work on Ky-tech. When fighting one another, they were trained to utilise a brutal blend of martial arts, based primarily on military combat disciplines like Defendu and Krav Maga, but incorporating martial arts like Aikido, primarily those that involved the redirection of mass and energy, forever trying to put one another off balance.
That was the idea behind their training, but mostly they just punched the shit out of each other using their massively enhanced strength.
Otto pinned Sakaday's arms by his side, preventing him from bringing his monomolecular knife to bear, and headbutted him three times in the face. Sakaday twisted back and forth, trying to avoid Otto's bludgeoning skull. He caught two blows on his cheeks and the third cracked his nose.
A fourth green light. Otto's adjutant was working faster, bandwidth freed up by the deactivation of train AI, allowing it to search the Grid rapidly for Chance Key matches. Lucky for him the USNA and the EU wouldn't sell high-end quantum cyphering to the Russians.
Sakaday snapped his teeth towards Otto, drew himself down and in, then flung his arms out. Unable to break Otto's hold, he got enough room to hook his feet behind Otto's calves and send them both tumbling to the floor. Otto's hold jarred loose, allowing Sakaday to roll free. Lying on his back, Otto chopped down with his forearm, aiming for the African's throat. Sakaday evaded, Otto's arm leaving a long dent in the metal. Otto followed the momentum of his strike, rolling himself over, flipping his legs out and round, tangling Sakaday's knife hand and kicking the weapon free. Otto's legs spun. He pushed with his arms and landed on his feet.
Sakaday scowled at him, blood trickling from his nose. 'You are fighting well for an old man.'
They circled one another round the autoturret, the train swaying under them.
'You fight like a girl, Sakaday. I suppose that is all you have fought against, women, you and your unit, murdering and raping civilians.'
Sakaday shrugged. Otto cursed inwardly. Things would be better if he were fighting Kaplinski, or some shit like Tufa. He needed a talker. Kaplinski he could goad, he was a self-justifier. Kaplinski would rant on until Christmas. Sakaday never said much. He just killed and laughed while he did it.
It was so much easier with talkers.
A fifth green light. Then a sixth.
Come on! He thought, urging his adjutant on. The mentaug's information flow stuttered with effort, but the remaining six lights remained stubbornly red.
He was going to have to fight some more.
Verdammt, his shoulder hurt. He rotated it, snarled at the pain, and charged back into the fray.
Chures dropped another man in grey. There were a lot of them, so many that their clothes must have had camo-functions, only morphing into their anonymous uniform as the conflict began. It was obvious tech, if you were looking for it. Anywhere else such adaptive garb would have been cause for high suspicion, but this was Russia, where questions of that kind were answered by bullets, or silenced with cash.
The men were coming fast, too eagerly, and Chures wondered what the hell Kaplinski had promised them to get them to attack so recklessly.
'These idiots are behaving like zealots, not mercenaries,' he said under his breath. His uplinks gave him no clue as to their identity, the same masking techniques as effective here as they had been when they'd taken him on in Colorado and when they'd killed Qifang 2 back in Morden.
Gunfire blazed the length of the train. Many of the passengers were armed, and the few Cossacks remaining at liberty had identified the men in grey as the threat. For the time being, he and Valdaire would look just like another gung-ho pair engaging hostile elements on the train; it had happened before.
'How long until the Cossacks work out the complexity of the situation?' he shouted back to Valdaire. She shrugged; there was no way of knowing, now that Chloe was off. She covered the corridor behind them. Chures refrained then from asking her how many men in grey there were.
'There's a firefight still going on in the carriage two down from ours. Cossacks, I think. Nothing coming our way.'
Chures breathed out, forcing the tension from his muscles. He changed the magazine in his gun; there were only two bullets left in his current clip. 'The only thing we can do is go forward.'
A man with muscles like melons took advantage of the lull in fighting, bursting out of his compartment. He toted an automatic pistol like an action hero, a meathead's weapon, a 500-roundsa-minute job whose gilded magazine would last approximately half a second before running dry. Chures held up his hand placatingly. The Slav's face was red and throbbing, his eyes carrying the jaundice associated with bad genehacks and synthetic testosterone burn. He looked angry.
'Easy! Easy!' called Chures, hoping the man spoke enough English to understand. He glared. Chures pointed to the corpse of the man in grey and wagged a finger, shaking his head. The Russian nodded, and turned to walk up the corridor. He was so full of mood modifiers he'd probably kick a bear in the balls without thinking about the consequences.
'We've got to get to Klein. If the men in grey don't get us, the Cossacks or one of these crazy bastards will,' said Chures.
The door at the end of the carriage burst open and a huge shape pulled itself through, grunting as it squeezed into the confined space.
The Russian yelled something. A fist the size of a head grabbed him by the shoulder and squeezed. Chures heard the bone crack from where he was. The Russian screamed as he was plucked off the floor. His weapon discharged its entire load in a cacophony of sparks, bullets bouncing wildly off the train's toughened interior, gunsmoke filling the corridor. The fist slammed him up, mashing his skull into the ceiling. Another hand grabbed the limp form about the neck and pulled. The ruined head came free with a gristly pop. Still holding the corpse, the monster smashed the train's bulletproof window with a lazy backhand. The dead Russian went through it.
Kaplinski filled the corridor. He had grown monstrous, hulking body barely fitting into the passageway, his head comically small on shoulders that heaved with unnatural power. He was naked, and his muscles bulged and throbbed, distended by some process far removed from Ky- technischeren technology. His eyes blazed feral and saliva ran from his mouth.
'Klein! I have them now! Little pigs, little pigs,' Kaplinski said, lips twisted into a snarl of joyful savagery. 'Let me in.'
Then his grin faded, and his head whipped round. 'Sakaday…' he growled.
Chures steadied his gun arm, grasping his right wrist with his left hand, took careful aim at Kaplinski's head, and fired, and fired, and fired.
The tenth dot of the Chance Key turned green.
Otto dodged a flathanded punch that smashed a hole into the autoturret's pillar. He pivoted under Sakaday's next, delivering a forearm slam to the other Ky-tech's head. Sakaday staggered. Otto followed it up fluidly, punching and punching, standard boxing technique now, a sport he had once been a master of.
Sakaday was driven back. A stagger turned into a dodge and Otto felt his legs swept away from under him. Sakaday kept back, hand reaching down to where his knife rocked on the train flatbed. Otto was up in a crouch as the Nigerian came for him. The monomolecular blade parted the air like a kiss millimetres from his face. He palmed away a strike from Sakaday's other fist and used the momentum of the Nigerian to send him stumbling onward. Otto followed to press his attack, but Sakaday recovered, hopping onto the Stelsco's cradle and turning the movement into a roundhouse kick that caught Otto in the face.
Eleven green dots in his head, to go with the innumerable coloured blobs dancing across his field of vision, courtesy of Sakaday's foot.
Sakaday came toward Otto slowly, cautiously. Old or not, Otto was holding his own. Sakaday was limping, his left hand straying to his ribs. Good, thought Otto, I hurt the bastard. Otto considered getting up, but did not.
Christ, I'm tired, he thought, and urged his healthtech to damp down the fire in his malformed shoulder. Sakaday was younger and fitter than him. Fuck knew which twisted psycho in that tinpot dictatorship had had him altered. They were the only ones who used full mods now. Tech they'd used was good, no Sinosiberian shit here. This was only going to end one way, he thought.
The Nigerian realised Otto was not going to stand and paused. He stood taller. Healthtech flares lit up in Otto's iHUD overlay, mending his opponent as they talked. 'You are old, you should have given up.'
Otto grinned a bloody smile. 'You are not the first person to say that to me.'
Sakaday stretched out. Otto watched the shift in Sakaday's EM aura as his healthtech nanobots worked hard.
