“Beautiful, isn't it?” Khase shaded his eyes and gazed out across the sound. “Just think, this land, this water was all here before any of us were even a gleam in our parents’ eyes. And, nature willing, it will still be here when all of us have returned to the dust from whence we came.”
“Spare me your environmental raptures, will you?” Sindje paced the roof, oblivious to the stunning vista before her. “Drek, my bad feeling about this run is getting worse and worse. And what’s with Hood playing Mr. Happy Gardener down there? 1 mean, I think he doesn’t even know anything about the Johnson that gave us this gig. Frag, I think our Johnson doesn’t even know anything about the plants, set it up for someone else and—”
“I agree, chwaer.”
“And to top it all off, when I call Hood on what he’s doing, messing with the drekkin’ plants, he dismisses me like I’m a roba. You all but kiss his hoop while shoving me out the door. I mean, way to back me up in there, brother—”
“You are correct, something is off here.”
“And another thing—what? What did you say?” Sindje halted her tirade in midsentence. “Did you actually just agree with me?”
Khase turned to face her. “Yes, I tend to do that once in a while, when you make a good point.” Sindje’s mouth hung open as he continued. “There are too many aspects about this supposed ‘milk run’ that have made me very suspicious indeed.”
He leapt into the air, coming dowm on his hands and walking along the lip of the building’s roof as easily as another person would walk down a city street. “I think that Max, you and I have already noticed the difficulty executing this heist in the first place—”
“Wait a sec, and get over here.” Sindje tapped her foot until her brother ran, still on his hands, to her. She shoved him over while activating her mindlink spell with the push. Khase flipped head over heels and landed on his feet in a balanced crouch. All right, let’s continue this conversation this way—I’d rather take the lower chance of spirits listening in than satellites.
However you prefer, chwaer. The adept ran straight at the base of a windmill, sprinting several meters up its side, then arcing off to flip through the air and land in front of Sindje. As I said, besides the difficulty of pulling off what was supposed to be simple break-and-grab, then we come back to a triple-A neighborhood to hang out until the heat dies down. You can’t tell me Hood actually owns a co-op like this, unless he’s been seriously jacking us around about his real life—perhaps one that is completely outside the streets.
Yeah, not that he’s really told us all that much about his big, warty self. He knows far more about us and about Max, I’m certain. But what’s really raising my hackles is the so-called delay by our Johnson, Sindje thought, turning to look at the tangle of skyscrapers, superhighways, and the bustling humanity of all kinds across the bay to the northeast. This whole run has been a big load of drek from the start, and it doesn’t look like it’s going to get any better. Who knows what that Johnson is prepping for us at the drop? A full-bore sec team or two, with mages and elementals and frag knows what else? No thanks, Hood can jam those plants up his—
Point taken, my sister. Khase rubbed his smooth chin. I think it’s time to bring in a little help—someone who can go places more easily than we can. He walked back to the door and picked up the maintenance handset inside. “Max? Yeah, it’s me. Why don’t you come up to the roof for a minute, get some fresh air? Trust me, it will do you good to get a different perspective on things. See you in a few.”
He strolled back to Sindje. If I know our industrious little hacker, no doubt she’s already been scanning the scream-sheets, looking for any hint of interest in what went down this morning. If she has, then it will be even easier to have her poke around into Hood’s life—if he really does own that condo. A troll like that has to have an electron trail, faked or otherwise. And I’ll bet Max is just the person to find out.
Interesting thought, brawd. You have been thinking about this.
More like letting it filter through my subconscious while I entered a higher realm of awareness. Really, sister, you should try meditation sometime, it would soothe—
The only thing that will soothe my mind at the moment is getting those plants out of our hands and getting the nuyen we’re owed into them. Sindje brushed a stray lock of hair back from her face as she regarded her brother, choosing her next thought carefully. That reminds me—how far are you willing to take this if necessary?
Khase smiled, steepling his fingers as he considered the question. Why, dear sister, whatever do you mean?
Don't play fraggin’ coy with me, slotter, you know as well as I do that we need this payoff—folks we owe aren’t going to be as forgiving this time around.
Oh, that little matter.
Yeah, the debt. You know we were lucky to get out of New York in the first place. I still don’t know how those enforcers from Tir na nOg picked up our trail so fast. And after that scum Niswaters had the nerve to claim that we hadn’t paid him after we dropped the money off.
Don’t forget our little adventure trying to switch planes in Detroit, either. Khase’s handsome features clouded as he considered past events. Don’t worry, Niswaters will get his, one way or another. But his boss is still saying that we owe that debt—including the vig, which is racking up even as we stand here—so we need all the jobs we can get to get out from under his wide thumb.
No kidding. My question still stands.
Let’s just say that in the event of complications—which I am expecting, by the way, I am prepared to take any measures necessary to ensure our payment. Provided those measures don’t jeopardize the team or bring the heat down on us.
Does that include geeking? You know how our tad Hood frowns upon that.
Which, as I recall, we have had no problem with either. Unlike many others who think that life of any kind is cheap and easily sacrificed if it interferes with their goals, I know we aspire to a higher standard—
But?—
But if push came to geek . . . well, I haven’t come to that point in any of our runs yet, but one never knows—
A heavy hand slapped at the rooftop door, and Khase sprang over to open it. Max stomped out, squinting in the bright sunlight. “Fraggin’ Hood keeps it like an oven down there for those plants.”
“He didn’t notice you leave?” Sindje crossed her arms. “Vut, that loco troll was elbow deep in potting soil, last I saw of him. But what I wanna know is, what’s so all-fraggin’ important that you two gotta drag me out of my comfy chair up to this bone-cold rooftop?”
Sindje grinned. “Tell me, Max, anything seem—weird— about this run to you?”
“Anything? Don’t you mean everything?” The ork snorted in disgust. “Besides the small army dogging us through that agricorp—an agricorp, for drek’s sake!—the loss of my Ares RM, our kickin’ it in these plush digs . . . and here’s something you didn’t know: there hasn’t been a peep in the newsvids yet about our run—nothing, not even on the police blotter. So far I haven’t found anything that jives on this run yet. This smells . . . major kusatta.”
Told you she’d been working, Khase thought to his sister. “We surmised you might be feeling that way, since it’s the exact same conclusion we arrived at during our rooftop constitutional.” He sank to the roof in a perfect split that would be the envy of any gymnast, his legs pointing straight north and south. “The question is: what should we do about it?” “Bottom line, Hood knows more than he’s telling, and we want to find out what’s up.” Sindje resisted the urge to rub her hands together.
“And you want me to snoop around, and see what I can see, eh, chummers? Dig into Hood’s background? Haven’t known him all that long. Been on . . . what . . . four runs with him? All lucrative, though.” A cunning look appeared on Max’s rough features as she tapped a tusk with one finger. “What’s in it for me?”
“What’s in it for you? What’s in it—” Sindje’s eyes glowed all on their own, she
was so apoplectic.
The hacker remained unfazed, crossing her arms. “Don’t think I need to remind you two who lost both her ride and her gonna-be brand new pug puppy on this run. Cut’s not even gonna cover my expenses, and my skills don’t come cheap. Both of you are asking me to risk my hoop doing a look-see into Hood. A zakhan like him I do not need.”
Khase feigned a cough. “Not just Hood. The Johnson as well.”
“How did I know that was coming?”
Sindje’s gaze narrowed. “Most likely ’cause you already thought of it yourself.”
“So you also want me to really risk my hoop in a sneak and peek on our Johnson, which normally wouldn’t be an option, ’cept my gut’s telling me something’s definitely ku-satta in Seattle.”
“Kusatta?” Sindje ground her heel against the roof and put on a false look of disbelief. “Really?”
“Bottom line, cerri, as you said earlier—no pay, no play.” Max stood like a rock, waiting. “A girl’s gotta make a living any way she can. I’m already in the red on this deal, so let’s get to it.”
Sindje looked to Khase, who was standing on one leg on the comer of the roof, arms outstretched, doing a Sumatran kick kata with his other leg so fast his foot blurred. Without pausing, he shrugged. No reward is more generous than that for a spy. Your call.
“Fraggin’ lousy son-of-a-slitch fraggin’ frag!” the mage muttered under her breath, then turned back to the ork. “Five percent of mine and Khase’s share.”
“Twenty.”
“Seven.”
“Seventeen.”
“Nine.”
“Fourteen.”
“Eleven.”
“Twelve.”
Sindje thought about pushing for the extra half-percent, but decided not to bother, sticking out her hand instead. “Twelve, but only if you get something concrete on both the Johnson and Hood. No pay for wasted time.”
“Pointy, in the ’trix, my time is never wasted.” Max grinned, revealing more tusk than Sindje was comfortable with. “I’ll even round down to the nearest second for you. Ooh, look at the time. Well, since I’m on the clock for my new gig, let me see what I can dig up.”
“Yeah, you do that.” Sindje watched the ork slip back downstairs, then turned and kicked the plastic windmill housing several times with her booted foot. “Frag, frag, frag!”
9
11:03:24 a.m.
B elver Serra was a remarkable looking woman, exquisitely fine-boned, standing nearly two meters tall and appearing at least a decade younger than her forty years. She prided herself on “being natural,” as the only “enhancement” she’d undergone was a simple surgery to have her nose straightened, and that was shortly before her fourth birthday. Her parents paid enough for the operation that all record of it was expunged; no reason for the world to think that a Serra had ever been born less than perfect.
Her peach-pale skin was smooth and unblemished, the only hint of age being miniscule wrinkles at the edges of her ice-blue eyes, and these were covered by the smallest dabs of concealer. Her makeup was professionally applied at a shop in the New Century Square Hotel two blocks away; she stopped there every morning before coming to work. She had her hair done there, too, today wearing her short inky curls fanned back and up to halo her oval-shaped face—a professional style that was more alluring than the tight, twisting buns favored by several other women executives with the corp.
Her lips were tinted “vibrant salmon no. fourteen,” precisely matching the color of her tailored faux-silk suit, which gleamed softly in the noon light that spilled through the conference room window. With her broad shoulders, made more pronounced by her narrow waist and hips, she cast a shadow that looked like a dagger—a hard, dangerous image that matched her demeanor.
And perfectly matched the keen edge in her voice. “This merger was supposed to go down smoothly, gentlemen. In your report, Melton, you said three days.” Belver stepped to the table, leaning between two young men sitting in swivel chairs. She clicked her manicured fingernails against the black-mirrored surface and let her breath hiss out between clenched teeth. Her gaze held the three men on the opposite side of the table in place. “Three days has turned into thirteen.”
The man in the middle on the opposite side nervously tugged at the collar of his shirt. Sweat beaded up on his forehead. “There have been complications.”
“There are no such things as complications, Mr. Melton. Only opportunities.”
“We’ve made considerable progress in the past few . . .” “Progress is not a closed deal, Mr. Melton.”
He swallowed hard. “But we will close it. In fact . . .” “Close it?” Belver stepped back from the table, her dagger-shadow pointing straight at Melton. “This afternoon?”
He shook his head.
“Tonight?”
Another shake. “We’re close, though. Very. I think . . .” “Think? If you were capable of thinking, Mr. Melton, you would have closed the deal ten days ago.”
Sweat trickled into his cybereyes.
“Still, the fault is not entirely yours, Mr. Melton.”
A measure of relief crept onto his face.
“And not entirely the fault of your team.” Belver circled the table now, each step measured and deliberate, her spiky heels leaving deep divots in the carpet. “I hold some of the blame, gentlemen.”
One of the men released a breath he’d been holding.
“I selected you, after all. I named Mr. Melton lead negotiator. I erred in my judgment, and therefore I must count myself culpable.”
Melton made a move to rise, but in a heartbeat she was behind him, the mere touch of her index finger on his shoulder sinking him deep into the cushion of his chair with a soft whoosh.
“So I accept a measure of the fault.” She brought her lips to Melton’s ear, her breath misting on the datajack in his neck. “And therefore I will not have you fired. I will, however, put this failure on your corporate record.”
Melton tipped his chin up, his jaw quivering ever-so-faintly. “This merger with Gaeatronics, we can still close it. We can . . .”
She swung away from Melton and made another sweep around the table, a shark circling prey. Then she was in the doorway, her dagger-shadow looking menacingly long and dark because of the angle of the sunlight. “I will close the deal myself, Mr. Melton. This afternoon, or perhaps this evening. Then tomorrow I will find something else for you to handle, something more suited to your”—she icily stared him down, enjoying the way he withered under her gaze—“abilities.”
Belver left the conference suite without another word, leaving the underlings to fumble their way out of the room. The understated perfume of Europa’s new BodyChrome eau de toilette, which wasn’t even available on this continent yet, surrounded her as she took the hallway to another conference room. The gleaming stainless steel double doors swung open as she approached, and the exec crossed to two women studying a holo-image model of a housing development reactor. “Ready to present to the client?”
“Of course.” The reply was practically in unison.
“For the two o’clock meeting?”
Twin nods.
“Very good.” Belver watched the holo-image shift to a cutaway, showing a bank of circuits and wire-feeds. “I’ve scheduled Room C for two hours. I trust it won’t take longer than that.”
The pair shook their heads. “Absolutely not,” one replied.
“Excellent.” The word was a purr. “I’ve something else to tend to late this afternoon, and I’d hate to miss it because your report was not concise.”
Belver stopped in two other rooms, checking on the progress of a lawsuit and another merger. In three more years she might move far enough up the corporate ladder that she’d have underlings supervising concerns such as these.
Three more blasted years. Should've been on the board already. Get my blasted father off my back. She downed a protein drink before stepping into her office. Should’ve had one of the top corn
ers last year. Still, she did have a corner office, midway up the corp tower. She had a view of the Seattle Art Museum, the building itself a bit of a relic with its curving bone-white fa
She watered a spider plant that had sent runners down the side of her desk, then contacted her secretary on her personal commlink. “Darla, cancel my personal trainer today. I’ve two meetings this afternoon, and then I’ll be leaving for an appointment off-site.”
“Very good, Ms. Serra. Should 1 reschedule your trainer as well?”
Belver sat in her ergonomic leather chair and rolled herself back from the desk. “Tomorrow would be fine, Darla. Anytime after my nine o’clock conference.” She made a move to disconnect, but the secretary chirped:
“Three . . . ah . . . gentlemen are here to see you, Ms. Serra. They’ve been waiting some time. Shall I reschedule them, too?”
Belver sat straight and pulled herself against the desk. “Send them in, Darla.” She activated several more programs, setting in motion a personal holo-recorder and shutting down all monitors connected to the corp security systems.
Two of the men were young and likely brothers, their builds similar, their jaws square and their eyes the same steely gray. The third was on the far side of middle age with a face pockmarked from what was likely a childhood disease. His gray-streaked hair was pulled back in a braid that hung down to the middle of his back. All were in slightly out-of-date suits, but were clean and could have passed for salesmen of some kind.
“Don’t like to be kept waiting.” The pockmarked man was obviously the spokesman. “Our time is valuable.”
Lacing her fingers together, Belver steepled her thumbs and silently regarded them for a few moments. The quiet didn’t rattle the trio, which impressed her. Finally: “I’m paying you well enough to wait. Is everything in place?”
Shadowrun 45 - Aftershock Page 8