Stefan was not happy with the situation. “The Parasites can be wrong. We could be wasting this entire night.”
“There were too many, Stefan,” responded Mona. “One could be a mistake, but the creatures were waiting for a major disaster. Miguel said the Sweethearts were bringing out the Myishi Z-twelve tonight. They’re bound to win, and the other gangs are going to go ballistic.”
Stefan shrugged. “The gangs are always going ballistic.”
Mona’s eyes flashed. “Those guys were my family for a long time, Stefan. You have to look out for your family, you should understand that.”
“Okay,” said Stefan grudgingly. “We tail them for a couple of hours, but then we’re back on the computer.”
“Thanks, Stefan.”
Ditto turned away from the window. “All right, everybody. We’re on.”
The Sweethearts were leaving the police station’s underground parking lot in a parade of souped-up Kroms, led by Miguel in a heavily camouflaged Myishi Z-twelve.
“There she is,” said Mona. “The price of my freedom.”
Cosmo rubbed a peephole through the dirty window. “It doesn’t look like much.”
Mona started the Pigmobile’s engine. It was surprisingly quiet in spite of its size. “That’s the clever part. If the Sweethearts arrived with the Myishi Z-twelve, nobody would bet against them. This way, they stand to make more money.” She pulled onto the road, staying well behind the Sweetheart convoy. “You never did tell me the story of how you got that car, Stefan.”
Stefan grinned. “I liberated it from the Myishi experimental division. They were testing a couple and one didn’t make the curve. Ran straight into a fuel dump. I followed a swarm of Parasites into the facility and started blasting. The lawyers got a bit close to me, so I took the other car. That thing’s amazing, years ahead of the competition. It’s even got wing slots, if you want to upgrade. It really pained me to part with it.”
Mona thumped him on the chest. A fond gesture for her. “Okay, Stefan. Thank you. How many times do you want me to say it?”
“Another couple of thousand should do it.”
The Sweethearts paraded down the avenue, honking personalized horns to wake up the street. Soon crowds of people were gathered on the balconies, fluttering bandannas. Miguel waved royally out of the window.
Mona hung back in the Pigmobile until they had cleared Red Square. The convoy swung east.
“Okay. East. That’s Bulldog country. They’re racing in the old Krom factory.”
Ditto typed this information into the onboard computer, and in seconds the warehouse server sent back a schematic of the factory. “It’s perfect. If they use the assembly lines, you have two five-mile lanes set above solid asphalt.”
“Access?” asked Stefan.
“Six doors on the ground level, which I presume we won’t be using.”
“Correct.”
“Then I recommend the lines of solar panels on the roof. No doubt the locals have long since made off with the panels, so we should be able to climb into the upper gantry.”
Cosmo groaned. More rooftops. But he didn’t say anything aloud.
Stefan seemed to read his thoughts. “Don’t worry, Cosmo,” he said. “You did well last night. You laid down that bridge like a fireman. Not too bad with the lightning rod either, although you did hit more wall than Parasites.”
“A compliment from Stefan Bashkir?” said Mona, in mock surprise. “You should record that and play it back every night, because you probably won’t get another one.”
Cosmo laughed. But Stefan’s words had meant something to him. For the first time, he felt almost a part of the group.
Mona squeezed the Pigmobile down several narrow alleys, knocking the side mirrors flat to the doors. The Krom factory loomed ahead, orange firelight flickering from empty panels in the roof.
“This must be the place,” said Mona, cutting the engine. She climbed into the back. “There’ll be at least fifty Bulldogs inside. All armed with gunpowder antiques and maybe some shrink-wrappers or Shockers. My guess is that there’s going to be some kind of accident, either that or a gang fight.”
Stefan nodded. “Okay. We don’t get involved until whatever is going to happen happens. Then we take care of our spirit friends.”
Mona didn’t like the plan. “Shouldn’t we try to break the whole thing up? Prevent the disaster?”
“No. We can’t tell the future. Maybe when we try to break things up, we actually cause the disaster.”
It made sense, even if Mona wasn’t happy about it. Stefan put a hand on her shoulder. “Are you okay, Mona? Will you be able to do the job?”
Mona snapped a power cell into her lightning rod. “Don’t worry about me, Stefan. I know what we came here for.”
“Good. We go up the fire escape, through the roof and onto the gantry inside. Stay sharp. The gangs could have grown some brains and posted sentries on the roof.”
Ditto Velcroed a first-aid kit to his chest. “And pigs will fly.”
The alley was so narrow, that they had to disembark from the rear of the Pigmobile, then climb over the roof to reach the Krom fire escape. The sounds of roaring engines and cheering were only slightly dulled by the factory walls. The fire escape’s bottom rung was a meter above Stefan’s reach. Rather than deploy a ladder, he grabbed Ditto by the belt.
“Ready?”
Ditto nodded. “Going up.”
Stefan hefted the tiny boy-man straight up, until he could grab the bottom rung. His weight dragged the fire escape ladder to ground level. They climbed one by one, with Stefan taking up the rear. If anyone was likely to break a rung, it was the tall youth.
The fire escape bore their weight, and minutes later the Supernaturalists were facedown on the gently sloped roof, peering through an empty solar panel frame. Stretched out below them were the cannibalized remains of a megafactory that had once employed more than twenty thousand Satellite City residents.
The raised assembly lanes were bolstered by welded lengths of girder. Builder androids had been stripped of any useful components, and hung limply in their cradles like robot skeletons. Complicated-looking overhead gantries and magnetic monorail systems hung in the air, with hooks, clamps, and lighting rigs draped from them like mechanical jewelry.
The Bulldogs and the Sweethearts were facing off in classic tribal fashion. At least a hundred gang members postured around their vehicles, chests out, chins up, sucking in their guts. The vehicles themselves were the automobile equivelant of peacocks’ tails—huge spoilers inset with digitized graphics, old-fashioned rubber tires and hoods stripped away to reveal throbbing engines. Only the Myishi Z-twelve was unadorned—a panther at rest.
The racing had already begun. Two cars at a time were ramped onto the assembly line, burning down the five-mile strip in an afterburn of gasoline and nitrous. The rules were simple. An electrified gate sat on each lane. When that gate was lifted, the driver put his foot down. Go too late and the race was over; too early, and the gate’s charge would blow car and driver clean off the track. First past the post took the honors, and the winner’s purse.
The Supernaturalists weren’t the only beings in the upper regions. Several dozen Parasites clung spiderlike to the infrastructure, dropping down to suck a few drops of life from any injured drivers. As always, they were oblivious to the group’s attentions.
Cosmo drew his lightning rod.
“Wait,” instructed Stefan. “This is not the main event. You don’t get this many Parasites for a few minor injuries. We have to hold back until something big happens.” Stefan’s fingers were twitching over his own lightning rod. It was obvious that allowing the Parasites to steal even one drop of life essence was killing him. Sometimes leaders have to make tough choices, Cosmo thought.
Ditto studied the altimeter on his watch. “We’re at least two hundred feet off the ground here. If something does happen, I’m not going to be able to help anybody. And the only reason I’m here is to
cure people. You know how I feel about blasting Parasites. So if I’m not allowed to heal, then I may as well go back to the old job. The pay is better and I don’t have to put up with your teenage moods.”
Stefan’s gaze could have drilled holes in titanium. “Ditto. Now is not the time.”
Ditto glared right back. “Not the time? Now we only save lives when you say so? Well, if I had known that, I would have stayed home in our palace and had a few beers.”
Stefan ground his teeth, both in frustration and to stop himself from smiling. “Ditto, one of these days I’m going to sign you up for kindergarten, so help me. Okay, take Mona, get down near ground level. No risks though. These are not the type of people we generally deal with. These are armed killers. If you can help someone, then help them, but my advice is to tranquilize them first. And wear your fuzz plates. You never know.”
Ditto grinned. “Stefan, you’re a sweetheart.” The Bartoli baby trotted down a connecting stairwell, surefooted as a goat. Mona ran after him, swearing in Spanish. They made their way across pipes and down rails until they straddled a cable conduit directly above the assembly line. In the event of a disaster, it would be a simple matter to lay down a bridge to ground level.
Stefan followed their progress through field glasses. “They’re safe.”
Cosmo lay beside him on the gantry. “Shouldn’t we go down with her . . . them?”
Stefan kept his eyes on the scene below. “A bit of advice, Cosmo. Don’t get too attached to Mona. She is the best Spotter I’ve ever seen, but some day she’ll move on. And to answer your question, we can cover them from here. If they get in trouble we can create a diversion, draw fire away.”
Cosmo sighed. Drawing fire sounded even more dangerous than everything else they had done so far.
Stefan misinterpreted the sigh. “Don’t worry about it, kid,” he said, rapping Cosmo playfully on his robotix plate. “I don’t suppose they teach military tactics in Clarissa Frayne.”
The rap reminded Cosmo that parts of his body were not the originals. How much had changed in a week. New knee, new forehead, new friends, new life. Cosmo gazed down at the hundred armed gang members. New life—for how long?
Ditto balanced easily on the cable conduit. He was a natural gymnast in spite of his size. Maybe you got used to your body when it hadn’t changed in decades. “So you like the kid?” he said, in a teasing tone that belied his angelic face. “Your little chico?”
“Yes, sure, I like Cosmo. He’s a good kid. Learns fast.”
Mona lay flat on the conduit, scanning the crowd below her for Miguel. If she had a chance to save anyone, it would be Miguel. He’d taken her in off the street when a couple of his boys had caught her trying a little booshka on a Sweetheart auto. Instead of punishing her, Miguel had put her to work.
Ditto chuckled. “He’s a good kid? Come on, Vasquez, it’s me you’re talking to. You’ve been marginally less grumpy since he got here.”
“Company, okay? It’s nice to have someone my own age around Abracadabra Street.”
Ditto kept on needling. “It’s not as if he’s handsome. No hair yet to speak of, and that forehead looks like he’s got a porcupine hiding under there.”
“Well, at least he’s tall,” said Mona pointedly.
“Look who’s getting protective? Do I sense a crack in the Vasquez armor?”
Mona would never admit it to the Bartoli baby, but in a way he was right. The orphan kid was interesting. He had made quite an entrance into their lives as he lay smoking on a rooftop. Then he had gone on to save her life. After that he would have to have the personality of a hungry bear for her not to like him. “He’s just a friend. That’s all. Maybe that concept is too big for you to understand.”
Ditto grinned, delighted that his needling was having an effect. “Oh, big jokes now is it? I may be small, Vasquez, but I have more brains in my undersized head than the rest of the Supernaturalists put together.”
Mona pointed her lightning rod at her pint-sized companion. “Stop annoying me, Ditto. Do you think I wouldn’t gumball you? Is that what you think? Because if it is, you’d be mistaken.”
Ditto raised his palms. “Threats of violence? I didn’t realize how serious this had become. So quick too: who would have guessed it?” He paused, smiling genuinely. “Seriously, though. He’s okay, that Cosmo kid. I’m glad you found a friend.”
Mona tutted. “You make him sound like a puppy.”
“I’m trying to be serious. You’re young, Mona. A teenager. You need somebody to talk to. I may not look it, but I’m too old. And Stefan—well, most of the time he’s not in the mood for talking.”
Ditto’s phone vibrated in his pocket. “Text from above,” he said, reading the screen. “ ‘What are you two playing at? Keep your mouths shut and your eyes open.’” The Bartoli baby waved in Stefan’s general direction. “You’d better keep your mind on the job, Mona, or I may have to pull rank.”
Mona grinned. “You know something. If you weren’t three feet high . . .”
“Three feet two,” said Ditto, pouting.
On the factory floor beneath them, things were heating up. The minor races had been run, and now the prized cars were being ramped onto the assembly line. The Bulldogs were gathered around a six-wheel charger, hooting and loosing Shocker charges into the air. The charger had wide-profile tires, plasma decals, and twin double exhaust pipes vibrating at its tail. Like the Bulldogs themselves, the car was loud and rippling with muscle. The Bulldogs were obsessed with appearance. The victors in tonight’s drag would probably use their winnings to have some saline muscle sacs inserted under their skin.
The Myishi racer appeared tame in comparison. Its bodywork was retrospectively curved, a single exhaust pipe poked from beneath the rear bumper, and there were only four wheels. Ridiculous. The Bulldogs were not impressed. They howled at the roof, their trademark method of expressing derision.
Mona rolled her eyes. “Bulldogs. Nature’s leftovers.”
Mona was not as calm as she sounded. Whatever was going to happen would happen soon. Death was gathering in the very oxygen. The Parasites could feel it too, and they clustered ever lower on the factory walls.
Ditto’s phone vibrated again. “Another text,” he groaned. “What does Stefan think? I’m his secretary?”
He pulled the phone from his pocket, reading the message. “You’d better read this,” he said in strangled tones.
Mona reached for the phone, keeping one eye on the scene below. The letters stood out black against a green screen.
Pigs have flown, said the text. The Bulldogs posted a sentry. He’s behind you.
Mona heard a power cell charging beside her ear.
Cosmo jumped to his feet. “We have to help them.”
Stefan grabbed him by the lapels, dragging him back down. “Get down, Cosmo, you’re making a nice target of yourself.”
“But they’ll be killed!” protested Cosmo.
Stefan rolled over, clamping a hand on Cosmo’s mouth. “Listen to me carefully, Cosmo. I know what I’m doing. I’ve been doing it for the past three years. You have spent your entire life in an orphanage. All you know about combat missions could be written on Ditto’s underpants. Get the idea?”
Cosmo nodded.
“Good. We watch and see how this develops. Mona and Ditto may have some ideas of their own.”
He removed his hand. Cosmo drew a shaky breath. “What if they shoot them?”
Stefan turned his gaze to the scene below. He was blinking rapidly and his hands were clamped around the walkway bars. He was not as in control as he pretended. “If they shoot them, then they pay.”
Maybe, thought Cosmo. But not as much as we do.
The Bulldog sentry was naked except for black shorts, and his skin was dark. Unnaturally so. Ditto realized after several seconds’ scrutiny that the man’s skin had been almost completely tattooed. Initially he couldn’t see anything in the ink, but then strange hypnotic swirls and patterns s
uggested themselves. “You like it?” asked the sentry. “Full-body coverage with Jamaican hypno-patterns, only $399 in The Ink Blot tattoo parlor. Ask for Sasha.”
“Wow,” said Ditto. The patterns were all over. How had he missed them before?
Mona snapped her fingers before his eyes.
“Don’t look at the ink, estúpido. Hypno-patterns will zone you out.”
“It’s true,” said the sentry. “I had a cab driver once, staring at me in the mirror. Fell asleep at the wheel.” He pointed the nozzle of his weapon at Mona. “Now to business. On your feet. You just have time to make your last appointment.”
Ditto opened his mouth to pass comment, and Mona clamped a hand over it.
“No problem, amigo. Lead the way.”
The tattooed sentry prodded them down a steep stairwell to the factory floor. The other Bulldogs seemed a lot taller up close. They jostled the intruders, brandishing weapons and baying for blood.
Their leader stepped forward. They could tell he was the leader because the words HEAD HONCHO flashed across his bare chest in subcutaneous lighting. “What did we find, Shadow?” he growled, his metallic mohawk quivering on his skull. And Head Honcho actually did growl. He’d probably had surgery on his vocal cords to achieve the effect.
Shadow pushed his prizes into the ring. “Two little rust mites hanging in the rafters.”
Head Honcho sized the intruders up. “Okay. Strap them on the bonnets, they’ll make nice hood ornaments.”
Dozens of hands grabbed the pair, hoisting them roughly overhead.
“Wait,” said Miguel, blocking the Bulldogs’ path. “Nothing gets strapped on my hood, Honcho. This machine is aerodynamic. Bumps like that will mess with the speed. ¿Comprende?”
Mona glared down at him from a sea of arms. “Thanks a bunch, Miguel. And I thought you cared.”
Honcho’s brain gears ground noisily, making the connection. “You know this kid?”