Chapter Twenty-Two – Reaction Time

Chapter Twenty-Two – Reaction Time

“If you ever have to fight a Samurai, and that’s already a losing proposition, then the very best thing you can do is make sure they don’t have time to react.

Strike fast. Strike hard, and never strike the same way twice.’

–Anonymous, from a dark web guide for hitmen, 2052

***

“Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck.”

Gomorrah twitched her hands to the side, and we juked out of the path of a cargo craft so fast that even my cybernetic eye only caught a passing glimpse of the life insurance ad on its side.

‘Shit shit shit!” I added as Gomorrah started to pull up, then encountered the rising, warning-light covered smokestacks of New Montreal’s industrial district.

My everything clenched as she flung us to one side to avoid a pole, then tossed us in the other direction to keep from ramming a chimney.

“Tight,” Gomorrah said before rolling the car to the side to slip in between two metallic blurs. I didn’t even see them until we were shooting past them.

“Fuck shit,” I agreed.

Gomorrah snorted and levelled us off. She smoothly guided the Fury down between the mega structures nearest the industrial sector and wove down into the main traffic lanes. She was still ducking and weaving around slower cars, but it wasn’t at a speed that had my lunch considering a violent exit.

“Where did you learn to drive, and can someone sue them for incompetence,” I said.

“Come on, no one’s died from my driving,” Gomorrah said.

“I feel there should be a ‘yet’ at the end there,” I said. “Maybe in italics.”

The nun laughed. “I got my license early, so I used to drive the church van around a lot.”

“Bringing people closer to god by means of heart attacks?” I asked. “You know, at this rate I expect you to just crash into the merc’s hidey-hole.”

“That’s one way of doing it,” Gomorrah said. “But nah. I’m going to park us a few blocks over, and we can make our way down on foot.”

“Is it a nice enough neighbourhood to leave this thing parked on its own?” I asked.

“No one’s going to steal my car, Cat.”

“It’s a nice car,” I said.

“It can handle itself,” Gomorrah said. “Right Fury?”

The car chimed a positive-sounding two-tone note.

I shrugged. She was probably right. It would take someone with serious balls to try and jack a Samurai’s ride. We veered out of traffic a moment later and glided down a few levels, past billboards and ads and a few sky bridges between the buildings towering above us until Gomorrah came level with a hangar door in the side of a building.

“It’s one of those pay-per-minute parking spots,” Gomorrah said. “The cheap ones, you know?”

“Yeah,” I said. “What’s the rate like?”

“Forty-Five credits per minute. Countdown starts when you move in, ends when you’re finally out,” Gomorrah said. I noticed her head twitching, the telltale sign that someone was navigating some menu. “It’s got some vacancy.”

“You know, this might take a few hours.”

“That’s fine,” she said.

“‘Cause you’re not planning on paying?” I asked. I sure as hell wouldn’t.

Gomorrah looked my way for a moment. “What? Of course I’ll pay. It’ll be what, a few thousand credits at most?”

I shrugged. It was her credit.

The hangar opened and we slid into the poorly lit interior. Gomorrah hovered past automated car racking system and headed towards a more traditional parking lot by the back. I tucked in between a sedan and a soccermom van.

I stepped out with a sigh. Gomorrah’s driving was a bit much for me, and it was nice to have both feet on solid ground again. “Okay,” I said as I pushed Fury’s door closed. It hissed and shut itself on its own. “So, I’m a bit disorientated. Where’s that merc hideout?”

“Three buildings down,” Gomorrah said. She moved to the back of her car, the trunk opening as she approached it. “It’s near ground level.” A set of mechanical arms came out of the back of her car, carrying a very familiar flame thrower which Gomorrah grabbed and, with a tug on its strap, hung off her shoulder.

“Cool. Myalis, can you give me waypoints?”