He frowned as he thought of Nikita and rooted through his clothes. The Sifu had got one of the younger pupils to wash his gear and hang it up in the corner of the meditation cell where they’d put him. The poultice of herbal remedies and treated bandages across his chest was moist and tight, but the pain from the wound was far less than it had been before. Quietly, so as not to draw any attention, he searched until he found the corporate cellphone. Despite the damage he’d done to it, the thing was still working, and—he hoped—the sat-locator circuits inside were still dead to the world. As he flipped it open, he heard a rough chug of laughter from out in the courtyard, and Ko leaned close to the window to take a peek. On the stone steps, his erstwhile rescuer was chatting amiably with his teacher, the two men grinning like they were old friends.
Ko watched Fixx. The way the guy had moved out there at the docks, and the hardware he was packing… He had to be a sanctioned operative, no question about it. But ops were rarer than virgins in this part of the world. The mere fact that Fixx was here in Hong Kong and that for some reason he’d chosen Ko to save from certain death was unnerving.
On the drive to Mongkok, he’d questioned the man. At first Ko thought Fixx was someone that the corp guy had recruited to get him away from the triads, but the op showed genuine confusion when Ko mentioned it. He insisted that somebody called “Papa Leg-bar” had sent him, and Ko had no clue who the hell that was.
But Fixx seemed to know things. Not like names or exact details, but he gave Ko a cool-eyed stare and told the youth that he knew he was looking for revenge, that he was in search of reparation for his blood. And however you sliced it, Fixx had saved his life out there. Ko wasn’t sure if that should make him pleased, or more wary.
He dialled Gau’s number; just before they stashed the Korvette, Ko had forwarded a file he found in the phone’s memory. Mister Wageslave had transmitted a copy of a police record about a hit-and-run in Mongkok during their phone conversation.
Gau answered on the second ring. “This is gonna cost you,” he said without preamble. “If Second knew I was talking to you—”
“Fuck him,” growled Ko. “You owe me, Gau. Remember Shek-O?” There had been a gang rumble on the beach at Shek-O a year earlier, when a Sabre Girl left Gau concussed. Ko had stopped him drowning in the surf and got him home alive. “What you got?”
There was a sigh. “I looked at the pix. I asked around. Spoke to my cousin.”
Ko nodded. Gau’s relative broke heads for the Wo Shing Wo, who ran most of the action in the Mongkok area.
“This guy who was clipped? It wasn’t a mistake like the cops say it is. Cousin says, it was ordered. Bought and paid for. The lie was so the corps didn’t lose face.”
“Who paid for it?”
Gau hesitated. “Listen, Ko. Once I tell you this, once I hang up, we’re done. Your name is poison, man. Second wants to cut you up, and anyone you hang with.”
“Gimme the name!” snapped Ko. “That’s all I want!”
“Cousin says she was some fat little bitch, big shot music corp or something. The boss called her Miss High.”
Feng watched from the shadows, glowering at him.
teh jade DRAGON gonna rule HK
enda the world
Graffiti seen in Lok Fu Metro Station.
12. To Live and Die in Tsim Sha Tsui
The Korvette grumbled along Nathan Road in the stop-start evening traffic, a black shark drifting between the slab-sided hulks of double-decker buses. The street was lit with gaudy neon and blinking holos, dancing over their heads. Ko caught a glimpse of a flickering dragon in brilliant green, but it was gone before he could focus on it.
In the driving seat, Fixx glanced at the dashboard navscreen. “Couple more blocks.” He looked up at the youth. “Still time to change your mind.”
Ko’s eyes flicked to a passing street corner. Feng stood out there, arms folded, shaking his head. “Just drop me off outside,” he insisted, turning back. “I’ll handle it.”
Fixx made an amused noise. “I don’t think I’ll be doin’ that.”
“I can take care of myself.”
“Didn’t seem that way at the docks,” said the op. “Or perhaps I was just readin’ the situation wrongly.”
Ko’s lip twisted. “Look, this isn’t one of those things where you save a guy’s life and then it belongs to you. That’s the Apache who do that, not the Chinese.”
“The old guy, the Sifu. He asked me to keep an eye on you for him. Says you’re reckless, impulsive-like. Could get you into trouble.”
Ko looked away and smoothed down the jacket he was wearing. The clothes were nondescript and traditional in cut, and they reminded him of a school uniform; but that was all they had to spare in the dojo, and there was no way he’d get into The Han in his go-ganger colours. “There’s only one ticket on the door, and it’s in my name.”
Fixx smiled. “You let me worry about that.”
The thief blew out a breath. “Don’t get me wrong, I appreciate what you did for me, but the Good Samaritan thing, it’s getting a little old now. Why don’t you just go on about your business and let me deal with mine?”
The sanctioned operative’s eyes flicked to him over the rim of the espex. “Maybe you are my business, kid.”
He slapped his hands on the dash in exasperation. “Why? What the hell do you want with me, Fixx?”
One hand left the steering wheel and dipped into a jacket pocket. It returned with the tarot card, the Knight of Wands. Fixx held it up.
“That’s it?” Ko snorted. ’“Cos of some stupid card trick you suddenly gotta stick to me like glue?” He tried to snatch the card from the op’s fingers, but Fixx did a magician’s flourish and made it disappear. “That’s jagged, man! You think your freaky-ass cards and your pocket full of chicken bones makes you some kinda wizard?”
“Houngan,” corrected Fixx, but Ko wasn’t listening.
“Whatever you think you know about me—”
“Ain’t about you,” the other man said. "Nor me neither. It’s about the way things come together. We got parts to play.
Ko’s face flushed with annoyance. “Who told you that, huh? Some voodoo hoodoo? Some—”
“Ghost?” Feng was there in the back seat. Ko could smell the dry scent of his leather armour.
Fixx saw the fractional glimpse he gave the rear-view mirror and looked as well, eyes narrowing. He sniffed.
Ko was still talking, the words spilling out of him. “Maybe you don’t see nothing, huh, did you ever think that? Maybe people are right when they call you spooky and weird, maybe the phantoms are all in your head and you’re just too looped to know it…” He trailed off, silenced by his own words.
Fixx gave him a quizzical look. “You all right, kid?” The navscreen chimed.“ We’re here.”
Ko’s face darkened, and taking care not to let his eye line cross the back seat again, he popped the latch as the vehicle halted at the kerb. “One thing,” said the youth, “if you’re coming with me.”
“Yeah?”
“Quit calling me ‘kid’.”
Fixx tabbed the autodrive control and set the Korvette to take itself somewhere secluded. “Whatever you say, slick.”
The deal, such as it was, came together in a flurry of text messages, back and forth in the dimness of the meditation cell. The wageslave was waiting for Ko’s call, and he could taste the man’s anxiety even through the strings of letters and numbers. There would need to be money, real yuan cash and not some fairy gold eDollars that would vanish from the account the moment the transaction was done. The corp made promises, and the thief turned the screws on him.
Not just cash, wageslave. More than that.
This chance would never come again, Ko was sure of it. He made the man secure stratojet transfers, nameless and no-questions-asked tickets that would get Ko and Nikita out of Hong Kong and to any major city in the world. The thief thought about the Zarathustra Clinic, the glossy brochure of the clea
n white buildings in Zurich and Aspen.
Ko laughed off the corps attempts to get him to meet on Hong Kong Island. Nah. That was the corporate heartland over that side of the bay. Ko wanted the meet to go down on his turf, Kowloon side, the domain of the Street. He thought about how Hazzard Wu had dealt with a similar situation in Cat Street Killer, the last reel was the nightclub duel. Yeah…
They’d meet at The Han. The place was high profile and exclusive, catering to top echelon corps, media types and the richest members of Hong Kong’s criminal dominions. You had to have an AmEx Plasma card just to get in, so he’d heard. Wageslave could make that happen, he promised. Ko’s name would be on the guest list. Of course, he hadn’t reckoned on needing a “plus one”.
Feng still did not speak to him, silent since the incident at the docks, and he seemed to be there less and less. Ko had lost the last few Peacefuls in his pockets to the waters in the bay, and couldn’t even give the swordsman the smallest of offerings by way of apology. The warrior retreated to the shadows and faded.
Fixx and the Sifu caught him trying to sneak out. He heard them talking in riddles, something about “black skies over the peak”, the old man’s voice tight with anger as he spoke of “monsters on the streets” and “poisoned blood”.
He told them, after a fashion, how it was going to go down.
“Smells like a trap,” Fixx noted. “More at stake than you know.”
But Ko didn’t care. He wanted out, him and Nikita gone. The city, his life, everything he knew had turned on him, piece by piece.
“I’m done here,” he told them, and he meant it.
Any other nightclub, and the red carpet outside would have been crammed with paparazzi and camera drones; but the management at The Han had a discreet flicker-field screen extending out to the street. It formed a tube of runny air, appearing like smoke hazing through glass, fogging the image of anyone who passed inside. Coupled with an EM frequency jammer, discretion was assured.
Most people didn’t even know exactly where the club was. There were no advertisements for it, no address listed on the matchbooks. It was a stealth venue, sandwiched between two equally nondescript buildings. Rumour had it that there were even fake entrances dotted all around Hong Kong, just to throw off the riff-raff and the uninvited. If you didn’t already know where it was then you had no business being there.
The doorman was aptly named. He was as large as one, dark aged oak. He held up a hand the moment he got a good look at Ko’s clothes. The AV feed in his monocle had a programme embedded that served solely to judge the fashion index of those who wanted to enter the club. “Name?” he rumbled.
Ko thought himself clever when he told the wageslave what identity to place on the guest list, but now it came to say it out loud, he felt a little silly. “Uh. Hazzard Wu. ”
There was the very smallest raise of an eyebrow, and the man nodded, ticking off an item on an embedded d-screen. “Good evening, Mr Wu. Nice to see you again.” He beckoned Ko with one hand and warded off Fixx with another. “And you are?”
“A gatecrasher.” The sanctioned operative stabbed out with a single finger and struck a nerve point near the doorman’s clavicle.
“Ah,” was all the big man could manage, as his muscles seized up and left him twitching there, rooted to the spot.
Fixx uncurled a hundred yuan note and slipped it into the doorman’s jacket pocket as they walked past. “Thanks, bro.”
There were bars that dealt drinks and food, oxygen and pills. Boys and girls in costume drifted through the clientele distributing orders in stone cups or rough-hewn glasses that looked like cubes of ice. Music and drugfog hazed the air, weaving around the flaps of ceiling fans worked by nubile girls. Ko walked in deliberate slow motion, keeping to Fixx’s right, working hard not to be dazzled by what he saw around him. The club was modelled on the interior of a warlord’s grand hall from ancient China’s feudal past, but in a weird neo-tech style that blended lunar steel with resin statues and old tapestries. The “historic fusion” look was very now among the PacRim in-crowd.
Some part of him, the core of his working-class streetkid soul, felt so utterly and completely out of his depth that the tingle of a flight reflex shuddered through his legs. One look at the opulence inside The Han and Ko had never felt so common in his whole life.
“Can almost smell the riches,” Fixx said out of the corner of his mouth.
Ko nodded, watching men at the bar with yakuza electro-tattoos emerging from their collars. No money appeared to be changing hands; the staff at The Han obviously knew whom they were charging.
A girl, maybe a year younger than Ko, drifted up to them. She wore stylised magistrate’s robes cut to reveal legs and cleavage. “Mr Wu? Mr Lam will receive you upstairs in the gallery.” She pointed to a hooded balcony on one of the upper levels.
“Lam, huh?” Ko glanced at Fixx. “He’s not expecting two of us. ”
The operative nodded, a curious, distant expression on his face. “You settle what you gotta.”
“You just going to stand here and sniff the air?”
Fixx walked away like he knew exacdy where he was going. “Don’t worry ’bout me. I’ll be around.”
In the depths of the shadowed booth, Juno sipped her drink and gave Frankie an artificial, purse-lipped smile. He met her eyes and hesitated.
“What’s wrong?” he asked, leaning in. “If you don’t like it here, we can go someplace else after—”
“It’s not that,” she said. “I’m just… just tired.”
Frankie’s expression didn’t change, and Juno felt cold inside, as if something was pushing at the cage of her ribs but couldn’t get to her throat. Why can’t I tell him? The question burned in her, the embers of her dreams and the echoes of the conversation in the church still drifting around her mind like windborne ash. Her mouth opened and closed, but each time she tried to frame the thoughts, speech fled her. Juno could not make herself tell him, as hard as she tried.
“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have asked you to come if you weren’t up to it. ”
She forced another smile. “No. No, this is a great club. The Han is one of the few places I can go where I’m not hounded by drones and people who want autographs.” Juno squeezed his hand. “Can we just not talk about it? Just be together for a while?” The moment the words left her mouth and she turned her mind’s eye from the darker thoughts, she felt calmer, tension ebbing.
“Sure,” he said, a frown threatening to form at the edges of his expression.
It was Juno’s turn to be concerned. “What about you? What’s bothering you, Frankie?”
He seemed on the verge of telling her, but then a screen set into the top of their table lifted itself up and chimed. “Your guest has arrived, Mr Lam,” it announced.
“I, uh, have to—”
She waved him away. “That’s fine, go ahead.”
He reached out and gave her hand a squeeze, as if he needed to make sure she was still real. Frankie stepped out of the booth, straightening his tie.
A boy cruised past, bearing a tray with dozens of small jewelled containers. Juno caught his eye and he paused. She threw a glance to make sure Frankie wasn’t looking back at her and beckoned the waiter closer. “I need some blue,” she told him, the sudden need licking at her gut. The words felt new and strange, as if she had never said them before.
The boy gave her a beautiful cloisonne box in green and gold; inside were dozens of dot-sized tabs, glistening like sapphires.
On the upper galleries there were rows of doors leading off to VIP suites and chillout rooms. Frankie kept his attention away from them as he passed, memories of the activities in the tower returning to him in blinks of smell and sight.
There was a figure arched over the balcony, tapping the brass rail with nervous energy. Turning to face him, the executive saw the youth’s drawn, serious face and almost smiled. Hell. He’s a damn kid.
“Mr Lam?” he drawled, the affected sneer on
his lips just failing to give the effect of cocksure arrogance he was aiming for.
Frankie shook his head. “Steal any good cars lately?”
The thief’s face soured. “Fuck you, wageslave.”
He nodded. “Right. Guess that proves who you are.”
“You got the, uh, payment?”
He pulled two smartcards from his pocket. “Here. All-access flight vouchers for Raumhansa Transcontinental. These’ll take you anywhere but orbit.”
Suspicion bloomed on the younger man’s face. “Where’s the money? No cash, no deal—”
“Relax,” said Frankie, as much to himself as to the youth. He produced a ticket. “The money is in a case in the cloakroom. This is the check for it.”
The kid began to back away. “That’s not what we agreed.”
Frankie stood his ground. “Hey, I got no reason to trust you either. How do I know that what you’ve got for me isn’t bogus?” He wiped his hand across his brow. The tension in the gallery was draining him. He sat heavily in a chair. “Ah shit, look. Just give me the name and you can take the stuff and go. I’m not interested in anything else.” He put the ticket and the cards down on a table. “I don’t have time to play these games, kid.”
“My name is Ko,” said the thief, with irritation. He stood his ground, tense and ready to fight. Fists balled, shoulders set, ready to go to the mat with anyone.
Frankie studied him, and saw the mirror of himself there, a decade ago, standing in the corridor of a detention centre…
Brother, listen to me! If you don’t do this, you’ll go to prison, and you know what will happen in there: indentured work service on the mainland, maybe even sending you to the rad-zone reconstruction projects! You won’t survive in there! Look, my supervisor at the academy knows the judge and he’s willing to put in a good word for you. I vouched for you, Frankie. I told him you didn’t want to be in a gangcult, you just fell in with the wrong crowd! Come on! If not for me, then for Mum and Dad! I have faith in you, I know you can be more than this.
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