Free Maohden Vol. 1 by Hideyuki Kikuchi Page B

indicated a miniature nuclear generator and power regulator. The electrical nerve fibers encased in reinforced plastic and hardened ceramic sheathing supplied an uninterruptible source of energy to his helmet-shaped head and the forward-jutting eyes.
    The FS-9000-G polar combat suit was a ten-year-old design, though one advanced enough to still be employed by the American Air Force and NATO. With a power loading of fifteen hundred watts per pound, one pinky could gouge a hole in a concrete wall, and at full throttle, take down a small building in two minutes. With its large-capacity transformers, an electrical discharge tube turned it into a one-ton murder machine.
    The lucky shopper could find them at the military surplus shops outside Okubo Station, starting at a hundred million yen each.
    Fingers like small warheads with polycarbide joints gripped the trigger of the PP-702 Glisenti assault shotgun he was cradling.
    The other man was wearing a grey-on-white pinstripe suit. But from the green light glowing in his electric eyes, he was a cyborg. And was unarmed. These were the kind of living things that ventured into Man-Eater Alley.
    “You’re late and it’s getting late. Wearing all that bling slow you down?”
    It was clear from the tone of Setsura’s voice that he knew they’d been tailing him, and yet he hadn’t once glanced back over his shoulder.
    “Huh,” the expression on the cyborg’s face said. He was a pro, used to dealing with every kind of unexpected situation.
    “When did you figure it out?” said the man in the combat suit. Speaking via a mike and amplifier, he sounded like a heavy in a radio drama.
    “Since I first picked you out of the crowd.”
    “Ah, so it was your intention all along for us to find you here. The shadow becomes the shadowed. Good show.”
    “Enough of the chit-chat. Seeing as you picked a strange place like this, you must be doing some weird weed. Anyhow, best you just give it up. No way you’re gonna win. You’re gonna end up worm food for these monsters here.”
    The cyborg’s right foot traced an arc in the air. The sound of something soft being crushed beneath his shoe.
    Setsura shrugged. “Trying to scare me to death, Sagara-san?” For the first time, a flicker of surprise showed in the cyborg’s mask-like face. “Hey, it’s no big deal. My secretary has a very capable information broker on speed dial.” Setsura said, as calmly as ever, “In any case, as I’m sure you know, the Sanbo Group is no more. Why waste all the effort trying to kill me? You ought to be the ones forking out the protection money. While you are still talking to me .”

    The cyborg raised his right hand to his mouth and smirked. “You’re a real comedian. I see. Like the boss said, you’ve got a pair of brass ones, I’ll grant you that. But I don’t see the need to hide in the shadows and take shots at you with a laser rifle or RPG from a distance. Hey—”
    He wasn’t calling out to Setsura, but to the man in the combat suit next to him. He yanked back the pump on the gun, producing the distinguishing click of chambering a live round.
    A switch next to the pistol grip of the PP-702 could be toggled between auto and manual fire. But the sound alone of the pump handle being yanked back could be expected to arouse the most fear in a victim.
    Even today, cops in Los Angeles and New York preferred single pump riot shotguns with a manual option. There was nothing to match the effect on the criminal class of that pump handle being drawn back. They knew well enough the suppressing fire of a shotgun, turning a single shot into a blizzard of flying buckshot.
    “What do you say?” the cyborg asked. “Makes a man think twice, eh? This baby holds double-aught. That’s nine pachinko-sized balls inside each shell. Now consider every one of them perforating your body. That’s a lot of red-hot hurt in a small package. All that smoldering lead spinning around in there like a washing machine,