Shadowboxer

by Nicholas Pollotta

  A soft trilling in his vest almost made Thumbs reach reflexively for his Predator. Slightly embarrassed by the overreaction, he pulled out the pocket telecom instead and activated it. The screen lit with a jerky picture of a view through a car windshield.

  “Thirty seconds,” said a familiar voice and the connection was terminated.

  “Thirty and counting,” relayed Thumbs, tucking the device away.

  Within moments, the stolen limo pulled up in front of an abandoned building. Moonfeather got out from behind the wheel, some women’s clothing in her arms. Delphia awkwardly climbed out the passenger side, favoring his side. He then pulled a nude female norm out by her ankles, and slung her over one shoulder.

  Nobody on the street paid any attention even as Moonfeather started dropping items of torn clothing behind them, leaving a trail from the limo into the abandoned building. It was a fire-gutted wreck, but with a solid roof. More important, its sewer system led to a manhole just steps away from the building.

  They made their way into the gutted shell, its once-polished terrazzo floor now carpeted with trash. Moments later Thumbs and Silver followed them in. Thumbs took up position by the window, watching the street, waiting for what was soon to come. Silver found a semi-clean spot in a corner and sat down with her deck and jacked in. Delphia and Moonfeather took the stairs down to the basement, Delphia still carrying the inert body of the corp suit.

  Within minutes, they were back, stinking of the dank muck of the sewer where they’d stashed the body. Silver was just jacking out as they reappeared.

  “It’s confirmed,” she said. “When their base command lost contact with the suit’s bodyguards, it triggered an alert. Atlantic Security’s been tracking the limo by air, and they’ve got a helo is its way here now. ETA five minutes.”

  Delphia gestured and a gun slapped into his palm. Not the Narcoject this time, the Manhunter, no silencer. “Then let’s do it.”

  Stepping outside, Thumbs placed two fingers in his mouth, whistled long, short, short, long. Instantly the whole street erupted in gunfire and explosions while everywhere were the running, howling members of the Slammers looking for fights, looking for fun, looking for trouble, rocking and rolling the street as only they knew how to do.

  * * *

  Zooming over the Miami skyline, the Atlantic Security pilot of the massive Hughes Sky Stallion saw the street riot long before he was in firing range. Pinpoints of gunfire strobed the shadows as countless handguns, and some automatics, blasted away constantly at everyone and everything. Windows were smashing, store alarms screaming, and a thick billowing cloud of acrid smoke from burning car tires hid much of the street and the action.

  “Free drug night?” asked one of the troopers aboard, lowering the blast shield of his helmet over his face. “Moon sure ain’t full.”

  “Drek knows,” responded the sergeant. The badge on his amored breastplate read “Tanner.”

  “But we got a confirmed on a Gunderson exec, Sharon Palmer. She’s down there somewhere.”

  The helo bounced from a thermal caused by the streets still releasing their heat of the day, and more than a few rounds zinged off its armored hull. The gunner sitting next to the pilot responded by sending a flurry of soft gel rounds from the twin belly cannons, dispersing the crowd faster than drek down a loo. Nobody wanted to get intimate with gelatin rounds coming in at over Mach 1. At this distance, they stung like a Cuban fire bee. Any closer and they’d hit like a rain of sledgehammers, busting bones and shattering skulls if the wrong part of your anatomy got in the way.

  “Great, some suit slitch goes slumming and starts a street war,” snorted a bored trooper.

  Another said, “Probably fighting over her bones.”

  “Bio-med says she’s alive,” said the pilot, “but the locator signal is erratic.”

  “Jammed?” asked Sergeant Tanner, instantly alert.

  “Can’t say. Maybe only scrambled from strong magnetic fields, big speakers from the thumpclub down there, or shielded by dense metal.”

  “Touchdown in five,” called out the pilot over the PA without any preamble. “Four, three, two, one!”

  A stinging hurricane swept the street as the Sky Stallion landed in the middle of the intersection near where the Mitsubishi was parked. On contact, the team of nine AtSec troopers and their commander charged out and assumed a half-circle defense pattern. Rounds came their way, but they withheld fire until target acquisition was achieved. Kill the customer and they got a week’s suspension with no pay.

  The limo’s doors were wide open, nobody inside. But the troopers quickly saw pieces of a torn dress, and then more scraps of clothing leading into a burned-out building.

  Even as they were deciding their next move, one of the troopers took a painful shot to the head. He staggered from the impact of the slug, his combat helmet dented but still intact.

  The rest assumed a more aggressive posture, a double circle, and hosed the nearby windows with small-caliber fire to discourage any further incidents. It worked for a minute or two.

  “Tanner to base, we have a level two fight in progress,” reported the Sergeant over his headcom. “Client Sharon Palmer not on site. Found torn female clothing leading into a burned-out hive. I suspect level four personal assault in process. We will advance and advise, requesting backup, stat.”

  Static crackled inside his head, then came a response.

  “Roger, Tanner, this is base. Confirm. Gunderson has authorized additional emergency expenditure. Additional teams en route. ETA fifteen.”

  “Where the frag they coming from, Bermuda?” muttered a corporal, kicking open the door to the ruin, his laser-beam spotter flashing over the smashed remains of what looked like it had once been an illegal operating room. “Gotta move fast or blow our recovery bonus.”

  “Move with a purpose, people!” Tanner subvocalized into his throat mike, his words booming over the speakers of his helmet. “Go-go-go!”

  * * *

  With the hatches locked tight, the pilot and gunner of the Sky Stallion sat side by side in their tandem cockpit, vid-scanners sweeping the street. Directly underneath the helo, a manhole cover carefully slid open and Thumbs crawled out, followed by Delphia, Moonfeather, and Silver. Crouching low near the armored belly of the assault helo, Silver gestured to the others.

  Moonfeather waved one of her cat trinkets as she began to sing softly. A few ticks later, the gunner and pilot in the helo gently slumped over, asleep. Delphia immediately stood up alongside the hatch and used a pencil-thin device to unlock the port door. But the inner mechanical bolt had also been thrown and it refused to budge. Thumbs grabbed the handle, and bracing a boot against the hull, gave a heave that burst the door free, throwing him to the ground and leaving the door dangling.

  Thumbs was back on his feet in a tick. Sluggishly, the pilot stirred. As his eyes opened, he was looking down the big barrel of an ebony Manhunter.

  “Don’t,” said Delphia softly. But the groggy trooper clawed for his holstered Colt anyway. Without hesitation,

  Delphia blew the man’s face off, the blood exploding all over the cockpit and windshield. Thumbs by now was back on his feet and had pulled the bodies of the dead man and the still-unconscious gunner out of the cockpit. He threw them aside with his powerful arms as though they were crumpled MacHugh’s wrappers.

  Silver then climbed onto the slippery seat and jacked into the control console. This was the risky part. Thumbs had told them the story of a badly wounded Atlantic Security officer stumbling into a helo, which then flew off by itself back to their fortress station. Not that AtSec really cared about the troops, they just wanted their very expensive helo back. But a story like that told the runners there was an autopilot onboard. Somewhere.

  Wiping the windshield clean with a hand, Delphia smeared blood over the pinhead vidcam in the console to mask their identities. Thumbs meanwhile was rigging the hatch door into place using a seatbelt to hold it.

  “Better than n
othing,” he stated. “It’ll keep some of the smoke out. Hozitgoin?”

  Delphia shrugged as he glanced over at Silver. She was frowning over the controls.

  Pursing her lips, she tapped a key, and the aftmotors roared into powerful life, the rotors above them revving to flight speed. In a hurricane wash, the gunship lifted clumsily into the air and angled away between two condoplexes, steadily climbing for altitude.

  Thumbs grinned at Delphia, but the other man had never taken his eyes off Silver.

  “Base command to Helo Eighty-six,” crackled the control console speaker. “What’s wrong? Why are you leaving the drop zone on auto?”

  Grabbing the dead pilot’s headset, Thumbs gargled something about lasers and nerve gas while Delphia fired a round into the console radio link. It exploded with a spray of sparks.

  “Lasers and what?” took over the ceiling speaker. “Repeat, Number Eight-six, what is your problem? Main transponder down. Reserve radio-activated. Awaiting authorization code.” Moonfeather mouthed an obscenity, Thumbs smacked a palm into his forehead, Delphia was pointing his gun at anything resembling a radio, but not firing. It was all up to Silver now.

  14

  The trail of clothing led the Atlantic Security rescue team down through a grating in the rubble-filled remains of the basement and into the city sewer. The walls were slime-covered brick and moldy ferrocrete, the stink thick enough to chew.

  “Sir!” called out a trooper, standing near the edge of the open trough sewer. The light of his flash was centered on a credstick bobbing in the stinking city waters.

  “They didn’t take her stick?” asked a trooper. “Drek. She’s dead, chief.”

  “Maybe,” groused Tanner, playing his flash around the stygian tunnel. “But I’m not gonna report that unless we’re fragging positive.”

  A rusty iron ladder was set into the wall not far from their position. On a hunch, Tanner went over to check it out. When he spotted moist drek on the rungs leading up to the street, he turned back to his men, waving his arms for them to follow.

  “Motherfragger! It’s a scam!” he screamed. “Back to the helo!”

  Slinging their weapons, the troopers began to scramble hastily up the ladder, their boots clanging on the corroded metal rungs.

  “Lose that helo and we’re stranded until backup arrives,” cursed a corporal. “Move it, people. Move it!”

  “O’Malley, it’s a trick!” Sergeant Tanner transmitted over his headcom to the helo, still climbing frantically. “Go hard, omae! Report, Palmer’s down. We’ve been tricked. Go hard and shoot everything in sight! Hose the hood, geek ’em all you want, but do not go skywise until we return. Do you copy?”

  Static.

  “O’Malley, do you copy?”

  More static.

  “Helo Number Eighty-six, report!”

  Nothing, not even a carrier wave.

  “Base, this is Tanner. Main radio is down. Helo Eighty-six may have been compromised!” Still no response. “Fragging manhole must be blocking the signal!”

  A voice in the dark said, “Or else the helo’s already gone.”

  “Shut up!”

  The point trooper strained to shove aside the manhole cover, and in orderly formation the rescue team clambered onto the macadam. A snoring rigger and a faceless pilot lay on the ground where the help should have been waiting for them with its big guns and armor.

  “Fuck!” exploded Tanner. “Goddamn it to hell!” The brawl had evaporated, the streets now strangely quiet. Smoke from the fires wafted over them as fireflies imitated the starry sky above. Then dozens of Miami cocktails began to plummet down from every rooftop, the homemade bombs bursting into pools of liquid fire as they crashed on the hard street.

  As he fired his Mossberg CMDT into the sky, Sergeant Tanner’s helmet sensors went crazy, indicating his people were being hit with black powder, cordite, thermite, rubbing alcohol, soap flakes, bathroom cleaners, bleach, ammonia, lye, gasoline, ol’ Uncle Sizzle—kitchen-brewed red fuming nitric acid—fragging drek, anything explosive that could fit into a plastic bottle!

  An inferno rapidly built on the street.

  “But we’re not Lone Star!” cried a trooper over the chatter of his SMG.

  “They don’t give a frag! Bug out!” ordered Tanner, slamming in a fresh clip. “First squad give us cover. Go-go-go!”

  Coughing and hacking, six troopers cut loose with everything they had, while the others retreated back into the sewer. The rest soon followed, fighting to be first in. Whooping and howling, the locals moved in for the kill, throwing their crude bombs directly into the open hole. More than one fell back, torn to pieces by weapons fire, but the others crowded in close to get their chance.

  “Night of Law! Night of Law!” became the mob’s wild chant. Inside the Fiesta Grande, the slaprock thundered on as the club’s patrons danced and drank and chipped their way into oblivion, blissfully unaware that anything more interesting was happening in the sprawl tonight.

  * * *

  Twenty stories above the streets of Overtown, the Sky Stallion hovered in position as the voice of base command again demanded identification and codes immediately.

  Delphia mouthed words: Can they hear us? Jacked into the Stallion’s control console, Silver shook her head no.

  “Good,” he said aloud. “What are our options?”

  “I don’t know. I can’t find the fragging code,” Silver snapped, her face a mask of concentration. “I can try to override the autopilot, but they’re trying to activate the antiintruder systems.”

  “Stop them,” Delphia commanded coolly.

  Her fingers tapped at the keys of her deck as if with a will of their own. “I’m trying, frag it! I can’t fly this thing, do that, and try to use the satellite uplink to access their node in order to jack into their system all at once. Nobody can!”

  Rising up, Delphia stuck his head into the aft compartment. “They’re going to haul us in soon if we don’t do something,” he said grimly. “We’ll jump when we reach the canal.”

  Thumbs started divesting himself of his heavier items, while Moonfeather began to search frantically under the seats.

  “What’re you doing?” asked Thumbs, frowning.

  “Can’t swim,” she replied on her hands and knees, head in a storage locker. “Where are the parachutes?”

  “Helos don’t carry ’em,” he told her.

  Moonfeather jerked out. “You fragging me?”

  “No.”

  “Drek!”

  Removing his ballistic cloth coat, Delphia folded it neatly and placed it on an empty seat. “What’s our altitude?” he asked, looking out the port window. “It looks like a long way down.” Removing his sunglasses, he turned to Silver. “Are you done yet? Can you find out if there’s a maximum height from which you can jump and still survive? Undamaged, that is.”

  Silver said nothing, staring at her motionless hands. Memories of her chummers in Blackjack’s team getting geeked came vividly to mind, and she gasped aloud at the recalled pain of the shark attack. No, never again.

  “Silver?” he prompted, as the console beeped steadily. “Could it be that simple?” she wondered out loud. “That easy? Do it backwards?”

  “Yes!” snapped Delphia, shaking her shoulder. “Whatever it is, try now.”

  Slow and sure, Silver pulled an optical chip from the pocket of her blood-smeared jacket. Slotting the chip into her deck, she tapped in commands. Instantly, the satellite link opened up. She could see the fountain, her favorite spot in the Miami grid, and then the resistance cleared. She was flying down the datastream. No IC, no system alerts, nothing. She had the golden codes, and they blew her straight into the Atlantic Security mainframe.

  Yes! She ripped the operational codes from the mainframe, and then stole everything she could stuff into the banks of the hot Fuchi in her lap.

  Sending the codes back through the radio, with a mumbled message about snipers and radio interference, she watched as t
he intruder alert went clear and the autopilot kicked in.

  “We’re clear!” she called over the internal PA a second later as the Sky Stallion started moving again to gain altitude.

  “Roger Helo Eighty-six,” said the ceiling speaker. “You are on independent recall. Troops are en route to your street team. See you in ten.”

  In the aft compartment, the wind whipping his clothes, Thumbs gratefully closed the side door. “Thank Ghu.”

  “How?” asked Delphia, slumping heavily in the pilot seat. Wearily, she beamed at him. “It was dicey for a bit, but I let them control the helo and I went for the satlink.”

  “But how?” he insisted. “What was that chip? Some special can opener program?”

  “A ten-year-old data chip, nothing more.”

  “Say what?” gushed Thumbs, filling the doorway. “Oh, I get it!”

  “Gordon,” said Moonfeather from behind him. “You used his old chip.”

  “Hai,” replied Silver unjacking the deck. “Gordon had an access code to talk privately with Harvin about the book. It got him through the Matrix for secret yaks with the big cheese. Damn code also worked via a satellite uplink and it was cleared for Atlantic Security. It let me past their IC to talk to them directly. After that”—she snapped her fingers—“done deal.”

  “Indubitably a superb demonstration of non-Euclidian logic conquering corporate jacdictation,” breathed Delphia, with a lopsided grin. “Utterly outstanding.”

  “Crab poop, why can’t you ever speak English?” demanded Thumbs, sliding his sunglasses back on.

  Flying over downtown Miami, the massive helo skimmed low over the jumbled rooftops, running lights out, motors on hush, a whispering ghost masking the stars one by one.

  “I’ll land us on the next rooftop and send this bucket back to AtSec headquarters on George,” Silver said. “Look for a likely spot. No power lines or antennas.”

  Stuffing loose items into a bulging dufflebag, Moonfeather stared at the other woman. “George?”

  “Aviator slang for the autopilot,” Silver replied gaily, crossing her arms as the gunship neatly pirouetted in the sky before beginning its angled descent.