A tricked-out sled car, something that had been high-end luxury back on Utopion ten years ago and now looked like something a pimp might drive, roared off over the overgrown grass. Rechs shot at it, but it was sufficiently armored that even his rounds did no damage.
He gave chase, running after it as fast as he could.
36
Rechs quickly fell behind the driver who, once he’d cleared the courtyard, slammed his foot on the accelerator and carried the sled off down a narrow street. At the same time, other vehicles converged on the escape route’s entrance, seeking to cut Rechs out of the chase. An impromptu firefight broke out as Rechs filled the driver’s cab of the first vehicle to arrive, a slick sport utility sled, with bullets. Both of the pros up front were killed.
Two other sleds entered the courtyard from opposite streets, part of a three-team response to what Rechs imagined the pro Soshie network was calling “the situation at Basement Six.”
Rechs sent powerful fifty-caliber rounds into one of the sleds, spider-webbing the safety glass and blowing giant volcano holes inward on both driver and wingman. Still on his feet, the bounty hunter circled the sled, using it for cover as more vehicles came in hot, braking hard on repulsors and sending up a skirl of debris and hot wind.
A brief exchange of blaster bolts and return gunfire echoed out across the empty street. This area was too far away from the riots to have many passersby, and the locals had been keeping their heads down ever since the trouble started.
Rechs opened a comm link to the Obsidian Crow as he crouched behind the blaster-riddled sled. The day was reaching the zenith of its heat, and despite the armor’s best efforts to keep Rechs cool, he was sweating buckets and breathing hard. The thing’s climate controls were at times as temperamental as its shields.
There had been a lot of action already in the short space of a few minutes. Shooting and getting shot at. And now he was losing his target.
“Here,” said Lyra. “Are you okay, Tyrus?”
“Launch the observation bot out the hangar bay door. Send it to my loc and tell it to sweep the streets for this vehicle.”
He sent his bucket’s feed capture of the escape sled over to Lyra.
“On it, Tyrus. Are you—”
Rechs cut the feed. He popped up and shot a target of opportunity in the torso. He was facing at least four of them, and the first one to get it had made the mistake of using a sled door for cover. Fifty-caliber rounds—moving fast and heavy from the depleted uranium—didn’t mind civilian doors in the least. The shot man twisted, screaming wordlessly, and fell to the hot pavement as his blaster skittered under the sled.
More sleds were inbound. They were trying to tie him up here. To waste his time so the lead sled could escape.
Rechs abandoned the firefight and ran for the nearest alley, firing on full auto to keep their heads down as he departed. When he reached the cool shadows of the alley he kept running, arms and legs pumping, even using the weight of the pistol to pull him ahead just a little bit farther with each stride.
He doglegged into a side alley and threw himself against a crumbling duracrete wall. Several two-headed rats, local to the planet, chittered at Rechs and backed off into the darkness. They’d been feeding on the body of a dead drunk, or homeless person, who’d built their camp here.
Rechs hydrated and listened to the helmet’s enhanced sound detection. He could hear more sleds coming in fast back at the courtyard, but no one was in a hurry to head down the alley and catch him.
“Rechs!” It was Lyra breaking through his comm. “Drone overhead your area in thirty seconds. Also, G232 has something to tell you.”
Rechs told the armor to dose him with some staminex and adrenapro. A dangerous combo that could peg out his heart. But he was out of juice. After two firefights that included almost getting blown to bits by a grenade, and then a foot chase… he was fading.
He didn’t like it, but that was the way it was.
At least the beatdown in the common room had gone easily. He’d barely broken a sweat with the Soshie kids.
“Ah… yes… master—oh no, right,” began G232. “You don’t want me to call you that. Captain Rechs… it seems someone has contacted the local authorities and put out a… ‘BOLO’ associated with your name. Tyrus Rechs. That’s what pricked up my auditory sensors while listening in on the local authority comm traffic. I take it you know what that means, master—I mean, Captain?”
“Yeah,” gasped Rechs as the drugs hit and he gulped more hydration. “It means they know I’m here.”
“You appear to be in trouble, Captain. I’m sorry if that’s an understatement. My human interface functions don’t always detect well over communication devices.”
“Drone’s on station and searching, Tyrus,” interrupted Lyra.
Rechs waited. The expensive drone system was military and designed to detect terrorist threats within a population of up to one million. Its scanning and identification software had cost Rechs a small fortune and so he didn’t care to deploy it unless he absolutely had to. With almost zero stealth capabilities, it was incredibly susceptible to ground fire and detection—a design flaw the House of Reason hadn’t bothered to address when they’d ordered several hundred.
“Tracking the sled three blocks west of your position, Tyrus. It’s stopped. Blocked by a crowd. Feeding you telemetry now.” Lyra’s computer voice sounded urgent, and he could tell she was more than a little worried about him. She always was. But he didn’t correct her. Or get angry with her like many did with their ship’s AIs. Some said it was the best way for them to learn. Negative feedback. But metaphorically, she was still a child. And Rechs didn’t get mad at children. Not that he’d met many. And Lyra was based on someone who’d
