by Mel Odom
“Was NuGene generating a profit at this point?” Trey asked.
Archangel shook her head. “It was still being bankrolled by Silverstaff’s own nuyen. He never stopped believing that the Council of Princes would see the error of their ways and reinstate Portland.”
“Long time to go without a payday.” Duran rumbled.
“The corp almost went broke nineteen months ago. It had over-extended itself funding new research.” Tapping the keys Archangel shifted to a picture of Tavis Silverstaff dressed in business clothes thumbprinting a document on trid footage. “Then Silverstaff picked up a number of new investors, including some support from the Council of Princes, when he announced he was going to take a stab at the Seattle market.”
The monitor screen flared, then reconstructed itself into a new picture. Silverstaff was at center stage, looking a few years younger and trimmer. His hair was tied back in a flowing ponytail and he wore a tank top, shorts, and gloves in uniform colors. He carried a long stick curved at the end.
“Silverstaff was a member of the Portland Marchers.” Archangel said. “Part of the National Hurling Association. He was nominated MVP two of the three years he played.”
“What happened the third year?” Wheeler asked.
“He lost a knee to a deliberate maiming attempt by a Bend Journeymen player. Even after two vat jobs, it was never the same again. Silverstaff refused cyberware, maybe because he was such a natural athlete.”
The monitor screen flickered and showed a new shot of Silverstaff with his father at a corporate meeting in ’54, the year of the elder Silverstaff’s death.
“He went to work for his father at NuGene.” Archangel said. “Silverstaff is still a very popular figure in the Tir because of his career in sports. But he’d also been groomed by his father for business. He has a natural proclivity for PR. And, as you can see from recent trid footage of him, for wheeling and dealing.”
“Part of the package Silverstaff is pitching to the UCC is his support for maintaining Seattle as Tir Taimgire’s main port.” Elvis put in. “Sounds like a conflict of interest.”
“Tavis Silverstaff’s a lot different from his father. Torin was strictly a first-generation elf, supporting the segregation of the races that Walter Bright Water argued for when trying to convince NAN to grant land to form the Tir nation. Tavis believes that the elves of Tir Taimgire need more interface with the human culture, as well as other nations. Especially in business. One thing he does have in common with his father is that he continues to promise that NuGene is developing a revolutionary, new product.”
“With fifty-seven percent of the corp in his pocket,” Wheeler said, “Silverstaff would be doing pretty slotting good if NuGene suddenly started turning a profit.”
More footage spooled across the screen, detailing other shots and other business of NuGene, including some of the recent footage Skater’d already seen.
“With Silverstaff in Seattle, who’s minding the store at NuGene?” Skater asked.
“Regis Blackoak.” Archangel stopped the montage of pictures. A heavily jowled man easily twenty years older than Silverstaff flipped onto the monitor. “He worked for the elder Silverstaff in an advisory capacity. His politics have changed so much that Torin Silverstaff is probably rolling over in his grave.” Archangel restarted the flow of images.
“Hold on.” Skater suddenly gestured at the screen as Archangel froze the motion on a scene of Silverstaff dancing with his wife at some formal event. She was pregnant, but he had her in a low dip regardless. “Silverstaff isn’t using a cane. Where is it? I’ve never seen him on the trid without his cane.”
“Skater’s right.” Elvis said. “Ain’t nothing bum about that elf’s leg.”
“Didn’t you say NuGene’s been working on repair of cellular damage?” Wheeler asked. “See how this scans—NuGene finds a way to do that, right? The CEO is living proof that it works. What do you do with this tech? Sell it to DocWagon? Set up a new DocWagon? Or set up a situation where you compete with DocWagon for biz? A crisis situation, say, where you know you’ll come out on top.”
“Like what type of crisis?” Archangel asked.
“Like infect people with a degenerative disease, some tissue-destroying virus, like something we got on this chip here, then sell the antidote—for a price.”
“Good for a short-term infusion of nuyen.” Elvis said. “Would Silverstaff have been that desperate?”
“No way.” Archangel said. “With the backing the corp is getting from the Council of Princes and other wealthy investors. NuGene’s solvent for at least another three years. Besides, it doesn’t fit. If NuGene has a great new product, why go to all that trouble? Just put it on the market. There’s no shortage of cell-damaged vat cases. Another DocWagon, though. I don’t think the yaks or the Mafia would be thrilled about that.” She looked at the screen. “Besides, pics can be deceiving.”
Archangel wrinkled her brow as she hit another key. “I also downloaded some information from a black website on business affairs in Seattle. According to it, Silverstaff might be asked to join the United Corporation Council.”
Skater looked at her. “That’s impossible. No one not connected to Seattle has ever been invited to the UCC.” The United Corporation Council was a formal association of the sprawl’s major corporations. Behind the scenes, they manipulated more than stock prices and buy-outs. They also had considerable pull with the local politics as well as considerable sway in UCAS interests.
“The UCC must figure NuGene is going to be a success.” Skater said.
“So what was on the freighter?” Duran asked.
The montage of trid shots started across the screen again.
“It might have been start-up data for the NuGene branch they’re setting up here in Seattle.” Archangel said.
“What are they going to try to sell?”
“R&D, just like in Portland. Other than that, I can’t say.” An image flickered across the screen and registered in Skater’s memory banks. “Hold it.”
Archangel pressed a button and the montage stopped. “Go back a few frames.”
Slowly, the footage started backward.
“There.” Skater said, when he saw the figure that had caught his attention. The face on the screen was unmistakably like that of the elf who’d broken him out of Lone Star. “Who’s that?”
Archangel opened a window, then read from the file. “Ellard Dragonfletcher. He’s NuGene’s top security man.”
“For how long?” Skater asked.
“Seven years. He rose to that post under Torin Silverstaff. There’s not much else on him.”
“Do some snooping.” Skater said. Then he explained why. He glanced at the clock. “Almost midnight, chummers. I don’t want to keep McKenzie simmering too long. Do we take the deal, or do we leave it?”
20
“There are a couple ways to work this piece of biz.” Cullen Trey said.
Skater turned to him, listening closely. Trey was one of the most powerful mages he’d ever met. Where most would have run out of juice by now, exhausted by the drain on their powers, he was still able to reach in for a little more. His training was formal, but Skater didn’t know where he’d gotten it. And Trey wasn’t telling. But he was no slouch in the thinking department either. “Jink it out and let’s scan it.”
Trey turned up a palm and small lightnings flickered there. Smoke rose from his flesh and wove itself into a circling falcon about the size of his thumb, the wings long and sharp. More smoke rolled out, creating the shadowy impression of a forestscape. Amid the pseudo-trees and bushes, a rabbit hopped along at a sedate pace, unaware of the hunter.
"We could simply walk away from McKenzie and let NuGene think we have their biotech files.” Trey said. In the smoky jazz coming up from his palm, the falcon ceased flying aimlessly and began tracking the rabbit and losing altitude. “In which case McKenzie might make good on his threat to work for the elves and come after us.”
‘He’ll do it anyway.” Duran said with conviction. “Even if there was no financial gain in the picture. Joker’s got his rep on the com-line now.”
"As I, too, believe.” Trey agreed. “Conrad McKenzie isn't a man to be trifled with, and he’s gone to great lengths to prove it. Another option would be to go directly to the elves and sell them back the copies of the incomplete files and tell them we weren’t able to get everything.”
Wheeler growled his displeasure. “Then why pay us for the incomplete files? At best we’re getting the elves off our necks and flushing any chance of seeing any nuyen from this fiasco right down the drekker. Besides, since when are elves known for their forgiving natures? Admitting that we haven’t got what they want would be giving up our last defense. Kind of like declaring open season—on ourselves.”
“Not if they think we’re trying to hide what we really have.” Trey said. The falcon closed the distance between itself and the rabbit, matching trajectories and readying itself for the kill.
“NuGene may try to whack us to keep anyone else from getting the bioresearch.” Duran pointed out.
“Not,” Trey said, “if they believe we’ve got backup copies ready to be released to all comers in the event of our untimely demise.” As the falcon closed on its prey, the rabbit turned and launched itself at the would-be predator, changing into a bobcat and revealing itself as a shapeshifter in disguise.
“It could work.” Archangel said. “At this juncture, we’re running out of options.”
“Agreed.” Skater stood and worked the kinks out of his knees as Trey’s smoke illusion vanished. “Remaining in hiding might buy us a few more days, but I think we’ve learned as much as we can by keeping out of the eye of the storm. NuGene has shadow biz working and someone sold them out. If we lay down and play dead hoping they’ll go away, they’ve got a better chance of hiding it again. By confronting NuGene through McKenzie, we can keep the pot stirred up. Hopefully, something useful will float to the top during the confusion. Without us getting geeked.”
“Sounds like a plan to me.” Duran said.
Skater shrugged. “It’s an opening gambit. If it’s true the Sapphire Seahawk was a Trojan horse as we suspect, the elves know we’re not holding anything. If we try to sell it back, they may have to buy it just to keep their cover intact even though they know our files are corrupted beyond use.”
“Which would spell profit for us.” Wheeler rubbed his hands together and grinned. “That, I like.”
“One of the real questions about the situation hasn’t been answered.” Skater said. “How does NuGene know we haven’t already sold the files to a Mr. Johnson?”
“They whacked Maddock.” Elvis said. “Could be they found out from him that Larisa gave you the buzz on the Seahawk and that we worked the run as independents.”
“Who gave them Maddock?” Skater asked.
“Better yet, who gave Maddock the elves?” Trey added. “If NuGene found the leak in their own ranks,” Archangel said, “they could have learned about Larisa, and through her, learned of Maddock.”
“Another possibility,” Elvis said, “is that NuGene’s topdogs didn’t tell their sec-teams about the Trojan horse and that they’d intentionally leaked the information. If the sec-teams were sold out and figure it out, there’s going to be lawsuits galore, and maybe the more personal kilo of flesh demanded as well.”
Skater nodded. “It scans.” But he still wanted to know for sure. If the elves were so ready to kill over hijacked files they knew were corrupt—or even if they didn’t know—it meant that a lot of nuyen was at risk and NuGene was still vulnerable somewhere. “However else we read this, we were set up. I want to know by who and I want to know why. First up, though, is Conrad McKenzie, and here’s how I plan on dealing with that.”
* * *
Skater bribed his way into a table on the lower level of the Gray Line, one of Seattle’s most elegant eateries as well as claiming the distinction of actually sitting right in Puget Sound rather than alongside it. At high tide the waters of the Sound rose up enough to touch the transparent walls of the lower dining area.
With a sharp snap of his fingers, the maitre d’ directed an impeccably dressed hostess to take Skater and Duran to a large table. She led the way down the red carpeted stairs and through a foyer lined with paintings depicting the history of Puget Sound during the past four hundred years. All of the art centered on sailing vessels, from Indian canoes to American trading clippers to twentieth-century fishing boats to the latest Harland & Wolff “Classique” motor yacht, and were rendered in a variety of mediums.
Skater and Duran were dressed to fit in with the posh crowd, both wearing custom-made Vashon Island suits just as carefully tailored to hide the weapons they carried. The Gray Line sec-teams had no objection to patrons being armed with guns, only against someone trying to use them inside the restaurant.
The hostess led them through the islands of tables. Floating candles in the shape of flowers burned a delicate incense that sharpened the palate, and the soft glows were reflected against the floor-to-ceiling wall of glass that fronted Puget Sound. Underwater lights and beacons attracted the native marine life. Seals and otters, their biological clocks formed more from the feeding times and the lights put out by the restaurant than anything nature had intended, frolicked within view of the diners. The lights changed the water to shimmering greens and lit up fluorescent-bearing fish in glowing obelisks.
“Would you like to see a menu?” the hostess asked. “I’m afraid this late at night we don’t serve our full line, but the sandwiches are quite good.”
“Thanks, but I think we’ll just be having drinks.” Skater passed the menus back, then ordered a shot and a beer for Duran and mineral water for himself.
Duran leaned back casually against the plush cushions of the three-quarter booth surrounding the table as the waitress left. “We’re not alone.”
“I count five.” Skater said, staring at the wall of glass keeping the Sound out.
“You missed two.” the ork said. “Did you pick up the women?”
A cocktail waitress arrived with the drinks and set them down on imprinted napkins. In the sea scene, a sea turtle pursued a purple squid that Skater guessed the restaurant management had ordered infoetically altered for enhanced viewing ease, planing through the water like an undersea fighter plane and gaining by centimeters.
“One of them.” Skater answered when the waitress left. “Hot number in pink flirting with the suit at the corner bar.”
“The other woman’s holding hands with the slag guarding the entrance. He’s gotta be a shaman.”
Skater checked the reflection in the wall of glass and noted the two people the ork had picked out. “You’re right. I missed them both.”
On the other side of the glass wall, the sea turtle clamped its sharp jaws on two of the purple glowing squid’s tentacles. Although the infoe-coded coloring was interesting to watch, Skater figured it pretty much sealed the squid’s doom, leaving it no way to hide. He wondered how many of the creatures the restaurant’s owners had to import each week to keep the sport up.
He accessed the Commlink IV. “Wheeler, where the slot are you?” he subvocalized.
“Two minutes, chummer.” the dwarf responded. “I’ll have everything in place.” The rigger was supposed to be setting up in a boat anchored at the dock above.
“Good enough.” Skater watched as the turtle tried to pull the squid in closer, only to have the remaining tentacles suddenly wrap around its shell. With the tangle of tentacles and the hidden strength in the squid, the turtle was in trouble as well. If the squid could hold out long enough, Skater knew it would drown the turtle.
“Gutsy little fragger.” Duran said appreciatively, then glanced over at the entrance. “McKenzie just made the party.”
Skater glanced at the approaching group, recognized McKenzie from files Archangel had accessed for him, then glanced deliberately back at the neon clock hanging above the
bar. It was two-thirteen.
Conrad McKenzie was in the lead, a solid, blocky man several centimeters taller than Skater, and weighing at least twice that many kilos more. Even at this hour of the morning, his face gleamed like he’d shaven only moments ago. His salt and pepper hair was cut long and swept back from his high forehead. His suit was obviously real silk, and he carried a long raincoat over one arm.
Ellard Dragonfletcher was at McKenzie’s left looking almost military in his own crisp, immaculate garb. At his side was a young female elf in wraparound nightshades and Zoe exec wear.
“She’s razored.” Duran warned.
“She goes.” Skater said. He stood, not wanting anyone to mistake his seated position as a sign of weakness or overconfidence because either was deadly.
“Mr. Trump,” the hostess said, “your party has arrived.”
“Thank you.” Skater said, slotting her a tip. He remained standing, squaring off against McKenzie and Dragonfletcher as they came within a few steps of him. “The woman goes.” He didn’t offer to shake hands or make any other gesture to relieve the tension of the meeting.
McKenzie locked eyes with him and Skater returned the stare.
“Mr. Dragonfletcher?” McKenzie said.
Skater never took his eyes off the Mafia man.
“Might I suggest to you,” the elf said to Skater, “that you’re in no position to be making demands at this point.”
“Sure. Suggest away. But you’re going to be doing it to my back.”
McKenzie’s half-smile was cold and calculating. “You don’t leave until I say you do.”
Skater reached inside himself and turned off the feelings, letting the adrenaline take over. He went to that place where fear didn’t exist and anger wasn’t even a memory. “I noticed the torpedoes and yabos you’ve got stationed around this place. I count seven. But you need to reconsider your own position. If I don’t think I’m getting out of here, why should I let you?”