Catwalk: Messiah Read online

  Fire and shrapnel erupted a hundred meters into the air in a fireworks display that would make New Year’s Eve jealous. Gas pumps morphed into oversized bottle rockets. The screams of civilians cut through the air. As the echo of explosions faded, they were replaced with a hollow groan as the service station framework cracked and gave way under the angered steps of the Titan.

  The metallic beast rose to the height of its ten meter frame, batting aside an abandoned car and a dumpster with no effort. It pounded the ground.

  Bullets rattled off of its chest as it leveled its red gaze at its assailants.

  Figures scattered around behind it, panicking and fleeing the destruction. The Nitro City Police Department fired round after round of standard and armor piercing ammunition, with no effect other than shredding the fake skin of the cybernetic being’s exoskeleton.

  From this distance, Cat could safely start guessing at what he saw. Sure, it looked like a giant gorilla, but almost all natural animals were extinct on Earth, moved safely to off-world colonies. Someone may have constructed a giant, robotic gorilla, but that wasn’t likely. This thing was chaotic and destructive. He’d seen this type of psychosis before. That murderous, mechanical being had started out human, but its human brain couldn’t control the machine it had become. Cybernetics overwrote its ability to feel, to think, to relate – like a virus wiping away its very humanity.

  Cat filtered out individual screams. He heard an old man with a thick accent, a woman’s voice whispering soft, playful words, and a shaking voice betraying outright fear. Each was a different component of humanity executed at the hands of the mechanical behemoth. Cat wondered for a moment where exactly he tipped the scales. His own body was the marriage of human and machine, and he knew that marriage often ended badly. In his case, the jury was still out.

  This particular gigantic war machine had crossed over the line, deciding in the process to let any normal human in its wake follow its sanity into the afterlife. Cat had seen it before, but never on this scale.

  Impressed, Cat watched the manic MetaHuman grab one of the armored Hovercars in mid-flight and shake it violently then toss the inhabitants aside like unwelcome parasites on its last supper. The enormous war machine clapped its hands together, crushing the Hovercar like a beer can.

  Enough was enough. The Titan couldn’t last much longer, and the battleground was growing, and it was moving back in his direction. Cat gunned the motorcycle, racing out of the line of fire as two more armored vehicles approached. He flipped his comm to the open channel, listening to the media coverage and watching the proceedings in a small pop-up in his display.

  The battle continued for another fifteen minutes. Cat made a note. There was no way that thing should still be moving, let alone raging and causing property damage and loss of life. No MH he had ever fought had sustained such injuries and remained upright. Finally, a combination of armor-piercing rounds and Electro-Magnetic Pulse attacks in succession caused it to slow and stumble. In an effort to escape, it leapt, and the camera lost the shot as the MH fell off of the highway overpass.

  By the time the camera crew got the target back in frame, it was lying prone near an enormous building bathed in blue. Additional attacks came from the arriving security forces, leaving the magnificent machine, formerly human, nothing more than a smoking pile of rent flesh and decimated cybernetics. Cat smirked. Emory’s ghost might take small solace in one fact: the city would save money on a trial.

  Within seconds, the media covering the assault started in with a superlative-laden description rivaling the end of civilization. Ratings still ruled above all else, and the reporters were compensated by keeping viewers. Accuracy always played second fiddle to speculation when it came to such an event. Conjecture rolled forth like a tsunami, and Cat lost interest.

  He pulled the H-S into the parking garage of his building, typing a few keys to disarm the warning systems, and rolled right into the freight elevator. As fanaticism outweighed the facts, Catwalk hit a switch, and the media feed went dead. He pushed the button for the loft, lifted his helmet and rubbed his neck. The elevator door opened, and a small confirmation indicated his residence was safe.

  Cat drove the H-S to its customary spot. He powered down the engine and hooked up the leads to do diagnostic testing and repair. He mounted his helmet on its perch, connecting similar wires so it could download the images captured earlier. The hitman was sore and tired, and he couldn’t figure out if he was more affected by losing a professional colleague or nearly becoming Nitro City’s newest pothole.

  He decided that the best pain medication, as usual, was intoxication. He walked to the bar, leaving the hum of the video feed to die in darkness behind him. He mentally replayed some of the old cases he’d worked on as a cop, thinking back to the most tumultuous period of his life.

  Cat drained the first glass as quickly as he poured it. He spent four years, four dangerous and chaotic years that nearly drove him insane putting down MetaHumans gone rogue. He’d never seen one as big as the Titan who’d just stormed through Downtown. It was a bomb whose fuse had run out. He poured a second glass, catching the reflection of his yellow eyes in the glass, cold, artificial, inhuman eyes. He took a long drink, swishing the liquor around in his mouth before swallowing it. The liquor burned as it hit his stomach reminding him that he was still human. He could still feel.

  Cat walked to the window. Downtown sang to him its constant symphony of sirens, screams, and gunfire. He raised a silent toast to Emory, downing the rest of the glass. Emory Blake, Esquire – esteemed Assistant District Attorney, successful prosecutor, rising star snuffed out by a MetaHuman out of control.

  Cat poured a third drink. MetaHuman out of control. Maybe they’d carve that on his tombstone when he followed the Titan’s path to insanity. He raised the glass to his lips, determined to drink until he stopped seeing himself as the next victim of cybernetics’ conquest over humanity.

  CHAPTER TWO

  The morning ride to the local precinct was comfortable, downright soothing at moments. Catwalk twisted his wrist slightly, and the armored Honda-Suzuki motorcycle answered his every request, cornering like a gazelle, sprinting like a cheetah, and responding with the devotion of a hunting dog.

  Cat had called ahead, getting Will to agree to meet him on the premises. Will was a paranoid forensic anthropologist and medical examiner who obsessed over the details of every case. He was also willing to take some very thorough and unethical steps, for the right price. Cat had very few allies in Nitro City, but Will was as loyal as they came, as long as the checks never bounced. Cat trusted him from their first interaction, seeing a lot of himself in the slightly strange death investigator.

  For some reason Cat never figured out, the mortician used the name Will N. Testament for all his proceedings. It was an odd title, but then again Cat’s own handle had nothing to do with his abilities. He was no male model. He couldn’t sustain himself on crackers and nose candy. Some fool cop had labeled him Catwalk after seeing the acrobatics provided by his cybernetics. The name stuck ever since.

  Cat never really decided if he should be grateful or pissed. He’d been labeled by a fellow officer during his first week on duty. Despite every attempt, Cat stood out, and the moniker followed him like cheap cologne. Eventually, he accepted it. He wasn’t certain when, but he was relatively sure it was the first time one of his lovers had screamed, “Fuck me, Cat!” That was the sort of thing that made a man reevaluate how he was recognized.

  When Cat arrived, he wasn’t surprised to see Will chugging black coffee, even in a room full of human remains, somewhat human parts, and leftovers only scientists could define. Will’s eyes were glossy, their undersides as black and leathery as the morgue’s body bags. He was visibly upset at being called to action before sundown. His shaved head was completely covered in a tattooed mural and barbed piercings, and his mood was as fiery as the giant MetaHuman on last night’s vid feed. Several parts of the Titan now covered the steel tab
le.

  Guitar-driven synth-rock filled the room loud enough to shake the steel trays containing forceps, scissors, chisels, and saws. Cat considered shooting the audio source, but thought twice when he realized it might be hardwired into Will’s skull. Instead, he picked up a clean bone mallet from the table next to him and whacked Will on the shoulder with it.

  The mortician hardly flinched, but the music magically dropped a hundred decibels. “Please, please tell me you brought me here for a reason, Cat man?”

  Cat had little more than a hunch, but his gut told him it was enough to engage the ornery coroner he’d called a friend for the last few months. “I wish I could claim some Divine Vision, but, really, partner, I ain’t got too much ta go on. That thing took out a friend a’ mine, and almost put me on the next table over. I would have hated ta die without givin’ you one last kiss goodbye.”

  Will flipped Cat an appropriate one-finger gesture in silent reply, as he pulled aside the tarp covering the corpse. The news coverage had been above average and with the pressure on the MH’s manufacturer coming as a result, Cat was right, there would be little chance to investigate it without a badge very soon.

  “As you’re so fond of reminding me when I need something, Cat, you ain’t a shocking cop anymore. So, what’s with the sudden desire to play detective? Or are you the hired dick on this case?”

  “C: none of the above,” Cat replied, scanning the MH for markings not inflicted by the arsenal that finally took it down. “Rogue Metas pay a hefty cred load.” He pried open the scorched and dented panel at the base of the skull, quickly snapping a digital image of the serial numbers. There were enough remaining digits that it could be tracked. “Rumors have this thing linked to three different contract companies. Any guesses?”

  Will rubbed his neck, opening one eye and addressing Catwalk over the lip of his coffee cup. “It’s too mish-mashed. Every time I think I’ve got it figured out, I find a different design algorithm that makes me second guess myself.” He walked to one of the side tables and lifted a metallic plate wrapped in a department-issued bag. It was the size of his fist. “This was interesting, though.”

  The ex-cop stepped over. Will didn’t think anything was interesting. The statement alone caught him off guard. “What’s that, its forehead?”

  “Not even close. This is the palm of its hand, before the swap-out to the Autoguns, but you saw that, I’m sure.”

  “Yeah, full-auto, air-cooled, 15mm, looked like a Czech origin from what I saw.”

  “Israeli, and it was 18mm, which is really rare.”

  “Well, cut me some slack, there was the little detail of duckin’ Hovertanks and fallin’ buildings.”

  Will nodded. “So here in the palm, I’ve never seen this design. I’m running it, and the numbers against the db and waiting on results. This artwork came close to a few gang symbols but not all that close.”

  Cat snapped an image of the artwork. It was a cross, with the base planted in stone. The left and right points ended in a flaming profile face and a grinning skull, and a set of scales hung from the top point. Silhouetted behind it was a pair of skeletal wings. He turned the image slightly side to side. Something about it was familiar, but he couldn’t place it.

  “Shockit,” he cursed, “have I mentioned I hate religious fanatics?”

  “More times than I can count. It’s time for you to head out, my man. Press is already pounding at the gates for answers I ain’t got.”

  “You’re not the DI on this?”

  Will shook his head. “Nope, jurisdiction went immediately to CorpSec for TransTechnica when they got the kill. That’s odd, since they only engaged when it crashed onto their parking garage after three other companies wounded it. They’ve been fighting for the credit, which is how I got to sneak you in here.”

  “Much obliged, baldy.”

  “Shock you and your family. Now, get out of here before I have to toss you into a slab just to hide you.”

  Cat silently obeyed, rushing out with his newfound information. This thing came from a manufacturer Will couldn’t identify quickly which meant a rogue company, a lunatic one-off, or the beginnings of something big. Hell, Will was a specialist in MH autopsy and analysis, a recent field added to the science of forensic pathology.

  If Will didn’t know, something very strange was beginning to unfold, and the images Cat had just snapped were going to open the first doors to its revelation.

  CHAPTER THREE

  “Shockin’ son of a motherless whore!”

  Cat chucked the wooden practice sword across the loft, wincing slightly at the sound of breaking glass when it impacted with his bar. He stared at the newsfeed, which seemed tailor-made to ruin his day.

  “…and under the pressure of local Security Forces, Nanoengineering Institute, Inc., has immediately cut all funding to its Military Neurotechnology Research branch. This will mean layoffs of almost 200 highly educated and well-paid scientists. The Institute’s legal representation has stated in clear and concise fashion that the margin for error with the research branch’s experiments has cost far more than they had allowed in this fiscal budget, and therefore the risk had exceeded the benefits to the company’s long-term business plan.” The reporter droned on with a delivery usually reserved for test programs and Off-World terminal notifications about the “motorized walkway is coming to an end.” Cat wanted to commit violent acts against the face on the Holoscreen, but deep down, he knew that would forfeit more of a paycheck than he wanted.

  Instead, he followed the path of the wooden projectiles to the bar, happy to clean up any unceremoniously opened bottles of indulgence. The news broadcast confirmed what he’d found from the serial numbers. The NII was certainly the official manufacturer of the rogue Meta, but there was something screaming at him about the nature of its sudden rampage. And, despite three days of media coverage, no one save Will himself had even mentioned the rather unique artwork on the MH’s palm. That led Cat to believe this wasn’t a test subject gone bad, rather, it was an anomaly, something meant to stay off the record.

  He cursed, shooting a glance over to the H-S. He wanted to ride, to clear his head, and get the hell out of the loft. The research part of the job wasn’t his passion. He had a partner for that. Correction. He formerly had a partner for that. He made a note to confirm a meeting with the new candidate. He preferred investigating first hand. It was, after all, where the excitement was. With a snarl, he picked up the comm. There were some headhunters on his contact list. The first step was to start scrubbing the database for the suddenly unemployed RII scientists.

  The scientist stared at the Holoscreen. The image of the MetaHuman—his MetaHuman—filled the screen as the news replayed the destructive scene from downtown. The reporter’s polished voice went on about funding cuts and layoffs at NII, responsible for the rampage that killed.

  He switched off the sound and watched the MetaHuman fall after armored vehicles and security forces unloaded a barrage of ammunition, enough to take down a small army, into it.

  Impressive.

  He scowled at the screen, a sneer crossing his scarred lips.

  Too bad NII shut down his department. He’d like to try again—soon. He replayed the disaster again, keeping the sound muted. He’d use this incident to learn and do it better next time. The sudden psychosis of the MetaHuman occurred far earlier than he postulated. This miscalculation meant another setback and once again re-routing his financial sources. Without the NII lab at his disposal, he’d have to secure alternate laboratory facilities, something he’d researched in case this type of unfortunate event occurred.

  There was no lack of investors for what he had planned. Many in the underground clamored to be the first to use his research, and he’d learned to be discreet. He had spent years on his pet project, all right under the nose of NII. The corporate snobs were so interested in profit margins that they never had a clue about his real work, the work that would change humanity itself. While his colleagues s
cattered from negative press like rats from a sinking ship, he had already secured a new stream of income to fund his research.

  He narrowed his eyes and paused the image on the screen. Tiny yellow triangles caught his attention in the corner of the frame. He lifted his hand into the air and pushed his thumb and forefinger apart to expand the screen. The small yellow lights came into focus.

  “Catwalk,” he whispered and smiled. His eyes trailed over the man who would be contributing to his next project.

  Fortunately, for the scientist, Catwalk had no clue about his impending contribution.

  He raised his hands, and the holograph scrolled upward until Catwalk’s cybernetic legs were at the scientist’s eye level.

  He ran his hands over the image of Catwalk’s armored cyberlegs. His lips felt dry, and he licked them instinctively.

  “What a shame. You will help herald a new era but won’t live to see it.” He lifted his hands above his head. Catwalk’s body filled the screen once again. The scientist waved his arms back and forth, the image of the hitman wavering back and forth with his every movement.

  ”Just be a good boy and let your conscience be your guide …” He nearly fell over laughing at his joke. “… straight to hell.”

  The scientist snapped his fingers, and Catwalk’s image disappeared in an instant.

  He flicked his hand and pulled up several bank registrars listed under various aliases. The down payment for Catwalk’s services had gone through. Catwalk accepted the assignment the scientist had hired him to do. He’d take out the pederast known as Hitch.

  Not that the scientist particularly cared one way or the other if Hitch lived or died. He was a disgusting pervert, but he was a means to an end. An end that wouldn’t implicate the scientist, because once Midas—Hitch’s master and the most notorious and powerful pimp in the city—learned that Catwalk killed one of his own, he’d retaliate. And Catwalk didn’t have enough lives to stand against Midas’ very experienced team of assassins.