Issue 13 - Ray Gun Revival

"The Battle for Monday Morning," by Jordan Lapp Pg.
Conversion
by Shaun Farrell
“T
hey’re here, aren’t they? Aren’t they?
Hush. I already know. I can feel them.
The music, the music!” Flapper stumbled
away, leaving Gen to huddle over his hand held
computer interface. Flapper’s right hand shook
uncontrollably, like it always did, his arm tucked
into his side.
“Yes,” Gen replied, feeling nauseas. He rubbed
his leathery face. “They’re here.”
Flapper danced, left shoulder tilted to the
floor, right leg kicking sideways. To Gen, the youth
looked like the Hunchback of Notre Dame, except
uglier.
“I knew it!” Flapper exclaimed. “Maybe my
nans are working again! I can hear the network.
The voices.” He fell to the floor, lifting his arms in
exaltation, drinking the wireless energy beaming
around him. Then he stopped and looked at Gen
in concern. “Are they going to kill you?”
Gen grunted. He saved his work on the
computer and resisted the temptation to throw it
against the wall. For twenty years he had sought
a way to infiltrate NET, to break their seemingly
impenetrable control. But their firewalls were too
advanced, and by now they were so complex he
hardly understood what he was looking at. There
was always a backdoor, and he better find it in
the next few hours or he’d be converted himself.
Unless he forced NET to kill him. Which suited
him just fine. Better than conversion.
“Are they going to kill you, Gen? Are they?”
Flapper stood at Gen’s side now, eyes strangely
focused and sincere. They had grown to like each
other over the years. Weird.
“They’ll try,” Gen said, softly.
“What will you do?”
Gen sighed and turned back to his computer.
Captain Tuck should just about be ready with his
traps. Gen would have to finish his work from
within the underground facility.
“I’m going to kill them back.”
Ray Gun Revival magazine Issue 13, January 01, 2007
#
“How about you give us some of those guns,”
Dixon said.
Tuck looked over his shoulder at the ex-criminal.
No, Tuck reminded himself, still a criminal. Just
beyond the short reach of the law. For now.
“Is that a joke?” Tuck asked. His low voice was
faint but managed to carry inside the vast underground
chamber. He had just finished setting
the primary trap for the NET soldiers. This was
the most logical entry point into the warehouse,
and he had rigged it with enough explosives to
demolish a small house.
He gazed over Dixon’s shoulder. Lynda huddled
against the wall, shushing her baby girl. The baby
cried softly, as if she understood the need for
stealth but couldn’t control her fear.
“When have you known me to joke, Captain
America?” Dixon asked. His ivory skin gleamed
under a thick layer of sweat and grease. Green
eyes peered out from shaggy eyebrows with
feline malice. The eyebrows looked huge under
his bald head.