Mitch chewed his lip. Sitting in a dark alleyway in the Elmwood section of West Hartford watching a street mercenary infiltrate a cocktail party wasn’t the last thing he’d expected to do tonight. But it hadn’t been high on the list, either. He reached out and enlarged the image.
“Not too bright,” Razorface said, and Mitch nodded. He would have projected it to contacts, but the big gangster didn’t wear them.
“It looks like a corporate meeting room,” Mitch commented. “I guess we can guarantee that CCP management is in on this.”
Razorface grunted, but he didn’t look down: protecting his night vision as much as he could, no doubt. “What’s the setup?”
“Looks like five, six ronin. I recognize two of them other than Bobbi. Both in her league. I see two suits. I don’t know either one.”
“You see Casey yet?”
“Hide nor hair. Bobbi’s shaking hands and kissing babies… well, you get the idea. Working the floor.”
“Networking,” Razor said.
Mitch glanced up at him in surprise. Never forget who you’re dealing with. “Yeah. She knows these people. Oh, not this one. He’s down from Boston. Ah, shit, I know that name.”
“Name?”
“Chance.”
“Hell, yeah. Heard of him.” Razor’s lips thinned, and this time he did look, and then quickly look away. “The original bad motherfucker, that one. Any names on the suits?”
“Bobbi hasn’t ID’ed them yet. She introduced herself to one a minute ago, and he mentioned that someone would be out shortly to talk to them. I don’t know about this meeting in the boardroom, though. This is a weird way to hire bounty hunters, Razor.”
“Not if you’re not looking for bounty hunters, piggy. Makes sense if you’re putting together a gang.”
“A private army. Of course, and— Fuck!” Mitch’s eyes narrowed. He leaned forward, hand heedlessly on Razorface’s arm. “Razor, we’ve got problems.”
The lean, well-dressed woman who had just entered the room came as no surprise. But there was someone beside her — a pox-scarred man with a nose like a broken knife blade. “Cocksucker,” Razorface hissed. “Emery. Fuck.”
Mitch touched on his mike. “Bobbi, get the hell out of there. Disengage, now.”
She didn’t answer, but he saw from the feed that she was edging toward the door. She had her hand on the doorknob, in fact, slight frame hidden by one of the larger ronin, when a hand fell on her shoulder. She — and Mitch, watching through her contact — looked up into the eyes of one of the suits. “Miss Yee,” he said in level tones. “Surely you’re not leaving us so soon?”
“Ladies’ room,” Bobbi answered, and reached for a knife and her gun.
Barb Casey saw the pistol come out, saw the glitter of a flat-whirled blade flashing toward her. A killing smile tugged the corners of her lips up as she sidestepped, weapon in her hand. The little Chinese ronin had Carroll, the warehouse general manager, by the throat, sidearm snuggled up under his chin, and was crab walking him toward the door.
The knife smacked into the paneling where Barb had been standing a split second before. Her gun spun into her hand as she dropped to one knee, leveling it across the room. The speaker’s podium at the head of the room gave her half-cover. The conference table wreaked havoc with her field of fire. A targeting ring flickered on in Barb’s contact; well-trained assassins dove for cover.
The Chinese ronin—Yee—dragged her hostage’s head down and snarled something in his ear. Barb was surprised by the strength with which Yee controlled Carroll as he groped backward, turning the door handle for her. Well, that tells me what side she’s working for. Barb had hoped to get through the meeting without having to kill anybody, but it stood to reason that at least one or two of the Hartford ronin would have some loyalty to Razorface. Bringing Emery into the meeting had had the desired effect.
Barb let the joyous, icy clarity of combat wash over her. The door swung open. Emery, standing upright like the macho idiot he was, wrestled an ugly snub-nosed machine pistol out of his coat. Now, if the rest of the room just stays the hell out of the fight like the professionals they’re supposed to be…
Barb saw the choreography of the upcoming fight unfold before her inner eye as if the combatants were actors hitting taped marks. Emery’s going to get shot now. She would rather have been watching it through a sniper scope.
At least there was going to be blood.
Emery brought the gun up, squeezing the trigger. Yee threw her captive forward and rolled left and into the room. Barb was already tracking the movement. She grinned. She’d expected Yee to dive for the door, and if she had, Barb would have had her. Sneaky. This is going to be fun.
Bullets from the machine pistol sprayed the door and Carroll. Bystanders flattened further, weapons coming out and coming up. Yee fired once without rising to her feet, went from somersault to crouch and into a slick, collected dive so fast that the shot Barb snapped off actually missed. She heard Emery gurgle and pitch back. Thought so.
Wood splinters stung her face as Yee fired a second shot, clipping the edge of the podium. Barb ducked, came back around the same side as Yee’s second shot whinged past the far one. Barb returned fire, but it was unaimed, a snapshot. She swore under her breath as Yee, moving faster than anyone—except Jenny—had any right to, kicked one of the other ronin in the face going by, and scrambled past him and away.
“Fuck.” Barb rose to her feet slowly, eyes on the door. “You’re all hired. Get after her.”
Emery gurgled one last time before Barb sank a bullet in between his eyes.
“Razor, it’s going bad.”
“See that. Hang on!” Razorface thumbed the ignition on. The engine purred into life and Razor twisted the wheel, streetlights reflecting from his slick-shiny scalp. Mitch grabbed the dashboard; the Caddy laid rubber against the curb.
He slid his gun out of its holster as two dark vehicles peeled away from the roadside behind them. “Those still your boys, Razor?”
“Who the fuck knows? We on our own now, piggy.” Razorface jerked his chin down and to the side. “Shotgun under your chair. I want it.”
“Gotcha.” Mitch waited until Razor’s foot came off the accelerator so the seat belt quit driving the edges of his trauma plates into his skin and relaxed enough for him to snake a hand under his seat. Razorface reached across his body with his left hand.
He stowed the sawed-off weapon between his seat and the door. “Got feed?”
“Yeah. She’s not dead yet. She got Emery, Razor. Looks like, anyway.”
“Tell her loading dock. Stand back.”
“On it.”
Razorface spun the armored Cadillac until Mitch smelled rubber smoking and pointed it toward the scrolling metal bay doors. Two were elevated, but the third opened out at ground level. The other two cars hopped the curb, not quite following Razor’s bootlegger reverse but hot on the tail nonetheless.
The big man leaned forward, eyes narrowing. “Brace.”
Mitch put his feet up on the dashboard after all.
The Cadillac skittered sideways, bullets spattering off its armored hide as Razorface wrenched the wheel left and then right. The rear wheels skipped, skidded, slung around, and bounced, but the front tires grabbed and hauled the vehicle forward.
Razorface leveled it nose down at that third, lowest door. Mitch closed his eyes.
The chromed cowcatcher on the front of the Caddy met the steel bay door, and the Cadillac won.
Mitch blinked as metal stopped tearing. The garage bay was floodlit, and he saw Bobbi at an erratic dead run, bullets glittering off the cement a half-step behind her. He reached back and slammed the rear door open, had Bobbi by the shoulders, and was dragging her inside the car when Razor smashed it into reverse and back out through the shattered door.
“Shot, Michael,” Bobbi snarled when they were clear.
“How bad?”
“Calf. I won’t bleed out.”
“Fu
ck,” Razor said a moment later, reaching for the dashboard phone. He punched a code, and listened to it ring. “Fuck,” he said a second time, coding again.
Mitch tasted blood when the answering machine picked up in Razorface’s woman’s voice. He held his breath as Razor snapped two short sentences—“Leesie, take the dog, get out of the house. Now, go.”—and closed the connect.
“Do we want to go there?”
Razorface just shook his head. “Call that doc of Maker’s,” he said, and Mitch did as he was told. He couldn’t stand to see the expression in the big man’s eyes.
Allen-Shipman Research Facility
St. George Street
Toronto, Ontario
Friday 15 September, 2062
First light
Elspeth laid a cream cheese bagel (fresh made by a computerized sidewalk vending machine) on her desk beside the cardboard cup of coffee. She opened her contact case and was still blinking the contents into place when a red telltale unscrolled across her vision. Encoded message waiting. Please unzip to holographic media.
Consciously smoothing her expression, she fumbled in the gold-accented stainless rack for a clean data slice and pressed it into the reader. What sort of message is big enough that it needs to be unzipped into a data slice? She had a breath-held idea of what — of who — it might be. Each individual beat of her heart constricted her throat as she waited for the copying process to finish. It was an effort not to glance around the room nervously. Instead, she unwrapped her bagel and lifted half of it to her mouth.
And bit down, with an effort, as her eyes fell on words printed on the inside of the wrapper where the nutritional label would normally be.
Elspeth: If I may be so bold as to call you that — once you have copied the data I have provided, please deliver them to J. C. with all due haste and discretion. You are watched, or I would have been in touch sooner.
Yours truly,
Dick
Elspeth chewed slowly, reaching out one-handed as she idly folded the wrapper shut over the remaining half of the bagel. She set the part she had taken a bite from down on the edge of her interface plate and took a sip of coffee, fumbling under her desk with the other hand until the copied data slice slipped into her hand. She set it on top of a small heap of similar slices, and bent down to slip the uneaten half of her bagel into her canvas tote bag, stroking the green-and-beige Unitek spiral on the side with amusement. She pulled a handkerchief out of the bag and used it to polish the smear of cream cheese off her interface, setting it down on top of the little pile of data slices.
She’d stow it in her bag later, along with the copied data.
In the meantime, she peeled the top and bottom of her bagel apart with shaking hands and regarded the thick smear of cream cheese without appetite.
So eager to get back to jail, Elspeth? They’ll hardly know you’ve been away.
With a sigh, she tossed the bagel at the trash can and picked up her coffee instead.
0930 hours, Friday 15 September, 2062
Allen-Shipman Research Facility
St. George Street
Toronto, Ontario
A message light blinks on my desk when I report for work on Friday. I flip it open and delete it halfway through the time stamp. Simon. Ah, qu’est que le fuck tici maintenant?
I don’t want to talk to Simon. I sent a request to transfer my medical records two days ago. I don’t know if they’ve arrived. Valens hasn’t mentioned it, so I assume they have.
I never want to talk to Simon again. I dig the little vial of pills that Valens gave me out of my pocket and turn it in the light. I haven’t seen about ordering new uniforms. I wonder if anybody — read Frederick—is going to kick up a fuss about my civvies; it hasn’t happened yet.
They could always court-martial me.
The bottle doesn’t even have a childproof cap. I thumb the lid off and tilt it, communing with the shiny yellow pills. Yesterday’s drug-assisted virtual flight of the Indefatigable, without observers this time, went much more smoothly. I managed to hold it together until I pasted the fucking thing into a convenient star.
I set the pill bottle down but don’t cap it. I’m still sitting at my shiny new desk and staring into thin air when Gabe knocks on the door and opens it, leaning in. “Busy?” He catches sight of the bottle. “I guess you are…”
“Gabe.” The top snaps back onto the pills; I sweep the vial into a desk drawer and lock it. “Stay.”
“VR again today?”
“No,” I answer, standing as he comes into the office. “Just thinking.” Not thinking about the limpid clarity of yesterday afternoon. Not thinking about the texture of his kiss like a hand sliding up my spine either. No, sir. “Come to lecture me about the pills?”
“No,” he said. “I want to talk to you about Leah.”
“What about her?”
“She’s won some kind of a scholarship in an online game. But there are problems.” His eyes are dark and weary. “She says — she showed me the paperwork — it provides for, among other things, the nanosurgery required for neural VR.”
“She’s too young.” Words from my mouth before I can consider, and then I stop and think. “Except she’s not, is she?”
“Supposedly, it’s minor surgery.” Wheat-colored curls toss slowly back and forth.
I happen to know more about neurology than your average combat veteran. “Extremely minor. Right up there with wisdom teeth, actually. Expensive.”
“The scholarship covers that.”
Huh. “Who’s paying for this scholarship?”
“A VR game company. It’s one of the prizes. I guess Leah’s done really well with it.”
“What else does it cover?”
He taps his fingers on the edge of my desk. “Four years of college, books and tuition plus living expenses.”
“Full ride?”
“Yes. Also.” He measures me from the corners of his eyes. “Apparently Unitek is one of the game sponsors. There was a see me on my terminal from Doctor Holmes this morning. She wants me to enroll Leah in the same program you’re in.”
“Gabe…” Alarm bells going off in my head. “C’est trop cher.”
“Je sais. Toutes les coincidences. We’re both in it deep, Jenny, and I have no idea how the hell we’re going to get out. I can’t walk away from the medical care Genie’s getting. And Leah wants this, and hell — it will give her an edge in the job market when she gets out of school, for all I know.”
It probably will. That’s the killer. Middle-class families are getting neural for their kids in droves. “C’est vrai. It will make things a lot easier for her in fifteen years.”
He sighs. “What do you think?”
“Merci à Dieu. Gabe, I…” Which daughter do you sell for the other one’s sake? “I don’t know, Gabe. Je ne sais pas. Qu’est que tu penses?”
“Je devrai penser de lui.”
I cross to him and put my hand on his arm. “I’ll be around to bounce ideas off of if you need me.”
He’s silent and sharp-edged for a long time before he bites his lip, meaning trouble. “I also came to worry at you about this surgery. When are you scheduled?”
“I’m not.” And we shouldn’t be having this conversation in my office. Which is probably bugged.
“What?”
“Come on. Let’s get coffee.” I wonder what Valens makes of the daily parade down St. George to the Bloor Street coffee shops. He has to know we’re all sneaking out of the building to talk about him behind his back.
Gabe slouches along beside me once we’re outside. The autumn air is crisp: fall will be short after the suffocating summer, and winter hard as a fist in the face. The chill aggravates my limp, but it’s a fair trade-off for being alive on a day like this.
I look over at him, hands stuffed in his pockets and head ducked down like a sulky adolescent. “I’m not doing it. Valens lied to me about what’s going on.” If Valens has ways to eavesdrop on this convers
ation, I can’t bring myself to care.
That brings his head up, pivoting to stare at me as if pearls and diamonds had just tumbled from my mouth. “Maker. You’re in tough shape. You can’t…”
“Can’t what? Let Valens gut me and start over a second time? Fuck, Gabe, the man has never told the straight truth to anybody in sixty-five years.”
“I know. I know — Jen. I…” His mouth opens and shuts once or twice, like a hooked fish. He stops walking and lays his hand on the bark of a horse chestnut tree, leaning on it hard. Glossy brown nuts litter the sidewalk around our feet. There’s a little patch of grass in front of an apartment building a few feet away, and an equally glossy, fat black squirrel crouches in the middle of it, nibbling a nut. The native black squirrels are almost gone. The gray squirrel, an invader, has driven them out.
Forgive me if I feel a certain kinship with the rodent.
He finds his voice, but it’s brittle, dripping shock and pain. “Jen, you’re talking about dying. Giving up.”
“I know.” How do I explain to this man what it means to me? What I feel I have to do? He sees his best friend saying she’s going to leave him, and not cleanly either, but an inch and a memory at a time. And it’s not like he’s never watched anybody die by inches before.
“Gabe, he fed me some bullshit story about training kids. Saving kids. Safer soldiering through technology. It’s not about that.”
“What’s it about, then?” He bends down to pick up a chestnut that hasn’t come out of its spiky armor. Slowly, with one thumbnail, he picks the fleshy green shell away.
Bigger, better weapons, I could say. Guns in space, on platforms that move faster than the speed of light. But that’s not it exactly. And better us than the Chinese, right? Can’t let them have what we don’t, now that big momma dog U.S.A. isn’t feeling well enough to growl and show teeth at any provocation. “Remember when you came back from South Africa on leave that time? After you went back to combat? After my crash?”
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