The Human Blend - Alan Dean Foster [85]
“What’s your name, old man?”
His tone by turns pleading and deferential he responded softly and without hesitation. “My name is Napun Molé,” he said just before the middle finger of his left hand lengthened explosively into a meter-long shaft of pointed carbon-ceramic alloy that went right through the throat of the startled tattoo-crested Meld holding on to his left arm. Retracting almost as swiftly as it had extended, it left blood fountaining in its wake.
To her credit, the dead actress Meld gripping his other arm brought her shocker around and forward to slam into his ribs. A crackle of electricity filled the air, followed by pale smoke and the scent of ozone as the discharging weapon was shorted out by contact with the dissipation weave that had been melded into the Molé’s muscles. She ducked as he swung at her, the blade now protruding from the side of his left hand whistling through the air over her head.
Straightening as she recovered from the shock of the senior’s reactions, the trio’s leader took aim and threw the blade she was holding. Even as it left her fingers she was already reaching for her concealed sidearm. The sharp-edged metal tore through the back of the old man’s clothing to bounce off his reinforced flesh. As it did so, he fired his left index finger. The single pellet thus discharged detonated against the Marilyn Meld’s neck with enough explosive force to blow her head off. It landed near the kitchen area, ricocheted off a cabinet, and lay still, a macabre echo of a glamorous past framed by a spreading pool of blood. Spurting crimson from its open neck, the decapitated torso remained erect a moment longer before collapsing to the floor.
Uttering a fluid, energetic flow of expletives in several languages, the surviving woman leaped behind one curve of the couch and held down the trigger of her sidearm. A spray of small-caliber explosive shells tore up the workings of the other side of the living area and the kitchen. Faux upholstery, carbon-fiber framing, molded crystal, reinforced glass, and a wide assortment of other contemporary decorative materials were shredded like cardboard in a tornado.
Propelled by a pair of superior-grade military spec leg melds, the Molé kicked off the floor, bounced off the ceiling, and was grazed by shells as he slammed headfirst into the woman who had nearly emptied her weapon. The air went out of her lungs as the impact cracked her sternum. Bright red pain threatened to overwhelm her vision as she staggered backward. With her free hand she drew her other sidearm. In lieu of a multiplicity of smaller ammo, this one was defined by the size of its barrel. It only held four shells, each one of which was capable of demolishing a vehicle of considerable size. Its employment would bring building security (if they weren’t already on their way) and municipal police running, but at this point she didn’t care. She knew now she probably had only one chance to put her deceptive assailant down. If that meant razing the codo above or below this one along with their respective inhabitants, that was the kind of collateral damage she would gladly rationalize later.
She did not get the one chance.
Before she could fire, the Molé had picked up the nearest section of couch, spun around twice to give it added momentum, and flung it in her direction. Melds that had replaced his lower spine with powerful rechargeable organic servos gave the segment of flung furniture tremendous kinetic force. It slammed into the fleshy woman with enough impact to lift her off the floor. By the time her finger contracted reflexively on the trigger of her larger-caliber handgun, the resultant shot went harmlessly wild. Harmlessly, because she was already outside the building, having been smashed through one of the tough but not indestructible reinforced floor-to-ceiling glass panels.
Wishing