Chapter 8: Into The Fire

Calix looked around as he materialized from the transporter. Major McTavish appeared to be as good as his word; he'd indicated he was going to send Calix to the alley just around the corner from where the motorcycle was parked and it appeared that's where he'd dropped him. At least, it was some alley, somewhere; Calix couldn't be sure it was the right one – one alley looked pretty much like any other.

The new armor was ... well, impressive didn't seem to cover it. His old armor had been just shy of a centimeter and a half thick – about 14.5 millimeters. This new armor was about a third of that size – 4 millimeters thick. It felt significantly lighter, as well, though he'd not had time to weigh it. He was a bit worried about the latex-polymer (or polymer-latex, the two were very near equal parts of rubbery substance) layer; his old suit had been so thick because the latex-polymer layer had to be in order to allow it to displace the kinetic energy to a wide enough area. With the paucity of that layer in this armor, he was worried it couldn't dilute the kinetic energy as efficiently.

He walked over and punched a brick wall lightly – and felt next to nothing. Oh, there was a jolt and he knew his hand had been stopped but there was no pain. He punched it a little harder – still no pain. He hit it with everything he had – now there was a significant jolt but it felt like the kinetic energy were being diluted the length of his arm and into his shoulder. His old armor hand could not have done that; far from being less efficient, the latex-polymer padding in this armor appeared to be even MORE efficient. It appeared McTavish was as good as his word there, as well.

The new helmet was nothing short of amazing. His old helmet had been based on the design of a motorcycle helmet, though not quite as big and bulky. This new helmet was along the lines of a ski mask – with no eye or mouth holes. His old face guard was a stiff layer of aligned plastic (the atoms of the plastic were aligned to make it nearly as strong as steel and virtually shatter proof); there was only a very small face guard in the new helmet – just a long, thin strip that covered both eyes. His old HUD had been displayed on circuits within the plastic; the new HUD seemed to be the same – but there was one heck of a lot more information. The new heads up display had the time, date, ambient temperature, wind speed and direction, night vision (currently turned off), thermal vision (currently turned off), targeting with threat assessment (red for hostiles – those attacking him or actively targeting him with weapons, yellow for potentials – people in the view area that appeared to have weapons, and green for friendlies – people in the view area that didn't appear to have weapons), system readiness, a phone system and even a connection to the internet. It responded to a combination of eye movements and voice commands; command nodes were aligned around the outside of his vision and if his eyes drifted to that spot for longer than a moment, that command node would expand. His voice was used to direct the browser to web-sites and to command the phone.

His old suit had mag-locks along the seams – wrists, ankles, neck, waist and zippers in the front of the upper armor and at his crotch – which he had to turn on manually when he put on the armor. The new suit went one better; everything was still apparently mag-locked but it was all automatic – and all he had to do to disengage any mag-lock was to give the command verbally. He couldn't help smile when he'd zipped the lower armor and heard it 'click' as the lock engaged.

Satisfied the armor was generally at least as good as his version – and in nearly every way better – Calix took off the ski-mask and walked around the corner; the armor itself would, at first glance, pass for a motorcycle jumper – which was good, since he didn't have a change of clothes nearby and hadn't thought to ask the Major for one. As he made his way down the alley, a few people passing its entrance looked at him in surprise but most just minded their own business. Generally, it was a good policy to have in the city. Witnesses had a tendency not to survive here – though the rule applied more to the nocturnal activities; in the city, the monsters mostly only came out at night. Mostly.

Detroit was a busy city by day; it was estimated the daytime population was four or five times the nighttime population thanks to all of the suburbanites making their way here for business or pleasure. The young man couldn't understand why anyone would come here for pleasure, however; maybe the pleasure-seekers just wanted to be able to brag that they were so tough, they vacationed in Detroit. It wouldn't be the first time; that had been a popular t-shirt slogan in years past.

His motorcycle was just off the alley entrance, right where he'd left it. McTavish had not lied. He realized he was divided about that. On the one hand, he was glad to be near his motorcycle. On the other, it lent some credence to the earlier discussion.

Calix wanted McTavish to be wrong. In a strange way, he needed the older man to be wrong. Calix was poor; he had never assigned blame for it, it was just a fact of life. It did, however, provide him with a part of his identity; a way to relate to the world. He was poor, others were rich and it was (usually) an us against them conflict. It was extremely convenient to fit the CAP system – and basically the whole Confederacy – into that paradigm. It was also convenient that it seemed to fit; while there was nothing to indicate how much of the population SHOULD get a CAP of 6.5 or greater, there was plenty of speculation at percentages. The only numbers he could find officially were that the Darjee, due to resource limitations, believed they could evacuate about 30% of the population. After doing some rough math, he had a 'best guess' that this should translate to somewhere along the lines of 8-10% (since a large portion of that 30% evacuating would be concubines). The problem was that the number of volunteers at Western High, was just about .3%. He checked suburban schools and could find no official data but tangential data seemed to indicate the percentage was higher in direct relation to the wealth of the surrounding community which tended to support his way of thinking over what he'd been told.

However, Major McTavish's discussion concerning the poor being less likely to strive for more was fairly insightful. It wasn't their fault; not really. Most of the people in Detroit were second, third or fourth generation poor. They'd been beaten on and beaten on for so long, they no longer had the will to push for a better life and the ones that did tended to move away – out to the suburbs, out of state, even out of the country. It was a sad fact and one that Calix had difficulty accepting – but that didn't make it untrue. If anything, a hasty internet session bore out the argument. Detroit residency was fairly anemic and there was ample proof that as salary increased so did migration out of the city.

He still couldn't shake the feeling that the CAP was socio-economically based. There were so many people of means touting their high CAP scores! If CAP testing weren't biased toward the rich – and was, in many ways, biased against them – then why were so many of their ranks showing up on television and the internet showing off their high scores? He believed the Major – what use would he have to lie? – but he also believed what he had seen. Both views could not be right.

As he hopped on the motorcycle, he looked back at the GlobalTech building; he couldn't help but smile as the HUD increased the magnification without even being asked. The building didn't look any different. There was no sign that an extraction had been done last night ... or even two weeks ago. He still wasn't completely buying the whole 'CAP testing narrative' the Major and the A.I. had been selling.

He pulled out the bag of transporter pieces and the box of pod thruster pieces and tucked them into the left saddlebag while the rest of the backpack went into the right. Then, he kicked the motor over and took off. He didn't like wearing the armor in full daylight like this but it wasn't like he had a choice. He had no change of clothing and he was pretty naked underneath the armor; between nude and armored, he definitely chose armored. Of course, he was riding helmet-less but that couldn't be helped either; his old armor helmet had looked enough like a motorcycle helmet to pass so he never bothered to pack one. He just hoped he didn't get stopped; he'd have a pretty hard time explaining things. Of course, he wouldn't have been able to pack clothing or a helmet last night, anyway; the bike's saddle bags had been carrying all of the tech for the theft. Tech that no longer existed thanks to his impromptu graviton-assisted jaunt through the interdiction field.

He still had trouble believing the whole thing had happened only last night; to him, nearly two weeks had passed. Once of the banks he passed by had a sign in front, though. Time and date both matched what McTavish had told him.

Detroit was busy and traffic fairly heavy but, luckily, he didn't have far to go. Randolph to Congress then back down Griswold to Jefferson got him to the Lodge. A quick, uneventful ride north to the Lodge Freeway/I-75 west interchange and he breathed a sigh of relief. He hadn't even realized how tense he had been; all the way out of downtown, in the back of his mind, he couldn't help thinking that the Marines might realize their mistake and come for him. Of course, they still could but it wouldn't be as straight-forward now.

Calix had no illusions about being 'let go'; they'd probably bugged the armor and maybe even the motorcycle. Curiously, he was mostly fine with that though it did give him a cold shiver to be watched this way. After a few moments thought as he was waiting to be teleported, he started to look on it as an insurance policy. He had always had a fear that he might die and the tech he'd developed might fall into the wrong hands. Learning that the tech he'd been buying, borrowing and outright stealing was obsolete Confederacy tech lessened the fears a little but not completely. This wasn't obsolete tech to the city of Detroit. A clever gang who got their hands on his armor, the fusion reactor or even some of his zappers and managed to reverse engineer them might be able to take over the city with the fruits of his labor. He had tried to rig some kind of failsafe into them – but how could he? The closest he came to an implementation had him having to log in to each device every single day – and that had quickly proved untenable.

Now, though, he had the perfect failsafe. If the Confederacy were monitoring him and saw him die, he was pretty sure they wouldn't allow his tech to fall into anyone else's hands. So, he would look for the monitoring equipment, of course, but he had no intention of turning it off.

The ride back was uneventful and Cal took his time. He was in no hurry. He'd accomplished his task, the Cholos would see a big windfall from the sale, and he had some new tech to examine. All in all, he was feeling pretty good about himself.

That ended when he found the hidden door in the front closet partially opened. He glanced quickly at the lock; it didn't appear to be forced. Opening the door further, he started down slowly and carefully, pulling out his new force blades and turning them on.

The original Sa'arm blades were, evidently, completely invisible; he must have not got everything right on the blade he'd used for his cutting device. When he'd activated the blades on the ship, he'd seen nothing. He'd been disappointed and tossed them down – only to have them cut right through the table.

He'd tried to give the blades back – having invisible blades that could cut through virtually anything seemed dangerous – but the A.I. had modified the blades so they produced a small scattering effect. The result was that the fields vibrated slightly out of sync causing a bit of heat and light. It made them slightly less efficient – there was probably some incredibly dense, hard substance in the universe the blades couldn't slice through now – but a bit less dangerous. At least, Calix thought so.

The soft glow of the vibrating fields provided some soft illumination – not that he needed it. The lights on the hidden stairs were turned on. As he eased out of stairway and into the main room of the sub-basement he cursed and turned off the blades, stooping and attaching them back to the outside of his thighs.

For the second time in a single week, he found his cousin in his hideaway. Rico was sitting quietly behind his living room desk and had the decency to at least look surprised at Cal's sudden appearance. A smile creased Rico's face as he greeted his cousin.

"Cal! Hombre!" He exclaimed, his face lit up and his hands outstretched. "When we heard about the Confederacy pick-up at GlobalTech's headquarters there were some who thought your luck had finally run out. Not me, though. I told them, if anyone could find a way to outsmart the Confederacy, it would be you!!" His hands drifted down and his face took on a look of confused curiosity. "Is that a new set of armor? It looks ... different."

Calix was not as happy to see his cousin. He was even less happy to see the mess of papers and files scattered over a desk he had left completely clean just before he went to GlobalTech. He removed his head gear and tossed it on the desk where Rico was sitting, trying hard to keep his anger out of his face and voice. "So you decided to go through all of my stuff? What the fuck, Rico? Couldn't you wait until you were sure I was gone?"

"Sorry, man," Rico said, hands in the air to show they were empty. "Tomas was down at Hart Plaza and said he saw you get pinched by the Marines. He said your armor was all messed up but you were running away from the building when they caught you. I should have known he was lying but I couldn't take any chances. I came here to make sure that nothing bad would point to the Cholos ... just in case."

Cal pursed his lips together. "I don't like that he was spying on me," he said with his eyes narrowed. "But he wasn't lying. I did have ... a problem last night."

"A problem?" Rico said, his eyebrows raised.

Cal gave a long sigh. He was exhausted and he was starving. He'd thought about stopping and picking up a bite to eat but he wanted to get the teleporter pieces secured. He considered pushing off the whole explanation until later – after he'd eaten and slept – but he didn't think Rico would let him go. So, with another sigh, he pulled out a chair and sat down next to the desk, then went through the whole night from climbing the GlobalTech building to teleporting down to the alley.

Rico's eyes were wide and his mouth hung open. "They just let you go?" His question was filled with disbelief. "They didn't even ask about the Cholos or anything?"

"They knew I was a member but the Cholos weren't even discussed," Cal replied.

"The Confederacy doesn't just let you go, man," Rico responded.

Cal was beginning to get a little angry. Rico should know he would never lie – not to him. "Have I ever lied to you, Rico?"

"No, but..."

"Then I'm telling you – on my honor as a member of your family – they let me go and they didn't ask me anything about the Cholos. I'm not sure I understand it any more than you do, but that's exactly what happened."

"You said you got through the interdiction field," Rico asked, his brows close. "Do you think you could do it again?"

"I honestly don't know," Cal replied. He was surprised by the question. "I kind of doubt it. They took my projector – and they probably fixed the field so it couldn't happen again." He frowned, his face looking like he was sucking on a lemon. "To be honest, I wouldn't want to. Rico, you have no idea how painful that was. It completely melted my armor – melted it. I think the only reason I got out of there alive was because the suit dispersed the kinetic energy equally across my body – but it couldn't handle it all. Rico, parts of me were burned. Bad burns. Third degree burns." Cal shook his head. "I don't ever want to even try that again."

Rico looked disappointed. "So I guess you can't make one for someone else then?" He asked half-heartedly.

Cal's eyes narrowed. Rico had never asked him to share the technology before. "No. Absolutely not. Never."

The older man nodded and sighed. "I didn't think so. It would have been worth a hell of a lot of money if you could, though. A hell of a lot. Like enough cash to really put us on the map."

"I wouldn't do it if I could, Rico," Cal said softly. "Rico, some of the stuff I've built? Some of the stuff in my lab back there? If it ever got into the wrong hands? I'm not sure the city would survive it, hermano (Spanish: brother)."

"I know," Rico said with a half-smile. "It's why I've never asked before. I shouldn't have asked now but ... I got a little greedy. Saw some big dollar signs. There've been a lot of people trying to figure out how to get through that field, man. A lot of people. It would have been big bucks. It's like you said, though. It would have been wrong."

There was a pause between them and then Rico stood up, a huge smile on his face. "Why are we still down here? We should be celebrating! You got an 8.4! That's amazing! I'll call Alicia. We'll go out to celebrate. Anywhere you want. I can get momma to watch..."

"Not so fast." The voice was a hiss that had Cal jumping out of his chair to face the back of the house. He was surprised and a little annoyed to see Tomas exiting the stairwell. His annoyance turned to anger when he saw that Tomas had a gun out and his finger on the trigger.

Cal's eyes narrowed and his body tensed. He was tired – so tired – but he prepared himself anyway. He wouldn't have much – not much time, not much energy – but Tomas appeared to be a threat and he needed to be ready to deal with him.

"Don't do it, Calix," Tomas sneered as he pointed the gun at Rico. "You even twitch, Cabron (Spanish: asshole), and I start firing at Rico, there. Maybe you're faster than me but I don't think you're faster than a bullet."

"What the fuck is this shit, Tomas?" Rico said angrily as another four members of the Cholos – Lupe Conozco, Eddie Garza, Charlie Corona and Chey Sanborn – walked out of the stairwell to take positions on either side of Tomas, two on each side. Each man was armed with pistols; Eddie standing on Tomas' right and Charlie taking up station on his left while Lupe moved to the other side of Eddie and Chey stood on the left side of Charlie. Eddie and Chey had rifles at the ready.

Once those four were in place, two more men – Najun Arozco and Pedro Vappa – exited the stairwell and stood behind Tomas. "Shut the fuck up, Rico." Tomas turned his head towards Najun and Pedro, his eyes never leaving Calix. "You two. Head to the back room. Clean it out. I heard these two talking; the good stuff is in there."

"Najun ... Pedro," Calix called, his eyes never leaving Tomas' gun. This situation wasn't good; his worst fears were coming to pass. He was pretty sure Tomas and his band of merry miscreants weren't smart enough to understand what some of the devices in the back could do – but there were things in there with buttons he definitely didn't want these guys to touch. He shuddered as he considered the damage this idiot could do with some of his tech. "Don't do it, man. It's not going to end well."

"You shut the fuck up, motherfucker!" Tomas screamed, spittle flying out of his mouth. He pointed his pistol at Calix's head. "I give the order here. You say another fucking word and I'll fucking shoot you right here, bitch!"

"What are you doing, Tomas?" Rico said angrily. Of course, Rico wasn't stupid; he knew exactly what Tomas was doing. He'd been aware of Tomas' ambition since shortly after Tomas had joined the Detroit Cholos. Rico had called and gotten the man's background from Jesus Marunta, the head of the Chicago Cholos; Jesus couldn't say enough about Tomas ability to stab people in the back. Rico had considered terminating the younger man's membership – and even considered terminating Tomas – but had thought he could handle him. He might have thought wrong.

"What does it look like I'm doing, dickhead," Tomas sneered, his eyes glinting hatefully at Calix. "I'm fucking taking over. You can't be trusted to make the tough calls. Your fucking cousin gets pinched by the Confederacy and you buy his fucking story that they let him go? Bullshit. He sold us down the river, Rico. Well fuck him and fuck you. Things are going to be different now. I'm in charge, chocha (Spanish: pussy) and I ain't ever going to put some white-bread pendejo (Spanish: pubic hair/dumbass) in front of my Hispanic brothers!"

"You don't want to do this, Tomas," Rico said softly and slowly. Calix's eyes narrowed slightly. He knew what Rico was doing; he was trying to draw Tomas' attention to himself to give Calix a chance to take action. Didn't his cousin know how dangerous that was?

"Why is that, fundillo (Spanish: anus)?" Tomas laughed. "What the fuck are you gonna do? Here I am, with all the guns. There you are ... with shit."

"Then you better kill me, motherfucker, because if you don't, I will fucking kill you!" Rico yelled. Calix tensed as he realized this was coming to an end-game. He was going to have to make his move soon; he just needed Tomas to take his attention off him for a fraction of a second...

"Oh yeah, bitch?" Tomas said, finally taking his eyes off Calix and taking a step towards Rico. "Is that what you're gonna do? Huh? How you gonna do that with a fucking bullet in your chest."

Calix had heard enough. With Tomas' eyes off him, he moved, leaping for the chair in front of the desk. His hands grabbed it, his body balanced on it, and he hurdled over it and onto the desk, flicking the chair over at Tomas as he leaped forward.

He would always remember that moment. It would torment him in nightmares for the rest of his life. Cal had always strove to be fast and strong and quick – but this was the moment when he wasn't fast enough or strong enough or quick enough. For the rest of his life he would always wonder if he had just moved faster, or thrown the chair harder, or leaped a little quicker would he have been able to get in front of his cousin before Tomas put two bullets in Rico's chest.

"No!" Cal screamed, hearing the gunshots echoing in the small sub-basement and seeing two plumes of blood from his cousin's chest. He covered the older man with his body, trying to stop any further bullets. Though he took two on his back, the bullets deflecting away from the armor he still wore, it didn't matter. The damage was done.

He yanked his cousin down behind the desk, falling on top of him lightly and then rolling off to come to his knees. The desk between them and Tomas was thick metal; he'd bought two of them on a whim at an office equipment sale. They had been heavy and had taken him the better part of two days to get down here; he'd literally had to take them apart and re-assemble them to move them down the two flights of narrow stairs.

He was lucky he'd bought the desks. The five men riddled the desk with gunfire but no bullets penetrated the thick metal.

"Rico!" Calix was in tears, his hands against his cousin's chest trying to will the blood to stop coming out. He'd killed men before; men from rival gangs, men who were struggling to do harm to him and his people. He'd seen friends – fellow gang-members – who'd been shot and killed. He'd attended funerals, visited families – but he'd never seen a member of his own family shot. He'd never seen his own family dying in a pool of their own blood.

Rico was still clinging to life. He was gasping, blood running from his mouth. He coughed, spewing blood out in a mist. He was talking but the words coming from his mouth were weak whispers and Calix had to bend down to hear them.

"Promise me," Rico whispered, his mouth moving slowly. "Promise me."

"Anything Rico," Calix had tears streaming down his face. If he had only been faster or closer. If he'd only closed the door instead of leaving it open...

"Promise me," Rico whispered again. "Promise me ... take – take care – take care of Alicia. Amelia. Take them - off – off – off planet."

"I promise you, Rico," Calix bubbled, his vision wavering from the tears. "But I won't need to. I won't need to because you're going to take them. You're going to take..."

"Promise ... Promise..." Rico wheezed. It was the last words he would ever say. With a soft gasp, Rico died.

Gunfire erupted again behind him. Different angles. They were trying to kill him. Trying to kill him like they'd killed Rico. He had trouble coming to terms with the reality lying right in front of him. He couldn't believe that Rico was gone. Rico couldn't be gone. He just couldn't. Rico would never die. Never. The man would never abandon him.

Tears welled as he heard the murderers' furtive, shuffling steps. They were coming in. Coming for the kill. Let them. He didn't care. Nothing mattered anymore. Nothing...

In some dark corner of Calix's mind, he knew the fatalism was the misery talking. Already, his sense of self-preservation was kicking in. The sorrow needed to be dealt with – but not now. Now, he had things to do, decisions to make, promises to keep. He'd promised Rico to take Alicia and Amelia off-planet with him. It was a death-bed promise to a man dying because he'd been too slow or too weak or too ... something. It was a promise he needed to fulfill. He'd told his dying cousin that he'd take care of Alicia and Amelia. He'd take them off planet. He'd promised ... and he had to keep that promise ... but he couldn't if he were dead.

Compartmentalize. Calix knew his ability to compartmentalize, to direct his focus on a single issue or problem, was one of his greatest gifts. It came as naturally to him as breathing; it came so naturally, he had once thought everyone could do it.

This time, though, it wasn't so easy. His body and mind – his very soul – was filled with abject misery and horror. It was blocking his ability to think, to plan. It was blocking his ability to survive. That was unacceptable.

He closed his eyes and concentrated. His pain and misery were too big to fit in a single compartment – so he separated them. The pain was pushed in one mental bin, the misery in another. Memories, dreadful memories of plumes of blood spouting from Rico's chest, were pushed into yet a third. He knew the boxes wouldn't hold. He knew he would need to deal with all of those memories and all of that pain and misery ... but later. Right now, he had a job to do.

The rage he left alone. Rage could be useful. Right now, he needed that rage. He needed the boost it gave him. As he allowed it to wash over him, he felt the tiredness and soreness leave his body. The rage washed through him – but he didn't allow it in the caverns of his mind. He needed to stay focused and logical. Rage gave energy but he needed his mind to direct that energy. He couldn't allow the rage to color his thinking; that way lie madness.

Well, okay. Maybe just a little.

This couldn't solely be about revenge. That was petty. Deserving, but petty. These men were threatening him and the rest of his family. These men were threatening his very city. He was not some crusader, not some avenger out to right the wrongs and save the city in which he lived. He was just someone who needed the little part of the world he lived in to remain intact and sane. The men beyond the desk, men angling to find a spot to kill him, were threatening that small portion of the world. They needed to be stopped.

It was just a happy little coincidence that stopping them would avenge the one person left in the world that he had looked up to. Well, the one person who used to be left in the world.

"Rico is dead!" Calix howled at the men still moving beyond the desk. He made himself small, moved a little deeper under the desk. "Rico is dead." His words were edged with rampant pain, but they were just an echo of what he had felt moments before. If he were to survive this, he needed those men to believe he was angry and hurt. He needed the slight psychological advantage he would have if they thought him out of control in misery and pain.

But he needed something else. He needed something for them to think about, some small thing to make them hesitate and doubt themselves; he needed an edge that would have them frozen for that fraction of a second. He needed them to feel fear; to taste it and know that there was a chance – however miniscule – that they were not going to walk out of here today.

Because if Calix had his way, they weren't.

He reached deep within himself, deep into that cauldron of bubbling rage. He lowered his voice to a gravelly shadow of what it had once been and with viperous malice, he spoke. "You're next, Tomas."

There was a pause. There had to be a pause. It would take a moment for Tomas to absorb the words, to come to understand them.