Jubal sighed. At least Senator Wong would never find him again. Not only were the ruins of Old New York the last place anyone would think to look for James Wuthers, but there was no more James Wuthers. Jubal slipped involuntarily into the memories of his horrendous rebirth.
The Hong Kong job generated so much heat, it became clear that if infamous bounty hunter James Wuthers didn’t immediately disappear forever, he would be promptly shot dead by the first armed government official who spotted him anywhere on the planet. Even the Moon probably had shoot-on-site standing orders. A makeover wasn’t going to cut it, so James took more extreme measures.
Two wrongs may never make a right, but sometimes, cumulated bad luck pays off. The sex change surgery was only partially complete when James’ anesthetic wore off. He woke up screaming in pain just in time to watch his overpriced surgeon get gunned down by a bounty hunter eager to claim her prize.
“You’ll pay for that, Jane Kelly,” Jubal muttered angrily to himself. “Wherever you are now.”
Almost inexplicably, what was left of James Wuthers had escaped the operating room, trailing tubes and sensor wires. Between the botched surgery, incomplete hormone therapy and fresh scars, he had succeeded in becoming unrecognizable. He was certainly no longer a man, but he had failed to become a woman either. He was simply Jubal Jenkins, born bloody and screaming, just like everyone else. Sort of.
For the hundredth time, Jubal told himself it had worked out for the best. He smiled at the thought of someone attempting to describe him to the police. Then frowned as his confusion over his own sexual identity resurfaced.
Shaking his head, Jubal focused again on the scene below him. Ari Sarkissian’s grav-cycle was a flaming wreck in the center of the highway. From his perch atop a skyscraper neighboring the same road, Jubal adjusted his cybernetic eyes with a thought, zooming in on the figure crumpled on the shoulder. It was definitely Sarkissian, but how he had ended up there was a mystery to Jubal. As he watched in astonishment, Sarkissian rose to his feet and casually shook himself clean. After another moment, he sat down calmly.
Jubal reached over to the severed head of a GR-67 droid sitting beside him. Gently tapping a control, he triggered the voice synthesizer, which relayed a message through a dozen randomly selected relays to Sarkissian’s personal communicator.
"Well damn! You're a lucky guy Mr. Sarkissian,” Jubal keyed. “Guess I'll get you next time."
He terminated the transmission and continued watching Sarkissian.
“All bad things must come to an end,” Jubal said to the droid head conversationally. “And Mr. Sarkissian down there is the key to ending my losing streak.”
The GR-67 head beeped noncommittally, then suddenly began emitting an electronic pulsing sound.
Jubal looked at it suspiciously, remembering having heard the same sound before.
"I've got to get you a new body," he said with genuine concern.
Just then, his communicator vibrated gently. Jubal tapped the synthesizer control on the droid head again before answering.
"Grant," Jubal keyed. "How can I help you?"
"Jubal, old chum," Grant Marshall replied. Jubal tried to place his accent, still unable to decide if it was English or Australian. Maybe South African? "I've got a proposition for you."
"I'm listening," Jubal replied.
"My boss needs a few extra hands for a new job," he explained. "I volunteered to vouch for you. Think you might be interested?"
"You work for Sarkissian, right?" Jubal answered, a grin slowing spreading across his painted lips.
"Yeah, that's the ticket."
"Oh I'm definitely interested..."
Almost inexplicably, what was left of James Wuthers had escaped the operating room, trailing tubes and sensor wires. Between the botched surgery, incomplete hormone therapy and fresh scars, he had succeeded in becoming unrecognizable. He was certainly no longer a man, but he had failed to become a woman either. He was simply Jubal Jenkins, born bloody and screaming, just like everyone else. Sort of.
For the hundredth time, Jubal told himself it had worked out for the best. He smiled at the thought of someone attempting to describe him to the police. Then frowned as his confusion over his own sexual identity resurfaced.
Shaking his head, Jubal focused again on the scene below him. Ari Sarkissian’s grav-cycle was a flaming wreck in the center of the highway. From his perch atop a skyscraper neighboring the same road, Jubal adjusted his cybernetic eyes with a thought, zooming in on the figure crumpled on the shoulder. It was definitely Sarkissian, but how he had ended up there was a mystery to Jubal. As he watched in astonishment, Sarkissian rose to his feet and casually shook himself clean. After another moment, he sat down calmly.
Jubal reached over to the severed head of a GR-67 droid sitting beside him. Gently tapping a control, he triggered the voice synthesizer, which relayed a message through a dozen randomly selected relays to Sarkissian’s personal communicator.
"Well damn! You're a lucky guy Mr. Sarkissian,” Jubal keyed. “Guess I'll get you next time."
He terminated the transmission and continued watching Sarkissian.
“All bad things must come to an end,” Jubal said to the droid head conversationally. “And Mr. Sarkissian down there is the key to ending my losing streak.”
The GR-67 head beeped noncommittally, then suddenly began emitting an electronic pulsing sound.
Jubal looked at it suspiciously, remembering having heard the same sound before.
"I've got to get you a new body," he said with genuine concern.
Just then, his communicator vibrated gently. Jubal tapped the synthesizer control on the droid head again before answering.
"Grant," Jubal keyed. "How can I help you?"
"Jubal, old chum," Grant Marshall replied. Jubal tried to place his accent, still unable to decide if it was English or Australian. Maybe South African? "I've got a proposition for you."
"I'm listening," Jubal replied.
"My boss needs a few extra hands for a new job," he explained. "I volunteered to vouch for you. Think you might be interested?"
"You work for Sarkissian, right?" Jubal answered, a grin slowing spreading across his painted lips.
"Yeah, that's the ticket."
"Oh I'm definitely interested..."
No comments:
Post a Comment