By that time, Armbrand and Rassmussen had Ashton inside one of the maintenance access hatches, and out of sight.
That was only the beginning of the latest round of shell games that the ICPD had to play to keep Ashton out of the hands of a vengeful Imperial Police. After three more days of ducking and dodging and getting shot at, Gorski sat him down for a talk in his office.
“Nick, what the hell did you do to piss them off this badly?”
“I’m not entirely sure, sir,” Ashton admitted then. “It only seemed to really take off when I solved this one robbery… which is also when Lee Carter shucked me over here.”
“Tell me about this robbery.”
“Well, it was at a museum…”
“Oh damnation,” Peterson expostulated, when Gorski called her in upon finding out about the museum robbery Ashton had foiled. “You have to be kidding me. That thing is still floating around out there? No wonder they want the damn thing!”
“You mean it still works?!” Ashton exclaimed in shock. “I figured, as old as it was…”
“Unless one of the Empresses since then has issued an edict to the contrary, yes, whoever holds the Sigil is considered to speak for the Empress,” Gorski explained. “And I’m with Maia – no wonder they want it so badly. They could bollix up a lot of Empress Ilithyia’s plans at this point.”
“And they’re probably still trying to go after it,” Peterson pointed out. “Which is why they want Nick out of the way. He’s the only one who can tell anybody that they wanted it to begin with.”
“I’ll see if I can’t take care of that, really quick,” Gorski said. “Give me a minute, here, and I’ll contact Major Dunham. I’m sure he’ll see to it that his sister negates that whole mess, in a damn hurry.”
Within hours, an Imperial Decree was quietly issued, negating all prior means of representation of the Throne save a literal or virtual-reality Decree, and specifying the Sigil by name as “a delightful historic artifact, worthy of scholarly interest, but long since overcome by technology and no longer effectual or recognized by the Throne.”
Which took care of that potential wrench in the works.
But it didn’t stop the Imperial Police – let alone the Council – wanting Ashton’s head on a platter. In fact, if anything, it made them even more vengeful over the lost opportunity.
Tired at the end of the shift, Ashton headed home, having changed into yet another disguise, with Mott’s help once more. He had kept the blue-green lenses for his eyes, and changed his wig to a sandy blond tone, along with a goatee and mustache. He was clad in the latest designer jeans and tee, with an expensive leather jacket over all…at least, that was what it looked like. Once more, Mott had raided the confiscated counterfeits inventory; even the jacket wasn’t real leather…but it was an excellent imitation.
So Ashton headed out, aimed for his apartment building several blocks south of the headquarters precinct. Given that he looked like an upscale young professional, he avoided the more clandestine ways, which tended to take him through alleys, mews, and maintenance accesses, and which would look odd at best, for someone of his apparent status.
Instead, he headed down to the arcade level, took a people-mover to the arcade proper, rode the slidewalk through it, then went up the escalator to street level.
That was where they were waiting.
As half a dozen goons – none of whom Ashton recognized, this time – approached him in a semicircle, Ashton concluded that they were finding ways to run pattern recognition algorithms on his face, for no matter what Adrian did, they always seemed to find him.
“Putcher hands in the air, Ashton,” one of ‘em snarled. “You’re the one goin’ into custody this time. ‘Cept you won’t be gettin’ out of it.”
“Except in a box,” one of the others snickered.
Ashton eased into a crouch; if it came to it, he would fight… and it looked like it was coming to it pretty fast. He was badly outnumbered, but he figured he could take a couple with him. Sorry, Cally, he thought. I guess it isn’t gonna happen for us, honey. Stay safe.
Suddenly fully a dozen black figures emerged from the shadows; four were behind Ashton, the rest completed a circle enclosing the Imperial Police henchmen. Dressed in head-to-toe black unitards, even their faces were covered, though the unitards showed that two were female, and at least three, possibly four, were likely mature males. They spanned the gamut of body types and heights, they were all armed, and they all stepped forward and promptly dropped into a martial arts horse stance.
“Not if we can help it,” one snarled, voice an odd, electronic neuter, and Ashton realized the full-face hoods held vocal distorters.
‘It’s a special suit for nighttime surveillance,’ Ashton suddenly remembered. Aha. I wonder who he recruited to come along with him.
The lead IPD stooge – who was also the closest – growled and lunged at Ashton with a knife, but Ashton stayed in shape; he was quick and agile, and he dodged easily, executing a downward block with his left hand that knocked the knife well away from his body, and in fact out of the man’s hand. It clattered on the pavement.
The rest of the black-clad ninjas closed with the IPD flunkies, some moving into position for hand-to-hand combat, others drawing stun weapons.
“Run, Nick!” one of the female ninjas said to him as she sprinted by him. “We have this!”
Ashton spun and sprinted for the door of
