The Lucifer desk (s-2)

by Lisa Smedman

  Carla gazed out the window, reviewing what she lew about the mage’s employers. The Mitsuhama corporation specialized in computer technologies such as neural interfaces and guidance systems for autonomous robotic vehicles. It also did a substantial business in defense contracts, particularly smart guns and computer-controlled targeting systems.

  From its headquarters in Kyoto, Mitsuhama Computer Technologies had expanded rapidly in the few years since its founding and now was truly multinational. Its multiple branches and divisions encompassed the globe, and its net worth was said to rival the GNP of a moderately sized nation like the Confederated American States. MCT North America had hundreds of offices, labs, and manufacturing plants in the continent’s various nations. In Seattle alone the corporation had a set of posh executive offices, a factory that produced data processors, and two separate R D labs-one devoted to cybernetics, the other to pure magic research. Heading them all up was Tamatsu Sakura, vice-president of MCT’s UCAS division.

  Once she had a better grasp on her story, Carla would try to arrange an interview with Mr. Sakura. The job at hand, however, was to establish-on the record-the links between the Mitsuhama Corporation and the spell formula Farazad had intended to hand over to Masaki. Carla could speculate all she liked about the possible applications of a spell to conjure the ultimate stealth weapon. But what she had so far-a formula on an unmarked datachip that could have originated anywhere-was hardly conclusive evidence. If only the mage had lived long enough to be interviewed by Masaki, the uses to which the corp had intended to put the new spell could have been documented on trideo.

  Pita would provide an eyewitness account of how the mage had died, but once again, that wouldn’t prove anything. It merely implied that a mage-who just happened to work for Mitsuhama-had died at the hands of a weird spirit, probably one that he had conjured up using the spell on the chip. The fellow hadn’t even had the courtesy to die outside the Mitsuhama offices. Instead, he’d been found in an alley behind the brokerage firm where his wife used to work. It was hardly the incriminating tie-in to Mitsuhama that they needed.

  Carla drummed her fingers on her lap, hoping Masaki wasn’t so bagged that he’d blow the interview with Pita. It was to be a straightforward take, a head-and-shoulders shot of the kid repeating her account of what she’d seen in the alley that night. They would run it as a picture-in-picture over the trideo that Masaki had shot when he found the dead mage. The trid was underexposed and jumpy; Masaki had only captured a ten-second clip before a DocWagon arrived on the scene. Rather than answer their questions, he’d scuttled away. But Wayne could probably enhance the image and use pixel splicing to stretch the clip into half a minute or more. If the story went to air tonight, Carla would use the interview she was about to shoot with Farazad’s wife. Then tomorrow she'd chase down Mitsuhama Seattle management for a reaction. She’d probably get a “no comment” or a denial, but if she barged into the corporate offices during a live feed, the story would wrap with a bang.

  If only Masaki had arrived at the alley a few seconds earlier, he might have gotten a shot of the mage’s death. Now that would have been some take, to hear the kid describe it. In hindsight, it was a wonder Masaki had set foot outside at night to meet with the mage in the first place. Maybe there was some reporter left in him yet.

  If so, it certainly didn’t show in his interview with the young Farazad. Restoring the video and watching the unedited footage, Carla was amazed at all the loose ends Masaki didn’t pick up on. If it had been her doing the interview, she’d have quizzed the shop owner about the bricks, which had a distinctively modem-looking glaze. And there, when Farazad called himself a “parsee,” she’d have asked what that was. It was probably some obscure Indian caste, but Carla wouldn’t have just let it slide the way Masaki did.

  She focused on the icon that switched off the playback imager, then pulled her Encyclopedia Cybemetica data-pad from her purse. Pressing the icon for a dictionary format keyword search, she spoke the word “parsee” into the unit. A second or two later, text scrolled across its microscreen.

  Parsis. Literal translation: “People of Persia.” A name given to Zoroastrians who emigrated to India in the 7th century AD.

  Carla looked out the window. They had nearly reached the Samji home. She tried again, this time keying the unit for full encyclopedia mode.

  “Zoroastrian.”

  Zoroastrian. A follower of Zoroastrianism, a monotheistic religion founded approximately four to nine thousand years ago by the Persian philosopher Zarathustra. Traditionally, both lay membership and membership in its priesthood were hereditary; the religion did not accept outside worshipers, nor did it admit children whose parents were not both members of the faith. In 2047, the religion had fewer than 20,000 practitioners most of them in the Indian city of Bombay.

  The scroll of words paused for a moment as the screen showed a graphic of a flame, burning in a silver chalice. It slowly dissolved into another graphic: a human figure with outstretched wings, which the encyclopedia identified as a farohar, or angel.

  With the increase in inter-faith marriages, it was thought that the Zoroastrian faith would die out in another generation or two. But in 2048, the religion opened its doors to outsiders and the first conversions were sanctified. Today, the membership is slowly increasing, but it remains to be seen if this relatively obscure faith will survive into the next century.

  The Zoroastrian god, Ahura Mazda, is worshiped in a temple that contains an eternal flame that repre-

  Carla shut off the encyclopedia as the taxi came to a stop outside a brick wall fronted by a heavy, wrought-iron gate. The wall completely encircled a number of ultramodern condominium units designed to look like terraced pueblos of adobe brick. The dun-colored condos looked strangely out of place against the gray Seattle sky.

  A security guard in a neat beige uniform leaned over and tapped on the window next to Carla. She powered it down and handed the woman her press card. “I have an appointment to do an interview with Mrs. Samji, in unit number five.”

  The guard slid the card through a hand-held scanner, then stepped inside her booth. She would be calling Mrs. Samji, confirming the appointment. Carla waited, hoping that Frances had done her job. If all went well the guard’s call would be subtly re-routed to the station’s telecom unit, where a sampled image of Mrs. Samji-copied from the telecom call she’d just answered, and hastily remixed-would give permission for Carla to be admitted. It was a classic reporter’s trick, highly effective, albeit illegal. And it worked. The guard stepped out of the booth, handed Carla her press card, and waved the taxi inside the wall.

  As the taxi pulled up in front of the Samji residence, Carla inserted her KKRU expense-account credstick into a scanner and keyed in a tip. Payment accepted, the driver unlocked the doors. Carla asked him to pull into a nearby visitor parking stall and wait for her. If the Mitsuhama goons showed up, she wanted a safe haven close at hand. She realized that the interview with Mrs. Samji might take some time. But with the overtime Carla was putting into this story, the station could bloody well pay to keep the meter running.

  Carla stepped out of the taxi, smoothed her skirt, and climbed the three steps to the front door. A message board in the door scrolled a greeting and warning in one: “Welcome to the Samji residence. These premises protected by a watcher spirit.”

  Despite the rustic Western took of the condo the door was solid enough, made of heavy wood that had been carved with ornate designs. Carla suspected that these were magical wards capable of blocking unwanted astral intruders. There was no maglock; just a thumbprint scanner, set into the middle of the door. It would be an easy security system to fool, but the high walls and guarded gate of the complex provided most of the protection. For visitors, there was a com unit set into the faux adobe brickwork beside the door.

  As Carla touched the pad, a woman’s voice issued from a hidden speaker. “Who is calling, please?” The screen inside the unit remained blank.

 
The response had been too swift to be anything other than an automated answering program. But Carla activated the camera in her cybereye and made sure her audio pickup was working, just in case Mrs. Samji activated the com screen. As soon as Carla identified herself as a reporter, anything she recorded was fair game, and could be aired on the news.

  “It’s Carla Harris of KKRU Trideo News,” she answered.

  “I have no wish to talk to reporters.” This time, the voice sounded live.

  “It will only take a moment or two, Mrs. Samji.”

  “I have answered enough questions already,” the voice continued. “Of course I recognized my husband’s body, even though it was badly burned. I had to identify him for the officers, it was a terrible experience. I wish… Please leave me alone. You reporters ask such horrible questions.” The woman sounded close to tears.

  Carla frowned. Had Mrs. Samji already spoken to other reporters? As far as Carla knew, the other news-nets hadn’t bothered to pursue the item. They were playing it as a straightforward crime story in a city where muggers used magic as often as they used muscle. As far as they were concerned, Farazad Samji was just another wealthy corporate exec who had wound upon the wrong end of an unusual form of fireball in a violent robbery attempt. Hardly a lead story, considering the nightly body count. But maybe someone was having a slow news day, and had decided to try for a reaction piece from the family. Worse luck, they’d slotted Mrs. Samji off. She wasn’t likely to want to talk to anyone now. But if Carla could just get her to open the door, maybe she could fire off a question or two and get a reaction shot before the door was slammed in her face.

  “I’m not here to ask ghoulish questions, Mrs. Samji,” Carla said quickly. Searching for inspiration, she remembered the information she’d gleaned from the encyclopedia. “1 work the religion beat. I understand that Mr. Samji was an important member of his temple. I want to do a profile on him… a simple obituary. I think the story could help to increase awareness of the Zoroastrian faith. I’m sure your husband would have liked to see an increase in membership in the temple, and this story just might-”

  The screen beside the com pad flickered to life, framing Ravinder Samji’s head and shoulders. Carla quickly focused her cybereye on the image.

  Mrs. Samji proved to be a small woman with long black hair that was twisted up into a bun at the back of her neck. She wore a mauve jumpsuit that looked as if it were made out of raw silk, and gold earrings that glittered against her dark skin. Her eyes were bloodshot and puffy, as if she’d been crying. There were dark circles under them that she hadn’t bothered to hide with makeup. Although she met Carla’s gaze, she kept glancing down.

  “Farazad would have liked a story on the temple,” Mrs. Samji said softly. She gnawed at her lip with white teeth. “I do not have to talk about my husbands death?”

  “Not if you don’t want to,” Carla answered. She kept her fingers crossed, hoping the corn unit didn’t have a lie detection spell built into it. At the home of a mage, anything was possible.

  Mrs. Samji looked down at something off-screen again, hesitated, then nodded. “Very well.”

  Locks clicked and the door swung open.

  Mrs. Samji stood just inside the door. Carla glanced down to see what she had been looking at. It turned out to be a hazy, doglike shape-a magical spirit of some sort. As the creature trotted out from behind the door, Carla could see that it had only partially manifested on the physical plane. It had a translucent, ghostly body about the size of a terrier, with a head like a Chinese lion.

  “This must be the watcher that your message board warned me about,” Carla said. “Is it one of your husband’s magical creations?”

  “A watcher?” Mrs. Samji shifted uneasily. “Yes, I suppose it is. But it’s one of Miyuki’s creatures, not Farazad’s. She left it here for me yesterday, as… protection for the children and myself. She said that people might try to take advantage of a woman whose husband had recently died. It’s much more powerful than our usual-”

  “That was kind of Miyuki,” Carla said, smiling. “She must be a good friend.”

  A peculiar look crossed Mrs. Samji’s face. “Yes. A good friend. Of my husband.” The comment seemed to be directed as much at the lion-headed dog as it was at Carla.

  Carla filed that away for future use. Clearly Mrs. Samji didn’t like this Miyuki-whoever she was. Yet she’d accepted a magical creature from her that made her nervous. Interesting.

  “May I come in?” Carla asked. She braced a foot against the floor, in case Mrs. Samji changed her mind about the interview and tried to shut it suddenly.

  “I suppose that would be possible,” Mrs. Samji answered, glancing down again at the creature.

  The lion-headed dog backed up, but kept Carla under its scrutiny. She thought she could see tiny drops of mist dripping from its bared fangs, but that might have just been her imagination. The creature, despite its small size, projected a palpable aura of menace.

  Mrs. Samji ushered Carla into a living room furnished with two overstuffed leather couches and an expensive-looking trideo home entertainment unit that took up most of one corner. Children’s toys were neatly lined up like soldiers on parade at one edge of the room. From the plush feel of the carpet, Carla suspected that it was real wool. The lion-headed dog followed them into the room, its feet leaving faint gray smudges on the white carpet. As Mrs. Samji settled onto one of the couches, it sat by her ankle. She glanced uneasily at it before beginning to talk. Carla thought she saw the creature’s head move slightly, a bobbing motion something like a nod.

  “Where is your camera?” Mrs. Samji asked.

  Carla settled into the opposite couch. “I don’t need one,” she said. “This is an informal interview-more like a chat.” While she spoke, she adjusted the zoom in her eyecam for a tight shot of Mrs. Samji’s hands. The woman was twisting the rings on her fingers; the shot could be edited into Carla’s story as evidence of a widow’s grief. Noticing that a vase was slightly blocking the shot. Carla reached across the table between the two couches to shift it slightly. As soon as she sat back, Mrs. Samji leaned forward to slide the vase back into its original position. It was an instinctive action, the habitual act of someone who liked everything in its proper place. Exactly in place.

  “You wanted to know about my husband’s work with the temple?” Mrs. Samji asked.

  “The temple, yes” Carla answered. “Please tell me about it.” Having bluffed her way in here, she decided to let Mrs. Samji talk and see what came up. She would work in questions about Mitsuhama as the opportunity arose.

  Zooming out again to capture a full-length shot of Mrs. Samji as she started to speak, Carla spotted a holo image of Farazad on a side table. She shifted along the couch until it appeared in her field of view, just over Mrs. Samji’s shoulder. The holo of the mage, holding what Carla presumed was one of his infant children in his arms, would make a nice graphic element.

  “Farazad often spoke at the mabad-at the temple,” Mrs. Samji began. “His father was a mubad-a priest-and his grandfather before him. My husband could have claimed the title as well, but instead he chose to study magic. He regarded his studies as a religious practice, as a way of becoming closer to his god. He often spoke of this at the temple, and encouraged others to follow the hermetic tradition. He said that magic was a manifestation of the divine spark that exists within all-”

  “Let me make sure I have your husband’s history correct,” Carla interrupted. “Instead of becoming a priest, Mr. Samji worked as a mage. For which company?”

  “Mitsuhama Computer Technologies,” Mrs. Samji answered, after a brief glance at the creature at her feet.

  “He was employed there at the time of his death?” Carla asked.

  Mrs. Samji’s lips whitened slightly as she pressed them together. “Yes.”

  “Working in their magical research and development lab?”

  The pause lasted longer this time, “Yes.”

  “What sort of
work did he do for them?”

  “What does it matter?” Mrs. Samji replied. “Farazad was planning on taking a leave of absence from Musuhama, and devoting himself to the temple.”

  “But if you could just tell me a little more about his work with Mitsu-”

  “I thought you wanted to talk about the temple,” Mrs. Samji said, frowning.

  “Of course,” Carla answered smoothly. “This is just background material-the usual sort of questions a reporter asks when doing an obit piece. Name, occupation, age, names of surviving family members, number of years spent with the corporation, the type of work he did for Mitsuhama, whether he was working on anything especially important when he died…”

  “1 thought you were a religious reporter.” A hint of hostility had crept into Mrs. Samji’s voice.

  “I am,” Carla said, backpedaling quickly. “I find Zoroastrianism one of the most interesting of the world’s religions. I’d like to hear more about its history. and its founder, Zarathustra. Perhaps you could start by telling me more about him. And about the significance of the eternal flame that bums in your temple.”

  She seemed to have allayed Mrs. Samji’s suspicions. at least for the moment. The woman picked up a framed flatscreen portrait of Zarathustra from the table beside her and held it out for Carla to look at. It showed a young man with a full brown beard and flowing hair, wearing a white robe and hat. His eyes looked earnestly up-to heaven, Carla supposed. Mrs. Sarnji began talking about the life of the prophet, explaining how he had aided the poor and extolled the virtues of morality and justice. Carla bided her time, waiting for another lead that would allow her to ask about Mitsuliama. In the meantime, she focused her cybereye on a point just over the woman’s shoulder. A door in the wall behind her was partially open. Using her low-light boosters and image enhancers, Carla could see that it led to a study. A desk just inside it held a typical business work station. Everything in the room was neat and orderly, from the two pairs of men’s slippers lined up with perpendicular precision against the wall to the precisely aligned row of family portraits on the shelf above the desk. The only exception to this rigid neatness was the work-station itself. An interface cable lay in an untidy heap on the floor, and empty plastic memory chip cases had spilled onto the chair. A cyberdeck lay wrong-side-up on the desk, its circuitry exposed. It looked as though the decks central processing unit had recently been removed.