By Simon Drax
July 6, 2009
And now, the second installment of Simon Drax’s wovel, Exit Vector…
***
"Wait," growled the man with the comb-over, his hand tightening on Mori's shoulder.
"Sorry, don't think so," Billy said, more with regret than indifference, and even as his robotic companion uttered a half-warning, Billy reached under his jacket and flipped on a pair of eyeglasses with an attached mini-microphone.
Crazily, Mori thought Poster Boy dons his MC-headset, everybody dance! in the same second that Comb-Over savagely yanked Mori back and the robot snapped up her arm-mounted pulse cannon and held it level, the same second that Billy's lips formed two syllables behind the mic:
"—bum-per—"
...and something invisible and hard roared past Mori, a fist of wind that hit the man behind her like a sledgehammer. There was a splash, hot and wet; the man growled, the sound twisting into a roar, not human. Mori grimaced, tried to wrench free, but the man's fingers coiled and contracted like steel cables around her neck.
"—the FUCK!" Mori screamed, writhing in the shitstorm of blood and debris.
The club erupted with shouts, panicked limbs, the shocked jerky galvanism of bodies stumbling backwards from sudden violence. The bartender issued a high-pitched demand for a physically impossible sexual contortion and he dove for cover as Billy bit quick consonants against his mouthpiece and every bottle of Mori's precious poison behind the bar shattered in a spectacular succession of broken glass, shards flying.
"Billy!" the lady robot cried, the pulse cannon still held at the ready.
Mori clawed and jabbed at the creep behind her. "Let me GO—!"
The rush of fleeing patrons became a frenzied push for the doors—but not all; some of the figures in the club stood and watched, immobile and silent, uncaring as others shoved past and ran for their lives...
...and unseen by anyone, the broken plasma-screen at the rear of the club flickered silently, "Exit" then "Vector," again and again...
"Billy!" The robot urged with an electronic crackle. "The girl—"
"—is ours," growled the creep who held Mori by her throat, a creep who mere seconds earlier Mori had dismissed as an over-the-hill perv with a comb-over; now she twisted in his grip with renewed fury, her teeth gritted with pain as she managed to half-turn, her fist drawn back and ready to paste the bastard in his ugly face—
Mori froze, disbelieving. His face.
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