Guard Duty...by aeon
The party was being held on some floor over a quarter-mile up, that's all I
was sure of. After the hundredth floor, I stopped watching the numbers
flicker over the doors and sat in the corner, eyes closed. I listened to the
confused babble of voices coming over the intercom, not bothering to turn on
a translator -- the babble was soothing, mesmerizing, almost musical. A few
minutes passed, and the door hummed and slid open.
There wasn't a lot going on in here at the moment, so I paused to glance out
of the window, north past the silvery spire at the center of the city's
nexus ... snipers, climbers, plastic explosive ... could be a lot out there.
Nothing ... a flash of bright light caught my eye from below, and for a
moment I thought there'd been an explosion at some building down the street,
in the slums. It was just some gaudy whorehouse or bar, advertising with
fireworks and flaming signs. No trouble there, so I turned my attention back
inwards.
It wasn't a large Christmas party -- a few hundred clients, most of whom
weren't here yet, and a handful of private security personnel and a few
specialists, myself among them. A song started as I entered the room, almost
as if they were waiting for me. Then I realized it was some sort of jazz,
and I stopped listening for beginnings and just flowed with the middle
parts. I nodded to my client, who was busy grinding himself against some
pro' in the corner, and settled in by the bar, watching. I hadn't asked who
or what I was watching for -- maybe even he didn't know. It didn't matter.
My type just worried about watching. Instinct told you the rest.
Instinct, and a thousand feet of fiber-optic nerve connections connected to
a two pound processor at the base of my neck.
It only hurt when it rained outside the dome.
I ordered a drink, something green but not minty, and leaned against the
bar, my gaze sweeping the floor. In ten seconds, I'd learned all I needed
to. First, I was the only real muscle in the place aside from the rager in
the corner (who was on something, probably uppers) and second, SHE was going
to be trouble. Don't ask me how I knew -- I just knew. Call it intuition,
call it precognition, call it parallel processors, but I knew.
She danced like a spider weaving a dirty web -- intricately, delicately, and
with a deadly intent. Her hair danced about a half-beat behind her, a
curtain of ebon silk. Her eyes were like shards of black crystal which she
kept closed most of the time, not so much to hide her eyes from the world as
to hide the world from her eyes. She was barefoot, but nobody seemed to
notice except me. It might have been the Tarantella she was doing -- I'm not
a dancer, and I really didn't care, to tell you the truth. Whatever it was,
it was perfect. Or at least it looked that way.
I watched her for what seemed half an eternity, mesmerized. I imagined her
falling into, through, beyond the window, her hair trailing beyond her like
an aethereal silver cord, her spirit rising as her body fell and cracked the
pavement. I shuddered and finished off my drink, turning to put the glass
down, noting that her shoes, black and bloodstained, were on the barstool
next to me. Mistake number last for me, as it turns out, because by watching
her shoes I wasn't watching her.
Someone must have done something, although I'm not sure what, because
everyone started heading for the elevators, screaming. That didn't prove it
wasn't a fire, because when you're over a mile in the air walking down
stairs is out of the question anyway. You chance the elevators. I didn't
smell smoke, though, and it wasn't a fire-sort of panic, so I figured it was
something else.
Probably something worse.
I noticed that my client was half gone, pieces of him on and half-through
the plate glass window which I hadn't heard shatter, so I headed for the
elevators, checking my gun. Somehow, I ended up in one by myself, which gave
me like three minutes to load and reload and imagine goblins and assassins
and severed elevator cables. And to remind myself that if I'd been paying
attention, I might be getting paid right about now instead of running for my
life.
When I reached the first floor a long time later I was still pacing. I
cringed as the doors opened, expecting the worst somehow: blood spattered
walls and demons lurking in corners. There weren't any demons. There was
blood.
A lot of blood.
And she was standing in the middle of it. The dancer. Her dress was gone,
replaced by one of blood and gore, still fresh and steaming. It bothered me
a lot that she had somehow beat me downstairs; after a moment, the blood
began to bother me as well.
When she looked at me and smirked, her face shifting before my eyes, her
fists turned to twin scythes, I backed back into the elevator and hit a
random button. Only then did I realize, as the doors were closing on me, and
she grinned, that I'd done just what she wanted. I was walking right back
into her web.
I was trapped.
