OIC (30)
MegaZone23
"This chick is toast!"
--Dr. Peter Venkman
I'm in pain. Painpainpainpainpain. Why? Perhaps the
knife in my neck might have something to do with it.
Yank!
"Aaaaaaarrrrrrrggggggghhhhhh!!!!!"
ReRob bent over to let the blood drain out of his
throat. After a few minutes, scar tissue formed. It still
hurt like MegaZone's chili, but he could stand up. He
examined the knife. "Eight centimeters of cold steel. That
bitch really needs to die."
He looked at his hand. One long strand of green hair
remained entwined in his fingers. With a little luck, that
would be her undoing.
He selected Michael Wheeler on the intercom. "Wheels,
meet me in the genetics lab--now!"
Within five minutes, ReRob and MWheeler were in the lab.
"What's the rush, Rob?"
"I need a genetic analysis on this," ReRob pointed the
strand of hair. "I need to know exactly who or what this
lock belongs to."
"Green hair? Checking up on Vixen?" He raised his
eyebrows to imply the obvious.
"If that's Vixen, I'm Coyle. You don't want to know.
Just run the analysis."
Mike started up the computers and inserted the specimen.
Within a few minutes, data started scrolling on several
screens.
"Well, the DNA is perfect for a killing machine. Either
she's one in a millennium, or...shit! This stuff's not
natural. Your mistress was made to order. How much'd you
pay, ReRob?"
"I never thought I'd say this, Wheels, but do you really
want to eat this?" He held up the knife, still dripping
blood.
"What the fuck?"
"The wielder was 'Vixen'. The blood is mine. Take the
analysis, and pump it into the fictional database."
"Right."
ReRob sat at the terminal and initiated a search for any
fictional character who would need precisely that genetic
makeup. He had run into too many fictional beings lately not
to believe in Heinlein's "Number of the Beast" hypothesis.
Not surprisingly, he got several answers. Only one, however,
made any sense. He took a hardcopy and dashed to his
machining lab.
His Virtual Machinery shop could rez up almost any
conceivable tool. The tools could only be used in the lab,
being only holograms and force fields, but their effect on
metal was permanent. It was also the garage for his
motorcycle and body armor. Both had been recently plated
with stainless steel. He slapped on his CVR-3 immediately.
The motorcycle was a VR-065 "Obliviator" Cyclone. This
was definitely not the Robotech standard; the 065 didn't
exist in Robotech. However, like the previous Cyclones it
was a variable-geometry motorcycle which could reconfigure,
link to a suit of CVR-3, and act as a two hundred pound suit
of power armor.
The only difference between the Obliviator and the
"real" cyclones was the choice of armament. Sick of missiles
and swords, ReRob created his own forearm weapons system.
Dubbed the RLAMF-1 (Rotary Laser Array-Mondo Firepower), it
was a pair of six-barrel laser cannons powered by spare
batteries kept in the front fairing. It was the "pig-man"
version of the Cyclone, and was truly harrowing to watch.
ReRob straddled the beast, and kick-started the Mr.
Fusion power unit. "Feelin' rowdy tonight?" He cranked the
throttle. She responded briskly, but there was something in
the hum that just didn't seem right.
"Open--end wrench, eight mil." The shop responded by
forming the tool in his open left palm, like a nurse handing
a scalpel to a surgeon. ReRob tightened a screw on a plate,
loosened it, and adjusted it for about ten seconds. Now, all
was right with the bike.
"Delete tools; end session." All that was left was a
door, ReRob, and the Cyclone. He made a static
transformation into battloid and walked out. He logged into
the computer through his helmet radio.
"Eve, can you locate Vixen?"
"Vixen is in the MCTC ReRob."
"Is anybody else there?"
"Negative."
And ReRob thanked the Lord and several toy designers for
putting thrusters in the powersuit.