Redback

by Lindy Cameron

  ‘Jumped-up skinny-arsed Aussie pissant,’ he said aloud, taking his e-pod from his pocket. It might just be time to ask a favour of Teddy Drake’s main man. In the meantime he punched in his e-pod password and looked up an international number. Putting his feet up on Baldric IV’s, or whoever’s ancient friggin desk, he rang the direct line to the US Ambassador in Canberra.

  Tokyo Hilton Hotel, Japan:

  Tuesday 9.30 pm

  Scott Dreher paced the lounge of the 30th floor suite he’d booked into half an hour before. He swirled the ice in his bourbon, took a swig and went back to the window. Pressing his forehead against the glass, he stared out at the massive multi-level fairground that was the Tokyo cityscape: thousands of light bulbs of every colour imaginable, and a good half of them in constant movement. Man, what are you doing here?

  Scott was still trying to figure out how a simple feature story on computer war games had turned into an off-the-wall but so far inexplicable international plot of some kind, with, hello, actual murder now in the mix. At which point did the story change? And change again? And get deadly?

  Was Hiroyuki Kaga murdered because he’d arranged to talk to Scott? Did whoever killed Hiro even know about him? Was Hiroyuki Kaga actually dead?

  Now there’s a point. Scott flopped onto the couch, checked his watch and reached for the TV remote. It was just on half-past nine, so he figured he might find some local news.

  Oh. Okay, Scotty boy, so there’s no question the unmet Hiroyuki is dead. Scott didn’t need a translator to tell him that the live news footage of cop cars, ambulances, ranks of Tokyo media and a crowd of onlookers, was all down to the death earlier this evening of the man he was supposed to have met. The fact that the scene was outside an establishment called the Wild Lotus ‘love hotel’ was a pretty big clue too.

  Oh my God. Please don’t tell me I’m somehow responsible for the death of Hiroyuki Kaga.

  As the cameras panned the growing crowd again, Scott took in the Scapers, Mappers and other techno-punks streaming in to join the grieving throngs of already bawling fans. No doubt Spaceboy, who’d helped them escape the internet café, had joined them by now too.

  Hiroyuki Kaga was huge in Japan. He was mangaka, no, daika - the ‘big guy of manga’ - and cult hero of the century, this one and the last. Scott shook his head. If you took Stan Lee, grand master of comic book heroes, and put him with the various Americans who’d created Lara Croft, Scarifier, and the online Crash Realm, and made them into one man, he’d still not match the legendary Hiroyuki Kaga creator of NiteScape, GlobalWarTek, MindMap, and the Diamond Ninja Clan.

  Okay so this status was, until recently, confined to off and on-line gamers - millions of them - and the new breed of Western pop-culture junkies who also trawled the fringes of nerdsville; but to them he was ‘The Name, The Man’. And Hiroyuki’s fame was about to spread beyond the computer game world and virtual domains, because his creative influence had now reached gamers, designers and even filmmakers in the States.

  He caught the fragrant rush of steam from the suddenly opened bathroom door behind him, only a moment before Kaisha said, ‘They are lying. Hiro did not kill himself.’

  Scott turned to find her wearing nothing but two towels, one on her body and another turbaned on her head. ‘Is that what they’re saying?’

  ‘Kuso!’ Kaisha made a spitting sound at the TV. ‘With his own sword, they say he killed himself. As if.’

  Oh good, swords now. Scott stood up, went to the cupboard near the bathroom door and took out a white robe. He handed it to Kaisha. ‘Did he own a sword?’

  ‘Of course he did. But it was an heirloom, not something he would stick in his own guts.’ Kaisha flung the robe on, barely waiting till she’d gathered the chord before dropping the towel.

  Scott walked away, back to the window. ‘What are they saying, exactly?’

  ‘They say Hiroyuki Kaga, founder and head designer for Nayazuki Firebolt was found dead in a love hotel at 7.45. An anonymous phone call - me, see? - alerted Tokyo police to the place of the…’ Kaisha waggled her head, ‘tragedy. Rumours are spreading that Hiro Kaga, kenisha - this means like ‘authority’ - to a million game players, committed sepuku because of some, a…um, because of a business dishonour.

  ‘No way.’ Kaisha threw her hands up. ‘Ah, bah. Now this putah makes a point of where he was found suggesting a bad love thing. Maji mukatsuku, now I am really pissed off.’ She trounced back to the bathroom and slammed the door.

  Okay, I’ll just sit here. Scott wondered just how many languages Kaisha had running around in her head.

  A second later the bathroom door was flung open again, just long enough for Kaisha to add, ‘I’m thinking perhaps I may need you to take to me safely to Hiro’s brother, like he asked.’

  ‘Sure, whatever, why the hell not,’ Scott said to the closing door. ‘Where does he live?’ he shouted at the bathroom.

  ‘Thailand,’ she called back.

  Oh, good, just where I wasn’t going next.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Train Station, Luxembourg City

  Tuesday 6.30 pm

  Justin West had to run for the Paris train. His bags were aboard or perhaps already en route to the French capital in a diplomatic vehicle of some kind. That wasn’t something he had to bother with; his luggage would simply be at the Hotel Meurice when he got there.

  He dashed up the steps and along the concourse towards his platform, excusing himself as he ran, trying not to knock other travellers with his day pack. There was a queue at the turnstile, but his train was still swallowing other passengers. Thank God, he wasn’t so late after all.

  He felt suddenly guilty, and decided it might be best to leave God out of his day, today. He slowed his pace a little and was then forced to a dead stop as first a large hand, then a huge man stepped into his path. Arnie the Governator’s long-lost cousin snapped at him loudly.

  ‘Come again, dude?’ Justin asked, then realised the man was wearing a security uniform.

  The man rolled his eyes. ‘Running is for-bid-den.’ He held out his hand, ‘Passport.’

  ‘But I need to get on that train, dude,’ Julian said, pointing.

  ‘Passport. Now.’

  Justin reached into his jacket pocket. ‘I’m an American, you know,’ he insisted.

  ‘Then show me your famous American passport - dude.’

  ‘Oh ha.’ At least he could catch his breath, as long as the train didn’t go without him.

  It had been his and Luke’s idea to take the train instead of the car. It was more adventurous, more real, and perfect for him. They’d convinced the others to join them - except his aunt who’d opted for the diplo-car - so it wouldn’t do to miss the stupid thing, especially from this close. It’s not like he could tell them why exactly, because those details wouldn’t stay here in Europe. His father would kill him, for one, and his grandmother would haul him before the assembly to declare his sinfulness.

  Sinfulness, oh yeah! I am going to hell. Again and again and again.

  Justin smiled as he ran his thumb over the precious gift his Ilia had given him the day before. A bracelet, a man’s bracelet, with two fine ropes of silver and bronze - very old silver, she’d said - entwined to hold the large dark blue stone. What had she called it, lapis something?

  ‘Their heart stone’ was all he needed to remember. That’s what Ilia had said it was when she put it on his right wrist.

  The security officer tapped Justin on the shoulder with his passport to get his attention. ‘Go now, smiling American boy; time to leave Luxembourg.’

  Justin nodded. ‘Thanks Monsieur, Herr Dude.’ The turnstile queue had gone, so he went straight through and boarded the train through the closest door. He couldn’t wait to tell Luke and the boys what he’d really been doing with Madame de Chevalier, the French Trade Minister’s beautiful Spanish wife who’d asked ‘one’ of them to be her escort to the Luxembourg Museum and other boring places. But he’d have to wait unti
l his stepmother and loud Julia weren’t around. Perhaps he and the boys would take a stroll to the lounge car or something.

  Well no, Justin, that’d be stupid. That was where he was supposed to meet Ilia - sexy, delicious insatiable Ilia - in the lounge car, at exactly ten past seven. He couldn’t wait.

  HMAS Harris, Pacific Ocean

  Wednesday 4.15 am

  Gideon sat cradling a cup in the almost deserted mess, all but mesmerised by the froth disappearing one bubble at a time from her freshly brewed coffee.

  The delegates who were still awake were in the other mess, and those who’d wanted to sleep had been given bunk or even floor space, where it was available. Subs weren’t really designed as rescue boats and although the Collins Class was a mighty big vessel, it was still mostly high-tech gear and all the other important things that made it run stealthily and remain airtight.

  The CO Bill McClure had offered her his cabin for the duration but Gideon had declined, except to shower and change. She never could sleep so soon after a mission - especially a rapidly deployed and consummated one - more so if there’d been a firefight, particularly if there’d been casualties, and specifically if she’d taken someone out.

  Her first choice was always subdue and control, but too often there was no choice. Safe retrieval was always her priority. She regretted the necessity of killing the Laui rebel, but that had been a no alternative, no-win situation. She would not have reached him in time to prevent her charge being harmed, or worse.

  Her lament, as always, lay in the reality that while the big picture could be mapped, she had no control over the minutiae, and that the decisions of others sometimes brought them into her line of fire. Ultimately, dwelling too much on the life now ended did her or her team, no good; so it was memory-filed as a terrible but unfortunate side effect.

  Gideon realised her right leg was jigging and stopped it, for a moment. She hated the lull after a mission, the in-between down time of a job technically over but not actually finished.

  Two submariners wandered into the mess, poured coffees from the pot and ambled out again.

  Gideon contemplated tagging along with them - to watch them work, engage them in conversation, drag one of them off into a dark corner.

  She solved the jigging nonsense by swivelling her legs up onto the bench seat and stretching out with her back against the wall. This edginess was usual, but damned irritating when stuck in a giant metal dildo surrounded by 100 lbs of water pressure. And although the rising surge of let me the hell out of here was possibly akin to claustrophobia, it wasn’t that.

  Gideon glanced around the mess. Two guys in the corner were quietly playing backgammon; the cook had fallen asleep with a Stephen King novel on his chest; and a young navigating officer, who might have been watching Gideon or perhaps just glancing up in thought, was busy tapping away on her laptop.

  She wondered how her Redbacks were fairing. Triko, she knew, would be in a corner somewhere sleeping like a baby, the exception to the pack. The others might be dozing fitfully or, like her, hanging out somewhere, either irritating each other or annoying the crew - and all unable to sleep. Coop without doubt would be filling his zone-time by interrogating the boat’s on-duty electronic warfare specialist.

  The impatience before a job, Gideon realised, was more an eagerness to get into the thick of it, to exist in the moment, to pull off the impossible, to be victorious. The hostage assignment had taken just under five days from go to whoa, so this post-mission edginess was the adrenalin buzz that hadn’t worn off yet. It was a constant low-level tremor - okay, a sexual frisson - a serious need for release. And they all felt it afterwards, every time; a need to physically debrief with anyone unconnected to where they’d just been or what they’d just done.

  It was tradition to head out together at first, straight for the nearest bar - to drink and talk, to do the verbal unwind - but invariably they would peel off with an outsider, a civilian who could answer the blood rush, without asking any questions.

  Gideon usually moved on to a different joint, where her team weren’t playing; but that wasn’t always possible. Sometimes the right person, the available person, was already ‘waiting’ for her in the place they all ventured into. Other times she had to go hunting.

  She shifted in her seat. There were options here in this mess right now, but the conditions were not conducive. And a hot anonymous encounter in the back room of a noisy bar was always preferable to a quick fumble in what would amount to a broom cupboard aboard the Harris. Still, she contemplated chatting up the nav officer or waking up the Shawshank guy; then decided perhaps she should go talk missile guidance with Coop. She could wait; just like her fellow Redbacks had to, until they got to New Zealand.

  The navigator glanced her way again. Perhaps.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Dallas, Texas

  Tuesday 11.55 am

  ‘I’m real glad you were right about the truck not blowing up on the road here, Jesse-Jay,’ Kero nodded, wedging his thumbs in his too-tight jeans pockets, only to change his mind as soon as he got them there. He pulled a packet of smokes from his T-shirt sleeve instead.

  ‘Well, I did tell you didn’t I,’ Jesse-Jay said, ‘no way I was gonna risk them steers.’

  ‘Yeah, I know, I know; but you know, you never know.’ Kero offered his stepbrother a smoke and lit it for him, before tending to himself. ‘So it’s good they’re all off the truck now, just in case.’

  ‘Yeah, well just remember you gotta not be still in it either, at quarter of one,’ Jesse-Jay reminded him.

  The Colonel’s deputy, Micah O’Brien was standing right behind them, so at least no one could say Jesse-Jay didn’t do his duty when it came to proper warnings and stuff. The fact that Kero couldn’t tell the time for shit, was nobody’s business but Kero’s; so, if he was still in the truck when he shouldn’t be, then tough nuts.

  Micah leant forward. ‘You all square with this then Kyle?’ he asked Kero. ‘Are we good to go?’

  Kero straightened his shoulders and nodded. ‘Yep Micah, my end of things is right.’

  ‘Good, we’ll see you at the Texas T-Bone at one o’clock, after you park the truck.’ He leant in closer. ‘Remember two ballparks is safe distance, yeah.’

  ‘I remember Micah,’ Kero gave him the thumbs up. ‘You meeting the rest of the uh, I mean the guys now?’

  Micah nodded. ‘We’ll see you after, okay? Good luck.’

  ‘You too Micah. And specially you, Jesse-Jay’

  ‘Yeah, and you watch yourself,’ Jesse-Jay said, over his shoulder, as he fell in behind Micah and headed away from the arena.

  Train Luxembourg to Paris

  Tuesday 7 pm

  Cassandra Grafton-West was shamelessly flirting with Justin’s best friend Evan. It occurred to Justin that his stepmother had always done that with Evan; and with his other college friend James. Justin had simply not recognised it for what it was before, which was weird because for quite some time he’d wanted her to be like that with him.

  For the last year he’d gone to sleep most nights with his hand still in his crotch after stroking himself while she, in his mind, sat astride him. In reality, she barely noticed he was breathing, let alone that he was no longer a boy. Too late now though. He was well over his sweat-soaked stepmother fantasy.

  Ilia was so much more than Cassie could ever be: more exotic, more sexual, more willing than even his wildest imaginings.

  He’d longed to seduce or be seduced by the beautiful woman sitting opposite, but now? Now perhaps he’d suggest Evan give her a go. She was obviously wanting it, wanting him. In fact…

  ‘Come for a walk with me Evan, I need to stretch my legs,’ she was saying.

  Damn. Justin had only begun to regale the guys with tales of the culture he’d really been learning in Luxembourg, when Cassie and her cousin Julia had returned from inspecting the dining car. As proof, he’d been showing his friends some of the pictures he’d taken with his phone; and,
judging from their expressions, they’d heard and seen just enough to get their filthy minds steamed. But now they’d have to wait until later for him to finish recounting his exploits. It was almost time for his rendezvous.

  Cassandra was already up and out in the corridor, looking seductively at Evan, who was still trying to get out of his seat in the corner.

  Justin stood as if to give him room to exit, but grabbed his friend’s arm, pulled him close and whispered, ‘If she asks you to screw her, man, go for it.’

  Justin sat down again, while Evan tried hard to look cool as he left the compartment. Luke and Miles gave each other, and then Justin, the oh-right look of totally grasping the situation, and then all three began laughing.

  ‘Justin, I see you’ve taken to wearing jewellery,’ Cassandra’s irritating cousin Julia pronounced. ‘It’s a lovely bracelet dear boy, wherever did you get it?’

  ‘It is not a bracelet, Julia, it’s a Bedouin warrior amulet,’ Justin said. He cast a quick glance at his remaining friends. ‘It was a thank you gift from Madame de Chevalier for…looking after her.’

  ‘Oh how charming. So you obviously helped satisfy her craving for local culture then.’

  ‘I guess I did, Julia,’ Justin grinned. He got to his feet again. ‘But now I’ve got to go, you know, satisfy something else. I’ll be back in a minute.’ Or an hour.

  ‘Fine dear, but watch out for pickpockets.’

  Justin made his way along the corridor. He caught sight of Evan disappearing into the bathroom at the far end. Cassandra was nowhere in sight.

  Now I wonder where step-mama is.

  Justin tapped on the bathroom door as he walked by. It was Cassandra who proclaimed it was occupied.

  Ah, there she is.

  Last week he would have been jealous beyond words. Now his world was different.

  Heading on through the next carriage, he stopped for a moment in the walkway between it and his destination, and pulled the vibrating cell phone from his pocket. It was his father.