The Queen Song

3) Scenes 7-8

Mike W McCoy

10/08/2019

Version 4.0

<>7<> The Song had called him.

“Jax, come,” Mother hissed. “You are ready now.”

Together they slinked deeper into the remaining ruins of the Grand California Resort. The Firstborn had heard her, but he didn’t fully understand.  However a strong natural instinct bracketed by ‘Fear’ and ‘Love’ pulled steadily, insisting that Jax believe her.

“Come now,” Mother commanded while moving into what once was a formal dining room.  The scrapping of the desert sand layered over the old rotten red carpet was the only sound following them.  A pair of short stout men stood near the broken back wall where the rising morning sun fully illuminated them.

“These men,” Mother said turning away from the light’s harsh glare.  “Are to escort you to the Yellow Hand triad.”

Both darkly tanned white men were dressed in well-worn solid print nurse scrubs.  The dirty bare feet and the low cut V-necks emphasized their shaved heads and missing eyebrows.  Their lean muscles swelled as they posed and preened for Mother, but a distasteful splotchy skin rash made them appear used, wasted, even condemned.

Standing several strides apart was a 7 foot tall East African showing the military trained posture of a leader.  A cheap brown suit was draped over his muscular shirtless torso, and as Mother approached, he became a silent slab of quivering flesh trying to control his desires.

Mother’s song had called him, but he was not strong enough for the Queen.

“His name is Rook,” she began again.  “Rook will take you on a long ride, and connect you to these triad men.  Jax, my son, I need you to know the Yellow Hand, then I will know them.”

A hint of excitement jumped with feral animal intensity.  “Yes Mother, I will remember.  I can’t wait.”

“Be careful.” her eyes blazed the warning. 

“Be careful, my son,” she repeated softer. “Rook…Rook understands them.” 

She then rubbed against each dirty bodyguard like a serpent.  “These will do for you as for me.  In all ways, use them.”

 “Yes Mother,” his more neutral tone responded.  “I will.”

“I know you will.  You are my Firstborn.”  Her hand cupped his face.  “You will always be my favorite.”  

“Mother, let me go.”

“Understand these strangersNhAND, Jax.  And make sure they understand.”

“Understand what?”

“That you are my child.”

“Yes mother,” he replied, chest swelling with pride. 

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<>8<> Both welcomed the isolation.

They rode in silence from the airport like an angry married couple, ignoring each other’s presence, and let the sunrise question their intent.  Agent Yoshi drove fast and loose so that the outside details flashed past all blurred and ugly.  It was like traveling on pulsing artificial blood vessels which appeared to ship the dead-ender lives farther and farther out to the sloppy seconds of hand-me-down suburbia.  

Yoshi understood that neither of them wanted to talk.  They both welcomed the isolation, as it played to the advantages of each.  It was while cruising between some unmapped cesspools that she decided the tension inside was almost a physical thing, a cloud of suspicion hanging between dirty car windows.

The middle-aged Asian woman stole short intense glances at the big man riding shotgun as she quickly threaded the awkward moving freeways which wound across megacity.  Her dull brown eyes would avert quickly from his discolored puckered flesh with each lane change or dangerous high speed swerve. 

Slowly, the Org-Crime agent began to remember a few of the things others had once said about the rumored psychotic; a little too quick with a gun, and body-count numbers that drew Wild-Wild-West attention. 

Yoshi only hoped her looks didn’t offend, too much.  It was difficult, and often dangerous, to be so near madness.  She was sure Boris was insane.

“It’s right up here,” her smoker’s voice broke the silence first.

“What?” 

“The System Hacker’s apartment,” pointing it out with a wave.

“He a hotshot or a problem?”

“The real deal, based on the court cases anyway.  He beat them all.”

“I already hate him,” the special agent muttered, and continued to observe the yellow and gray apartment complex growing closer. 

“Mohammed Maxx,” Yoshi handed over a photo crinkled with age.  “Got this from a dead-case file.  He was only a kid then.  Did nine years plus probation for moving money.”

“Why him?  Some kind of boy genius?”  He handed back the pic.“What’s the Mexican Mafia got on him?”

Her grin was criminal.  “You got it turned the other way around.  It’s Mohammed who has got something over them.”

He almost looked surprised.  “And what the hell could that be?”

She started to answer, but stopped herself.  “That’s the word.”

“Agent Yoshi, that’s crap,” he declared, and looked at her hard for a long moment.  “If you had just wanted a hired gun, you could have asked, my line is open.”

“Boris.  May I call you that?  I can’t tell you how I know.  But this Mohammed Maxx asshole is genuine, so there is a chance that whatever Replicant memory he supposedly has is real too.”

The silence returned between them as she parked in a nearly empty dirt and spray-painted parking lot.  The tall 10-story narrow apartment building was not much different than the others across the street.  But the moment the Special Agent stepped clear of the car, his reaction was obvious.  Something made him nervous.

It wasn’t until she joined him, at the rear of the vehicle, that Yoshi also felt that they were being watched.  The neighborhood noises had all dropped in volume, windows had closed, and where people once stood, only their shadows now remained.

“My Intel on the layout inside is next to nil.  Maybe five of six on staff,” she grudgingly admitted.  “So, how do you want to play this?”

Boris first frowned, then answered slowly.

“Straight and hard,” he ended with what Yoshi concluded was the mutilated man’s equivalent of a smile. 

“Good, real good.  That’s just how I like it,” she responded with a mischievous grin, then opened the trunk.

“Damn woman!” he burst. “Expecting trouble?”

“You can never,” pausing dramatically.  “Have too many guns.” 

The space inside was packed with layers of weapons.  Some looked new, oiled and shiny, but others were dull and scratched with a warzone feel.

“Ain’t that the truth,” he agreed, then looked deeper inside.  “Oh yeah.  Mr. Twelve, what are you doing hiding in the back?”

“An old friend?” she asked watching his hands caress the well-worn police pump-action shotgun, and check its load.

“You could say that,” he answered softly while grabbing more shells.  “And you?”

“I believe,” spilling words like sarcastic honey.  “I’ll go the other way.”  

Her hands lightly touched a few guns before selecting a large frame nickel plated .45 automatic with a secured suppressor.

“I’ll go in first,” he concluded, closing the trunk.  “So please, just don’t shoot me.”

“Wow, you really inspire teamwork.”

Stepping into the lobby, in his well-tailored suit and carrying Mr. 12, Boris did draw stares from the handful of locals spaced around, watching TV.  Yoshi also drew a share of extra attention with her own up-scale clothes and hair fashion of the month.

But surprisingly for her, it was more the way the people pretended Boris was invisible.  Their queer looks drew her eyes.  She knew he was an elephant in the room, with a shotgun no less, a true example of insanity, but they didn’t react surprised.  The older few seated on the ratty sofa, reacted as if it was normal.  For the briefest moment, she if it was for this neighborhood. 

The openly armed duo bypassed the unlit stairs, and took a shaky ride up 7 floors.  The elevator doors broke open onto a long empty hall that smelled of disinfectant.  The flickering florescent lighting illuminated only the font half, leaving the back dark and unlit, like a cave.

“Just like on the moon.” The sound of Boris’s loud whisper made Yoshi pause.

“What’s wrong?”

“Don’t know.  Jus…just be careful.”

“Always, special agent, always,” she offhandedly remarked, and turned her attention to the scratched and dented door securing the target apartment.  A few deft moves with a lock pick released the mechanism with a loud ping. 

A sound Boris subconsciously recognized.

“Down!” he yelled pushing her sideways and landing on top.  They slammed against the cheap carpet flooring, his body shielding hers. 

KRA-BLAM!

She tried to understand, but the wall directly across the hall from the apartment door had just exploded with the force of a concussion grenade.

KRA-BAM!  KRA-BAM, KRA-BAM!

Steel hammers hit hard against her eardrums.  Flashes of plaster, nails, and plywood splinters exploded all up and down the hallway leading back to the elevator.  Only the prone position kept her from any serious harm as the shrapnel and other debris embedded itself into the walls and ceiling. 

“What the hell,” the confused woman shouted, while struggling to get upright.

“A damn booby trap,” Boris answered slowly.  “Must be the right place,” his shifty smile had returned. 

Examining the still closed door.  “Now what?”

“No more lock picks,” he responded and pointed the shotgun at the door’s hinges.  Yoshi reluctantly nodded, and turned away, covering her ears.

CHA-BAM.  CHA-BAM.

That got the party started.  The door hesitated, then fell open across the hallway with a sloppy slam.  The weapon’s bark had also paused the rescue instinct of those few people still downstairs in the apartment building’s lobby.

Yoshi flashed her own slick smile.  “You were right.  I owe you one.”

“Swell,” he replied in an even tone.  “Just what I always wanted.”

Together they advanced into the dusky apartment carefully, guns swinging side to side.  The space was Spartan, but tasteful towards the electronic superstore vibe.  Metal racks of exposed machines competed against 2 greasy sofas, a filthy kitchen, and a disgusting exposed toilet. 

Yoshi indicated the back room. “Come take a look at that.”

Boris pushed inside through the narrow closet-sized space, and came out into the next apartment.  It housed a vast collection of illegal Synthetic technology.  Dissected Replicant body parts, bagged and packed in foam, were neatly stacked in boxes of all shapes.  Computer linked machines, and odd looking examination equipment, were in a bedroom sheathed with thick PVC plastic curtains. 

He randomly pulled a sample free, and his critical eye scanned the merch.  “This may take a moment.”

Yoshi agreed, “I’ll go secure the front of looky-loos.”

She moved back into the target apartment.  Inwardly she hoped the cache of outlaw tech would occupy Boris long enough to allow for a moment alone with her vibrating vidfone.  But 1st she set her gun down, and got comfortable before flipping open the device. 

“Oh, shit, Mahn?”

“Hello to you too,” came back the low volume response. 

“How did you get this number?” she asked looking hard at the round Chinese face of her half-brother.

“Never mind, Cookie,” he replied using her hated childhood nickname.  “You have bigger problems than me.”

“My gege, what are you saying?  You are still with underboss Chan Xais?  You promised me-”

“He is not the wenti,” the older face on the phone continued.  “The problem is going to meet him tonight.  Some wildcard VIP.  I want out.  I want to be clear before it explodes.”

“If you mean this Mohammed Maxx?  I’m at his place now and-”

“No not him.  Listen, do you have any backup?”

“Yes,” his half-sister replied warily.  “Something like that.”

“Bring it.  Come get me out, and off to the Mars Colony.  I’ll give you the Yellow Hand triad on a silver plate.”

“How do I-”

“Tonight at Club Uzi.  I can’t say more,” he warned cryptically then hung up.

Yoshi continued to stare at the blank screen until Boris made a noisy entrance. She snatched up the .45, trying to recover from the sudden intrusion.

“What did you find?”

“Interesting stuff,” he responded after a grunt, and held out several wallet sized pieces of fake flesh.  She politely declined the offer. 

“Mostly low-tech bio-gen stuff,” squishing it between his big fingers.

“If you say so.”

“A few things looked like real Synthetic manufacture,” he continued.  “So, I give it a high probability that Mohammed could access a Second Gen. Memory Engram.” 

She remained quiet letting him talk. 

“And if so, and it is Call’s.  I think he’s trying to cut a sale.”

“I know how to find him.”

“Swell,” he replied and gave her a then-why-are-we-here look.

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