by Paul Black
“It’s worth it if it means I’ll have you for a long weekend. Besides, I’ve got to prep some files before this meeting tomorrow. I could use the time.”
Deja leaned in and smiled. “Thanks, lover. I promise to make it up to you.”
“So,” Chaco said suggestively, “I’m up for a nice dinner. Maybe some sushi. Got any suggestions?”
“How ’bout Sushi Girl?” Deja offered. “It’s got a great bar, and the food is yummy.”
She held onto the “u” so that it came across kind of cute. Deja had a way of doing that with certain words, and Chaco had grown fond of it. “Sounds good,” he agreed. “And if you can leave any earlier, maybe we can meet for a late drink.”
Deja grinned. “That’s a date. I’ll send you their link right now.”
Chaco watched Sushi Girl’s site appear in the corner of his Netpad. Its logotype danced into view, followed by two Asian girls who began hacking away at the letterforms until the logo was reduced to a tray of sushi. The girls presented the tray and greeted him personally. They sounded like the twins from an old Japanese monster movie Tsuka had demanded that Chaco watch in an actual theater. Chaco had laughed his guts out at the retro special effects. There was only one place in D.C. that still had the vintage equipment to project film, and Tsuka was really into that purist crap. “Got it, thanks. I’ll call you later.”
Deja blew him a kiss and hung up.
Chaco closed his Netpad and listened to the hum of the LEV. He knew Deja’s body language pretty well, and there was something odd about it. Just that morning, she had raved about the new Italian place where she was going to take him. Now, however, she was all business, which had come out of nowhere. In fact, last night she’d mentioned finishing the ratings reports.
The LEV began to slow. Chaco glanced at the transit map above one of the exit doors and studied the different routes to Deja’s office building. The LEV glided to a halt, and its doors slid open.
“Little Miss Work Ethic,” he said before he shuffled out with the rest of the passengers.
* * *
“Hey pal, how long we gonna wait here?”
Chaco looked up from his Netpad. “As long as it takes.”
The cab driver grunted and went back to viewing the sports section. He tapped the main screen on the vehicle’s instrument panel to call up a holoclip from last night’s New York Yankees game. The batter cracked a foul into the upper deck, and Chaco could hear the faint roar of the crowd through the half-closed ballistic plexi.
“Jesus, you’d think the Yankees were a farm team.” The driver spit another sunflower shell into a foam cup.
Chaco shifted in his seat, and his coat fell open. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught the driver’s double take.
The plexi divider slowly began to rise.
“I’m registered,” Chaco said, not bothering to look up from the file he was studying. He tapped the Netpad, and his badge’s holoimage appeared.
The driver pressed his face against the plexi and read Chaco’s ID. “I don’t get many fares packin’ Light,” he said, his voice emanating from a speaker somewhere in the cabin. The plexi lowered. “Especially government agents.” He motioned at Chaco’s coat. “I collect guns. Can I see it?”
Chaco eyed him and glanced at the crowded sidewalk. “Darken the glass.”
The cab’s windows went black, and the dome light brightened. Chaco reached into his coat and pulled out his Light-Force. Its matte black titanium housing seemed to absorb the light. He spun it and handed the butt end to the driver.
The driver whistled. “Man,” he said, reverently taking the weapon with both hands. “It’s so light!” A serious look crossed his brow. “Say, you’re not supposed to part with it.... Are you?”
Chaco gave him his best cop stare. “Go ahead,” he said. “Pull the trigger.”
“What the–”
“I thought you New York cabbies had balls of steel.”
The driver shrugged and leveled the gun directly at Chaco’s sternum. He held it there for a moment, his hand shaking.
Chaco yawned.
The driver moved his aim to the empty seat and pulled the trigger. The instant it clicked back, a tiny section of the gun’s butt disengaged and released a dozen buglike bots, which scurried up the driver’s arm.
“Sheeeeit!” the driver exclaimed, dropping the weapon. He brushed wildly at the bots, but they were too agile. They ducked and jumped and continued their charge up his arm.
Chaco picked up the gun and clicked the interface button. The bots stopped and vibrated in place like they were waiting for orders. One had made it to the driver’s cheek, and he was eyeing it.
“Get these damn things off me!” he demanded.
Chaco turned the gun on its side and clicked the button again. The bots retreated down the driver’s arm, jumped onto Chaco’s palm, and marched into their tiny holding cell in the butt of the weapon.
The driver brushed frantically at his nose. “That wasn’t funny, pal.”
Chaco suppressed a laugh. “The hell it wasn’t,” he said, returning the gun to its holster.
“Why didn’t it fire?”
“DNA recognition.”
“So what would have happened if you hadn’t stopped those, those ... What are those?”
Chaco settled back against the seat. “They’re part of the gun’s Emergency Defense Tactics. They’d paralyze you, collect all your vitals and anything else of interest, and send your info back to the lab. Once they’re done with you, they fan out and cover the rest of the crime scene ... assuming I was rendered inoperative.”
“You mean dead?”
“You can be inoperative and still be alive.”
“But what if the gun got picked up again, you know, by somebody else?”
“The bots go after that person, and so on and so on, until they get taken out. The idea is that by that time, enough info has been sent back that the perps are screwed. They’re fast little buggers, and they can go for years. We had one hunt down a guy months after the crime. Right up the ductwork and into his girlfriend’s apartment. He never knew what hit him.”
“Man,” the driver said, “that’s wild.”
“Hey,” Chaco said, pointing, “there’s our girl!”
Deja emerged from the AztecaNet building and hailed a cab. One immediately pulled out of traffic and drew to the curb. Its door slid open, and she climbed in.
Chaco’s driver engaged his cab’s systems and pulled into traffic. He hung back just enough to stay in visual range.
“You’ve done this before?” Chaco asked.
“Plenty. There’s always some PI snoopin’ on a cheatin’ spouse. I get ’em all the time.”
They followed Deja’s cab uptown, weaving in and out of the rush-hour traffic. Chaco leaned over the lowered plexi and reviewed the vehicle’s instrument panel. “What make is this cab?” he asked.
“Ah, this here’s one of the new Impala Cores. They grow ’em in old Mexico, then ship ’em all over the place. Real nice, this one is. Got your SATNAV, Interway link-ups, and that new shit in the frame.” He snapped his fingers. “What’s it called?”
“Programmable matter?”
“Yeah, that’s it. They say it’s the new deal. Soon, everything’s gonna be made with it. Cars, clothes, and check this out, say you’re in your house, and the sun’s comin’ in the window and hittin’ ya right in the face. You won’t draw the blinds. You’ll just ask the house to move the window. Move the window.” He laughed. “I love that.”
“They’re pulling over,” Chaco said with a slap on the driver’s shoulder.
The driver pulled to the curb and parked about five car lengths back. “What’s she done that’s so bad?” he asked.
“You don’t want to know,” Chaco said. He handed the driver his chip card.
The driver swiped the card and handed it back, then watched Deja emerge from the cab like some exotic creature. He whistled. “Boy, she’s a looker.”
>
It surprised Chaco how hard it was to think of her as just his mark. He had to focus, or his heart would get the best of him. “Tell me about this place she’s going into.”
The driver pointed. “This here’s Club Heaven.”
Chaco peered through the cab’s windshield at an old converted church. Its steeple was about four stories tall, and a massive, circular stained-glass window dominated its front façade. Two colossal wooden doors that looked like they could have been carved during the Middle Ages loomed above two equally imposing bouncers.
“She must be a member,” the driver said, “’cause that’s the only way in. If you’re not, you can forget about it.” He inspected Chaco. “You’re definitely not.”
Chaco opened his door and stepped out.
The passenger window lowered, and the driver leaned over the seat. “You want me to wait for you?”
“Are you armed?” Chaco asked.
The driver patted his seat meshing. “Got a conventional right under here.”
“Yeah, hang around. You never know, right? If I need a ride, I’ll call.”
The driver nodded and fished an old-fashioned paper business card out of the console between the seats. “Here’s my number.”
Chaco pulled out his Netpad and strolled past a long line of club warriors. Many were dressed like the gothic art militia, while others appeared to have just come from work. He climbed the steep granite steps and approached one of the bouncers.
“Can I help you?” the guy asked. He was bald and draped in a cloak the color of blood. Its tall white collar made his head seem like it was balanced atop a red mountain.
“What do you know?” Chaco asked flippantly. He could see his reflection in the guy’s ocular implants.
The bouncer considered him with a heavy dose of apathy. “That I’m about throw an arrogant tourist onto his ass. What are you doing?” On the word “you,” he leaned into Chaco’s face.
“Arresting a big fucking dumbshit for obstructing a federal officer.” Chaco displayed his holobadge.
The bouncer didn’t react and motioned him in. Chaco walked past and barely heard him say “Asshole” over the pounding music.
The club’s foyer had been converted into a staging area for the desperate. When Chaco entered, another bouncer approached. This guy was as big as the previous one and dressed exactly the same, right down to the moustache. He had his hand cupped around the side of his face, probably reading information being fed to his implants.
“Right this way,” he said, not gracing Chaco with his attention.
Since his head was the only evidence of a human underneath the robe, bouncer number two seemed to float as he led Chaco along the edge of the main sanctuary. The aisle they walked was demarcated only by the fact that people never stepped into it. The club pulsated with the harsh sounds of Arabic techno, and while pockets of people were dancing, most of the crowd seemed to be standing around. Chaco and the bouncer finally reached what would’ve been the pulpit and mounted a set of wide stairs that looked like the same wood as the front doors. When the bouncer ascended, his floating act became even more convincing.
The stairs emptied into a large balconied room, furnished mainly with elaborate, floor-standing candelabras that held about a hundred tiny white candles. Two life-size crucifixes, whose Christ figures stared mournfully up to the rafters, gated the entrance to the room. As they stepped through, the noise from the main floor dropped away. They rounded another pair of candelabras and approached a small man, dressed as a priest, sitting between two bioenhanced brunettes on a red couch the size of Lichtenstein.
“Mr. Del Mar,” the bouncer announced. “Agent Sonny Chaco, National Security Agency.” He then floated across the room to another set of stairs and descended to the main floor, where the frantic dance crowd swallowed him.
“Welcome to Heaven,” Del Mar said with what sounded like a German accent.
“I wouldn’t call it that, but thanks,” Chaco replied.
“Please, sit.” Del Mar motioned, and one of the brunettes scooted down the couch. Chaco took her place, careful not to get too comfortable. “You’re dry.” Del Mar gestured in the air, and suddenly an Asian waitress appeared and bowed.
“I’ll have a beer, please,” Chaco said. “And no gen enhancements.”
The waitress bowed again and hurried off.
The brunette slid over and snuggled a little too closely against Chaco. Her weight pulled his coat and exposed the Light-Force holster.
Del Mar’s eyes flared. “And how may I help the government?” he asked, whereupon he flourished a kiss upon the cheek of the brunette next to him. All the while, his eyes remained on Chaco.
“I’ve been following someone who’s entered your club, and I need to stay on her. All I want to do is observe.”
“And why should I help the NSA?”
Chaco took a casual account of the room. “I’m a Net Operative, Mr. Del Mar, and I’m sure there’s plenty of history I could dig up on Heaven.” Chaco’s attention settled on a small painting nestled in a narrow alcove on a far wall. It was expensively displayed; its lone halogen caused the Madonna’s face to radiate off the canvas. “You do have complete records on all of your artwork?”
Del Mar’s look softened. He motioned to a dark area of the room, and a man dressed in a black leather suit emerged and approached. He had the same implants as the bouncers. Chaco figured they were all Net linked and tricked out with enhancements like VL holovision. He handed Del Mar a Netpad.
Del Mar passed it along. “Here, agent. Point her out.”
Chaco took the Netpad and began scanning through images of everyone who had entered the club. They had been captured from the waist up, probably by the first bouncer’s optics, and many had information boxes that detailed addresses, ages, food allergies, and drug preferences, among other things. Chaco passed Deja’s image, then Corazon’s (with Pavia trailing), and then his. He stopped on an image of a cute black girl, her hair teased sky high and her eyes styled like she had just stepped out of the current revival of Cats. He handed the Netpad back.
“Do we know her, Tommy?” Del Mar asked when he passed the Netpad to the man in black leather.
The leather guy studied the image. “I’ve always wondered about her,” he said and pocketed the Netpad somewhere behind him. “What’s she done?”
“You name it,” Chaco said.
The leather guy smirked. “Figures.” He turned and slipped back into the darkness.
“So, can I go about my business?” Chaco asked, taking his beer from the Asian waitress.
Del Mar spread his arms. “Welcome to my father’s house.”
Chaco stood and raised his bottle. “Thank you, Mr. Del Mar.” The brunette next to Chaco also stood and slipped her arm through his.
“Keitha, please,” Del Mar said. “Agent Chaco works alone.”
She frowned childishly and sat.
Chaco passed through the crucifixes, and the music grew until he could feel it pounding inside his chest. He walked back up the aisle where the bouncer had led him, ever so often glancing into the crowd to see if he could catch a glimpse of Deja. He saw an opening between some Goth warriors and stepped through. As he pushed his way, people bumped into him, and a few felt the Light-Force because they instantly shot him a look that started at his chest before moving to his face. These people quickly shuffled away.
Chaco finally came to what he assumed was the main bar. It was surrounded by dance-scene types. He began to circle it casually when he came upon the back of a very large guy in a black fedora.
Pavia.
Chaco quickly stepped up to a couple at the bar who looked deep in a conversation, although he had no idea how they could’ve managed that, what with the club’s music obliterating the ability to hear. Pavia moved, which exposed Deja and Corazon, who were standing together with drinks in their hands. Deja leaned into Corazon and said something that caused Corazon to turn and speak to Pavia. They all began inc
hing their way through the crowd away from the bar.
Chaco discreetly followed as they continued to the far side of the sanctuary. They approached another bouncer who appeared to be guarding a dozen glassed rooms that lined the edge of the dance floor. Chaco guessed that at one time these must have been side chapels, but now they were private party rooms. The whole scene was beginning to punch against his sense of morality when someone tapped his shoulder. It was the leather guy.
“We have the girl you’re looking for monitored,” he said.
“Good,” Chaco said. “Keep an eye on her until I’m done here.”
“And what, exactly, are you doing here?”
“Government business,” Chaco said, this time with as much authority as he could project over the music.
The leather guy gave him a nod, then talked into the air and walked back into the crowd.
Fucking Boy Scout. Chaco went back to spying on Deja, who was now talking with the bouncer. Pavia was next to her, seemingly arguing with Corazon. They had an exchange that ended with Corazon shaking her head. Pavia stormed away and headed straight towards Chaco.
Shit. Chaco spun into a rather plain-looking girl who seemed to be having about as much fun with Heaven as a migraine. “Hi, ah, my name’s Sonny. Can I buy you a drink?”
“Sure,” she said, brightening. “I’m Taylor-Reese, with a dash.”
“What would you like?” He watched out of the corner of his eye as Pavia stormed past.
She giggled. “A Deetroit Dragon.”
Chaco tried to watch Deja and Corazon while ordering drinks from the bartender.
Taylor-Reese picked up on it and followed his line of sight. “Who are they?” she demanded and folded her arms.
Chaco turned back from ordering and watched Deja and Corazon disappear into one of the party rooms.
“Well?” she pressed.
Chaco forced a smile. “Okay, here’s the deal.... I’m a government agent, and that’s my–”