Lone Wolf

by Nigel Findley

  I’m torn. I hate doors in this kind of situation. I hated them in the Academy when we trained in house-to-house ops. I hate them even more now. They block sound, they block light. For all I know, on the other side of the door is a fragging firing squad of elves, with xenon spots slung under the barrels of their SMGs, just waiting for me to open it.

  Another sound from behind me, back toward the front of the building. Another click, and this one does sound like a weapon being cocked. I look back over my shoulder. Nothing, just blackness—no lights, no target, no options. With my left hand I grab the doorknob, turn it and push. Simultaneously I drop into the lowest crouch—eyes narrowed to slits so I (theoretically) won’t be dazzled if the lights are on through the door.

  More darkness. Not another hallway, though. It feels like a room, possibly a big one. I don’t want to, but I duck into it, still in a tight crouch. Behind me I close the door as softly as I can with my left hand. My gaze and my H & K track back and forth across the darkness, each as useless as the other without light. I open my eyes as wide as they’ll go.

  And then there is light. A silent concussion of it, so sudden and so bright it’s like fingernails jabbed into my eyes. I hear myseif gasp as I flinch back. Both hands come up reflexively before I can stop them, and I rap myself in the forehead with the clip of my H & K. The pain in my eyes is so bad I want to whimper. I slump back against the door, sliding to the floor. Nothing I can do, nothing at all. Just wait for the bullet to take away the pain in my eyes. Even with my eyelids shut and hands over them, the light’s so bright I can still see it.

  Then the light dims. Not to darkness, but it might as well be, compared to the preceding harsh wash of light. My eyes still feel like they’ve got needles in them, and they’re pouring tears. But I know I’ve got to open them. Tentatively, I take my hands away from my face and open my eyes a slit.

  The light level’s way down, probably lower than normal ambient light in an office, but I still can’t see squat because of the big floaty blue afterimages. I close my eyes again, rub at them hard with my left fist. The wire badly wants to hose everything down—fire blindly and just get the party started—but I don’t let it go.

  I try to open my eyes once more, and this time I can see a little better. Everything’s still blurry and the pain’s just as bad. But I can see I was right: I’m in a big room, probably a gym. Nothing but bare concrete walls, floor, and ceiling now.

  Except for the anomaly that’s in the geometric center of the room. A table. A plain, desk-sized, macroplast table. And sitting behind it is a corp-style woman. Long blonde hair pulled back behind pointed ears, suit of severe cut. Instinctively, the wire tracks the H & K in on her, but I don’t fire. She’s sitting there quietly, watching me. Empty hands flat down on the tabletop in front of her. No heat, no bodyguards. Just the three of us—me, her, and the H & K. Jam, priyatei. This lady’s got big brass ones.

  Feeling like a half-fragged fool, I lower my gun, thumb on the safety. Then I push myself to my feet.

  At last my hostess speaks. “Mr Larson,” she says, her voice like silk. “I think it’s high time we had a little talk.”

  17

  I look around slowly, trying to keep chili, struggling to get myself under control. It’s tough—too many shocks in too short a time. The watcher in front of The Promise, the three men in the alley, the race through the blacked-out building. And now this. My mind’s spinning, like I’ve taken a snap to the head in an escrima sparring session.

  So focus on my surroundings, on reality, until everything shakes out and comes back to normal. The table and the woman are right in the middle of the room. There’s only one door—the one behind me—and no windows. Light comes from half a dozen collapsible fixtures around the room, big bulbs, diffusers, and reflectors aimed at the door and at me. No wonder I was blinded at first—it’s like being the focus of six spotlights. The intensity on all the bulbs is turned down low now, with enough illumination to see clearly, but tolerable to my traumatized eyes.

  I glance again at the woman. Hands flat on the table, unmoving. No obvious heat. She’s almost certainly packing, but the wire reassures me I could splatter her long before she could pull anything. Yet she was able to adjust the intensity of the room’s light even without obvious controls. Has to be concealed tech, probably including an internal radio or cel phone link. Either that or magic. Otherwise how could she and her goons outside have orchestrated this setup?

  Yeah, that’s right—and it fragging picks me to admit it—a setup. I was manipulated and channeled and played like a sap and made to dance like a fragging puppet. Every move and countermove, every option, already plotted out beforehand. This woman—or whoever she represents—knew I was coming, and guessed all too fragging accurately how I’d react to various stimuli. The whole thing was choreographed to get me into this room, coming face to face with this elf biff across this table. I hate being predictable.

  Still, I’m here now. My bowels still feel like water and my head like it’s got big targets painted on it, maybe an X-ring between my eyes and another at the base of my skull. But if this elf biff here wanted me dead, she could have arranged that early on in the gavotte, without going to all this trouble.

  So I take a couple of steps forward, the H & K still in my right hand, but hanging at my side. I try to focus the last shreds of my confidence into my movements and my expression as I approach. I watch her eyes. Green, cold and hard as volcanic glass. Her face shows no expression, and her body language tells me even less. I stop about three meters away from the table and go, “Well?”

  She doesn't answer immediately, just looks me up and down. I try to guess her age, but she could be anywhere between twenty and two hundred.

  At last she says, “We should get a few matters clear up front, Mr. Larson.” Her voice is smooth, detached. “You have a weapon, I don’t. But my people are outside and I assure you that they are definitely armed. You kill me, they kill you. You hurt me, they kill you. You do anything but listen to me, they kill you. Do you understand?”

  I don’t even dignify that with an answer—it’s not like it’s the theory of fragging relativity or anything. I just wait her out.

  “So,” she says after a few more seconds of inspecting me, “I could, quite truthfully, say I regret the nature of this meeting, but you wouldn’t believe me. Just let’s say it’s necessary.”

  “To who?” I ask.

  "To both of us,” she shoots back, “and again I’m speaking the truth.” She pauses once more. When she speaks again, her voice is quieter, more speculative. “You’re in an interesting position, Mr. Larson. Through no fault of your own, you’re in the middle of something bigger than your experience and training have prepared you for.”

  “No drek,” I say sarcastically. “Tell me something I don’t know.”

  For the first time she smiles (almost), a minuscule upward quirking of her lips. “As a matter of fact,” she says dryly, “that’s the purpose of this whole meeting, Mr. Larson."

  "Yeah, right,” I sneer. “What corp owns you anyway, lady? Lightbringer? Or Telestrian Industries Corporation? Or maybe even Lone Star? Which?”

  Her smile fades. “If you’re trying to impress me with how much you know, don’t waste your time,” she snaps, her silky voice now lined with steel. “If your want to live through this, keep your mouth shut and listen. If you don’t want to listen, you’re free to leave—right now, no strings—and I’ll gladly place side bets on who will get you first.” She fixes me with a gaze like twin lasers. “Are you going to listen, or do I write this off as a bad investment of time and effort?”

  I shrug. “My time’s cheap at the moment. I’m all ears.”

  She nods. “I’m authorized to confirm to you that there is a link between a corporate executive called Timothy Telestrian and the Cutters gang.”

  “What kind of link?”

  “I’m not authorized to tell you that,” she says flatly. “But I strongly suggest you find o
ut what it is, and why it’s important. And then take whatever action you see fit.”

  “You don’t know, then,” I say just as flatly.

  “We know.”

  “Then why the frag should I bother?” I let my frustration out, and I can hear the harsh edge to my voice. “Frag you and the hog you rode in on, lady,” I spit out, then start to turn away

  “Then you’re dead, Larson.” She says it quietly, without emotion—and it’s all the more of a stopper for that.

  But I can’t let her see how she’s scored. Slowly I turn back, and let my lips twist in a smile. “So now the threats begin?”

  “Call it a promise,” she counters.

  “Whatever. Same thing—I play your game or you cack me, right?”

  “Wrong!” And her voice is like the crack of a whip. High corp or maybe military background—someone who’s used to giving orders and having them obeyed right fragging now.

  “Oh?” I give her my most annoying grin.

  “We’re not going to kill you,” she stales calmly. “It. wouldn’t even be worth the cost of ammunition expended. There are enough others lined up to do the job. The Cutters. Lone Star. Timothy Telestrian’s people. One of them will get you. Soon.”

  “Yeah?” I drawl. “So why tell me about this Telestrian rat-frag anyway?”

  No matter how hard I try to slot her off, the elf biff refuses to be rattled. “Irrelevant,” she says crisply. “All you need to know is that tracing and elucidating the connection between Timothy Telestrian and the Cutters is the only hope you have of staying alive. Following any other course will just get you killed. Believe it, Larson. I’ve got no reason to lie to you about this.”

  I don’t have to answer that, my face says it all.

  There’s a click from behind me. I spin and crouch, up comes the H & K.

  The door’s swinging open, revealing two figures. Tall— elves?—but bulky with the heavy armor they’re wearing. Both have machine pistols leveled at my head. I freeze, then slowly lower the H & K, opening my hand so the gun hangs from my forefinger by the trigger-guard, pivoting muzzle-down. I take it the interviews over.

  Both armored goons come through the door, one sidestepping to the left, the other to the right, to flank me. They’re good—careful not to get in each other’s line of fire. And I mentally kick myself in the hoop. For a few seconds there when the door first opened, they couldn’t have fired without a very real risk of greasing the biff. Unless she’s got some kind of magical protection up, of course. I guess, on second thought, my instincts were right.

  “My associates will escort you out, Mr. Larson,” she says calmly from behind me. “Please don’t force them to do something you’ll regret.”

  I want to snarl some wildly improbable speculation about her ancestry and sexual proclivities, but the muzzles of the machine pistols persuade me to keep my yap shut. One of the armored slots gestures with his weapon, and I start toward the door.

  “Just so you don’t think I’ve totally wasted your time,” the elf-cow says suddenly, “I’ll tell you two things for free.” My little entourage—me and the armored goons—stops. I turn back. “Oh?”

  “One. Your cover with the Cutters was blown by a faction within Lone Star itself. This faction told the gang leader— Blake, I believe his name is—that you were an undercover operative and that you knew too much about some plans Blake wanted kept very quiet.” She grins wryly. “They told him you knew much more than you actually did, by the way. They also created a sense of urgency by telling him that Lone Star was calling you in for a full report within twelve hours. Do you understand that?”

  I nod my head slowly. I understand what she’s saying, and it certainly makes sense. Doesn’t mean I believe a fragging word, of course. “That’s one,” I point out.

  “Two,” she says crisply. “Nicholas Finnigan suggested that you contact the shadow underground for help. I second that suggestion. It might just be the best way for you to stay alive. Perhaps the best person for you to approach is someone who goes by the handle of Argent. You can contact him through a blind relay—LTG number twelve oh-six oh-three oh-four oh-nine. Do I need to repeat that?”

  “No.”

  “Then that’s it,” she states. “We won’t meet or communicate again.”

  Don’t bet on it, sister, is what I want to say, but I don’t. One of the hard-men gestures again with his machine pistol. As calmly as I can manage, I slide the H & K back into its holster, and turn my back on the elf biff. Then I step through the door, hearing the two goons take up station behind me.

  Lights are on in the hallway, letting me see where I’m going this time. I jander on down it, trying to stop the muscles of my back from cringing as I imagine the laser sights of those two machine pistols drifting over my spine. I keep telling myself they’re not going to ice me now, not after the elf slitch went to so much trouble just to give me a message, but it’s never fragging easy to turn your back on two weapons. We pass the door I came through, then continue down the hallway to where it ends with another door. This one swings open as we approach, and there’s another figure framed in it. Not armored, this one. Behind him I see the lights of the street.

  I jander on by him, trying my damndest to stay frosty, but I blow it and jump a couple of meters when he suddenly pulls something out of one pocket. Then I see what it is he’s got in his hand.

  It’s the pocket secretary I left on the bed of my doss. I take it from him, and it’s all I can do not to turn tail and run.

  I hear the door shut behind me, and I’m alone on the street in front of Fi nes Que t.

  * * *

  Frag, these guys are chill!

  I’ve managed to hold it together long enough to walk a few blocks from Fi nes Que t, boost another car, and make tracks out of Tarislar. Now I’m sitting behind the wheel of a hot Ford Americar, stopped in the parking lot of a Stuffer Shack in downtown Sumner—probably an oxymoron—and I’ve got the shakes, big-time. Like, it’s been too many shocks piled one on top of another for the past few days. To finish it off, there’s the slick and frosty way the elf biff and her yobos danced me around, letting me know at just about every fragging step that they could have blown my guts out without my so much as being able to return fire. All so calm, so pro, so fragging urbane, all the way to the topper, giving me my drek-sucking pocket secretary back. If this is the level of professionalism you get from corp security assets, I’ll stick with the fragging gangs. Like the lady said—or at least implied—I’m out of my league.

  I drag a hand across my forehead, brush the hair back out of my eyes. My hand comes back wet. Not from the rain; I’ve been inside the car long enough for it to dry off. It’s sweat, priyatel, fragging cold sweat.

  It’s not just that I was waltzed around like some greenie on the streets, though that’s a big drek-eating part of it, let me tell you. A lot of it’s what the elf biff said, and what she knew. She knew about Finnigan, she knew about Blake. She hinted at some really nasty fragging drek—that it was the fragging Star that blew my cover, for one thing. But who at the Star? Drummond and crew. If so, then I was on the money with my suspicions about the ambush, about Cat’s death. It would have been the unholy fragging trinity of Drummond, McMartin, and Layton who geeked Cat.

  But is that possible? Maybe the elf biff doesn’t know about the data penetration and isn’t distinguishing between official Star orders/operations and drek that’s being driven by the slags who’ve cracked the system. Or maybe she was just lying through her chops about the whole thing, all the better to manipulate me. For all I know, it could have been she who ratted me out to the Cutters. And, for that matter, she might be the one who’s got her hooks deep into the Star’s computer system.

  No, that doesn’t make sense. Why rat me out and almost get me assassinated, then draw me into a “white contact” like the one at Fi nes Que t? Unless the circumstances have really changed, and I’ve suddenly assumed a lot more importance somehow . . .

  Fra
g! I shake my head, wipe my face with my hands again. I’m just not down for this drek. Too many possibilities, too many options, too many wheels within fragging wheels for my poor little brain. Simplify things as much as possible. Either the elf biff was telling the truth or she was lying. Binary solution set, as simple as it gets. If she was feeding me a line of drek, she knew how to make it appetizing enough so I’d eat it, which implies a frag of a lot of good intelligence. So I’ll assume she’s on the level until something happens to indicate otherwise, but I won’t put so much trust in that assumption that I’ll take any chances.

  Okay, that’s better. As a working assumption, then, accept the existence of a connection between some slag called Timothy Telestrian—presumably the head honcho at TIC—and the Cutters. Since I’ve got nothing else more likely to lead to paydata, why not follow up on that?

  Then comes the even bigger question of how?

  Well, frag, it seems like everyone I’ve talked to recently has got an opinion about that. For the second time in half an hour, somebody’s suggested I should try to contact some shadow-scum. First Finnigan, then the elf.

  Suddenly edgy at being in the same place too long, I fire up the Americar and start cruising again.

  It’s been one of those days, and looks like it’s not over yet.

  18

  Well, we all knew I’d do it eventually, didn’t we?

  The sun’s coming up, a sullen glow to the east, off over the Barrens, and I’m cruising slowly north on Highway 5. My stolen Americar’s got a fairly sophisticated autopilot, the kind that’s supposed to be able to synch up so well with the traffic-control grids in the roads that it can follow a set course and not slam into anything on the way. Now’s as good a time as any for a test run. While keeping my eyes on the road and at least one hand within easy grabbing range of the wheel, I’m also trying to monitor the tech and place a phone call using the pocket secretary so considerately returned a few hours ago.

  Placing a call through the cel system from a moving car is the best way to avoid anyone locating me. Sure, someone decked into the phone system might be able to figure out I’m heading north on Highway 5 near such-and-such exit. But with the morning rush-hour traffic starting to build around me, I figure the resolution of any locator circuit in the phone won't be good enough to select one car from many. (Frag, I wish I'd thought of this last night . . .)