“That’s just my mech. He doesn’t count.”
“Screw you,” Sosoome muttered.
“He’s got an active AV scrambler,” Nick said. “He’ll make sure no one listens in on our conversation.”
“AVs can be overridden,” Basher said. He was the tallest of the trio, with deep sable skin and a bionic left ear replacing the original, lost in a firefight. Even relaxed, his face looked threatening.
“This ain’t no cheap-ass home AV scrambler,” Sosoome snarled, tail rising defiantly. “It sure as hell can handle eavesdroppers in a shithole like this.”
“He’s right,” Nick said. “It’ll distort close surveillance, active or passive. Trust me, even a lip-reader won’t be able to monitor us.”
Slag gave a noncommittal shrug. He had a wiry build and unnatural red irises, either a genetic modification or an injection job. He was only about fifteen centimeters taller than Nick, atypical for his profession. Soldiers that short were rarely recruited for the EPF, let alone its deadliest spec-ops unit, Delta-A.
But Nick had done extensive research on the trio, running them through his own psych profiling program to gauge individual expertise and compatibility. On paper they were the kind of individuals he sought, a perfect blend of independence and group-think, of the teachable and the lethal.
“I assume you’ve received your funds.”
“Wouldn’t be here if we hadn’t,” Slag said.
Nick had paid them appearance money, two thousand apiece. As EPF soldiers, even elite Delta-As, they only made about eight grand a month. They were getting a week’s pay just to listen to his pitch.
“What are you drinking?” he asked, waving his hand to summon one of the women behind the bar.
The Zilch was old school. It used only live waiters, no mechs. That had pissed off Sosoome. Nick had bought the mech with the finest available synthetic bio enhancements, including a pair of retractable penises and a pleasure center programmed for max titillation. He figured even robots deserved to get laid now and then. Normally when they went out, Sosoome tried seducing the mech help. He was left high and dry in a place like the Zilch.
But Nick liked the bar. It was near the northern edge of the city, a stone’s throw from the DMZ and the wall. Although safely within the confines of Philly-sec, the crowd could have made the grade in one of the zoo’s raunchy subterranean taverns. There were no poseurs here, no one likely to go all weak-kneed and call the cops if a kick-ass fight broke out.
The waitress arrived with bowls of pretzels and booze-soaked microplums, a house specialty. Her curly sable hair was pulled back in a bun. Maori tattooing covered her face, a complex pattern of black lines and swirls.
“Whaddya want?”
Her tone verged on disdain. That was fine by Nick. He preferred authentic reactions to the corporate-inflicted phony smiles of downtown servers, human or mech.
Nick, Slag and Basher ordered half-liter pumps of the house beer. Stone Face, a bruiser of a man with a forehead that looked capable of repelling blows from a tire iron, selected a more upscale brew.
“Down to business?” Nick asked as the waitress departed.
“Your bucks, your agenda,” Slag said, crunching on a pretzel.
“I want to recruit you. The gig is one-year minimum. The pay is twenty-five thousand dollars a month per man.”
Nick let them absorb that for a moment. His profiling had revealed that none of them were exclusively money-driven. He couldn’t have used them if they were. Still, a tripled salary was not an incentive to be quickly dismissed.
“We’re still here, mate,” Slag said.
“You’ll train in secret at various locations. Your training will be intense, even more than what you’re used to. The focus will be on developing a complex and sophisticated level of teamwork. A fourth individual will be added to the team at a later date. Naturally, if you feel the training regimen is too tough, you can quit at any time.”
Nick knew that if they signed on, they wouldn’t take advantage of that option. Men like this didn’t quit.
“At the end of your training, you’ll be sent into the field. Your assignments will be of a clandestine nature.” He paused, steeling himself for the hard part. If they were going to walk out on him, this next revelation would be the impetus.
The waitress returned with their drinks. He paid her in cash and left a generous tip. She mumbled a bored “thanks” as she walked off.
Slag and Basher dialed their translucent beer pumps to medium chill and broke the seals. They took big gulps. Stone Face set his pump to lukewarm and sipped his brew as if it was a rare cabernet.
Before Nick could continue, Slag discerned the nature of his pitch and beat him to the punch.
“A small squad, special training, complex teamwork. You want us to go up against Paratwa assassins.”
Lesser men would have been heading for the door about now. Nick was pleased that the threesome stayed put.
“I like how you guys think,” he said.
Slag and Basher traded skeptical looks.
“Look, pal, this kind of shit’s been tried before,” Basher said. “It’s the wet dream of Delta-A and every spec ops unit in the world.”
“Nobody’s come close,” Slag added. “Best anyone’s ever done going full frontal against a hardcore twofer is fifty, sixty casualties. And three quarters of the time the assassin got away.”
“We’ve fought these fuckers, seen what they can do. They’re as nasty as it comes. Two-headed super-predators, trained from birth to hunt and kill.”
“A full company against an assassin is SOP.” Slag paused. “Personally I’d prefer battalion-sized.”
Basher drew another sip of beer. “If it were up to me, I’d never use soldiers to fight them. Just saturation bomb the whole area and to hell with collateral damage.”
The idea wasn’t as unrealistic as it sounded. Appallingly, some nations, particularly those with little or no history of civil rights, had adopted such methods. Basher was right, it was effective, at least if you didn’t mind the horrific numbers of civilian casualties.
Nick dialed his beer to max chill and watched ice crystals form through the pump’s window. Best to keep quiet for a moment, let them make the next move.
Three sets of eyes were locked onto him. Intimidating stares, trying to read his tells, trying to determine whether he was a deluded dreamer, a psycho or someone with a viable plan. Nick met their gazes, revealing nothing.
Slag ended the standoff. “Even if we thought you were the lone genius who’s figured out a way to fight them that no one else in the world has come up with, we couldn’t help you.”
“We’re hitched to EPF for another two-plus years,” Basher said. “And they don’t take kindly to deserters.”
“Not a problem,” Nick said. “I can make certain arrangements that will legally free you from your military obligations.”
Slag and Basher didn’t look impressed. He sensed they believed him, at least on that point. But they weren’t ready to hop on board, not without further probing.
“So what’s your hot-shit plan?” Basher demanded.
“We all agree a Paratwa assassin is the deadliest creature on the face of the Earth. But it has a weakness. I’ve found a way for a small team with the right attributes to beat it in straight-up combat.”
“Need more than that, mate. Need some proof.”
“I’ve developed simulations that–”
Slag cut him off. “Forget it. We’ve seen every kind of sim there is. No training holo is worth shit compared to live combat.”
“In most cases that’s true. But my sim is different. It will translate into real time.”
Slag narrowed his eyes. The red irises seemed to brighten, giving him a devilish appearance.
“You’re talking shit,” the Brit concluded. “I think you’re trying to scam us. I think this is some kind of con.”
Basher picked up on the theme, ran with it. “He’s an arrogant little p
rick, ain’t he? Thinks he can feed us this crap and we’re gonna lap it up like it’s genuine filet mignon.”
Nick’s first inclination was to respond to the filet mignon remark with a pun, tell them that he’d stake his reputation on the success of the sim he’d developed. But he sensed that lightening the mood wasn’t going to work with this bunch.
“This isn’t a con,” he insisted. “I know what I’m talking about.”
They didn’t believe him. The conversation went from insulting to downright menacing.
“You think we’re gonna listen to some dwarf-child asshole,” Basher growled. “Shit, man, you ain’t even tall enough to suck my cock.”
“Maybe he would be if you got him a highchair to stand on,” Slag proposed.
“I say we just take him out back, get the truth out of him. Let Stone Face use his head for soccer practice.”
Stone Face took another delicate sip of beer, gave no indication that he’d heard the threat.
Nick wasn’t intimidated. He knew routines like these well from his gangbanger days. It was time to throw some trash back in their faces.
“First off,” he began, “I don’t like threats. Secondly, if your big dummy friend here ever tries kicking my head, I’ll break his goddamn foot.”
“That so?” Basher challenged.
“Yeah. It’s so. And if you ever happen to get your cock stuck in my mouth, it’ll be the last time you’ll ever use it. I’ll bite that little pencil clean off and ram it through the limey’s eye.”
Basher’s arm lunged across the table, grabbed Nick by the throat, and yanked him half out of his seat. Their faces were a mere twenty centimeters apart. His assailant didn’t look angry. His expression was closer to someone about to swat a pesky fly.
Nick was impressed by his lightning speed. Like many Delta-A soldiers, the three of them had enhanced neuromuscular systems. Their modifications weren’t prenatal like Paratwa assassins; they’d never reach that epitome of quickness. Still, with the right training and coordination, they could be highly effective.
At the moment, however, Nick couldn’t express his admiration. He had a more important concern, namely trying to breathe. He didn’t even attempt to break Basher’s iron grip on his neck. The effort would have been futile.
Sosoome came alert, ready to spring to his aid. The mech was waiting for his SOS signal – in this situation, a specific pattern of blinks, left-right-left. But Nick knew he had to get out of the dilemma on his own.
The only option was to show no fear and dis them back. Despite Basher’s choking hand, he managed to work up a good ball of spit.
He unleashed the hocker. At such close range he couldn’t miss. It splattered on Basher’s left cheek.
Fingers tightened around his neck. Nick glared, unyielding. For good measure he managed to hiss, “Fuck you.”
Slag gave a subtle nod. Basher let go. Nick flopped back into his seat, sucking down deep breaths and massaging his sore neck.
Basher carefully wiped the spit from his face with a napkin. He and Slag appeared satisfied. Nick wasn’t someone who was going to lead them down the rabbit hole and then wimp out when the going got tough.
“No hard feelings?” Basher offered.
“It’s cool,” Nick said hoarsely. “Not the first time I’ve been choked.”
“I’m guessing it happens a lot,” Slag said, looking amused.
“Oh, it does,” Sosoome chimed in. “Remind me to tell you about the time he called that kickboxer a clumsy kangaroo. She really kicked his ass.”
“So who’s running this little show of yours?” Slag asked.
“I am. For now, that’s all you need to know. I’ll explain more once you’ve signed up. I need a commitment first.”
Slag and Basher exchanged looks. But it was Stone Face who spoke first, in a deep drawl that sounded exactly like Sam Elliott, an actor who’d come to prominence when Nick was a boy. These days, cloned voices of twentieth century celebrities were all the rage.
“Where do I sign?”
“Hallelujah,” Sosoome said. “Now, can we get out of this shithole? The night’s still young and I’ve got the urge to find me some accommodating receptacles.”
Thirteen
Bel stood to greet their guest. Doctor Emanuel did likewise, rising from his seat on her office sofa and using his gnarled cane as a third leg to maintain balance.
The man swept into Bel’s domain with the flourish of someone accustomed to being treated in a lordly fashion. His blue-green robes swirled behind him. Imperious eyes in an angular face scanned the room, taking in everything.
Bel had been told he was in his early fifties. His thick gray pompadour, streaked with white, seemed to bear that out. Yet encountering him in person for the first time, she had the odd impression that he might be either younger or older. There was a timelessness about him, an immeasurable physical quality that seemed to disguise his true age.
She forced a smile and stepped forward to shake his hand. “Bishop Rikov. I’m pleased to make your acquaintance. I believe you already know Doctor Emanuel.”
“Of course. Weldon, it is wonderful to see you again. How are you doing?”
Bishop Rikov rushed across the room to clasp the older man’s palms atop the cane.
“I am well, bishop. At least as well as can be expected given the infirmities of aging.”
“Your years serve to complement your gifted brilliance. They give praise to a life well lived. May the Spirit of Gaia forever encompass your destiny.”
Bel hid a grimace. His affectation, placing extreme emphasis on certain words, was as annoying in person as it was during his grandiose speeches as head of the London-based Church of the Trust.
She gestured to the sofas. Everyone sat down.
“Refreshments?” she offered. She’d taken Nick’s advice and decided to keep the bar, at least for the time being.
“I’m a teetotaler.”
“Another beverage?”
“Thank you, I’m fine. And thank you for taking this meeting on such short notice. This is my first visit in years to your beautiful city. I was truly hoping we might speak.”
“The pleasure is ours.”
“First, let me offer my deepest condolences for the recent tragedy suffered by your organization. And for you personally, Ms Bakana, I hope that the healing process is well underway.”
“It is.”
“A number of the survivors of the massacre are church parishioners. We have strived to offer what support we can in their time of need. Should you or anyone else within E-Tech require counseling, our doors are forever open.”
“Very generous.”
Bel considered herself a spiritual person although she wasn’t aligned with any organized religion. However, if she’d been forced to choose a faith, Bishop Rikov’s would have been at the bottom of her list. It seemed to be a mashup of the world’s classic denominations, cherrypicking the most popular aspects of each one.
Worse, there was no sense that the Church of the Trust had grown naturally from the spiritual urges of its founders. Instead, she had the impression it had been deliberately and cynically crafted to function as a revenue generator. Judging by the latest confidential figures she’d seen, the church was wildly successful in that regard, achieving the most unholy profit ratios. It had practically cornered the market on orbital vaporization, the expensive but popular funeral ceremony. Many of its parishioners were being convinced to turn a sizable portion of their estates over to the church in order to be cremated in low-Earth orbit.
Bishop Rikov favored her with a sympathetic smile. “I was also deeply moved by your selfless actions in saving that baby from the doomers. How is the child doing?”
“A kindly aunt and uncle have taken her in. They’ve begun the adoption process.”
“Most pleasing. A tragedy with a silver lining, indeed a rarity.”
Weeks had passed since those tumultuous events – the attack on headquarters, her surprise appo
intment to director, the mass suicide of the doomers. Bel wished people would stop bringing those things up. She’d moved on and wished everyone else would as well.
That last part wasn’t quite true, particularly in regard to saving the baby from the doomers. Since that day, Bel found herself dwelling more and more on the idea of becoming a mother. She’d always assumed she’d have children someday, although not for a long time. Given that she had access to the best medical care, she could safely become pregnant into her sixties. Yet cradling that little girl amid the conflagration had somehow served to activate her biological clock.
The bishop went on, “I realize how very busy both of you are so allow me to come straight to the point. The church’s council of priests has voted to grant full and unequivocal support to E-Tech’s primary mission of putting limits on science and technology.”
Bel hid her surprise. None of the world’s other major churches had taken such a stance. All preferred to maintain neutrality so as not to risk offending members on either side of the issue.
“That’s a generous offer,” she said. “Naturally, we’re pleased.”
E-Tech needed all the support it could get. But Bel was suspicious of the bishop’s motives. Certainly the Church of the Trust’s position would offend many of its own parishioners and negatively impact its revenue stream. She wondered if the church wanted something from her or E-Tech in return.
“No strings attached,” Bishop Rikov said, sensing the direction of her thoughts. “We would in no way attempt to influence E-Tech policy. You have my solemn word as a servant of the Spirit of Gaia.”
Bel’s doubts weren’t appeased. Still, there was no practical choice open to her.
“Of course we accept, pending final approval from the Board of Regents. But I’m sure that they will be equally supportive of your church’s proposal.”
“Excellent. I’ll have my people contact your offices to finalize the details. Perhaps a joint announcement?”
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