Falling Snow | Excerpt from Chapter 12
Rush Hour
I promised some science fiction in September, so let’s do some sci-fi shit!
Over ten years ago, I started writing a science fiction novel with a couple of goals in mind — I play this game when I write: mash a few story ideas together, picture an ending and see what happens. In this novel, I pulled the following things together:
A story about the end of AI and the world post-AI
A novel centered in Central Asia and the character who is non-white
A setting in a near future in which the world had suffered some epic resources battles in other parts of the solar system and space travel was mostly over
A multitude of languages used to convey emotions (in this case all slang and profanity) — Russian, Farsi, Tajik and Kazakh — plus new sci-fi vocab
What I ended up with was a story about an ex-hitman in Almaty, Kazakhstan, name Lyo Yatimov, who is hired to kill a target, but the identity of the target is unknown. He is given an information disc, which he slots into his head, that is supposed to provide him with clues to help him find the target. What he doesn’t know is that everyone is after this target for various reasons, and everyone knows his head holds the answers, even if he doesn’t know them himself. And so, he needs to take out the target before someone removes his head from his shoulders.
Who knows if or when I will ever publish this. Maybe it’ll be a serial novel on Substack next year — anyway, here’s Chapter 12 randomly selected, and you’ll see why I called it “Rush Hour” today even if the chapters in this novel don’t have names.
Welcome to Falling Snow. I hope you like it.
Falling Snow | Chapter 12
The door next to me opened, and a helmeted head leaned in. Black helmet. Armored polycarbon. Militsiya. “Out,” came the hollow voice behind the mask, but I ignored him for a moment and looked at Ulyana. She hadn’t moved.
“Not a scheduled stop, I take it.” She didn’t look at me.
“Out,” said the trooper again, and I smiled and stepped out into the sun, blinking against the brightness and pulling my coat closed. I surveyed the area quickly and sighed. We hadn’t gotten even as far as the middle of the rift - maybe a couple of clicks. A mass of vehicles and pedestrian traffic surged all around us, breaking like a river around a rock. I looked up at the trooper, who was backing away, and past him to the small crowd of militsiya gathered around the two trucks. I counted three bots, two of the smaller scouts, and one crusher, a hulking brute in silver and black that would make anyone think twice about resistance. No DOGs though. I sized them up quickly and nodded. I wondered if they would see it the same way I did, and if they were ready for me to run. Interspersed amongst the bots were a number of black-clad figures, helmets on, transparent riot shields at the ready. Zap sticks buzzed with energy in their hands, but I could see they were packing auto-rifles, as well. What were they expecting? An army. I certainly didn’t warrant that kind of respect. I was small-time, wasn’t I?
I shrugged as one of them stepped up to me. It was then that I noticed his armor was a little different, and he wore a thick black coat over the top of the heavy carbon-fiber chest plate. On his shoulder was his rank, black on black, two short parallel bars above an eagle. A captain. His hair was short, graying a little like mine, and his eyes were blue suns between heavy lids. He was clean-shaven except for a little bristle around the lips that would have been a mustache and goatee if he’d let it grow out. It was graying, too. I could tell right away that he was part Mongol – I could see it in the rest of his face, in the curvature of his eyes, the flatness of his nose. He stood a few inches taller than me, and he was even heavier than me by a few kilos, I suspected. A real brute, but I stood my ground and met his gaze.
As if on cue, Ulyana leaned out of the truck and said, “Lieutenant Su, here’s the man you’ve been looking for, it seems. Lyo Yatimov.”
I could hear the smug look on her face, and I couldn’t help but smile, but I didn’t miss the quizzical look on the big man’s face when he glanced past me at her. It was there for a moment, the furrowing of his eyebrows, a sudden doubt, and then it was gone, and he turned back to me.
“Pleased to meet you, Mr. Yatimov.” His voice was low, husky, as if he was a smoker like me. There was a lilt to it that spoke of a life farther east. He was an immigrant like so many others, but he’d made something of himself. He didn’t offer a hand; he didn’t bow or nod. He laced his gloved fingers together in front of his waist and stared at me as if sizing me up, daring me to make a move.
“Does everyone in this mozakhraf city know my name?”
He smiled, although I couldn’t see it in his eyes. He was steady, solid like a boulder. “Perhaps. I don’t know who else might know you, but we do. Or should I say that we do now? Our contact led us to you; then when we lost you; she said she could find you again. It seems quite a few people know who you are, Mr. Yatimov. You seem quite popular these days.”
“I guess.” Contact? Then she wasn’t a cop, and that meant there was a lot more out there about me than I suspected. Something to look into.
“We were so eager to speak with you.” He paused for effect. “We even came to see you at home yesterday. We knocked on your door.”
“Ah, it was you. My apologies. I had to step out — urgent business, you know. No time to chat.”
His smile faded, ice in his eyes now, and I could feel the heat coming from him. “A number of my men were injured, and there were some deaths.”
“My apologies. I have strict rules against uninvited guests. If you’d only called ahead.” We can play this game all day, vyezzhat’?
“Yes,” he said and exhaled, looking past me. “Well, I’m hoping this second invitation has been more to your liking.”
I was beginning to like this guy. First he tries to kick in my door; now he’s all manners.
“But, as I was saying, we came to see you yesterday. To talk, of course. It seems you may be mixed up in some ugly business, something to do with a crime syndicate, perhaps a certain incident from earlier this week, and if I can be candid,” he waited for me to nod, ever the polite mudak, “I take issue with criminals in this city and those who are involved with them or are aiding them. I’m a servant of the people, as you know, Mr. Yatimov. Lieutenant Su is my name, and I’m assigned to the Special Branch. We deal with the drug cartels, domestic terrorism and illegal arms for the most part — lots of organized crime and assassinations, but lately we’re mostly focused on the dangers growing on this side of the border, dangers to the public that I’m sure you are well aware of. The Chinese and the Indians seem content with their military games south of here, and we’ll see how that plays out — it is not my concern, but it has spilled over to this side of our sacred mountains as people begin to maneuver themselves to support one side or the other for political and economic gain. That is my concern. In the end, though, it’s my job to protect the people, even from themselves.”
“Of course, sir. Of course. But I don’t know how that relates to me in any way. I’m a simple man with simple means. I live on a pension. I have a house girl, someone it’s my responsibility to protect. She was killed in your visit; should I lodge my complaint with you?” He didn’t respond, so I continued. “I don’t take kindly to threats, Lieutenant, and I’m not the least bit interested in the criminal element in this city. I make simple money and live a simple life, a life that has been decidedly ruined by your stormtroopers and thugs.”
Maybe this was a bullshit stop; maybe they knew more than they were letting on. It was hard to tell. I’d have to play it by ear. Meanwhile, the little army he’d gathered for my benefit was not going away, and it was arrayed — with the vehicles behind me — to ensure that I was going nowhere. The bots were locked in and the few troops he’d brought looked disciplined and ready for action. I was either talking my way out of this, or I was waiting for a miracle. Neither my Marakov or the RX90 was going to get me anywhere but back in the truck with all of them and off to some place where our little polite conversation would get less polite. I needed to start figuring out how to get out. Whether they had anything on me or not was becoming less and less important. All they had to do was put the cuffs on me, take my weapons and get me back in that truck, and it would be over — no charges or trial necessary. Sooner or later, everyone confessed to something — to anything these people wanted. There were enough stories going around to make me believe it. I wasn’t going to be in one of those stories.
“I understand, Mr. Yatimov,” said the Lieutenant, stepping forward, his nose only inches from mine as if he could see through my eyes and into my very soul, “but it seems as if there are some additional things in motion that require my attention, and I’ve been informed that you are a man with information, even if you don’t know what it is. So, I must insist. It’s time we go someplace to talk, someplace quiet. If you’d be so kind...”
My invitation back into the vehicle. It was time to go.
The door opened behind me — the driver’s side door of the truck I’d just come out of, and I could see what was about to happen in Su’s eyes as they flicked from my mine to the driver’s for a split second. I could even smell the gunmetal and oil from the drawn pistol at my back as the warm air from the truck whipped by me. That was my signal to move. Spinning, I caught the driver’s right wrist in a vice grip before he could react, and I squeezed with everything my augmented hand had, heard the audible pop as his wrist snapped and the thunder of the pistol’s report as he squeezed the trigger in response. The round missed me and plugged Lt. Su in the chest, sending him reeling. Then I spun back, my elbow connecting with the driver’s throat, and before anyone could move, I stepped past him into the truck, slammed the door and tapped the power-up panel.
I was leaving.
The truck came alive as I felt the oncoming adrenaline flush, and I turned the wheel and gunned it, hearing the engine roar, just as Ulyana came over the back seat with a scream. Before I could even think about her little shiny Marakov and the hole it would put in my skull, my elbow was up again, cracking back into her cheek, then my eyes were back on the street as she slumped between the front two seats unconscious. “Bad move again, baby. You’re definitely not cut out for this line of work.” I glanced down again to make sure she was out, then my eyes shot up to the chaos that was swirling around in front of me.
The rift of the Grand Eastern Market was paved, but there were no real traffic lanes within the broad swath of road that stretched between the two sides. Like much of the city, traffic here moved at its own pace, with its own set of rules, and in direct contradiction to any sort of order or law other than the laws of physics. It was four-wheeled, four-legged chaos on one side and two-wheeled, two-legged chaos on the other, both schools of travel intermeshing like a massive confluence of rivers, all vying for tidal supremacy. I slammed down on the horn again and gunned the engine, trying to sound threatening all while avoiding the fleeing flood of humanity and the long caravans of laden camels that flashed in front of me. I could already see the second truck in the rearview swinging into pursuit, the grill-mounted lights flashing blue and red.
I spun the wheel to my right to avoid the plodding pack animals, and plowed through a cart burden with small crates. Suddenly the truck shuddered and skidded sideways. I swore and fought to regain control, looked to my right and found the source of the unexpected shift — the crusher bot was down on one knee after the hit, but rising now, its small silver head orienting on the truck again. Where it had impacted, along the back right panel, the interior metal cage had buckled slightly. I could see what was coming next, and I turned back to the traffic situation and smashed the accelerator under my foot, slamming the hood of my heavy vehicle into another small cargo truck. It whipped around and tipped over into the street, scattering the nearby pedestrians and sending cages full of chickens skittering in every direction. Some cages ruptured, and reddish hens burst from their confines and scattered, or were ground under my wheels. I ignored them all and plowed through, my only concern being to get some momentum and find some space to maneuver before the crusher rebounded and hit the truck again. I wasn’t sure how many hits it could take or if the bot could open the truck or knock it out somehow. I’d already been rude to Lieutenant Su, and I wasn’t in the mood to go back and beg for his hospitality.
The SUV lurched forward as I tapped the accelerator and leaned on the horn, eking out a path through the crowd, cutting between vehicles, even slamming into those either determined to get in my way or too slow to move out of it. The truck bounced with each impact, veering left then right, skidding through the snow-turned-sludge of the morning thaw, as I whipped the steering wheel around to avoid the accident that would terminate my escape. Then, on my left, I spied the squat mass of the APC, its bulbous head angled toward me and its needle-like gun swinging around in my direction.
“Khak tu saram!” I yelled out to no one in particular and veered hard to the right, hitting the brakes just as I caught sight of an ancient bus that was pushing into my path. A second later, I heard the low thunder of the APC’s turret-mounted cannon, and the bus exploded in front of me, sending it careening a dozen meters to the side and throwing up a massive gout of flame that reminded me of the swirling storms on Jupiter. The concussive force of the blast rocked the SUV and blinded me for a moment despite the anti-glare properties of the thick glass. If the windshield of the truck hadn’t been hardened, it would have shattered and left me bleeding out in the driver’s seat while the skin on my hands and face peeled away in crispy blackened flakes. They were playing for keeps, or it was the best show of trying to scare me into stopping that I could imagine.
Again, I gunned the engine and slammed the truck into gear, angling it forward and around the ruined bus. I didn’t look to see if there were bodies inside; I didn’t want to know. All I knew was that this was no game I wanted part of, and whatever they knew or thought they knew about me was desperately important to them, and now to me. Surely what was happening now proved that. All I needed to do was get to some place that would allow me a few moments to think and maybe a few hours to sleep. Then I could put something together. What I needed was a plan of attack to figure out what to do and where to go. And why all of this was happening.
I had less than a moment to wonder about how all the pieces fit together when the truck lurched again, and I felt the right side of the vehicle tilt slightly into the air, leaving me dragging on the steering wheel, trying to keep the truck level all while pushing it as fast as possible through the unforgiving crowd. I turned the wheel into the tilt, bringing the truck back flat on all four tires and careening toward a series of shops and low buildings at the base of the northern cliff. People were fleeing in every direction, and cars and carts were darting out of my way, as if they’d finally realized something was happening. Struggling with the wheel, I tapped the brakes, trying to compensate for the lack of balance, the feeling that the whole vehicle was about to tip and roll, then the front passenger’s door came shrieking away from its locked position, and I saw the crusher pulling itself into the truck, its tiny little head fixed on me.
“Oh fuck no,” I muttered under my breath — sometimes the best profanity was in English – and I slammed the brakes as I pulled the RX90 up from underneath my coat and brought it around. The bot pitched forward and the dashboard crunched under its tremendous weight, giving me the moment I needed to aim and squeeze the trigger, unloading a full clip of armor-piercing rounds into the brainpan of the reaper before it could even reach out for me. The whole truck shuddered as I struggled to balance the kick of the rifle with the thrashing of the dying monstrosity, the deafening din of the shots reverberating throughout the armored vehicle like a thousand explosions in my head, spent round casings popping up toward the roof and raining down on the body of my betrayer below. And then I was spinning the wheel to the left again, watching the ruined carcass of the killer bot spill out unceremoniously onto the pavement like so much scrap metal, hearing the casings tumbling after it. I slammed the gearshift forward into first and hit the accelerator. “One down,” I muttered and dropped the auto-rifle onto the passenger’s seat, not sure if I was talking about the bot or my weapon. I didn’t have time to reload it, so it was one and done for the time being. All I had left was the Marakov, and it wouldn’t stop another crusher that might come in or the APC that looked to be angling to cut me off. I could see it in the rearview mirror, what was left of it. The other truck was gone.
Closer to the cliff wall, where the buildings grew out of the rock itself like living things, there was less room to maneuver, which suited me just fine. The heaviest traffic was in the center of the rift, so I angled away to the sidelines, where the sea of human and vehicular traffic was thinning out. The bus explosion had drawn the attention of the entire market, it seemed. I could already see people ducking into storefronts or hiding in stalls to avoid the running battle that I’d found myself part of. That meant one thing to me: speed. And speed meant escape. I scanned the dash quickly and hit the sirens, flooring it, the truck rocketing forward, hurtling by the multi-colored blur of shops and facades, the bright lights and high-pitch scream of the vehicle sending the lagging pedestrians scurrying for the safety of a doorway.
The streets were narrowing now, and I was moving into tight territory as the northern cliff loomed in front of me. There was going to be very little room to maneuver soon, but I had to chance it and take whatever path I could. Back in the center of the rift, the truck was entirely too exposed.
As if to prove my fears true, I heard the telltale thump of the APC’s main gun over the scream of the engine and the clamor of the crowd. An explosion rocked the shop beside me, showering the truck with cement fragments that clattered across the hood and roof. I plowed through the falling debris, and the resulting cloud of dust swept into the open passenger door like a ghostly rider. Then I was through, jinking to the right, then left again, putting a series of buildings between myself and the main open area of the cleft, where the APC would be. The alley here was narrow, but it was wide enough for the truck, less the side mirrors, which sheared off almost immediately. I barely noticed though; my focus on the ramshackle obstacles that cluttered my alternative route — boxes and crates, bags of trash, refuse and other debris that battered the heavy truck before being crushed under its wheels. Crash after crash jolted the vehicle as I mercilessly pushed through with my foot to the floor, the siren still blaring, driving people out of my path. I couldn’t tell how fast I was going; the buildings flew by in a blur, and before I knew it, I’d dashed through the main part of the market, wipers clearing off the debris that clouded the windshield. I glimpsed the massive carved doors of the Great Temple there, the centerpiece of the rift and focal point for the bazaar, where the narrow alley opened up into a small plaza for a moment. Then, in the blink of an eye, it was gone, and before I knew it, the marketplace was behind me, and the road once again opened up.
A few minutes later, as I rocketed out through the western gate of the Grand Eastern Market and fell into the normal vehicle traffic pattern of the Iliyskiy Trakt Throughway, I knew I was clear. I’d left the APC far behind, and I’d lost sight of the other truck, too. Two helo-raptors were circling over the rift behind me, keeping their distance from the crosswalks and crosswinds of the busy depression, but I hoped that meant they were still looking for me in the market. For the moment, it seemed as if I was free and clear, or as free and clear as one can be when everyone seems to be able to find you.
I headed south, back on the elevated A3, the icy wind blasting in through the open passenger’s side door. The truck shuddered at the high speed, but I pushed on for all it was worth. I needed to get off the roads and get another vehicle, then figure out how the hell Su and his boys had found me. I couldn’t go home; I couldn’t even stop for a drink, and I needed some answers before I made my next move. I knew where I wanted to go, but that wasn’t happening if I couldn’t sit still for a minute before the door was kicked in.
I glanced down at the unmoving body near my feet. I knew I’d hit her good, but maybe too good – she seemed very fragile lying there — like Hikaru, wherever she was. The answers, I knew, would lie in the unconscious woman next to me on the floor of the truck. All I needed was to find a place to hole up for a few minutes, and then she and I were going to have a conversation. I wanted answers, and I knew exactly how I would get them out of her.
*
I pulled in close to the wall, careful to wedge the truck between the two huge dumpsters, and shut off the engine. No one would see it from the road, and I’d already disabled the transponder via the central input screen. We wouldn’t be found, or so I’d hoped. I still didn’t know how everyone was locating me. Maybe there was a signal coming out of me, but now I had a first-hand opportunity to find out. All I needed were a few answers, and to get that, I needed a little leverage. I looked down at the girl lying at my feet. One minute she was pointing her gun at me; the next she was offering apologies and aid; the next she was handing me over to an officer from the militsiya, who seemed to know me. But as far as I could tell, she wasn’t with them; so was she a freelancer like me? And if so, how was she related to Su, and how did she get involved? Yes. It was time for some answers.
I deserved that much.
I looked out through the dirty, cracked windshield. The alley was mostly deserted; there were a few figures in the distance shuffling this way and that – people trying to stay warm, trying to find food. I was a few clicks north of the Turksib district where high-rise slums littered the landscape, ghetto as far as the eye could see, where I was more likely to find DOPe than food, and where half the population seemed to be just waiting for the next day to see if they’d still be alive. I’d come up this way a few times on business — even dealers needed to be taught a lesson sometimes, and there was massive money to be made in the drug trade. Lots of toes stepped on, lots of deals gone bad, lots of contracts for a killer with easy morals. I didn’t mind getting my hands dirty, and it kept me stocked with a steady supply of smoke, and kept those dark dreams at bay.
Where I’d go from here was still a question that had its place in my head, but in a few minutes, I hoped to have an answer. But first a moment of calm, my head back against the soft leather seat, relaxing my body one sector at a time in the Zen-like way I’d picked up from the priests near my — what used to be my flat and what used to be a small mosque before the explosions that had ripped it apart right before my eyes. I took another deep breath, feeling the calm working its way steadily down and into my legs. There was no telling when I would be running again, muscles tensed for a fight, teeth gritting against pain, so I let it all out, closed my eyes and reached deep inside to detach myself from everything that had gone by in the last few hours. It was a mental exercise, the equivalent of a smoke, but either way, I could feel the tension slipping away, my hand and heartbeat steadying. Another deep breath and I felt light, as if I was back on Ganymede, bouncing over the snowdrifts, floating over the ice plains. I could smell the chill in the air, hear the snowflakes dusting up the windshield, and then she moved, moaned from her place on the floor, and I knew I needed to restart my engines.
Things were about to get ugly.
Militsiya vehicles had all the tools a policeman would need, and in this case, only this one seemed to be missing everything. No shotgun rack. No toolkit. No riot box. The small flat box behind the passenger’s seat contained a first aid kit, nothing more.. I climbed over the body of the girl, wondering how long it would take her to regain her senses, and leaned into the very back of the truck, finding nothing. Something was off.
“Wake up, sleepyhead. It’s time that we had a little conversation.” I felt a twinge of satisfaction play through my chest, a shiver down my spine, and then pulled her back into the sizeable area behind the driver’s seat and rolled her over. She didn’t respond except to make a small noise. I could see the bruise on her chin where my elbow must have connected. It looked back at me angrily, but I knew that’d be the least of her worries. In a moment, she wouldn’t even remember how it got there.
I found her Marakov without any trouble. She carried it in a small, concealed pocket inside the vest. The other pocket held her mobilnik and a pack of cigarettes. I fished one out, lighting it with the torch she also kept in that pocket, and sat back on the seat and inhaled, her shiny shooter in one hand, her fancy cigarettes in the other. I hadn’t recognized the brand, but the tobacco was aces.
“My cigarettes?” She blinked, swallowed, then her gloved hand found the bruise on her chin. “Not what I was expecting.” She twisted around slightly, and her eyes fluttering open. “You pack quite a punch,” she started, and then she looked around, then back at me, and I could see recognition in her face. “Where are we? Where is Su?”
“Pull some shit again and the next punch will have you bleeding out in the snow.” I kept my tone level, my voice even. My face, I hoped, was a blank slate. I didn’t want to get angry; I was going with an all-business attitude. This was going to be an interrogation, not an argument or a negotiation. “One moment you’re tough, your gun in my face – until I take it away from you. Then you give me a different look. You aren’t dangerous; you’re a friend. You’re here to help. Then you hand me over to the cops. Oh, aren’t you the clever one. Fooling the stupid pidúrok. Well, I was fooled. Khak tu saram. Fuck me for being taken in by a pretty face. Congrats. Barakallah! I applaud you, and no doubt your boss will, too, if he ever sees you again. Alive.”
She just stared at me, rubbing her jaw.
“If…if you tell me what I want to know. If you answer my questions quickly and with conviction… I don’t have time for lies, and I don’t have time for games. I’m tired, I’m hungry, and I’m on the verge of getting angry. And you won’t like me when I’m angry.” Still steady. I waited for her to come back with something that would set me off. I counted on it, and I didn’t have to wait long.
“I really am here to help you. Up til now, everything else you’ve been told is a lie.”