Jensen  Shot Caller
Joined: 18 Jul 2003 Total posts: 2384 Location: Gardiner Maine Age: 45 Gender: Male |
 Posted: Thu Jul 10, 2008 8:58 am Post subject: Jensen Blayloc- Completed story - beginning posted earlier |
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Jensen Blayloc, Private Investigator v1.0
The beautiful chaos of clouds is hard to imagine for the earth-borne. When amongst the clouds, only then, can one truly appreciate how they shift in many layers, all in different directions; the color and density more distinct then can be imagined from the ground. As I stood at the platform edge, pondering this, all hell broke loose.
“Incoming projectiles.”
Particulate polymer shards showered my diving form as the flechettes tore into the shield wall at the spot I was just standing. The report of the gauss rifle followed a few fractions of a second behind. I am told that technically the sound I hear is from the flechettes going supersonic, not actually the weapon, but either way it is not a noise you want to hear.
“Target acquired. Distance to target 500 meters. Tracking South by Southwest, in motion.”
I looked for cover quickly, my assailant was certainly moving for a clear line of site. I, until that very moment, never truly appreciated the ACTIS system or my combat wired reflexes. The surgery was long and painful, not to mention expensive. I wondered if those quarter million credits had purchased anything. They bought my life that instant. Now it was up to me to keep it.
I drew my weapon as I found an appropriate piece of cover, a shrubbery, with a hardened polymer planter. My old-fashioned slug thrower couldn’t even reach 500 meters; much less hit anything at that distance. He would have to get closer, much closer. THUUMP!
“Projectile incoming, high parabolic trajectory,” reported ACTIS
“Damn!” I exclaimed out loud.
I reached the transit entrance just as the grenade exploded, the concussion added velocity to my leaping stair decent. I hit HARD.
“Distance to target 275 meters,”the retinal display on the ACTIS was fuzzy, or maybe it was my vision.
I quickly descended the rest of the way into the subway station. The security cameras may deter my opponent, but I doubted it. The authorities would not be here in time to do anything, and he would change his appearance, as all professionals did after a hit. I screwed the silencer into my handgun as I walked quickly to the tunnel. Hopefully he was not equipped with night vision. I ran down the tunnel, as the transports were not here at this time, and hopped back up into a service alcove, a silent 5.7mm HTP round extinguished the light. Here I waited.
“Distance to target 125 meters.”
The ACTIS or Active Combat Tactical Information System could identify and track 256 simultaneous targets. 254 or something actually, the salesman said, limited by the reserved bits or some other geek-speak explanation. I know this, if I fill the target queue I am in DEEP kimche, anything more than that is just plain redundant. The system interfaces with several intelligence sources, security cameras, satellite surveillance, GPS system, body heat indexes, and personal transponders (although most thugs don’t have one, or have a stealth module, that can spoof the detectors). The data is projected onto contact lenses, or pair of glasses in front of each eye.
“Distance to target 50 meters.”
It also has an emergency override attached to my wired reflexes. That is what saved my can from the assassin’s first shot upstairs.
“Distance to target 30 meters.”
He must be well equipped; he was coming right to me.
“Distance to target 15 meters.”
Between the darkness and the cover, he obviously can’t see me, he isn’t shooting yet, fortunately, quarters are too tight for grenades.
“This is a bad idea Blayloc, you should have kept running.” This came from that little voice we all have. Mine is a little more annoying than most; probably because I rarely listen to it.
“Distance to target 5 meters.”“Well it’s now or never.” I thought.
I leapt from the alcove, diving towards the flat center part of the conveyance way. My first shot hits squarely in center mass, with no effect. Hardened body armor; damn! The five-seven is more than a match for your basic weave; this guy was wearing the good stuff. As I complete my roll, the flechettes start tearing up the floor. Two more shots to the face, one hits him squarely in the eye, and the dark spray out of the back of his head told me I had hit pay dirt.
I managed to drag the corpse to the landing before the conveyance came. There were a few people standing around now, and the police arrived shortly. Luckily we are outward, had this been an inward terminal, we would have probably had a few civilian casualties.
“Well Blayloc I see you are still as popular as ever.” It was Lieutenant Michaels; great.
“Listen Lieutenant, this is all above board, this was a hit, I just fired in self defense,” I said.
“Cool your jets, we have the whole thing on disc. You’re clear. You know the drill though, you’ll have to turn in your weapon until after the hearing.” He replied.
He studied the corpse for a few moments, “ Hmm, armored epidermal plating, ACTIS, H&K Mark 43 – with integral grenade launcher, Taurus v94; Heavy duty. Somebody wants you dead. Who is it this time?” he asked casually.
That’s the kicker you know. I really had no idea; my cases have been real mild lately. Since I had moved to New Angeles, I had kept a pretty low profile. Michaels knew me from when he was a beat cop in Boston. I’ll admit I was a bit less cognizant of the law back then.
“I really don’t know.” I said.
“I would find out. Nobody sends this kind of present without a backup plan.” He stated the obvious.
“I’ll look into.” I replied, handing him my pistol.
“I can’t believe you still use one of these.”
“Hey, it keeps me alive. The old stuff serves me well.”
“One of these days, it is going to jam; then it is you we’ll be putting in the bag,” Michaels replied.
“Always a pleasure talking to you lieutenant.” I left.
“Don’t forget to file a report. I’ll be expecting an e-mail by morning.” Came from over my shoulder.
“Roger that lieutenant.”
“Jensen… Be careful.” Michaels knew this was serious. So did I.
“Thanks.” I replied as I walked away.
Well, I couldn’t exactly saunter back to my abode could I? That is the first place the backup would go. If all my years hunting terrorists with Army Intelligence taught me one thing, it was that it was damn hard to find those guys; they employed multiple safe houses, and moved around a lot. I took a few pages from that handbook myself once I became a civilian. You are not paranoid if they really are out to get you. Well, all that preparation was going to get me a safe place to sleep, and a hot bath to help with the stiff muscles I was going to have. I decided to go to a flat I rented in sub-seven.
New Angeles was a model of modern technology and engineering. I am not sure how they managed to float a city at thirty-five thousand feet, but I understand it is similar tech they use to launch the Mars and Europa shuttles. What was it? UF antigrav. I think the UF stands for Unified Fields. I wasn’t a science major, but I seem to remember being told that once they decided what we called gravity was really just an observable phenomenon, not really an actual force. The scientist in the early part of the twenty first century had many theories, and after they all proved “somewhat” right, they got together and figured the thing out. The decided to name the theory after one of those proposed, and went with Unified Fields. Every time I think about the tech that makes it possible to actually breathe up here my head hurts. Let’s just say you can’t keep the volume of air in this crystal-polymer dome at fourteen PSI with a fan.
In any case, the city was pretty much just a large wash-bucket with a city on top. It was about five miles across, and about a mile high, though the tallest buildings were only around five hundred feet above the street level. Most of the city was below street level, and much of that was unmonitored. I decided to head uptown first, before enabling my stealth mod. There were no obvious threats on the ACTIS, but I decided to run the shaker drill by the numbers anyway.
The surface city was one of the nicest, cleanest, and overall best-designed places I have ever been. The architecture was marvelous, and the streets and parks design were very, what do the locals call it, “Feng Shui.” One of the reasons I moved here was because it was fresh. That is what I wanted. Until this morning, that is what I thought I had. I had a nice apartment, a decent client base doing mundane investigations, and a new girlfriend. All my troubles were in the past. Or so I thought. Apparently someone wanted me dead, and I needed to find out who, or they were going to get their way.
I walked into a crowded upscale restaurant, took a seat at the bar, and gave it a few minutes to see if anyone was following me. After a stale, overpriced martini, and no activity, I tipped the bartender and headed for the kitchen. About halfway there, I engaged my transponder stealth module, and quickly exited through the service exit into the alley behind the building. I hopped on the yellow line, then the green line, then back to yellow for the trip to sub-six. I felt safer having gone through all that, even though it might have been a waste of time.
As I changed subway cars, I had also changed my appearance, slightly, in each station restroom. I reversed my jacket from a dark grey to a light tan. I changed from dark sunglasses to fashion varilense. Finally, I added a dark brown wig. My short, graying hair was fairly distinctive, as longer hair was back in, and the west coast sense of vanity drove everyone to color.
“I really can’t call her now. I am sure they have a tracer on my phone; I would. Hell, they were probably tailing her right now,” the disturbing idea came un-beckoned to the fore.
“Blayloc get a hold of yourself. They are probably watching her to get you, but they won’t cut their own bait,” this thought from some more rational part of me was comforting.
I was already starting to stiffen. “I would do her no good right now anyway. I’ll have the police do a courtesy call, and get some rest,” I rationalized.
I made several switchbacks before going below sub-four, each time watching to see if someone was tailing me. Either they weren’t or they were much better than I was.
So I descended further into the bowels of the flying city, and moved through the busy business sections of sub-six, buying a few needed items from the street vendors. Although I acted casually, I kept an eye out for anyone who paid me more attention than I was due. Again nobody, good, I was feeling confident that I had shaken my pursuers, whoever they were. I took my brown cellulite bags full of “fresh” fish and vegetables, some ramen noodles. Now I don’t know where the vendors get real fish, and I am afraid to ask. Almost every food product in the twenty third century is fabricated out of nutri-soy. Small local markets such as these, buried under thirty meters of steel and concrete and run by seventy-year-old women, seem to have the best goods. They actually grow vegetables with sun lamps, and get some meat products from “god knows where.” Lt. Michaels would steer clear of such un-regulated and probably illegal products. Myself, I see things a little differently. Law is good; but blind adherence to it, while easy, can bring injustice with as near certainty as no law at all. If nothing else, I think the government should stay out of the “Nanny” business.
“So the question, as it stands, is why,” it bugged me. “Why am I the target? I’ll never understand the who, until I understand the why.” The thought turned over in my consciousness, and as I considered the possibilities, I made steady progress towards my destination, though never going straight there.
Misdirection is a tool used by people on both sides of a struggle. I used it to ensure my safety, and surely, the enemy used it to hide his identity long enough to accomplish his goal. Unfortunately for me, that goal was my death. What was my goal? Survival; surely that is a pretty strong incentive. I was always proficient at it. That’s what I had been doing every day, surviving. For the last few years I had taken mundane, frankly boring, jobs. There was no major organized crime in New Angeles, no major street gangs, at least not the kind they have in Old L.A.. The murder rate was the lowest in the country, partly because it was built from the ground up with integrated “big brother” tech, and partly because this place was a haven for those people seeking a quieter life than was offered on the surface. The place was nicer, and the people echoed it. “So why me?” I wondered. It wasn’t some kind of random murder, some wet-wired street warrior losing his mind and going postal. He picked me. He followed me into the tunnels. If he just wanted blood he could have gone inward, and killed dozens on any street corner.
I reached my backup apartment on sub-seven, approached the door. I placed my thumb on the lock and said “Jensen Blayloc.” The lock obediently opened and the door slid aside. I activated perimeter security and did a sweep of the apartment for tracking devices, and a few other less subtle things. Nothing. The place was clean. Well, at least I had a few secrets left. I recovered a spare piece I had stashed in a wall safe, loaded it, and put it in my shoulder holster. I sat down at the terminal, and logged in to my secure apps server. I sent an e-mail to Michaels asking him to check on Jesse, and let her know I was ok. Then I wrote my report and sent it also. I should have been more worried than I was I suppose, but really I felt sore and tired, so I took a shower and went to bed; a pistol snugly under my pillow.
I woke up about 2:30AM in a cold sweat following an unfortunately familiar dream. I decided to get dressed and hit the streets. I had an idea on how get some information, and I always think better on the move. As I passed the com unit, I noticed the light indicating I had a message. I didn’t pick it up. “I can pick it up later” I thought. I wanted to head to street level to a club called “Nickel.” I had a contact there who works as a bouncer. Nickel is outward, and frequented by transients and mercs. Fabby knew how to keep an ear open, and used that skill to supplement his income.
ACTIS was clear as I exited the apartment, and I started to take an indirect route to a conveyor. I didn’t go to the nearest station, because if they were being watched, I didn’t want to give away the proximity of my apartment. I cut through a maintenance section to get to another station. Conduits, pipes and all sorts of mechanical stuff adorned this area. The corridors were much narrower than the normal sections. Multiple branches shot off to the left and the right. The place was poorly lit, and there was a constant hum. Dark, hot, humid; It reminded me of the lower decks of a ship. I had spent enough time on ships being transported here and there during my military career to get real familiar.
I noticed a pair of bright red cherries up ahead in a side hall, obviously a couple people smoking. ACTIS was not overly concerned at this point, which meant they were not sporting anything heavy duty. It was probably just maintenance guys taking a break. I adjusted my low light vision and could see them back there; they were not watching me too closely. Just in case, I had ACTIS run a scan the area, and there was only the two. I kept walking.
I realized things were going pear shaped after my wired reflexes kicked in and I jerked forward unexpectedly. The knife missed the back of my neck by a hair.
“Two Targets: Distance less than 2 meters.”
“Thanks for the warning,” I muttered.
My assailant tried for a second stab but I was already in motion when my brain caught up with my hands. I spun on the ball of my right foot and grabbed the wrist of the guy holding the knife, using my left hand to bar the elbow of his arm straight; I used his momentum, and all my strength to drive his face into the wall opposite of the hall where they were standing, using the weapon arm as a lever. He went down to his knees, stunned for the moment, and bleeding profusely from his broken nose. I continued to spin another 360 degrees and planted a heel kick into the temple of the second man as he tried to follow his friend into the hall behind me. His head rattled off the metal bulkhead and he went down right behind his friend. By reflex, as I executed the kick I also drew my Colt 45 UltraMag from the holster under my jacket, and it was leveled at my two assailants as I completed the kick.
The Lieutenant would approve of this gun; it was thoroughly modern. I initiated the smartgun link. In addition to a nice large caliber main barrel, the Colt had a pair of nano-flechette launchers that were programmable. I dialed up a pair of narco rounds, and proceeded to give my new friends a trip to nappy land. These guys were not pros at all. Random robbery I wagered, or maybe I wandered into their territory and they took offense. I was lucky they weren’t real competent. The ACTIS isn’t real good identifying low-tech threats, I guess 2 guys with a single knife didn’t worry two many G-Men who this system was designed for. I took out my multicomm and snapped a couple mugs and transmitted them to the night watch with a short note and GPS coordinates. The boys in blue would be here before they woke up. I moved on. No time to wait around for the cavalry, and it would be a boring wait anyway.
The rest of my trip to Nickel was uneventful. As I arrived it was still hopping. It was one of the few all night spots in town, and you never knew who might show up here. ACTIS started categorizing the threats, which while numerous, were not pressing. Half the people here were armed. I walked over to one of those who were armed better than average; Fab.
“Hey Mate!” Fabby calls over when he saw me.
I saunter over.
“Can’t stay off the 6 O’clock can you.” He said.
“What are you talking about?” I asked.
“How the hell did you live this long paying so little attention?” Fab chided.
“Well I have been a tad busy today staying alive; I haven’t had the opportunity to sit down in front of the telly.”
“Well, I figured you would end up here, the shooter was a customer. As I am sure you guessed.” He stated.
“Good. What have you got for me?” I asked.
“Unfortunately, not much more than they had on the news.”
“And that is what?” I asked, trying not to sound annoyed, Fab was milking this a bit. Obviously I had not seen the news.
After a short pause and a small grin, he replied. “Well the shooter’s name was Hector Johnson, likely an assumed name. He was heavy-duty operator, an ex-Blackwater bagger. He had been in town for a few months, and had been in several times. He was not a trouble maker, like most pros, he came in, kept to himself, had some drinks, and played some pool. Sometime he came in alone and sometimes with company. The last couple time he seemed more on edge, and spent a little more on drink, but that is about the extent of it.”
“Motive?” I asked tentatively.
“You’re the detective. I am clueless here.” He replied.
“Can I look at your surveillance data?”
“Sure, follow me.”
We went into the back room and fired up the security terminal. After a few minutes he found a sequence with Mr. Johnson in it. We selected his face and ran a pattern search. My hope was to find him here with someone that I could track. After flipping through a few dozen images and taking some notes, we came onto something.
“Hey!” Fab exclaimed. “Isn’t that…”
“Yes, it is.” I said flatly. I was feeling rather conflicted at what we found. I was relieved in one sense, but found a bit of a pit deep in my stomach. I got out my multicomm, and punched up my voice mail. I wondered if I should have taken the time before leaving the apartment. Sure enough, the voice in the message was Lt. Michaels.
“Jensen, We ID’ed the shooter. A Robert Deltran, aka Hector Johnson. No rap sheet but he is a registered merc. Used to run black bag operations overseas for Blackwater International. Anyway, we traced his known associates and came up with something interesting. One Jessica Blanchard. I think what we have here is a jealous ex-boyfriend. My guess is it is safe to go home.” I hit delete.
“Detective my ass.” I said out loud. “I should have run this down in 10 minutes. Thanks Fabby” I said, and turned and stalked away, still upset with myself. Though I wondered as I hit the streets if I was really being sloppy, or if I really wanted it to be something more. Am I really that starved for excitement? I really wanted the quiet life right?
I pulled out the multicomm as I walked down the dark and quiet street. I punched up destinations on a travel site. I wasn’t sure where I was going, but one thing is sure. If I stay here, I would be going nowhere.
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| Quote: | We contend that for a nation to try to tax itself into prosperity is like a man standing in a bucket and trying to lift himself up by the handle.
-Sir Winston Churchill
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