Ill Wind_Chaos Witches

by Tal Turing

  She reached the asset level, found her room, checked it and locked herself in, letting her body slide to the floor, her thinking position. She had to admit, this whole situation was strange. Why was she here? Why bring her all the way to her home valley and then just let her sit, working any assignment that came along? Cyn knew that Transom put profits above both its employees as well as its property, herself included, but that was the point, how could they be making any money? They couldn't be. So what was going on?

  She felt like this was personal - the restrictions, the threats, the thing in the stibnite armor who had broken into her room. Maybe it was all part of the same thing, a corporate conspiracy and if so, she was in trouble. But it made no sense. If they wanted to kill her, it could have been done already. Her body could have been left those of the raiders. And whoever had assaulted her that night was careful to tell her to do what she was told. It was trying to hold her back, to keep her in line, or else. She couldn't follow those fears. She would proceed with her plan. It was the only way.

  At that point, her AI received a ping.

  AI Upgrade Available

  Her eyes snapped open. And she remembered. The woman from Daneel. The image of Trent. She had missed something.

  We do not advertise, Cynnamon.

  She checked the properties of the message, the origin was completely unfamiliar. It was not from Transom House. But her AI was blocked outside of Transom House, so how could she receive a message which did not come from within? And then a thought rose on the horizon of her mind and she started to make a connection...when her AI was pinged again.

  She ignored it and tried to refocus her mind when she realized that the door, her door was sliding open. She spun around to see a tall, black, armored creature on the other side of the portal.

  “No!” she cried out, knowing that all was lost. He had returned, just as he said he would. And she was not prepared.

  The Puppet Masters

  Edwyrd Harilla finished his meal and looked around the private dining room. Brad was supposed to join them but had not. It was not like him and Ed took the opportunity to discuss it.

  “How is Brad working out in Ops?” Ed asked looking over at his father.

  Patron grunted. “Well, as long as you and your brother are here, and Bradley is not, you might as well know. He is not working out. Not at all.”

  Ed followed up quickly. “I've noticed that he's been very distracted recently, almost depressed. It can't be easy working under you...”

  “He's right, Patron,” Steve interjected, his face a serious mask. “Barrett gave Eddie plenty of freedom and look at him now. Does Brad have that opportunity? You do everything yourself, you hardly delegate, you don't even have an assistant. You need to give Brad more responsibility, that is the only way you can tell if he can succeed or not...”

  Edwyrd watched the two converse. It was interesting that Steve was backing Brad up although Ed knew that Steve felt strongly that Brad simply did not have the emotional makeup to be an officer. Still, he was lobbying for him, a first. And it was hard to believe it was out of a concern for Brad or a belief in his abilities.

  “It doesn't work that way,” Patron snarled a response. “When Brad starts handling his tasks, then I'll think about more privileges, not until that time.”

  Ed didn't disagree with Patron, but neither did he want to the discussion to go into detail about Brad's increasingly somber and distracted moods. So he changed the subject.

  “It looks like that Matheson guy stood us up again,” Ed began. “Maybe he doesn't like one of us, probably Steve.”

  “I think he is a spy, right Eddie?” Steve spoke with a tone which made it clear that he had made up his mind and was giving his younger brother a chance to get on board the wagon of truth.

  “Stop calling me Eddie. Why don't you explain to Patron why you suspect him, beyond the fact that he is from Techview?” Ed responded with artificial annoyance. He did not think Tym Matheson was a spy, though he had considered it. The man had forgone many of Transom House's perks, considerable for an executive, including Steve's corporate 'social' events. Instead, Matheson spent his time reviewing their procedures and documentation, raising questions and concerns where necessary. When Ed had asked him for the reasons behind his queries, Tym had given frank answers. Besides, a spy would be be happy to hobnob with the local executives and their families, and Tym didn't seem interested in any of that.

  “Of course not,” Patron rolled his eyes. “I told you idiots - I invited him, he is here to audit our procedures and provide feedback.”

  “He's certainly a spy, Patron,” Steve declared. “Techview is impressed with our recent accomplishments. Of course they don't want to admit that, so they sent an executive knowing that we would never accuse him, that we would give him whatever he asked.”

  “You aren't listening to me,” growled Patron. “I just told you I called in a favor to get him here.”

  “We don't need anything from Techview,” Steve smiled.

  “Fine,” began Ed as if he were following the natural flow of the conversation, “so you explained about Matheson. But what about this other one? The asset? Why is she here?”

  “None of your business,” Patron sighed.

  “It is my business,” Ed insisted. “Especially when she tries to barge into a confidential executive-only meeting. It is my business when her credentials screw up our automated systems. And it is certainly my business when she breaks security rules and wanders around without her AI and mingles with corporate guests. First you make us take her on a security patrol and now I see her serving drinks on the back lawn. What is the point? Why is she here?”

  “Ed's right,” Steve interjected, agreeing with Ed for an amazing two times in the space of an hour. “She's just getting in our way. She could be doing something useful, I could use her in negotiations, especially with some of the villages. Village men are seldom interested in girls who look like domers. What really interests them is an asset which looks like the wife of some rival village leader or even her daughter. And she has that look...so why can't we use her in Corp Relations?”

  Patron put his hands up in the air.

  “Enough. First of all, she belongs to Ops, to be assigned as I see fit. Some days I may feel like lending out to security, others it might serve my purpose for her to wander around looking for something to do and today I feel like seeing if she knows how to pour a drink. There you have it.”

  “Buy why, Patron? That is what I am asking you. If she is Ops why aren't you using her there? It sounds like you don't know what to do with her so why even bring...”

  “You are missing the obvious, Eddie,” Steve began. “She shouldn't even be Ops. I remember when she was here before: she was a spoiled, troublesome, know-it-all who spent most of her time chasing after the officers-in-training whether they were attached or not. Donnie Cabb was dating the daughter of the Patron of Urbanic before he got distracted by her easy morals. Then she turned around and dumped him seconds after we decide to send her to Techview for training to be a sexpie. I say, we can use her for what we trained her for, we paid for it, right?”

  Somehow, Ed didn't want to listen to Steve's rambling any more. The disturbing thing is that Ed could hear some of his own words coming out of Steve's mouth, things that he, himself, had said all those years ago.

  His attention returned to his AI just as the warning came in.

  “Steve!” Ed interrupted. “You have some event tonight? At that club of yours?”

  Steve's face went blank, as if he needed time to decide how to answer.

  “Some type of accident? And your people are refusing to open the doors?” Ed spoke angrily.

  “It's a private club, Eddie,” Steve began, “for entertaining executives and corporate VIPs. We have our own plainclothes people to do security, it would make people nervous to see your guys armored guys in there...”

  “I'm going to open up a video feed...meanwhile, tell them to open it up
,” began Ed.

  “It's a confidential room, Eddie,” warned Steve.

  Ed hesitated. It wasn't locked to him, of course. He could access any camera or reader he wanted. But he didn't want big brother Steve to know that...”

  “Looks like your guys forgot to lock it,” Ed lied as he opened the link.

  There clearly was something wrong as the link opened. The stage was littered with irregular pieces of debris, sparkling in the overhead lights like shards of glass. The back wall monitor was black, a huge gash where its surface had broken or possibly exploded. Somewhere within, something flashed sporadically. An overturned chair lay nearby and a river of black ran, like spilt oil, from a heap of debris on the floor, across the stage toward where a woman stood.

  She faced a room of astonished, white-faced, spectators, one long, bare leg stepping toward her beneath a glittering, red dress. The music had already reached them but now they could hear a voice as well. She was singing.

  “What the hell happened?” Patron demanded, “Or does that place always look like that...”

  “Shhh”, Ed insisted, listening. He caught some of the words at first, but then they faded away and he couldn't understand them. And he noticed now that some of the observers seemed restless, almost shaking, as if waiting for something. It was damn strange.

  “It's just a show, Eddie,” Steve assured him. “You can drop by some time when you are off duty, but nothing is wrong so close your damn feed, we have VIPs who expect privacy, if they knew you were monitoring....”

  And then, as they watched, the whole scene exploded into mayhem.

  “That bitch hit that guy!” snarled Steve, “She hit one of our guests!”

  “Damn it, it's a brawl,” Patron added. “Ed...”

  Ed's fingers moved inside his AI glove as he directed his available men and pulled others.

  “The bouncers will break it up, now turn off your feeds, Eddie!” Steve protested.

  “I'm stopping the whole thing,” Ed replied calmly, his mind and attention more in the virtual world than with the other two Harillas.

  “Stop him, Patron!” Steve complained.

  “Shut it,” Patron barked. “That is your zoo, you know better than to let anything like this happen. What do you want him to do? Let the damn thing escalate until they are finally killing each other?”

  Ed turned back to his older brother.

  “Your guys are refusing to open the auditorium doors. I can bypass but it will take some time so I'm telling you right now to let us in before this gets worse...” his eyes were like bullet holes.

  “There is no need for that, Eddie. Everything will be fine.” Steve insisted.

  And then the doors burst open.

  Private Club

  Cynnamon looked up to see the door slide open, revealing a creature in black.

  “No!” she cried out. All was lost. It was back and she was completely unprepared. But as she stepped back into the room, trying to control the panic and terror, she saw a second guard appear.

  Then her supervisor walked through the door, an ugly smirk on his face. Upon seeing her panic, the smirk twisted into a mean, delighted smile.

  “I escalated to my manager the importance of tonight's event and raised a concern that some of the recruits might not see its importance. So I received a personal escort to make damn sure that you all attend.”

  Cyn's eyes were wide as she looked past the man and to the guards. But they did not approach, they stood silent, waiting. It wasn't him or it or whatever it was that had attacked her. This was just a petty stunt pulled by an insecure middle man. She couldn't help but be relieved and that seemed to reignite her supervisor's annoyance.

  He added, “I feel our clients are bored with the regular girls. I'll bet that guajira skin of yours will drum up some interest.”

  As the guards brought her down a series of dark, carpeted hallways, Cynnamon could hear first the thumping of the music, then the rising and falling of whistles and cat calls; and when they rounded the corner, the full force of the room hit her like a slap to the face, the pounding music, the laughter, the occasional scream of outrage and protest.

  She was ushered back stage and one guard stood by while a woman attended to her. A leather, faux-diamond studded, shock collar was placed around her neck. Once that was in place, the guard left.

  The woman released Cyn's hair from the pony tail and brushed it out. She applied a gold liquid to Cynnamon's lips and picked out a crimson sequined mini-dress from a rack of glittering costumes. It was only then that she spoke.

  “It's real simple, honey. You go out on stage next. You stay out there until you can get 100 credits from the crowd, that's the fee to leave the stage. Or one of the guys can buy you out for 200 and take you to a private room. You get to keep half of anything you make above the 100.

  Here's some advice, forget the crowd, take any offer for private that you get, do what they want and move on with your life. Don't be stupid. Got it?”

  She nodded. There were similar 'events' in the Techview clubs, she knew a little bit about what they were and a little how they worked. In the end, it was all the same.

  “Good. Pick out your music over there and wait your turn.”

  Cynnamon turned to find a digital jukebox with a library of songs, stage animations and effects. Should she even bother? She took a quick look through the music list and then walked to the stage entrance and peeked out.

  The room was closed in, one large stage and various tables in front. She estimated roughly 20-25 men, various ages and sizes, some in groups, some alone. There were a couple curtains along the side walls, probably entrances to the so-called 'private' booths. One man seemed to be a bouncer, he stood close to the stage and was neither laughing nor whistling.

  There was a woman on stage, tall and busty with light brown hair. She wore only her under-garments, a white dress clutched in one hand. As Cyn watched, the dancer received a tip from one of the patrons and promptly brought it to the bouncer. She handed him a fist full of credits but he looked at her offering and shook his head, she turned away, dejected.

  The rock and roll beat continued as she backed away from the stage and looked for more tip opportunities. She passed over a couple candidates in favor of a man who held out a wad of money. She sat down on the stage by him and let his hand slide along her thigh. She lifted her garter to receive the tip. Instead, he grabbed her hips and slid her off the stage.

  The woman yelped a protest and the bouncer moved to intercept. But another man casually held out a stack of credits which the bouncer counted and nodded satisfaction. The woman's flailing legs disappeared into the crowd.

  “My body is just a barrier to my soul,” Cynnamon whispered, “it matters less than I can ever believe.”

  She returned to the computer terminal and chose two songs, accompanying video animations and sound effects. Cyn took special care to ramp up the volume level at one specific point in the music.

  With one minute remaining, she took a second look at the audience; they were animated and their noise level was much too high. She would be lost in that, she needed something to calm them down.

  She found a man who seemed to be the center of a large group, tall with bright red hair and a colorful scarf around his neck; he was speaking forcefully, gesticulating wildly and his compatriots laughed in response. It was then that she heard her music begin.

  Thunderstrike

  Grieg had become restless to be without his AI for so long; they did not allow the device in the club for obvious reasons. The last entertainer had exited the stage early after some rich guy flashed a large wad of credits, so now they were just sitting around waiting. It was annoying and as the last song ended, all he could hear was the raucous voices of the other guests.

  He looked up as the next performer made her entrance, the sparking red dress grabbing his attention. Her eyes swept by him, lingering perhaps, a genuine smile on her face. That was already a welcome change, so many of the nig
ht's entertainers seemed either disinterested or scared or pissed off, the down-side of amateur night. But this one was different, she was familiarizing herself with her audience, walking to each part of the stage, smiling, timing the steps of her bare feet with the music, perhaps she couldn't afford heels. He could already tell that she would be different. He sat up in his chair.

  There was a loud party to Grieg's left, probably celebrating a wedding engagement, he laughed to himself. The girl, who had been scrutinizing the crowd, seemed to make up her mind and motioned for a man from that group to join her, a tall, flashy corper with bright red hair. She motioned for Red to bring his chair up onto and to the back of the stage, near the giant wall monitor that was projecting, in incredible detail, a large pool of blue, sparkling water, the glow from the animation reflecting off the man's expensive metallic outfit.

  The woman leaned over and whispered something in Red's ear, her raven tresses splashing onto his shoulder as she did so, scurrying away even as he reached for her. But whatever she had said, pleased the man because he jumped up, two large feet on the chair, raising himself high above the stage, his arms waving in front of the video display, motioning for the audience and his friends to quiet down. And they did, briefly, until he visibly lowered the zipper over his crotch and flashed a boyish grin, an act that brought a cacophony of hooting and cackling from his friends.

  But most of the audience had stopped their bragging and story-telling and were anxious to see what would happen next. As the crowd settled down, Grieg could better hear the music and the voice which accompanied it. He recognized the song, a famous love ballad, but the voice was not that of the artist who made it famous, it was the girl, the dancer, she was singing.