Free Prepare to Die! by Paul Tobin Page A

weather, cast magic spells and a hundred other bizarre talents, and I had stepped up to them, and I had stopped them, so it was ridiculous to think that I (Steve Clarke, the Reaver) could have the slightest trepidation of calling a woman on the phone, or knocking on her door, or walking along any street where she might, possibly, see me.
    It wasn’t that at all.
    It was just that SRD had undoubtedly been tracking my journey home… secretly following my progress along the drive. These people, they would get nervous if I didn’t check in.
    The sign at the gate was obscured by a trio of armored, nearly identical, well-armed guards. Only when they were shifting around, preparing for my oncoming car, stepping out to block my progress, could I read the sign.
    Superhuman Research & Development .
    And then… in even bigger letters.
    No trespassing .
    No visitors .
    The gate was made of a blend of blurred glass and metal. I’d seen the type. The metal gave it the strength. The glass (it was far past ordinary glass) was designed to crumple and shatter, diverting any impact. There were probably only four people in the world who could have punched through that gate. There are quite a few who could have flown over it. I could have jumped it easily enough.
    I rolled down my window as one of the guards tapped on the glass with the business end of an M240 machine gun, a weapon powerful enough to shoot through the entirety of my car, with ease, though not powerful enough to do any more than dent my skin. It didn’t make me nervous. It just made me annoyed. This was all about a power play. I’d grown to hate playing.
    “Take that weapon away from me,” I said. “I already know you’re in a position of authority.”
    “You are attempting to drive an unauthorized vehicle onto restricted premises,” he said, using the type of voice normally used when addressing opposing politicians or child murderers. It’s a voice I’ve heard countless times. It’s a voice used by men of personal bravado, of intense ego, who have spent their lives training to become the best that they can be (from a standpoint of being turned into a killing machine) and were then issued a weapon that could mow down a house, and also a certificate that says it’s okay to pull the trigger. And then they meet me, or one of my type, and the weapon and the training doesn’t mean shit to us. These men become nothing but a vast herd of self-aware dominoes, desperate to avoid being the first one to topple.
    I said, “You had to have been expecting me. Open the gate.” Nobody moved.
    “You know who I am,” I said. I didn’t try to make it threatening, but, then again, I’m the one who said it. That matters.
    Another of the guards took position near the left front of my vehicle. His weapon was slightly lowered, ready to do a strafing run that would perforate my engine and my windshield and (normally) anyone behind the wheel. The third guard was talking on a headset, and a low siren was sounding in the distance. I couldn’t see anything of the buildings beyond. There were a series of fences and tree lines in place for security, and to block any sight lines. I could hear choppers warming up. By this time, Paladin would have charmed his way into the base and would have been eating croissants with the commander, discussing favorite brands of tea, talking about kids and school plays.
    The guards were identical in lightweight armor that was probably designed by Checkmate, the mental wizard who had a short public career before he was carted away to monkey with technologies that most of us couldn’t conceive. He’d always worn full armor during his public appearances. Nobody had ever seen his face. It was rumored he was handsome. It was rumored he was hideous. It was rumored he was actually a woman. It was rumored that he had an IQ somewhere around five hundred. It was rumored that he was a virgin. It was rumored that he was provided with a harem. It was rumored he’d