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Desertderp On a far-flung world located on the edges of two stellar empires, a lone spy must find the assassin picking off her partners in espionage.
X-- PREV | FIRST | NEXT --X
Under The Serpent’s Eye, Part 1
By: DankeDonuts
https://www.furaffinity.net/user/dankedonuts/
The neon obelisks of Kuraal City were bright and vibrant enough to paint the sky a uniform indigo above the pale golden halo that surrounded the megalopolis like a second skin. Even into the depths of midnight, there was not a single star to be seen. Every light that cut through the hazy blue-black din had been put there by sapient hands. From the laser-thin spot-beams that drew the eyes of tourists from one high-priced diversion to the next, to the blinking nav-lights of the never-ending flow of repulsor-cars and spacecraft.
If Sophia Wyster could have seen any stars through the ceaseless light pollution, she knew she’d be looking at the Bow-Tie Constellation. Just there to the left, above the Vernax Tower; the biggest skyscraper of the lot, resplendent in its five-spired majesty.
Despite the innocuous name, stars of that constellation were anything but benign. The brighter stars in the design happened to be home-stars of the Serpentine Empire. Which loomed, unseen, over everything on Proteus IV. Eying the planet like a hungry predator, waiting to strike.
Her long brown hair, and long-hemmed silver dress, danced in the upward wind that came from standing atop a sixty-story high perch. The Human sipped another mouthful of her Oonic Juice -- awful stuff, but it kept her alert -- and stepped away from her balcony to retreat into the penthouse proper. She tapped a control to frost the windows behind her, adding further protection from the prying eyes of the city.
The woman’s short stature made the room’s gilded opulence seem all the grander. From the high cream-colored walls to the luxuriously long chaise lounge she lay down upon to reprocess the day’s events. The fancy-dress dinner she’d attended, in pursuit of her role as a trader in precious gemstones formed in the high-pressure atmospheres of gas giants. The secrets she’d gleaned from the conversations to be had there. And, more importantly, secrets she’d learned once she’d slipped away from prying eyes. Nothing particularly crucial to her mission, but it never hurt to stay in practice. Or acquire another ace or two to place up one’s metaphorical sleeve.
Her brown eyes focused intently on the frame of her glasses as she reviewed the holo-clips she’d recorded with them: the Marmoset hosts, the various attendees, and the contents of a particular safe.
A gentle chime sounded from the ceiling: three notes high, two low. The words “Room Service!” came over the intercom.
Sophia set the drink down made her way quickly and carefully to the door. A tap at its center produced a holographic view screen to the outside. There in the hallway, a Corn Snake with scales of white with orange spots stood proudly next to a two-level food cart. Hands folded behind his back.
Sophia could, she knew, be seeing someone who was not there. She flipped the holoscreen up so she could double-check the sight through an old-fashioned peephole. Her glasses were equipped to see past holo-shrouds, and though standing still he was not motionless. She discerned no after-effect of a false image moving to keep up with the rise and fall of his chest as he breathed, the blinking of his eyes, nor the involuntary flickering of his forked tongue.
Still not entirely satisfied, she thumbed the intercom. “You took your time about it,” she said in false impatience.
“Sorry mu’um. Chef had a bit of trouble getting the main course to cooperate.” The day’s correct pass-code.
She tapped control to open the door.
Patrio DelGont stepped gracefully into the room, the claws of his feet barely making any sound atop the thick white carpet. When the last his tail arrived inside the room, he turned to tap the door controls. Closing the two of them in together. He gave a polite bow, and spoke not a word as he lifted the cart’s oblong silver cover. Revealing not only a guided chafing dish and silverware settings, but a decorative element within the cover itself: a trio of nested dishes connected by a cone of blinking red.
Sophia’s appetite died immediately. “Please, to the table.” She waved him over to the dining alcove to serve the meal atop a wide table festooned with a centerpiece of clipped tiger lilies.
Thanks to Patrio’s gadget, whoever might be prying into the conversation via any listening devices she’d managed to miss on her latest sweep would hear a conversation composed of pre-recorded clips edited together to fit the description and service of the meal. A feast of local delicacies including roast agnor-fish, sollagiu bulbs, and a crisp seaweed salad.
The snake’s actual words were of a much different topic. “Agents Primrose and Hyacinth haven’t reported in,” he began.
Sophia’s jaw clenched hard. “So, the Serps are making their move?”
Patrio showed no offence to the slur; he had more personal reason to hate the Empire than most United Earth Colony Intelligence field agents. “If by that you mean that they’ve finally put all the dirt they’ve been digging up on Proteus IV’s various lawmakers to throw the upcoming appeasement talks, no. Agent Orchid is still on point, and hasn’t seen any evidence of that. The Groundskeeper thinks there might be a third player.”
Sophia was already recompiling a mental catalogue of everything in the penthouse. From the stun-beamer she’d hidden under the table to the flash grenades in the crystalline lighting sconce of her bedroom. In anticipation of bugging out. “If I haven't been made already, I should assume I’m about to be.”
“The Groundskeeper agrees. You are to rendezvous with your fellow flowers at Site Epsilon. Assume sites Beta and Zeta have been compromised.” Sophia and her fellow spies had picked out numerous fallback positions in case of this sort of emergency, each one unknown to at least one of them. What a captured agent didn’t know couldn’t be compromised. “Priority mission, find your fellows and end the threat. If need be, you are at leave to evacuate. This should help you out a bit. Don't open it here.” The Snake opened the desert tray, withdrawing from its cover a small package that he handed over. It felt lighter than it looked in the woman’s hand.
“Eat up. You’ll need your strength.” Patrio bowed as a servant should, and headed for the door. “And it’ll give me time to get clear of you before you go.”
“You assume I’m leaving through the door.” Sophia tried cap her joke with a smile. But Agent Hyacinth was a good friend, and she was as angry for them as she was worried for herself.
. . .
From within a cramped and darkened space, a holographic live-feed of the Bellisant Arms Hotel’s security cameras followed a Corn Snake walking down a hallway and into an elevator. The pirated signal occasionally lapsed into a sheet of static. A gloved hand ended the transmission.
. . .
Hungry as she wasn’t, Sophia tore into the meal. Tasting little of it. Concerned far more with the fate of her friends and herself, and the fact that she didn't know when she’d be eating next. Patrio’s ‘little present’ sat atop her lap throughout, and was soon joined by a small pack of leftovers as well as the stun-beamer. All three were carried into the bedroom, where the spy changed into a set of clothes better suited for running for one’s life. Sleek pants, sturdy boots, high-collared long sleeve shirt, and a thigh-length vest. All of them colored some combination of black and grey. All of them embedded in reflective microfibers that would help minimize blaster burns. A color-shifting poncho went over the lot, to hide the shape of her body and grant variable camouflage. Which she offset with a long wig; pale brown and straight. A tap behind the ear activated a short-range holoshroud, hiding her face behind another. Roman nose, almond eyes, thin lips, darker skin. Tailored anonymity.
A good, sturdy set of gloves rounded the ensemble.
Buried among a large collection of shoes, her go-bag. Which already carried a number of useful items; Hand-weapons, credits, false ident-cards, a class-seven lockcracker and more. Into it went the gift and the food. The beamer went into one boot, the grenade from the sconce into a pocket. The bag, she clipped around her waist. She’d been counting the seconds -- ninety-seven of them -- since Patrio walked out, and she knew she couldn't have many left in this place. She left the bedroom for the rooms on the other side of the living area. Collecting a ring of keycoils from a hallway table along the way.
The penthouse’s automated cleaning bot was stationed in a small nook alongside the kitchen pantry. The service duct behind said station was the means through which it received maintenance checks. This would be her way out. She summoned the cleaner with a word. It trundled out on its uniball, blinking obsequiously. A wave of a keycoil -- actually, an electroprobe disguised as a keycoil -- shut it down. Four spindly arms collapse to the floor. “Sorry, botsie. But I can’t have you ratting me out to hotel security.”
She cycled the keyring to the skeleton coil. Red it glowed until the green of unbolting the seams of the back of the nook. Ducking into the hole she made, she crawled through meters of ductwork -- lighting her way with the keyring -- before reaching a maintenance tube that she could stand upright in. ‘All that time I spent poking around where I wasn’t wanted is about to pay off!’
Within moments, she was standing on a mini-lift, headed down to the Maintenance Floor. Shutting down alarms before they could be triggered. Her plan, elegant in its simplicity, was to walk right out of the Hotel’s employee exit. The Hotel staff ident she pulled from a pocket and placed upon her poncho helped fill out the ploy.
The lift tube opened to a grid of railed catwalks that stood a story above a wide service floor. Computer banks and tool stands lined the dark blue walls. Rows of cleaning bots, hologame tables, and the like stood waiting their turn for repair in themed lines. Waiting in silence; the bay was completely devoid of people. And yet, all the lights in the place were on, implying the middle of a work shift.
A frowning Sophia slowly put a hand under her poncho to withdraw a plasmabolter from her bag, larger than the beamer by quite a bit but still a handgun. She reached for the lift control with the other.
A spear of gold light from above and to the left got there first. Blasting the bayside control pad to bits. Sophia ducked and rolled away out of the way of a second shot. Now out on the catwalk, she took off leftward in a crouching run.
“The boss has people searching the whole place for you!” a voice called out, one artificially disguised somehow to hide its gender. “But I knew you’d come to me!” Another bolt just missed her head. A second was fired ahead of her, evaporated half the railway. Cutting off access to the closest stairwell. “It was just a matter of knowing all the escape routes!”
“You missed one!” Sophia fired just to the right of the sniper’s last shot, severing the catwalk in half. Now only supported on one end each, both sides of the catwalk angled down to the lower floor, hard and fast. She slid down and darted over to the nearest repair station. Surrounded by machinery, a gold-plated valet-bot, full-sized and modelled on a Turtle, lay on a diagnostic bed with its chest plate open. Three more -- a Skunk, a Bulldog, a Muskrat -- stood nearby by waiting for their turn. Their digital eyes dark.
Sophia had been offered such a servant by the Arms, and had refused it. Too easily reprogrammed for counter-espionage. And she had enough to deal with already. She leaned out from behind a case of spare arms and fired twice into the ceiling.
. . .
Within the darkened space, there was now a holographic representation of the repair bay, as seen from high above in the rafters. Three stories up or more. The tip of the assassin’s plas-rifle was just visible to the lower left. A bolt from it streaked down to the repair station, destroying the reclining bot in a shower of sparks.
“Target engaged,” reported the assassin, with a filtered voice.
The gloved one waved that transmission to the left. In favor of one of the Corn Snake, who was playing the innocent in the Hotel kitchen. Acquiring the evening’s next mean cart for delivery as though his whole life hadn’t been turned upside down. Or was about to get worse.
The shadowed individual tapped one of the square lights which were arrayed in a row ahead of the tables’ progression grid. It blinked an expectant cyan. “Take him.”
. . .
Light could be as clever a place to hide as the dark.
The ceiling and the rafters crisscrossing it were off-white, a bright contrast to the walls. Not so bright as the lights that dangled from them like weeds. Denying any clear view of whoever might be up there with them. The shadows thrown off by the many lights could just as easily be made by a beam as by a being.
Sophia ran across the repair station and took her next shot. Best guess based on where the enemy was hiding: She hadn't seen any of the shots fired, but she’d heard the taunts. A ball of green light raced towards its target, the far-right corner. A tangle of rods and pipes sparked out of existence.
The yellow reply came from an unexpected location. The middle of the roof, and far closer than she could have guessed. The blast went over her head into the Skunk valet. The heat of its explosion sent her onto her belly. She rolled left, again just in time to avoid being disintegrated by an expertly placed follow-up charge.
She fired back before getting up. Then belly-crawled across a small and exposed walkway to get under a repulsor lounge that was on lifts.
“Like shooting Fish-folk in a kindergarten,” the assassin teased. The voice was the same as before, only it was coming from the wrong part of the roof. Too far to the left and back than anyone could have gotten without making some noise, she knew it. A moment’s thought later, and she was certain on more than a gut level.
‘Shooter isn’t speaking. They’re playing recordings to cover the sound of moving around. Or routing through a speaker-drone.’ The spy was just beginning to put together a counter-strategy when--
Wafoosh! Yellow light bathed the right side of the lounge all too briefly. Her shin protested against residual heat as the lift behind them dissolved. The back half of the lounge fell down, fast and hard, nearly crushing her feet. Willing her way past the shock, Sofia reasoned that the shot had to have come from near the center of the ceiling. Not yet above her, but close.
And if she’d had shot at the source of the sound just a moment sooner, she’d have missed by a mile and exposed herself. ‘And now--’
Another roll, and she was clear of the lounge before the forward half fell. Its corpse made for better defense than robots, though -- by intergalactic treaty, no robots could have armor of any sort -- and she pressed to its back as she looked around. ‘Two shots, then they move.’’
"Nice trick. But not good enough." The voice had gone closer to the large double-doors to the closer end of the bay.
Two shots went into the lounge itself, fired from further back than the last. Better shielded than a bot or computer bank, it absorbed both hits. Heating up hot enough to force Sophia back and away from it. On her way to the next repair block -- stripped-down karaoke machines -- she turned back and stole another look at the rafters. Her mind racing to memorize the details of the maze that was the ceiling. The piping that supplied a skeleton for the lights did not form a perfect grid. Large power conduits and twists of ventilation grating only allowed movement in some any directions from a given point.
‘Based on where you’ve been so far..’ She ducked in among the gutted machinery, aimed and fired. Not to attack her would be assailant, but to cut off one of the escape routes. Just back and right of the center of the room, a four-way cross-beam disintegrated.
"I don't know why you even try." This from near the closer left corner, atop the staircase she would have gone if the catwalk hadn't been cut off. Telling the spy which way the killer was not going.
‘Gotcha!’ Sophia fired at the interaction nearest the double-doors. The sound of metal exploding was drowned out by a surprised shout. A body, bright and long-tailed against the dark wall, fell to the ground. Landing on other side of the holo-tables with a dull thud.
Sophia was up and in them seconds. Blaster held out ahead of her with both hands. She found the rifle first. A long, thin thing painted off-white with streaks of black. Perfect camouflage for where it was being fired from. Evidence of a very thorough plan in the works.
Sophia kicked it aside, and followed the sound of moaning and scraping. She found the assassin over by a hive of half-disassembled cleaner-bots, appropriately enough. Climbing the repair station to get back onto his feet. A Cobra, as told by the writhing hood to either side of their face. He wore a camo suit of off-white and black, just like the gun. His face was painted the same way. Real paint, not some digital illusion. The knife he had drawn was no illusion, either.
She shot the weapon away and charged before he could draw another. "Who sent you? Who do you work for?" she demanded, grabbing them by the collar and throwing them into the bots to motivate some honesty. But he only sneered at her and twitched his jaw. The face-paint was quickly marred by foaming drool, and his eyes turned slack.
“Dammit!” The next assassin could be on their way to her, Sophia knew. Possibly armed with images of her as set by the one she’d just killed. She had mere moments to make the best use of the abandoned battleground that had been left to her. Tempting a prize as the rifle would have been, she couldn't afford to even touch something that might be comm-tracked or booby-trapped. Instead, she ran back what was left of the robo-valets, seeking among their well-doffed remains the means to change up a disguise that had already been compromised.
. . .
Patrio’s lip was bloody and trembling. His chest heaved painfully, gulping air in fits with broken ribs. His feet were dragging along the floor, being carried along as he was by two well-muscled ruffians. He couldn't feel his tail at all.
The grunts delivered him into an unmarked repulsor-van parked in a lot somewhere beneath the Bellisant Arms. Threw him inside. Closed and locked the door behind. There was darkness for a moment. Then two orbs of crackling white.
“So glad you could make time to see me.” Nothing could be seen of this stranger beside their gleaming teeth and long fangs. Which were cast into bright view by the electro-prods waving about in front of them. “Now, let’s discuss Agent Tiger Lily’s cohorts, and where to find them.”
Electric hell plunged directly into Patrio eye’s, and the world went white-hot.
X-- PREV | FIRST | NEXT --X
Desertderp On a far-flung world located on the edges of two stellar empires, a lone spy must find the assassin picking off her partners in espionage.X-- PREV | FIRST | NEXT --X
Under The Serpent’s Eye, Part 1
By: DankeDonuts
https://www.furaffinity.net/user/dankedonuts/
The neon obelisks of Kuraal City were bright and vibrant enough to paint the sky a uniform indigo above the pale golden halo that surrounded the megalopolis like a second skin. Even into the depths of midnight, there was not a single star to be seen. Every light that cut through the hazy blue-black din had been put there by sapient hands. From the laser-thin spot-beams that drew the eyes of tourists from one high-priced diversion to the next, to the blinking nav-lights of the never-ending flow of repulsor-cars and spacecraft.
If Sophia Wyster could have seen any stars through the ceaseless light pollution, she knew she’d be looking at the Bow-Tie Constellation. Just there to the left, above the Vernax Tower; the biggest skyscraper of the lot, resplendent in its five-spired majesty.
Despite the innocuous name, stars of that constellation were anything but benign. The brighter stars in the design happened to be home-stars of the Serpentine Empire. Which loomed, unseen, over everything on Proteus IV. Eying the planet like a hungry predator, waiting to strike.
Her long brown hair, and long-hemmed silver dress, danced in the upward wind that came from standing atop a sixty-story high perch. The Human sipped another mouthful of her Oonic Juice -- awful stuff, but it kept her alert -- and stepped away from her balcony to retreat into the penthouse proper. She tapped a control to frost the windows behind her, adding further protection from the prying eyes of the city.
The woman’s short stature made the room’s gilded opulence seem all the grander. From the high cream-colored walls to the luxuriously long chaise lounge she lay down upon to reprocess the day’s events. The fancy-dress dinner she’d attended, in pursuit of her role as a trader in precious gemstones formed in the high-pressure atmospheres of gas giants. The secrets she’d gleaned from the conversations to be had there. And, more importantly, secrets she’d learned once she’d slipped away from prying eyes. Nothing particularly crucial to her mission, but it never hurt to stay in practice. Or acquire another ace or two to place up one’s metaphorical sleeve.
Her brown eyes focused intently on the frame of her glasses as she reviewed the holo-clips she’d recorded with them: the Marmoset hosts, the various attendees, and the contents of a particular safe.
A gentle chime sounded from the ceiling: three notes high, two low. The words “Room Service!” came over the intercom.
Sophia set the drink down made her way quickly and carefully to the door. A tap at its center produced a holographic view screen to the outside. There in the hallway, a Corn Snake with scales of white with orange spots stood proudly next to a two-level food cart. Hands folded behind his back.
Sophia could, she knew, be seeing someone who was not there. She flipped the holoscreen up so she could double-check the sight through an old-fashioned peephole. Her glasses were equipped to see past holo-shrouds, and though standing still he was not motionless. She discerned no after-effect of a false image moving to keep up with the rise and fall of his chest as he breathed, the blinking of his eyes, nor the involuntary flickering of his forked tongue.
Still not entirely satisfied, she thumbed the intercom. “You took your time about it,” she said in false impatience.
“Sorry mu’um. Chef had a bit of trouble getting the main course to cooperate.” The day’s correct pass-code.
She tapped control to open the door.
Patrio DelGont stepped gracefully into the room, the claws of his feet barely making any sound atop the thick white carpet. When the last his tail arrived inside the room, he turned to tap the door controls. Closing the two of them in together. He gave a polite bow, and spoke not a word as he lifted the cart’s oblong silver cover. Revealing not only a guided chafing dish and silverware settings, but a decorative element within the cover itself: a trio of nested dishes connected by a cone of blinking red.
Sophia’s appetite died immediately. “Please, to the table.” She waved him over to the dining alcove to serve the meal atop a wide table festooned with a centerpiece of clipped tiger lilies.
Thanks to Patrio’s gadget, whoever might be prying into the conversation via any listening devices she’d managed to miss on her latest sweep would hear a conversation composed of pre-recorded clips edited together to fit the description and service of the meal. A feast of local delicacies including roast agnor-fish, sollagiu bulbs, and a crisp seaweed salad.
The snake’s actual words were of a much different topic. “Agents Primrose and Hyacinth haven’t reported in,” he began.
Sophia’s jaw clenched hard. “So, the Serps are making their move?”
Patrio showed no offence to the slur; he had more personal reason to hate the Empire than most United Earth Colony Intelligence field agents. “If by that you mean that they’ve finally put all the dirt they’ve been digging up on Proteus IV’s various lawmakers to throw the upcoming appeasement talks, no. Agent Orchid is still on point, and hasn’t seen any evidence of that. The Groundskeeper thinks there might be a third player.”
Sophia was already recompiling a mental catalogue of everything in the penthouse. From the stun-beamer she’d hidden under the table to the flash grenades in the crystalline lighting sconce of her bedroom. In anticipation of bugging out. “If I haven't been made already, I should assume I’m about to be.”
“The Groundskeeper agrees. You are to rendezvous with your fellow flowers at Site Epsilon. Assume sites Beta and Zeta have been compromised.” Sophia and her fellow spies had picked out numerous fallback positions in case of this sort of emergency, each one unknown to at least one of them. What a captured agent didn’t know couldn’t be compromised. “Priority mission, find your fellows and end the threat. If need be, you are at leave to evacuate. This should help you out a bit. Don't open it here.” The Snake opened the desert tray, withdrawing from its cover a small package that he handed over. It felt lighter than it looked in the woman’s hand.
“Eat up. You’ll need your strength.” Patrio bowed as a servant should, and headed for the door. “And it’ll give me time to get clear of you before you go.”
“You assume I’m leaving through the door.” Sophia tried cap her joke with a smile. But Agent Hyacinth was a good friend, and she was as angry for them as she was worried for herself.
. . .
From within a cramped and darkened space, a holographic live-feed of the Bellisant Arms Hotel’s security cameras followed a Corn Snake walking down a hallway and into an elevator. The pirated signal occasionally lapsed into a sheet of static. A gloved hand ended the transmission.
. . .
Hungry as she wasn’t, Sophia tore into the meal. Tasting little of it. Concerned far more with the fate of her friends and herself, and the fact that she didn't know when she’d be eating next. Patrio’s ‘little present’ sat atop her lap throughout, and was soon joined by a small pack of leftovers as well as the stun-beamer. All three were carried into the bedroom, where the spy changed into a set of clothes better suited for running for one’s life. Sleek pants, sturdy boots, high-collared long sleeve shirt, and a thigh-length vest. All of them colored some combination of black and grey. All of them embedded in reflective microfibers that would help minimize blaster burns. A color-shifting poncho went over the lot, to hide the shape of her body and grant variable camouflage. Which she offset with a long wig; pale brown and straight. A tap behind the ear activated a short-range holoshroud, hiding her face behind another. Roman nose, almond eyes, thin lips, darker skin. Tailored anonymity.
A good, sturdy set of gloves rounded the ensemble.
Buried among a large collection of shoes, her go-bag. Which already carried a number of useful items; Hand-weapons, credits, false ident-cards, a class-seven lockcracker and more. Into it went the gift and the food. The beamer went into one boot, the grenade from the sconce into a pocket. The bag, she clipped around her waist. She’d been counting the seconds -- ninety-seven of them -- since Patrio walked out, and she knew she couldn't have many left in this place. She left the bedroom for the rooms on the other side of the living area. Collecting a ring of keycoils from a hallway table along the way.
The penthouse’s automated cleaning bot was stationed in a small nook alongside the kitchen pantry. The service duct behind said station was the means through which it received maintenance checks. This would be her way out. She summoned the cleaner with a word. It trundled out on its uniball, blinking obsequiously. A wave of a keycoil -- actually, an electroprobe disguised as a keycoil -- shut it down. Four spindly arms collapse to the floor. “Sorry, botsie. But I can’t have you ratting me out to hotel security.”
She cycled the keyring to the skeleton coil. Red it glowed until the green of unbolting the seams of the back of the nook. Ducking into the hole she made, she crawled through meters of ductwork -- lighting her way with the keyring -- before reaching a maintenance tube that she could stand upright in. ‘All that time I spent poking around where I wasn’t wanted is about to pay off!’
Within moments, she was standing on a mini-lift, headed down to the Maintenance Floor. Shutting down alarms before they could be triggered. Her plan, elegant in its simplicity, was to walk right out of the Hotel’s employee exit. The Hotel staff ident she pulled from a pocket and placed upon her poncho helped fill out the ploy.
The lift tube opened to a grid of railed catwalks that stood a story above a wide service floor. Computer banks and tool stands lined the dark blue walls. Rows of cleaning bots, hologame tables, and the like stood waiting their turn for repair in themed lines. Waiting in silence; the bay was completely devoid of people. And yet, all the lights in the place were on, implying the middle of a work shift.
A frowning Sophia slowly put a hand under her poncho to withdraw a plasmabolter from her bag, larger than the beamer by quite a bit but still a handgun. She reached for the lift control with the other.
A spear of gold light from above and to the left got there first. Blasting the bayside control pad to bits. Sophia ducked and rolled away out of the way of a second shot. Now out on the catwalk, she took off leftward in a crouching run.
“The boss has people searching the whole place for you!” a voice called out, one artificially disguised somehow to hide its gender. “But I knew you’d come to me!” Another bolt just missed her head. A second was fired ahead of her, evaporated half the railway. Cutting off access to the closest stairwell. “It was just a matter of knowing all the escape routes!”
“You missed one!” Sophia fired just to the right of the sniper’s last shot, severing the catwalk in half. Now only supported on one end each, both sides of the catwalk angled down to the lower floor, hard and fast. She slid down and darted over to the nearest repair station. Surrounded by machinery, a gold-plated valet-bot, full-sized and modelled on a Turtle, lay on a diagnostic bed with its chest plate open. Three more -- a Skunk, a Bulldog, a Muskrat -- stood nearby by waiting for their turn. Their digital eyes dark.
Sophia had been offered such a servant by the Arms, and had refused it. Too easily reprogrammed for counter-espionage. And she had enough to deal with already. She leaned out from behind a case of spare arms and fired twice into the ceiling.
. . .
Within the darkened space, there was now a holographic representation of the repair bay, as seen from high above in the rafters. Three stories up or more. The tip of the assassin’s plas-rifle was just visible to the lower left. A bolt from it streaked down to the repair station, destroying the reclining bot in a shower of sparks.
“Target engaged,” reported the assassin, with a filtered voice.
The gloved one waved that transmission to the left. In favor of one of the Corn Snake, who was playing the innocent in the Hotel kitchen. Acquiring the evening’s next mean cart for delivery as though his whole life hadn’t been turned upside down. Or was about to get worse.
The shadowed individual tapped one of the square lights which were arrayed in a row ahead of the tables’ progression grid. It blinked an expectant cyan. “Take him.”
. . .
Light could be as clever a place to hide as the dark.
The ceiling and the rafters crisscrossing it were off-white, a bright contrast to the walls. Not so bright as the lights that dangled from them like weeds. Denying any clear view of whoever might be up there with them. The shadows thrown off by the many lights could just as easily be made by a beam as by a being.
Sophia ran across the repair station and took her next shot. Best guess based on where the enemy was hiding: She hadn't seen any of the shots fired, but she’d heard the taunts. A ball of green light raced towards its target, the far-right corner. A tangle of rods and pipes sparked out of existence.
The yellow reply came from an unexpected location. The middle of the roof, and far closer than she could have guessed. The blast went over her head into the Skunk valet. The heat of its explosion sent her onto her belly. She rolled left, again just in time to avoid being disintegrated by an expertly placed follow-up charge.
She fired back before getting up. Then belly-crawled across a small and exposed walkway to get under a repulsor lounge that was on lifts.
“Like shooting Fish-folk in a kindergarten,” the assassin teased. The voice was the same as before, only it was coming from the wrong part of the roof. Too far to the left and back than anyone could have gotten without making some noise, she knew it. A moment’s thought later, and she was certain on more than a gut level.
‘Shooter isn’t speaking. They’re playing recordings to cover the sound of moving around. Or routing through a speaker-drone.’ The spy was just beginning to put together a counter-strategy when--
Wafoosh! Yellow light bathed the right side of the lounge all too briefly. Her shin protested against residual heat as the lift behind them dissolved. The back half of the lounge fell down, fast and hard, nearly crushing her feet. Willing her way past the shock, Sofia reasoned that the shot had to have come from near the center of the ceiling. Not yet above her, but close.
And if she’d had shot at the source of the sound just a moment sooner, she’d have missed by a mile and exposed herself. ‘And now--’
Another roll, and she was clear of the lounge before the forward half fell. Its corpse made for better defense than robots, though -- by intergalactic treaty, no robots could have armor of any sort -- and she pressed to its back as she looked around. ‘Two shots, then they move.’’
"Nice trick. But not good enough." The voice had gone closer to the large double-doors to the closer end of the bay.
Two shots went into the lounge itself, fired from further back than the last. Better shielded than a bot or computer bank, it absorbed both hits. Heating up hot enough to force Sophia back and away from it. On her way to the next repair block -- stripped-down karaoke machines -- she turned back and stole another look at the rafters. Her mind racing to memorize the details of the maze that was the ceiling. The piping that supplied a skeleton for the lights did not form a perfect grid. Large power conduits and twists of ventilation grating only allowed movement in some any directions from a given point.
‘Based on where you’ve been so far..’ She ducked in among the gutted machinery, aimed and fired. Not to attack her would be assailant, but to cut off one of the escape routes. Just back and right of the center of the room, a four-way cross-beam disintegrated.
"I don't know why you even try." This from near the closer left corner, atop the staircase she would have gone if the catwalk hadn't been cut off. Telling the spy which way the killer was not going.
‘Gotcha!’ Sophia fired at the interaction nearest the double-doors. The sound of metal exploding was drowned out by a surprised shout. A body, bright and long-tailed against the dark wall, fell to the ground. Landing on other side of the holo-tables with a dull thud.
Sophia was up and in them seconds. Blaster held out ahead of her with both hands. She found the rifle first. A long, thin thing painted off-white with streaks of black. Perfect camouflage for where it was being fired from. Evidence of a very thorough plan in the works.
Sophia kicked it aside, and followed the sound of moaning and scraping. She found the assassin over by a hive of half-disassembled cleaner-bots, appropriately enough. Climbing the repair station to get back onto his feet. A Cobra, as told by the writhing hood to either side of their face. He wore a camo suit of off-white and black, just like the gun. His face was painted the same way. Real paint, not some digital illusion. The knife he had drawn was no illusion, either.
She shot the weapon away and charged before he could draw another. "Who sent you? Who do you work for?" she demanded, grabbing them by the collar and throwing them into the bots to motivate some honesty. But he only sneered at her and twitched his jaw. The face-paint was quickly marred by foaming drool, and his eyes turned slack.
“Dammit!” The next assassin could be on their way to her, Sophia knew. Possibly armed with images of her as set by the one she’d just killed. She had mere moments to make the best use of the abandoned battleground that had been left to her. Tempting a prize as the rifle would have been, she couldn't afford to even touch something that might be comm-tracked or booby-trapped. Instead, she ran back what was left of the robo-valets, seeking among their well-doffed remains the means to change up a disguise that had already been compromised.
. . .
Patrio’s lip was bloody and trembling. His chest heaved painfully, gulping air in fits with broken ribs. His feet were dragging along the floor, being carried along as he was by two well-muscled ruffians. He couldn't feel his tail at all.
The grunts delivered him into an unmarked repulsor-van parked in a lot somewhere beneath the Bellisant Arms. Threw him inside. Closed and locked the door behind. There was darkness for a moment. Then two orbs of crackling white.
“So glad you could make time to see me.” Nothing could be seen of this stranger beside their gleaming teeth and long fangs. Which were cast into bright view by the electro-prods waving about in front of them. “Now, let’s discuss Agent Tiger Lily’s cohorts, and where to find them.”
Electric hell plunged directly into Patrio eye’s, and the world went white-hot.
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Category Story / All
Species Snake / Serpent
Size 120 x 120px
File Size 165.5 kB
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