Data Streets

The doors to the lounge flew open and a cordon of officers charged in with weapons at the ready. The detective in the lead, Sergeant Nicole Ford, was dressed in futuristic, Soviet regalia, and had a blond ponytail down to her shoulders—identifying her as the waitress from the front of the Alternate Earth. She held a Glock 9mm. pistol in a straight-armed, two-handed grip. "Police!" she roared. "Everybody stay where they are and put their hands on their heads! Now!"

Ignoring the fact that he was surrounded by several, heavily armed police officers in full riot gear, Mohr snapped, "This is a private meeting! Unless you have very stable grounds, I'm going to have quite a few badges for my collection."

"I said put your f—ing hands up!" Once everyone—including Boyle—had complied with her orders, Ford continued. "We all know how this works, gentlemen. Charges have been filed, so we just have to take you downtown and put you in the system. Cooperate, don't pull any shit, and your lawyers can have you home in time for milk and cookies." She nodded to the armored cop beside her. "Scan 'em."

No sooner had the fingers of the cop's scanner reached out for Vachon than the officer received a warning tone in his helmet's right headphone. "Gun," the officer said, then read the data that appeared as blue characters, superimposed over the normal vision in his goggles. "Galil assault carbine. Looks like it might hold spent uranium flechettes."

Pretty serious hardware for a business meeting, Ford thought. Her eyes seemed to turn a paler shade of gray as she faced Vachon and ordered, "Do. Not. Move."

Vachon did not move. He did not need to. As soon as a hand other than his own reached inside his jacket and gripped the butt of his weapon, sensors in the carbine's stock detected the presence of unauthorized DNA and triggered a three second countdown, at the end of which, the entire gun became alive with static electricity generated by the batteries which powered the laser sights. The cop who removed the gun was wearing fingerless gloves, so the brief but powerful charge made contact with his exposed skin and wreaked havoc with his nervous system. Even as the cop fell twitching to the floor, Vachon snatched back his weapon and thumbed the setting to full auto.

Everyone dove, firing his or her weapons on the way down. It was Ford who took the crucial half-second to aim carefully and put three rounds through Vachon's middle. Too low, she thought. The first rule of small arms combat is always aim for the chest—the largest area of the target—and always try for a killing shot. Shooting to wound looked heroic in the vids, but on the street, a wounded skell was a skell who could still shoot back.

The cacophony of gunfire subsided, replaced by a shrill duet: the screaming of one of the suspects along with Ford ordering everyone to shut up. The shooting may have stopped, but the scene was still chaotic enough for Mohr to slip to the back of the room. Evidently, the aquarium that encircled the lounge was only a hologram, because Mohr kicked open a previously hidden door and disappeared into the corridor beyond.

Disregarding his cover, Boyle unholstered the pistol of the nearest officer, then bolted across the room. At that moment, he cared nothing about investigative integrity. Uppermost in Boyle's mind were the words spoken by Mohr just a few minutes earlier: That was Yours Truly in the starring role.

At the run, Boyle thumbed off the weapon's safety, then activated his com circuit and said, "Sergeant Boyle, in foot pursuit of white male suspect, dark jacket and pants, heading east towards rear of building."

A female voice responded inside Boyle's head. "Acknowledged, Sergeant. Sending units to intercept."

The corridor was narrow with doors leading to offices and storage rooms off to either side. Boyle scanned these with thermographic vision, but none of them contained the heat signatures of living bodies. He blinked back to normal vision just in time to see his path partially blocked by a cleaning cart, parked before a door marked STAIRS. Boyle reactivated his thermograph contacts, kicked aside the cart that was blocking the stairs, and saw glowing footprints that were only a few seconds old. He waited until two uniformed officers joined him, then bounded up the steps with his pistol held straight out ahead of him. Once again keying his com circuit to the mobile command post, he said, "Control, this is Boyle. He's heading for the roof. Request—"

"Negative, Sergeant. Discontinue pursuit."

Boyle did not slow his momentum as he continued upwards towards the metal door leading to the roof. There was, however, a note of disbelief in his voice as he said, "Say again, Control?"

"Discontinue pursuit immediately. Repeat: immediately." A pause, then, "Don't be pissed at me, Marty. I don't know what this means, either. All I know is that the order comes down from higher than God, so I can't ignore it. Out."

Suddenly, the loud, screeching engine sound of a VERTL [Vertical Takeoff/Landing craft] began shaking the walls and ceiling. With little else he could do, Boyle pounded his fist against the door with an inarticulate, animal growl. As it turned out, the action was enough to send the door swinging outward with a squeak. He thought, Well, since it's open anyway...

"Don't do it!" said one of the uniforms as Boyle charged out onto the roof.

The stubby, delta-winged VERTL, purple and white in color, now sat idling on the roof with the short stairwell to the passenger section lowered. A figure stooped to enter the flyer as Boyle raised his Glock to line up his sights with the retreating back. "Police! Hold it!"

Boyle did not expect his voice to carry above the whine of aircraft engines; nevertheless, the figure turned around, and Mohr's face stood out against the gloom like a small moon. He said, "Didn't you hear your orders, moron? I'm protected, you can't touch me!"

"Until you're aboard that VERTL, you still belong to Chicago! Now get your hands up and hit your knees!"

"Sorry I can't oblige, but I gotta catch a flight!" Mohr flashed a smile that seemed to glisten with slime. "Still, I'm glad you enjoyed the show—and I know you enjoyed it!" He then pulled at his crotch and winked.

Boyle was aware of the trigger's coolness beneath his index finger, aware of the slight pressure he began to apply against its resistance, and aware of the target at the end of the pistol's twin sights. That was all. This was the full extent of his universe. Therefore, it was like having his private world destroyed by a meteor collision when the all-but-forgotten uniforms came up from behind, knocked his weapon aside, then pinned him back against the stairwell, his shot going wide.

The officers were acting to save Boyle's career, so he could not fault them their intentions. But as Boyle watched the VERTL ascend into the safety of the sky, h