Salvation Polarity

Salvation Polarity

Ryan Viergutz

Copyright 2014 Ryan Viergutz

This work is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. All rights reserved. This is a work of fiction. All characters and situations depicted in this book are fictional. Any resemblance to real people, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Books by Ryan Viergutz

Secrets of the Empire

Enemy Territory

Necessary Lies

Can't Fall Back

Overthrown (Coming 2015)

Tatsuro Calesani, Chaos Mage

Stricken By Entropy

Splinters in Three Souls

Absolute Mayhem

Ghost Infection

Blown to Smithereens

No Stone Unturned (Coming 2015)

Fatal Proximity (Coming 2014)

Antinode Vapors (Coming 2014)

Salvation Polarity

Blindsided

Instability

Two Ends of Destiny

Oracle Dream

Chapter 1

Marjorie had disappeared as suddenly as a banished ghost. As a trained officer who had recently reached detective, it was unlike her by any measure. As soon as he had learned that someone had taken her, Torbjorn Lennikailen had called his team together, asked for her whereabouts through his contacts and came to the troubling suspicion that the police had caught up with her. He would blame himself later. He didn't have the time to worry now.

Although the authorities could listen in on almost anything he said and arrest him if he made too many overtly political actions, Torbjorn lived in the cracks between the networks. He didn't have much in the way of resources, expected a short, brutish life, and worked with what he could. This time he'd have to put it all to use, and that brought him to the chain of picketers, protesters and rebels that always surrounded the police station.

Given time, as late at that afternoon, they would erupt into riots, since when people had nothing left to live for, they figured they'd burn it all to the ground and start over. Torbjorn had been given to flights of fancy like that often enough and they continued to pop up at the strangest times. He scanned the crowd with his binoculars. They had a long gouge in one side so he didn't have much spatial perception.

Attica Contoss's voice entered his earpiece. She sounded sharp and bristling, always a step away from violence. Unlike Torbjorn, she'd never done time. Have you found her yet?

Torbjorn's hands had become sweaty beneath the sweltering sun over his head. Its rays glittered across the lens of the binoculars. I'm still looking.

Attica exhaled harshly. I don't think they've brought her.

I'll stay up here until they either bring her or pull me down, then, Torbjorn said. I'm in a good spot. They won't catch me.

It's a miracle they haven't, Attica said. I'm surprised they haven't put guards on the rooftops, for the importance of what's going on.

Torbjorn's fingers tightened on the binoculars. He scanned through the crowd, their neon signs, the fists in the air and their movements. She's more important to me than she'll ever be to them. They made their choice.

Keep your cool, Attica said quietly. Lachlan, do you have anything?

Lachlan giggled and grunted. Torbjorn could hear curses and complaints through the earpiece, bleedthrough from the protest. I can't see a fucking thing. I'm right in the thick of the crowd. She sighed and shouted 'Fuck You' at someone. I'm where you told me to be. When you need me, I'll be here waiting.

Torbjorn saw one of the search cameras move toward him and ducked behind the ledge of the rooftop. He counted the seconds until the camera would back into its former position and heard Attica catch her breath.

She's here, Attica said. I'm moving in for a closer look. I'm between 7th and Blanka and the entrance doors. You should see me no problem. It's not like I'm disguised today.

Torbjorn scrolled the binoculars toward Attica, his heart pumping with anticipation, and her words had proven true. Attica, his lieutenant and the Quick Wits's weaponsmaster, had the least hair of anybody in the crowd, shaved to a millimeter. She wore black eyeliner over her blue eyes. Dressed in a leather corset, leather pants and steel toed boots, she didn't fit with the crowd. The police might spot her as a recognized criminal, though she'd insisted she take center stage for the upcoming action.

She's got a heavy police presence with her, Attica said. This is going to be tough, man. How do you want to play it?

Torbjorn grunted and clutched the binoculars tight. He scanned for the oncoming train of cars and saw a handful of them. They'd transport Marjorie in the center of the convoy and have at least a half dozen guards focused on her at any given time. The police worked under limitations, though, like Torbjorn and the Wits did, and they could use them to their advantage. They had the equipment, the positioning and the knowledge to make it fast.

We can't make this one surgical, Attica said warily.

We won't need to. Torbjorn reattached the binoculars to one of the six clips on his belt and walked to the edge of the restaurant. We move when they're inside the station.

Are you crazy? Attica said.

A deep male voice, starkly dissimilar from the man's appearance, spoke up for the first time in ten minutes. How am I supposed to pull you out of there, boss?

How else do you think? Torbjorn stared down at the dark alley beneath his feet and took a long breath that brought the harsh particles of the city into his lungs. We'll get out.

Might as well trust him. He usually comes through, Attica said.

Torbjorn stepped off the rooftop and slammed into the pavement four stories beneath him. He felt the hydraulics in his cybernetic legs pump and whirr. The shock absorbers built into his waist and ass absorbed most of the impact even though he felt the tremor pass through him. He rolled forward to reduce the rest of the momentum, came up alongside the opposite wall and pressed himself to it. He didn't hear anyone nearby except for the angry shouts of the protesters.

He marched out into the group of protesters and felt the energy of their rage charge through him and make his skin itch for action. He wore his dyed hair in wild spikes, a sleeveless shirt for the band Deserter Massacre on it, a worn out leather jacket, thick black eyeliner more suitable for a goth, and black leather pants that would look better on a biker. Anyone would have mistaken him for a passerby, a random weirdo or a hipster. They wouldn't recognize him as a criminal boss.

I'm coming to you, Torbjorn said. As soon as the motorcade's left we make our move. When I give the signal, Lachlan, stir up the crowd. Make them mad and give me the mother of all distractions.

You've got it. It ought to be a cinch, Lachlan said. I'm listening.

Torbjorn pushed and crunched a path to the front of the protest line although he kept a few heads between him and the police. If he gave them a clear view, they would recognize him and the whole plan would be shot to hell. Nick, keep your peepers peeled. I hope this goes fast.

Nick chuckled and drawled. Well, if you don't, I will.

Torbjorn grinned and shook his head. Good. I hope we don't have to count on you. He squinted at the first of the several police cars that moved through the crowd of protesters. He noticed the potato guns and riot shields right away on the front ranks of the officers. I was afraid of that. They're going to push against the crowd.

It won't work, Lachlan said. These people won't give in without a battle.

That's probably what they want, Torbjorn said quietly. I'm looking for Marjorie.

As soon as he said it, he glimpsed her silhouette behind one of the tinted windows of the first police car to cross the street. She faced forward, ramrod straight, every inch of her that he could see stoic and determined in the face of overwhelming power. He had a hard time taking his eyes off of her, even as a silhouette, and finally turned away. He drew a retractable plastic baton off his belt and melded with the crowd.

I'm going to crack some skulls, Torbjorn snarled into the comm. You know how this goes.

Don't get spotted, Attica warned him.

Torbjorn formed ranks with the front row of rioters. The peaceful members of the protest gave them room, aware of what was to come. He always admired the people who sought peace. He knew that in his world that they had left that option behind decades ago. They don't know what hit him, he said.

Torbjorn stuffed his ears full of wax, pulled his plastic gas mask over his face from below the collar of his jacket and gripped the baton tightly. He raised the baton over his head and screamed at the police. The sounds of hundreds of voices in unison, the marching boots of the police and the scraping of their shields took him over and deafened him. He crouched down into a fighter's stance, ready for them to come.

When the police finally crashed into the ranks of the protesters, Torbjorn dove straight toward the center of the fighting. Two of the cops fell quickly to his baton, though their companions drove Torbjorn back with their own batons and riot shields. Water cannons sprayed over his head, foam spurted from cannons further behind them, and undoubtedly the tear gas canisters would spill out onto the streets.

Torbjorn whirled the baton in his fingers, retreated and assessed the condition of the scene. A handful of protesters with plastic masks, some of them full covering their faces, had gathered around him after they'd focused on him as a potential leader. People gravitated toward his knowledge and experience of mass tactics, and regardless of his disguises, he had the presence of a skilled rebel.

He couldn't stay long, though, so he gestured to the nearest of the protesters beside him. A woman more prepared than most with a military gas mask and heavy clothes that could absorb a beating, she leaned in close to him to hear his instructions. He had seen her in the Demented Hole club that he managed in a partnership with Nick. Behind the plastic lenses of the mask the woman studied him with complete seriousness. He was glad to see she'd taken a side in the city's conflicts.

I have to leave, Torbjorn said. I've got a mission of my own. He turned toward the line of police who advanced on them. I'd like you to keep these goons busy.

The woman nodded. We'll try.

Make sure to keep them away from the precinct station until I'm out, Torbjorn said.

The woman searched his eyes. Wait a minute. Are you him?

Torbjorn smiled. I might be.

The woman's gaze darkened. I don't know what you're doing with that traitor. But that's your own business. She bounced her baseball bat on her right hand. Go get her. Maybe you're in the right. I don't know.

Torbjorn threw her a thumbs-up and nodded. You're in the right. At least you've got an opinion you're fighting for. He turned around and elbowed a path through the protesters. Shouts and screams trailed him. He wanted desperately to stay and help them in their struggle, but there would be more protests soon enough. He had to rescue his lover.

While he raced out of the crowd, he called to his team. Attica, report.

I'm in the northernmost alley, Attica said. L's already through a passage in the southeast, and gaining on M's escorts.

Torbjorn discovered the alley, a rundown joint that must have had several cameras positioned over it and sensors in the ground. He held his baton between his teeth and unclipped a box from his belt. As soon as he'd pointed it into the alley to find the electronic traces, Attica waved to him from within. Torbjorn sighed, cast her an exasperated look and walked slowly into the alley. One of the half dozen sensors remained on the pavement.

I tell you you can't assume, Torbjorn said. What if I'd hit that one?

Attica Contoss, a handsome, tall woman who had half a foot over his 5'9", smiled at him and shrugged. She wore a metal headset with a visor that reported similar stats as his box. Most of her wardrobe consisted of tight outfits that clung to her, and she managed to make a drab tactical vest and military pants look beguiling. Attica leaned toward guns instead of melee weapons, so she carried a taser rebuilt into a pistol and a handgun with nonlethal ammunition. She had plenty more ammunition that had all sorts of dangerous tricks in it.

Attica nodded at the steel door and the access panel connected to it. You wanna hack into it?

Torbjorn rolled his eyes. Will you ever learn? He put a password cycler on it and watched it flip through the digits. I wish we had more time to prepare.

Attica watched the entrance to the alley and shook her head. They must've taken her by surprise. They probably lured her with Seraphim.

Seraphim's not that stupid. She would've seen it, Torbjorn said.

Maybe they turned her? Attica said.

Torbjorn frowned at her. Attica blinked her bright blue eyes at him. The cycler found the last digit, Torbjorn snapped at it before it could keep moving, and the door lock clicked aside.

See? It's not that complicated, Torbjorn said.

Bullets clattered against the door. Torbjorn glued himself to the right side of the door. Attica claimed the left.

Just had to jinx it, didn't you, Attica said.

Chapter 2

Bullets ripped the interior side of the steel door. The police had spotted them and sent a security robot to their location. Torbjorn coated the baton with a flexsteel layer and pulled a second from his belt. He looked aside at Attica and saw her load a fresh magazine in her pistol. Two of the robot's gun barrels, thick and black, stuck through the wreckage of the door. Torbjorn swung toward it, smacked the closest off of its supports.

The robot, a tall and slippery version of the RT-42 that looked like a cross between the bulk of a whale and the body of an eel, pushed the door to the ground and rolled toward him. Torbjorn thrust out at its barrels and bent them out of position. Its bullets went wide of the mark and took gouges out of the bricks and steel in the nearby buildings. It continued in its forward movement and knocked him off his feet.

The RT-42's treads, thick as his thighs, rushed toward him to finish him off. Its red and green optics blinked brightly with festive colors that looked completely inappropriate. Torbjorn staggered backward, right in the machine's sights. Its engines roared and its treads hummed loud enough to