Tails You Lose

by Lisa Smedman

  What if it was true? What if the REM inducer was malfunctioning, causing Alma to act out dreams in which she played her polar opposite: a shadowrunner, instead of a security guard? Like dreams that fade with wakefulness, all knowledge of what she'd done while she was "sleepwalking" would have disappeared from her conscious memory—just as the memory of last night had.

  No, she told herself. According to Hothead, Night Owl had been running the Vancouver shadows for at least three months. If Alma had been active as Night Owl for all that time, surely there would have been some evidence of her nocturnal excursions. It wasn't possible for her to have left no trace of her comings and goings.

  But she had left traces: the first had been the "break-in" to Alma's apartment last November. It had happened exactly three months ago, around the time that Night Owl had first shown up in Vancouver. Then there were a handful of occasions when Alma had had the sense that something in her apartment was just slightly out of place. That had to have been Night Owl, touching and moving things as she crept around Alma's apartment.

  No, she told herself. It had to be Abby who had broken into the apartment.

  But what if it wasn't? What if it was true that this alter ego had been part of Alma since long before the shadowrunner "Night Owl" had appeared? Age eight was when the Superkids program had been shut down, and Poppy had killed himself. What if Akiko had been right: that it was Alma, and not Abby, who had found Poppy after his suicide? Perhaps Alma had tried to block the pain of his death by telling the police that her name was Abby, and over the intervening years had convinced herself that it really was Abby who saw the severed head.

  No, she told herself—it was Abby who found the body. Alma would have remembered something like that.

  Then she thought back to the vivid images that had filled her mind as Hothead was describing what "Abby" had seen. The hollow feeling in her stomach grew as she realized that maybe, on some deeper level, she did remember.

  One final question remained. If the REM inducer really had caused Alma to act out her darkest urges in bouts of sleepwalking, why hadn't Gray Squirrel noticed that something was wrong? Surely a glitch of that magnitude would have rung an alarm somewhere.

  Alma noticed that her left hand was still shaking. Staring at it, she realized the truth. A warning bell had sounded—eleven days ago. The doctor at Executive Body Enhancements had been right: the tremors that had plagued Alma for the past week and a half weren't the result of TLE. They were caused by the REM inducer. Alma had told Gray Squirrel that her left hand had started mysteriously shaking, and he had agreed to run some tests. He'd been on the verge of discovering the glitch when Night Owl had killed him.

  No—when Alma had killed him.

  She heard a cracking noise and realized that she was gripping the holopic so tightly that she had fractured it. A thin line of static crackled across the image, cutting the pyramid of children—and Alma—in half.

  Alma looked up from the holopic. "What did she—did I—mean: 'reconsider my decision'?"

  "You were referring to your appointment, later today, at the Executive Body Enhancements clinic. When the REM inducer is removed, Night Owl will disappear, perhaps forever. She asked me to let you know that she never meant to hurt you—she was protecting you, although you didn't realize it. Gray Squirrel was a monster, and the experiments PCI was conducting were morally wrong. You—she—said she's sorry that she hurt you—that she tried several times to tell you what was happening, but you wouldn't listen. You wouldn't let her wake up."

  "But I never . . . I wasn't going to . . ." The trembling in Alma's left hand grew stronger. The hand fluttered against the bedsheets as if trying to signal her attention. Alma was suddenly very tired and had to fight to stifle a yawn. Then she realized what was happening: Night Owl was trying to wake up.

  With a mental effort that made sweat bead on her temples, she forced her hand to lie still. The exhaustion and craving for sleep instantly disappeared.

  So it was true—it was all true. She was Night Owl. She nearly laughed at the irony. She'd finally learned who the killer was, and as a result she could never go back to Pacific Cybernetics. Her career as a security expert was over; everything she had built in her life had come crashing down. The flip side of her personality—the darker, brooding side—was a killer and an outlaw. Even though it wasn't really "Alma" who had committed the crimes, it was Alma who would pay for them. She would be an outcast, untrusted and unwelcome in the corporate world. The only community that would ever consider embracing her was one filled with murderers and thieves: the shadowrunners.

  Then she realized that none of that mattered—the scenarios she'd just run through in her mind assumed that she still had a future. Activating the countdown mechanism in her cybereye, she saw that there were only five hours, thirteen minutes and thirty-eight seconds remaining until the bomb in her head exploded. Now that she could never prove her innocence to PCI, there was no escape. She couldn't have the REM inducer removed—not by a PCI technician—and that meant one of two things: brain damage, or death.

  Her hopes rose briefly as she considered one possible course of action. She would go to Mr. Lali and explain to him that, yes, she was the one who had extracted Gray Squirrel, but that it was the REM inducer that had hived off the Night Owl personality—that his death was really PCI's fault. But that hope ebbed when she realized that Night Owl wasn't a separate entity—she was part of Alma. An alter ego, a part of herself that she had deliberately suppressed, but still very much a part of herself. She was guilty.

  Even if Mr. Lali was willing to overlook that, Alma wasn't certain that she could trust PCI, now that she knew what Gray Squirrel had been involved in. The corporation had given its blessing to the callous murders of the alpha-test subjects and was more than willing to sacrifice Alma herself—the cranial bomb was proof of that. She'd trusted PCI and looked up to Mr. Lali as a father. Now she realized that she was no daughter to him. She'd been an employee, and then a test subject, and then a security risk to be eliminated—no more than that.

  Weeping tears of frustration, she hurled the Superkids holopic across the room. "You said I came here 'asking for sanctuary.' From what?"

  "The three dragons who were chasing you," Kageyama answered. "You managed to anger Mang, Li and Chiao to the point where all three wanted to kill you." Alma's laugh was bitter. What did that matter now? "Don't worry," Kageyama quickly added. His eyes twinkled with mischievous delight. "You also faked your own death—apparently in a very convincing manner. All three dragons think you died in a plunge from the Lion's Gate Bridge."

  Alma's mouth dropped open, and for the first time since she'd awakened, she was consciously aware of the ache in her face, hands and shoulders. It felt as though she had been slapped across every centimeter of her body by something as hard as cement. Her eye fell on the wet clothes and the drysuit that lay over them. Something like the ice-cold waters of Burrard Inlet, for example.

  "Why would the dragons want to kill me?" she asked, curiosity sparking her out of her apathy. "The only one I could have angered was Mang, when I aborted your extraction."

  "You're forgetting Night Owl," Kageyama gently reminded her. "She also made enemies."

  "I see." That explained at least one of the cellphone messages—the one in which Night Owl had been trying to warn Alma about the Red Lotus and a man with strange white eyes.

  Kageyama sighed. "I still don't understand why the dragons think I have one of the Coins of Luck. I've heard of them, of course—three of the coins were listed in Dunkelzahn's will. The dragons obviously think that Dunkelzahn left me the fourth Coin of Luck, together with this condoplex, but they are wrong. The Fu Coin wasn't in the statue that you stole, and it isn't in this building."

  Kageyama was going too fast for Alma. He was obviously talking about things that Night Owl had done; she didn't remember stealing a statue. "What's the Fu Coin?" she asked.

  "It conveys great happiness to the person who owns it—happi
ness brought about by good fortune. You insisted that I must have it—that it lies hidden inside a jade statue marked with the character fu, somewhere inside this condoplex. But it just isn't here. I have no such statue."

  Alma stared at Kageyama, not really listening. The realization that she and Night Owl were one and the same—and the gaping hole that the bomb was about to tear in her future—was just too overwhelming for her to concentrate on anything else. She found herself irritated by Kageyama's bemused smile and jealous of the fact that nothing ever seemed to faze him. He sailed through life, serene and happy, oblivious to the fact that the life of the person he was talking to hung in bloody tatters. She supposed he ought to be happy—just look at the wealth that surrounded him. It was all around him, from the multimillion-nuyen condoplex he'd inherited to the expensive gold chain and blue stone that hung around his neck . . .

  Alma's racing thoughts came to a sudden halt as she stared at the pi. That wasn't just any stone. A pi was always carved from the same stone, one that came in a rainbow of colors, from white to yellow to red to lavender to blue, the most expensive coloration of all. And, of course, green.

  That stone was jade.

  "Akira " Alma interrupted. Strange, that the first name felt familiar on her lips. Angrily, she pushed that thought aside. "Lean closer."

  When he did, she took the pi in her hands and peered at it. She found what she'd expected to, carved into the surface of the jade: the Chinese character fu.

  "What's wrong?" Akira asked.

  "Who gave you this?" Alma asked.

  "My mother," Kageyama answered. "It was in her possessions—I found it after she died. I wear it to honor her."

  "Take it off—please. Just for a moment. I need a closer look."

  Kageyama hesitated, and then reached behind his neck, undid the clasp on the gold chain, and handed the jade to Alma. She activated the magnification system in her cybereye and peered at the stone closely. Once again, she found what she suspected she would: a hair-thin line, invisible to the unaugmented eye. Before Kageyama could ask what she was doing, she removed the chain, pressed the jade between her two palms, and twisted. It turned like a jar lid. When she opened her hands, the jade had separated into two halves, revealing a glittering bronze coin with a square hole at its center.

  As she held the coin up for Kageyama to see, her smile broadened into a grin. She felt a rush of pure joy so strong that it was disorienting, and her mind flashed back to one of the happiest moments of her life: the day she'd beaten all of the other Superkids on an extremely challenging test and had been rewarded with a trip to the virtual zoo. All of the anxiety that had been growing like an icy finger inside Alma over the past few days melted away, and her vision blurred with unshed tears of joy. Only with difficulty could she focus on the here and now.

  "You do have the Fu Coin," she said, forcing the words out in a joyful sigh. "You've had it around your neck since your mother died. It must feel . . . wonderful."

  Kageyama's lips drooped as he stared at the coin. For the first time since she'd met him, he looked pensive, even sad. "I wonder," he whispered to himself. "Did Dunkelzahn know all along?"

  He held out a hand. Reluctantly—not wanting to let go of the wash of happiness that was filling her—Alma let him tug it out of her fingers. Instantly, the lump of apprehension that had been pressing against her stomach earlier returned.

  Kageyama placed the coin back inside the hollow halves of jade. He screwed them back together and then threaded the gold chain through the hole at the center. By the time he fastened the pi in place around his neck again, his smile had returned.

  "Thank you, Night . . . er, Alma," he said. "You've provided an answer to a question that has been puzzling me for some time. You've forewarned me—and knowledge is power. Now that I know what Mang, Li and Chiao are after, I can take steps to protect it." He stared at her a moment, eyes glittering. "My offer still stands. How would you like to be employed as my bodyguard?"

  "That's a foolish proposal," Alma snapped. The brief taste of the happiness the Fu Coin could bring had left her irritable and depressed, now that she was no longer holding it. "I can be trusted—but it's not just me . . . in here." Alma tapped a finger to her head. "Night Owl tried to steal the coin from you, once before. What's to stop her from trying again, once I go to sleep and she wakes up?"

  "That would be . . . amusing," Kageyama said. "But think of this: even if Night Owl does steal the coin, who would she sell it to? She has gone to great lengths to convince the three dragons that you're dead. The last thing you—she—wants to do is tip them off to the fact that you're still alive. And besides, I enjoy Night Owl. She is one of the few shadowrunners I have engaged who acts out of altruism. I feel it is only correct to treat her with the same compassion that she takes so much care to hide—but that shines through despite her efforts to conceal it."

  Alma nodded, not really listening. Night Owl was a wild card inside her head. Whenever she was turned face-up, anything could happen. Fortunately, she too would be gone in—she activated the countdown function of her cybereye—four hours, fifty-three minutes and thirteen seconds.

  "I can offer you a very generous salary," Kageyama continued. "It will include cosmetic surgery to alter your appearance, if you wish." He glanced briefly down at his fingers. "Dr. Silverman is very . . . discreet. She could do the surgery today—in fact, you told me earlier that you already have an appointment booked with her this afternoon."

  He reached out and tipped Alma's head up. "Think about my offer, won't you?"

  Alma didn't even bother to answer. She found herself staring at her own hands. The trembling that had seized her left hand a few minutes ago had stopped, but now it felt empty. She realized suddenly that she had yet to cast the I Ching for today. She only had a few hours left—but she might as well find out what they had in store for her.

  Kageyama was standing near the door. He gave a slight bow, like a host bidding his guest good morning. "Is there anything I can get for you?" he asked.

  "Yes," she said decisively, looking up at last. "Three coins."

  Kageyama looked surprised. "Why? Are you going to flip one of them to decide whether you'll work for me?"

  Alma smiled. "In a manner of speaking, yes. I'm going to cast the I Ching."

  "So ka!" Kageyama laughed. "You do delight me, you know. Both as Alma—and as Night Owl. I think I'm going to enjoy having you around. Very much. Wait here; I will find you three coins."

  Bowing once more, he hurried from the room. While she waited, Alma activated the countdown sequence and glumly watched the numbers blink down. She shook her head slowly at the irony. Just like Akiko, she knew the time of her death and could count the seconds until it arrived. All she could do was sit and wait . . .

  No. There had to be a way to deactivate the bomb. Carefully, she thought back over everything that Hu had told her about it. He'd said it would activate if all brain function ceased—if she died. No solution there.

  The bomb would also activate if anyone other than a PCI technician tried to surgically remove the REM inducer. Which meant that the tech had to enter a code of some sort.

  No—not the technician. As Alma thought about it, she realized that there was just one way to enter that code: input via a mental command. It was the same mechanism that Gray Squirrel had used as an activator for the REM inducer and that Mr. Lali had used to activate the bomb's countdown.

  All Alma had to do to save her life was think of the right code.

  Gray Squirrel had used a descending sequence of prime numbers as the trigger for the REM inducer and a descending sequence of squared numbers to start the bomb ticking. A similar sequence of numbers had to be the key to "defusing" the bomb.

  Alma ran through every combination she could think of. She counted down by cubed numbers, by ever-diminishing fractions, in binary code, by units of measurement, and by right-angle degrees, from 360 to 270 to 180 to 90 to zero. When none of them worked, she tried each of th
e sequences in ascending order. Still nothing. The countdown just kept ticking.

  Consulting her retinal clock, Alma saw that it was 7:30 a.m. precisely. As of this moment, she had exactly four hours and thirty minutes left to live.

  She switched back to countdown mode to confirm this—and her breath caught in her throat. According to the countdown that was slaved to the bomb, she had four hours and thirty-one minutes to live. Somehow, she'd gained an extra minute—and she had no idea how. One of the sequences of numbers had almost worked. Which made no sense. Why would the countdown pause and then start up again?

  She ran through all of the number sequences she had just tried and even ran through the series of numbers that had triggered the bomb, visualizing a different date at the end of it—one far in the future—but the countdown continued, just as it had before. Alma suddenly realized that the one-minute reprieve might not have been the result of anything she had done. It might have been Night Owl who . . .

  Just at that moment, Kageyama returned. He placed three coins on the table beside the bed. They were Taiwanese commemoratives from the year 2000—probably part of a specially minted collector's set.

  Without speaking, Kageyama bowed and walked to the door. He paused with one hand on the doorknob to glance back at Alma, his face set in a pensive expression, but she hardly noticed. Yet another bout of trembling had seized her left hand: Night Owl, trying to wake up and take over her body. Fortunately, the tremor was a light one—Alma still had enough control to scoop up the coins, rattle them between cupped hands and let them fall.

  A deep sense of tranquillity descended upon Alma as the familiar motions of the I Ching soothed and steadied her. A second or two later, the tremor stopped. She cast the coins six times, shaking them briefly and letting them fall onto the table when she felt the time was right. Then she contemplated the hexagram she had just cast.