Free Catwalk: Messiah by Nick Kelly Page B

Delambre’s tone was enough to send his daughter spinning on her heel out of the lab. From Cat’s position, strapped to the cold, steel slab, he couldn’t judge her reaction.
    “I’m sure she took that well.”
    Delambre frowned, “Don’t be an ass, Catwalk. My job is to enable your success, not facilitate your suicidal tendencies.”
    Cat smirked. He wasn’t certain if the geneticist or his daughter was the one with most expertise, or greatest interest, in his health. He coughed to one side as an exercise, receiving no reaction from Delambre. “Sorry, Doc. I’ll take blame for the vamps, not this whole bout with the Sirens. I didn’t go callin’ fer that.”
    Concentrating on the diagnostics, Delambre offered only a grunt. Cat’s grin drew broader as he realized that just as the geneticist’s daughter had designed his new armor. She was the one who maintained a watchful eye on its functionality. Eventually, she could be an outlet for some serious education, or a great deal of fun.
    Without intent, his mind brought up another woman he’d met recently, and forced him to ask why he hadn’t tried to track down the fashion model. He wanted her near. He had developed a desire for her from the first glimpse of her on the vid screen. It had only grown more intense when he met her in person at the Paradigm. There was more to it, though. Something kept him from chasing after the redheaded off-world goddess. He couldn’t put his finger on it.
    “How soon til I’m up an’ about?”
    Delambre scanned the diagnostics he had been running for the better part of an hour. “The damage you’ve sustained is minimal. We’re almost done here.”
    “Good, I could use a smoke.”
    “Smoke any more and I can’t promise you’ll be able to avoid heat-seeking missiles.”
    “Hmm, so I’m guessin’ you don’t have a light?”
    Delambre leveled a wordless gaze. Cat shrugged, deciding against asking if the geneticist’s daughter had any interest in lighting his fire. He wanted to get out of the sterile and stuffy lab, hit the open road and do a little wrenching of his own. Last night’s inventory of upcoming conflicts hadn’t lessened any. It had only inched closer to the inevitable deadline. He’d been fortunate that two of the Sirens had records, and that meant a little bonus money. It also meant more money that Midas would be putting on his tab. Half of the hitman wanted to smash Midas’ shiny dome into the pavement. The other half tried to make a rational assumption of the extent of Midas’ power. The rational half usually came out on the losing end.
    The cleaner watched Delambre scour the diagnostics. “You two are close, then, huh?”
    “What do you mean?”
    “You an’ your daughter. Seems like even when you hate each other, you ain’t so far apart.”
    Delambre stopped for a moment before responding. “We don’t have anyone else, Catwalk. We have only each other.”
    Cat nodded with a smirk. “So, she has ta put up with you…and me?”
    The elder man chuckled.
    Cat swung to a seated position, then dropped soundlessly on the lab floor, still grinning. “I dunno, doc. You ask me…she’s gotta be some kinda angel.”

    By nightfall, Cat had put a few hundred more kilometers on the H-S, tweaked and tuned it for a few hours, and snagged a short but deep period of meditation before cleaning up and hitting the streets again. Midas loved metal, both visual and aural, and he had a few familiar hot spots. Liquid Chrome was one, but his sphere of influence there was limited. The owners had spent plenty of time and money cleaning up. If they were dealing with crime lords, they were very, very good at keeping it a secret.
    Instead, Cat headed slightly uptown from Chrome, to a district called The Cell Block. The Block housed three separate industrial factories, closed down almost twelve years ago when the majority of chipset manufacturing had been moved Off-World. Purchased by a music mogul and sports agent called