by Jak Koke
"I’m afraid the arrangements have already been made. I’m sorry." Brackhaus shifted in his seat and reached toward the small bar unit adjacent to him. "It’s a pity things turned out this way for you," he said. "Can I offer you a drink, a small pleasure. Wine perhaps."
Synthia shook her head as sweat made its trickling way down her back. "Am I off the hook then? You’ll give me the antibodies?"
"I’m afraid not, Miss Stone. You failed."
Synthia fought down her reflex to fry this man. That hadn’t worked before and it wouldn’t now. She clenched her teeth against the frustration and took a breath. "I’ve done everything in my power," she said. "Please reconsider."
"Life is not fair, Miss Stone. Sometimes all you can give is just not enough."
"Frag you, Brackhaus! Can the philosophical bulldrek." She felt the tingle of a spell growing in the back of her mind.
"Miss Stone, this conversation is no longer informative, nor amusing."
She cast the manabolt, thinking, I’m going to pummel this fragger. And she cast another after that. And another. She kept on casting until the energy drained from her and she had no strength left.
And through it all, Brackhaus merely glared at her with his ice blue eyes, a disappointed frown on his face. The energy channeled around him and away, having no effect.
The blackness of unconsciousness swelled over her like a dark and comforting blanket. A prelude to her final oblivion, and right now she welcomed it. Relief from the gnawing pain and the fatigue. She gave in to the exhaustion and slumped forward, nestling under the dark blanket of peace and passed out.
49
As Jonathon waited for Venny to come out of surgery at the UCLA Medical Center where DocWagon Los Angeles operated, memories of prison washed through his mind. After the Multnomah Falls incident, Jonathon and Tamara, along with the dwarf, Theodore Rica, had been shipped to a medium-security federal penitentiary in Fairfax, Virginia. Most of the inmates were low threat: deckers or spies.
The hardest thing for Jonathon had been his withdrawal from Tamara’s link. He’d been so used to sharing mind and emotions with her four or five times a week that the sudden isolation gave him the DTs—the shakes, sweating, and vomiting. It hit them both pretty hard.
But now, it had been several days since Tam’s death and Jonathon expected the symptoms to hit anytime. But they didn’t. Perhaps the ghostly hiss in his mind was keeping the shakes at bay. Perhaps the DTs just hadn’t set in yet.
Either way the dead static seemed to be growing. Now it howled through his mind like a banshee, hissing and growling in his ears. And it made the tips of his fingers and toes tingle.
Jonathon stood up from the sofa in the waiting lounge and walked to the vending machines along the wall. The doctor had been kind enough to let him into the private waiting area since someone had recognized him and reporters were starting to show up and hound him for an interview. Jonathon had been grateful for the privacy.
He slotted a credstick and punched the code for a chocolate-flavored mycoprotein bar. Make that two. He was hungry, and he needed food to think. The beginnings of a plan were coalescing in his head, but the details were still vague. It was hard to think with so much static.
Jonathon would have to contact Grids, let him know what had happened. Grids could still help, that was certain. In fact, his help was crucial. And as Jonathon chewed the last of his mycoprotein bar, part of his plan solidified and clicked into place.
He stepped up to a public telecom on the wall and punched in the number for Hemmingway’s chateau. He knew this line was by no means private or secure, but he didn’t have the time or the resources to seek out another telecom.
After a brief conversation with security on Hemmingway’s end, he was patched through to Grids, who was having a late lunch with Hemmingway beside the pool.
It was Dexter who answered, the microthin lines of his face edging around his smile. "Hello, Jonathon," he said. "Grids has just been telling ’bout all the wiz drek he does with simfeatures. How’s it going with you?"
"Not great, Dexter," Jonathon said. "Venny’s been hurt, and I need to speak with Grids before I head down to the stadium."
Dexter frowned. "If there’s anything I can do . . ."
"Grids may need some supplies."
"My arsenal is at your disposal."
"Thank you."
"Just smoke them tonight, Jonathon," Dexter said. "Smoke ’em and I’ll be happy. Especially Dougan Rose."
"I intend to do just that," Jonathon said.
"Here’s Grids," Dexter said, then the image tilted wildly and swiveled around to show a harried, but healthier-looking Grids Desmond.
"How’s biz?" Jonathon asked.
"Not too chill," Grids said. "I’m still in shock over all my fragged-up equipment, but I’m gonna hang with you. All the way, chummer. That’s what I said when we started and that’s what I plan to do."
"I appreciate it more than you can know."
"It’s what Tam would have wanted," Grids said. Jonathon nodded. "I need you to get some things together."
"What?"
"For starters, a small hunk of plastique, C-12 if possible, and a digitally timed detonator. Dexter should have what we need. Also bring a couple of certified credsticks, each with ten-kay nuyen on them. And put together a set of tools for making changes to some simsense hardware."
"What hardware?"
"Don’t know exactly, but it’s a live-feed, multiple-input system with on-the-fly editing for a mass market."
Grids nodded, staring off into space as he mentally tallied what he might need.
"I want you to pack everything into the Nightsky and drive here, UCLA Medical Center, and pick me up."
"Null sheen," Grids said. "I’ve got it chipped."
That almost brought a smile to Jonathon’s lips. Almost. "Good," he said. "I’ll expect you in less than an hour." Grids nodded, then disconnected.
Jonathon stepped back from the wall telecom and took a breath before placing the next call. The crucial link in his plan.
Jonathon turned to the sound of a door opening. "Mr. Winger?" said a middle-aged elven doctor. She was blackskinned and quite attractive, wearing green surgical scrubs, booties, and a mask that hung around her neck. Jonathon stared into her eyes, looking for a sign. And he could see it there, even before she spoke.
"Venice Jones will live," the doctor said. "But he must remain in ICU for another twenty-four hours minimum. We removed five bullets, and replaced five liters of blood. He’s lucky."
Jonathon breathed a heavy sigh. "Thank you, Doctor," he said. "You’ve made my fragging day."
She smiled. "He’s amazingly resilient. I’ve lost patients with less damage. They just didn’t have the will to survive. But him, he held on."
"Can I see him?"
"No, I’m afraid ICU is a high-security area and no visitors are allowed," she said. "You can observe him on the closed-circuit screen if you’d like, but. . ."
She paused for a second. "Don’t you have to be someplace in a few hours?"
Jonathon laughed.
"I’ll contact you when he’s moved out of ICU," she said.
"Thank you."
The doctor turned and stepped through the door. And as soon as it was closed, Jonathon tapped in Theo Rica’s private number. He wanted to get it over with.
Theo answered, his dwarven face a pleasant sight to Jonathon’s eyes. "Winger, you daisy-munching fragger. It’s good to see your face again so soon, chummer."
Jonathon smiled. "Likewise, halfer."
Theo’s expression grew serious. "What’s biz?"
"At Tamara’s funeral you said if I needed your help, I should just ask."
"And I meant it too."
"Well, I’m asking," Jonathon said. "And it’s not a small thing."
"Hold on," Theo said. "Let me get a decker to scan this line for any traces."
Jonathon waited while Theo spoke to someone on another part of the scre
en. After a minute Theo looked back at Jonathon. "All right, we’re clear. Spill it."
So Jonathon did. He outlined his plan to Theo, watching the dwarf for a reaction. He knew it was a long shot, but he didn’t see any other choice. And when he was done, Theo considered for a moment. "I think it’s madness, chummer," he said, scowling at Jonathon. "It’ll probably get you killed. Is drek really that over the top?"
"Yes," Jonathon said.
"Then, I'll make the arrangements. I’ll have to call in quite a few marks, but the plan should work . . ." Theo paused for effect, "If you survive the match."
Yeah, Jonathon thought. That was one huge fragging "if."
50
Maria crouched in the long shade of the desalinization plant’s fusion dome, enjoying the reprieve from the sunshine as much as she could. She hadn’t slept today and she was more than a little slotted off at Dougan for not postponing the exchange until after sundown. Then, under the cover of night, she would have Owl’s complete strength.
But Dougan had nullified that program. The meet had to happen now so that he could make it to his combat biker match. Saying he needed to prove he was a better linebiker than Jonathon Winger. Lay all the hyped speculation to rest along with Winger’s body.
Originally, Dougan had wanted the meet in El Infierno, and Maria had liked the idea of killing Tashika in the old burned-out husk of the Compton school, where Jesse had died. She could appreciate that kind of irony.
But Tashika had rejected the idea, suggesting Watts or even Downtown, both corporate-controlled areas. Dougan had just laughed at that; they’d finally decided on the coast, in the open lot just outside the three-meter-high cyclone fence that surrounded the El Segundo desalinization plant.
The lot was oil-soaked gravel, filled with broken glass and the smell of seagull guano and rotting fish. The roar of the ocean was soothing, lulling Maria toward sleep. She just wanted this over and done so she could see her kids again. She shook her head and concentrated on the task at hand, astral reconnaissance to watch for Tashika’s approach.
Shifting into astral space, she let her body slump against the metal wall of the warehouse that bordered the gravel lot. Then she stepped through the wall, checking on the five Steppin' Wulfs Dougan had hired for backup.
Four humans and one ork crouched behind the sliding metal door. They were cybered to the teeth and antsy with their guns. Ready, in their tattoos and obvious chrome, to ambush the suits when they arrived. Hopefully, they’ll be enough, Maria thought. The Steppin’ Wulfs generally didn’t hire themselves out, but Dougan had played on their hatred of the corps and on their love of bloodshed and nuyen. The coast district was their turf, and they were rumored to be deadly and ruthless, especially to trespassers.
The distant sound of an approaching limousine. Make that two—Toyota Elite limos, skittering toward them like sleek, black cockroaches. Maria returned to her body as the limousines stopped just steps away from where Dougan and Maurice stood. The big human carried a large automatic gun of some sort, crooked into his elbow. Dougan’s gloved hands were empty.
After a minute, two huge bodyguards stepped out of the front limo. Private security types. Rented for just this occasion most likely. The bodyguards were both human, distinctly Nihonese in appearance, and looked to weigh a good hundred kilos each. A slight rigidity to their business suits hinted at body armor beneath.
The two made a quick scan of the area, then stood on either side of another man with somewhat Asian features as he stepped out of the rear limousine. There was a slight curl to his black hair, and a hint of roundness to his eyes. Must be some Euro-blood in Mr. Tashika, Maria thought. He stepped up to Dougan Rose. "I take it you have the chip?" Dougan nodded. "You have destroyed the data you have on me?"
Tashika reached slowly into the pocket of his suit. "It’s all here," he said, extending a chip toward Dougan. "The rest has been purged."
Dougan pulled his own chip, the one that contained the false data. "This wasn’t easy to get," he said. "I lost a chummer because of it."
Tashika took the chip from Dougan’s hand and let out a harsh laugh. "Not my concern, slot," he said. "You made your fragging bed a long time ago."
Maurice’s shoulders tensed and he nearly struck out at Tashika, but Dougan put his hand out and grabbed the chip from Tashika’s hand. "That concludes our biz, then," Dougan said.
That’s the signal. Maria whispered, "Now, Stoney. Now!"
The huge city spirit manifested behind one of the bodyguards and grabbed him. Stoney crushed the man in a mass of living concrete and riebar. Dougan dove out of the way, and Maurice brought his gun to bear on Tashika and unloaded.
At precisely the same time, the warehouse door on Maria’s right slid open and the Steppin’ Wulfs released a barrage of bullets and rockets. Several rockets hit the limos and exploded, launching one into the air in a gout of flame and a concussion of shrapnel. The other lurched and caught fire.
Tashika’s bullet-ridden body flew forward from the blast, landing near Maria. Bleeding and burned and all twisted up like a ragdoll that had landed wrong.
It was all over in a matter of seconds. The other bodyguard managed to get his weapon out and blow a hole in Maurice before doing down, but they were all lying twisted and bleeding, the burning corpses of the limousines a flaming backdrop to the violence.
Maria lost Stoney during the second explosion, the big spirit disintegrating in the wave of heat and flame. The Steppin’ Wulfs advanced on the scene with lust in their eyes, then proceeded to gut the corpses, Maurice among them. Dougan didn’t even try to stop them, and Maria was too tired to argue.
So much death.
She stepped over to Tashika’s body, and bent down. His aura still clung to the mangled and leaking flash. Still alive. She leaned close to his ear. "This is payback for my brother," she said. "And for all those families you killed in Compton when you told Lone Star where we were."
Tashika tried to turn his head, bone showing silver through the red gore of his cheek. Breath hacking up through him. "Not me," he said. "Not... only ... me."
"What?" She put her ear down close to what was left of his face.
"Dougan," he spat out, "betrayed your . . . position to me." He pulled his knees up into a fetal crouch.
Chills crept spidery tendrils across her back, and she shivered despite the waves of heat coming from the burning limos.
"In exchange for . . ." Tashika coughed up some bloody flesh from his throat.
"What?" Maria whispered, her voice barely audible even to her. "In exchange for what?"
"Buzzsaws," Tashika said. "Fame."
Could it be true? But even as the question formed in her mind, she knew the answer. The myriad small inconsistencies in Dougan’s story, in his excuses for things, all coalesced in her mind. He’d been lying to her all these years. And now, she had killed more people because of it. Murdered innocent people for him.
He’s fragged up my life for the last time.
She started to stand, but Tashika’s hand caught hold of her collar with a death grip. He pulled her head down by his again, and the smell of burnt flesh made her stomach lurch into her throat.
"Kill me," he said. "Please, before they . . . My body."
Maria looked over to see the Steppin’ Wulfs bathing in the eviscerated remains of the dead. The two Nihonese bodyguards and Maurice had been torn to shreds with cyberspurs, and the gangers had clothed themselves in the bloodied strips of their flesh. The Wulfs were dancing in a pseudo-ritualistic circle, celebrating their kill.
Dougan, who’d been thrown down by the explosions, just watched. A frown of distaste showed on his face.
Maria turned away. She couldn’t watch anymore.
"Let . . . me . . . go," came the ghost of a whisper from Tashika.
But as Maria stood up and prepared to hit him with a manabolt that would send him over the edge of fadeout, she saw with her astral sight that he was already there. The last tatters of his aura ha
d fluttered away.
She formed a spell anyway, not a manabolt, but a cold blue flame. She let it loose, bathing his body in blue fire. And she sustained the spell until he was no more than ash. Then she turned to do the same with the bodies of the others, not caring what the gangers might do to her for messing with their kills.
Dougan stopped her as she approached them. "What the frag are you doing?" he asked. "They’ll kill you."
She stopped, looking up into the face of the man who’d once shared her bed. She had loved him then, but all the while he’d been using her. "You betrayed me," she said, her voice soft. But as she continued, her whisper rose to a scream, "Tashika told me everything. Jesse died because you sold us out!" She pushed against his grip and focused her power. I will destroy him, she thought.
Suddenly Dougan spun her around and held her. A gun appeared in his hand, he pressed the cold metal against her temple. "Don’t, Maria," he said. "Don’t try magic now. My finger is slippery on this trigger, and I’d hate for an accident to happen out here." Then he reached into his pocket with his free hand and pulled something out. He pressed it against her neck, just above her Muerte tattoo.
Within seconds, her vision blurred. A dermal tranquilizer patch.
"I’ll see you dead, Dougan," Maria said, then her knees buckled, and she fell into his hard embrace. Drawn down into the dark caress of oblivion.
51
Jonathon pulled his thoroughly abused Mitsubishi Nightsky up to the security gate of the Sabers’s garage. A big ork in a gold and navy blue uniform that looked about a size and a half too small stepped up to the driver’s side window.
"Hoi, Nick," Jonathon said, holding out his team ID card. "Having a wiz one?"
The big ork guard shrugged and scanned the card as a matter of protocol. "And who’s your passenger?"
"He’s a new simsense tech. Terry’s training him tonight."
"Well, don’t let her tear his head off like she did the last one." Nick said.
"This one doesn’t make mistakes."
Nick smiled at that. "All right," he said. "You’re clear. All the chummers and I have nuyen on you, Winger. Don’t let us down."