“This is our turf,” the Reverend says quietly, the smile gone. “Grifter turf. I’m hearing that five or six groups, maybe seventy individuals in total, are all over our territory. Soon as I’m done here, I’m off to fight them off.”
“So I can go out the back with you, right?” For only the hundredth or so time this week, Kirsty feels her stomach sliding.
“What happens here has got to be done right.”
“Which means what?”
“Georgy’s calling you out, Kirsty. He’s got his gang, you’ve got yours…”
“No way, Warren,” She shakes her head. “I don’t have a gang. You have the gang.”
The Reverend looks pained. “But the only way this can go down is one to one, face to face.”
“No, no, no,” she says. “Play your gang games but don’t include me.”
For the first time ever, she sees him lost for words. He sighs, looks away, then meets her defiant stare with a cold, clear gaze.
“The Grifters won’t back down, Kirsty. Not for you, not for no-one.”
“Then at least let me call Steel and Priest first,” she says, remembering the etched perspex business card in her pocket. “They promised me that they’ve got someone shadowing me. If they’re armed, let them take care of Georgy.”
“One to one,” says the Reverend. “Face to face. Bostov can’t deal with Georgy. This doesn’t end until Flame Warriors face Grifters.”
She looks around the crowded Bowlerama and realizes for the first time that half of the faces there are G boys and girls. They know what’s going down and they’re all eyeballing her, zipped up inside their microbranded bullet proof vests. The Reverend can’t back down in front of his soldiers, she knows that much. He’s got no choice so she’s got no choice.
She pushes her fries away and feels vaguely nauseous. “Damn it, Reverend. Already this is the worst week of my life and now I have to do the right thing by throwing down some gangster shit. What is this – high school all over again?”
Thursday 13 February
05:47 am
THE KID LOOKED much younger than Bishop knew he actually was, eighteen going on fourteen. He dressed piss-poor, hair under a black knit cap, cheap leather jacket made from scraps over a pharm-surplus padded shirt, the kind workers in refrigerated areas of factories wore. He was so small and pale and slightly built that no one would give him a second glance.
So far as Bishop knew, the kid had killed for the first time when he was thirteen and, on Bishop’s orders, at least seven other occasions since.
The deadroom was bare apart from two molded chairs and a small table with a scanner and a brick of used bank notes banded tightly together. “Those for me?” asked the kid.
“The cash is,” said Bishop. “The scanner’s so you can sweep the room and me for bugs. Just so you know it’s only us two talking.”
“That’s okay, I trust you,” said the kid.
“Don’t.”
The kid shrugged and ran the scanner round the door and walls. Then Bishop stood with his arms out while the kid shook his head and made a can’t-believe-I’m-doing-this-shit sort of snort and swept him too. When he dropped it on the table, Bishop picked it up and waited.
“What? Me too?” said the kid. “Where’s the love, Mr Bishop?”
“Just so I know it’s only us two talking,” said Bishop and the kid raised his arms too. Finally, they both sat.
“I’ve got a job for you, Todd,” Bishop said.
“I’d already worked that out,” yawned the kid.
“I need you to go out off-Hub and deal with someone.”
“I can do that,” said the kid.
“There’s a problem though,” said Bishop. “A big problem.”
“Ain’t that always the case?” said the kid, reaching for the money on the table. “I guess that’s why you pay me the slightly above average bucks…”
Bishop gave him ten minutes to clear the building then walked out into the office, yawning and scratching his face. Martha was there, obviously. While the other admins slept upstairs and worked office hours, more or less, Martha always seemed to be around. When the admins worked late, she worked later. When Bishop held his deadroom sessions right through the night, she stuck by her desk.
“I need a cup of coffee,” said Bishop.
“You’ve got a meeting with P Shaun Balaban in two hours so what you need is a shower and a shave and a decent breakfast,” said Martha Bhaskar. “That young one looked like he could do with a proper meal too.”
“Oh don’t start getting motherly over that boy,” said Bishop. “Todd’s a special project of mine. The one thing he doesn’t need is your sympathy.”
“At least he was polite,” said Martha. “Most of your contacts try to steal things off the desks and at least one of them actually stank. Since they’ve been coming in under armed guard day and night, the other admin staff are starting to wonder who they are.”
“But not you, right?” smiled Bishop. “You’re not in the slightest bit curious?”
“You told me not to ask so I’m not asking,” said Martha. “But since I’ve spent over twenty years adhering to company procedure, I’m bound to be a little interested in the possibility of getting results by…” she searched for the right term, “…by cutting a few corners.”
Bishop couldn’t see the harm in telling her the truth, or at least part of it. “The Mercwar Union charter states the limits of mercwar, doesn’t it? They’re limited to seizing buildings intact rather than capturing individuals.”
“Earn not burn, places not faces,” said Martha.
“Okay. But what if I know that the gain for Meat4 Power was to destroy a facility or make someone disappear?”
“And that’s what the people you meet in the deadroom do?”
“They’re freelancers,” he said, “ex-military or ex-gang or ex-cons which is why they’re brought here hooded and why they always steal your pens. No one but me knows who they are and no one at Meat4 Power knows what they’re doing. And if they get caught and say I sent them, well, it’s just their word against mine.”
“Maximum deniability,” said Martha.
“Maximum deniability,” nodded Bishop. “Once it starts, your mercwar will create a window of opportunity for these people because all of Meat4 Power’s enemies will be looking in the wrong direction. No one’s ever going to believe that it only took the two of us to create so much chaos…”
Nine o’clock precisely, Bishop was summoned into the bunker office of P Shaun Balaban. The old man looked as though he hadn’t moved from behind his desk since Christmas. Same as before, he was reading printed reports in plan manila folders. Same as before, Bishop had to wait until Balaban looked up to acknowledge his presence.
“How is your diversionary action progressing?” asked Balaban.
“On schedule,” said Bishop. “The mercwar campaign in Denver will be supported by country-wide diversions on April the first, as requested.” Actually, they were way ahead of schedule but there was never any point in giving anything away to Balaban.
The old man nodded for a moment. “Bioweapon division are furious with you, Leander,” he went on “They think that you are deliberately resisting their attempts to live-test their inventory despite my clear instructions to cooperate.”
“Not true,” said Bishop immediately, knowing Balaban saw hesitation as failure. “Have you seen their requirements? They need a tractor trailer to deliver the cages plus support vehicles and handlers just to field a single unit. Transporting these units to Denver would be a logistical nightmare. Integrating them into the mercwar operation is nigh on impossible.”
“Why?” Balaban interlaced the fingers on his young hands as he leaned forwards. Bishop was glad that he’d listened to Martha’s briefings, despite his own hatred of mercwar.
“The mercwar campaign is planned day by day, with targets chosen for the next twenty four hours based on losses and gains of the previous day. Bioweapons Div
ision say they require forty eight hours to get into position. Targets of opportunity aren’t going to wait for them.”
“Thank you, Leander, this had not been explained to me,” said Balaban. “I shall instruct them to implement a start-up procedure of less than a day.”
Bishop felt the small thrill of a round won. Few people, even Board members, could get Balaban to concede a point.
“Also,” said Balaban, “I am curious why you had sidelined Professor Chang into Rebooting pets when he should be completing his real-world trials.”
“Oh that,” said Bishop, dead cold creeping into his stomach. He’d been wondering when someone would notice. He’d sort of been hoping it wouldn’t be Balaban. “I thought it was worth looking into,” he added.
“If Bioweapons Division are unhappy at your refusal to back their systems, they are understandably furious that you have started what they regard as a rival bioweapons program. I would be interested to hear your reasoning.”
“Reboot has a failing,” said Bishop. “It kills low-weight livedrives.”
“Reboot has an operational limitation,” corrected Balaban. “It is inadvisable to use it on anything but the recommended models.”
“So this operational limitation has been ignored by Bioweapons Division,” Bishop went on. “The Reboot transformation is so fast in smaller wetware that it fries their brains. Chang called it the crazy-to-weight problem. I know they flip out and die quickly but I couldn’t get the muscle enhancement figures out of my head. Chang quoted me three hundred percent power output on mouse-sized livedrives.”
“A mouse has no obvious use as a weapons system,” said Balaban.
“It doesn’t, which is why Bioweapons Division have allocated all their resources on large predators. But I started thinking outside the box. Suppose you Pavolvian-condition a Pet Division weasel or a polecat to run down pipes. Then you Reboot it into a pipe-running torpedo. Strap explosives to it, stick it into some sub-level ducting leading up to an enemy datastore and boom… pop goes the weasel.”
Balaban nodded, which Bishop took to be a good thing. “And why did you choose these animals for Chang to Reboot?”
“Because nature already made them small, vicious and fast. Adding Reboot is like adding napalm. I thought they’d make a perfect delivery platform.”
“It would seem that you are not the only one,” said Balaban, tapping a screen inlaid into his desktop to activate a wall screen behind him. “Today Leander, you have proved your worth. Today is the day that the Board will stop complaining about my decision to reinstate you. Watch this…”
Bishop watched the screen as slowed-down security visuals played from a roof-top camera. They showed a building exterior, at night and alive with action. Projectiles tore up the ground. Smoke billowed from the gate. A guard in slab armor lay down, thrashing in the middle of a bug-bomb swarm of stinging insects. Through it all, through the overlapping fields of fire that tore holes into the ground and kicked up clouds of concrete dust, Bishop saw dozens of small animals running towards the rapidly-closing main entrance.
“We lost this gene store facility in Kansas,” said Balaban. “Eight armed guards and automated defenses were overwhelmed by an attack launched out of a single utility van. Can you see what is attacking?”
“Rabbits,” said Bishop. “They’re attacking with rabbits.”
“Jackrabbits,” confirmed Balaban. “Even without Reboot, Bostov took out a billion-dollar facility with a van full of pets.”
Bishop could hardly believe the timing. Lucky, lucky, lucky.
“Frankly, I am appalled that they are ahead of us on this,” said Balaban. “I want you to stop them and I want you to stop them now. How far forwards can you bring your campaign against Bostov?”
Bishop shrugged “The end of next week?”
“Make it sooner,” said Balaban. “Now go…”
Just past noon, Bishop returned to the run-down office block that smelled of mildew and neglect and too many people living in it for too long. He pulled a bagged army ration pack out of a stacked box and tore a burrito out of its plastic bag, eating hungrily as he sat on Martha’s desk.
“Do you want the good news or the bad news first?” he asked her.
“My, you’re chipper,” she said. “And I’ll take the good.”
“The good news is that I played a hunch with this corporations most secretive and potentially lucrative product and P Shaun Balaban patted me on the head when he just as easily could have put a bullet in it.”
“Which explains the happy face,” said Martha. “And the bad…?”
“The bad news is that I was right about Bostov Cryonics all along and they’re clever little bastards who will never stop at getting one over on us. Balaban’s so pissed at them that we’ve got to start hitting them straight away rather than in three weeks.”
Martha held her face in her hands. “Suddenly, I need to pee.”
“Don’t panic,” said Bishop. “What did I say Crash The Pad were?”
“Hero wannabes playing pretend war?”
“No, the other thing.”
“A fire and forget weapons system?”
“Right,” said Bishop. “You’ve given them the targets and they’ve had three weeks on the ground in Denver to orientate themselves. How much notice do they need to go live?”
“Twenty four hours,” said Martha, gnawing one of her finger nails.
“So let’s do that and get whatever rest we can.” He tipped the ration pack out onto Martha’s desk. “Come on, Martha, eat my creamsicle cookie. Once the shooting starts, we’ll all be needing a sugar rush because none of us are going to be getting much sleep…”
Thursday 13 March
02:28 pm
THE BOWLERAMA GUYS lock the front doors behind her and even though there are crowds inside pushed up against the glass and she has Kareem’s imposing frame to hide behind, Kirsty’s never felt more alone in her life. No one watching from inside will call PD, a couple of Grifters who stayed behind will see to that. What happens next depends on what the kids on the street do.
There are twenty Flame Warriors, more or less, strung out across the street. Fresh-faced but with mean looks and stab jackets zipped up to the collar. Kirsty spots Georgy in the center, hanging back behind some scowling mass of muscle with thrilltats on bare shoulders. She stays tight behind Kareem as an equal number of Grifters form their own line and Kareem, staring intently ahead, tells her how it’s got to be.
“Since the Rev’s got his own problems, I’ve got to represent here,” he stays. “So when I get busy, stick tight to Judy Alexis.”
“Got it,” says Kirsty.
“So gangs are franchised and the federal handbook says this is how we deal with territorial disputes – equal numbers, hand to hand. Anyone pussies out and draws a gun, his gang loses its franchise. So leave yours in your jacket, Kirsty.”
That pops Kirsty’s plan A – standing back and drawing her Jericho. Her one logical act of self-preservation stopped by a rule that says that the most streamlined solution to gang violence is a fist fight.
Kareem starts walking forward and Kirsty sticks tight behind. “You remember when Dee Money grabbed your ass?” he says.
“I remember.” She’s trembling. She wants to hit someone or run away.
“Tell me what you did.”
“I kicked his ass,” she says, “I bust his leg.” She can’t run. She won’t puke.
“So do the same again. Stand your ground, stand proud, show the Rev all his kickboxing lessons were an investment. If you can, close on Georgy and fuck him up good ’cos this is personal between you two. And, Kirsty…?”
“Yeah?”
He stops walking and she runs into his back. He reaches around and squeezes her arm. “You be cool. This’ll work out.”
Then Judy Alexis holds her back as Kareem strides forward a half dozen paces and his opposite does the same and all of a sudden they’re in each other’s faces. The Flame Warrior se
nior-G’s six-two and pale, biceps blown up on infinite reps and livedrive steroids. He fixes Kareem with watery blue eyes.
“See you brought your bitch,” grunts White Boy, nodding towards Kirsty but keeping his stare on Kareem.
Kareem nods towards Georgy. “See you got yours too.”
“How ’bout giving her up?” snarls the Flame Warrior. “Cunt shot our homie.”
Kareem bares his teeth as he snarls. “How ’bout kissing my ass? Georgy shanked her… fuck else would she do?”
Kirsty glances over at Georgy, positioned directly opposite, the pair of them flags to be fought over. He looks smug, like he already knows he’s won. Kirsty thinks she must look like shit.
White Boy again: “Last chance to hand her over.”
Kareem: “Mother… fucker. You think we’ll back down? On our own turf? Let’s do this, just you and me. Right here, right now.”
White Boy shows disdain by crossing his arms. Individual muscle fibers stand out under skin chemically-stripped of body fat. “You don’t have the force to move me. I’m far too powerful for you, my friend.”
Kirsty would laugh at this macho bullshit if she wasn’t so scared. She flinches instead as White Boy makes his move, whipping a left backfist out from his cross armed position without telegraphing intent. He’s fast but Kareem’s light on his feet and rocks back, returning with a hard, fast right cross. White Boy’s head snaps back and another Grifter leaps past Kareem, bundling the semi-conscious White Boy to the ground in a flurry of blows.
Things get crazy fast.
Kareem tightropes a Flame Warrior trying to get at Kirsty, his muscular forearm smashing across his throat. That one goes down but two others dart past. The first tries to roundhouse Judy Alexis – good in movies, bad on the street. Judy Alexis steps away from the kick and wraps an arm round his thigh, trapping the leg against her body. He hops awkwardly then Judy Alexis jumps into him, kneeing him in the balls so he crashes to the sidewalk with her on top of him.
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