The Church of the Emperor

[Zakalwe]

There was a reverent silence in the Church of the Emperor, the congregation sitting in the pews, head bows towards the altar that lay at the front. Every person there was wearing a long black cloak with a golden trim around the arms, and a golden eagle sewn into the lining. The Church was a long hall, with a tall vaulted ceiling 30 feet high, with high stone pillars supporting the ceiling and with wooden pews, fully adorned with kneeling pads for prayer, filling up most of the space. On the wall where pictures depicting various scenes of Godlike Nepleslians fighting against the Nekovalkyrja, who where shown as demonic and evil beings. There were no windows however, and all the light came from candles hung from the ceiling in chandeliers, bathing the whole Church in a flickering quiet light so different from that found in the rest of Nepleslia, and which made the shadows along the walls dance. The alter, which was on an a slightly elevated platform, was of marble, and adorned with a long linen cloth, upon that various golden cups and bowls, and in the centre a Nekovalkyrja's skull, the pride of the congregation.

Out of the pulpit at the side strode the High Priest, Vicar of the Emperor and Archbishop of Nepleslia (titles recognised by no-one by the Emperor's Acolytes). He was a large, muscular man, but very handsome, with blue eyes and a great mane of blond hair. His face had the expression of one completely sure of himself, and more importantly full of faith in some higher force, a serene face. Standing behind the altar, he rose his arms wide, as if embracing the entire congregation, and began to speak, his voice resounding around the room, deep and charismatic:

"My Children! The Lord has revealed to me that your faith is in decline! Have your hearts quailed at the enormity of our task? Control yourselves! Refrain from despair! Do not forget the enormity and importance of our undertaking!

We are the Children of the Emperor, the only ones that still revere him, that stand by his ideals! We stand for Nepleslia against the foul Yamatians! Let us not forget the years of servitude that we suffered under Yamatai, those terrible repressed years, our liberties denied to us by the false line of Emperors and Empress'. They kept us under their thumb with their unholy warriors, the soulless Nekovalkyrja.â€

 

[Zakalwe]

The group headed by the High Priest walked through the oak door into a very different area. The dim light and numinous effect of the church was replaced by the hard glint of steel, soft corners or wood with hard edges and bright lights. In the centre of this laboratory, for that is what it was with all of the flashing lights and robotic contraptions one would expect, was a mechanized bed, at an angle of 45 degrees, and strapped onto it with metallic clamps, limbs apart and dressed only in a grey body suit lay a man. He looked a little out of place among the stock Nepleslians that made up the audience, and the scientists around him: he was tall and well built, but lithe, with pale skin and long black hair that came down to his shoulders. Across his pale skin where tattoos, the scriptures of the Church written in tiny lettering across his body. At the moment his eyes where closed, he was asleep.

"How is our weapon against the infidel?â€

 

[Zakalwe]

Andess Reir was driving down one of Funky City's many minor streets humming gently to himself, his face illuminated by the moving flashes of light from passing street-lamps. It was good to be him, a rising state official currently in charge of a sectors sewage, but with great prospect, a good family, a wonderful trophy wife and ... fringe benefits. Andess smiled lecherously as he thought of the little prostitute he'd just left, the kinkiest broad he'd ever met. Ah yes, socially he would be with Dires, his wife, but his heart, and more importantly his crouch, belonged to the crimson seductress Selium. Andess scratched his balding head without thinking as he took a hard left to get around the corner, and began to preen his hair in the mirror.

While the car was passing down yet another abandoned street however there was something a little different. The difference was focused that in front of Andess, on the very bonnet of his car a figure landed very hard, with the resounding clash and vibrations that one would expect. The figure had landed in a crouching stance, perfect balanced managing even to resist being thrown off as Andess violently braked.

Through the windshield Andess could see a man garbed in dark clothes, concealed mostly under a long flowing great coat, his head clear but turned away.

Andess tried to recover from being jerked forward against the seat belt, with all of the bruising of flesh and neck damage. He was fairly certain he'd have whip lash. "What the hell do you think you are doing?â€

 

[Doshii Jun]

The smoke whirled around Johnson's face. It was good tobacco -- straight from the greenhouses in the south of Funky City. If there was one thing Johnson hated, it was cheap cigarettes.

"Are you done looking moody?"

Johnson turned and blew smoke at his associate, Miller. He smiled. "When else do I get to smoke at the scene of a bloodbath in an alley?"

"Every day of your goddamn life," Miller mumbled through her thin lips. "Now come over here and help me."

Johnson extinguished the cigarette between his fingers and put it back in his suit pocket. The expensive silk was tailor-made to retain the smell of the smoke, as it was just a few hairs less sweet than most pipe tobacco. Cologne was too expensive anyway, especially the good stuff. He retained a much more ... bedeviled-but-sophisticated feel this way.

"Pay attention, John." Miller angled her cold blue eyes up at the dark-skinned PI. One of her fingertips popped open to reveal a triple-diode lamp, which she shined on the blackened figure lying on the ground. "This is electrical burning ... probably straight to the brain. Notice the hair was ignited by something other than the direct current applied to his face. The trinket fused to his chest suggests the same."

Johnson yawned. "We got paid a lot by that wife, didn't we? Nice piece of ass, she was."

"Focus, cowboy." Miller pointed her light at the legs. "He was put in this position, obviously ... but not carefully. Collateral damage eliminated anything more showy."

"Think she'd date me?" Johnson said. "I bet I could swing her."

" ... " Miller continued. "The violent death must be purposeful. See the wrinkles in his clothes? And the hole bashed into the car's windshield? He was grabbed and held, like this." Miller posed as if she were grabbing someone by the front of a person's shirt. "Then, he electrocuted him ... must've been direct. Cybernetics or a lightning gun." Miller shined her light where the person's head would be. "Painful shit."

"She must've been a C-cup. Naw, Yamatai G-cup. Just how I like'em."

Miller shined her light in Johnson's eyes. He closed them before it even got there, the smile on his face bigger than before. "Stop being such a fucking lech and work with me, dammit. You know the underground better than I do."

Johnson looked over the body again with the help of Miller's light. "It's not perfect, you're right." He paused, walked around, and lit his cigarette again. "Gotta be a believer. Someone who cares. Not many of them."

"Slav sector?"

"Naw. They keep to themselves. And they don't fuck with city officials like this."

"Reds would make a big scene ..."

"If this were a hit, they wouldn't go to all the trouble of yanking him around. Blow up his car on the old freeways or something."

"Fake out?"

"Naw. You had it right." Johnson bent down and looked closer at the body, then looked back at the car. "The subject walked away after landing on the fucking hood. Has to be a full cyborg. And if it's a cyborg ..."

"No point in risking having a weapon. Just build one in?"

"Yeah. Why scrimp on the good shit?"

"Special assassin, then. In-house, to keep it all in the family."

"Some house, but yeah. Not by the mobs." Johnson took a long draw on his cigarette and let the smoke out with a long breath. "Lotta money for a cyborg like this."

"Poking around the area wouldn't yield much. No one saw this, the cops said."

"We're better than them." Another long drag and exhale. "No cameras around here either, huh."

"Nope."

"I think we should up the price. She's gotta sleep with me ... three times."

"You're not that well-hung or that talented."

"Bitch."

"***."

The two's eyes met for a moment before they both grinned a little. "I'll start digging in the police archives tonight," Miller said.

"I'll do some walkin'-and-talkin', see what I can find. Seeya at the office 'bout 00:00. We'll do dinner."

Miller nodded, her fingertip covering the lamp again. "I'm in a meat and potatoes kind of mood."

"I'll bring the tobasco."

The two parted ways, leaving the body as it was. Four hours had passed since the murder.

 

[Zakalwe]

The Angel had stopped his bounding from building to building, and was instead walking along the streets like any other man, his coat wrapped around him, even its long tail somehow reduced and wrapped around him. He kept to the shadows mainly, walking outside the aura of the street lamps and with no real discernable direction, turning at some corners, walking straight at others and a few times walking around in circles.

"Hey partner, you got some change? I could really do with a warm meal and a place to stay.â€

 

[Zakalwe]

"So my son, was your mission a success?â€

 

[Doshii Jun]

The door clicked shut behind Johnson. Looking to his right, down the matte hallway, Miller waited with her hands folded over one another in front of her holding her black leather bookbag. She almost looked like a school girl, if it weren't for the black pants, white blouse and blue tie. He walked down toward her, expensive shoes clicking on the solid floor. He smiled at her as the portal to the glass-walled lift opened. She followed him inside, where she leaned against the opposite wall.

The sky was brilliantly clear so far above the smog and grit of the median levels of Funky City. Thrunqonis was just starting to rise above the horizon again, though most on the surface could barely tell. Johnson registered the various parts of the landscape below him that were hazed or blanketed by grey. He only noticed because he could see a good 100 kilometers in front of him. The lift started to sink slowly.

"Please tell me that was more informative than my meeting with the archivist," Miller said. She'd been up since yesterday; her internal clock told her the time was 04:30.

"Golds didn't say much, either?" Johnson didn't look at her.

"They said the bureaucracy, annoying as it is, had done nothing to warrant a murder."

"Blues said the same thing. Took a while -- "

"I'll say," Miller said irritably.

"But they said it. Reds?"

"The sector he covered wasn't of any interest to them, so we were right there."

"Blacks are more interested in the fuckin' street urchins than our client." Johnson scratched his head. "We ain't got the resources to investigate a cult we've never heard of. And there are no witnesses."

"My contacts in the cyborg business came up dry. The kind of cyborg we're talking about actually isn't very special." Miller removed a datapad from her bookbag.

Johnson wanted a cigarette. But the Blues headquarters had banned it from the glass elevators. He felt the case in his silk suit pocket weighing him down.

"The best they could come up with is the power supply linked to the built-in weapon. There are weapons that are more efficient killers, but more importantly, more efficient energy users." Miller handed the pad to Johnson. "If it were using an expensive power generator, it would need a converter to create that kind of electrocution weapon, as most generators are plasma- or carbon-based."

"What do you run on, carbon?"

"Yes." Miller pushed some of her plain blond hair behind her ear. "Carbon-based converts food into energy. What it lacks in capacity, it makes up for in utility."

"Our subject's not into the whole utility thing, huh?"

"I bet he isn't." Miller looked out over the landscape below for the first time, smiling a little. She loved the sky, which was why she paid a premium for her lofty flat. "Think about it. If it's a full cyborg, it needs a sponsor. One that will want to keep a leash on it ... what better leash than a power supply?"

"Could just have a plasma recharging station?"

"Plasma-powered cyborgs can do a lot of work carbon-powered ones can't. But plasma is regulated for that very reason. Can't just buy a recharging station ... you have to get special permits for it."

"This is Funky City, girl."

"Blacks own this city; they wouldn't want a full plasma cyborg running around that wasn't theirs. We're sure they didn't do it?"

"Yeah. They actually liked the guy. He wasn't greasy, but he was fair."

"Then to get the permits, they'd have to pay through the nose."

"If they can buy the cyborg, why not the permits?"

Miller's facial expression finally changed. "They could. But those permits are public record."

"Bullshit."

The woman's smile brightened. "Unless it's military. And all of those permits have to be filed with disclosures, saying what type of cyborg or vehicle the station is for. Draconian, if you ask me."

"You checked this shit already?"

Miller nodded once. "Nothing that matches our subject."

"Shit." Johnson couldn't help but be impressed. His partner used to be a journalist, until she got too close to fucking with the Blacks. It was why she still had trouble talking to them to this day. Johnson was a natural talker, so it was easy for him. But when it came to the research, Miller was too good. "So what's that do to us now?"

"You think you can dig more on this cult crap?" Miller took the pad back and put it in her bag.

"There's a few places I haven't checked yet. Might get lucky."

"I'm going to visit the utilities district. Straight electrical power draws like that are rare enough."

Johnson grinned a little. "You know, if it weren't for you, I'd neva have thought the smell of dust could be sexy."

With a little laugh, Miller looked at her partner. "Lunch at 09:00? My treat."

"Let's hit Von Houyant's. Got me an achin' for some good beer."

She nodded. After a minute or two of silence, Miller spoke again. "You really think I smell like dust?"

"And old metal," Johnson said. "Like filing cabinets."

Miller hmphed quietly, a resigned smile on her face. "At least I don't smell like motor oil or something."

The lift shook a little, then started falling at a much faster pace. It reached the bottom quickly. Stepping into the lobby, Johnson and Miller parted ways again.

It was 04:42 the day after the first murder.

 

[Zakalwe]

Billy D was part of not a particularly rare profession in Funky City: he was a pimp. Actually in particular his stable only consisted of men, and his clients were exclusively male, but in Nepleslia, utterly dominated by men and where women where a rarity, that was actually an extremely common thing. He lived in a fairly average block of flats; he could have afforded a better place but this made better sense security wise. Anyway he lived alone with some of his workers, three to be exact a combination between some of the best sugar that he liked to have around, and those that he didn't want to allow out of his sight. The rest lived in some other rented accommodation down-town.

It had been a fairly good day; Billy D had managed to rake in more than the average amount, and had been in a good enough mood to actually allow one of two of his whores to get away with keeping something back. And he had this new worker, Phillip a lovely blond kid, and his apparent innocence was really drawing in the john's. Right now he was sleeping in Billy D's bed, while Billy D was sitting in the arm-chair smoking his pipe slowly, and looking out on the city. It was five o clock, and the sun was just sinking down below some of the higher buildings, and he found it beautiful.

A scream came from his bedroom, but Billy D didn't give it too much note. One of the problems with working with whores, they sometimes woke up with a start. He didn't care really, they soon remembered where they where and what the situation was, and then the screaming stopped. He just kept puffing slowly on his pipe and squinted into the light.

In the other room Phillip was clutching the sheets around him as he stared at the window in abject terror. For there was a head looking in through the window, a pale face covered with markings and with two golden eyes that seemed completely ... empty. This would be bad enough, this being a private apartment and all, if it was not for the fact it was on the 5th floor, and the man was looking and the man appeared to be hanging from above the window.

The man looked calmly at Phillip for a second, and then dropped down onto the windowsill, and shattered the glass calmly with a palm strike, the window exploding in a shower of glass. This did bring Billy D's attention, the sound of his window shattering that is. Screaming was alright, but if that silly bitch had broken his window he'd beat the crap out of him. As he put down his pipe in a hurry and strode to the bedroom he did think it was a little strange that a small kid like Phillip could break reinforced glass.

As he got to the door he was hit by Phillip fleeing the room, trying to hide his nudity with sheets taken from the bed, a look of complete panic in his face, "A ... man.â€

 

[Doshii Jun]

No appreciable draws of straight electrical power had been recorded for years. The only things that generated such power were older, building-specific generators. Since they were portable power supplies that were not transporting across power lines, the utilities district didn't have to keep track of them. Such units had to be on file with the Blues in case they had to be secured following a fire. Miller had to return to the police station, and she didn't have time for food.

"Seven buildings, one way the hell out past the Slav sector ... and one too deep in Gold territory to really bother. Each one gives a shitty reason to exist, but three have no power to lie."

Miller rubbed her eyes. The search had been excrutiating. Three hours of going through dusty terminals with bad lighting was enough to drive her insane. The Blues accessed the databases through their own terminals; the mostly-open space designated for the public was deep in the police headquarters. The last time she had been there was eight months ago. She could still see her footprints in the dust on the unpainted concrete floor. There were three others. Miller shook her head, the dull olive green walls seemingly closing in on her already.

The first three were easy to find -- legitimate businesses with truthful identification. One was an old-fashioned tanning salon, another an old-fashioned dry cleaning service, and the last was a brewery. Miller had actually been to the brewery before and had their beer-battered tempura. Excellent stuff ... that made her body grumble at her for nourishment. She grumbled back and looked closer at the other four.

The one past the Slav sector was labeled as a dry cleaning service, just like the one she'd found much earlier. Whatever it generated electrical power for, it wasn't dry cleaning -- the area was mostly uninhabited, according to census data done before Nepleslia seceded from Yamatai. Those who did live there didn't have the money for some ancient form of cleansing. The census showed the average income below 2,000 KS per year.

Miller's contact in the cyborg business estimated that the maximum range of the machine in question was about 16 hours at a walking speed of 8 to 8.5 kph, to be on the safe side. Fighting, especially the electrocution weapon, would limit the range, but it was hard to say how much. Miller assumed little to none, again to be safe. That meant an absolute maximum of 136 kilometers. The Slav sector location was 127 kilometers east away from the (first) murder. If it had a ride back, the cyborg could make it home ... but it would be risky. No public transportation was available out to that location, so it would of been private.

She marked it in her search list and moved on to the next one.

The second one was in Gold territory. Johnson had already confirmed they weren't the culprits as they didn't need to kill a security official.

Number three was an old warehouse that said it needed its generator for its cold-storage units. The generated electrical power provided steady, uninterrupted cold to the units where the government's power was unreliable. While that was plausible, capacitors were cheaper and easier to use. And it was well within range of the murder -- 25 kilometers. She filed that one away. The last one was an old apartment complex 23 kilometers away from the murder. It stated the generator was to keep the building running in case of emergencies because the converter was also old and failed sometimes. It was suspicious for the same reasons, but not as much as the cold storage units. It was filed away as well.

The files went onto her datapad. She brought up the location out beyond the Slav sector again and leaned against her arm on the unkept table. Miller couldn't shake the idea that it was worth keeping, so she filed it too. She signaled her desire to end the searches and disconnect to the terminal. It brought up the fees for the records -- a paltry sum quickly deducted from her account without a second thought. Miller smiled as she left the terminal and crossed the dusty floor, leaving another pair of footprints. The datapad went into her black attaché.

After the long climb up the old stairs to the elevator, the video page function of her datapad beeped at Miller. She plucked it from her bag and brought up the wire to Johnson. He seemed upset, a cigarillo locked between his teeth. "What?" she asked.

"Fuck I've been trying to get you for hours. Five more died."

"What?"

"You heard me right. One fried like our client, three others given a good-enough jolt to stop their hearts. The last one had his head turned like a doorknob."

"What?! When?"

"Girl, cut that shit out and listen. What did you find?"

"I've got three probable spots."

Johnson blew a puff of smoke out the side of his mouth. His fedora was much better at hiding his eyes than Miller had realized. "This shit is about 70 klicks west from the client."

Miller shrunk the wire and put it up in a corner. As she brought the map up, Johnson gave her the exact location. She input the area into the pad and waited for a moment before layering the three spots over it. A line connected the two murder scenes. "Fuck."

"What?" Johnson puffed out more smoke.

"We eliminated one spot past the Slav sector ... and we still have two to deal with."

"What's wrong with that?"

"Depends on the nature of the killing. What the hell happened?"

Johnson seemed pissed now. "It killed Billy D and three of his whores."

Miller felt a little lump in her throat. Billy D had been a great resource for her and Johnson, and had even gifted some of his precious pipe tobacco to Johnson for arranging a protection service for the pimp. He'd also been an OK friend of hers.

"No motive available. Somehow got in the fucking fifth floor window," Johnson continued. "He went for his gun, but that cyborg smashed his goddamn hand. The whores were iced fast. Only mistake he seemed to make was killing some dude on the street after jumping out the window he came in. He was the one who got cooked. Interesting tidbit -- the kid had a shirt on that said 'I am your God.'"

Miller winced. "I was really hoping this wasn't a crazy cult."

"Too bad, bitch. Several witnesses heard the dude say some religious shit. We've got a description too -- black cloak, some tattoos, golden eyes."

"That doesn't help," Miller grumbled. "A fair portion of Funky City looks something like that."

"It's all we got."

"What did he say?"

The audio files popped up on her datapad. Miller listened to the witnesses repeat the words they'd heard, then played them back again to make sure she'd heard right. "He. How generic. And when isn't it a time of change."

Johnson let out another steam of smoke. "All the local religious groups have been on the news saying they'd never do this kind of shit."

"Is there any other group that would do this?"

"Naw. Not like this ..." Johnson finished his cigarillo. "All this flash and shit isn't right. No one kills like this."

Miller sighed and cross-referenced churches near the two spots she still had layered on the map. The apartment complex had none within 25 kilometers, but the cold-storage warehouse had one within half a kilometer. It was an older church that worshiped the Aesir. "John, I'm not getting very far here."

"That's not good enough. Blacks are asking us to look into this for Billy D; he was always on time with his protection money, I guess. Fuckload of good it did."

"I'm dying of starvation here ... can you come get me so I can eat?"

"Where are you?"

"The Blues headquarters."

"I'm there too; just a minute."

By now Miller had walked to the wide open lobby, which was several stories tall and had matte silver arched ceilings. It was a nice lobby, cold but pretty. Miller didn't care, of course; she just wanted to eat something, anything. The coffee cart outside was tempting. Johnson found her first as he slipped his cigarillo case into his suit pocket. He walked by her stiffly; she followed. "It's 09:57 right now," Johnson said, "so we should get some sleep after we eat. If we're lucky, he'll take a goddamn nap too."

 

[Zakalwe]

The Angel was beginning to feel drained. He'd had a long day, and served the Emperor many times. This had taken his toll on him, and now he returned to the church, slipping in through large metal doors which opened before him and closed behind, past camera's which followed his progress and past the small black weapon modules stuck to the ceiling. The Church valued its privacy, and had not spared much expense in turning what was on the outside a simple warehouse into a veritable fortress, the bulk of it subterranean. The Church had many wealthy members, and it was simple for the High Priest to convince them of a link between generosity to the Church and a position in the new Empire, or a place of special grace in the afterlife.

He paused at the last door, which did not open automatically for him, waiting instead for some form of identification to go along with his physical appearance. The Angel provided this through saying, in his quiet and ethereal voice, "I tell you that it is not enough to follow me in your heart, you must follow me in word and deed, and act to fulfil my will. Only through this shall you gain entrance to heaven.â€

 

[Doshii Jun]

As the door shut behind them, Miller and Johnson looked out over the spread of asphalt scenery in front of them. It was, as expected, quite bare, even for a warehouse district. No trash. No shantees. Not even any graffiti or marks on the road. It was an excellent reflection of their progress.

The operators of the "cold storage warehouse" didn't like to be bothered. Especially by private investigators. Not that the pair gave a damn about that, but it made things more difficult. The warehouse had "worshippers" in it, most of whom were busy sacrificing fresh body parts to their "gods." It was a lucrative business on Nepleslia -- the body parts were necessary for the Blacks and Reds to repair their non-augmented troops, not to mention sell to hospitals all over the planet. The stench was ridiculously bad. Even with her cyborg body Miller nearly wretched. Johnson kept a cigarillo lit and in his mouth the entire time.

"That was a fat fucking bust," Johnson said on the steps of the warehouse's plain door.

"I won't be eating in the evening." Miller rubbed her stomach.

"We got three hours of rest ... and no killings when we woke up. Think he's finally tired?"

"Not as tired as I am. The apartment complex is the only other area we can check, unless you want to wander out to the Slav Sector."

The asphalt was warm -- at least 25 degrees. Johnson shook his head. "Too hot. Fuck this shit ... go home and get some sleep. I'm going to update our client."

"'Update,' huh?"

Johnson grinned.

 

[Doshii Jun]

"You have found nothing?"

"Unfortunately no, Mrs. Andress. We're working on it." Johnson smiled at the curved, dark-haired Geshrin woman. She didn't seem to notice.

"The Police said the same thing," Mrs. Andress said. "I hired you to solve this before they do."

"It's not easy ma'am. The thing that killed your husband is something no one's used in a long time, if ever. We've gotta figure out how it works before we can find it."

"My husband had no enemies," Mrs. Andress said as she sat down on a chair of white upholstery and cherrywood. "None worth mentioning. His only concern was his job and myself."

"I understand that, ma'am." Johnson sat across from her, his black shoes stark against the white carpet. The entire room was decored in off-whites, soft lighting, and expensive, uncomfortable furniture. The Andress' were all about show with substance, just like the crystal chandolier above Johnson's head. "We're trying. You notice I haven't asked for any further funds."

"Hopefully you've not spent it all."

"Absolutely not, ma'am. We actually have spent very little."

Mrs. Andress nodded, then slowly undid one of the front buttons of her dress. Her skin was just a little flushed. "When you find out who did this, I want to know first."

"As promised, ma'am."

" ... Good enough." Mrs. Andress stood up. "Thank you for your help, Mr. Johnson." She bowed slightly.

"My pleasure, ma'am." Johnson bowed in return and saw himself out. He slipped his fedora back on his head and looked up into the sky. It was beginning to get late. He walked down to his aerocar and popped the door open on the driver's side. The aerocar had served him pretty well for quite a few years. It was a luxury model after all; had cost him two jobs to even make the down payment. He lived in the high-rises for a reason -- the car was more of a home than his home was.

So it wasn't any shock when he felt something poke him from behind. Johnson sighed.

"Just gimme the keys," the man said. "Or I'll stick you straight through."

Johnson sighed again. The man hadn't noticed he was sticking his knife into the butt of one of Johnson's chrome Type 28Cs.

"Gimme the fucking keys!" he said, harsher this time.

Johnson turned just enough to get his elbow into the man's chin. As the guy stumbled back, Johnson reached inside and behind his jacket and pulled the two Nekovalkyrja Service Pistols. He pumped two stun bolts into the man's chest and reholstered the guns.

"Hmph." Johnson walked over to the man. He seemed well-to-do enough. A quick rifling through the man's jacket showed he had an old clunker of a pistol, a NovaCorp plasma pistol. Why the man didn't use that weapon to threaten him, he didn't know. Probably would've wasted me in one shot, and the keys too. Fucking pistols disintegrate things.

A quick check of the man's wallet revealed he was a very lowly government official with too many credit cards and not enough cash. "Duran Astra," Johnson said, reading the man's ID. "Not even an original name."

A business card stuck out just behind one of the man's credit cards. Johnson plucked it out and tossed the wallet back on the man's chest. "The Emperor's New Clothes tailoring, eh? I could use a tailor." Johnson pocketed the card and got back into his aerocar. Realizing he hadn't even come close to scoring with Mrs. Andress, he dialed up the most reliable booty call he could think of and asked her to meet him at his place.

 

[Zakalwe]

The church was dark now, the lights and torches extinguished. Late at night not even the High Priest remained, he had retired to his house across town several hours previously. There was only one person, if you call him that, in the church and that was the Angel, lying on the platform which served as his one respite, the one time he didn't have to give every action of his to the emperor. Even now his mind analysed itself, all that he had done over the last two days, where he had been wasteful, where he had gone wrong and how to avoid these mistakes. He was incapable of true sleep, only this delirious and haunting reflection on his past.

But now, lying motionless and with eyes wide open in a lightless room as naked as he ever would be and as defenceless, the Angel felt the closest thing he could to peace. A certain tranquillity had descended upon him; he had begun to fulfil his purpose and there was no doubt in his mind. Right and wrong? What did these matter to one such as he, who had had his own chance of redemption stripped from him. Service was all that mattered. And duty.

Now his respite was broken, as his mind went through the knowledge in his mind, countless reams of data he had never recorded, cross referenced with the religious scripture that was in his brain as well as his skin which combined with the divine intervention of the Emperor would lead to his next command, and the Angels next mission. And what could be more severe than the sin of Heresy?

While remaining in the darkness the Angel unattached himself from the table and slid down gracefully and moving without the need of his eyes but simply by having memorised the layout of the room he moved over to the table which held his possessions and began to slowly adorn himself with them. He felt the slight spreading of awareness as various pieces of technology interfaced with his body and felt at once both more and less complete. Not waiting to ponder on this feeling, after all what significance did feelings play, he made his way out of church, through the long winding corridors and into the night, the light from streetlights and the windows of the nocturnal inhabitants of Funky City.

A simple glance at the surroundings was enough to reconfirm his location relative to his target, and even that had been a luxury to indulge. Some of the bleating of the High Priest had contained some wisdom, despite being delivered for impure reasons, and attracting undue attention should be avoided. It would not do for the tainted to hide before the message was delivered. As such leaping from the rooftops, while an efficient way to travel, would most likely be offset by the vastly increased likelihood of being regarded as suspicious. Even in a city as large and eccentric as Funky City trench-coated men springing from roof to roof would be attention grabbing. To be a pedestrian would serve his purpose better, and to this end the Angel began to stride down the pavement, towards the Temple of Enlightenment. That heretical faith would not weather the test of time, not even for one night.