“You really think so? I don’t. I didn’t like her attitude. Not one bit.”
“No?”
“She seemed determined.”
“Not to me, she didn’t. She know she screwed up. She’ll do anything to stop us reporting her.”
“Are you sure about that, sir?”
“Sure I’m sure. If you want to do anything, keep in contact with Danford. Keep tabs on how he deals with her.”
“She seemed the pushy type…” Martha gnawed the end of her pen. “What if she’s pushy?”
“Then order Danford to hire someone to follow her round. Nothing hands-on, just scare tactics. That always works. If you’re really worried, talk to Chang and get him to feed her some evidence. I tell you, after a week, she’ll be happy for any scrap we throw her. Okay?”
Martha hesitated, then nodded. Bishop turned his face away from the brightening sky and tried to think of nothing, nothing at all. Now that the mercwar was drawing to a close and his own people were getting in position to strike Bostov, he’d been counting on a little more rest than this.
Thursday 13 March
10:01 am
JUST LIKE THAT, Hemblen was off Chalk One. They stayed to complete after-action reports and arrange transit for the wounded while Monty shouted at him on the comms before calming down. Monty said he wanted him back in Toronto but Hemblen knew that he didn’t want Hemblen’s mood to infect Chalk One. No hard feelings.
The first transport back was a trans-Hub Amtrak sleeper that took days to get to Toronto. Hemblen didn’t mind. He boarded the train still in his armor, stripping it off in a freight carriage and packing it away damp and reeking inside a couple of battered ripstop nylon bags. He lay on the bunk in clothes that stank of sweat and the oily smoke of burning buildings and he slept all the sleep he’d missed in the last month. When he got up to eat and drink and the other passengers stared at him across the buffet car, he couldn’t have cared less.
Monty Cox met his personally at the Toronto Amtrak terminal, looking happy to see him and concerned and pissed off all at the same time. “You look like shit, son,” he told him.
“I feel like shit, boss. I’m done.”
“You can be done in seven more days,” said Monty, clapping him on his back. “The contract’s over then and right now, I’m all out of reinforcements right now.”
Hemblen shook his head. “Really Monty, I’m through with this.”
“The hell you are.” Monty took off his fallball cap and stroked his balding head. “You said yes to this, remember? Now I can cut you some slack because I love you like a son but this here’s still a business and you’re still a part of it. I need you for a few days bodyguarding. You’re not going to let me down over that, are you?”
Hemblen sighed. “I guess not.”
“Well alright then,” nodded the old man, “Every Meat4 Power suit in Toronto has been begging for armed overwatch since we stirred it up with Bostov. Think you can handle that?”
Hemblen smiled weakly. “That sounds good, Monty. Thanks.”
Just like that, Jude was showering back at base and dressing in street clothing from his locker – slash proof jeans and a mid-thigh leather jacket with flexible ballistic armor inlays. A pistol on his hip, a meal in his stomach and by midday he was on a street corner waiting to meet his new clients.
He heart sank the moment he saw them coming. There were three, one man, two women. They shared one expression, one scraped-back hairstyle, one make of anonymous dark clothing. Each of them taking in a different quadrant of the street. Sunglasses, even on this dull day. Clear earpieces and throat mics.
“You Crash The Pad?” said the man.
“I’m contracted to bodyguard an Meat4 suit,” said Hemblen, checking out the flat oblong case strapped over the man’s shoulder.
“So?”
“So, you’re not executives. You’re RESC. Corporate spooks.”
“And you’re a mercenary, so don’t start with the value judgments,” smiled the man coldly. “Now are we working together? Or do I need to dial up some other hired help?”
Hemblen bunched fists inside his jacket pockets, realizing he couldn’t let down Monty twice but knowing that the day would drag along. “No, I’m cool,” he lied. “What’s up?”
“Ongoing rolling surveillance operation,” said the man. “RESC’s stretched tight because Bostov keep popping up all over. Sabotage, roadside bombs, fronting livedrive rights activities, all kinds of stuff. So we’re plugging gaps with mercs.”
He pointed to one of the women, blonde hair pulled into two tight bunches. “She’s Abel and I’m Baker. Once we establish contact, you’ll be working the tail with us.”
He pointed to the other woman, straight brown hair pulled into a tight pony tail. “She’s Charlie. She’ll be on a livebike repositioning anyone as and when. You’ll be…”
“Let me guess – Delta?”
Baker looked pissed at the interruption. “You’ll be Delta,” he said, reaching into a pocket and handing him a comms rig with a curly flex earpiece. “Questions?”
“Just one,” said Hemblen, pointing to Baker’s bag. “If this is a surveillance operation, why are you carrying a rifle?” Three sets of dark shades stared at him blankly. He hated them already.
Hemblen slouched on a street corner for an hour before Baker finally gave him the heads up and Hemblen saw the target. A young woman, early to mid-twenties, shooting wild glances around her as she hurried to catch a Tramtrax. She had another girl shadowing her, similar looking and dressed in an identical Fed uniform. The pair had their own bodyguard too, some giant of a black kid, clearly dangerous, clearly armed. The whole setup was odd – why would a Fed need a bodyguard?
The woman caught the Tramtrax to a hospital and Hemblen stood around for another hour before riding back across the District in the same carriage as her. He glanced over at her once or twice. she looked calmer now, more in control than she had earlier.
When she got off the Tramtrax, he rode it for another stop then sprinted back down the street. She walked a block then talked briefly to the bodyguard and the younger Fed and left them outside while walked down a sloping access ramp into an underground refrigerated livedrive store.
Hemblen did what he was told. He maintained contact. He reported each new location. He ran whole blocks while Charlie rode Able and Baker into position on the back of her livebike. Hemblen started to get tired and pissed off. He started to wonder what Chalk One were up to now.
Hours past. The girl came full circle and ended up a few blocks from where she’d started, walking into a bowling alley advertising its presence with a giant pre-Hub neon sign. Panting and dehydrated, his leather jacket sweat-soaked, Hemblen stood on the street corner and called it in. “She’s inside the Bowlerama,” he said into his comms. “I’ll head one street west and cover the rear exit.”
“Negative,” Baker told him. “Regroup on me.”
Baker was a block behind him with Abel and Charlie further back still. Breaking contact now didn’t make sense but Hemblen was past arguing. He walked away and saw the three of them already at the far end of an alley. As he got near, Charlie sped away on her livebike and Baker jerked his head to the residential block behind him. “Fourth floor corner, the window with white slatted blinds. You see it?”
“Sure I see it,” said Hemblen.
“It’s got a clear view down the street to the bowling alley entrance so I’m setting up there. Charlie’s riding round to the rear of that block to keep our escape route open. Position yourself one street over to cover the bowling alley’s rear access.”
“That’s exactly what I was going to do before you pulled me back,” said Hemblen.
“So? Get it done,” said Baker, turning and walking off. Hemblen hated these guys and it was only mid day. He peered up at the window with the slatted blinds and wondered how many days they’d been following this girl to have an observation post set up on her already. He shrugged – maybe she ate at
the Bowlerama every day.
He stood on his corner and waited, his sweaty clothes drying cold while he stood in shadow. After twenty minutes of staring at his own feet, a group of teenagers drifted along the street and cluttered the sidewalk at the side of the Bowlerama. They were Gs, no doubt, wearing the same kind of sneakers, the same microbranded hooded tops. A couple stood and eyeballed him with practiced attitude as others pulled lengths of pipe and sprayguns from stuffed carryalls.
Hemblen opened comms. “Delta here. Thirty plus gang bangers alongside the Bowlerama. Advise.”
“Afirm to that,” replied Baker. “Stay off air.”
“Fuck you too,” muttered Hemblen, comms closed. Five minutes passed. A senior G split his forces, the smaller group going round the corner empty-handed, out of Hemblen’s line of sight and towards the Bowlerama entrance. The larger group stayed put and passed out the clubs and pipes and electrified livedrive prods.
“Abel for Delta,” his earpiece buzzed. “Backtrack to this building and secure the rear access.”
“I thought Charlie was doing that,” he said.
“She is. Back her up.”
“Back her up?” Hemblen frowned. “Why does she need backup to keep a door open?”
“Just do it.” Abel sounded annoyed.
Hemblen was torn between being professional and simply getting the day over and done with. He hesitated, then keyed the mic. “These Gs are fixing to give someone a beating,” he said. “Shouldn’t I stay to see how it pans out?”
“Negative,” she said. “Follow the fucking order, Delta.”
He gritted his teeth and turned away. Running around for Meat4 Power’s Regulated Security Consultancy… even mercwar had been better than this.
Wednesday 12 March
07:13 pm
HEAD DOWN, FINGER tips pressed to his temples, Bishop tried to review the day of murder, arson and sabotage he’d arranged to coincide with Reboot’s launch day. He’d planned it all face to face in the deadroom. No notes, no meeting minutes, nothing. Maximum deniability. The flipside to that being that he now realized he couldn’t recall every operation he’d sanctioned. The plus side to the flipside being that he really could deny involvement.
“Professor Chang’s outside,” said Martha, breaking the last threads of his concentration. “He’s requesting an armed RESC escort.”
“Chang’s a scientist,” said Bishop. “What does he need security for?”
“He’s right here,” she said. “Should I let him in to explain?”
Chang burst in clutching a Slate. “I know what attacked Arclights,” he said proudly. “Want to see?”
Bishop nodded. “Who wouldn’t?”
Chang propped the Slate on the desk and brought up a video window. “It’s here on the security visuals we pulled. It just took a while to isolate it.”
He ran the window, a shot overlooking a bar area packed with people. Flashing lights, plenty of dancers, a good time. Then a flurry of dust and fragments that ended it all in an instant. Sudden, savage, fatal.
“Looks like a bomb in the service elevator,” said Bishop.
“That’s what I thought,” said Chang excitedly. “But the club has a multi-spectrum surveillance system, real high-end gear. And when I watched on infra-red, guess what? Not enough heat for an explosion. So I reviewed the millimetric radar to look for bullet flight paths or shrapnel. What you see here is airborne fragments of elevator casing. It’s fast, but not the hyper-kinetic shrapnel a bomb would produce.”
Chang let the visual loop round again and again, people dying and resurrecting every five seconds. “When I watched on slow motion, I got nothing.” he said. “So I checked it frame by frame, and this system records two hundred every second. Eventually I got this…”
Chang tapped the screen and Bishop stared at frozen carnage. The shredded elevator casing hung in the air like crumpled tin foil. Broken glass and spilled drinks danced in the light. Spray from a severed neck wound hung in the air as sharp glistening spheres. Yet at the center, the image was still blurry and soft with motion but not so much that Bishop couldn’t make out a form.
“That’s impossible,” said Bishop, squinting at the image.
“That’s the clearest frame in the whole recording,” said Chang, tapping the screen again.
Bishop stared at it for a full minute, a single two hundredth of second etched into computer memory. “And you’re sure this is good data?” he said, finally. “Couldn’t this be a glitch? A random image overwrite on the frame store, maybe?”
“What you see is what was there,” said Chang. “For anything to be moving that fast… there’s only one explanation I can come up with.”
“Reboot” said Bishop, and Chang nodded. “But how could that happen? Reboot’s coded to only alter M4P product and this here…” he pointed to the screen, “…clearly wasn’t produced in one of our pharms.”
“That’s what I need your guards for,” said Chang. “I’ve got some leads to chase down. I need to see first hand what caused this.”
“Take whoever you’ll need,” said Bishop. “Bring him back alive.”
Friday 14 March
05:51 am
THE OLD MAN’S lain dead in the street all night and it’s her fault. He went down in the same burst of gunfire that swept down Oliphant Street and tore up a second floor apartment in her building. The resident escaped unharmed, the old man died in the opening minutes of the firefight that sent rocket propelled grenades slamming into buildings all over the area and filled the sky with flashes and bouncing tracers. The Grifters have been defending their turf all night and now the sky’s lit by burning buildings and filled with columns of smoke.
Newsfeed airships gathering overhead drew their own ground fire so now they’re higher up now with their running lights turned off but still broadcasting. Kirsty’s been able to follow the events on cable access all night. They’re calling it Toronto’s largest gang fight of all time. They’re reporting that Grifters turf has been invaded by at least three different gangs and that PD are outgunned and locked down in their own station houses. They’re reporting everything apart from the fact that it’s all Kirsty’s fault. Only she knows that.
She sits miserably on her roof, one hand trailing the water of her trout tank as she watches the only world she’s ever known being rocked by explosions and lit by chattering beads of tracers.
“Hell of a night for fireworks, huh?” She looks round startled and there’s Cusack cradling an assault rifle.
“Hard to believe that local kids have so much firepower,” she says.
“There’s still plenty left over from the war with Canada, Miss Powell,” he says. “And Urban Pacification Forces are out there in force too, making sure the gangs stick to the streets and leave residents alone. Carmine… he’s my boss… he just called me up. He said every one of my crew Carmine Cares is working tonight.”
Mortar tubes thump in the distance. “Look, Cusack,” she says. “I feel kinda goofy for losing it after you blew up my apartment. All that snot and mascara… I thought I was made of tougher stuff.”
He shakes his head. “After what you’ve been through? No worries.”
“And I know I should say something to you now but what’s fitting when someone’s saved your life? Thank you just doesn’t seem enough.”
“Thank you’s fine, just so long as you thank all of Carmine Cares,” says Cusack. “We’re a team, we stay together because we play together. If the guy watching you at the Bowlerama hadn’t called in events so fast, I’d never have been ready to take out those scumbags downstairs.”
She nods. “If he’s here now, please point him out. I need to thank him for stopping the sniper.”
“Here’s the thing though – he didn’t” says Cusack. “My guy was locked in the Bowlerama when the shooting started. He didn’t eyeball the sniper and didn’t return fire, so I guess you can put that one down to luck. Anyway, there’s coffee downstairs. Tim sent me up to fetch y
ou down.”
“Guns everywhere… I bet Tim’s loving it.”
“He’s pretty tough for a janitor,” nods Cusack. “Did you know he killed a guy once?”
She smiles. “I think he may have mentioned it once or twice.”
“A capable young man,” says Cusack, looking not a year older than Tim.
“He’s your newest, bestest friend now,” she says. “A week ago, I was sure he dreamed of being a BASEracer – one of those skydiving scagband fans, you know? Now I’m pretty sure he’s after your job. He wants to swing through exploding windows to save chicks too.”
Cusack smiles as he scans the District. “Vehicles coming this way, Miss Powell. Let’s get inside in case they draw fire…”
Looking at it now, Kirsty realizes the Bowlerama fight had been the signal to start this full-scale gang war. Even while Cusack had been gunning down her assailants, firefights had lit up every corner of the Grifters’ turf and by the time he’d called in a bodycount to PD, the cops were already outgunned and hiding in their own basements. With coverage from newsfeed airships drawing in gangs from all over, the fire she started had burned out of control. It had killed Kareem and the old guy in the street and probably the reverend too and all because she’d shot Georgy as he’d tried to grab Slate. That makes everything her fault
It’s dawn now and all her residents are still wide awake. Andy Murphy, mad that his apartment got all torn up, has been covering the front entrance all night with an old AK she never knew he owned. Mrs Dubochnik, the old lady on the third floor, has been making snacks for the ten members of Carmine Cares who made it through hotly-contested streets in the opening hour of the battle. William Cheung and his son, both of them meat field workers, volunteered to haul the bodies downstairs and stash them in the basement chest freezers. It was no big deal, they told her later. They’d seen far worse.
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