“For tribal man space was the uncontrollable mystery. For technological man it is time that occupies the same role.” — Marshall McLuhan
The Pope, standing safely ensconced in his protective Popemobile, made a luscious target for any professional. The cyborg assassin was the single most threat to the Pope’s life. Caught out in the open, the Pope would be easy prey for the assassin, and there was one point where the Pope would be unprotected by bulletproof glass. That was inside the cardinal’s underground parkade where he would be transferring from Popemobile to interior residence of the cardinal. It was there that the cyborg assassin would make his move.
The guards loitering around the cardinal’s residence weren’t expecting trouble, so they were slack. The cool, calm assassin hid behind a pillar in the vast parkade filled with official church vehicles. For an organization which was struggling to make ends meet, they sure weren’t skimping on cars and SUVs, the assassin thought uncharitably.
The gates that would let in the Popemobile were closed and locked electronically. If security had been just a tad more lax, the assassin could have planted a bomb at the entrance, and blown up the Popemobile upon entry. But no. The rifle was more poetic.
The parkade’s darkness was near absolute, but the assassin could see like a cat, absorbing all shades of light that were washing over the interior. He crouched behind the pillar, then heard (with his enhanced hearing) the approach of a caravan of vehicles. It was time. The assassin patted his rifle’s stock, affectionately stroking the gunmetal gray surface that glittered like stars. The gates slid up.
The first vehicle through was a security SUV, black as death. It had Quebec plates (not surprising, since they were located in downtown Montreal). I will remember, read the plates’ motto in French. You will remember this day, the cyborg assassin thought haughtily to himself. The second vehicle was the Popemobile.
The SUV turned right, parking in a newly lit square of yellow light. The Popemobile continued serenely through the underground parkade. The assassin took aim. The Popemobile’s doors were sliding open as the assassin watched through the sniper’s scope. As soon as the Pope’s head appeared, the assassin fired. Brains exploded out of the back end of the pontiff’s head, their gooey residue sticking to the bulletproof glass that had done so little to help out. The assassin turned and ran.
“There he is!” security called out in English and in French. “Bring him back, dead or alive!” commanded a police lieutenant.
The assassin was running pell-mell through the darkened spaces of the interior world around him. His rifle was strapped to his back and out of the way of his rushing form. There was a side door (locked, but that could be taken care of) that he had mapped out earlier, and he was angling toward it now, running fast. But the security detail’s vehicles were rushing after him and they were coming faster than even the cyborg could run.
The assassin stopped at the side door. He plucked out a lockpicking set and began to work the lock plate. Meanwhile, SUVs skidded to a halt nearby him. Doors could be heard opening.
The door popped open. With a tense sigh, the assassin slipped outside into the night. It was about this time that they would release the hunter-killer robots after him. The assassin ran to the side of a building by the St. Lawrence River and threw up a grappling rope. He started up, duckwalking on the side wall, holding onto the thin but ultra-strong rope. His rifle jutted behind him. Down below, the headlights of the robots could be seen moving into position. With a telecommunications net blanketing the area, the robots were in constant communication with one another. They could not be shut out.
The cyborg was still part man, and that was both his weak point and his strength. Physically, he was no match for the robots. But mentally, he retained the edge. And in this world, the mind is where it’s at.
Put a man in prison and he will be limited in his options. Put a man in the wider world and he may become fabulously rich, nearly unlimited in his options. The assassin was in the wider world. The robots, in a sense, were in an intellectual prison. That was the point of comparison between the two of them.
When the assassin completed his climb, he rapidly retrieved the rope (he might need it again) and stuffed it in one of his cargo pants pockets. Then, having completed this necessary task, he made his way to the elevator room atop the building. It was unlocked, saving him the trouble of picking any lock.
This was a residential apartment building, only 10 stories tall, with a glorious view of the St. Lawrence. Light pollution from the city killed all the stars, but the moon was out, and it provided a measure of light that the assassin could well take advantage of.
The assassin took the elevator down to the 7th floor. There was a resident milling around a hallway with pizza boxes stacked high in folded arms. (Hungry hungry hippo, thought the assassin.) The assassin took aim with his rifle, zeroed in, fired. Two slugs exited the back of the resident, leaving an abstract art spray in red on the apartment walls. The assassin searched the dead woman’s pockets with nimble fingers, his touch light and sure, and found her keys. The apartment number was helpfully printed in metal on the key. He went in.
There was a man seated in a La-Z-Boy recliner (all white) and watching TV. His feet were up. “Took ya long enough,” the man was saying as he turned around.
The cyborg rammed him with the steel convex elbow, killing him instantly. The man had been hit hard enough to indent his forehead, which splintered the bone into the brain.
The assassin knew the building was surrounded. He also knew there were a limited number of robots — 6 in total, according to the mission diagram.
He went to other apartments, killing the inhabitants and laying traps for the robots when they came in. He left the doors suspiciously wide open, thus drawing in the killer machines after him. He returned to the roof.
One at a time, in irregular bursts, he heard the explosions from down below, destructing the robots’ carapaces. 4, 5 … 6. The humans would be fanning out just about now. If the assassin rappelled down, he could just beat the humans to the mark … He would swim out in the river, shucking his clothing, becoming a waterproof entity of plastic and metal and flesh, a smile pasted to his face at another successful mission. It was good to be a cyborg. It was better to be a paid assassin.
Dark Sport 