2xs

by Nigel Findley

  Argent then settled himself on the couch, while Hawk leaned casually against the wall near the door.

  Their apparent casualness didn't fool me. I knew they were both hair-triggered and ready for anything.

  "Okay," the samurai said quietly, "let's go over the situation again. It's a straightforward penetration and lift-out. Site: a corp research facility. Subject: one female human. No other constraints or requirements.

  Right?"

  "Just one," I told him. "The three of us will be going with you."

  Argent's cold eyes flicked over me, Jocasta, and Rodney. "You didn't say anything about tourists," he said after a moment.

  Before I could answer, Hawk spoke. His voice was slow and deep, even deeper than his size might have implied. "The elf's a hermetic mage, Argent," he said. He fixed Rodney with a curious gaze. "Initiate?"

  Rodney nodded. "The woman's magically active, but at a low and uncontrolled level. Class her as an adept, maybe. And Mr. Johnson . . ."He looked me over, grinned with dry humor. "Mr. Johnson's mundane, but he has a serious mad on, and is ready to kick ass and take names. Not your standard tourists."

  Argent shrugged, seeming disinclined to dispute the Amerindian's assessment. "Fine," he said after a moment's thought. "You come." He changed the subject abruptly. "I sent Peg in to get more background on the site. Specifically, guard assignments and security provisions." He tossed a chip my way. "Here's the tactical database she put together. I want you three to scan it- and commit it to memory-by twenty-three hundred. We move at twenty-four."

  I nodded agreement. Argent was the pro, and I was quite willing to leave tactical matters in his metallic hands.

  "We'll supply you with weapons," the big man went on. I started to speak, but he cut me off. "I know you've got your own ordnance. But if you use ours, I'll know it's going to work." He turned to the shaman.

  "Hawk, why don't you have a talk with your colleague?"

  Rodney and the Amerindian adjourned to the kitchen, and I could faintly hear them discussing things like spells, grades of initiation, degrees of drain, and other drek that could just as well have been Greek to me. Argent looked as though he had simply turned himself off. His eyes remained open and idly scanning the room, but he seemed to have withdrawn inward. For the briefest moment I considered trying to strike up a conversation, then rejected the idea.

  Instead, I took the chip the big samurai had given me and slotted it into the phone, called up the text onto the screen. Peg had been busy. Somehow she'd managed to discover that the regular security detachment guarding the ISP facility numbered twenty-five, and she'd even listed them by fragging name.

  Times of shift-change were given, and even historical records on when senior officers had conducted surprise inspections. Then she'd gone on to itemize the site's electronic security-a depressingly long list that included everything from standard motion sensors around the perimeter to vibration/pressure units near the individual buildings. Still, the decker's comments stated that she foresaw no problem disabling those systems when she ran so-called "Matrix overwatch." I wished I could share her confidence.

  The most disturbing item on the tactical database, though, was the news that ISP used "parabiologicals" as part of their security regime. In other words, they had Awakened critters as watchdogs: a couple of hell hounds, to be precise. Just peachy fragging keen. Hell hounds were basically good little doggies who could spit flame and reduce a militant troll to hamburger in under a minute. I wondered how Argent and crew planned to deal with these pets.

  After the security aspects, the tac database went into issues of timing and "disposition of assets"-basically, estimates of time for penetration, total mission duration, fall-back points, meeting locations, and various contingency plans in case the whole thing hosed up. There was even an estimate of our chances of success: 90 percent, with a confidence interval of plus or minus 4 percent. (Now, where those figures came from, I couldn't even guess. But they were presented in such an authoritative style that I dared not take issue.) All in all, it was a piece of work almost military in its precision. Considering the background of the team leader, of course, that shouldn't have come as a surprise.

  After a while, Rodney returned from his conference with Hawk, and he and Jocasta joined me at the terminal.

  Despite the complexity and high data content of Peg's tac database, there were few enough things that we really had to remember. Basically, two major rules. Listen to the Wrecking Crew, and if they said to do something, do it now, no questions asked. And, if things went to hell, meet at the perimeter directly opposite the main gate. Peg would have the alarms disabled and enough computer-mediated chaos to make sure the security guards were heavily involved elsewhere.

  Though I had expected the time to crawl by, midnight came almost too soon. The relative silence of the street was ripped by a heavy bike gunning its engine.

  "Time to go," Argent said, rising to his feet with the silent grace of a hunting cat.

  "How do we travel?" I asked. "I've got a car, but it's a two-seater."

  "You and you"-the samurai pointed to Jocasta and Rodney-"take the car. Mr. Johnson rides with us."

  The Wrecking Crew rode bikes that perfectly fitted their style and their business: fast and almost brutally powerful. Hawk and Argent rode Harley hogs-"combat bikes," Hawk had called them with a grin.

  Seated astride a Honda Viking was Toshi, the second samurai, a tall, edgy-looking elf of Japanese extraction. The bike looked faster than the others, but higher-strung, probably matching his personality.

  "Gear check when we hit Fort Lewis," Argent announced. "Mr. Johnson, you ride with me." I nodded.

  "Follow us," he told Jocasta, who was driving my car, with Rodney in the passenger sat. "And keep up," he said. He twisted his throttle, and the big engine blasted like a heavy machine gun. "Okay, Mr. Johnson, mount up."

  I swung a leg over, settled myself on the rear of the saddle. Argent's shoulders were like a huge wall in front of me. I placed my feet on the pegs and grabbed the handles. "Okay," I said.

  He grabbed a handful of throttle, and we were away. The scream of the bike echoed off the buildings around us, redoubled as the others took off after us. The night air was cool, rushing against my face.

  Argent laid the heavy bike way over to negotiate the turn onto Twenty- third Avenue East. From there it was a straight shot south toward Madison, and he just rolled the throttle on. The other two bikes pulled up beside and slightly behind us, a vee-formation of hurtling metal.

  Toshi grinned at me, his smile feral in the street lights. Slipping his feet off the pegs, he let the metal toe-caps of his boots drag, kicking sparks from the road surface. I risked a glance over my shoulder.

  Jocasta and Rodney in the Jackrabbit were close behind, our group forming a tight little convoy as we screamed south toward Fort Lewis.

  Chapter 26.

  We pulled off the road into a wooded area about a klick away from the ISP facility. While the Wrecking Crew were killing their bike engines, Jocasta was carefully driving my Jackrabbit as deep into the trees as she could get. I swung myself off Argent's Harley, my muscles complaining a little from riding pillion for almost an hour.

  "Weapons check," Argent said quietly. "Let's see what you've got, Mr. Johnson." I pulled out my Man-hunter, made sure the safety was on, and handed it to him. The big samurai quickly checked the action, then flipped it around so that he held the barrel and then passed it back to me. "Good condition," he acknowledged. "Okay, you keep that." He turned to the other samurai. "Toshi, a Roomsweeper for Mr. Johnson."

  The edgy-looking samurai had opened the "trunk" of his Viking, the storage area under the saddle.

  From its recesses he pulled out a short-barreled shotgun, tossed it to me. I quickly checked the weapon over, trying to be as efficient and businesslike as Argent. The Remington Roomsweeper seemed new, its action like silk, having been used just enough for the parts to work in properly. I checked the tubular magazine under
the barrel-six shells-then glanced up, about to ask for more ammo. Argent had anticipated me. I took the box he offered, checked the shells: double-ought cubic pellets, suitable for the biggest game.

  I stuffed the pockets of my duster with a dozen extra rounds, and adjusted the Roomsweeper's strap so it hung comfortably at my hip. It was a good weapon combination-the shotgun for "suppressing" a room in a hurry, the Manhunter for targets requiring accuracy over firepower.

  "Daisho," I remarked to Argent, naming the traditional long sword/short sword combination of the Japanese samurai. He grinned slightly in appreciation. I felt edgy but ready: locked in, cranked up, out on the pointy end and ready to rock and roll.

  While I'd been checking my equipment, Toshi and Hawk-the latter now wearing a knife as long as my forearm on his hip-had been gearing up Jocasta and Rodney. I saw they were both packing silenced Uzi III SMGs. Good choice, I thought: highly lethal, but simple enough for people not extensively trained in small arms. As a matter of course I checked out the Crew as well. Argent had twin Ingram smartguns holstered on his hips, and four grenades on a bandolier across his chest. Toshi cradled a Heckler & Koch HK227S, and wore an Ares Viper flechette pistol on his hip. In addition to his knife, Hawk carried an AK-98 assault rifle, although the profusion of fetishes on his belt and bandoliers hinted that he wouldn't be depending exclusively on mundane firepower if we hit resistance.

  Argent touched me on the shoulder. "One last thing," he said. "It's stupid to take any chances." In his hand was a standard two-color pack of camo paint. He dipped two fingers into the pigment and quickly smeared my face. He streaked dark pigment over my cheek bones, forehead, jawline, and nose, then swiped the lighter tone in the hollows of both cheeks, under my eyebrows, and under my chin. It seemed like a rather desultory job. Shouldn't the paint be applied thicker? I wondered. But then I looked at Jocasta, who was getting the same minimalist treatment from Hawk. The dark paint was applied to the high points of the face, the places that generally look lighter, while the light paint was applied to the shadowed areas. It had the effect of removing all sense of depth, of relief, from the face, making it surprisingly difficult to recognize it as a face. These guys knew what they were doing.

  Then an interesting thought struck me. "What about thermographic vision?" I said. "Paint won't make any difference there."

  The big samurai nodded. "There's some debate on that," he said quietly. "Toshi, he's got what he calls his 'cool suit.' Chemical cool-packs under his armor to lower his body temperature. Though I think it just slows him down." The smaller razorguy shot Argent a sour look. "I prefer these," the leader went on, touching the grenades hanging from his bandolier. "Thermo grenades. They kick out more heat than light, so they're more dazzling to thermographic vision than normal vision."

  He turned aside brusquely-interview over-and strapped a miniature phone onto his wrist, slipped the wireless earpiece into his ear. He raised the wrist unit to his mouth and spoke softly, "Peg, point one." Of course I didn't hear the response.

  Point one. According to the tactical plan, that meant we had ten minutes to get to our penetration point. Then Peg would start her electronic violation of ISP's security systems. A minute or two later we'd go over the fence, and the game would be on.

  Toshi tossed me something: a pair of night-vision goggles. I was familiar with the technology from my days at the Star, so I had no problem slipping them on and adjusting them properly. When I turned them on, they made the nighttime forest look almost day-bright. Disconcerting at first were the slight graininess and faint persistence of light-colored objects, which led to a smearing effect when I moved my head, but I knew from experience I'd soon stop noticing. Toshi was fitting a similar set onto Jocasta, but Rodney waved away the unit offered by Hawk. Presumably his elven eyes made such technological intervention irrelevant.

  Argent raised a clenched fist and we moved out, slipping like wraiths through the woods. Or, more correctly, the Wrecking Crew did. The two samurai made about as much sound as a small woodland animal-in other words, not much-while Hawk's movement was utterly silent. He might have been no more than a holographic projection for all he disturbed the foliage. In comparison, the rest of us moved like a herd of moose.

  It took us almost the whole ten minutes to get to point two, a spot just outside the perimeter nearest to building E, the containment lab. The cloud cover was total, and under the trees the night was as dark as the inside of a sack. Without the night goggles, I'd have been blind. The compound on the other side of the four-meter-high fence was in darkness as well, not a single light showed. That told us one thing: ISP's security contingent were either depending on thermographic vision or night scopes or else on beings that could see in the dark.

  As soon as we reached the fence, Hawk settled himself down on his knees. His eyes closed, and his breathing slowed until it was almost imperceptible. After maybe a minute he shook himself, as though just waking up, and rose to his feet again. "No spirits or elementals on patrol," he whispered. "There are two hell hounds, but I don't think they spotted me. The buildings are all warded, and have magical barriers up.

  The barrier on building E is very powerful."

  "Could you break it?" Argent asked.

  "Maybe," the big Amerindian answered after a moment. "But I wouldn't want to have to try. I wouldn't be good for much afterward."

  The leader accepted that with a nod. He raised his wrist phone, was about to speak.

  "We've got company coming," Rodney said quietly. Everybody else was facing the ISP compound, Rodney had his back to the fence, and was scanning the jungle. He pointed back along our tracks. "Fifty meters," he said.

  So fast I didn't even see him move, Argent was by the elf's side. Both Ingrams were out and tracking in the direction Rodney had indicated. "Security?" The mage shook his head. "I don't think so."

  "Armed?"

  Rodney nodded to Argent's question. "Yes, very much like us."

  The big samurai gritted his teeth in anger. I could see that he didn't appreciate complications. "Okay, fade," he whispered to the rest of us, "and hold fire until we get a positive visual ident."

  His two colleagues took him at his word. When he said "fade," they faded, in fact, they vanished. I hunkered down behind a small bush near Jocasta. Rodney didn't move, but just stood there murmuring in Latin, all the while seeming to dissolve into the background. Every time I took my eyes off him, it was more difficult to reacquire his image. I shook my head. Mages.

  There was a rustling in the underbrush ahead. I could see a black-clad figure approaching. It wore a sophisticated suit of body armor, complete with helmet, whose style was disturbingly familiar. I'd seen armor like that, I'd worn armor like that. The figure's hands were empty, and he moved upright with little concern for concealment. The figure reached up and removed its helmet. My night goggles made it difficult to pick out subtle details, but I recognized that ugly face.

  I stood up from behind my sheltering bush. "Keith, you drekhead!" I hissed. "What the frag are you doing here?" As if my movement had been a signal, six bright red sighting-laser spots appeared over Scott Keith's face and on the torso of his Lone Star Active Response Team armor. (Six spots? I wondered.

  Then I realized Argent had both his Ingrams on line.) Scott Keith blinked, and turned away from the lasers' dazzle. "Okay, okay," he whispered, "I know you're not alone. Neither am I."

  Hawk's voice sounded calmly from beside me, even though I knew his meat body was ten meters away. "Just what is going on, Mr. Johnson?"

  Keith's nasty smile broadened at that. If we hadn't been in the middle of a fragging forest at night he'd probably have guffawed. " 'Mr. Johnson'? We're certainly moving up in the world, aren't we?" I took a step toward him, showing my empty hands as two targeting spots bloomed on my own chest. "Get down and we'll talk about it," I hissed.

  We crouched face to face in the underbrush. His body was rank from sweating in the full combat armor, his breath reeked of alcohol and onions.
The miserable slot had taken a couple of belts-dutch courage, probably- before coming here.

  "What the frag are you doing here, Keith?" I snarled into his face. "I'm doing what you wanted," I lied, "getting the dirt on Yamatetsu. You trying to hose it up forme?"

  "Now there's an idea," he said in mock surprise. "Wish I'd thought of that myself. No, Montgomery-oh, oh yes, Mr. Johnson-I'm only here to make sure you go through with it and don't sell out to the scum."

  "How did you know it was tonight?" I demanded.

  Keith's unpleasant smile grew even wider. I struggled not to flinch away from his breath. "Oh, a friend of yours told me you were hiring muscle," he said casually. "He even told me who, isn't that nice? So of course I knew what you were up to." He hesitated, then said mock-solicitously, "Read-only single-scan viruses don't cut it anymore. Thought I should tell you that."

  I kept my face expressionless-I think-but my thoughts were racing. Anwar, you fragging weasel.

  Sell me out to the fragging DED, huh? I filed that away under unfinished business, and forced my mind back to the present. "Okay, Keith," I said, "you had the whole thing chipped. But you're here now, and you've got, what, four . . .?"

  "Five."

  "You've got five troopers backing you. I've got my runners. What do we do now? Shoot it out right here, and let the survivors-if there are any-go over the fence? Just what the frag do you have in mind, chummer?"

  He shrugged casually, as though thinking it through for the first time. I knew he had something in mind, though. "I think we'll just tag along with you guys," he said. "We'll guard your backs." He turned away so fast that he didn't see my one-fingered salute.

  Predictably, Argent didn't like the arrangement one bit. Hawk liked it less, and Toshi was on the point of unilaterally deciding to geek Keith and his troopers-and frag Mr. Johnson's opinion in the matter. Finally, however, the fact that we had a deal-and the righteous anger engendered by the fact that I'd got fragged by my fixer-settled the matter. We'd go in, and the DED boys could come along. But at the first sign of anything untoward, it was major hosing time.