Rogue-ARC by Michael Z. Williamson Page A

me. If he couldn’t take this target, he could take me instead. That would be an object lesson right back the other way—the best Naumann had had failed. Why don’t you just leave me alone?
    I was the better martial artist. He was near invisible. I’d trained for a lot of contingencies, but not that.
    Then a blade came out of a rip in the open air, right in front of me.
    I figured where the arm was, caught it and the mimetic material protested in spectral waves along his forearm. He tried to wiggle the blade toward my wrist, but I had the elbow, heaved, jabbed, and his own hand and knife cut the suit and caught something underneath. He grunted, and now there were two small apertures in clear air. I felt heat rush from them, and could smell the body inside. It was him.
    He managed to kick me off, literally, with a heavy boot to the ribs. I never saw it, nor felt the wind up. Good kick, the bastard. I curled up with lances of pain reaching from my side to my balls and my head, my kidneys, and cramping down my thigh. He did the smart thing and ran.
    I collapsed around my ribs, wheezing in agony. That hadn’t worked. I’d saved Rothman’s life, but that was less important than stopping Randall.
    The guards then swarmed me.
    Of course, they had no idea what had happened, other than I’d tangled up with someone in a chameleon. They were wisely not going to assume I was a good Samaritan, or that it was anything other than the two of us brawling. Their principal was safe and surrounded, I was down, the other fleeing and being pursued.
    Silver did the right thing and stayed far away from me.
    I made no move to resist when they stretched me and cuffed me, but I did utter some strange noises as my ribs grated. I was saved by a paramedic.
    “Uncuff him, you bloody idiots. His ribs are broken.”
    They uncuffed me, but kept muzzles pointed at my face. They seemed reasonably well-trained, so I relaxed and did nothing to disturb them. The medic started working.
    “Sir, where were you hit?”
    “Kicked, toe, roundhouse, between fifth and sixth ribs, left line. I can feel them grinding.”
    “I need to put you on a backboard,” he said.
    “I understand,” I agreed. There were three other medics now, and cameras all over the place despite the security barriers. Some were remote flyers, others just raised at high angles. I threw my right arm over my face, which was fine until they wanted to strap it down. I couldn’t really protest without giving away that I had an identity to hide, which most certainly wouldn’t fit with heroic intentions. I settled for eyes closed and slack jaw to look as little like the regular me as possible. The cervical support and forehead strap helped cover parts of my face.
    I felt the splint inflate under and around me and set in place, then I was on a gurney, being wheeled out, and into an ambulance.
    Okay, this was going to take work.
    I really didn’t want to be interviewed. Randall might have sources in the government, and I certainly couldn’t have press getting clear photos of me. I was strapped to a backboard on a gurney, however, being wheeled into an ambulance.
    It was crowded in the ambulance. The pneumatic splint plus gurney with all the monitors, plus the paramedic, plus a police officer cradling his stun baton just in case, made for no room.
    I could conceivably escape the restraints. I could conceivably Boost enough to overcome the pain and disable these two, and the driver. It might result in a punctured lung, but that was manageable. The problem was, that would create a huge scene and make me a target.
    The only thing to do was relax and wait. Once at a hospital I’d have some resources and cause less of a scene, assuming I wasn’t restrained to a bed. Would they consider me a flight risk? Probably. I would.
    We twisted through streets easily. They had the advantage of remote control of traffic signals and lane clearance. The trip was comfortable enough apart from the knives being