And the Band Played On
Prologue
Sky of amber, reflecting the planes like a mirror. Quiet whispers of life, the mottled green of a dying pasture. A town, barren. Dead. The faint breath of life only hours gone from the streets. A cup of coffee... a pint of bad whisky. And somewhere, a jukebox playing music by singers long since gone to dust.
"...but I was so hammered, I sputtered and stammered..."
A figure slipped down the empty road, watching the sand whip its way through the lonely streets. She walked steadily, a bottle dangling from her right hand as the figure made her way up main street. Footprints leading from a bunker at the far edge of town, the cold silhouette moved steadily out of the town and up the hill to the west.
The jukebox reached the end of its song. A silence fell. The figure walked on, finding herself a semi-grassy patch at the hill's apex. There she paused. The figure sat down, taking a long pull from her bottle.
"Goodnight Irene, goodnight Irene... I'll see you in my dreams," the figure sang, throwing her arms into the air. Moments later, a pair of armoured gunships with massive rotors dropped through clouds over the town and fired a pair of missiles at the bunker. The helicopters flew up again as fire swept through the town, shattering the fragile farmers’ community. Somewhere, the metal framework of a building bent and snapped. Glass shattered, metal shrieked, stone crumbled, and lives burned. The explosions rolled outward, Satan on a set of tympanis. And, faint in the din, the screams of the several hundred souls trapped in the enflamed bunker lingered above the medley of death that had engulfed the town.
The shock wave tore outwards, catching the wide-armed girl and throwing her back. Fire flared around her body, searing her flesh. Shrapnel shredded her skin, her face. The bottle of scotch shattered in her hand. Blood stained her blonde hair.
She crashed into the sandy ground, debris covering her over. There she lay, unable and unwilling to move. Sand filled her eyes, her mouth, her nose. Breath stilled, she lay, her blood staining the ground beneath her.
Chapter 1, I Died
As the sun sank lower in the western sky, shadows cast by the enormous buildings of the Scrapyard brought an early nightfall to the streets below.
A chill was in the air. Most of the shopkeepers in the marketplace began to move indoors to keep their wares from being damaged by the cold or stolen by the thieves that scampered between the shadows. They gathered up their goods, the deafening clamor of various vendors laughing, joking, cursing, and yelling to one another filling the market place. Then, as the early packers began to depart, the clamor slowly died away. The laughter and yelling faded, a feeling of emptiness sweeping the square.
Farther across the commons, the soup lines were coming down as well. This had not been a good day for them. There was never a good day at the soup lines... there was never enough food to go around. The volunteers who gave their time to feed the Scrapyard's hungry had sent away dozens, each leaving with an emptiness in their eyes to match that of their stomachs. Dejectedly, the volunteers set to putting away the battered pots and utensils, making ready for a tomorrow just as dismal as all their yesterdays.
But while the day was drawing to a close for the shopkeepers and the soup line, it was just beginning for another class of surface-dweller. The streets became dangerous places indeed as the shadows lengthened and the sky grew dark, for the broken minions of the Factories began the second stage of their daily ritual. By day, they operated the sewing machines, the arc furnaces, the gristmills, the stamping forges, the bread ovens…all the machinery that allowed the Scrapyard to provide for the needs of Tiphares.
By night, however, factory workers by the hundreds took to the streets to seek relief from the noise, dust, and monotony that plagued during their working day. The constant threats from Deckmen and their supervisors of what fate would befall them should they fall short on their quotas was gone, if only for another night. The streets became the domain of the many seeking refuge in the pleasures of the flesh that would help them forget. A simple night of self-delusion was all they sought... just enough to let them forget for a few minutes that there would be another tomorrow.
At night, the Scrapyard belonged to the predators and their prey.
At the top of the food chain existed the Hunter-Warriors. They were the undisputed rulers of the night, and business had been good for many lately. But then again, hadn't it always been? Their role was a simple one—prey upon the predators. Someone was always out there doing something to get themselves onto the bounty list. Anything that could somehow adversely affect production of goods for Tiphares--burglary, arson, even murder: anything that could be translated into a slippage in production—was enough reason to place a bounty on one's head. It was a common understanding that to have a bounty on your head was reason enough to go hang yourself, for those of the Hunter-Warrior caste knew neither mercy nor leniency. Such was the nature of the business. To them, it was a way of life.
There are, however, exceptions to every rule.
One such exception strode casually through the marketplace, deftly making her way across the previously crowded square. She sported a black, knee-length skirt and a simple white blouse. Her black leather jacket hung mostly open save for the very bottom, where she had joined the two halves of the zipper should a sudden gust make the cool evening uncomfortable. Black hose and black boots finished her outfit, although many still remembered her black leather body suit and long yellow trench coat.
Few holdovers remained from her days past save the swan-head streaks beneath her eyes. They were simple enough, merely twin patches where her artificial flesh had been removed, revealing the dark blue gray metal beneath. Extending from either side of her pug nose to plummet sharply downward over her cheekbones, they served as her unmistakable trademark.
She walked past the shops, humming softly yet another tune she had yet to scribe lyrics for. A few shopkeepers bid her good day as they cleared their wares away. The young lady took a moment to nod or wave at each, a peaceful smile curving her puckered squid-lips... yet another trademark. The shopkeepers mirrored her smile, knowing that while she passed, they were safe from what might lurk in the shadows. Even the Hunter Warriors paid her deference. She fought not for profit, but to protect that which she cared for. And, on several occasions, she had made it clear that the safety of her neighborhood was something she valued.
Alita paused, hearing someone call out her name. After a moment she spotted Tymon, the book vendor, who was hailing her from across the square.
A vendor of rare and valuable books for as long as anyone could remember, Tymon had become Alita's favorite source for new literature. As old and rickety as he was, Tymon had sources that even Doc Ido couldn't figure out. He had seen more than eighty years of life in the Scrapyard, and even now his only vice was a good game of Darts. His dark wrinkled face broke into a mostly toothless grin as she approached him. Then, before he forgot, Tymon bent to retrieve a small leather bound book from the bowels of his cart.
"I finally got this in, Miz Alita…" he rasped, "I knew you were eager to add this to the collection." He hacked softly as she took the book from him and carefully leafed through its yellowed pages. Alita glanced up at him warmly, honey brown eyes sparkling as she closed the book and clasped it firmly to her chest.
"Tymon…it's beautiful! I would have never guessed you'd be able to find a complete volume…and in such good shape! I could kiss you!"
Tymon chuckled softly, shaking his head. "You're too pretty to waste your time on a withered old weed like me, Miz Alita." She laughed, setting the book down on top of the pile on his cart. "Don't be so sure about that, my friend," she scolded, waving her right index finger at him, "I judge my men based on much more than their looks."
"Well, however you choose your men, Miz Alita," Tymon informed her proudly, "I made damn sure this book'll outlive 'em!"
The grin on Alita's face shattered, the fragments hanging dejectedly upon her face. She glanced quickly away, hoping Tymon hadn't noticed. Indeed, he showed no sign of it.
Tymon reached over and tapped the closed book with one finger. "It's got pages made from linen instead of paper. Yeah, the pages have yellowed, but trust me, that book is centuries old already. It should last a few more provided you take care of it."
"Oh!" she exclaimed, her composure restored, "I have something for you, too." Slipping the book under her arm, Alita reached inside her jacket's vest pocket. She drew forth her hand, placing three objects into Tymon's. He squinted down, putting his nose almost to his hand as he looked over the brightly colored fletchings she had given him.
"Try those on those titanium darts I gave you last month. I made them myself," she beamed. "I put a set of flights just like these on my competition set three weeks ago…and I've been kickin' almighty ass in cricket since."
Their conversation ended minutes later with a round of thank yous and good-byes. Parting ways once more, Alita headed off, making her way towards New Kansas. However, after about three steps, Alita paused. "It's Wednesday," she murmured, "John's late night in the library! I can drop the book off tonight!" Suddenly pleased with herself, Alita set off for the library, the hint of a skip in her step.
Knowing it would be a long walk, Alita flipped open the book and began to read. The street lamps gave off just enough of a pale yellow glow for her cybernetically enhanced eyes to read the small print on the finely woven pages.
***
"... my necklace was paste. It was only worth, at most, 500 francs..." Alita murmured, reading the story's closing lines out loud. She glanced up from the book, closing it gently as she paused to collect her thoughts. She chuckled, shaking her head slightly.
Whoever this Norton guy was, he certainly had a penchant for the depressing.
Alita glanced around, something odd registering. "Wait…this isn't the way to the library," she proclaimed, loud enough for a few passers-by to glance in her direction. I must be tired or something, Alita thought, shaking her head in annoyance, How could I have missed my turn? Hell, I'm halfway home already! So much for the calm walk there... Doubling back, Alita increased her pace to a fast trot, making an effort not to look too silly.
Something flashed in the corner of Alita's eye. Skidding to a halt, Alita gazed into the offending alley, attempting to discern the source of the movement that had caught her eye.
Her head cocked to one side, Alita spotted four shapes, the first three larger than the fourth. Fights were a typical occurrence in the Scrapyard, but the air of this one was different. The three larger forms had encircled the fourth, and were closing the circle like a pack of wolves.
"What the hell do you--" Female voice. Young.
Two of the shapes suddenly leapt forward, pulling the smaller one down. A fierce crack cut the air, coinciding with a sharp movement from one of the dark shapes. A muffled cry of pain followed instantly there after, the same voice from a moment before.
"Quiet bitch!" Another slap. A choirs of laughter, rough and male.
Through it all, Alita stood transfixed, a sudden revulsion churning in her gut. Even as the stoners prepared to rape the girl, Alita was overcome with a sudden feeling of her own personal violation. Her honey brown eyes narrowed to within millimeters of being closed altogether. A quiet snarl escaped her curled lip.
Alita walked into the alley, her hands flexing as she moved. Alita was about to demonstrate just why this kind of thing didn't happen in her neighborhood.
You bastards are gonna be gagging on your own dicks when I'm through with you.
***
"Ya, hold her like that," Jondo half-chuckled to Arin and Sethrey. His partners held a young woman, one the three of them had spotted on their way to meet Sethrey's bro. It wasn't so much her body that had attracted their attention; more the air about her. She carried herself with the smug confidence of someone who'd never had to work themselves bloody in one of the Factories. The three of them could get off with just about anyone... but the satisfaction of destroying that smug face was an extra satisfaction above and beyond any drug-enhanced orgasm they had a chance of giving themselves.
"You'd better be good, bitch," Jondo said, his finger pressed against her chin. She yanked her face away from his finger, her short blond hair clinging to the sides of her face. She struggled to break their grasp, but Jondo knew it was useless to try to wriggle out of the cybernetically enhanced hold his partners had on her. Who knew that Factory-authorized limb replacements could be so useful, Jondo wondered idly.
"You fellas can have her after me," he murmured, flashing her a black grin.
"GET THE HELL OFF ME!" the girl yelled. With a considerable grunt, she ripped a hand free out of Arin's grip. It landed on the neck of a broken bottle from the refuse littering the alleyway, which, before anyone could see what happened, shattered across Arin's face.
Jondo was speechless. No one could break Arin's grip! No one! Arin was known for his arm-wrestling; he almost never lost. And, the only people he had lost to were not only Cyborgs, they were either Hunter Warriors or Motorballers! It took special parts to take on Arin's arm. No full-flesh girl could just...!
Arin bolted upright, howling. Sobbing hoarsely, he looked at the girl with bloodshot eyes from in between his fingers. Blood poured down his face from seven deep wounds, running in rivulets across his arms and chest.
"Oh, you fucking BITCH!!" he screamed, "I'm gonna rip off your arms and---"
He never got a chance to complete his threat. Arin's life ended with a final breathless gasp as his rib cage imploded, instantly destroying every one of his vital organs. His body slammed forcefully into the wall at the back of the alley, falling to the ground as a hideous bloody pulp.
Tup!
Jondo barely heard the sound of Arin's killer as she landed next to the girl, who was still being pinned by Sethrey. Both men were mute with shock as they looked up into the coldest, hardest eyes each had ever seen. The moon slipped out from behind the sky city, casting a pale silver glow over the attacker. The light shown off her honey eyes... off the exposed chrome swans beneath her eyes... and off her gunmetal gray body.
She stood there a moment, in the moonlight, letting the pair get a good look at her. She wanted them to recognize her. She wanted them to fear her... for her reputation to burn its way past their drug-induced euphoria into the very depths of their souls. She wanted them to remember her name when they arrived in hell.
Alita's lip curled back, half grinning and half growling.
Jondo noticed the twitch in Alita's right thigh. He lurched himself backward, hoping to avoid her scissor kick. Is that the best this bitch can do?, he thought, attempting to laugh. Much to his consternation, no sound came out. Jondo barely had time to puzzle why this was so before realizing he was watching his own body fall, headless, to the floor of the alley. Panic ripped sanity from his grasp. His mouth opened wide as a silent scream poured forth. His vision went black as his head glanced off the alley wall and landed neatly in an open trash can.
The girl tried to pull away from the Sethrey, but he had a firm grip on her arm. He knew he had to think fast or die. Jumping away from Alita, he pulling the girl up with him. Sethrey twisted her arm, pinning her between himself and Alita.
"Back off NOW, cunt!" he demanded of Alita, placing a knife against the girl's throat.
Alita paused, quickly sizing up the situation. "Give me the girl and I'll let you go."
"What the fuck? What kinda fool you take me for, bitch?" Sethrey shouted back. "I'll just take this one with me," he said, poking the girl deep enough to draw blood. Her eyes went wide as he continued to back away, looking for somewhere-- anywhere-- to run.
Alita swore under her breath, knowing she had to do something quickly.
Think, Alita…THINK, DAMMIT!
She had to get that knife away from him, but how without him killing the girl? Alita was fast, but he had cybernetic enhancements of his own, including both arms. Parts nearly as fast as Alita's own held the girl and the knife. Nearly three meters separated them. This was bad... very bad.
Alita's concentration broke as she noticed the girl blink and sniffle repeatedly.
"I... I haveta sneeze!" the girl gasped. Alita and Sethrey gawked, a tiny moment of private terror passing between them.
Like a slow motion drama come to life, Alita and Sethrey watched as the girl closed her eyes and sniffed repeatedly, then sneezed-- reflexively jerking her hand to her face. To avoid from cutting her prematurely, hence damaging his chances of using her to escape, Sethrey loosened his grip on the girl's arm.
The next few events happened so quickly that even Alita had trouble following them. The girl's arm changed direction halfway to her face, grabbing Sethrey's knife arm and jerking it free from its socket with a loud pop. The rest of Sethrey's body followed, sailing over the girl's shoulder and landing roughly on the ground, stunned. As he groaned, bloody and beaten on the alley floor, the girl stepped forward and kicked him in the ribs enough times to vent her fury at their attempted assault. Sethrey moaned painfully as his consciousness slipped away. Satisfied that he'd think twice before doing this again-- IF he lived, that is-- the girl wiped her hands on her pant legs and turned to Alita.
The girl looked older than Alita had first thought. Maybe seventeen, but short-- not much taller than herself-- and with very youthful facial features. Although, given what her shredded blouse exposed to plain view, Alita could tell her body had fully matured. The girl's dirty, spiky blond hair seemed to stick out at all angles, framing her young face and grey eyes.
"Thank you, Alita," the girl said.
Alita hmphed, knowing full well what the answer to her question would be. "You know my name, then?"
"Of course I do," the girl replied. "How many Motorball Queens there are? Well, not counting Shinko the Transvestite."
Alita sighed. It was no use. Her reputation as Hunter-Warrior and former Queen of Motorball followed her everywhere, despite her efforts to escape it.
I'm not doing anything anyone else with my talents wouldn't do, she mulled.
Her momentary exasperation passing, Alita noticed the girl's torn blouse revealed much more of her body than Alita herself would care to walk around with in plain sight. "Um, would you like to borrow my jacket?"
The girl gasped as she glanced down at her ruined shirt. She nodded, reflexively clasping both her hands to the opposite shoulder. Alita took off her leather jacket and placed it carefully onto her shoulders. The girl quickly bunched the front of the jacket together in one hand, shivering slightly as the cold night air began to sap away her adrenaline produced body heat. "Again, t-thank you," she said, rubbing at her arms to produce a little friction. "By the way, my n-name is Nikira."
"I don't know how much you needed my help," Alita chuckled, "you seemed to be doing alright by yourself." Alita placed a friendly arm around Nikira's shoulders, guiding her out of the alley.
"I don't know how to thank you... for helping me", she sniffled, apparently shaken from the incident. Not that Alita minded... it just seemed a tad late in coming. Shock, Alita supposed. "Would you mind if I b-bought you a drink?" Nikira went on, "I really want to thank you for your help."
"Later. That can wait," Alita replied, guiding Nikira down the street. "Right now we need to get you indoors. Besides, I want a friend of mine to give you the once over--" Alita cleared her throat, beginning again as Nikira's eyebrows arched. "I want my friend to take a look at you to see if you're OK. He's a doctor, you see. I want to make sure you don't have any internal injuries or anything like that."
"Oh," Nikira demurred, "you really needn't bother. I'm fine."
"I insist," Alita said firmly, "Sides, you can't go bar-hopping with your clothing in that condition." Her voice and hands firm, Alita walked Nikira off in the direction of Doctor Ido's place.
Elsewhere, in the darkness, a man smiled. It had been a long road... but the operation was finally underway. After months of preparation, all was going according to plan.
The man stood, stretched, and left the dark, cold room. Within the now vacant room, two voices spoke. They came from the monitor at which the man had been working. It displayed several video feeds of Alita and her new friend as they moved through the Scrapyard, hidden microphones picking up their conversation and playing it softly in the dark room. And, at the bottom of the screen was a single word, glowing bright red.
Record.