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"So you've come to say you're very sorry.
 'Wont happen again, forgive me.'
 But Time will not heal these wounds."
			         -Type O






Not much of an introduction necessary for this chap.
It is mainly building up to what is going to happen
in the next two, where la merde battement la ventilateur.
I'd like to thank Food Lion brand ibuprofen for the
production of this ep. Thanks ibuprofen. You're the best.












    2

  Like severely stunted lemmings, a warranted fugitive and 
his non-existent companion rode into Capitol Plaza on a 
motorcycle that wasn't even technically street legal. We came up 
through a side street that filtered out onto Broadway, stopped and 
surveyed the scene. Just about everything in the city could be 
found here if you had the right look about you, or you exuded 
authority. Neither of which were in our favor. Zig and I 
motionlessly surveyed the scene, and saw three armored police 
vans pass by in the first minute.

  "Damn," I said. "Obviously there's a lot still going on east 
of here. You want to try a different street?"

  Zig scratched his head and looked over my shoulder. "I 
don't know. We can't just drive up Broadway with all these cops 
around. We'd get pulled over in a second."

  "You know, if Chris really is holed up in a building around 
here, he's definitely going to be surrounded. You said you heard 
him say that there were two targets in the city and one on Lanz 
Island? Where is he?"

  "The first target was the new IMHR building where we 
were found by White and Rufie. But like you said there were 
Police and Special Forces agents all over the place, so it was 
probably just a decoy. Which means Chris is either outside the 
capitol building itself, the second target, or on the Island. And I 
think the old woman had someone else in mind for that-"

  "Freeze right there!"

  The megaphoned voice came from twenty feet behind me, 
and was distinct in tone. A hand instantly went into my left jacket 
flap, but only reminded me that I wasn't packing. Zig spit out his 
joint into a pot hole filled with rain water. The sky had cleared up 
temporarily and in my mirror I could see the two uniformed 
officers approach us in my favorite mode of police travel. The 
motorcycle and side car. 

  The idea had been that one man could divert all his 
attention to the driving while his lackey in the baby-seat would do 
all the shooting and work the radio. But these three wheeled toys 
were far too slow and awkward to give me any trouble. I even 
smiled a little as they pulled up slowly along side of me.

  "Wait for me," I whispered to Zig. To the cops I said out 
loud, "What do you want?"

  The driver, a tall skinny guy, took of his hat and wiped the 
sweat off his forehead. "Hey!" he yelled at me. "You better shut 
the fuck up before you get your ass nailed to the wall for 
insubordination! What are you two doing out this late? Don't you 
know a curfew has been put into effect? I want some I.D. right 
now!"

  His partner, an obese Italian with a dirty gray beard was 
grinning stupidly and pointing his spot light right in my face, 
making it hard for me to see anything. But the first cop walked 
toward me and blocked it out. His hand was on his holstered Glock 
9, his other carried a clipboard. I sneered at him.

  "Well? Where's your driver's license?"

  "Right here," I said. Reaching into my pocket, I grasped 
my wallet, and pushed out the cards into my pocket with a finger. 
When I brought it out, it was still folded, and I handed it to him. 
Taking a step back he peered inside but there was clearly not 
enough light. My hand went to my ignition key, and Zig tapped me 
on the back.

  "Get ready, on three. One..."

  The tall cop finally got the clear plastic sheets out, and 
leafed through them under of the spotlight. Seeing that they were 
empty, he searched all the other pockets quickly, starting to frown.

  "Hey!" he said raising his voice. "There's no I.D. in here! 
Or anything else except--out of date condoms!" 

  "Two..." Zig whispered.

  "Hey, fuck you too, buddy!" I yelled.

  My heart was in my throat as I lashed out and hit the man's 
shoulder, spinning him around directly into the spot light. He 
squealed and raised both his hands to block out the glare. Zig, 
without hesitating and in one swift movement, snapped the snap 
and grabbed the officer's gun out of its holster while yelling 
"Three!" into my ear. I gunned my engine and we shot forward, the 
siren suddenly wailing behind us.

  I shifted up through the gears until we were going 135 
down the deserted lanes of the Plaza's main strip. Neon lights and 
the occasional bloodshot eyes of drunks hiding in shadows stared 
back at us as we passed block after deserted block, heading east 
where the most important government buildings were clustered. 
With a quick look over his head, Zig told me that the cops were 
gaining on us. In a minute there would be more on our tail, and we 
needed to hide.

  I angled the cyc to the left, and looked down the streets we 
passed. Zig and I saw the same thing: red and blue strobes. The 
backup must have been pacing us a block to the north. Zig shook 
his head and I shrugged. Turning back to the right, we started 
ascending a low grade hill, and the cyc slowed down enough for 
me to see down those streets. Looked clear for a second, and then I 
caught the sound of another siren approaching.

  "You better think of something or the ride's over!"

  "Hang on dog, I'm gonna get a look at those two behind 
us." Zig pulled out his new weapon, popped the magazine to make 
sure it was full, and squeezed off four shots before I yelled at him 
to stop.

  Zig leaned over my shoulder and yelled over the roar of my 
engine. "What's wrong? I got one of em in the arm!"

  I put my foot slowly on the break and pointed ahead. As 
Broadway crested a low rise, multiple flashing lights greeted us 
from barriers blocking all six lanes. When they cleared the horizon, 
I counted four cruisers, three motorcycles, and a police-converted 
semi. There were a hoard of cops milling around, all carrying 
shotguns and riot shields. Zig gasped.

  "Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit! They must have Dammed the 
whole upper east side! I didn't realize how close we were to the 
fires! Look, you can see em!"

  And I could. Around a mile and a half distant was City 
Hall, the capitol building, and it was burning too brightly to look 
at. That was where the Mandate did all of it's professional work, 
and where they lived when they stayed off the Island. I bet a whole 
mess of them had been killed when that place went up. I 
remembered White telling me that many had been captured too. 

  Christ I wouldn't want to be them right now, surrounded by gang 
boys who've been up past their bed time. If it was still burning, 
that meant the fire trucks were unable to get close, and it was still a 
hot zone. Chris would be around there somewhere, waiting 
patiently.

  Zig interrupted my thoughts. "Rick! You think we can 
break through?"

  "Are you kidding?! That's a 56 inch steel-reinforced 
concrete construction barrier. Nothing short of a runaway train can 
dent those things. We have to turn around."

  I braked hard and turned back to my left, heading for the 
last free side street. 22nd Avenue. As we slowed down, and I leant 
into the turn, Zig yelled, "Stop right here! Pull over!"

  "What?!" I yelled back at him, but stopped anyway. 
Halfway up 22nd, Zig hopped off the cyc. "What are you doing?!"

  Zig cocked his Glock. 

  "I'm going to let you get away. You can't outrun them if 
you're dragging my weight along. I know this street, I have old 
friends who live nearby."

  "No!! Are you insane?! You shot at the cops! If they catch 
you, you'll be executed in the street!"

  "That's why I'm not going to get caught. Get out of here, 
and go find Chris. I'll meet you there on foot. Unless I steal a 
cruiser."

  I tried to find the right words, but all that came out was 
"You idiot!" Then I saw that he had already started running back 
the way we had come, and I jerked my hand grips. The bike shot 
forward sending me careening down the dark street.

  Taking a right three blocks down, I was now still on course. 

  The blaze of building fires got closer, and I even began to feel 
some of the heat. Behind me, a police motorcycle flashed its siren, 
and the officer motioned to the side of the road. But I sped up and 
was pushing 170 when I left him in the dust. I made sure there was 
no one else around before slowing down almost to a stop, and 
turning into a dead end alley. I pulled my cyc behind a stack of 
boxes, turned off the motor, and became silent.

  For a minute nothing happened, and the dark drizzling high 
rises around me kept me concealed. Everything was wet around me 
as I sat in the trash and pulled a bag in front of my face. Then the 
motorcycle cop drove by, and shined a light my way. I held my 
breath and lay still, and he finally looked in the other direction. 
Seeing nothing, he moved on. His partner in the side car looked 
unconscious. I exhaled deeply.

  For the moment I was safe. All I had to do was ditch the 
cyc here so I could get back to it when I needed to. Then I had to 
find out where Chris was, and get there without being seen. Far 
easier said than done, and I suddenly wished I was not alone in 
this. But Zig said he would find me, and he is usually reliable. I 
stood and pushed the pile of boxes into a single heap behind me, 
making sure it was hidden well. Nothing on this side of Broadway 
was paid much attention after all. 

  I turned around, and looked down the three barrels of a 
Special Forces issue Browning Hunter Rifle.

  "Ow," I said as it poked me in the nose.

  "Shut up."

  There were two of them, gang boys. Hard to miss when 
you're wearing a five inch high `mo. The other had an aluminum 
bat in his hands and carried it with purpose. I gulped. At least they 
knew I wasn't a cop.

  "Over there, in the light." His voice was not deep, and I 
suspected he was young. Damn delinquents.

  I walked under the single streetlight, and blinked a few 
times. The brat with the rifle cocked his head, and then whispered 
something to his partner. I suddenly realized that these two could 
be Taurs who remembered my face. That wouldn't be pretty. My 
eyes darted around, looking for a weapon--nothing but cardboard-- 
shit!

  The shorter one with the bat took a step forward. He stared 
at my pant-legs for a breath and then said, "Turn around. All the 
way."

  My heart sank. If the next thing he said was 'Get on your 
knees' I planned on diving at him. Or running for it. One of them 
took a few steps toward me, but all I was looking at was the other 
wall, and wondering if I could possibly climb up to the fire escape. 
I heard the footsteps stop, and a hand grabbed my shoulder.

  "Son of a bitch." 

  I cringed. 

  "Where the hell have you been?"

  "Uh," I said. 

  The hand on my shoulder spun me around, and I could see 
the gang boy lower his gun in the cone of yellow light. He was 
wearing a faded red jacket and black jeans. So was the other one. 
So was I, I realized.

  "I told you he was straight! Why are you always pointing 
that thing at everyone?"

  "Ah, shut up. I couldn't tell." Then to me, the first one said, 
"Sorry. Cohen's been on my ass lately. Come on, we're 
in the bar."

  He started walking toward the end of the alley, and the 
other gang boy followed. I did the same, now with conviction. 
After the sleeves of my blue one got burned, I had picked 
up my old 'Raging Bull' jacket from my locker at the track. Red 
and black kevlar; wouldn't stop a bullet, but it was the best fabric 
for preventing road rash. More importantly it was Das Uberdog's 
colors. (I should know, I picked them myself a long time ago.) 
Obviously these two didn't recognize me either as Screw the car-
jock. Which was strange, most guys their age were racing fans.

  Without a glance to my back, I followed them both through 
a small door hidden by liquor crates five yards from the end of the 
alley. I went down the half flight of unlit steps between the two of 
them, and was greeted by the sight of maybe fifty more thugs in a 
dirty, low lit bar. The noise hit me as soon as I opened the heavy 
door and I smelled nothing but smoke. Looked a lot like a 
celebration, but then you never could tell. I moved away from the 
door and was soon lost in the small crowd. Making my way toward 
the restroom, I was able to get by without being stopped and I sat 
down in the stall.

  Well shit, Chris' boys weren't fighting at all. Their 
missions accomplished, all of the men here were probably just 
waiting until the heat died down to go back home. Home was 
actually an empty football stadium from a hundred years ago, 
south west of here. It was huge and abandoned, and in such a bad 
part of the city that none of the citizens cared what went on there. 

  The cops didn't even find out about the tunnels inside until a few 
years ago, and haven't since been able to evacuate the place. My 
boys had been taught well.

  I suddenly tried to remember if there had ever been a little 
blond gang boy named Chris. Back in the day. Nothing came to 
mind. The men never brought their children to work.  

  So here I was. All the formalities should start coming back. 
I could get guns now because I knew what to say and how to act. 
Standing up, the only thing that still had me wondering was why 
they couldn't recognize my face. It was plastered all over subway 
tunnels and buses everywhere in the city. I was one of the most 
popular drivers in the race. I pushed open the wooden door and 
went to look in the small mirror. 

  My god, I was even younger than I was yesterday. I wasn't 
surprised either, because Screw had been the oldest person I had 
ever been. My jaw even looked like it was widening. I was still just 
as tall, but no longer thin. Flexing my arm in the mirror I was 
pleased to see real definition. I took breath and stretched my neck. 
I felt younger too. The name Richter was bringing with it the form 
I had back then. My environment taking its effects. Excellent.

  The only problem was that soon even my friends would 
have difficulty recognizing me. I wouldn't be so bad as long as my 
skin didn't change color or something blatant like that. I would 
probably look more like I had just gotten in really good shape. I 
hoped so, considering all the recent exertion. That was funny too, 
that I hadn't lived an incredibly active or dangerous life in a long 
time. Maybe the muscles were so I could play the part better. 
Rufius had probably told me something to that affect about the 
changes we endured years ago, but I had long since forgotten. 
Either way, I was now your archetypal Das Uberdog gang boy and 
I was feeling good. Chris might have more on his hands then he 
thought if we met unarmed. Of course that wouldn't happen.

  After splashing myself with a little cold water, I left the 
restroom and made for the bar. The shrimp couldn't have been 
sixteen, but he handled drinks like a pro. Would get his colors in a 
few years if he managed to stay alive. I motioned to him, and he 
flipped me a beer after sending a glass down the counter. I caught 
both and poured while sitting down.

  The were people all around. I tried to look over their heads 
to view those sitting in booths. Usually the only man carrying a 
heavy machine gun was the one on weapon detail. He rationed out 
guns and other equipment on a 'need to kill' basis. While the head 
on my beer reached its peak volume, I scanned the faces around 
me. No one looked especially trustworthy, but a large bald freak in 
the corner betrayed a odd machine gun in his jacket that held two 
separate magazines in tandem. A custom job. No one else would 
carry that kind of artillery off the field.

  I took a drink and pushed an older black guy out of the 
way. He took a look at me and moved. A few more minutes of 
watching the place, and I was ready to try. I grabbed another beer 
and wandered over to my mark looking serious. He was sitting at a 
table with two other men, talking about the action they had seen 
the night before. I noticed that his sleeve had four words printed on 
it. 

  Dangerously, Unreasonably, Naturally, Necessarily. 

  Girls must get a kick out of that, I thought. I nodded to him 
from about ten feet away, and he motioned me over.

  "Who are you?"

  I was about to answer when he interrupted me. "Are you 
green?"

  I shook my head. "No. I want to talk to you."

  "Give me the beer and it's a deal. You sure you ain't green? 
What's your tag?"

  "Rick."

  "Rick. Well, I guess you do look a little familiar." He pried 
the top off the bottle and took a drink. 

  I grabbed another from the bar and did the same. "What's 
your name again?"

  "I'm the Stitch, and as anyone can tell you, I'm one toxic 
mother fucker." He looked proud to introduce himself. "All the 
rumors you must've heard are true."

  Stitch. I knew that name; from more than a week ago when 
Wells had ambushed me at my apartment building. Stitch had been 
the name of one of the four men I had taken to be undercover cops. 
But I hadn't seen that man's face.

  Throwing the emptied bottle behind him, Stitch's 
movements vaguely resembled the forced rigidity of a military 
officer's, but in a more confident sort of way. *Something* stood out. 
I looked over both shoulders and said, "I have some news for 
Chris-"

  "Number one."

  "Whatever. I've got to get to the target area right now and 
inform him. It's my ass if I mess this up. I need steel fast."
He put his drink down and stared at me. "Where the hell is 
your own gun?" The other two at the table had also looked up at 
me as I said that.

  "Had to ditch it so I could get through a checkpoint. I've 
already been searched twice coming here. 'Number one' wants me 
there intact, and for that I'm going to need something fierce. 
What's the problem?" I asked, sounding like I meant it.

  "You got through a checkpoint wearing that?" he said, and 
pointed at my jacket.

  Fuck. "It's a loaner."

  "From who," he said.

  "The fire department."

  "No shit?"

  "I left him up the street, want to go look?"

  "What the hell do you need to tell Number One in person? I 
can radio him from right here."

  "I just came from the Island. He'll want to debrief me."

  "So use the radio."

  "I can't talk about half the shit that's going on there in 
code. Police computers are still scanning all the wavelengths."

  "Okay, okay," He said lowering his voice. "Come on, I'll 
take you upstairs." To the other two at his table, he said "Beat it," 
and they did. 

  I followed him through the crowd and to a narrow stairwell 
that took us up a flight. We were in the old kitchen which was 
deserted, and from there we entered a back room. Stitch flicked on 
the single bulb in the ceiling and put his hands on a metal cabinet. 
Three others of its kind were the only extra things in the room. I 
waited while he unlocked it, and swung the doors wide open. 
Inside was an impressive collection of police and Special Forces 
issue weapons. I admit I stared.

  "Well," he said. "What are you looking for? G79? Mauser? 
Big guy like you ought to try this baby."

  "What's that?"

  "It's a German rifle, a Heckler and Koch PSG-7 loaded 
with 7.62 mm 'Riot Busters.' Thick, long, single shot rifle rounds 
that'll pierce those bulletproof glass shields Shock Troopers carry. 
You'll need arms like tractors, but I bet you can handle it."

  I blinked. "I don't think that's quite the gun I need to sneak 
around with. What else you got?" 

  "Well if your delicate sensibilities can't handle a the H&K, 
then I suggest this bullpup. It's a Steyr AUG 8, very new on the 
market. The pigs ain't been carrying these for more than six 
months. Just about recoilless, and accurate as hell. Only packs 
about thirty five 5.56's, but she's dependable in a fire fight. Forget 
about body armor though."

  I picked up the short backwards looking machinegun. He 
was right about accuracy, but NATO rounds were a little light for 
my tastes. It just wasn't what I was looking for, and whenever I 
had the chance, I like to pick my weapons carefully.

  "I don't think so, Stitch. Anything else?"

  Stitch ran his fingers through his short dark hair and sighed. 
"The man is hard please. If it's stopping power you want, there's 
nothing more effective than the Beretta PM 13S sub-machine gun. 
Has single shot and burst settings for thirteen millimeter Lead 
Zeppelins. They'll penetrate anything short of a bank vault. Make 
your balls harrier just holding the thing. What do you say?"

  I took it out of his hand and looked it over. "This will be 
perfect. I've used gyrojets before. Thanks."

  He handed me several extra magazines, and a new shoulder 
holster. The gun was not even a foot long, and could still be 
somewhat concealed. Zipping up my jacket again, I felt more ready 
than I had in a long time. Stitch closed the cabinet, and we turned 
to leave. 

  As I descended down the steps behind him into the noisy 
bar, he said over his shoulder, "I'm coming with you. If your news 
is this important then you'll need me to take you to the rest of the 
way. There are Shock Troops running around, and they shoot on 
sight. You ride a cyc?"

  I shifted around uneasily. "Yeah."

  "Good, you can follow me. Meet me around back in five." 

  Stitch got away through the crowded bar. 

  What to do. An escort would make sure I got to Chris with 
the least possible amount of danger. But Stitch would also be 
another bad guy to deal with if Zig's plan failed. The charade 
could only last so long.

  I took one last look at the bar, at the men and the boys, and 
was proud. They were my one legacy. Maybe if my racing career 
never picked up again, I might try to get back into the life. Of 
course it wasn't the life for someone with a girl waiting for him at 
home. (If one was indeed waiting.) But stability and freedom like 
this in the city was hard to come by. It just meant more sacrifice. 
It's kind of sad that life makes you gamble for so damn much every 
time you just want to make up your mind.

  I left through the same door I had come in, and dug my cyc 
out of the pile of wet boxes. I sat on the seat and revved the engine 
in neutral. Three minutes later I heard the roar of a much larger 
engine. Stitch appeared at the entrance to the alley riding a BMW 
2.8 Liter X-4 Bandit. It was the latest model, and its twin exhaust 
pipes growled way above mine.

  He motioned to me, and I rolled out into the street after 
him. We kept it below a hundred as we sped through the dark 
avenues. Occasionally we heard sirens and the hiss of nearby 
flames, but we were not seen by anyone important. Circling 
northward he crossed behind road blocks with silent skillfulness, 
leading with a hand pointing the way. It wasn't too hot, though we 
saw a few unmarked cruisers parked in driveways. Soon the 
government buildings receded and we began to leave the Plaza. I 
almost called out something to Stitch, but he suddenly cut a right 
and I became aware of our destination.

  It was an old forgotten observatory. A silo shaped building, 
it had no windows except on the rounded top where the tip of a 
very large telescope protruded. Staring at it for several seconds I 
spotted slight movement. There were dark figures up there, leaning 
into the wind and looking down at us. At the base was a small 
fenced off lot. We rode through a gate and up to where three other 
gang boys were standing and smoking. Stitch parked his cyc and I 
did the same a few feet away. We walked up to the group.

  "Who's that?" The speaker had an accent, through his 
shaved head betrayed white skin between tattoos. I looked back at 
him questioningly while all of us shivered as the temperature 
continued to drop. Stitch leaned forward and whispered to him. 
Then he turned back to the other two gang boys he was with and 
resumed smoking his cigarette. Stitch shook me by the shoulder.

  "He's up there, just climb the ladder. We're keeping an eye 
on local police movements so climb fast and don't get seen. I'll be 
waiting for you down here when you are done talking. Hurry up."

  I thanked him and put my hands on the cold and wet rungs. 
Taking a breath, I began to climb. Six stories is a lot higher than it 
sounds, and by the time I reached the top I was sweating. But it 
was not in vain.

  Across the thirty or forty feet of metal dome, Chris stood 
alone looking away from me. I could tell it was him by the short 
blond hair, rolled up sleeves, and five or six pistols strapped 
around his thighs. There was one other man seated a few feet away 
looking through a scope. No one else. I took a few uneasy steps 
forward and made sure I wasn't going to slip. 

  I waited.

  Chris stood still, blocking out the blaze of City Hall from 
my vision. He knew who I was and why I was here. 

  It was suddenly plain that I could never fool him. In his 
wild life he had become too good at what he did. Should I be 
afraid? I put my hand on the bulge in my jacket. Stay calm, and 
you'll come out alive.

  The temperature dropped another degree. It would be a cold 
night. Depending on how it went, I might find time to curl up with 
my girl.

  The thought only made me shiver. I waited still.

  Finally, Chris's shoulders slumped slightly and his head 
tilted back. Slowly, as if coming out of a standing, staring trance. 
My eyes widened as he turned around. The leather straps on his 
holsters had all come undone, and flapped in the wind. If I wasn't 
sure at first, I knew now. His face told me all my plans had become 
senseless.








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