The Lucifer Deck

by Lisa Smedman

  "Pita didn’t do it on her own." Aziz said. "She’s not a trained—"

  An electronic beeping in a corner of the room cut him off. Aziz ran over to it and picked up a cel phone. "Yes?"

  After listening for a second or two he flipped the phone shut. "That was Carla." he said with a broad smile. "The hell hound is dead. Carla’s a little shaken up, a little bloody, but she’s on her way out of the MCT building now."

  26

  Carla twisted a scanning stylus between her fingers, trying to contain her anger as she stared down Greer. The scratches from her close call with the hell hound stood out as red welts on her hands. "What do you mean, the story is spiked? I got what you wanted—proof that Mitsuhama Computer Technologies was behind the spirit. I’ve even got a hardcopy document addressed to the director of their research lab, outlining the uses the corporation planned to put this tech to. I risked my drekking life to get it and nearly got mauled by a hell hound in the process. I spent all day yesterday—my day off—putting the piece together. I have footage of a hermetic circle in the Mitsuhama lab that matches the diagram on the datachip, and I obtained a collaborating quote from a Renraku source who admits that their corporation is also experimenting with Farazad’s spell. And all you can say is, ‘The story is spiked’? I can’t believe it!"

  Greer leaned back in his padded chair, rocking uneasily back and forth. He seemed distinctly uncomfortable. Usually, when he called a reporter in for one of his infamous "private conferences" he would bluster and roar like an angry bear. The whole newsroom would hear the dressing down, regardless of whether the door was shut or not. Normally, he and Carla would have gone at it tooth and nail, shouting at each other across the desk, and eventually—maybe—Carla would win and the story would air. But today Greer refused to be provoked. Instead he picked up his mug and took a sip of soykaf that had long since gone cold.

  "You heard what I said." he said gruffly. "The story’s not going to air. Drop it."

  "That’s insane!" Carla protested. "This story is huge. Not only does it imply that magic might be used to access the Matrix, but it foretells a possible repeat of the Crash of 2029. It’s a groundbreaking story—and ironic, too. Imagine a corporation secretly developing a magical spirit that could single-handedly destroy the entire information and telecommunications industry! You can’t bury a story like that! If KKRU doesn’t run it, somebody else will."

  "No they won’t." Greer said quietly, staring at his soykaf as he swirled it gently around in its cup. Beside him, a wall-mounted monitor broadcast a super-heavyweight boxing match. The sound had been muted; the trolls on the monitor traded silent blows. Greer kept glancing at it. "Nobody’s going to—"

  Carla was too wound up to listen. She rose to her feet, pointing her scanning stylus at her producer. "If KKRU won’t run the story, I know a station that will. NABS has promised me a reporter’s slot if I can prove my worth to them. I’ll jump ship this minute—and take the Mitsuhama story with me—if you won’t air it." That made Greer look up. He set his cup down as Carla stormed toward the door, and half-stood behind his desk. "Carla. Wait!"

  Carla paused, one hand on the doorknob. "Well?" Greer moved around the desk and laid a meaty hand on her shoulder. "I agree with you, Carla. One hundred per cent. It’s an excellent story—the best you’ve ever done. And Wayne’s done a brilliant job of editing. It really has punch. But I can’t run it, much as I’d like to, because—"

  Carla didn’t wait to hear his excuse. "They got to you, didn’t they?" she whispered. She searched Greer’s eyes. "I don’t understand it, Greer. What could Mitsuhama possibly threaten you with? It’s not as though you have a family to worry about, or that you scare easily. You didn’t back down on doing that piece on organized crime in Puyallup, even though Jimmy Chin threatened to firebomb your car if it aired. What could Mitsuhama possibly have done to frighten you off?"

  Greer’s hand fell away from Carla’s shoulder. His attention strayed once more to the monitor that was showing the boxing match. On the screen, one of the fighters fell heavily to the mat. Greer swore softly as the other boxer was declared the winner. Then he walked back to his desk and sat down heavily.

  "They bought the station." he answered at last. "The deal was closed this morning before you came in to work. Mitsuhama owns KKRU. They’re calling the shots now. And they don’t want the story to air."

  Carla frowned, a hot wave of anger rising inside her. "And you’re going to obey their orders?" she spat. "What have you turned into, some sort of corporate lap dog?"

  Greer sighed heavily. "I know it stinks, Carla. But I can’t afford to lose my job. I’m due to retire in five years, and I’ll be relying upon the company pension when I do."

  "But you’re a trideo producer." Carla said, unable to comprehend what she was hearing. "You make a good salary. Surely you don’t need the nuyen that badly."

  "Yes I do." Greer’s wide cheeks flushed with embarrassment. "I. . ." He pursed his lips, unwilling to finish the sentence.

  All at once, the pieces came together for Carla—Greer’s obsession with sports, his constant bumming of drinks from other staffers at the press lounge, the tiny dump of an apartment that he lived in. She glanced at the monitor, then back at Greer.

  "You gamble, don’t you?" Carla asked softly. "What did Mitsuhama do, offer to wipe your debts? How much do you owe?"

  "A lot." Greer muttered. He looked up with a sad, self-deprecating smile. "I guess I never should have taken that first job as a sports reporter. That’s when it started—with bets of just a few nuyen between friends. I’ve been throwing my money down the toilet ever since."

  "Oh, Gil." Carla sank down into the chair in front of the producer’s desk. Her anger had suddenly evaporated into pity. "No wonder you work so much overtime."

  "Yes." Greer had returned his attention to his cold soykaf.

  Carla had been taken aback by the bearish man’s confession. She was saddened by the fact that Mitsuhama had found his weak spot and forced him to dance to their tune. Giving in would be galling for any newscaster. It was especially so for Greer, who cherished his reputation as a tough, no-nonsense news-hound. She wanted to reach out, to comfort him. But now was not the time.

  "I’m sorry about what happened, Gil." she said, rising to her feet. "But it leaves me no other option. I’m taking my story to NABS."

  He looked up. "I tried to tell you already, Carla. NABS won’t touch it. No one will. Not if your byline is on it."

  Carla had a sudden premonition of impending doom. Slowly, she sat down again. "Why not?"

  Greer looked even more embarrassed as he opened a drawer in his desk. "Given our modern technology, when digitalized images can be edited with a few strokes of a stylus, a news station has only its reputation to fall back upon. The public has to have utter faith that the images they’re watching on their trideo sets are the pure, unaltered truth.

  "Ultimately, it comes down to the credibility of the station’s reporters. If the reporters are perceived to be honest, the station is believed to be credible. But if the reporters are perceived to have compromised themselves in any way, to have lied about their stories—or to have questionable personal lives . . ."

  He paused, and shut the drawer. He focused his attention on the unlabeled optical memory chip he’d pulled from it, refusing to meet Carla’s eyes.

  Carla was afraid to ask what was on that chip. The ice water in her gut meant that her subconscious mind already knew.

  "Our new boss gave this to me this morning." Greer said, punching a button on his desk that wiped the boxing match and switched the wall monitor over to a closed-circuit playback mode. Then he got up and closed the blinds in his office window, shutting out the curious faces of the other reporters who were peering up from their work stations, trying to catch a glimpse of Carla’s dressing down.

  "I know it’s a lie, Carla, and you know it’s a lie. But when the public sees the images on this chip and hears about your ‘shadow career as a porn
star’ and how you kept it in the closet all these years, your credibility will be zero. Nobody will ever take you seriously again."

  Sitting down, he put the chip in the editing unit that was built into his desk and hit the playback icon. He deliberately turned his back to the images that blazed across the monitor. He hadn’t bothered to deactivate the mute, and for this Carla was thankful. She watched in horrified fascination as trideo footage of herself, locked in a naked embrace with Enzo—Mr. November of the Men of Lone Star calendar—filled the flatscreen monitor. After a few moments, she buried her face in her hands. Not only had Mitsuhama found Greer’s weak spot, they’d found hers, too. In spades. She refused to feel guilt for having made the recordings of her romantic liaisons. But she couldn’t help feeling regret—and anguished rage—while watching the trid that could spell the end of her career.

  Greer reached over and thumbed the editing unit off. He popped the memory chip and slid it across the desk to Carla. "Here." he said. "Take it. Wipe it clean. I’m sorry I had to see that. I’m not even going to ask if it’s real or not."

  Numbly, Carla took the chip. She recognized it immediately as the original recording by the scuffs on its yellow plastic case. Wipe it? What good would that do? This was only one chip. The shadowrunners who broke into her apartment had taken dozens of her "personal recordings." Mitsuhama could have made as many duplicates as they liked of the chip, could be holding back a copy, ready to torpedo her career whenever they wanted to. And she’d never . . .

  "Wait a minute." Carla said, her reporter’s instincts taking over. "Who, exactly, gave you this chip?"

  "Our new boss. John Chang. Head of Mitsuhama Seattle."

  "But the shadowrunners who stole this were working for Renraku." she said, leaning forward. "That means the two computer corporations are working together to bury this story. But why? They ought to be at each other’s throats, in fierce competition to be the first to develop this new form of magic. If they’re working together.. ."

  "It doesn’t really matter now, does it?" Greer said, looking pointedly at the memory chip in Carla’s hand. "The story is spiked."

  "I realize that." Carla answered. "But I can’t help but wonder what the sudden cooperation between rivals means. Even if the story never airs, I’d like to satisfy my own curiosity . . ."

  The telecom built into Greer’s desk pinged softly, interrupting her thoughts. He answered it, activating its handset and holding up a hand for silence. After a moment, he handed the handset to Carla.

  "It’s for you."

  "Who is it?" Carla mouthed, then put the speaker to her ear when Greer did not reply.

  The voice at the other end of the line was polite but firm, with a hint of a Chinese accent.

  "Ms. Harris?"

  Carla didn’t recognize the voice. "Yes?"

  "This is John Chang, vice president of Mitsuhama Computer Technologies’ UCAS division, and the new director of KKRU News. I’d like to see you in my office, in the Chrysanthemum Tower. I believe you know where that is. Please report to me here. At once."

  27

  Pita was hiding inside a large box, her fur on end. She peered out through a slit in the cardboard at the grimy window that led outside. Humans stared in through its broken glass, their eyes coldly scanning the room. One of them looked like Aziz; he was pointing. The others were Asian men who were only vaguely familiar. Their faces were soft, dream-fuzzed blurs.

  Suddenly Pita’s world tilted as the box was upended. She sprawled out onto the dusty floor, her clawed feet scrabbling for purchase on the cement. But it was too late. Hands reached down to pick her up, clamping her tiny body firmly in their grip.

  Pita bared her teeth in a hiss and twisted her body, drawing her rear feet up to scratch. Her tail lashed back and forth. She flexed her hands, revealing wickedly hooked claws. But although she could raise one paw, she was unable to move it, unable to slash. She should have been able to wriggle out of the grip of the man who held her, but she felt as if her body was moving through thick syrup.

  Then a trideo set in the corner of the room flickered to life. The static shaped itself into the face of an ork.

  One of his huge hands held a microphone. "Hey!" he yelled into it, in a voice like amplified electronic thunder.

  It startled the man who was holding Pita. At last she was able to launch herself out of his hands. She scurried for the door, which was open just a crack. But the distraction had been only a temporary one, and now the humans were closing in. In another moment the hands would close around her again. And then . . .

  "Cat!" Pita jerked awake, her heart thudding in her chest. It took a moment or two before she remembered where she was. She looked wildly around the room at the dusty journalism diploma on the wall and the jumble of clothes in the corner. She was in Masaki’s apartment. And the time—she craned her neck to look at the digital display on the telecom—was five a.m.

  She got up from the couch, crossed to the window, and stared out at the Seattle skyline. Somewhere down there, in those blocks of buildings framed by glowing streetlights, was the store whose basement she had claimed as a place of refuge. And the white cat that had led her to it.

  Pita hadn’t been to the basement in—how long? Nearly three days. She leaned her head against the cool window glass, staring down into the city and trying to collect her racing thoughts. Had the dream been a plea for help? Was the cat in trouble? Pita gnawed her lip. She hadn’t even given the animal a name—she thought of it only as Aziz’s cat. But she had to know if it was all right.

  She briefly considered waking up Masaki and asking him to drive her downtown. But his bedroom door was closed, and his boyfriend had spent the night. Pita didn’t want to just walk in on them. Besides, she didn’t need the reporter’s help.

  Her mind made up, she picked up her jacket from the floor. She reached into its pocket, then grinned as she pulled out a certified credstick. She hadn’t trusted Aziz—not entirely—and so she’d made Masaki take her to the Salish Credit Union yesterday. She’d closed the bank account he set up for her there and transferred all the nuyen into this credit stick. Just let Aziz try and take his money back now.

  Slipping the credstick back in her pocket, she went to the kitchen and took a couple of Chickstix from the fridge. The processed chicken sausages were frozen, but would thaw by the time she was downtown. Even if Aziz’s cat weren’t in trouble, it would be hungry.

  Pita called for a cab, then went to the lobby to wait for it. When the vehicle pulled up to the front of the building, she cast a wary eye about before leaving the apartment complex. She also took a good look inside the cab before getting in. There was no one but the driver, a bored-looking ork woman who seemed harmless enough. When she saw Pita, the cabbie gave her a toothy grin, then turned up the Meta Madness tape she was listening to.

  "Hoi, kid! You goin’ to the concert tomorrow night?" she asked. She drummed her fingers on the wheel as she drove, keeping time with the scream-rock’s frantic beat.

  "Maybe." Pita shrugged. "I don’t know." With all that had happened to her in the past two weeks, it was difficult to think about such mundane affairs as rock concerts.

  "Yeah, I know how it is." the cabbie replied. "It’s bad enough that the tickets are fifty nuyen a pop, but then you have to add the service fee of thirty nuyen. And you know why? It’s ’cause humans control both the ticketing agencies and the clubs. You don’t find that kind of fee tacked on to a concert given by a human rock band. Those fraggers are trying to make out like us orks do more damage to a venue. No way. Why, it’s the humans who cause the most trouble. I had two humie kids in my cab last night who . . ."

  Pita glanced out the window, not really listening to the cab driver’s harangue. But at the same time, she smiled. The driver had accepted her unconditionally as a fellow ork. Just as Masaki’s boyfriend Blake had.

  Pita had watched the sports network with the two over a beer last night, and Blake had avidly debated Masaki about Japan’s deci
sion to ban metahumans from the Olympic games in 2056. When Masaki carefully pointed out that orks and trolls had an obvious physical advantage over the weaker elf and human races, and that short-statured dwarfs could hardly compete in the same track and field events as longer-limbed opponents, Blake had nudged Pita with an elbow. "Back me up, kid." he said. "We orks have got to stick together on this one."

  Pita liked the way Blake and Masaki bantered back and forth. They obviously disagreed on the topic, but didn’t let it get in the way of their relationship. It was certainly a contrast with her own parents, who, even though they were both human, had spent most of their time screaming at each other.

  At last the cab pulled up around the corner from Aziz’s burned-out shop, near the alley that the cat had led Pita to. Pita slotted her credstick and keyed in a tip for the driver, then scanned the street. It was light out now, although the sun hadn’t fully risen. But the streets were still empty of pedestrians, and only the occasional car drove by. It seemed safe enough.

  "I’m just going to look for my cat." she told the driver. "I lost it here a few days ago."

  "You want me to wait?" the cabbie asked.

  Pita toyed with the credstick. What the hey; she was rich. "Sure." she said. "If I can’t find the cat I’ll come back and let you know. I’ll be going back to the address where you picked me up."

  Cracking the door, Pita stepped from the cab and hurried to the mouth of the alley. She paused at the broken window that led to the basement, and inspected it closely. It didn’t look as though anyone had touched it—the mesh was still propped up the way she’d left it. And the basement room beyond it looked the same.

  She reached inside and opened the window, then slithered in through the opening. As soon as her feet hit the dusty floor, she heard a friendly mrrow? A wave of relief swept over her as the white cat emerged from behind a box, jumped to the floor, and wove a figure-eight pattern around her legs.