By A.D. Bloom
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Extra info for Bring Me the Head of the Buddha
Within five minutes of their arrival, a skinny kid in a hoodie strolled up, glanced left and right, and began working the locks on a hundred thousand Amero, Brazilian MotoVai sportster not more than a yard away. Goddie insurgents like Morituri and White Sunday were their focus, not auto-thieves, so they didn't bother to call local enforcement. They just laughed at Casper, cracked jokes about the impact of Baccha Bay City's cuts to educational funding, and warmed up their jumbo magnetrons for a gonad-zapping, high-energy, active scan of Ocho House.
Fine by me, Alpo thought. There were three shots in the clip. Each massive, eighty-caliber projectile was really a cluster of six micro-explosive darts that would separate, and widen to an eighteen inch spread before impact and detonation. The Sagami was a great city gun. Though it had limited range, it could penetrate light body armor and it was quiet. It wouldn't trigger the gunshot triangulation systems that told law enforcement, down to the foot, from exactly what spot a shot had been fired.
His eyes were closed, and he was alone with It. There were others in Ocho's second floor common room, but they were rapt in a different experience. They were watching some poor bastard named Casper try to pull a rope-a-dope on his FragNet boxing opponent. It wasn't working, and some guy named Otis was cleaning his clock. The neo-hippies had bet their money on the wrong gamer. Charlie couldn't hear them or see them. In a way, that was best. These were the last minutes of Charlie Horner's life, and being enraptured in a beauty that defied human explanation was a good way to spend them.
Bring Me the Head of the Buddha by A.D. Bloom