BACKTRACKER by Milo Fowler (books to read in your 30s TXT) 📗

weredifferent here, less stringent. He could let his hair down—literally.

Shaking out his well-combed locks, he returned to that secret roombehind the bookcase. This reality had one too, only there were no books on theshelves. Rows of exotic whiskey bottles sat there instead. Quite a collection.

Here, he was not the well-dressed Gavin Lennox of NewCity.Instead of a sharply pressed tuxedo, he wore a long black trench coat andboots, a chain mail tunic and steel-studded leather pants. Had to blend in withthe locals, after all. He found his alternate's apparel right where he'd leftit after his last visit. All part of the fun.

"Sir Gavin?"

He shifted a particular Eurasian whiskey bottle back intoposition, closing the secret door behind him and sliding the bookcase intoplace. Across the room, at the other end of the stained carpet littered withbroken beer bottles, a holo-image rose from the deskscreen. The hovering facewas pale, tattooed with black tribal designs around the eyes and mouth, piercedthrough the nose, the lips, and the eyebrows with silver rings. The Pit'ssynthetic floor manager.

"What?" Lennox growled.

No need to be polite. This Gavin Lennox was hardly ever civilized. He belched and kickedaside two of the bottles underfoot as he approached the hologram above the desk'sglass surface.

"There's some trouble at the gate, sir."

"You can't take care of it?"

"It's...one of the mandroids. It's going haywire down here. Killedthree of the patrons already."

Lennox cursed. This wasn't the first time—here. "Shut itdown."

"We've tried, sir. It's resisting."

Lennox frowned. How is that possible? Half a dozen pulserounds to the chest usually did the trick, shorted out the central processorsand felled these giant robots like massive trees of old. Put them out ofcommission long enough for a major reboot.

Perhaps this one required a different approach.

"I'll be down in a minute." Lennox tapped the surface ofthe desk, and the holo vanished.

But instead of heading to his armory, picking out one of thelatest weapon mods from his collection and providing a quick solution to theproblem downstairs, he tapped the plug behind his ear and jumped onto the Link.

White fog enveloped his senses. He logged-in and started hispass-image carousel, a series ofshocking images from war atrocities over thecenturies. Ignoring the blood and gore, he composed the same message that had enticed Cyrus Hortonto visit The Pearl.

He would have to wait and see if it worked in this reality aswell. Better, he hoped. The old man in that dark alley had been in shambles, adisappointing mess. Hard to believe he'd ever had the mental fortitude toinvent anything of importance, much less put one foot in front of the other. With any luck, Horton's alternate would live up to his reputation.

Lennox blinked as he tapped behind his ear, restoring his visionof the disheveled room. Then he headed down the hallway, his trench coatflailing against the tall jackboots he wore.

Unlike the NewCity home to The Pearl—where lethal rounds wereillegal in the hands of police and average citizens alike, and only Blackshirtswere allowed to lock and load capital punishment—here the laws were a littledifferent. Often nonexistent. Pulse rounds were not the only option. Orgovernment-issue bullets.

He palmed the scanner beside the locked wall of weaponry, and thecase slid open, revolving within his reach.

Let's see a mandroid resist this.

He hefted the heavy plasma rifle in both hands. One-of-a-kind weapons tech invented years ago by none other than Cyrus Horton himself.Originally intended to outfit government troops in their overseas conflictagainst the Enemy, it was said to be tooexpensive for mass production. But since the twitching zombies on the dancefloor had a habit of exponentially increasing the credit Lennox accumulated bythe hour, he'd been the only buyer with enough on hand to acquire thisone-and-only weapon of mass destruction.

There hadn't been an opportunity to try it out yet.

The case revolved shut behind him and locked itself as he shoulderedthe rifle and headed out through the living room, straight for the door. Hestepped over each of the three half-naked women passed out on the floor. They'dstill be there when he got back.

Bythe time Lennox made it downstairs, the blood metalband—Torment was their name, he remembered—was in the middle of anextreme set of guttural screaming and on-stage bludgeoning of an easilyreplaceable groupie. The grinding steel guitars, booming bass, and quadruplekick drums were nearly enough to drown out the agony of the bleeding victim,thrashed from one side of the stage to the other. He wouldn't last much longerat this rate. But no worries. They always had others ready to go in the wings,more than willing to be abused by their favorite band.

The SYN from the holo greeted Lennox as he approached the secondtier overlooking the heart of The Pit.

"It's a real mess out there, sir."

"Danger, Will Robinson."

The synthetic blinked without recognition in its black-shadowedeyes. "Sir?"

Lennox laughed. Not everybody was so well-versed intwentieth-century cinema—and definitely notthe born-yesterday demographic. But there was really no way to tell when theseSYNs were hatched, not by looking at them. This one could have been a monthold, for all he knew. Or twenty-odd years. That was usually how long theylasted.

"The Horton plasma-round submachine gun?" Dark syntheticeyes focused on the weapon with obvious admiration.

"Show me the monster," Lennox said, cocking the thingfor dramatic effect. An impressive whine emanated from the gun's centralchamber as it powered up.

The SYN led him to the front gate, a gothic, wrought-ironmonstrosity complete with intimidating spikes and leering gargoyles. Thelighting in this area was intentionally dim, but that did not impede his viewof the mayhem outside. The situation had not been overstated.

Out of control, the mandroid twisted awkwardly, reaching, grasping with both of its massivehands, tearing apart anyone within reach. Already, dark blood soaked its suit,and ragged parts of broken patrons lay scattered around the brick foyer. Yetstrangely enough, the hooded ghouls waiting toenter The Pit had not scattered for safety. Instead they watched, black eyesvacant and staring, keeping back, out of reach, but rooted, waiting for anotherone of their kind to be snatched up by the malfunctioning mandroid and rent inhalf.

It was morbid. But probably to be expected, considering the venue.

Torment should take this crazy robot on tourwith