Stasey Norstrom

Moon hangs around
A blade over my head
Reminds me what to do before I’m dead
Night consumes light
And all I dread
Reminds me what to do before I’m dead

Before I’m Dead -Kidney Thieves

 

Track One

<pause>

Cynthia Takeshi was the best data thief in the New York Core and for the first time in her life, she fucked up.

The ETI security guard stood frozen in the doorway, flat-footed and fumbling. Five years he’d walked the executive levels with never a problem to report. His saucer eyes took in her foreign features, desperate to identify any but recalling none: violet eyes, void-black hair cropped and tied, soft features scrubbed hard. The guard forgot what to do, scenarios fighting for airtime: security breach, breaking and entering, unlawful use of prohibited terminal space. He searched, brain spinning.

Cyn inhaled, muscles tensing.

He remembered.

“Shit.”

<play>

Sirens screamed as he jerked his gun.

She unleashed her limbs: fists punched, feet tripped, arms twisted in syncopated chaos.

The guard twisted, a rag doll in hang time. Dead weight crashed unconscious.

Her eyes narrowed.

Cyn bolted, rabbiting for the stairwell and to freedom. Her focus warped as the stretch of hallway flashed and screamed at her presence. Shoving the noise aside, she stopped at an intersection, listening to the world around her.

Movement came for her: fast feet and barking orders. Metal locked and guns cocked.

Fluid, she slipped through the door, finding stairwell echoes booming on black steel. Beneath her: 114 floors into hell. Guards under her shouted and ran, hunters closing in on their prize. Cyn raced up, ahead of the rapidly rising tide of bodies two floors below. Guns blazed, bullets ripping past her, angry at the world. She doubled their step speed, clung tight to walls, away from open air and stinging slugs. She kept it kinetic:

don’t stop

won’t stop

can’t stop

Primal urge drover her flight over fight. Muscles screamed as she pounded up towards heaven, desperate to flee this corporate Babel and its big business.

Don’t scan. Just run.

<pause>

An ebony man too beautiful to comprehend admired his manicure too beautiful to describe. Slowly, he scanned the shape and function of each digit, astounded by God’s creation.

A voxbox erupted from the black glass tabletop, tone controlled in the chaos. “Sir, we’ve got an intruder heading up the main well. Subject’s subdued one guard. Armed and dangerous. Request permission to —”

The man switched off the voxbox and reclined in his imported hand-stitched leather chair. Fingers steepled, he gazed out the south wall. Withdrawing a too expensive cigar from his 300-year-old humidor, a smile worked its way to his face as he stood. Inhaling a deep whiff of the priceless embargoed tobacco, he placed a fingertip to its tip. The end ignited. Drawing up a proud cloud, he reached out and touched the black glass, watching it pulse red under his finger.

Delightful.

Red eyes awoke, mainline system coding and securing. Data scrolled across marquee text-vision and microprocessors booted.

<play>

Don’t scan. Just run.

Cyn leaped the landings, pushing herself up the final flight of steps and freedom above.

ROOF ACCESS DOOR

NO ADMITTANCE

She launched up and smacked hard, bones vibrating off reinforced impact polymers. She stepped back, set, and slammed the door again.

Nothing.

Again.

Nothing.

She threw a glance down the well. Guards forced her to gauge her time remaining.

No time.

Cyn slipped out a clay-covered disk and eyed the door. Pushing the center of the disk, she slapped it hard against the lock. She spun down and away from the door, tucked tight against the stairwell’s architecture.

The door wrenched on its hinges, swinging out, clinging to life by metal and faith. Night air rushed in, cold neon skylight illuminating the exit from Hell.

Guards barked and opened fire. Bullets punched concrete. Fluid, she rolled through the frame and kicked up, free for a moment and ready for more.

Cyn made a quick study of ETI’s rooftop mechanics. Massive vents and cooling fans rose from the surface, cubic boulders and metallic mountains. AdScreens floated above the towers, gigantic vertical clouds showering the earth with corporate slogans and consumer dominance.

She spun to face the doorway, backing away as targeting laser lights pierced the blown portal, searchlights of pain. She turned and fled into the industrial landscape.

Guards poured onto the roof, lasers sweeping the deck, slicing through steam. The squad of eleven split, five-and-six, seeping across the rooftop in violent anticipation.

Corners and shadows, cracks and ventilators—no space was spared examination. They hand-signaled and moved with precision, trained perfection.

An unseen rock left her boot as she scrambled, the softest clink.

Bullets ruptured her world. Hot air and frigid night collided, driving her down, forced to tumble, slamming hard on sheet metal. She held her breath and clutched her heart, desperate to hear their position.

Eleven pairs of boots crept like death, patient and methodical. Fanning out, they surrounding their target.

She ripped her brain apart, searching for the next move, the final flee. She acted, bitching at stuck zippers. She yanked it hard, plastic tearing free and two hockey pucks slip into her palm. Laser sight pan-and-scan locked her up, crossing in the haze. She gauged the squad, looking for holes, flaws in their steps. She whipped her head back and forth as they closed in, sights grouping, triggers ready. She tapped each puck twice and smiled.

The obtuse arc of guards never saw them slide, never heard the silent glide of plastics race towards them. The pucks triggered simultaneously; violent clouds ruptured the squad: they burned and cursed, retched and prolapsed. Guards fell.

Cyn turned.

“Hands on your head! Now!”

 

<pause>

It stepped through the ruined doorway, metallic skin oblivious to chilled midnight air. Optics swept the rooftop, searching for organic movement.

TARGET IDENT SCAN:

BODIES: ELEVEN

STATUS: IMMOBILIZED

It’s red eyes shifted blue and the rooftop slipped into transparency. ThermOptic vision penetrated concrete and metal, pure divination of kinetic thermal signatures. The immobilized bodies became floundering red blobs, coiled in green. Beyond them it found two more forms, free from chemical effects.

TARGET IDENT SCAN:

BODIES: TWO

GENETIC FILTER: ACTIVE

CHROMOSOME ANALYSIS:

ONE: MALE, REGISTERED ID# 364202

TWO: FEMALE, NON-REGISTERED

ACTION: TERMINATE

The Hunter/Killer Mark IV raised an arm, target locked, offensive sub-routines running at optimum. Eager to stop, destroy, feast.

<play>

“Hands on your head! Now!” The unseen/unheard twelfth guard’s voice filtered through electronic anonymity.

Cyn felt the barrel at her back, inches from Polyaramid-covered skin. She raised her hands slowly, eyes shut, hearing the world around her.

Bodies fumbled and yelled, slow motion to recover.

Ventilators hissed and fans churned, flawless in design, ceaseless in function.

“Turn around slowly!”

Cyn complied, eyes tight, seeing it all in her mind.

Before her: an ETI security guard, squad leader, exhausted and panting, due for a break. Behind him an overflow vent blew, spitting hard into night sky.

Over his shoulder and through the steam, past the shouts and across the rooftop, it screamed at her, gaining speed and hungry to die.

Cyn opened her eyes —

— and dropped.

The missile impacted and cold night erupted, a fireball flare.

Hell on earth.

<pause>

The ebony man enjoyed his exhale, his office shaking under the explosion, four floors above. He was pleased.

<play>

The guards’ symptoms vanished instantly, panic-clearing perception. They spun and shouted: pointing and scrambling, adrenaline brain-thumping.

Security Specialist Abraham was slow to recover, eyes still burning and two weeks from a day off. Knuckles dug into orbits as he fought to comprehend the sounds of anarchy, struggling to rationalize the two-legged metal monster wielding weapons of mass destruction.

Abraham missed his wife and two children.

His assault rifle spat at the Mark IV, centimeter shells bouncing off Kevlar flesh. Muted mouths screamed, hands waiving off futile firings, yanking Abraham back.

The Mark IV reacquired new hostiles, sights set with barrels spinning.

The guards fell, some in one piece, Abraham in several. Screams vanished under bullets and bloodshed. Chests exploded and hearts burst.

Barrels slowed and stopped.

Everything was dead.

Silent.

Cyn rolled up and around, not a sound. Eyes fell on her former captor, squad leader spread out wide and dripping. She spun, biting back bile. She slipped to the corner, looking for others, finding all of the same. The squad rested in pulped percentages, laid out like Hell’s laundry. Her eyes absorbed the low light, taking it all in. Breath held, she found slow-method footsteps, wading through mixed chum and DNA samples. Frozen, she watched the Mark IV step into view, scanning it all, looking for survivors.

Looking for her.

Don’t scan. Just run.

No sound, no breath, all flash-feet and flee; Cyn bolted for the edge. It was close to her, far enough that she could make it.

Wouldn’t make it.

Car horns squealed below.

The Mark IV spun, sound and vision at maximum. Sight slashed steam and stealth, optics rainbow back to blue. Thermals found the form, her form, a red blob slight and bright.

Arms locked, barrels out, spinning death without mercy.

Bang.

The world erupted as she ran, up and around, beside and below. Metal daggers flew for flesh and she ducked, rolled, and ran for the edge.

The world came into view. Hovercraft cruised by the outer rim of The Twelve, quick on their way to anywhere else. Expensive cars and maintenance trawls dotted the flight paths, all in a row five by five.

East, across the water, she saw her home, somewhere in the tangled mess that was New York City. The Floor was shrouded in midnight, buried deep beneath the illuminated towers of commerce and progress. She reached out for it, so far away —

A bullet tore through a Polyaramid seam, weakness exposed, shoulder burning. She slapped the wound, never looking, never stopping. Her feet kept pounding, sucking air through solid teeth.

Seven meters.

Cyn saw it all before her, eyes opened wide.

Six meters.

A garbage barge, three bays long, trudged alongside the ETI tower. It headed south to the beaches, to recycle, reduce, reuse its haul.

Five meters.

The Mark IV raised the tube, missile armed.

Four meters.

Cyn yanked a waist-clip, unraveling line.

Three meters.

The Mark IV fired, a ballistic Banshee, screaming terror.

Two meters.

She shot it deep, metal tip buried in rooftop skull.

One meter.

 

Impact.

A fireball fell from the Heavens, white-hot demolition. Cyn tumbled out of the flame, Icarus descending. She fought flame and physics: grappling, spinning, aiming for transportable shit.

She moved too fast, the barge too slow.

Her hands clasped the line lock, straining to brake momentum. Freefall per second per second she scrambled, squeezing the clamp, friction-smoke erupting, gloved-hands burning.

Closer it came.

The brake locked tight, seizing too fast.

She snap-whipped off, twisting feet over face, barge seen/unseen over/under her. She was a dead stick, praying to nothing —

Thud.

Cyn felt broken, glass shards under Polyaramid skin. Bulls eye: she crashed dead center of the first fifteen meter long bay. Brain intact, she looked up, five rooftops melting into one, focus back on board. Full of pain, she smiled.

Fuckers.

Her smile evaporated.

Fuck.

 

It was airborne, 350 kilograms of mechanized death. The Mark IV tucked in, a Global Killer cannonball, aimed for the barge.

Don’t scan. Just run.

Adrenaline filled her tank, bone pistons shoving her forward, away from the falling shadow. Garbage fought her movement, resistance of progression.

Too late.

The Mark IV crashed into the back of the first bay, driving it downward with too much force to handle. The barge became a Jacob’s Ladder of refuse, garbage flying.

Cyn found herself on the up-side of the see-saw with nothing to hold, the surface wet with humanities drippings. Slick feet and muscles fried, she fought against gravity, strength in overtime. The mountain of leftovers continued to overpower her, shoving her down towards adversity.

Locked on, the Mark IV charged the bay, tearing through waste, barbaric in its movement. Dead eyes tight on Cyn as it climbed towards its prey.

She couldn’t stop her downhill slide, the barge too slow and too heavy to recover quick enough. Sliding, she began to dig, shoving bags and ripping boxes, looking. Eyes scanned, searching for anything that could stop a blood-thirsty tank.

Nothing.

The Mark IV calculated, tensed, jumped.

Hands clutched and flew, desperate to aim.

Out of time.

Smack my bitch up.

 

Her re-bar spear tore through optic framework, piercing Kevlar bone, circuit boards blown out the back. Digital gray matter exploded as it reeled, unable to register the world. It paused, frozen with system failure. The Mark IV rocked and fell, over the back of the first bay.

Gone.

Cyn collapsed as the barge began to right itself, gyros double-shifted to stabilize. Garbage slid to a halt. Her hands were raw and bloody, mixed with rust and urine. Staggering to her feet, she tromped through refuse, heading for the cabin.

Sirens wracked the wind as cars protested, drivers no doubt contacting COR security. Faces whipped past her as she found the eyes of the barge driver, old and angry and terrified. She ignored it all, moving across flooring with faint friction. She couldn’t feel her shoulder anymore, all bullet wound and endorphins. Armor was torn free, revealing the barcode tattooed in mockery of the system.

Cyn focused on the drivers eyes, wide with shock over his new cargo. His eyes flickered ahead then to the mirror then back again.

Exhaustion gripped her, body and soul beginning to sway. Self-control began to crash; she wanted to fall apart, to lie in the filth and forget about her buyer and the fresh stolen data.

The barge headed out across the river, away from the island, away from the COR and S12 and Big Brother business.

Cyn looked away from the Sprawl, up to the sky and the black sea beyond. She began to smile.

The Mark IV leapt onto the driver’s cabin, crushing the roof under its’ strength. The driver screamed quick, silenced by snapping vertebrae.

A single optic pulsed in the night.

Sirens screamed and autopilot engaged.

Cyn was too tired, bones bending and muscles fried. She didn’t give two shits about the driver or her stolen data or the buyer’s desperate cause.

Not anymore.

Don’t scan.

It’s on.

Just fight.

The Mark IV leapt down to the bay, arms out, ready for wet work. Cyn couldn’t feel the grit of her teeth, pulsating her jaw. All she felt was the drops of life left in her.

It lunged.

Cyn rolled under-past-up, a quick boot to exit wound. Thousand dollar thoughts rattled in the Hunter/Killer’s brain, machine registering binary pain.

It reacted, a nanosecond at her

on her

under her.

Hands on her armored neck, held up high for all to see. The ruptured socket sizzled as the good eye flared, aware of its prize. Squeezing slowly, deliberately, enjoying its deliverance of pain, it glared into her dying eyes, hungry for entropy.

Cyn strained, fighting unconsciousness. It all began to swim, drowning under the gray. Tossing lifeless limbs at the beast, there was nothing left in her to fight. She began to freeze, held up into midnight winds.

Wait.

She slipped a hand inside Polyaramid pockets, searching for salvation.

Not now.

One, two, three . . . nothing.

Not yet.

Her left arm dropped, futility and blood loss numbing it all.

Not like this.

Her hand emerged, fist clutched tight, squeezing it with all her nothingness.

The Mark IV’s eye flared again.

Her tank on empty, she smashed her fist into his ruptured optic, deep cuts ignored by frozen flesh. She shoved it deep, the clay covered disk stuck tight.

The Mark IV didn’t release its grip, computing it all, taking her with him.

Cyn hung like a rag doll, mouth opened to the cold sky above. Her scream vanished, lost in the night.

 

Boom.

<pause>

The ebony man smiled, nodding once in silent agreement. He ignored the silent sirens and the blaring panic. He paid no attention to the VT Series Daimler 900 Luxury Sedan floating outside his window. The vehicle was docked and clamped, secure to board. Finally, a bored eye found the sedan and he sighed, bored with the meeting he had yet to attend.

He rose from imported leather and grabbed his overcoat and briefcase. He shut down his terminal board and locked the glass top. Stepping away from the desk he headed to the sedan, eager to retire for the evening and finish reading his book.

End of Track One.

 

 

Stasey Norstrom is the husband of a too-patient wife, father of two—now make it three—incredible children, full-time career of the household, and writer of words. His previous works such as “The Dreaming” and “The Forgotten Hall” can be found published in previous issues of eFiction. He is currently working on his first young adult novel, “Jac And The City Of 1,000 Worlds”. He loves bacon.