"The Last" by Chris A Jackson

The Last

By

Chris A. Jackson

The refuse and offal of humanity cluttered the alley, a palpable combination of filth and mortality, the fetid reek of disease and rot.  She had seen so much of it, so many eons of man-kind’s squalor.  So many wars, so many plagues, so much death…

Ten thousand years of it.

One would have thought she would be inured to it by now.

Not so.

She felt every sore, every ache and pain of every infirm indigent cowering in the clutter, covered in cardboard and newspaper against the pervading damp and chill of winter.  The pain, the cold, the hopelessness…  She tried to block it out, tried not to feel, but it was no use.  She was what she was.  She survived in the knowledge that she could not save them all, and that saving one would make no difference.  Most would die sooner rather than later; many would wish they were dead long before darkness took them.  Who was she to decide who was to live and die?

She had been that once; ruler, judge, queen, empress… Ah, Antony, how I miss thee… but no longer.

That which killed most of these fragile humans was but a cobweb to her; the diseases that murdered them by the millions were but flecks of dust on the wind that she could breathe in and ignore.  She would not succumb so easily.

Not she.

She was The Last, and not into oblivion would she go without one to send her there.

Her boots scuffed through the refuse, blood and vomit without being soiled, simply because she was what she was.  The filth could not touch her, could not infect her.

Would that her mind were so immune to their cries and screams of anguish.

She stepped over the rotting corpse of what had once been a human being.  She felt its death in passing, saw the virus that had infected every weak cell of its body, ravaging their fragile structures, destroying the ability to produce the inadequate little motes that defended it from disease.  It was an elegant little plague when one thought of it, a Trojan Horse, of sorts…  Alas, sweet Achilles, why did you try to save her?  She was doomed and you knew it!  Why?  Why… invading by stealth and destroying the body’s pathetic defensive mechanism.  It killed them by the millions, more than had the Black Plague, more than their machines of war, more than hate and prejudice and slavery…

But it would not kill them all.

There were too many, and they lived such short, furious lives and bred so frantically and wantonly.  Like rats, sometimes she thought…  But there was love in them, which made them redeemable, even if only in her eyes.

There were others who were not redeemable, not in anyone’s eyes; even their own.  They were the ones who brought the plagues, the ones who sowed sickness and despair into the human race.  Why, she had never known, for even they did not wish to exterminate humanity.  They seemed to relish in misery, to revel in the pain of others.  She wondered sometimes if they were like she, able to feel the anguish, the agony, and reveled in it instead of being revolted, as she.  All she truly knew of them was that they had very nearly exterminated her kind, and that they would not rest until this task was complete.

The wide street loomed before her, wet from rain that could never wash it clean, putrid steam rising from the sewer gratings to invade her senses with rot and decay that could never touch her.  She felt it, smelled it, tasted the bitter tang of it on her tongue.

She stepped out onto the broad stone path and turned, knowing there was something in the shadows watching her, but also knowing it was not one of them.  She could not read its intentions or thoughts without exerting far too much effort to make it worth her while, so she simply ignored the man.  Her steps did not falter as she passed his hiding place.  He was young, and he had a knife or a small sword; she could smell the honed steel, the sweet tang of metal in the air.  Then she smelt the acrid tang of a gun, and her interest was piqued.  The man was not alone.

She frowned in annoyance.

When the toe of her boot was two steps from the second one’s hiding place, he stepped out in front of her.  Rain plastered stringy hair to his gaunt features, and there was hunger and desperation in his eyes.  The gun was small and ugly, and was pointed only vaguely in her direction.  She saw the tremor in it, felt the chill or infirmity or weakness that would kill him in less then a year, and had pity for him.

She stopped.

“Yer money, bitch.  All’vit.  Now!”

“No,” she said with an utter lack of emotion.  She could feel his confusion, his fear.

“I’ll put a slug’n yer gut, I swear’t!”

“No, you will not,” she said, feeling the larger youth move up behind her.

The knife stroke was well timed, but one does not live ten millennia without learning a thing or two about survival.  She had learned from the best that humanity could offer.  Arigato, Musashi~san.   She pirouetted around the attack that would have put four inches of steel into her back, and snatched the wrist of the blade hand.  Using her attacker’s momentum, she brought the arm up and over the man’s own shoulder until his wrist was pinned behind his neck.  A quick jerk popped his shoulder out of the socket, and her thumbnail in the nerve plexus at the base of the wrist sent the knife clattering to the concrete.

The gun cracked, dull and deafening, shattering raindrops into mist and smashing flesh and bone into pulp.

She felt the shock of it through the man’s body.  Her move had placed him between her and the shooter.  He exhaled wetly as he collapsed.  She had not intended to kill either of them, but now a groaning body lay at her feet and the boy with the gun was staring at the crumpled form in astonishment.

She reached out and took the ugly little revolver from his numb fingers, her motions too quick for his shock-addled senses to follow.

He stared at her in horror, rain dripping from the hook of his pocked nose.  “Wha’…  Wha’ are you?”

“Old,” she answered in a voice that held all the knowledge and grief of one who was truly ancient.  “I am older than you can imagine, boy.”  She tossed the gun into the refuse and said, “You should pick your prey more carefully, lest you become prey yourself.”

She stepped past him and walked on without looking back.  She heard him kneel next to his companion.  The man might live, but it wouldn’t matter.  What were a few more years but strokes of a hummingbird’s wings to her?  What would any of it matter?

She glanced at a street sign and knew instantly where she was.  She had watched cities rise and fall, and could have found her way down the streets of Pompeii as easily as those of London.  She’d seen decay overtake such monumental metropolises as Manhattan, Chicago and Tokyo.  Cincinnati was not likely to bring her any surprises.

She crossed the street at a walk and traversed the next block through another alley.  Then she turned right and entered a shallow alcove.  She pressed her thumb to a reader with a golden letter “S” emblazoned above the pad, and a keypad rotated out from a featureless panel.  She tapped in a code, and waited.

“Reservations?” the mechanical voice asked.

“No.”

“Single?”

“Yes, with a bath tub.”  Just because she could not be soiled by the filth of ten billion human animals, did not mean that she didn’t like to relax in a tub occasionally.

“Two, point four one kay.  Will that be credit, debit or PFT?”

“Cash.”

“This terminal is not equipped to accept notes of any denomination.  Please enter and see the manager for assistance.  Thank you, and have a pleasant day.”

“No, I won’t.”

The magnetically sealed door popped open, and she entered.  It was thick enough to stop an anti-tank round, which was a ridiculous measure of security, since the wall surrounding it would not even have stopped an armor-piercing round from a high-powered rifle.

She entered.

The light of the broad Securotell atrium washed over her in a stab of golden brilliance; her irises contracted in a heartbeat, eyes flicking around the white marble tile atrium as a matter of habit, checking for threats.  Of course there were none, unless you counted the two heavily armed guards flanking the detector grid, but she knew they were there for her protection.

The thought brought a smile to her lips.

She approached the grid.  The slim brunette attendant seated at the display smiled and said, “Please place any weapons, ammunition, explosives, and personal electronic devices in one of the bins.”

“Of course.”

This was the one part she always hated, though a necessity.  Even she occasionally needed a good night’s sleep, and security here was tight enough to allow her that.  To sleep soundly, she had to respect their rules.

She removed the Glock-30 from the small of her back, thumbed the clip out and jacked the round out of the chamber.  She laid the pistol in the bin.  Five magazines clattered after it, two painted red and two green, and the two small concussion grenades that she kept for quick escapes.  She then removed two long fighting knives from the sheaths sewn into the lining of her duster and the two stilettos from her boots, laying them carefully inside.  The last thing she placed in the tray was the long black scabbarded length of the blade she had been given by Miyamoto Musashi.  It was priceless, and very dear to her; placing it in the tray with her other weapons was physically painful.

She watched the girl at the scanner and smiled thinly.  “The sword holds sentimental value for me.  I will take it very personally if it is damaged or goes missing.”

“All weapons will remain untouched by human hands, Miss.  They will be returned to you when you check out.”  She watched as the bin was locked, moved by conveyor to a steel row of lockers in the wall behind the woman and placed inside one.

“Good.”  She placed her PDA in the next bin and walked through the detector.  It beeped.

“If you would please step over here, Miss?”

“Certainly.”  One of the inspectors retrieved a hand scanner from a table.

“Are you carrying any metallic items?”

“Yes,” she said easily

“Would you please place them in the tray?”

“Of course.”  She withdrew the heavy belt from her waist and laid it in the tray.  To the man’s credit, he didn’t even ask what was in it.  She also placed a magnetic key card on an old fashioned rabbit’s foot key chain on the tray.  That did raise an eyebrow, but he didn’t say a word.

“Is that all?”

“Yes.”

He passed the hand scanner over her once more and nodded.  “Would you please open the belt?”

“Certainly.”  She unzipped the outer case, folding it out for him to see the two rows of slim 100gram platinum bars, all stamped with the Swiss National Bank seal, and individual serial numbers.

“You may take it and your key back, Miss.  Thank you,” he said, taking a step back and waving her on to the wide marble front desk and the smiling manager behind it.

She thanked him and removed one of the slim bars from the belt before fastening it back around her waist.  She approached the wide counter, admiring the polished stone.  It looked real.  She knew better.

“Nice to have you back, Miss.”  The manager had never set eyes on her before, but the courtesy was appreciated.  “Will there be any additional preferences other than the bath?  Massage, food or some other entertainment?”

“Just the bath for now, please,” she said, ignoring the tone of his last word, which obviously meant that ‘entertainment’ included a whore of either or both sexes.  “I’ll call down for dinner later.”

“Very good.  Payment for the room must be in advance, I’m afraid, but I will open an account for the rest of your bill.”

“Fine.”  She dropped the bar of platinum on the counter.  “Please put the balance on my account.”

“Of course.”  He took the bar and ran it through a scanner, smiled and snapped his fingers.  A bellboy appeared as if by magic.  “Jimmy here will show you to your room.  The door has been keyed to your thumbprint.”

“Do you have bags outside, Miss?” the young man asked.  He smiled at her, and she had to grit her teeth to keep her face from betraying her anguish.  She felt his pain like a wall of thorns surrounding him.  He was being horribly abused by someone, and the shame in him was almost as overwhelming as the pain.  The stoicism of his casual demeanor impressed her.

“No bags.”  She nodded for him to show her the way, though she could have found the room easily enough on her own if they’d just told her the number.  Well, appearances must be maintained, she supposed. 

“This way, please.”

She followed him to the elevator, and stood in comfortable silence while he fidgeted up seven floors.  The rooms did not have numbers, she discovered, which was a change since the last time she’d been here. 

Jimmy waved at the door and said, “Here we are, Miss.”

She thumbed the lock and the door beeped softly.  She pushed it open and said, “Thank you, James.”

“Will there be anything else?”

“Yes, actually.”  She produced a banknote from her pocket and pressed it into his palm.  “Bring me something to drink in about an hour.  Something cold.  Whatever you like.”

“Wine, or…” his eyes widened as he saw the denomination of the note in his hand.  “Champagne?”

“Do you like Champagne?”

“Uh, no Miss.”

“What do you like?”

“To drink?  Uh.  I like Zappacola, but I don’t think--”

“That will do nicely, James.  One hour.  No sooner.”  She smiled as the closing door obliterated his astonished features.

“Lights, medium,” she said, and the small but elegant suite was instantly illuminated in soft yellow light.  “Draw a bath.  Hot.”  She heard the water start running in the bathroom and sighed, shrugging out of her duster.

The coat weighed a ton, it seemed, and her legs felt immediately springy with its weight divested.  She hung it in the closet by the door, removing the slim polycarbonate blades that were secreted in the Kevlar liner.  There were a number of other hidden items, but these she would keep close at hand.  She placed them and her money belt on the wide table beside the window, sat, and began unbuckling her boots.

Five minutes later she let the scalding water of the bath envelop her, the fragrant scents of expensive oils and salts overwhelming her senses, washing away the stench of the world from her mind.

Memories of a hundred thousand faces, friends, lovers, enemies, and strangers, sifted through her mind as the water infused heat through her sinews.  She let them come and go, wondering why she remembered them all, how she could recall every human she’d ever known, yet had no recollection of the being who bore her.

Why am I? she thought, for perhaps the millionth time in her existence.  She had met others of her kind, many in her earlier centuries, but their number had dwindled.  She had not met another in a century.  The number of them never seemed to lessen, however.  Now, with enemies outnumbering friends, and indistinguishable from the endless mass of humanity, she was alone; the last of her kind.

Perhaps…

The door chime brought her surging up from the tepid water, reaching for the blades she’d placed on the tub’s rim.  Two steps and she stood with back pressed against the bathroom door, dripping and listening.  Surely it hadn’t been an hour.  But the steaming water was now only warm, and her skin was pale and wrinkled.

She edged through the door and checked the clock beside the table.  An hour and five minutes had passed.

“I must be getting old,” she muttered beneath her breath.  She stashed the blades out of sight and slipped into the thick robe provided by Securotell as she checked the video pickup.  Jimmy stood outside the door with an ice bucket in one hand, fidgeting from one foot to the other.  The poor boy; he probably thought she was going to seduce him.  Well, he was in for a surprise.

She cinched the robe tightly and moved to the door.

“Your timing is very precise, James.  Please, place the drinks on the table.”  She smiled through the wave of pain that passed through her as walked by.

“Yes, Miss.”  He put the heavily iced bucket on the table and said, “Is that all, Miss?”

“No, actually.  I’d like to talk to you for a few minutes, if you would allow it.”  She moved to the bar and put ice into two glasses, trying very hard not to smile at his discomfort.  “No obligation, of course.  You may leave, if you wish.”

“Wha…  What would you like to talk about?”

“I’ve not been in the city for years, and I’d like the local news from someone who isn’t trying to sell me something.”  Why she really wanted to talk to him he would discover shortly, but news would be welcome.  “That, and I just like to talk to people.”  She nodded toward one of the chairs.  “Just talk.”

“Oh, uh, sure.”  He sat and waited, fidgeting again as she opened one of the sodas and poured two glasses full.  “Not much to tell, really.”  He sipped nervously as she sat.  “Things keep getting worse, now that NAFAS runs everything.  Hard to make a living, which is why I work here.  My mom doesn’t make much, and I’ve got two sisters.”

“Do they pay you well?”

“Oh, not bad.  I uh – Oh, God, I almost forgot your change!  I’m sorry.”  He pulled a sheaf of small bills from his pocket and thrust it at her, but she was already smiling and pushing it away.

“No, James.  You keep it.  Think of it as a--”  Her palm brushed his fingers and she got it all in one furious rush…

A girl’s face, her lips on his, then his neck, then everywhere…  a scream… an older woman, crying… the young girl laughing…  words… tears… anger… shame.  The shame…  The lash he kept hidden under his bed, leather braided with wire…

She’d been wrong; he wasn’t being abused.  He was doing it to himself. 

The girl was his sister; she’d been whoring for more than a year, and had laughed at him when he caught her at it.  Then she’d shown him how she could earn more in one hour than he could in a week as a bell boy…  Their mother had blamed him, or so he thought.  She had not punished him; she’d only cried and cried.  So he punished himself… every day.

Her hand shot out, snatching his wrist hard.  The bills fluttered to the table as he yelped in fright, but couldn’t pull away.  She didn’t think about the futility of what she was about to do, she just did it.  She had to do it.

“James!  Look at me.”

“Let me go!” he cried, for he felt something as well, more than her hard grip; he felt the power in her pulling him in.

“Look at me!”

He could not resist.  His eyes met hers and locked, and she bore down into him, firmly, but gently, soothing, calming…  There…  There was the center of it, a ball of self-loathing so putrid as to make her want to retch.  How could anyone live with that festering inside them?  And she realized that no one could, which was why James was slowly beating himself to death.  The physical pain was his only release, his only way of dealing with what he thought he had become.

She eased herself around it, encompassing all the horrors that filled him, and backed out, taking the entire loathsome mess with her, into her.  She felt it inside her, trying to infect her, but like the viruses that killed these people she loved so deeply, it could not.  It was there, she could feel it, but it would not master her.  And slowly, ever so slowly, she would kill it.  She started to release his wrist, then, almost as an afterthought, took the wounds from his back as well.

She sighed and let him go as the physical pain lanced through her back.

“What the hell?”  James burst to his feet, panting in shock, backing away from her in fear.  “What the hell did you do?”

She smiled through the pain, the shame that was even now waning, and took a deep drink of the sickly sweet soda.  His bewilderment was plain on his face, but there was a lightness there, too.  He knew what had been growing in him, and knew she’d taken it away.  He tried to find it, to recall that pit of self-hatred, but it was gone.  His guilt seemed ridiculous, trivial, pathetic.  He was free.

“Feel better?”

“I--”  he swallowed, stepped forward and drained his glass.  “I feel… good.”

“Good.”  She stood wearily and said, “Now, be a dear and fetch me something from the kitchen, would you?”

“Anything!” he said, a grin splitting his face.  “What do you want?”

“A steak would be good.  Two would be better.  Real steak; medium rare.  And I’ll take you up on the wine.  Have the steward pick out something that will complement the meat.  A Merlot or a Barbera would be nice.”

“Sure.  I’ll bring it right up.”

“Thank you,”

“Are you kidding?”  He laughed, and she thought it the sweetest sound in the world.  “I don’t know what you did to me, Lady, but I owe you, bigtime.  I’ll be right back.”  He grinned again as he let himself out.

Her smile faded as his joy left the room, as pleasant to her as his pain had been abhorrent ten minutes before.  She eased herself up, moving to the bathroom slowly.  The pain was fading, but some cool water would help.  She stepped into the shower and tossed the robe aside, grateful that it wasn’t stained.  She looked at herself in the mirror, pale skin, dark hair and not a scar or blemish, save on her back.  The cuts and welts, formerly James’, were not bleeding, and she was already healing them, but it would take some time before they were gone entirely.

“Why do you do this to yourself, Empa?” she asked with a sigh as she stepped into the shower and let the cool water trickle down the tattered skin of her back.  “It won’t make a difference…”  But she knew the answer: even if it didn’t make a difference, it had been worth it.  If only to hear the boy laugh, it had been worth it.

Morning… She woke feeling better than she had in months.  The combination of the empathic restoration of James, a wonderful dinner and wine, along with a perfect night’s sleep was exactly what she had needed. 

Sometimes, she thought, it’s good to be alive.  She stretched under the crisp sheets, remembering James’ clumsy proposal that he share her bed, but she’d gently refused him.  Not for lack of wanting to, but simply to avoid the attachment.  For an empath, love making was a serious undertaking, for obvious reasons.

No, it was better this way.  She’d been down that path too many times, watched too many lovers grow old and die, or endured the torture of leaving them before that happened, never to look back.

“Drapes open,” she said, and the heavy draperies whisked aside.  The window wasn’t real, of course.  The image was the view from the top of the building projected on a flat screen, but it wasn’t a bad view.  And the sunlight edging under the haze of smog felt real.

“Phone, audio only.  Room service.”

The phone twittered once before a female voice answered, “Yes, Miss?”

“I’d like breakfast.  An omelet, toast, orange juice and coffee please.”

“Ten minutes?”

“Make it fifteen.”

“Very well.”

The line clicked off.

She took a luxuriant five-minute shower, toweled dry, got dressed and even had time to dry her hair before the door chimed.  She checked the video, which showed a girl holding a huge tray, and keyed the door open.

“Put it beside the window, please.”

“Yes, Miss.”  The girl walked past, and the wave of hatred warned her just in time to save her from being riddled with bullets.

The tray flew aside, a short machine pistol with a thick silencer sweeping a spray of hollow-point slugs in an arc that would have cut her in half.  Her twisting roll sent her crashing into the closet.  Two seconds later, she dove out wearing her duster, right through the door as it swung closed.  Another spray of bullets slammed the door behind her, but she was not hit.  She glanced down the long hall in both directions, and realized that she was trapped.  Whichever way she ran, the girl would be out the door in time to shoot her down.  On top of that, her two daggers were still inside the room.

“Crap!” she whispered, scrambling back beside the door to crouch below the video pickup with her back to the wall.  She held her breath and waited.

When the door clicked open, she moved.

As the gun swept up, she was already inside its arc of fire.  She trapped the weapon in the pit of her arm, and lashed out with an elbow.  The blow spattered the girl’s nose across her face, and drove them back inside the room, but this was no girl.  It was one of them, and they were tougher than human beings.  The blow wouldn’t even slow it down, much less stop it.

The gun chattered, chewing holes in the wall across the hall, but the real threat came from the assassin’s other hand.  As Empa forced them back into the room, the girl-thing drew a curved knife and slashed.  She blocked the dagger with her forearm, and the Kevlar kept it from cutting.  She caught the backstroke, trapping the girl’s wrist and lashing out with a heel to trip her opponent.

The two landed heavily, Empa on top, one arm pinned across the girl’s neck, the gun still clamped under her arm.

“Can’t say much for the room service,” she said, her face inches from her opponent’s.

“Join your siblings, Bitch!” the thing spat.

The gun chattered again, sending plaster and drywall clattering down from the ceiling until the weapon clicked empty.

Empa relaxed her grip on the gun and brought her free hand up to the knife.  A twist and the wrist cracked, but the girl-thing’s grip didn’t slacken.  The butt of the gun cracked against her head, but there was little force in the blow.  A short blow to her opponent’s elbow bent the joint backward with a sound like a drumstick popping free from an overcooked chicken.  This brought the blade right down into the thing’s chest.

Empa rolled off and dashed to recover her blades and money belt.  When she turned, she realized that she’d missed.  The girl was standing up, the knife protruding from just to the right of her sternum.  The blow had not been immediately lethal, which meant the thing would try to kill her until it bled to death.  Only a killing blow, head, spine or heart, would stop one of them in its tracks.

The arm that had held the knife hung useless.  The other held the empty machine pistol, which was almost as useless.  While the thing wondered whether to try to reload the gun, or discard it and remove the knife from its chest, Empa solved the conundrum by whipping one of the heavy chairs into its knees.  It folded over nicely, groping for the knife, but Empa stepped on its hand, and brought her two polycarbonate blades across its throat in opposite directions.

It gurgled, convulsed, and finally died.

She flipped the corpse over and retrieved two clips for the machine pistol, reloading quickly.  She fastened her belt, cleaned and sheathed her blades, and cast a glance around the room.  The platter and plates lay scattered, the coffee up-ended on the rug.

“Damn.  A perfectly good breakfast, shot to hell.”

She popped a single round into the girl-thing’s forehead, partly just to make sure, and partly to vent her anger at missing breakfast.

“Now I have to eat at a damned Waffle House!”  She popped another round home and strode from the room, tucking the pistol under her duster.  What really had her angry was that she’d been tracked, and what she really wanted to know, was how.

At the front desk, Empa rang the bell for attention.  She thought about just checking out, but leaving a dead girl in her room without an explanation would damage her reputation with the Securotell.  She needed such havens, even if they proved less secure than she thought, and she knew that in situations like this, the best defense was a strong offense.

The desk clerk arrived and said “Checking out, Miss?”

“One of your wait staff just tried to kill me.  I’d like a refund.”

“Wa… wa…  One of our wait staff did what?”  The man’s eyes were so wide she thought they might pop out, but at least his astonishment was honest.

“One of your wait staff, a girl, brought me breakfast, and then tried to shoot me,” she pulled the machine pistol from under her duster and put it on the counter, “with this.  I’m afraid there was some damage to one of the walls and the ceiling.”  He just gaped at her, then at the gun, then back at her, but she heard the security guards moving to flank her.  She moved her hands away from the gun.  “Oh, and there’s quite a mess on the carpet, but the stains might wash out.”

“Where is she?”

“She is still in the room,” she said, then added, “staining your carpet.”

“Security detachment to room seven-oh-two,” the clerk said into a microphone on his lapel.

“And my refund?”

“We’ll have to confirm this, Miss, and the authorities will have to be notified.  I’m sorry, but you will have to answer some questions, at least.”

“No, I won’t,” she said with a tight smile.  “Your company guarantees anonymity to its patrons if anonymity is requested.  My personal safety has been threatened, my room shot up, and my breakfast ruined.  I will not relinquish my anonymity as well.”

“But the authorities--”

“Will not be brought into this.”  She took a half step back from the desk, just to put the nervous guards at ease.  “I might add that the threat on my life was no random act of violence, but directed specifically at me.  Someone has broken your security.  It would be a shame if your clients discovered Securotell to be insecure.”  She’d thought about that in the elevator on the way down; it was the only thing that made sense.  They must have hacked the company’s thumbprint scanning system.

“I don’t believe--”  His lapel beeped softly, and he pressed a finger to his ear, activating his communications implant.  “One moment please.”  He listened, and his eyes became very wide again.  He nodded several times before saying, “Very well.  Call a disposal team.  Move all the other guests off of eight.”  His eyes focused back on Empa.

“Authorities?” she asked.

“No, Miss.  We will keep your identity out of this.”  Well, they didn’t really have her identity, but they had an identity that could be traced to her.

“And my refund?”

“Shortly, Miss.  I’ll have to get a manager.”

“Soon would be good.”  She turned to one of the security guards.  “Would you please have the technician pull my lockers.  I’ll be leaving soon.”

“Yes, Miss.”  The man turned and spoke to the attendant.

“Thank you,” she said to him, meaning it.  She really wanted her weapons back.  She stood waiting while the clerk summoned his boss, wondering why ten thousand years had not taught her patience in situations like this.  Then she realized that it had.  She was feeling rushed, as if she were late for something, but why?  She had no idea.  But she had also learned to trust her intuition.

“It will be one moment, Miss, while we draw the funds.”

“Would it be faster to simply credit my account?”

“Why yes,” the manager said with a smile that stated the company would be more than happy to draw interest on her money until she chose to stay with them again.  “We can do that right away.”

“Good.  I’ll be leaving now.”  She had no idea why she was feeling as if she should hurry, but it was unmistakable

“Thank you for--”

The clerk’s eyes grew suddenly very wide again, but then, so did Empa’s.  A truck driving in through the front of a building is a legitimate cause for surprise.

The armored door and much of the wall surrounding it exploded inward, steel and masonry ripping through the atrium and the security station.  The attendant had just placed Empa’s locked bins on her table.  She barely had time to look up and scream before she was flung aside like a rag-doll, half buried under bricks, concrete and twisted rebar.  One of the two guards was knocked down by flying debris, but the other remained on his feet, and he emptied a full magazine into the front of the truck even before it stopped.  His reflexes were good, but he may as well have been using a water pistol against the armored vehicle.

The truck was nothing short of massive; a fully armored urban assault vehicle painted in the black and gold of the NAFAS Security Force.  The spray of slugs from the security man’s rifle did far less damage than the armored door and the reinforced concrete wall, and those had only dented the grille and ripped off the side mirrors.

Empa was over the counter with the assassin’s machine pistol in her hand before the spray of debris hit.  The manager and clerk ducked reflexively, but the former stood back up, even before the security man’s rifle stopped chattering.  He shouted something that Empa didn’t bother hearing, then fell, riddled with bullets as four doors opened and as many automatic weapons opened up.  She heard the dull thud as the security guard who was firing at the vehicle went down.  More rifle chatter came from the direction of the security man who had been knocked down by debris.  As she risked a quick glance, she saw that two of the attackers had left the vehicle to gain better firing positions on the remaining guard.

Empa braced the gun over the counter and emptied the clip at the two men.  Even at this short range, the machine pistol was about as accurate as throwing a rock, but a wide enough spray ought to hit something.  She ducked back before she saw much effect, but one attacker crumpled from a leg wound.  Puffs of dust from their torsos, but no blood, told her they wore body armor.  Crouching under the hail of fire that chewed away the false marble facing of the armor-plated desk, she jacked her last clip into the weapon and skittered sideways to the end of the long counter.  She risked another peek, but they were watching for her, and the three who were standing fired immediately.  A shower of shattered rock and plaster lanced across her face, stinging like a whip.  The cuts weren’t deep, but her hand came away bloody when she touched them.

Her quick glance told her three of the enemy, including the one she’d shot in the leg, were standing, and both of the security men’s guns had gone silent.  One enemy lay with a pool of blood encircling his helmet.  One of the dead security guards had evened the odds a bit, but not enough.

“Not good,” she muttered, looking around for something, anything to help her survive.  Behind the counter there was only the dead manager, the terrified clerk and the typical array of computer and communications gear used to run a hotel.

Communications! She thought triumphantly.  She crabbed over to where the clerk hunkered and said “Call for help, for Christ’s sake!”  Poor, poor prophet of Nazareth; go not to Jerusalem… She banished the memory and said, “Call in your security team!”

He touched his collar and started shouting for help, which drew the attackers right to them.  But there was no way to reach them except over the counter.

She heard a boot crunch broken plaster, and fired a burst blindly over the top of the counter.  She took three crouching steps before she heard the clerk scream.  One of the attackers had rolled over the counter and stood between them, but his helmet and visor had blocked Empa from view; he only saw the clerk.  She fired at the same time he did.  Her burst took him at the base of the neck, just below the rim of his helmet.  He pitched forward on top of the man he’d just killed.

“Who’s next?” she shouted, dropping the empty machine pistol and pulling the dead man’s side arm.  His rifle was pinned beneath him, and she didn’t have time to get it.  She crept toward the far end of the counter, crouched and waited, knowing they would both come over at the same time.  Or they would throw a grenade, which would be a very bad thing.

A shout, and an immediate hail of fire not directed at her, caught her by surprise.  The security team must have arrived.  She peeked up and, seeing the two assassins occupied, rolled over the shattered counter.  Bullets were flying in both directions, the security team pinned down in one of the elevators, the two assassins firing from cover.

There was daylight beyond the battered vehicle and the wreckage of the security station, but she wouldn’t leave quite yet.  The two bins on the table when it had been transformed into a pile of twisted metal had been thrown in opposite directions.  One was under a good amount of concrete and steel, and one lay against the wall, dented but in one piece.  She crouched next to the latter, wondering if her luck was going to change; she had a 50:50 chance of finding a smashed PDA inside.

“Lucky, lucky…”  She put the muzzle of her stolen pistol against the lock, waited until there was a pulse of gunfire from the automatic weapons, and fired.

The lock fell open, and she almost whooped with glee with her first glimpse inside.

She snatched the sword out first, stowed it in her duster, retrieved and loaded the Glock with a green-painted clip, then took the time to take her other knives.  The concussion grenades came last, but only one went into a pocket.  The pin of the second fell back to the debris-littered floor.  The nearest assassin was crouched behind a piece of fallen table about twenty feet away, his concentration fully upon the one remaining security guard.

She rolled the grenade carefully.  It bumped gently against his knee.  He had time to look down, but that was all.

The grenade was for concussion only, made to disable a group in a confined space, but from so close, the results were devastating.  Suffice it to say, Empa felt safe in not making sure the thing was dead, which was good, because she really didn’t have the time to spare.  She was too busy finding cover from the hail of bullets from the last assassin’s gun.  When the hail stopped, she was up and running, firing as she ran.  The armor-piercing slugs from the Glock peeled huge chunks of concrete from the pillar the man was hiding behind, forcing him to keep his head down or lose it.  The assassin was so concerned with her fire, that he forgot the last of the security men.  Moving around the pillar had placed him in full view of his former adversary, and the careful burst of fire from the elevator sent him sprawling.

Empa didn’t wait to see if he was alive, but sprinted around the huge truck toward daylight.

The heavy armored door of the truck was flung open right in her face.  The impact sounded like a baseball being hit out of the park.  She hadn’t thought there might be another assassin inside.

She was on her back, and didn’t remember for a moment how she got there or where she was, only that her head hurt, and her ears rang.  Then a pair of legs clad in olive drab fatigues stepped from the open door of the truck and stood one to either side of her chest.  Her vision cleared just enough for her to make out the pistol in the thing’s hand.

She tried to raise the Glock, but his boot came down on her wrist, grinding her flesh into the fragments of concrete littering the floor.  She gritted her teeth, which made her head hurt worse, and reached for a knife.  The pistol barked, and she felt her elbow explode into shattered bone.

It was playing with her.

She squinted up at it, grimacing against the agony.  Not into darkness without one to send me there, she thought.

“Your time is ended, empath,” her assailant said, aiming the gun at her forehead.  “You serve no further purpose.”

“Don’t I?” she asked, driving a kick into the small of its back.  The gun went off, but the bullet missed her, sending concrete fragments scything into her scalp.  He fell to his knees, straddling her chest, his fist grasping a handful of her bloody hair.

“No… you… don’t!” he shouted down at her, punctuating each word by slamming her head against the floor.

Her head swam with pain, but she felt the warm barrel press against her forehead.

The shot was deafening, but different, and she didn’t feel dead.  There would have probably been less pain if she were dead.  Something heavy was lifted from her, and she could breathe again.  Then a hand grabbed her broken arm, and she knew for certain that she was alive.

She brought the Glock up, but held her fire as her eyes cleared and beheld the pock-marked face of the boy from the previous night.  The one who had tried to rob her.

“You needs ta giddup,” he said, looking into the gun without apparent fear.  “T’uther ‘un might still be kickin’.

“Who?”  She hissed against the pain as he pulled her up to a sitting position.  “Why did you…”  She looked over her shoulder at the thing that would have killed her.  The back of his head was blown away.  The boy had retrieved the ugly little revolver she’d thrown away, lucky for her.

“Come on.  I got a hidey hole near ‘nuf.  You come on.  I’ll ge’cha fixed gooder’n new.”

“But why?  Why did you do that?  Why did you save my life?”

“Dunno.”  He pulled her to her feet, and out onto the street.  Distant sirens sang in the air.  “Sometimes ya jist do stuff, ya know.  Felt raat, so I did it.  Come on.”

“Yes, I do know.”  She tucked the Glock out of sight and put her bloody hand on his shoulder, feeling exactly why he had saved her.  “And thank you, Gippy.  You’re a good boy.”

“Na-aint.  Jist felt like do’nit, sawl.  Now come on, fore the Naffies get here.”

“All right.  I’m coming.”  And she followed, wondering where her savior would take her.