Part 13 (2/2)

”Looks like it,” Sly admitted unwillingly, then went on to discuss something about the Concord of Zurich-Orbital. Apparently there was more to it than Nightwalker had told Falcon-or perhaps more than Nightwalker had known. The young ganger didn't understand all the strange corporate maneuvering and backstabbing Sly described, but he did understand the bottom line. It's like the gangs, he thought. As long as a truce benefits everyone, there's peace. But when somebody sees an advantage, there's a turf war. Apparently the megacorps worked on the same principle, and were now readying for their own kind of war. Though he couldn't see how a corp war could hurt him personally-or the two runners, either-their sour expressions told him they thought it was serious drek. And they understand this high-level stuff better than I do, he had to remind himself.

”So what did the man suggest?” Modal asked. ”Nothing concrete,” Sly said. ”Good concepts, but no suggestions about what to do.”

”I've got a suggestion if you want to hear it,” the elf put in. ”Just get on your fragging bike and go. Hit the Caribbean League or anywhere else that strikes your fancy.” He shrugged. ”Okay, I know you don't have the credit to come into the light completely, but why not take your retirement in b.l.o.o.d.y installments? Let the corps b.u.g.g.e.r each other blind, and serves them right. When everything's settled down, you can get back into the biz.

”I'm b.l.o.o.d.y serious,” he pressed, as Sly shook her head. ”Just toddle off into the sunset. It's better than getting splattered-which is what'll happen if you stick around; you know that, Sly. Travel light, get rid of all liabilities”-the elf glared at Falcon, and the young Amerindian knew exactly what he was getting at-”and go.” Sly was silent for a moment. Watching her eyes, Falcon could almost see the thoughts moving behind them as she considered Modal's suggestions. ”Maybe,” she mused softly.

A knock sounded on the door. ”Room service,” came a m.u.f.fled voice from the hallway.

At the first sound, guns had almost magically appeared in the hands of both runners. Now Falcon saw them both relax.

”Probably come to collect the plates,” Modal said. He slipped his pistol back into its holster, then smoothly swung to his feet and headed for the door.

Danger.

Who said that? For a moment, Falcon glanced around looking to see who had spoken. The voice had been so clear. . . .

But it hadn't been a woman's voice, and it hadn't been the elf's strange accent. It sounded more like . . .

My voice? An icy chill shot up Falcon's spine.

Modal was almost at the door.

Shockingly, for just a split instant, Falcon's ears seemed to ring with the crash of gunshots, the echo of screams. When neither of the others reacted, he realized the sounds were only in his mind.

Modal reached for the door handle.

”No!” Falcon shouted.

The elf froze, turned and glared at him.

”No,” the ganger said, trying to fill his voice with a control he didn't feel. ”Don't answer it. It's a setup.”

As he spoke the words-and only then-he knew them to be the truth.

”Oh?” The elf's voice dripped with scorn. ”And just how the b.l.o.o.d.y h.e.l.l do you know that, eh?”

Falcon couldn't say, except that he did know. The knock on the door sounded again, sharper, more insistent.

And accompanied by another sound-a sharp click of metal on metal. At first Falcon thought that was in his head as well, but then he saw Modal tense.

”b.l.o.o.d.y h.e.l.l, he might be right.” The ma.s.sive pistol was back in the elf's hand. He looked around him, apparently sizing up the tactical situation. ”Get into the other room,” he ordered quietly.

Falcon had already come to the same conclusion, and was heading for the connecting door. Sly joined him in the second room, followed by Modal. The elf partially closed the connecting door, leaving a tiny gap. The two runners had their weapons at the ready. Falcon felt helpless, vulnerable, wis.h.i.+ng for his Fichetti or even his old zip gun. Give me something.

”Do they know about the two rooms?” Sly asked quietly.

Modal shrugged. ”We'll know in a minute.” He put his back against the connecting wall, so he could watch the front door to this room and clearly hear what was happening next door. Falcon heard the metallic snicks as both runners flicked the safeties off their weapons. Then they waited.

Not for long. Another sharp rap on the door of room 1205. A few more moments of silence.

Then all drek broke loose. Somebody or something smashed into the door, tearing it off its hinges. Falcon heard the muted spits of silenced gunfire, then the dull crump of an explosion that shook the wall. Holy frag, he thought, a grenade!

Silence again. The raiders next door would know that the room was empty; their prey wasn't there. How would they respond?

Sly and Modal didn't give them time. ”Cover,” the woman whispered, as she sprinted toward the door to the hallway. Modal nodded, edged closer to the door connecting the two rooms. Falcon could see the strategy. Sly would hit them from behind, from the hallway, while Modal came at them from the front. Make them pay for their mistake, their ignorance about the two rooms.

But what the frag do I do? he thought blankly. Unarmed, without so much as a knife . . .

He didn't have long to worry about it. Sly silently opened the door, slipped into the hall. A moment later, Falcon heard her heavy pistol crash.

On cue, Modal kicked open the connecting door, spun-inhumanly fast-around the frame, his heavy pistol already roaring and bucking in his hand. Falcon heard a scream of agony, a scream that trailed off into a moan, and then a gurgle. Score one kill.

A burst of autofire chewed into the door and the frame. But Modal wasn't there anymore. His chipped reflexes had flung him aside, darting into the cover of a heavy armchair. More screams as his pistol spat flame again. And then he was out of Falcon's field of view.

The firefight continued, but there wasn't anything he could do to help the runners. A wild burst of fire st.i.tched through the connecting wall, smas.h.i.+ng the trideo set. He threw himself to the floor, then crawled toward the connecting door. He couldn't stand not knowing what was going on, even if taking a look might cost him his life. He poked his head around the door frame.

Room 1205 looked like it had been decorated in Early War Zone, the grenade having blown the drek out of everything. Small fires were burning where hot shrapnel had lodged in flammable material, and Modal and the others were making short work of whatever had survived the blast. Near the connecting door one of the attackers was down, and decidedly dead. He wore what looked like a high-tone corp suit, probably armored, though it hadn't done him any good. Modal's bullets had blown away most of his head. The figure still clutched a tiny, lethal-looking machine pistol in its lifeless hand.

There was matching carnage in the rest of the room.

Three more attackers-a man and two women, all wearing corp fas.h.i.+ons-were sprawled here and there, in various states of disa.s.sembly. Blood and tissue were everywhere, and the room smelled like a slaughterhouse. Falcon swallowed hard, trying to keep his stomach where it belonged.

Modal was in the doorway, firing out into the hall. Probably taking out stragglers, Falcon surmised. The elf's lips were drawn back from his teeth in what looked like a smile of inhuman glee.

He'll kill me, too. The thought struck Falcon with an impact like a bullet-train. He thinks I'm a liability, he's said it often enough. He wants to get rid of me.

And what better time than now? One shot, and all Modal had to tell the woman was that Falcon had stopped a round fired by one of the attackers. No more liability. No more Dennis Falk.

The young ganger looked at the machine pistol in the hand of the nearest corpse. It works both ways, he thought fiercely. I can kill him before he kills me, and blame it on the raiders.

If he was going to do it, he had to do it fast. The sounds of the firefight were dying down in the hall outside. He pried the dead man's fingers from the weapon. Rose to a crouch, leveled the weapon at the elf's back. Started to squeeze the trigger, then froze in midmovement.

What was he doing? He wasn't a murderer. Sure, he'd killed-first the slag in Denny Park, then Slick at Pier 42. But both of them had been trying to kill him. It had been pure self-defense, him or them. But now? He couldn't shoot Modal in the back. He couldn't.

He lowered the gun.

Modal turned, as if sensing something behind him. Looked back over his shoulder.

Falcon had the machine pistol still gripped in both hands, the barrel pointing at the floor behind the elf.

Their eyes met for a moment.

And Falcon knew-knew, beyond a shadow of a doubt-that Modal realized what had almost happened. For a moment the elf stood, stock-still. Then his lips twisted in a wry half-smile.

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