“What the fuck?” one of them screamed. “Stop fucking shooting!”

One of the forms to the right ducked down, crouching and covering his head with both hands. The other stumbled off in the other direction. He must have caught a glimpse of sunlight through the smoke, because he made a break for the doorway. He stepped through and there was a definitive FFZZAP, and his form flew out of view to the right side of the front yard. That armor might be laser-proof and bullet-proof, but a close-up blast of electricity from Bashful Dan’s shock-gun was going to hurt, no matter what.

With the front door wide open, a cross-breeze was already clearing the smoke. Dava cursed herself for leaving the kitchen window open. Fortunately, the can was still streaming, and would be for a few more minutes. With the cop to the right ducking defensively, she looked to the one to the left. He had managed to back himself up against the wall and was carefully scanning the room, gun tracking in a slow sweep. The smoke was probably thinner farther away from the canister, so she watched the patterned movement of the orange shape of his gun and came at him when it was off to the far side.

She moved with her left hand forward, aiming the popper at his outstretched arm. She fired off a cluster of shots and he cried out in pain, his gun clattering to the floor. Even their sleeves were bullet-resistant, but the armor was semi-soft, favoring freedom of movement over protection. The shots might not penetrate, but their impact at close range had to be terribly painful. He looked around desperately, cradling his arm and cursing frantically.

Stepping forward, she kicked the cop’s gun aside and then took a wide swipe with her blade across the halfway point between the red blob of his head and the red blob of his chest. The thinner smoke was allowing more light through this side of the room, clouding her infrared view, but Dava could have executed the move against the helpless man with her eyes closed. His curses sucked off into a gasping gurgle and his hands reflexively went up to his neck. She kicked him in the stomach for good measure and he keeled over, crumpling to the ground and half-coughing through the chasm in his throat.

She turned back to the center of the room and saw someone standing, making a movement with his arm, as if throwing something. The smoke in the room swirled, and she realized someone had gotten enough sense together to toss the canister out. She made a circle, sticking to the walls, and came up behind the last cop. He was crouching and trying to look about, his gun still drawn but lowered. The air started to clear as she glided up to him and put her blade against his cheek. She stuffed the gun in her hand into the back of her pants and used her free hand to pull off her infrared goggles and pull down her gas mask.

The cop wasn’t wearing a helmet, and she could feel his vulnerability through the tip of her blade, as if she were drawing across his flesh with her own fingernail. He started to lift his gun, and she felt herself smile reflexively. “You wanna try me, pollie?” she said icily.

He dropped the gun and raised his hands. “Not smart,” Dava chided. “Now you’re really defenseless. Oh, I’m sorry,” she said, cocking her head to one side, trying to get a look at the face of the bald, red-skinned man. “Did I give you the impression I would be letting you live?”

“Who are you?” he said, his throat raw from smoke inhalation.

“Space Waste,” said a man’s voice. She looked back to the center of the room. The B-fourean was still on the floor, on his knees and rubbing his head. The green-skinned woman was coughing and trying to crawl around on her hands and knees, meandering as if she didn’t know where to go.

The green man was standing tall, a bulky-looking pistol trained on her. She recognized the handgun instantly; it was a Zap-n-Zap, Mk-3 military-grade laser pistol. Several Space Wasters carried that exact same model, ever since a crate of them fell off the back of a transport vessel sometime last year.

“You are under arrest,” the green-skinned man said, steadily. “Both of you.” He took one step forward and motioned with his gun, and the remaining smoke seemed to part around his outstretched arm and then his chest and head. “Get down on the ground, now!” he yelled with sudden intensity.

CHAPTER 22

Officer Stanford Runstom trained his gun back and forth between Mark Xavier Phonson and the unannounced Space Waste assassin as they both slowly knelt down to the ground, their hands in the air. He tried to survey the room with his peripheral vision, not daring to take his eyes off the loose-cannon cop or the deadly warrior-woman.

The place was a mess. The chairs were bullet ridden, the small drink tables were smashed, and the vid-screen was shot right through the center. Jenna Zarconi was face down on the ground but still moving, inching toward the front door, and Jax was feebly trying to pull himself to his feet, using a chair for leverage. Two of X’s escorts lay motionless in different parts of the room, both surrounded by pools of red.

Without taking his eyes off X and the gangbanger, Runstom bent down near one of the downed cops and cautiously unhooked the circular restrainers from his belt with his free hand. He stood back up and tried to get a look at how Jax was doing.

“Jax,” he said, when he saw the operator able to stand on his own. “Take these,” he started, then changed his mind. “No, take this gun. Keep it pointed at these two. If they do anything funny, just waste ’em.” He didn’t want to risk sending Jax anywhere near that assassin. She’d already proven she could be fast and ruthless.

“No problem,” Jax said in a raspy voice. “Give the gun to Psycho Jack,” he added with a wide grin. Runstom gave him the pistol and he happily pointed it at the ModPol cop and the Space Waster. “Don’t make a move,” he said mockingly.

Runstom slipped a restraint over the wrists of the gangbanger first, fixing her hands behind her back. She regarded him with mild interest that bordered on boredom. Her calm made him nervous. He proceeded to cuff X, who looked frazzled and desperate. The corrupt cop tried to lean away from the woman as far as he could, periodically looking at the other motionless bodies, then quickly looking away. After he had them both cuffed, Runstom scooped up the strange blade the woman had dropped.

“Be careful with that, officer,” the brown-skinned woman cooed.

“Mm-hmm. Dangerous, I’m sure,” Runstom muttered, sticking the knife into his belt.

“I said, be careful with it,” she repeated, a little more sternly. “It has sentimental value.”

Runstom gave the woman a sideways look, not really sure if she meant what she said or if she was just being coy. He tried to ignore her.

“You,” he said, walking back over to Jax. “Give me that gun, and take these,” he said, handing Jax the two small detachments that came from each of the restrainer rings. “Just squeeze the button on these to send a signal to the cuffs and it will shock the hell outta ’em. That ought to keep them from trying anything funny.” He looked back over at the arrestees. X still looked like he wanted to get out of the room as quickly as possible. The woman just gave him a look that seemed to express resignation, if temporary.

He looked back at Jax to see if he had the situation under control. The operator held the switches, one in each hand, and grinned. Runstom went out the front doorway.

The canister was in the middle of the yard, spouting dark smoke into the air. Without four walls and a ceiling to contain it, it was no smokier than a campfire, and it was beginning to sputter out. The crumpled form of the other ModPol cop lay off to the side of the doorway. Runstom bent down and felt his pulse. The man was still alive, but unconscious. Whoever blasted him was apparently long gone. He unhooked the restrainers from the cop’s belt and flipped him over onto his belly. Then he used one of the rings to cuff the unconscious man, just in case he woke up. He didn’t waste time binding his legs – hopefully, the guy was in bad enough shape that if he did wake up, getting to his feet and making a run for it was a little out of the question. He did, however, take a second to grab the cop’s squawkbox.