Sheet lightning rages across clear skies, followed instantly with thunder, snapping at least the organic parts of me to instinctual attention. The clouds and rain will come soon enough. RADAR and IR senses show the result of my exchange as a literal hole in atmosphere. AI calls it a 73.2% probability of a funnelhead as well. Maybe I'm not the only reason this compound isn't the safest place to be right now.
Adaptive camo does most of the job I need to keep myself out of any more rentacop sights. They're out now in force. 166 armed responders within 2km. Probably more with ceramics I can't feel. At least twelve medical responders. Better than Analysis predicted by almost 15%. Their ops plan obviously didn't include running without electronics. Too many of them are bunched into tiny little clusterfucks, and the rest are ranging outside anything that might've been called a cohesive formation.
Amateurs.
Speed, unfortunately, is not my forte. Speed and stealth together are even harder. My builders didn't see fit to make the 7.75 billion dollar man into Superman. Going in with guns blazing is clearly not best plan.
It doesn't leave me with much. Redmond hasn't been imaged in years. My GIS tells me that 85% of the structures I've been able to sense so far are newer than any data available, and there's at least a slim chance that one of the boy scouts running over the landscaped crests and streams right now will actually manage to stop me. Even putting that aside, 1449 seconds from now, another satellite will crest the horizon and I'll be back to begging AutoOps for oxygen again.
Tac pushes the nearest building into my ForeGround. No damage to the structure. No sign of movement. Good.
GIS shoves back with data suggesting TAC's candidate is most likely a storage structure for gardening or landscaping supplies, and therefore unsuitable on any level.
Tac spawns a secondary analysis of the accuracy of GIS sense aggregation techniques.
Were I fully human, I'd probably be sighing right now.
Instead I take a moment to maim the nearest guard.
My railgun fires a needle at .002c. At those speeds, the projectile loses molecular coherence due to simple friction the instant I pull its trigger. Aligned Iron Plasma passing through a human body at that kind of speed makes tiny, tiny holes. It's the resulting vibrational shock that actually ends up doing the killing most of the time.
Probably the wrong tool for the job.
Fortunately the streambed I've been calling home for the last 6 seconds has all the tiny little rocks a cybernetic assassin could ever hope to have.
The first pebble passes through the collateral ligaments in his knees, through both ACLs, and slightly downward, shattering his left tibia. I decide not to bother with the second pebble.
In the meantime, GIS has constructed a counter-analysis of the immediate tactical need for shelter based in part on topographical similarities to battles at Agincourt and Halidon. Clearly, some of my subsystems are being underutilized.
Fortunately for my orange-badged friend, the organic executive of myself has decided on a good way to spend several tens of seconds.
He's screaming for help. His bad luck that 44 other former combat assets within a 500m radius are doing the same thing, not to mention the fires, smoke, dust and gamma radiation.
Badge #RM233-2PRQQ-FR4RH-JP89H-46QYB: Ivannov, Evsei (ArtSource)
Apparently ArtSource has diversified somewhat in recent years.
Evsei does manage to fire off a burst as I slink toward him. At least, he tries. Pain, sadly, didn't improve Evsei's aim. Nor, according to chemosenses, his bladder control.
I skid to the ground beside him, keeping as low a profile as I can manage.
"Where," I growl in a deep bass nothing like my real voice, "is the Chairman?"
The Chairman himself has been a shadowy figure on the world stage ever since the day the rocks fell. International reprisals were made. They didn't accomplish much, initially. A city or maybe some European country would have an uprising, protesting Microsoft's actions or the accomodationist attitudes of its leaders, and suddenly it would be interdicted, alone in the world. No electronic communication, no in, no out. Shipping would stop, borders would close, and the rest of the world would silently forget.
Even in Europe, who thinks about Belgium every day?
Belgium descended to anarchy after 17 months without mass communications or shipping. The populace couldn't be fed. Some made it through guarded borders, to France or to Luxemborg, only to be detained by civil authorities. Most of them would vanish over night. Stories got out. Widespread rioting. Murders in broad daylight.
Then it was over. The news videos showed Mr. Gates was standing in a perfectly sculpted garden in Ypres announcing the availability of the Microsoft Planned European Autonomous Region, home to 3.6 million pioneering citizen-employees. No taxes, full healthcare, no living expenses. France, at that moment, had an unemployment rate approaching 23%. Not many of those seeking to emigrate asked why most of the residents they met had Lithuanian, not Belgian, surnames.