by John Helfers
“Sweet Mamba,” he said in his rich whiskey and cream voice, just a trace of London accent left after all these years. “The face is new, but the moves are the same.”
“Asshole,” she spat at him, as she strained to break the hold. “You poached, stole my score, and left me stuck with this face.”
“Just a job,” he said, taking a kick to the shin that would’ve crippled an unaugmented man. “Isn’t that what you always say?”
In answer, Mamba slammed her head back, cracking it against his collarbone, felt the old injury give a little. Surprisingly, Medjay dropped.
Mamba spun to finish the fight, but Medjay was sprawled on his back, his brown cybereyes glazed over, limbs limp. She looked up to see Pharisee standing with her back to the closed door, a small pistol in her hand.
“Gamma-scopaline,” the technomancer said, as Mamba shot her a murderous glare. “Sorry. You two were starting to embarrass me. Maybe I should’ve just gone out and put up the ‘do not disturb’ sign?”
Mamba was still flushed with hot, bubbling anger. She hoped it was anger. “Shut up,” she managed.
Pharisee just raised an eyebrow. “Sweet Mamba?” She waited a second, to see if Mamba would rise to the bait. “I take it you know each other?”
Mamba shook her head, attempting to clear out the heat, to find her cold, rational center.
“He’s the one who stole those knives. If he doesn’t have them in here, then we’ll just wait, ask him who he gave them too,” Mamba said. “And hope they weren’t for his master,” she added under her breath.
Mamba began to search the room, methodically going through the Nubian’s things. The technomancer stood over his limp body.
“He smells nice,” she said, as she fastidiously draped the towel—which had fallen off in the fight—back over his hips. “Easy on the eyes, too. What’s the story?”
“No story. We worked together a while back. On a job. After the job, we went our separate ways,” Mamba said, dumping out his small valise and ripping through the lining.
“What’s his name?” Pharisee asked, curious. Mamba hated how curious the damn woman could be.
Mamba shrugged. “Don’t remember.”
“Mm-hm,” Pharisee replied. “Right.”
Mamba looked at the Egyptian woman, her eyes cold. “He’s a Knight of Rage. Heard the term?” Pharisee narrowed her eyes, looking down at the unconscious man. “Exactly. He’s loyal to his master, and no one else. I wasn’t willing to be recruited,” Mamba sneered. “Didn’t want to be a bitch on Celedyr’s leash,” she said.
Pharisee didn’t reply to that. Mamba turned her back on her partner to search through the hotel room. After Mamba had finished ransacking the room, she stood, her hands on her hips.
“Nothing. Damn it,” she said.
Pharisee was relaxing in a chair, legs crossed. She looked around the trashed room. “Feel better?”
Mamba shot an annoyed glance to the technomancer. “I was doing my job,” she said through gritted teeth. “Looking for the knives. Remember those?”
“Oh, is that why we’re here?” Pharisee asked snidely, looking back down at where the man lay, paralyzed and barely conscious, his black skin stretched taut over his muscles. At the look Mamba shot her, she cleared her throat. “Then why didn’t you check the safe first?”
“Safe?” Mamba asked, narrowing her eyes.
“Oops. Did I forget to mention the safe?” Pharisee pointed to a flat section of the wall, where a small mirror hung. Mamba went to it, stared for a moment, then saw the tiny switch. Physical, not wireless. Only in Lagos.
She flicked the switch and the mirror slid aside. A small biometric palm print reader made her swear. She glanced back at Pharisee.
“It’s not wireless,” the technomancer said. “And I don’t have my electronics kit here. You sold it, remember?”
Mamba looked back to where Medjay was stretched out on the floor. She’d already tucked one of his knives—conveniently stored beside his bed—through her belt. Mamba walked back over to the man. His hands were long-fingered, elegant. Like an artist’s, she’d thought once, not like the fat fingered hands of the men she remembered from her broken childhood. She knelt beside him.
Pharisee watched in mute horror.
Mamba picked his left hand up, slid the knife out of the sheath, and set it against his skin. His hand was warm, the fingers callused. She had a brief flashback, a memory of his clever fingers stroking her cheek, of her turning her head to place a kiss on his palm. The memory came with a stab of some unexpected emotion. Guilt was an uncomfortable feeling, longing even more so. Black Mamba dropped Medjay’s hand as though it had burned her, singed her with things she didn’t want to face. She scowled up at Pharisee.
“I swear, if you ever tell anyone about this, I’ll kill you,” she said, setting down the knife and awkwardly grabbing the man, grunting as she lifted his limp weight. She supported his weight and shoved his hand against the palm reader, then dropped him unceremoniously to the floor. The safe popped open with a little click.
Inside, the small plastic case was waiting for her. She slipped it out, opened it. The two ancient knives were snug inside, nestled in the soft velvet lining. Mamba snapped the case closed again, slid it under her shirt, against her back.
“Let’s go,” Mamba said to Pharisee.
“What about—”
“Let’s hope we can get off this damn island before he wakes up,” Mamba replied, curt. Without a backward glance, she left the room. Another minute to wait for the elevator, then down to the wide lobby. Before they went through the doors, Mamba looked over at Pharisee. “How’d you get your little gun through the MAD scanner?” she asked, curious.
Pharisee just raised an eyebrow, then walked through the scanners and back out into the harsh December winds.
Mamba followed. “Stay here,” she ordered the technomancer, pointing to the bench outside the hotel. Mamba took back her breather, earpiece, and AR glasses. “My blades are under that bush. If things get ugly, bring them to me. Otherwise—”
“I know, I know, don’t hack your ‘link,” Pharisee muttered, “As if you could stop me,” she said under her breath as she went towards the iced drink vendor.
Mamba shook her head at the technomancer’s back. Pragmatically, she snapped her breather on and retraced her steps back to Adua Street and Olabode Lekan’s well-guarded mansion.
The drug would last an hour, maybe two at the best. She planned on being off Victoria Island well before then. She was already regretting the impulse that prevented her from killing Medjay, or at least maiming him. Stupid, stupid, stupid, she told herself. She shied away from thinking about why she’d left him alive and whole in his hotel, and as a result, was feeling more than a little pissed when she stopped in front of the guards at number 12 Adua Street.
“I’m hear to see Lekan,” she said, curtly, to the man closest to the gate. He was Yoruba, so she repeated herself in his language. Sometimes playing the foreigner card worked, sometimes it didn’t. In her current mood, she’d be just as happy taking his gun and mowing all them down before they could react. Carefully, she tamped down the anger. Emotion got you killed in this line of work. There was no room for moods.
The guard just stared at her.
“Tell him Dr. Sierra Madeira is here,” she said. “He’ll want to see me.”
The guard didn’t speak, but Mamba bet he was sending a message via his ‘link. After a moment, he nodded to her, his expression slightly more polite. A clever, meta-human sized door swung open in the center of the vine-covered gate. The guard in front of it stepped to the side, and with a jerk of his head, motioned her through.
She went in.
The courtyard was laid out in muted red bricks, in a concentric circle around a large reflecting pool. Trees cast some shade, but there was little in the way of gardens or bushes. Nowhere to find cover, a portion of her mind observed. More armed guards, decked out in full security armor, stood
around the courtyard. The mansion was set back, a square building that glowed white in the harsh sunlight. Windows glinted, like crystals, and the entire building was sparkling clean. That, more than the size of the building or the small army of men, spoke of real wealth in Lagos. A human man in dun-colored robes approached her, followed by two heavy-set orks in military grade armor.
“Dr. Madeira? If you’ll please follow me,” he said in English, then turned back towards the broad, double door of the mansion. She followed him up some shallow steps to the doors. Once she’d stepped through, the two orks slid the doors shut with a quiet click.
The man in the robes paused once they were inside the cool building. “I must ask you to relinquish any weapons,” he said, politely. The two orks beside him gave unspoken force to his words.
Mamba slid out the plastic case from under her shirt, using very slow and deliberate motions.
“These aren’t weapons,” she said, flicking the case open. “But something I believe Lekan would like to see.”
“If I may?” the man replied, holding out his hands. Mamba reluctantly handed over the case. She’d already lost the damn things once. Now, she was this close to finishing the job she’d given up as a lost cause. But she felt the press of time. Every minute that passed, Medjay would be closer to recovery. He was an able enough hacker, when he used those damn skillsofts. How long would it take him to track her down?
And why hadn’t she thought of that when she had the opportunity to slit his throat? Why hadn’t she at least left him tied up? She shied away from acknowledging the answer to that question.
The man in the robe took the case, then smiled and led her though the soaring three-story entrance hall, down a dimly lit hall, and into a richly appointed office.
A human male, with wrinkled black skin and a tight cap of snowy-white hair, sat behind a large, polished wood desk. He wore richly textured woven robes, in a variety of bright colors. Olabode Lekan looked every bit the distinguished statesman, and nothing like the warlord he really was.
Once Mamba was in the room, the man in the dun robes carefully handed Lekan the plastic case, then left, closing the doors behind him. The two orks remained in the room, standing at attention. Two more guards, trolls that Mamba could tell were cybered to the gills just by watching them twitch, stood behind Lekan.
Lekan opened the case without speaking to her. He raised one white eyebrow at the two ancient knives, then clicked the case closed and sat it on the desk in front of him. He looked Mamba over.
“Dr. Madeira has been reported missing by the Apep Consortium in Cairo,” he began. His voice was rich and full, almost too robust for the small office; a voice meant to be giving speeches, not addressing low-life shadowrunners. “And at the same time, rumors are that an unnamed Apep dig site was hit by thieves. This, coupled with the fact that Dr. Madeira has no biological augmentations, certainly not to the level and quality of your own, presents an interesting mystery.”
Mamba inclined her head. “I’ve been employed to bring those artifacts to Oni Adegoke,” she said. “My employer heard about the Oni’s upcoming auction, and wanted to—” she struggled to phrase it politely. “—to send a gesture of good-will.”
Lekan tipped his head, considering her. Black Mamba wondered if he was using a spell, emotion-mapping software, or just his judgment. She hated losing control of a situation.
“I see you appear truthful,” he said.
Mamba let out a breath.
“Very well. I’ll accept this gift on behalf of the Oni. In exchange, I’d be happy to offer you a gift for your employer.” The old man stood, more graceful than his age would lead her to believe, and went to a small safe at the back of the room. When he returned, he dropped a small stack of ivory disks on the desk. “Tokens,” he said, gesturing to the disks. “Each one will admit one person to the auction. Your employer can contact me directly for more details, if he—or she—wishes.” He said it with distaste. The message was clear; don’t send any more shadowrunners.
Mamba picked up the small disks. There were five. She nodded to the old man, but he’d already dismissed her. Mamba bristled, but the odds were still against her… and she did have a job to finish.
She was escorted out of the mansion, back out to the street, the vine-covered gate closing behind her.
It’d been just over an hour since they’d left the Nubian in his room. He was probably awake by now. Or would be soon.
Mamba began walking back to where she left Pharisee.
“Everything’s frosty,” the technomancer said. “I watched through your AR glasses’ camera. I can’t believe we did it.”
“Stop hacking my commlink,” Mamba retorted. “And we still have to get these damn tokens back to our employer. Hell, we still have to get out of Lagos. Before Medjay catches us.”
“Oh, is that his name?” Pharisee teased.
Mamba ignored her, her mind already calculating, planning the next move. She was in control again. Catch an okada to the mainland, and from there to the airport. Getting through Lagos without tangling with the Igbo—who were probably still out for her blood—would be challenging. Getting out of Lagos before Medjay found her would likely be even more impossible.
Without realizing it, as she walked down the manicured streets and back to the dangerous blight of the feral city, Black Mamba smiled. Out of civilization; back to her comfort zone.
And towards a good fight.
Dead Names
By William H. Keith
So far, William H. Keith has published over eighty novels, including military novels, geopolitical spy thrillers, and science fiction, writing under his name and several pseudonyms. As “H. Jay Riker” he wrote the long-running SEALs: The Warrior Breed. As “Ian Douglas,” Keith wrote the Heritage, Legacy, and Inheritance military-SF series, following the exploits of the U.S. Marines into the far future. Most recently, he’s been writing spy thrillers in collaboration with best-selling author Stephen Coonts. Bill currently lives and writes in the mountains of western Pennsylvania.
I have to say right up front that I didn’t believe our Mr. Johnson. I mean, I’ve seen some freaked-out scat in my time, but this was just too hardwired weird for school.
“What?” I yelped at the guy. “You’re doodoodling me, man, right?”
We were sitting in the High Tox, the bar I’d chosen for the face-to-face. I guess I yelped a bit too loud when I heard what the op was, because I noticed Tony surreptitiously reaching for the scattergun he kept behind the bar. I met his eye, shook my head a little, and he relaxed.
But it was good knowing I had back-up with this bozo. He just meatjackin’ couldn’t be cruising the Real!
“I’m very serious, Mister, er, Faceman,” my contact said. “Roger Nakamura is supposedly paying forty million nuyen to Zayid if he can pull this off. My sponsors wish to intercept the … ah … package. At the source.”
I leaned back in my chair and sipped my drink. A banzai boomer, neat, bitter, the way Tony knows I like it. I needed to think this through. The Johnson had to be scamming us, had to have an angle.
The thing is, I’d worked for this Johnson before, and he’d always been a straight burner. He’d been the one who leveraged the Yokahama smartdust deal for us, and that had been pure sugar, a quick in-and-out that netted each of us forty-K nuyens, easy money.
And it had been a while since our merry band had scored. This time, our Mr. Johnson was offering us 200 K. We needed the money, and it wasn’t like we could afford to be picky.
The bastard was grinning at me. “You don’t believe me, do you?”
“Truth?” I asked. “Hell no. I think someone’s playing with your head, man.” I didn’t add that I was still trying to see how the Johnson might be trying to scam us. This thing just wasn’t adding up.
“Ah. But if it’s true. If Zayid has found the Gate … think of what it might mean!”
“Look,” I said. “It’s reality-check time, okay? Has anyone told your sponsor
s that this thing isn’t real? It’s a freakin’ work of fiction, for the gods’ sake!”
“That,” Mr. Johnson said, “is a matter of what you believe, isn’t it?”
“Aw, c’mon, Slick! The effing Necronomicon? Get real! Lovecraft was a writer, okay? He invented the thing for his damned stories!”
“And if enough people believe in a thing, Mr. Faceman, it takes on a certain amount of hard-cache reality. You know that.”
Of course I knew that. Everybody since 2011 knew that. But, damn it … this was fiction!
H.P. Lovecraft. The guy was all but unknown when he was alive, a minor horror writer in the pulp magazines of the day. He acquired quite a following in the years after his death, though, spawning a sub-genre all his own, populated by monstrous gods or godlike monsters that cared nothing for humanity save how they were going to eat us for dessert. Nyarlathotep, the Crawling Chaos. Hastur the Unspeakable. Azathoth, the daemon sultan bubbling and blaspheming at the center of infinity. And, of course, Great Cthulhu himself, lying dreaming in sunken R’lyeh.
Jesus. All those stories from the 1920s and ‘30s, set against a backdrop of hopelessness, nihilism, madness, and despair. God doesn’t love you; He’s going to squash you like a bug. Or better. God loves you, because you taste great with a little BBQ sauce. Maybe that’s why old HP was so popular with the younger set, even now, a century and a half later.
And Lovecraft had invented the Necronomicon as a singular plot McGuffin, an ancient tome of dark magic replete with forbidden knowledge, including the incantations and formulae necessary for calling forth dread Cthulhu and his kind. It was supposed to have been written by Abdul Alhazred, the Mad Arab. Hell, anyone who speaks Arabic ought to get a clue right there. No Arab would ever be named “Abdul” in real life. That’s Western racist ignorance. It means “slave of—” and needs to have a name tacked on at the end. “Abdullah,” for instance, “Slave of God.” Do you understand? Lovecraft made it up … and he got it wrong!