The penguin cackled and skied away down the far side of Bloat.
Distant concussions battered the windows of the Rox. Kafka’s strike teams were hitting at Zappa’s supplies.
Modular Man, waiting for news in Patchwork’s high room, tried to stand out of the way of the crowd of jokers who’d shown up and ended up being shoved back behind the map-boards.
The big reel-to-reel rolled on, recording all for posterity.
“News coming in,” Patchwork said. “Somebody’s reporting jumpers hitting sentries at Prospect Park. The ammo dump at Clove Lakes has just gone up.”
“We can hear that,” said one of the jumper aides.
Patchwork’s chin lifted in the strange way that blind people had, as if she was trying to perceive the world with her chin.
“Just got another report. Somebody’s firing self-propelled grenades into the battery set up at Newark International.”
“That’s Giles Goat-Boy,” the joker said smugly. “Three jumpers on that team — nobody’s gonna stop ’em.”
“That got Zappa out of his office,” Patchwork said. There were cheers from the jokers. “He’s on the phone to… somebody named Ferguson?”
Jokers flipped through computer printout that listed military units and their officers. “I think this is him,” one said. “Colonel, U.S. Army Intelligence and Security Command, last stationed at Fort McPherson, Georgia…”
“Got another Ferguson here,” said another. “He’s a brigadier in the Marines.”
“Hold it! Hold it!” Patchwork said. “We’ve got a request from something called Oscar Red to commence hostilities.”
“Oscar Red.” Kafka jabbed at a map. “That’s the rocket battery set up down at Ft. Lee on Sandy Hook. MLRS.”
“Zappa’s thinking about it,” Patchwork said.
There was a respectful silence. Kafka had impressed everyone with the capabilities of the Multiple-Launch Rocket System, capable of saturating an area the size of the Rox with no less than 8000 sub-munitions — nasty little exploding bombs — in less than a minute. The location of any MLRS unit was one datum that Kafka insisted be reported before anything else.
“Permission denied,” Patchwork reported. Her voice had taken on a slight Zappa inflection. “Our ammunition reserves are too depleted on the Jersey side to he certain of sustained action.”
There was a collective sigh of relief. A big joker bit the top off a can of Spam and began squeezing the contents into his mouth as if it were toothpaste.
“We don’t have anyone near that unit.” Kafka was still looking at the map. “Modular Man.” His eyes swung, in their chitinous sockets, to the android. “Zappa might change his mind. I want you to take that battery out. That one and the other MLRS unit we know about.”
“Very well,” Modular Man said.
There wasn’t much else he could say.
The PATH station on the Jersey side of the bay was deserted except for a squad of pokerfaced soldiers. No one wanted to go into Manhattan today, what with last night’s series of unexplained disasters.
One of the soldiers saluted as Ray approached. “Mr. Battle is waiting downstairs, sir.”
“We taking the subway to Ellis Island?” Ray asked. "I don’t know, sir,” the soldier said, deadpan.
Ray nodded and went down the stairs. The vacant subway platform struck Ray as vaguely creepy. There was something about the vast, echoing expanse of concrete overlooking a silent tunnel that made Ray feel like he was in some cheesy post-holocaust sci-fi flick where a mutant form of the wild card virus had killed everyone or turned them into vampires or something.
The platform was not entirely deserted, however. A single soldier stood at its edge, looking down the silent tunnel, ignoring the people clustered around the battered vending machines and neighboring concrete benches.
Battle was wearing Kevlar armor and full battle regalia, shadowed, as always, by his evil-smelling henchman. Cameo, also in Kevlar and with a backpack at her feet, was speaking very earnestly to him. He seemed to be impatiently ignoring her. A dejected-looking Jay Ackroyd was sitting with his gear piled around his feet, sipping vending-machine coffee from a plastic cup. Ray guessed that he had put the fear of God into the P.I. the day before. He didn’t know whether to be happy or sorry.
He started to go over to join the group, then stopped to stare at the final team member sitting by herself on the second concrete bench.
She had blond hair and blue eyes and skin that was tanned a deep, flawless bronze. Her black sleeveless T-shirt bared arms with muscles like bundled wires that bunched and coiled with her every move. Ray unconsciously licked his lips as he watched her buffing the stock of the gun she held in her lap.
“Nice rifle,” he said as he approached.
She looked up at him for the first time, regarded him closely with penetrating blue eyes. “You don’t know much about guns, do you?” she asked.
Ray shrugged, knowing that he’d fucked up again. “I know which end to point. I carry one,” he said, slapping the Ingram pistol holstered at his side, “but I never need it much.”
She nodded. “I know. You’re Billy Ray.” Ray grinned his crooked grin. She knew who he was. “I thought you were dead,” she added. “That Mackie Messer fellow sure messed you up in Atlanta. I saw it on TV.”
Ray’s smile froze in place, becoming more of a grimace. The girl didn’t seem to notice. She went back to polishing her gun, whatever the hell it was.
“Took a lot of guts, the way you kept coming after him, I mean, after he sliced off your fingers and the bottom part of your face and all.” She looked back up at him. “I see everything grew back.”
“Yeah,” Ray said.
She stood up gracefully, the muscles in her arms rippling as she moved. Her breasts were small, but their large nipples stood upright against the soft fabric of her black T-shirt.
“My name’s Danny. Danny Shepherd. This isn’t a rifle. It’s a shotgun.” She held it out for Ray to inspect. Ray took his eyes off her long enough to glance at it. Now that he looked closely at it, he could see it wasn’t an assault rifle. There were a few differences. It was longer than an M16, and its magazine box was also longer and wider. Overall it looked sleeker than an assault rifle.
“It’s a Smith & Wesson AS-3 automatic combat shotgun,” Danny explained. “It fires ammo cartridges with flechette, high explosive, and armor-piercing rounds. I didn’t have time for a lot of weapons training before this expedition. The armorer thought I’d be more likely to hit something with this than an automatic rifle. Pretty sexy, isn’t it?”
“Not as sexy as you,” Ray said.
She looked him over with a lazy smile. “Not many men like women with muscles.”
“I’m not like many men,” Ray said. “Maybe we could pump some iron together sometime.”
“Maybe.”
Slow down, Ray told himself. He nodded. “Sure. Anytime. When we get done with this little job.” He hesitated. She’d been in Battle’s book, but she’d looked different. Not as lean or as hard-edged as she looked in person.
“What’s your role on the team?” he asked.
“Communications.”
Ray frowned, but before he could question her further a curtain of blackness suddenly descended over them. Ray panicked for a moment, imagining scything hands coming out of the blackness to cut him to shreds, but then he realized what was happening as Battle called out, “All right, Black Shadow, you can cut the cheap theatrics.”
“I’ll cut the theatrics, Battle, when I see my pardon.” The voice was that of a black man. It was deep, vibrant, and cultured.
“Cautious, aren’t we?” Battle said dryly.
“I’ve got reason to be.”