by Lisa Smedman
Pita scooped it up in her arms, nuzzling its fur. The cat was dusty—and skinny—but otherwise seemed all right. Pita placed it on the floor, pulled the now-soggy Chickstix from her pocket, and fed them to the cat. She scratched it behind the ears while it ate, and was rewarded with a loud purr.
"You like that, hey, cat? Bet you were hungry, huh? Well you’re coming with me, back to a place where there’s plenty more of those. No more scrounging on the streets for you. This place is okay, but we’ve got something better now. At least, for a while, until Masaki decides to heave us out. Aziz might have left you on the streets, but not me. You can trust me. Nothing bad is going to happen to you now."
When the cat had finished eating, Pita picked it up and put it outside the window. Then she climbed back into the alley. She bent down to pick up the cat. . .
And found that she couldn’t move. Then she was straightening, her body jerking suddenly into an upright position. One of her legs shot forward, then the other. They moved stiffly, one foot following the other in a jerking walk. Her arms were bent at the elbow, frozen in the position they’d been in when she was about to pick up the cat. She couldn’t even move her fingers—could barely blink. It felt as though she were a cartoon character in a trideo arcade, controlled by unseen hands on a clumsy keyboard console. Her mind raced as she fought to control her limbs, but they were no longer obeying her commands.
What was happening to her? Panic swirled in Pita’s mind as she realized that her body was taking her further into the alley, away from the spot where the cabbie waited. The white cat trotted along beside her, mrrowing with concern. When it stepped into Pita’s path, one of her feet knocked it aside as her body moved relentlessly forward. The cat howled in anger and ran away, a white streak that disappeared somewhere behind Pita.
Then Pita saw the man who waited for her at the end of the alley—a dreadlocked elf in a baggy jumpsuit. One hand was balled into a fist, except for two fingers.
He walked these through the air, and each time a finger took a step, Pita’s legs moved. The glow sticks woven into his dreadlocks haloed his sly smile.
Pita fought even harder as she recognized the mage—and the burly yakuza sitting behind the wheel of the car toward which the mage was forcing her to walk. But even though sweat trickled down her temples and her mind ached from the strain, she was unable to pull free of the spell. As the yakuza hit a button on the dash that opened the rear door of the vehicle, Pita felt her body fold. Against her will it got into the back of the car. She winced inwardly as her head bumped against the door frame, and heard the yakuza’s rumbling growl through the perforated plexiglass sheet that separated the front and back seats of the vehicle. "Watch out, R.T. We’re not to damage her."
The elf made a face at the yak, then slammed the door shut behind Pita.
Immediately, she was back in control of her own body. It spasmed in reaction to the adrenaline that was suddenly pumping through it. She scrabbled at the door, but there was no inside handle. Driven by fear, she pounded at the plexiglass that caged her in with one large fist. The yakuza ignored her, instead starting the engine as the elf climbed into the front seat beside him.
"Where are you taking me?" Pita screamed. "Let me out! I don’t have your fragging chip any more!"
The mage stared at her and his dark eyes flared. "Be quiet." he hissed. "I may not be permitted to damage you, but I can still hurt you." He raised a hand menacingly, his fingers curled to cast a spell.
Pita fell silent and tried to blink back tears as the car sped away into the morning.
28
Carla stepped into the plush office and automatically panned the room with her cybereye, lining up an establishing the shot. Then she caught herself. There was no point. Mitsuhama’s security had forced her to remove the image-storage chip from the camera implanted in her cybereye. The eye still functioned, but the data it captured was not being recorded anywhere. Security had also removed the datachip from the recorder in her ear. They didn’t want Carla to make any record of this meeting.
Trying to hide her discomfort, she made her way to a chair that had been placed in front of a massive hardwood desk and sank into it. On the other side of the desk sat John Chang. His fingers rested lightly on the desk’s polished surface, and he looked completely composed and serene. He was a lean man, with jet black hair, manicured fingernails, and a clean-shaven jaw. He looked as if he worked out, but perhaps that was just the cut of his expensive Volachi suit. His right index finger was decorated with a heavy gold ring that featured a large diamond set into the Mitsuhama logo, and his sleek wristcom was gold-plated. The smell of his aftershave hung in the air.
He regarded Carla coolly, with rock-steady eyes. As she settled herself more comfortably in the chair, he flicked a finger toward the secretary who had ushered Carla in. The woman returned with two cups of tea, bobbed her head in an abbreviated bow as she served them, and left the room.
Carla picked up the tea and sipped at it. Jasmine. Chang was playing a waiting game, trying to set her on edge. Instead Carla half-turned, looking past the holographic models of Mitsuhama’s latest robotics line and through the windows that framed a spectacular view of Lake Washington. The sky was a patchwork of clouds; the sun slanted through the blue spaces between them, painting the lake below with light. Carla stared at the unusual effect, wondering where the spirit was now.
John Chang cleared his throat. He was obviously ready to talk.
"Your producer has informed you of MCT’s most recent acquisition."
It was a statement rather than a question. Carla nodded slowly, watching Chang’s face. He still hadn’t touched his tea. A wild, irrational thought flew through her mind—maybe the stuff was drugged. But she shook it off. She had already entered the lion’s den and Chang had her at his mercy. There was no need for him to get heavy-handed. Not now that he had those optical chips.
"MCT Seattle will be issuing a brief press release about the purchase of KKRU shortly. Mitsuhama is pleased to get into the local communications industry. It will give our company an opportunity to test some of the new trideo technologies we’ve been developing. It’s a move we’ve been planning to make for some time."
"Sure." Carla said. "If you say so." Her reporter’s training screamed at her to directly challenge this bald lie, but she held her tongue, wanting to see what would come next. She found herself framing Chang, zooming in and out, even though the effort would prove fruitless without her datachips.
"There is a second press release we want to issue." he said, at last picking up his tea cup and sipping from it. "We’d like to use our latest acquisition—KKRU News—to turn it into a news story. I’ve seen your work; it’s excellent. I’ll be asking Gil Greer to assign you to handle it."
Carla wrinkled her nose. "I don’t write puff pieces." she said. "If all you want is a press release, why call on me? Any data hack could do it. What do you really want?"
John Chang’s smile vanished. Clearly he was not used to being spoken to so abruptly. He sat forward slightly.
"Since this is an off-the-record conversation." he said, raising a finger to tap one closed eye, "I will be blunt. I am aware of the story that you recently put together—the one alleging connections between our research facility and the spirit causing system crashes in the Matrix."
Carla snorted. Alleged indeed! Even with her cybereye chip removed, Chang was still being cautious. "The story that you ordered Greer to spike?"
Chang ignored her barb. "We’d like you to put a slight spin on the story." he continued. "We’re willing to concede that the spirit was developed by a mage who was formerly in our employ. But his research was not sanctioned by MCT. You will re-edit the story so that it stresses this fact."
"You and I both know otherwise." Carla said. "I saw the hermetic circle in your research lab. And the memo that—"
"Both could have been fabricated." Chang said smoothly. He cocked an eyebrow at her. "It all comes down to your personal credibil
ity, doesn’t it? And we’ve both seen how fragile that credibility can be."
Carla felt her cheeks start to burn. The bastard had probably enjoyed watching her personal recordings. But she wasn’t going to lose her cool. Not yet.
"You do want to continue working as a trid reporter, don’t you?" Chang asked.
Carla decided to use the only edge she had. "I have information from a well-placed source that Renraku—your competitor—has stolen your spell and is experimenting with it." She watched for a reaction, but wasn’t really surprised when she didn’t get one. She pressed on. "You can keep a lid on your own researchers, but not on the competition. Sooner or later—especially if Renraku’s experiments also start chewing up the Matrix—the Crash of 2029 will repeat itself.
When it does, nothing can stop the story from getting out. If I don’t cover it, some other reporter will. And when they do, they’ll trace the original spirit that started it all right back to Mitsuhama."
"Back to Farazad Samji, you mean." John Chang said in a soft voice. "Thanks to the story you’re going to do."
He pulled a datachip out of a drawer and slid it across the desk toward Carla. "On this chip you will find a joint statement by myself and Dr. Vanessa Cliber, director of computer operations for the Renraku Arcology. In it, we announce that we have at last discovered the cause of the virus that is currently infecting certain nodes of the Matrix: a spirit, conjured up, regrettably enough, by one of Mitsuhama’s former employees."
Carla picked up the disk and turned it over in her fingers.
"The mage was working on a private research project during a leave of absence." Chang continued. "A project that MCT Seattle did not officially sanction. Only when the spirit became free and killed him—and then began attacking the Matrix—did our corporation begin examining the spell that Dr. Samji had created. Because this was a task of such grave public importance, we brought in experts from around the world to work on the project—even those employed by our chief rival, Renraku Computer Systems. It was simply imperative that we find a way to bring the spirit back under control and force it to stay out of the Matrix. And so the two corporations have pooled their personnel and resources in an unprecedented effort to eliminate this threat to the world’s computer and telecommunications systems by banishing the spirit."
"So that’s what you want me to do." Carla cut him off. "Paint Farazad Samji as the bad guy, and MCT and Renraku as the crusading knights, riding in to clean up the ‘unsanctioned’ mess he made. Well, it’s not going to fly. You’re going to wind up looking foolish."
She knew Chang was lying to her. Mitsuhama might try to tell Renraku that they were banishing the spirit, but she was certain the corporation would try to control it instead. If not as a magical means of accessing the Matrix, then as a parabiological weapon. She tried a lie of her own: "Nobody can control that free spirit. You’ll be making false promises to the public—and they’ll be angry when it turns out you aren’t able to keep those promises."
"That’s where you’re wrong." Chang answered. His leather chair creaked as he sat back in it. "We now have someone on staff who knows the free spirit’s true name—and that’s all we need to control it. By the time that press release airs on the evening newscast, the spirit will be out of the Matrix. We’ve found a mage who can do the job."
Things were starting to click into place. "Aziz Fader?" Carla asked. It made sense. The mage had obviously gotten the true name from Pita and used it to bind the spirit. He’d used it to kill the hell hound in a blaze of light. Now, presumably, he was going to hand over the true name in return for whatever goodies MCT Director Ambrose Wilks had promised him. Aziz had probably gotten in touch with the corporation as soon as his efforts had proven successful—and been kept busy in their lab ever since. That would explain why he hadn’t returned her calls.
Was that a hint of amusement in Chang’s eyes? He shook his head. "No. Not Mr. Fader." he answered. "An . . . associate of his. She will be working with our own researchers. And those from Renraku, of course."
Carla felt a growing sense of dread. "She"? Chang could only be referring to one person. But that was impossible. Carla had spoken to Masaki less than two hours ago, when he phoned in sick, and he’d said the ork girl was safely tucked away in his apartment. Was Masaki in on the deal, too? Carla swallowed her anger and forced herself to think logically. No. It was more likely that Mitsuhama had forced Masaki to lie. She couldn’t even imagine what they’d used to blackmail him. Maybe the threat of violence. Once again, her imagination started to churn out unpleasant images.
Was Masaki face-down on the floor of his apartment, even now, a bullet in his brain?
"The girl is safe." Chang said, obviously reading Carla’s expression. "She’s much too valuable an asset to damage, although your co-worker doesn’t realize that. He, too, is unharmed."
Carla felt a rush of relief. That was one worry down. Masaki was safe. She was surprised at how much she cared about the timid old fragger. And about the girl.
She shook her head. Caring what happened to Pita was logical—the girl was, after all, still Carla’s only chance at a big story. Not on Mitsuhama, but on the racist elements within Lone Star. It was one story that Carla’s new masters—especially with Chang’s yakuza connections—wouldn’t try to spike. It was also a story that would make NABS take notice of Carla—and get her out from under the thumb of this smooth-talking fragger.
But Carla wasn’t thinking about that now. Or at least, it wasn’t the only thing she was thinking about. Pita might be "safe." but she was probably also terrified. Especially if Mitsuhama was holding her. She was probably every bit as frightened as Carla had been when the hell hound stood on top of her, teeth bared and ready to strike. Carla felt a twinge of sympathy and wished there was something she could do for the girl. Perhaps there was.
"I’ll wrap a news story around your press release." she told Chang. "I’ll make it the best you’ve ever seen, and will vilify Farazad Samji as much as you like. On one ... no, on two conditions. First, that you remove that foul little spirit from Mrs. Samji’s home and agree not to persecute her further—by withholding her husband’s pension, for example."
"It’s already done." Chang answered. "We at MCT Seattle are not entirely heartless, after all. The Samjis will be provided for, despite the harm that Farazad has caused. It’s simply good corporate public relations."
"And second, that I be allowed to talk with Pita."
"I do not think that will be possible." Chang began. "Listen." Carla said, leaning forward and using her firmest voice. "You need me. You own KKRU now, and could hire any of the reporters there to put together your news story. But I’m the station’s top investigative reporter, and the public knows it. If I commit to this piece, I can’t go back on it later and say it was all a lie. It would ruin my credibility—just as surely as the recordings on those chips would.
"Let me see Pita, or I won’t do your dirty work for you."
Chang sighed, exchanging his polite mask for a weary frown. "We really do wish to bring the spirit to heel, Ms. Harris. It has the potential to become an enormous economic liability to us. It is completely unsuited for the task for which it was originally conjured. If Wilks had listened to his researchers, all of this unpleasantness might have been avoided. He’s just lucky that he came up with that trideo footage in time, proving that the spirit could be controlled. Otherwise . . ."
"What trideo footage?" Carla asked.
"The shots that Mr. Fader took of himself, calling the spirit. He tried to pretend that he had bound the spirit to himself, and that his little demonstration in the Chrysanthemum Tower had been entirely his own work. But he did a clumsy job of editing the girl—Pita—out of the footage he shot as ‘proof of his power over the spirit. Our deckers were able to salvage pictures of her from an unwiped memory sector, and we determined that she was the one we really wanted. It was then just a matter of using the right lure and picking her up. And once again, I assure you
that she is unharmed."
Carla blinked. Pita was the one who’d sent the spirit to kill the hell hound? But Aziz had said . . . No. Aziz had lied to her, all along. He’d sold the kid out—and now he’d been cut out of the loop. Mitsuhama had probably paid him a small finder’s fee for the girl, then sent him on his way.
"I still insist upon seeing Pita." she said. She forced a smile. "What harm could it do? If she really is safe."
Chang sighed. He considered for a moment before answering. "Very well." he said at last. "It might prove useful, after all. She’s somewhat . . . reluctant ... to assist us. Perhaps you can talk her into it."
He gave Carla a stern look. "If you try any tricks, it will be your credibility on the line—and on the air. Just keep that in mind when you talk to her."
29
Pita sat on a padded chair, gripping its cushioned arms. She could smell the plastic hood that was wrapped tightly around her head and face, and the lingering perfume of one of the people who had come in to the room earlier. And she could feel the warm stream of air from a heat vent overhead. But otherwise, her senses were completely blocked. The hood covered her eyes, and soft pads over her ears delivered a steady white-noise hiss. The sound made it impossible to think, let alone hear anything.
This must be the magemask that the other prisoners had warned her about, back when Pita had been in jail. She could see now why the cops used it. She felt completely disoriented, cut off. There was no way she could call to Cat, or hear Cat’s comforting purr. Her world had shrunk to a few tactile sensations and a dark, static hiss.
They hadn’t tied her up this time. They’d simply hustled her into this office, put the hood on her head, and shut the door. She’d explored the room by feel, gradually navigating her way around its table, chair, and couch, and trying the locked door. She’d even tried to remove the hood—only to find that each time she tugged on it, the static in her ears cranked up suddenly, making her dizzy and weak. If she let it alone, the sound returned to a bearable level. And so she sat in the empty room, trying to calm her breathing and slow her racing heart.