you're here to do. You're going after Squalor, aren't you?" He laughed, an unnatural sound that didn't resemble real laughter in any way. "Tell me one thing: Did you really think a rat like you you was going to pull this off? That you had the was going to pull this off? That you had the capability capability?"

I felt his arms tense, and closed my eyes as he heaved me through the air. I slammed into the wall hard enough to rattle my teeth in my mouth, all the air knocked out of me, and I slid to the floor choking, my eyes bugging out of my head.

"I know what you're wondering," Dawson went on, walking toward me. "You're wondering how in the world this f.u.c.king brilliant f.u.c.king brilliant plan of yours went wrong. How come I wasn't killed by those f.u.c.king Monks? The answer is, I'm a prototype. The first step. Bad luck for you. Bad luck," he stooped, lifting me up again without any apparent effort, "for all the rats." plan of yours went wrong. How come I wasn't killed by those f.u.c.king Monks? The answer is, I'm a prototype. The first step. Bad luck for you. Bad luck," he stooped, lifting me up again without any apparent effort, "for all the rats."

He tossed me back onto the floor casually, my head cracking against the concrete, my vision blinking out in a purple flash and then coming back again. Head ringing, I writhed for a second or two and then realized I was, in fact, writhing. I started to crawl away from Barnaby Dawson, my own personal angel of death.

"You're recovering," he said behind me, and f.u.c.k me if he didn't sound almost cheerful despite the digital sameness of his voice. "That's good. I want all your slow wetware synapses online so I can be sure you really feel it when I reach down your f.u.c.king rat throat and pull your spine up through your mouth."

As I crawled, I managed a deep shuddering breath, my ribs cracking with the sudden expansion, and I found, bleeding and crisped at the edges, my voice. "f.u.c.k you," I grated out, like coughing up razor blades.

Dawson tried to laugh. I got the impression laughter wasn't programmed into his interface, so what came out was a harsh, strangled sound, a burst of static pushed through the humanizing filters. I ignored it, and kept crawling, feeling parts of me come back to life bit by bit. One thing hadn't changed about Dawson. He was still a f.u.c.king System Pig at heart. It was the only advantage I had, and kept him talking. I raised my eyes from the floor and oriented on the surgery table. I needed to stand up, get my bearings, and for that I was going to need time.

"f.u.c.king Pigs," I panted. "You were going to kill me. me."

There was no immediate response, just a weird fluttering noise, and then Dawson landed directly in front of me, one heavy boot slamming down on my outstretched hand. Not hard enough to break it, somehow. Just hard enough to hurt-the pain seared through my arm and smacked into me, I shuddered helplessly, mouth open, nothing coming out.

"We were going to kill you you? Of course course we were going to kill you. That's our f.u.c.king we were going to kill you. That's our f.u.c.king job job-thinning the herd. If we just let you pieces of s.h.i.+t breed, you'll become a problem. Are you suggesting I should not not do my do my job job?"

The pain, terrible as it was, did not quite compare to the excruciating torment I'd experienced for the past hour or so, lying dead in an electronic coffin. I decided on a different tactic, and slumped, pretending to pa.s.s out. There was a chance this would gain me a bullet to the back of the head, but I didn't think so. Dawson was enjoying himself too much.

"Oh no you don't," he said brightly, and the pain suddenly lessened in my hand as I was lifted up and tossed onto the surgery table as if I weighed nothing. The table rattled slightly, but held fast, and I couldn't stop myself from letting out a little scream as my body hit the solid metal, my arms coming up to s.h.i.+eld my face instinctively.

"Better," Dawson said. "I want to enjoy this, and to do that I need you awake. Don't pa.s.s out again, or I start tearing out your teeth."

I writhed and moaned, which took very little acting, and s.n.a.t.c.hed a quick glance around the room. Two exits, small, square room. I closed my eyes for a second and pictured the little map of the EC complex. I picked out the room I had to be in, and which door I wanted to get through. I rolled my head back and spotted Dawson, admiring his reflection in the polished metal of one of the doors. No doubt keeping one thought on me, but he was still human inside. Without a mod chip funneling every crazy thought into standard Monk reactions, he was slow and cluttered just like the rest of us.

I took a slow, deep breath, the air slicing my lungs, and clenched my fists hard enough to crack the knuckles. I closed my eyes as I exhaled, and pictured, for a moment, a beach. White sand, almost gray water with white foamy flecks, a blue, crystalline sky. I couldn't remember when or where I'd seen it-when I'd been a kid? a picture on a Vid?-but it was there, in my head. I recreated it carefully, the quiet sound of waves and wind, the lonely sound of some kind of bird calling in the distance. I concentrated on it, felt my thoughts screw down to a pinpoint, focused on where the gun was. Where Dawson was. If Dawson had hydraulic joints and CPU-aided aim on his side, I had desperation, terror, and pain on mine.

A final glance around the beach, and I moved. One hand went to my gun, tearing it from its hidden holster. The other grabbed the edge of the table as I rolled backward, pulling the table down after me so that it landed on its side and provided instant cover. I landed hard and cracked my head against the concrete again, making me wince and waste a second as a bolt of red blasted through my brain. I came up shooting, but Dawson was in the air, tattered robes fluttering behind him, landing heavy and hard on the table, which collapsed into wreckage under his weight. His hand whipped down and grabbed my gun, cupping the muzzle and forcing me to point it away from him. For one frozen moment we were motionless, Dawson's reflective sungla.s.ses staring down at me.

"Mr. Cates, you just can't wait wait to get killed, can y-" to get killed, can y-"

I pulled the trigger, and Dawson's hand disappeared in a cloud of latex and metal that pitted my face and stung my eyes. Dawson didn't react. He just stared down at me for one panted breath, two, three, and then we moved simultaneously: I tried to swing the gun up to blow his f.u.c.king head off, and Dawson swung his stump up to block me while still holding on to me with his good hand. His arm glanced off mine, I pulled the trigger, and Dawson was knocked backward over the table by the force of the shot, a ragged hole torn in his neck. He began to twitch violently, shouting in a strangely warped version of the standard Monk's voice.