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>From Creatures of Light and Dark:              (R.Z.)



"He was mighty," says Anubis. "Why did you laugh and make as if
 you questioned your name when you fought with him?"

"I do not know. For a moment, when I realized that I could not
 be beaten, I felt as though I were someone else."

"Someone without fear, pity, or remorse?"

"Yes."

"Do you still feel thus?"

"No."

"Then why have you stopped calling me Master?"

"The heat of battle raised emotions which overode me sense of
 protocol."

"Then correct the oversight, immediately."

"Very well, master."

"Apologize. Beg my pardon, most humbly."

 Wakim prostrates himself upon the floor.

"I beg your pardon, Master. Most Humbly."




 





enjoy.











    10

  Fly had sank further down in his seat to escape the thing's 
notice, but he was starting to think that Chris may have been right. 
Spiderbats relish eating flesh, not metal and plastic machines, and 
they would sooner attack an occupied vehicle than an empty one. 
Looking up through the rear view mirror, he could see both of 
them perched on the concrete railing, touching each other with 
black segmented limbs on their black segmented bodies. Even the 
most wretched animals found companionship in their own kind. 

  Fly's hands wrought the shifter's leather grip and he shuddered.
But Fly could tell somehow that these two were here with a 
purpose. Fly was not nearly as stupid as he acted, and tried to look. 
He was fairly observant and had a habit of interpreting and 
cataloguing the little unconscious actions which accompany an 
individual's volition. It was infinitely easier with people of course, 
but spiderbats were not as far off as one would think. They bleated 
when they were mad, and became wary when they were content. 

  Quite natural.

  The only problem was that they never looked at the things 
they were concentrating on. While common bats have a membrane 
in their throats that resonates at an ultra sonic frequency to effect 
sonar, spiderbats constantly emit and receive low levels of Z-ray 
radiation to produce biological radar. They knew the exact location 
of every substantial body within a hundred yards of themselves, 
and did not need to use their vestigial eyes to see any of it. The two 
spiderbats he watched in the rear view mirror knew where he was, 
just as clearly as he knew they were twenty feet behind his car and 
a little to the right. As to why they weren't attacking, Fly had no 
idea. So he just sat lower in the driver's seat, and cocked his cold 
and heavy G79.

  The second they had landed, Chris had abandoned the car, 
commanding Fly to follow him. But he hesitated, thinking they 
would be open targets out there and declined to leave his seat. 

  Peaking over the high dash, Fly scanned the darkness for Chris, 
who should have been making his way to the stairwell. He saw 
nothing but parked cop cars, and a deluge of polluted rain. The 
spiderbats were not darting around, gnawing on light fixtures and 
billboards. They sat expectantly still, and waited for some internal 
clock to tell them it was time. Fly was getting more anxious by the 
second.

  Looking at the dark steering wheel in front of him, the 
over-obvious solution to his dilemma revealed itself. He was in a 
twenty-four cylinder Ford Cobra, after all. Chris had told him to 
stay put, but so what. Circumstances. If he started the car and sped 
back the way he had come up, he could be down the ramp before 
the spiderbats knew what hit them. A little cover fire, and the help 
of cops when he got to the lower levels would put him out of 
harms way. 

  Fly slowly reached into his right front pocket and pulled 
out his key chain. Being careful not to make any noise, Fly found 
the right key and put it in the ignition, and put his hand on the 
shifter. Muttering a pagan prayer under his breath, he turned the 
key and jammed the gas. It roared to life, and Fly shot forward. He 
had to do an immediate one-eighty to turn the car toward the exit 
off the roof. Pulling this maneuver as tightly as possible, he was 
reoriented in the desired direction, and jamming first.

  This was apparently one thing the spiderbats had been 
expecting. The smaller one took flight and winged straight into 
Fly's path. 

  Unlike any sleek and silent bird a hundredth its size, the 
spiderbats trailing legs and antennae screeched through the 
atmosphere making sounds like thin slits in an over-inflated rubber 
tire. Fly yelled obscenities and shifted up, planning on ramming it 
right out of the air. But it didn't go down like that.

  The spiderbat bleated a howling cry, and flew right through 
the Cobra's windshield into Fly's face. The glass and teeth raked 
his neck, and he felt it lock onto his chest. Now screaming in pain 
and rage, Fly blindly shifted into reverse and the car halted with a 
whine. It started backing up the way it came, speeding toward the 
opposite edge of the parking garage. There was only a short 
concrete wall there keeping cars from falling off, and it would not 
be enough to keep a quad-cam X-24 on the topside.

  Fly tried to brake, but his legs would not respond. Gobs of 
organic Anthanol dripped out of the spiderbat's mouth and into the 
gapping chest wounds he had suffered. Fly was too afraid to touch 
the black oily lions head that filled the front of the cab, but 
managed to grab a stiletto out of his torn jacket and jam it in the 
creature. It only went in an inch, and then one of the segmented 
legs reached forward and batted his arms away. He cried out as the 
spiderbat reinforced its bite with incessant strength, thrashing and 
spitting anthanol at his skinned torso. Yes, the tell-tale repetitious 
guttural noise of its throat. It was laughing. All of the muscles in 
his body from the wound down had contracted at the same time. 

  Unfortunately his nerves weren't dulled at all, and the pain of his 
tendons snapping under his skin was nothing short of maddening.

  "No! Brake! Damn it don't go over!" As the car shot 
backwards toward the far wall, Fly saw Chris run out of the 
stairwell holding the biggest hand gun he had seen since prison last 
year. Nine millimeter rounds were just absorbed in the shells of 
spiderbats, which meant Chris had something a whole lot more 
powerful. He squeezed off seven shots, and each one tore through 
the animal's body. After the last, it let go of Fly and pulled its head 
out of the car, hopping up off the ground and drawing itself to its 
full height. Chris ignored it and followed the car at a run.

  The car finally hit the three foot barrier, blew through it and 
went on over the side, with Chris following right behind.

  "Fly!" Chris yelled to him as he hung onto the Cobra's 
front bumper in the middle of the air. Four stories down, he 
watched the crowd scatter as they saw the vehicle about to crash. 

  He really had not wanted to do this. Fucking spiderbats. Why 
didn't they just make bug bombs in useful sizes? The god damn 
vermin were taking over the place, and now Chris would have to 
blow his cover. Extra-fuck.

  Chris concentrated on the spot where he estimated the car 
was going to fall, and pushed it away from him. Reaching through 
the windshield, he hung onto Fly's shirt, and the two of them were 
lifted away from the falling car, and landed softly on the garage's 
second story. Chris hoped it would look like he had been thrown 
from the car in an explosion, but did not care too much. The heat 
was already after him with every bit of force they could muster, 
and needed no excuse to drop him where he stood.

  Setting his badly injured friend on the trunk of a nearby car, 
Chris checked his chest, or what little was left of it. Fly was 
missing bits of several ribs and lot of muscle, but he continued to 
breathe. Taking off his jacket, Chris laid it over Fly's wound, and 
tried to talk to him.

  "Fly! Can you hear me? Fly!! Talk to me!"

  Fly looked up, and his face was white with blood loss.

  "Fuck!! Why the fuck did you do that crazy shit, Fly? What 
the fuck were you thinking?! Why the fuck do I have to tell 
everyone everything three fucking times?!"

  It could have been the pain, but Fly's mouth seemed to 
smile for an instant before it relaxed. "We... like... hearing it three 
times from you, Sir."

  Hahhh.....

  He pointed to Chris's gun and tried to speak without 
choking. Saliva dribbled down his chin, and Chris got the message. 
He handed over the weapon and stood back, refraining from the 
urge to try to reason it out. Chris would have done the same in a 
similar situation. Fly pointed the weapon at his own head.

  Somewhere below on the street, a tank fired its cannon. The 
explosion rocked the structure that supported them, and the gun 
fell from Fly's hand. Chris cursed, and ran a few feet up the ramp 
to where it had landed. Still not seeing any officers, he reached 
under a large pickup truck and found it lying next to the rear tire. 
He stood up and came face to face with the other, bulkier 
spiderbat hanging from the ceiling.

  It stared back at him with eyes that could have almost been 
intelligent. Relinquishing a useless scream, Chris threw all of his 
psionics against the spiderbat's head, but was thrown to the cold 
ground himself. Rolling out of the backwards fall, Chris turned and 
ran down the ramp. The spiderbat dropped down from its perch 
where it had been watching, and flew after him. Chris cut around 
Fly's body and stopped near a pile of discarded traffic cones where 
he had landed earlier. There was no safety to be offered but he 
turned around and issued another force blast at the rushing 
spiderbat anyway. It had no effect.

  With its powerful legs and a smug cry, it flailed without 
turning and smashed Fly into the car he rested on. The blood and 
scraps of clothing that defiled the concrete were not helping Chris 
calm himself; he, growling at his frustration, and intending to keep 
it away from him at any cost. Psionics was merely a manipulation 
of magnetrons, and a sharp enough manipulation would be 
equivalent to a gunshot, especially for the very talented. Chris 
concentrated and tensed his muscles, but again the spiderbat shook 
his assault off. As if returning the look, the bat turned back toward 
Chris, and he felt a force wave hit him right below the sternum. He 
flew over the edge of the garage's second floor and fell eleven feet 
down onto the patch of grass below. Supernovae discharged in his 
head.

  The urban green tank that had previously fired into the 
building did so again, and Chris never saw that spiderbat again. 
When his vision cleared, and the crowd of informally dressed 
civilians backed far enough away to give him room to stand, he 
took a deep breath. Picking himself up, Chris looked around. His 
beautiful green Cobra was now not even scrap worthy. People all 
around stared and pointed at the man they had seen attacked by the 
world's largest predator. He saw the IMHR building across the 
street and instinctually shifted his perspective toward the roof.

  No, it hadn't been a signal from Linn which brought the 
stars back into distinct focus. It was the dark face of an old friend 
looking twelve floors down at him between lengths of knotted hair. 

  Oh yes, him. The other man Chris had failed today. He 
shrugged and exhaled, coughing. Some things had to be done, 
right? Chris was physically unable to shed a tear for either of his 
former mates, and so he just shrugged. Is it too late to say sorry? 
Even if I'd do it over again? But if they were smart at all they 
would understand; they would see how it was necessary in the end. 
The old woman would have agreed.  

  Zig's face faded to an image, and Chris walked away into 
the disturbed crowd, thinking of other pressing matters. South 
Capitol Plaza was thick with the heat, and he had to get far away 
from that place. With any luck no one would recognize him as 
Christopher Dais, known terrorist and all around *bad person.*








-----------------








  Dying is very, very hard. Don't ever let anyone tell you 
different. And quasi-divine parturition isn't a walk in the park 
either.

  It happened to be a large cube, walled on all sides by one-
way mirrors, the reflective surfaces turned inward. 

  I was naked, cold, and slightly damp, though that was 
probably just old sweat. My mouth had the sickening metallic 
aftertaste you never wake up expecting, yet only associate with 
sleep. It was bright, even without light fixtures. They must have 
had fluorescent bulbs on the other sides of the mirrors, which 
naturally amplified them. It did not feel like I had been here 
consciously before, though I would be the first to admit that my 
memory was not what it used to be.

  Nothing to do but sit up and look around. There were recent 
scars on my stomach, but they did not hurt. My cell spanned about 
ten feet on each vertex, and there was no door. Standing up, I was 
almost able to touch the ceiling, and jumping I could do it easily. 
Peering through the mirrors revealed nothing but alternating spots 
of unbearable brightness and pitch black. The lights, by contrast, 
would not let me see what was behind them. I punched and kicked 
the glass, and just hurt myself. Must have been fairly thick, 
because the panes did not even rattle. So I sat down quietly.
  
  A silent hour went by.

  I was not hungry or thirsty, and luckily I did not have to 
relieve myself because there certainly was no toilet in here. I 
perused myself in the mirrors, and seriously had to guess my age. I 
figured I was in my late twenties, and was decently built. Any 
more than that was mere conjecture. So I sat on the mirrored floor, 
and tried to remember how I had gotten here. I came up with 
nothing. The last thing I remembered was standing�floating, 
really, over empty space. It was an infinitely deep pit other than 
which I could see nothing else. This was probably just the dream I 
had had before waking up, but it seemed real enough. Before that: 
blurry memories of being in Zig's apartment, and peacefully 
smoking green leaves. That was it. It hurt to try to go farther, so I 
didn't.

  Many more hours passed. I became so bored that I shouted 
just to feel the sensation of pain in my ears. I could not figure out 
how air was getting in the chamber, but it never got stuffy. I tried 
feeling for weak points in the walls, but they were all solid. They 
appeared as six square tunnels inhabited by infinite repetitions of 
my own body shown from all six cardinal degrees. It began to 
infuriate me, but then I caught myself obsessing about it, and 
forced myself to stop. 

  What was wrong with me? Even a child could do five days 
in the hole. I should be able to do ten times that many, standing on 
my head. Why couldn't my mind handle this?

  Don't know. Only knew that something remained 
inexplicably wrong.

  I sang, counted prime numbers, explained to my reflection 
how a modified X-Cylinder engine works. I did pushups until my 
arms would not cooperate anymore, and then I slept. When I woke 
up I was in the same tiny cell, not hungry or thirsty, and still alone. 

  I almost felt like bursting into tears. So this was hell, being forced 
to look at yourself until the thought sickened you so bad you 
wanted to poke your own eyes out. It was worse than fire or ice 
because at least with that your mind stayed occupied. Here, the 
satan was myself, looking at me with my own unfamiliar face, 
mocking my attempts to move in any other direction than he did. 
He mimicked my expressions, my emotions, and would not leave 
me to my sorrow. It was time directly deducted from my life span, 
and hours later I did not know how much more I could take.









------------








  2:32 AM. Zero hours of sleep. Thirteen cups of Hi-Caff 
coffee. About forty little packets of sugar, three and a half bags of 
twizzlers, and a pair of siamese donuts with some sort of neon 
orange filling. Not one damn iota of help.

  John Cohen squinted through his ViewLink(tm) laser scope, 
and saw a grainy picture of a valet taking car keys from Mandate 
Director Mark Nyles. The youth politely refused the tip that was 
offered him, and then sat down to drive the car away. Nyles 
walked up a flight and a half of wide marble steps and entered City 
Hall, the tall square structure sitting in the exact center of the city.

  Sweeping thirty degrees to his right, Cohen adjusted the 
focus knob on the laser sight and now saw Abrahms War 
Memorial, just beyond a pair of high rises. It was dark, and there 
did not appear to be many people visiting it. At least above ground, 
he noted to himself. Cohen leaned back, and put his MK-IV guided 
missile launcher on the ground, carefully. He looked behind him, 
to where the old woman was kneeling, looking at a laptop 
computer.

  "You know," he said. "The men weren't happy about this. 
It being blatantly unfair, and all."

  "It was not unfair," she replied, not looking up.
"Yeah, Ghast didn't think so. His toon got to go back to the 
stadium and sleep, while we're out here in the middle of the damn 
night, not attacking!"

  "Don't raise your voice at me! I know where you are, I'm 
right next to you. Ghast's men cannot stake out their target so I 
gave them the night off. You can, so you are here."

  "But why now? We aren't even going to attack until the 
riots peak, which won't be for another two days at least."

  "Because half your men have never been to the top of this 
building before, and need to be instructed on their role in the 
operation. It's simple. Cohen, I like you. You're like the son I 
could never get rid of. But if you keep whining about your 
bedtime, I will shoot you. Now have some more coffee. It's 
excellent."

  Cohen rolled his eyes, and muttered under his breath. She 
was right about one thing; Chris's toon would have to be retrained. 
The new IMHR building had been such an obvious target, that the 
Cabal had let the Special Forces see its men watching it all week. 

  This would keep a large bulk of the military at least ten miles away 
from their other Capital Plaza targets. As for not letting the men in 
on the ruse, he was not completely sure it was necessary even as a 
safety measure. It just held everything up, and that was something 
John Cohen hated.

  He took out his CB radio, and turned it to the highest freq. 

  "This is number two, come in number four."

  The receiver crackled, and the voice of his toon's radio 
man came through. "Yeah, I hear ya. What do you want?"

  "How's the gang? They awake?"

  "Yeah, most of em. We can't see much from down here, 
but there don't seem to be many cops. Stitch says he saw some 
Taurs on cycs earlier, but they left. Hey, Chr-, I mean, 'number 
one' is here. He got back a few minutes ago, and has been talking 
to the men. You want me to get him?"

  "Yeah, put him on." A few seconds passed.

  "Hello?" said Chris through the handset.

  "Sir! It's number two. Where were you?"

  "I was doing a little recon at target one. The place is 
extremely hot. I lost Fly."

  "What?! How?"

  "Long story, I'll tell you later. Listen, I have to talk to the 
old woman. Where are you?"

  "Me and her and about half the gang are up here on the roof 
of the-- well, on the roof of the building we discussed this 
morning."

  "Ok, good. I'll be up there in ten minutes. The men are 
getting riled up down here, so I told them they could go back to the 
stadium at five. But keep that between you and me."

  "Yes, sir!"

  Chris gave the radio back, and stood up. The small bar he 
was in was owned and operated by Das Uberdog, and would be the 
primary relay point from which they would attack the capital 
building on Friday evening, the day after tomorrow. Theoretically, 
the combination of randomly scattered bombings, plus a two-front 
attack in the middle of rush hour would give the Cabal enough 
time to get inside and take as many Directors hostage as needed. 

  Until then, they would continue to plan and train. During the day.

  Walking through the bar toward the back door, the gang 
boys got out of his way, and a few even saluted him. They were a 
varied lot of dropouts and criminals, but they could fight, and 
wouldn't quit until they were put down like dogs. In a way, they 
hated the Mandate even more than he, because they never 
questioned his orders. As long they were fighting back at the 
government which held them, they would be fulfilling their 
aspirations. They needed Chris even less than he needed them. But 
such is sometimes the way of a war.

  Stopping before he reached the door, Chris turned to them 
and said, "Hey! Shut up! Listen to me." The room went damn near 
silent.

  "I have news for you, though I don't know if it's bad or 
good. As we had suspected, the Peyenne Taurs are working for our 
enemies. They gave it up to the man, and have betrayed the 
citizens of this city for the last time. I have no doubt that they will 
be out on the streets looking for us when we strike, and therefore 
you have my full permission to muzzle-fuck every last one of 
them."

  The place erupted in a cheer. The two gangs had been at an 
unspoken war for decades. Das Uberdog was larger, and on 
average the members were older, but they had to buy all their 
weapons from black market dealers while the Taurs were known to 
find boxes of Special Forces weapons accidentally falling out of 
the backs of trucks. Despite the addition of at least a hundred more 
armed mercs to be dealt with, the zealous hearts of Das were glad 
to be allowed to settle an old score.

  "I still don't want any civilian casualties," Chris continued. 
"but any other gang-boys are open season. And the deal with 
Shock Troops still stands. I'll pay five hundred bucks a badge for 
confirmed kills. I expect high numbers, yeah, that means you, 
Stitch. So just be ready. I'll see you guys at the house at eleven 
hundred. Don't get too wasted."

  More cheers, and seeing an opportune moment, Chris 
ducked out of the bar. He had borrowed the keys to another gang 
boy's cyc, a big jet black V-6 Hayabusa. It was easily capable of 
going two hundred fifty mph, but Chris kept it below a hundred as 
he rode through the wet, dark streets. The building he was headed 
for was one of the city's oldest standing structures, the observatory 
which overlooked the Aqueduct. Built more than two hundred 
years ago to watch the stars, it was currently used for nothing more 
than tours. The day of the observatory had long since passed, as 
had the day when the government donated any tax money to fields 
like astronomy, geology, or urban archeology. When the exposure 
to such investigative sciences was diminished, so faired public 
interest, and the Mandate made out nicely.

  A quick drive through the center of the city and Chris was 
there, parking his cyc below the huge metal tower. He radioed up 
that he had arrived and a fire escape ladder slid down against the 
building's back side. He climbed up quickly, and then walked over 
to where Cohen was looking through his scope at the capital.

  "Sir! You make it okay?" 

  "Yeah, just fine. Lost my Cobra, so I borrowed a 
motorcycle. Those things suck in the rain, you know."

  "Yes, sorry about that sir. I'll have one of the men find a 
car for you."

  "Nah, don't worry about it. It's been a few years since I 
rode a genuine crotch-rocket. And John, you don't have to call me 
sir to my face."

  "...Okay."

  "So, what have you seen so far?"

  "Not a lot. The place is pretty dead at night."

  "What about the Memorial?"

  "A few civilians, but not much else. I haven't seen any 
cops aside from the grounds keeper. I sent out Williams and Slate 
on recon, and they're supposed to be working their way onto the 
roof of the Ford building right now. I thought we might be able to 
get a cleaner shot from there so I'm waiting for their word. Our 
schematics appear to be very accurate."

  He nodded, knowingly. "You guys get out of Ventiss okay? When 
I left I saw Ghast breaking the blockade but I wasn't sure 
how many of your toon escaped."

  "Just about all of them, with a few exceptions. The raid was 
poorly planned, probably because they didn't even expect us to try 
to get away immediately. That bastard Stitch took out a tank on the 
way out, too. Was prancin around like he had grown another pair 
of balls." Cohen thought for a second and then said, "Yeah. 
Probably about five or ten percent losses. Ghast made it with even 
less than that."

  "Good. At least some of that was anticipated; when we find 
out who the rat was, he will still be dealt with. Well, keep 
watching, and holler if you see anything strange." 

  Chris saluted; walked back across the roof. To the right, 
facing the northern housing districts, was the old woman, sitting 
and typing. Chris approached quietly and waited for her to speak 
first. After a minute she did so, but in low tones that only the two 
of them could hear.

  "I heard you lost one of our boys."

  "Yes, but I did everything I could. A god damn pair of 
spiderbats showed up and trashed the place. Right across from the 
target area, in a parking garage we were chillin on. Killed like 
twenty cops. I got one of them, and a tank got the other. But what 
was worse is that I had to use the psionics."

  The old woman looked up, sharply. "Did anyone see you?" 
she asked.

  "Well shit, there was a whole crowd there. But it was dark, 
rainy, and there was a lot going on in that place. I was probably 
hidden by the explosions, lots of fire everywhere. No one shouted 
anything, if that helps. Lost my car, too. I loved that thing."

  "Maybe you will be more careful next time. But forget that. 
What about Screw and Mr. Cane?"

  Chris took a breath before saying, "They took em both."

  The old woman's eyes shot up and she frowned. "The deal 
was just Screw."

  "I know. And I know that there is no easy way to break this 
to you, but Linn's mike went dead. I think one of the bastards may 
have killed her."

  The old woman stopped, and inclined her head. Linn had 
been with her almost since birth, and had been more than like a 
daughter. Orphaned many years ago due to her parent's marital 
problems, she had been taken in out of a kindness only felt 
between one mother and another. Linn had been one of the nicest, 
smartest people the old woman had ever known, and she now 
deeply regretted sending her companion on her first mission 
without the Cabal right behind. It had been a fool's mistake.

  In a moment of empathy, Chris asked her if she was alright. 
The old woman nodded, but he could see her shoulders shaking 
slightly with quiet, reluctant sobs. Chris had been the one who 
suggested Linn go for secrecy's sake, but had not made the final 
decision. He shook his head and looked off into the city lights.

  "What do we do now?" he finally asked.

  Without turning, she replied, "Just- ...nothing. As long as 
the signal doesn't move, we will leave it alone. Concentrate on 
getting your platoons ready for Friday. There can be no hitches. 
And please leave me right now, I'll radio you later."

  He nodded, stood up, and walked back over to Cohen. 

  Chris cursed silently as he turned his head once more to the 
horizon, where street lamps and neon signs stared back. *See?* *Don't 
you see?!* Don't you see that THIS is why we are fighting? It was 
times like these that quenched any feeling in Chris's mind to 
rethink his way of life. It was no use going over his arguments in 
his head; he knew exactly what he was doing. The System was 
evil, and it did evil things to poor old women with beloved 
daughters. The look on her tormented face was just one of the 
worst he had seen in his many-odd years of life. He always told 
himself that this time would be the last time, that tomorrow he was 
going to fight, by himself if necessary. And now he was. The 
Mandate, the cops, Rufius; they would all die. An all-encompassing
sacrifice. Chris had resigned long ago to cleanse life 
in the city with their blood.







-------------
-------------







next time-
more!


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