“And there’s something else,” he added pensively. “It’s like destroying the file: you have to make sure everyone knows what you’ve done. Every corp has to know that all the rest got the same paydata, right? That’s the only way to persuade them there’s no margin in coming after you.”
“You’re saying I can’t do it privately,” Sly pointed out. “My only choice is to do it openly, publicly.”
“I guess that’s what I’m saying.” Modal paused. “So that answers your question, doesn’t it? You’ve got to post the data. Post it publicly, on some kind of electronic bulletin board system. A BBS.”
A BBS. Yes, that was logical. “But which BBS?” she asked. “All the big ones are owned, directly or indirectly, by some megacorp. As soon as I post something like this—assuming I can even log on—the system operator’s going to snatch the data and erase my posting. It’ll be like giving the data directly to one corporation, the one that owns the BBS.”
“What about Shadowland?” Modal asked. Shadowland. That was the name of the most famous clearinghouse for “black” or “shadow” information in North America. Its services included bulletin boards that contained the most astounding variety of dirt on governments, corps, and individuals (some of it even true); online, real-time “conferences” where deckers and others argued over just about anything; “virtual” meeting places where deckers could conduct business safely; and much more. The governments of North America— particularly the more secretive ones like the Pueblo Corporate Council and Tir Taimgire—hated Shadowland with a passion, as did the megacorps. The shadows were full of rumors concerning attempts to compromise or crash the system. According to conventional wisdom, the only reason that Shadowland still existed was that its central data core—its hub, known as the Denver Data Haven—was located somewhere in the contested territory of Denver. So edgy were all the governments that had divided up the city under the Treaty of Denver that none could organize a campaign to ferret out and eliminate the Shadowland service. From that standpoint, Modal’s suggestion made a lot of sense. But . . .
“But what corp runs Shadowland?" she asked.
“Huh?” Modal grunted in shock. “Shadowland’s independent, everyone knows that.”
“Sometimes I get suspicious about things that ‘everyone knows,’” Sly said quietly. “What is Shadowland? It covers the continent, right? Headquarters in the Denver Data Haven—wherever the frag that is—but it’s got local ’floating’ servers in every major city in North America. Right?” Modal nodded, troubled. “And all those servers connect back to the Denver hub, right?”
“What are you getting at?” Despite his emotion-deadening drugs, Modal sounded surly, as though Sly’s questions were starting to undermine some cherished belief. And maybe that’s just what I’m doing, Sly realized.
“Nobody’s ever compromised those data channels. Isn’t that what everybody says? Nobody’s ever found the links between the floating servers and the hub; nobody’s ever broken them. No government, no corp.” She could hear the intensity in her own voice, recognized that the ideas she was pursuing disturbed her as much as they did Modal. “Secure channels—that many of them, and that secure . . . Doesn’t that require one frag of a lot of resources for a scroffy bunch of shadowrunners?”
Modal didn’t answer at once. But when he did, his voice was totally under control, its usual emotionless self. “So what are you saying?” he asked.
“I’m asking, who runs Shadowland? Wouldn’t controlling it secretly be a real coup for some megacorp? Total control over one of the biggest communication resources for the shadow community in North America. And, who knows, maybe even the rest of the world. The corp can monitor everything that’s going on out of the light. It can spread whatever information—or disinformation—it wants. It can eliminate speculations that harm its interests. It can manipulate every fragging shadowrunner who depends on Shadowland for anything.” Modal whistled tunelessly. “That is one twisted bloody concept, mate,” he said at last. “Do you really believe it?”
She shrugged. “I don’t know,” she admitted. “But it makes sense, doesn’t it?”
“Too much bloody sense,” Modal agreed.
“And even if I’m wrong,” Sly went on, pursuing the logic to its conclusion, “I still don’t think I can trust the data to Shadowland. So far, nobody’s crashed the Shadowland hub, mainly because it hasn't been worth the cost to do it. But now ... Do you see what I’m getting at?”
Grudgingly, Modal nodded. “Now that we’re looking at a corp war, all bets are off.”
“Let’s say Mitsuhama’s the first corp to spot the posting on Shadowland,” Sly said. “They download the data . . . and suddenly it’s in their best interest to make sure nobody else gets it—no matter what the cost. They’ve got to take down Shadowland. So what if they have to use up ninety percent of their private army and blow up half of Denver to do it. If it guarantees they’re the only ones with the lost tech, it’s all worthwhile, isn’t it?”
“It wouldn’t be that easy ...”
“Wouldn’t it?” Sly demanded. “Shadowland has serious resources, but compared to the entire, worldwide resources of Mitsuhama Computer Technologies? And its subsidiaries? And whatever other companies it’s got its hooks into? Come on.”
“All right,” the elf conceded after a few more klicks had hummed under the Dynamit’s wheels. “Shadowland’s out. So what else? I still think the BBS is the only way to go. So pick a private BBS with the clout to fight off a major megacorp.”
“Yeah, right,” Sly snorted.
“I don't know,” Modal mused. “What about a government system? Mitsuhama’s tough, but I’d like to see them try to scrap it out with the UCAS government.”
“The governments want the lost tech, too.”
“Huh?” That shocked Modal, she could see.
“Why not?” She repeated what Agarwal had told her about the federal teams operating in the sprawl.
When she was finished, he sighed. “Every time we turn around, the bloody box is smaller. So the governments are out. What about systems that the megacorps wouldn't want to crash, for their own reasons?”
“What reasons?” Sly demanded. “Name one.”
“The Zurich-Orbital Gemeinschaft Bank.” The voice came from the back seat.
Sly turned, stared at the kid who called himself Falcon. No longer lost in his own thoughts, apparently he’d been listening and coming up with his own conclusions. “What about the bank?” she asked.
“It’s where the corps keep their money, right?” the ganger said. “What corp’s going to blow up its own bankroll?”
Sly was silent for a few moments. The kid probably thinks the Z-O Gemeinschaft’s just one big vault full of gold, she thought, but it doesn’t work that way. High-level banking’s not about money as such, or gold. It’s about information. Agarwal had taken pains to explain this basic truth to her. The Z-O Gemeinschaft was just a bunch of big computers, a massive exchange for financial information.
But the kid’s idea still makes sense, doesn't it? she thought. Any financial transaction is just an exchange of data. But you’ve got to have a safe channel to exchange that data. That’s why the Gemeinschaft’s important. Falcon was right. The Gemeinschaft was much too important for any corp to trash it, or even threaten it. All she had to do was get the data from the encrypted file into the Gemeinschaft’s information system.
All. All? The Gemeinschaft was a bank. And not just any bank, it was the megacorps’ bank. What kind of security would it have on its datafiles, on its communication channels, on every node in the system? Black ice all the way, no doubt about it. Killer black ice—the best that almost unimaginable sums of money could buy.
“You okay, Sharon Louise?” Modal had slowed the car, was watching her with some semblance of concern.
She was shivering, her hands were shaking, and her skin felt cold.
“Are you okay?” the elf asked again.
“I’m all right,
” she said, trying to keep her voice calm and controlled. Trying to force the fears to the back of her mind. “I’m just thinking, that’s all.” She took a slow, deep breath, let it out quietly, imagining the tension leaving her body with the air. Better.
“The Gemeinschaft’s a no-go,” she pronounced firmly. “Too much security. No decker would ever be able to penetrate it.” She saw Falcon slump with disappointment. “Good idea, though.”
Then another thought struck her. “Not the bank,” she mused, “but what about something associated with it? What about something else that’s in Zurich-Orbital?”
“You’re not talking about the Corporate Court. . . .”
She patted Modal on the shoulder. “But think about it,” she said, enthusiasm growing. “For one thing, what corp is actually going to make a move against the Corporate Court?”
"They’re already ignoring the Court,” the elf pointed out.
“Ignoring it and acting directly against it are two different things,” Sly reminded him. "And it’s in the same orbital habitat as the Gemeinschaft Bank. Who knows, maybe they even share computer resources. Nobody would dare slot with the Court, because they might crash the bank.”
"And there won’t be as much security, maybe,” Falcon added from the back seat.
“That might be the way to go,” Sly concluded. The kid was right. Unless the Court was totally paranoid-possible, but not certain—a decker would have a better chance of penetrating that system than the bank. . . . And living to talk about it afterward.
Modal looked sour. “You're assuming the Court has some kind of BBS,” he reminded her.
“It makes sense that they would,” she said.
“You've got to make sure.”
Sly nodded, then gave it some thought for a few minutes.
“Head for Puyallup,” she told Modal.
* * *
Theresa Smeland’s apartment was only a few blocks from The Armadillo, on 123rd Street East, half a block off Intercity 161. Sly had never been there before, but she knew that Smeland owned the entire upper floor of the small building, while the ground level was occupied by an electronics supply shop.
In her mind, Sly had always pictured a clean, well-maintained building—maybe one of the few heritage buildings that the corrupt Puyallup municipal council had actually bothered to preserve. As Modal stopped the Dynamite outside, however, she drastically revised her estimate of Smeland’s finances.
The building looked like pure drek. The pseudo-stone façade was cracked and coming away in chunks. The acidic hard rains had discolored the walls and awning of the electronics store, turning both a gray-blue reminiscent of corpses. As for the store itself, it had definitely seen better days. The windows were cracked and starred, the security bars rusting and pulling loose from the walls under their own weight. Beside the closed door, no doubt locked this early in the morning, was a small sign reading, For Service Push Buzzer. Beneath it was the spot where the buzzer had presumably been mounted before someone had thoughtfully stolen it.
At the far left side of the building was another narrower doorway, with a door made of heavy, quite possibly bulletproof, metal. That had to be the way to Smeland’s place.
Sly climbed out of the Saab, hesitating at Modal’s questioning look. “Come on,” she told them, “both of you.”
She walked up to the metal door, looked for a buzzer or bell or maybe an intercom. Nothing. But, as she took another step closer, a small red light flicked to life above the door. Proximity sensor, she guessed, triggering a vid camera, plus maybe other systems as well. It was a good thing she’d called ahead using the Dynamit’s phone. (A potential risk if the car had already been reported stolen, of course, but a calculated one.) She smiled up at where she thought the camera probably was.
“I see Modal finally found you.” Theresa Smeland’s voice sounded—tinny and electronic—from above the door.
Sly glanced back over her shoulder, saw the elf and the Amerindian standing behind her. She smiled up at the camera. “It’s a long story, T.S.,” she said.”Can I bring them up?”
Smeland hesitated a moment, then assented. With a click, the metal door opened.
Sly stepped through, saw a staircase ahead of her. The walls on either side looked to be made of reinforced ballistic composite, and the stairs were narrow enough that the extended shoulders of her jacket brushed both sides. At the top of the staircase was another reinforced metal door, but no landing, and the stairs themselves were steep. Which meant that anybody who wanted to smash down the door would have nowhere safe to stand. Certainly, a minigrenade or a rocket launcher would make short work of the upstairs door, but Sly was certain the staircase area itself would have security systems in place to take care of anyone who would try to bring such a weapon into the building. (Weapon detectors and gas systems? Almost certainly. Automatic gunports designed to hose down the stairway? Quite possibly.) There wasn’t much doubt that Smeland was making her home as safe as humanly possible.
With Modal and Falcon close behind her, Sly climbed the stairs. Before she reached the top, she heard another click, and the upstairs door swung open. She stepped through into a tiny anteroom, facing yet another door. Then that, too, opened.
Standing in the doorway was Theresa Smeland, wearing a pale blue floor-length housecoat. She looked tired, which Sly thought was probably because she’d closed the club only a few hours ago, but alert. She smiled a greeting at Sly, stepped back to let her three visitors enter the apartment.
Never judge a chip by its slipcover, was the first thought that passed through Sly’s mind. From the condition of the building’s façade, she’d expected Smeland’s place to be comfortable enough, but with most of the decor designed to cover up the building’s structural shortcomings.
Dead wrong. Everything—the furniture, the carpeting, the lighting, the works of art on the walls—was absolutely top-of-the-line. The decor didn’t seem to follow any formal school of design, at least not one that Sly was aware of—neither nuevo-industrial, or East African, or semi-gothic. But everything fit—there wasn’t any better way of saying it—contributing to a single, congruous whole.
Smeland chuckled throatily. “Like it, Sly?”
Sly shook her head slowly. “The club's more of a money-spinner than I thought.”
“This didn’t come from the club,” Smeland explained. “This was personal. I did a favor for . . . for a chummer of an old comrade,” she said carefully, “and this is what he did for me in return.”
“Too bad about the building,” Modal threw in.
“Oh, the building’s structurally sound, better than most in the neighborhood. When work’s necessary I get it done, but I decided not to do anything about the way it looks.” Smeland shrugged. “Why draw attention? What B and E gang’s going to hit a place that looks like it’ll fall down if they talk too loud?”
“There’s that,” Modal conceded. “May I?” He waved toward one of the room’s silk-upholstered armchairs. “It’s been a long, tiring night.”
Smeland nodded. “Sit down, all of you.”
Sly watched as Smeland settled herself gracefully in an armchair, tucking her feet underneath her. Modal slumped down in another chair, instantly relaxed, while Falcon sat—rigid, nervous—on the couch. Sly picked a spot on the other end of the same couch, allowed herself a few moments to relish the opulence surrounding her. Then she began, “I need your help, T.S.”
Smeland nodded with a wry smile. “I kind of guessed that. I don’t get too many social calls this time of the morning. What do you need?”
Sly took a deep breath. “I need some information on the Corporate Court.”
Smeland’s eyes opened wide. “In Zurich-Orbital?” she asked. “Since when have you been playing in the big leagues?”
“It’s not by choice, believe me,” Sly assured her friend.
“So, what do you want?” Smeland asked. “A personal meeting with the Supreme Justice? Printouts of Aztechnology’s balanc
e sheet? Or do you want something really tricky?”
“Nothing that fancy,” Sly assured her friend. “I just need to know if the Court has some kind of BBS—some system designed to disseminate information to all the megacorps.”
“That’s all, huh?” Smeland snorted. “I’d guess there would have to be something like that. But you need to know for sure?”
Sly nodded. “And I need to know how to access it.” Smeland shot her a startled look. “You want to read the Corporate Court’s BBS, is that what you’re telling me?”
“I want to post something.”
“What?” Smeland demanded. “Your resume, your brag-sheet? Are you looking for a fragging job, Sly?” Sly just shook her head. She could see her friend was rattled. But she also knew Theresa would get her control back soon enough.
In fact, it happened within a few seconds. Smeland smiled, a little shamefacedly. “Sorry,” she said quietly. “I’m just not used to working at this level, you get my drift?” She was silent for another half-minute or so, then said, “Relatively speaking, it shouldn’t be that tough.”
“Relatively speaking,” Sly echoed.
Smeland nodded. “Anything to do with the Corporate Court isn’t going to be a no-brainer, you know that, Sly. But I don't think this will be impossible. What is it you want to upload?” Hastily she raised her hands, palms out. “Don’t tell me exactly, I don’t want to know. But is it a text file? Or something else?”
“Text only.”
Sly could see Smeland relax a little. “That makes it easier,” the ex-runner allowed. “Security on a BBS is always going to be tougher if you're trying to upload an executable program code, because it can contain computer viruses. That’s not a danger with simple text files.” Sly nodded; she understood that. “So how does this work?” she asked, wording her questions exceedingly carefully. “What’s the best way of finding out, first, whether the Court has a BBS, and second, how to deck into it?”
“There’s only one way,” Smeland stated firmly. “The Court’s got a system access node in the Matrix. You just crash into that SAN, and you scope out the Zurich-Orbital system”—she smiled grimly—“while making fragging sure you stay away from anything even peripherally related to the Gemeinschaft Bank. That’s up there, too, you know.”
Shadowplay Page 18
