Chapter Twenty-One - God’s Righteous Fury

“Car culture was a multi-billion-dollar industry before Samurai came about and introduced technologies that changed the way driving worked for everyone.

Now, car culture is a multi-trillion-dollar industry, with everyone from the super rich who want their Rolls Royce to be made to their exacting specification, to street punks who covered their beaters with wraps of their favourite waifus. Anyone can mod their rides to be just a little faster. Everyone dreams of drift-flying around the smoke-stacks in the factory districts of various mega cities.”

-J. P. Kafka on the evolution of car culture, Jan 2038

***

I wasn’t feeling my best as I rode the elevator down to the lobby. My clothes were in a bit of a state after Lucy’s very enthusiastic good-bye, and if it wasn’t for the guilt of knowing that some kid needed help, I might have called off the whole thing to take another long shower.

As entertaining as your distress is, it might be best if you focused a little.

“You think?” I muttered. I tugged my coat back on straight, then made sure all of my gear was in place. I had my Trench Maker tucked under one arm, my Whisper over my back. My back-mounted guns were tucked away, and my tail was casually whipping from side to side.

It was a lot of weaponry, and yet I still felt like I could have a bit more.

Still, it wasn’t worth losing points just yet, not if I could spare them.

The elevator slowed to a gentle stop and its doors opened. My freaky new ears almost immediately gave me an image of the room before I stepped out into it, and of the salesman in the corner whispering, “There she is.”

I walked fast. I wanted to duck my head down and try to be unnoticable, but there was no way that would work. My jacket, un-transparent as it was, looked a bit like the acid-rain proof long coats worn by some of the folk around, but my armour beneath sure didn’t.

Lucy had once told me that one of the best ways to get around was to look like you knew what you wanted and to move ahead with your head held tall and your back straight. It was good advice for an orphan on the streets.

“Myalis, can you send a warning to the idiots coming over?”

Certainly. Do you wish to see it first?

“Will you send something embarrassing if I don’t ask?”

Definitely.

I rolled my eyes, then blinked a few times to get over the still-strange sensation of having two eyes to blink. “Show me.”

Dear unintelligent marketing person,

Be aware that the Vanguard you are approaching is currently on an important, uninterruptible mission to safeguard the life of someone more important than you.​ Attempts to stall or interrupt this vital mission will result in one of the following: - The leaking of embarrassing personal information - Dismemberment - Defenestration - Public humiliation - The sudden and irreversible erasure of all information (including images, digital paperwork, identity files, records, video, and digitized memories) of your person from any source connected to an open network, including banks, social media, schools, and the internet as a whole.

Please assess whether the risks are worth the potential loss of the Vanguard's time.​ Thank you <3​

I nodded after reading it. That was suitably terrifying. “Why’s it superimposed over a gif of kittens chasing a ball of yarn?”

That’s a live feed from the internet, actually. And I enjoy the juxtaposition. I think it makes it just a little bit more intimidating.

“Send it,” I said.

I enjoyed the way the morons coming at me paused. A few of them looked to each other, and one even seemed to be considering it, but then one scoffed and turned away, and soon I was across the room and the peer-pressure had them looking elsewhere for other people to bother.

Pushing through the exit found me once more on the landing just outside the hotel. This time, there wasn’t a shitty taxi waiting for me. Instead, with a familiar nun leaning against its side, was a boxy muscle car.

“God damn,” I said as I moved closer and took the ride in.

Flat black paint so dark it almost hurt to look at, a shell of thick steel with a sort of cage around the front and back. The car was resting flush against the ground, its turbines off and clicking as they cooled, and yet it looked like it was ready to pounce ahead at a moment’s notice.

No windows, because those were apparently for lesser cars, and if I wasn’t mistaken, there was a turret emplacement on the hood. “God damn,” I repeated.

“Using the Lord’s name in vain is usually a sin,” Gomorrah said. “But that is the appropriate reaction in this case.”

“What is it?” I asked as I carefully reached out to run a hand over the hood. It was rough, coarse like sandpaper.

“This is what you can get for four thousand points and a tech-tree specced into hovercars,” Gomorrah said.

“It’s gorgeous,” I said. “I’m not a car girl, but still, damn.”

I noticed that she had built up a bit of a crowd, a dozen or so people blinking at us with the telltale look of someone using their augs to take screencaps.

“She goes from zero to sixty in point nil nil one seconds. So fast that anything organic inside is turned to mush. Max speed in-atmosphere is just shy of mach one. Point defence lasers, guided rockets, and a flame-thrower under the hood. Fully air-tight, of course. Oh, and there’s a fridge in between the seats. It keeps my soda cold.”

“Christ.”

Gomortah huffed and shook her head. I looked up to her, but her face was covered in that same emotionless white mask as before. Not much seemed to have changed with my favourite nun other than the car.

“Does she have a name?” I asked.

“God’s Righteous Fury,” Gomorrah said with a hint of pride.

I stared at her, then shook my head. “O-kay. That’s certainly a name. Can we get in?”

“Clean off your shoes,” Gomorrah said as she pushed herself off the side. “Fury, doors.”

The car’s sides split, revealing two seamless doors that pushed out then slid back to reveal a plush interior covered in white leather and golden trim. I tapped my boots together after running over to the other side, then slid onto the passenger seat.

The moment my ass was down, the seat shifted, the backrest moved and I found myself leaning back into a sort of gel-like pad that seemed purpose-built to accommodate my gear. There was even a slot for my tail.

“That’s a bit much,” I said as I untensed and sank in. “No belts?”

“This car doesn’t do accidents,” Gomorrah said as she reached towards the dash. A pair of joysticks unfolded from the console and soon the front, sides, ceiling and floor lit up with a crystal-clear view of our surroundings.

“You’re not using auto-pilot?” I asked.

Gomorrah turned towards me and just stared with that expressionless mask for a few long seconds.

“Alright, alright,” I said. “So, we plan on the way?”

“Sure,” she said as she reached out and flicked a pair of very old-school switches.

“Identify,” A disembodied voice demanded.

“Fury: Roar,” Gomorrah said.

I snorted, but the sound was drowned out by a low, primal rumble and a few bursts of blue flames burping out of the raised scoop on the hood.

The car lifted, then I wasn’t able to tell what happened because I was thrown into my seat and breathing became a thing of the past. I did notice that the darkened landing pad became open sky through the canopy. For a few good seconds I was too busy trying to not die to observe anything.

“Oh, sorry,” Gomorrah said as she loosened on the acceleration.

I gasped for air and pressed a hand against my chest. “What the hell?” I asked.

“Traffic in the upper levels is set at three hundred KPH. Just wanted to get to cruising speed.”

“Uh-huh,” I said. It was a weak attempt at snark, but I was still catching my breath. A look down revealed all of New Montreal, done in somber colours and with the flashing headlights of slower moving cars below.

Huge holographic ads splashed through the sky, and we zipped by a few ad-blimps with even more ads on their sides. “I know the view’s great, but you asked me for help?”

I stopped staring. “Right. So, did you read the stuff I sent?”

“You mean what your AI sent? I listened to the abridged version.”

There was an abridged version? “We’re going after these mercs, called the, uh... fuck, it doesn’t matter. They’re the ones that grabbed Katallina, the Samurai girl.”

“No Samurai name for her?” Gomorrah asked.

“Never met her in person,” I said. “So, They took her. Don’t know if she’s still with them or not, but if she’s not with them, then they’re the next link in the line, you know?”

Gomorrah nodded.

“The plan, as far as there is one, is to kick in the front door and ask some very pointed questions,” I said.

“Aren’t you a stealth specialist?” Gomorrah asked. “Can’t you sneak in?”

I frowned as I thought about it. “Probably? Might not be a bad idea. They might get spooked if we burn down their front door.”

“I can always wait as backup,” Gomorrah said. “Also, hang on, we’re going down.”

Then the car flipped upside down, Gomorrah pulled the joysticks back and aimed us nose down.

I screamed a little.

***