Android

Android       

    Milic Alesko was, by nature, an impassive seeming man. You had to be, in this business. Or at least, you had to look like it.

    The black single-lens hologlasses obscuring his eyes gave that effect, and so did the expensive black tailored suit, cut wide in the shoulder. A good fit, if you were packing, as he and the Half-dozen strong security team lining the walls of the cocktail lounge definitely were. And then some.

    They all looked the part, could have been cloned. But their employer was old fashioned. He prefered the real thing, flesh and blood, not those identical skinjobs. Luckily he was more than willing to look over a few… augmentations.

    Close-cropped military style hair, serious faces and identical suits. A proper outfit, if some of then came from darker, humbler beginnings. Of the five other members of the team, he trusted none. It was the nature of the game, and they all played it well. At least with such a lucrative employer he didn't have to worry about a bullet in the back because they'd been over-bid. Still, you could never be too careful.

    One of the rotund men in the centre of the room, draped with two  barely dressed women and sporting a fat cigar laughed uproariously. The other, similarly attired by expensive hookers and an even more expensive business suit had just told an apparently hilarious joke.

    Both balding, red faced and speaking in the growling guttural tones of Russian. They'd drunk much in the hotel's private cocktail lounge, and the effects of the alcohol on their systems were apparent - as were the numerous discarded martini glasses coating the low glass table between them like the fine ash from their cigars.

    Vitomir Chizhevsky was the one laughing. He was also unfortunately their employer, a trafficking mastermind who'd made it big time in little Moscow, earning himself a cool billion by the time he was twenty five. Vitomir was a kingpin in both the human and drugs trade, though not so big as Milic had seen before.

    His counterpart, the comedian, was none other than Avim Boyarim, the high minister of border security at the Kremlin. The relationship the two of them seemed to share was likely far beyond merely friendly, and even more likely extremely lucrative.

    The two had been talking, drinking, and smoking for well over an hour by that point. To their credit not one of the security team had twitched a muscle during  that time.

The lounge itself was a broad, elegant affair. Two ebony leather couches facing each other in the centre, each polished to a high sheen was where the fat crime boss and the official perched their asses. Along the far wall opposite the only door was a low bar, mahogany and backed with rows of cabinets displaying obscenely expensive liquors, spirits, and glass refrigerators stocked with beers and lagers. The barkeep was absent, of course, ushered out politely but firmly by the security team upon their arrival. The conversation taking place in the room was not for casual ears. Milic and the other dark suited men were vetted by the firm, but as for the escorts they'd come in with the high-rollers. It was enough.
     The room was screened electronically, of course. No windows for infrared lasers either. Contained. Private. All he had to do was stand, look quietly menacing, and wait for the meeting to conclude. A soft job, but safe. You lived longer in the business doing jobs like these.

    Vitomir raised another full martini glass to his pink, pallid lips.

    “Finally.” he growled in English. “Down to business-”

    The surface of the vodka, crystal transparent, trembled slightly.

    From somewhere below them in the building, there was a reverberating whump.

Red light began to strobe the room as the fire alarm was triggered. The two on the couch looked up in startled surprise, intoxicated brains slowly registering what was going on around them. The security team were much faster to react. Their accelerant boosted nervous systems flared into life, jacketed yet solid arms flying to their suit coat shoulders. Each of them drew compact black weaponry, blocky and sleek. Many had submachine guns, simple squares of metal that sprung out on compressed hinges to separate into receiver and folding stocks, holographic sights springing into being as they were powered on. Milic produced his own side-arm. A fat grey block-barreled revolver, flicking on its powered sight in turn.

    “Austov, talk to me.” he snapped sharply.

    The earpiece built into the arm of his hologlasses crackled, and one of the two-man team outside the lounge door in the hallway beyond responded.

    “Disturbance in the lobby, fire system on alert, I think we-”

    The transmission cut out.

    Milic swore. The two rich men were looking at him, as were the w****s with scared eyes, but he paid them no heed.

     “What's going on?!” demanded Vitomir angrily, rising from the couch.

    “I'm not sure yet.” Milic replied calmly.

    “But we're moving. Now.”

    Irritation flashed across the billionaire smugglers face but he acceded. The team flowed together as one, two stacking either side of the wide polished wood door with its gold inlaid handle, pointing their compact weapons at it.

     Milic stood face on to it, aiming one handed as the two men and the gaggle of women crowded together behind. He gestured to the last man in the team next to him, who surged forth, submachine gun shouldered and hand outstretched, reaching for the door handle. Grasping it, he gave a silent count of three. Well trained, these men, mused Milic. He'd seen worse.

    The man burst through the door, gun flicking side to side in a perfect breach. The stacked pairs either side followed quickly, rushing the door to secure hallway beyond.

    “Clear.” The signal crackled through the microband.

    Only then did Milic step through himself, gesturing to those behind him to follow. Bulky revolver in hand, he piled through into the hallway adjacent to the lounge, joining the rest of his team.

    They covered the hallway expertly, two a side, stacked high and low, twitching gun barrels between sectors. Of the two men who'd been stationed outside not moments before, there was no sign. The hallway, crimson carpeted and with immaculate beige papered walls, was utterly empty. The wailing siren of the fire evacuation alarm continued to pulse.

    “Someone kill that goddamn alarm.” he snapped.

    Milic didn't like to admit it, but the sudden disappearance of the two men had him rattled. They hadn't even heard gunfire. Something was wrong.

     He turned to the two men behind him, the fat rich ones, and forced his voice to be cool and collected. Nothing to worry about.

    “We've got a potential security threat.” he told them mildly.

    “We'll evacuate you both now, quickly and quietly. There are armoured cars right out front waiting. Stay close, keep your eyes open. Likely nothing we can't handle, but best to be on the safe side.”

    The men nodded their balding fleshy heads in unison, too startled by the situation to argue. Which was good.

    The alarm shut off, the throb of its high pitched wail leaving the hallway quiet. But not silent. There was a buzz to the air, a mechanical hum that sounded familiar yet he couldn't quite place it.

    Milic turned and addressed the team covering the hallway.

    “Elevators will be out due to the alarm.” he said.

     “Stairs to lobby. Go.”

     With fluid practice the trio of men covering the right moved forward, constantly scanning the angles of the hallway. At a gesture the party behind Milic followed at an easy, unhurried pace. He didn't need to look behind to know the two at the rear were following, weapons aimed back down the hall, rearguarding

    The strange buzzing sound undulated and pulsed, becoming nearer, then suddenly weaker. The three-man fireteam ahead stacked up against the corner of the hallway, weapons forward. They leant cautiously around, then signalled the advance again. Clear.

    The group moved as one around the corner and proceeded, quickly and quietly toward a dull green firedoor set in the right side of the hall, towards the inward body of the building.

    The strange buzzing grew to a crescendo.

    From around the far corner of the hallway darted several black shapes, coming fast through the air. Their quad rotors suspending a compact blocky chassis was the source of the buzzing. Dead centre of each was a thick black square barrel. Assault drones.

    A red incandescent beam of light lanced down the hall from the lead drone. With a choking yell one of the high-end hookers collapsed, clutching the burnt hole through her neck, unable to breathe. She convulsed on the floor violently, dying.

    “Spread!” shouted Milic over her strangling gasps.

    The security team members responded perfectly, flowing to either side of the a

Hallway to present as little targets as possible, hugging the walls. They opened fire, chunky sleek weapons stuttering and barking muzzle flashes. The far end of the hall tore and was shredded by holes bore by hypervelocity rounds, the massive rate of fire tearing into the flimsy plaster. Two of the drones shattered apart, sending metal fragments and sparks flying. The other four remaining continued to send bolts of laser down the hallway at the reacting group.

    The others, not apart of the security team and lacking the appropriate training, were much slower to react. Two more of the escorts were gunned down, toppling lifelessly to the ground leaving the remaining girl to shriek and scream in terror. The two balding rich men had the right idea. They dropped to the ground as more lethal bolts fired overhead, just missing.

    Three more of the drones exploded, one in a small fireball as it's high density batteries were ruptured. The last, weaving about through the lethal fusillade of bullets whizzed backwards and out of sight around the corner. For a few more heartbeats the team covered the corner.

    “Stairs. Now.” Milic barked harshly, lowering his unfired revolver.

    The security team stepped emotionlessly over the bodies of the dead women littering the hallway and helped the two men to their feet, visibly shaken. The border official had a long laser burn over his right shoulder, and the crime boss seemed fit to burst with rage at the indignity of the attack, but they were on the whole unharmed.

     Together the survivors surged towards the little door leading towards the stairwell. Ahead, the buzzing of the remaining drone waxed and waned as it no doubt received other orders from its controlnet, flying further into the building likely in an attempt to flank them. It wouldn't get the chance.

     The first members of the security team reached the firedoor and stacked up on either side once more to breach. Milic went first this time, bulky gun levelled and itching to use it. Outwardly he remained calm as ever, but internally he raged. Today of all days someone had to make a play on their client? The luck of it all was frustrating.

    The smooth concrete of the steel-railed stairwell discended before him as he cleared the space, backed up by the other suited men who surged in behind, weapons drawn. The stairwell was brightly lit by buzzing cheap halogen lighting, but aside from them there was no other noise. Utterly and forebodingly silent. Shouldn't the other hotel occupants be be evacuating? The scenario only served to further his annoyance. The team checked up and down the stair, down the centre of the well, and only after discerning it safe, allowed the two men access, their faces marred equally by anger and fear. The last escorts came with them, trembling delicately, but Milic could have cared less. Likely she'd have to go like the others anyway. Witnesses.

    The group descended the hard grey stairs in a clatter of shoes, much more loudly than he would have liked. The three-man vanguard moved as always with mechanical precision, guns up and flicking across their sectors as they covered each landing in turn before moving down to the next, followed closely by Milic himself and the VIPs, and the last two men covering the rear.

    In short order they descended the ten flights to ground level, and once more checked above, behind, and below where the stairs continued to basement level, before stacking up around the landings door once more.

    It was a wide thing, white painted metal with a fat pushbar and a glowing green ‘Exit’ sign supported above. Emblazoned upon the hard surface of the door was the thick black lettered word ‘Lobby’.

    Milic waited for the group to assemble, vexed. The two older men were already out of breath and sweating, shooting him glares as if the whole situation was his fault. He ignored them, but they needed a moment to rest so he spoke instead.

    “Almost there. This is the dangerous part, I'm afraid. Likely they'll be lying in wait in the lobby - whoever it is - with their main play ready. The drones were a ploy, testing our measures but the real push will be behind that door.” he gestured to it with his gun.

    “Whether they want you alive or… otherwise, our job remains the same. Stay low, move quickly. We'll be out front and into the cars in no time.” maybe it sounded reassuring. Maybe not. He didn't honestly care.

    Milic addressed one of the men in his team at the back.

    “Molto, get the cars on the net. Have them extend the shield umbrella vanes over the entrance to account for sniper fire.”

    The man nodded, and was still for a moment while he accessed the datanet through the virtual view in his hologlasses. A shadow crossed his face.

    “Sir, I… can't. The cars aren't online anymore.”

    Milic cursed colorfully before regaining his composure.

    “Alright. This is how it's going to go. Hard and fast, that means at a run.” he said to the group. The rich men nodded grumpily, but they acceded.

    “Two on the VIPs, three front. Reverse wedge. Everyone loaded?” The black suited men all nodded.

    “W-what about me?” stuttered the woman, half dressed in expensive black lingerie.

Milic smiled and nodded reassuringly.

    “Right you are. Molto, drop the dead weight.”

    The man at the back stepped forward smartly. Before the hooker could react his suit-sleeved arm flashed up, hand cupping the base of her neck gently. There was a slight jolt through her body. Milic didn't see the long thin monoblade shoot from the man's wrist nor retract, but a second later she was dead, piled upon the floor, a pool of blood widening around her head, spinal column severed.

    “Good. Are we ready?”

    Nods flashed around the stairwell landing.

    “Stack up. Prep for breach on my mark.”

    The men assembled, two on the left, one right of the door. The VIPs were hustled before the door, flanked to either side by the remaining guards, nearly shoulder to shoulder. Meatsheilds, but they didn't seem to mind. Milic himself stood between the two formations, where he could oversee and direct the maneuver. They stood there, tense for a long silent moment. Milic took a deep breath to level his heart rate, and thumbed the safety off the chunky revolver grasped in two hands. He wanted the extra spilt second of reaction time. Something unsettled him. Through their gunfight with the drones and subsequent flight down the fire stairs, they hadn't seen nor heard another soul. And then the net to the cars had disappeared.Something was wrong. He took another breath.

    “Breach!” he barked.

    The door shot open, door bar shoved by the lone man on the right as the other two surged forth in a practiced movement. He followed them through, and the three in the vanguard swept into the lobby beyond, followed closely by Milic, then then the businessmen and their protectors.

    The foyer of the hotel was chic and futuristic, white polished marble floors inlaid with silver. A long low counter of black-finished ebony wood served as the reception desk, the glow of hologlass just visible over the top, computers for registration and bookings no doubt. Across the wide space directly ahead were the wall-tall frosted glass front double doors that led out onto the public street. Next to those the long line of four simple brushed metal elevator doors stood closed and quiet. No one came in or out, nor answered phones at the desk or took hotel bookings. No one came and went through the double doors, nor exited the Elevators. Because they were all dead.

    Bodies were strewn about the lobby, lifeless and piled across the marble floor. Blood was splattered in great arcs across the frosted windows and lay in black pools on the ground. The corpse of a receptionist slumped over the desk, hand outstretched in futility, unmoving, dressed in the simple elegant skirt suit of the staff. It was a massacre. Even Milic faltered at the sight.

    “Keep moving.” he growled harshly to the others.

    What the hell was going on here?

     Through the frosted glass panels of the doors and the windows to either side, a shadow moved, outside. The accelerated nervous systems of the bodyguards leapt into action, blocky weapons flicking over to track it as it slowly traversed the front of the building. The team slowed, tensing for engagement.

    The shadow reached the doors. They split open in a rush of cold air from outside.

    The most beautiful woman Milic had ever seen stepped through, wrapped in a clinging white dress, as pristine and unruffled as her porcelain face. Platinum blonde hair fell over her shoulders in waves, hazel eyes regarding them cooly, rosebud red lips straight and emotionless.

     She stepped into the lobby, mechanical grace on elegant heels, the angular cut fabric of the dress rippling slightly over her angelic form, bare legs extending beneath. She saw them, guns aimed. And didn't stop. She didn't even seem to notice the bodies sprawled around her in bloody heaps, oblivious to the carnage.

    Some dumb bimbo. That's what Milic first thought, even as beautiful as she was. Obviously the three men at the fore of their little formation though the same. They all aimed at her.

    “Get the f**k back.” shouted the one in the middle. When she didn't stop that's when Milic knew something was horribly wrong.

    “You deaf, b***h?” The man said, gesturing aggressively with his submachine gun.

Milic opened his mouth to say something in warning. Too late.

    Her right arm flew up, faster that anyone had a right to move. Her small palm faced outwards, nails manicured and painted white. In the centre, the stubby nozzle of a barrel poked out from the flesh of her hand. There was no time for anyone to move.

The hand blazed in crackling fire, ultra-rapid bursts as hypervelocity gunfire jetted from the woman's palm, shredding the two leftmost men in front. Their forms tore and exploded under the barrage, fountaining more crimson blood to add to that already staining the lobby floor. Milic leapt aside,  frantically bringing his own weapon up to bear. There was a lancing pain through his right shin but he shoved the feeling aside. The rightmost man protecting the rich two behind was also gunned down by the bullets punching through those at the front. The VIPs began to yell.

    Submachine guns opened fire. Bright sparks of ricochet flared from the woman's body, her dress shredding apart upon her. But she still stood, calm and composed. The destructive fire of bullets leaving her seemingly unharmed, despite the white garment now being in tatters. She didn't even break stride.

    Her left arm came up as the right ceased firing. With a clink, the skin parted at the wrist in a metallic seam. Then from her raised palm the entire limb peeled apart like the petals of a flower, becoming tendrils that separated and elongated. Where her forearm began below the elbow there were metallic writhing tendrils. They lashed forward, encasing the head of the surviving man of the front three, even while he continued to fire at the woman, to no effect. He let out a strangled yell, which quickly turned to a scream.

      There was a pulse in the long cables attached to the things arm, a tensing. The man's head exploded with a sickening crunch, gouting gore and skull through the gaps in the grasping tendrils. He continued to fire, finger clenched down in death, but arms slack, until the weapon ran dry, bullets spraying in all directions.

     Milic got up quickly from where he'd landed. This was not good. Still oncoming, the blonde woman-thing had already cut through half the security team without taking damage. It was time to get serious.

    Several meters away, he brought up the chunky revolver with its long, square barrel. Eight shots was all he had. Though usually, he only needed one - and even that was overkill. He sighted down the length of the weapon one-handed, arm outstretched. The metal sights glowed green in his hologlasses vision as they aligned. It seemed for a moment that the approaching machine-woman looked directly at him. Headshot.

    The thick gun roared once, kicking backwards in his hand with power. It wasn't, of course, a normal gun. Milic had always been a heavy hitter.

    Accelerated by minute powerful electro rails, the charged tungsten slug was fired forth faster than even the hypervelocity rounds of the modern submachineguns the other security team members carried. As the impact sensor on the very tip of the bullet met with the dead centre of the woman's piercing right eye, the shaped charge encased inside detonated. Violently.

     Her head whipped back and aside with the sheer force of the impact, brilliantly glossy hair flying wide in an obscuring curtain. The thing, whatever it was, halted mid stride, finally confronted with something possessing significant stopping power.

    Milic allowed a slight smile to twitch his lips. The loss of the men was unfortunate, but an acceptable one to his employer. The b***h was stopped, finally. And no wonder. His specialised custom weapon could punch through even a fully shielded and armored Assault cop.

    There was a low mechanical whine. His heart skipped a beat.

With exaggerated slowness the head of the woman turned back towards him, righting itself. The blonde hair fell aside revealing her face once more.

    Where the right eye had been was a torn empty socket of metal, chrome and shiny. The shattered remains of a lens and aperture was visible around the wide gaping hole, sparks flaring within briefly. The entire right upper half of her face was torn away, revealing more of the bright steel beneath, skin flaking away to either side of the revealed crater like ancient paint. The rest of her was disturbingly unblemished. A sickening visage of half-machine, half human face.

    Milic took a shaking step back as fear began to lance through his veins. He was way, way out of his depth. Training kicked in and the revolver came up to bear again.

    “What the f-” was all he got out.

    Faster than blinking, faster than even thought, the arm with the dangling tendrils of cable-like tentacles flashed up and they wrapped around his gun hand. It was wrenched sideways as he fired, the chunky weapon roaring deafeningly again, but the shot going wide. For a moment he struggled in the unrelenting grip of the smooth metal tendrils. They suddenly jerked, twisting his wrist and forearm nearly completely around. Milic screamed. Pain exploded through him from the broken arm, yet still the monster did not let go.

    The ground shifted. He didn't remember it happening, yet suddenly his view was crazed, the marble floor littered with bodies seemingly above him. A blink later he realised he was flying bodily through the air, tossed aside effortlessly like trash. With a monumental impact that shunted the air out of his body he struck the wall near the Elevators. He felt a snap from inside himself.

    Milic slid to the floor in a motionless heap, dazed but conscious.

    With wavering clarity he looked down at his ruined arm, twisted impossibly. Oddly there wasn't any pain. But he couldn't get up. He couldn't even move his head to look as gunfire erupted in the lobby once more from the last remaining bodyguard.

    His eyes twitched up and he watched helpless as the suited man was scythed down, the mechanical monster raising the arm with its embedded gun, the staccato of shots it burst at him seemingly distant. Milics vision clouded as he struggled to remain awake.
    The last thing he saw was the two fat, balding men making a run for it, back to the stairs. They didn't make it, of course. They fell under another fusillade of gunfire.
     The woman strode over to their still-twitching bodies where they lay on the floor. She raised the gun-arm again. The tendrils withdrew, coalescing once more into a solid limb. She opened fire, intact eye perfect; beautiful and emotionless. She didn't cease the barrage until nothing was left of the bodies but pulp and shattered marble.

   Then oblivion took Milic. And gladly, he let it.