Shadowboxer

by Nicholas Pollotta

  With ragged breaths, he gratefully drew in lungful after lungful of cool sweet air, the environmental systems of the Gunderson Corporation tower having done their job of removing every trace of pollution from the ambient air of Miami. Soon, his vision cleared of the horrid nightmare, and Emile stumbled from the dining room table to the gleaming white lavatory and splashed mineral water on his face and neck. The back of his mind still echoed with the vision of his people dead and dying. Shattering like broken glass. How many had there been? Four, six?

  Emile closed his eyes for a moment as Grand leapt from the floor onto his shoulder, and nuzzled his master’s cheek. His sight swept through the fourteen rooms of his spacious penthouse and out beyond the steelalloy-plated walls and bullet-proof Armorlite windows. All was well, his home safe. His watcher spirits kept their vigil against physical or magical threats.

  What was this horror that dogged his thoughts? Was it some vision, a dire warning ... oh, what nonsense. It was just a stupid daydream. His mind had been wandering. On the other hand, this might be what came of drinking red wine with fowl. His mother would have beaten him for such a gross practice. Propriety with food was as important as wearing the proper clothing.

  Opening the medicine cabinet with calmer hands, Emile found a prescription bottle and took several draughts. He had work to do in six hours and needed to be well rested. He kept his toff doss and vaunted position in the corporate world because he was very good at the work he did: corporate defense, industrial espionage, debugging, wards, and so on, services vital to any major corporation. Gunderson was a mid-sized multi-conglomerate, specializing in transportation, inventory systems, and external security. TGC was solid in its slot and secure in the business of helping other corporations do their business. Maybe that was why they weren’t as ruthless as most. At least, not to the best of his knowledge.

  Feeling much better, Emile walked calmly back to his dinner, even though it was midafternoon. Like many mages, he was not on a set schedule, except during a business emergency. How different was this place than his home in Paris. Warm and sunny, with its kilometers of beaches and the smell of the sea. He loved the ocean in all of its myriad moods. Stormy, calm, seductive, playful, it was like visiting a favorite lover, ever new, ever familiar.

  The memory of salt water brought a nano flash of panic, but the draughts were taking effect and soon Emile was preternaturally calm and continued on with his dinner. The steak Dion was delicious, the Waldorf salad superb. During the dessert, which he shared with Grand, he was suddenly struck with the exact number of dead and dying elves in his momentary flight of imagination. Twelve. There were twelve of them. Odd, eh? A mystic number.

  * * *

  Ducking in through the open hatchway, Delphia burst back onto the bridge of the Manta, hastily buttoning his fly. “What happened? What’s the situation?”

  Thumbs did not turn from studying the main view screen of the weapons console. Everything was peaceful and quiet in the sea around them. “It was awful. The missiles hit and we blew to pieces.”

  “Then sharks ate us,” laughed Moonfeather at the security station.

  Plugged into the navicom, Silver shook her head slightly at the callous banter.

  “Those were interceptor missiles,” Rigger explained. “They ran out of power and simply dropped away. We’re safe.”

  “No sign of pursuit. Or trouble?”

  “Clean as a politician’s conscience.”

  Delphia took his place in the captain’s chair. “Excellent.”

  “By the way, where did you dash off too in such a ... oh, never mind.” Thumbs spotted the bit of T-shirt sticking out of the norm’s hastily sealed trousers. “Barn door.”

  Delphia was confused for a tick, then smiled in embarrassment and took care of the matter. “Sorry, but the call of nature does not await convenience.”

  “For thirty minutes?” admonished Thumbs, tying a bandanna over his gang tats in pirate fashion. “Fall in afterward?”

  “In spite of all the study on seacraft we’ve been doing while riding the waves these last weeks, I was completely unprepared for the bathroom ... I mean, the head.” Delphia gestured vaguely. “It was like trying to relieve yourself in a nuclear reactor! I had to read the instruction panel twice just to get the lid up!”

  The submarine slowed around them as Rigger removed his hands from the console. “But you did flush correctly?” he asked urgently. “And properly seal off valves nineteen through thirty-five in reverse order, then open the main negative flow pipes?”

  “Most assuredly,” Delphia assured him coolly. “And I dogged the hatch and checked the sensors before repressurizing.”

  “Good.”

  “Are they all like this?” Delphia asked.

  “Sure. And we call them heads.”

  “Hmm. Most annoying.”

  “Agreed.”

  Thumbs arched an eyebrow. “Are you two making this drek up?”

  Rigger spun about in his chair to face him directly. “Ah ...”

  “Thumbs,” the troll told him.

  “Right. Thumbs, there’s no machine more complex on a submersible than the head. Or more deadly.”

  “Deadly?” laughed Silver, attaching the Fuchi 8 to the navicom console. “A killer toilet?”

  “Oh, dis I gotta hear,” said Thumbs curiously.

  Rigger scowled irritably. “Look, lubbers, you can’t have a chem toilet on board. Thirty people using one head for a month? The storage tank would have to be bigger than the cargo hold, and the stink—” He waved the air as if dismissing a remembered odor. “You don’t want to know about the smell. Suffice it to say, flush toilets are the only way to go. And with external pressures sometimes exceeding fifteen tons per square meter, the water could explode out of the pipes like a Juggernaut, cutting the boat in half. To get the job done, and not risk sinking the boat, the operator needs to carefully access secondary seals, pressurize the bowl, trim the safeties, and on and on.” To their confused expressions, he added, “A lot of submarines were lost due to improper use of primitive bathrooms in the preAwakened world.”

  Standing, Delphia nudged a corpse with his shoe. “As fascinating as all this is, let’s get this meat below before we start smelling like a slaughterhouse in summer.”

  In short order, the dead were hauled to the bilge and slid unceremoniously into the ballast tanks. Rigger told them algae would dispose of the bodies within a day or two. Standard procedure. After tromping back to the bridge, they all reassumed their earlier positions.

  “Can this thing cruise for awhile without your guidance?” asked Delphia, reclaiming his chair.

  Removing his hands, Rigger rotated his chair. “Simple. It will go straight until it hits something or runs out of fuel in nine more months.”

  “Hai. We need to talk biz for a tick.”

  “Download me,” said Rigger.

  “Bottom line, we’ve got the sub, but can’t operate it with our own rigger gone. Also we don’t know as much about subs as you.”

  “So, in short, you can’t kill me,” Rigger said. The next instant shining steel was under his chin, the beating of the blood in his veins forcing flesh against the razor-sharp blade with painful sharpness. A ruby-red drop formed on the edge and trickled down Rigger’s neck, disappearing into his shirt.

  “Wrong,” said Thumbs removing the knife. “You’re meat anytime the Big D says so. You scan?”

  Touching his neck, Rigger’s hand came away smeared with red. “I scan.”

  “Good.”

  Unperturbed, Delphia went on, “Of course, you can ram us into an underwater mesa when we’re asleep. So, how about signing on with our crew as First Hat.”

  “I thought that was First Mate,” muttered Moonfeather.

  “When it’s official, he’s First Mate, pro tem it’s First Hat.”

  Rigger chewed his lip and scratched his head. “XO sounds good to me. Would have taken me a decade to get that far under the old Captain.”

>   “A real bastard, eh?”

  “Yar.”

  Instantly, the Manhunter was in Delphia’s hand. Rigger gasped in shock. “I am too,” Delphia told him, holstering the gun. “We’re on a special run. Not the usual thing. The haul will be big.” He looked at the others and after a tick they nodded yes. “I offer you an equal share. A full fifth of the haul.”

  “XO and a fifth of the booty?” Rigger ran a finger behind his ear. He displayed the dry digit to the others. “Fair enough, Skip. What’re we after?”

  “Silver?”

  Having prepared for this ploy back on the Esmeralda, Silver shoved an optical chip into a slot on the control board, and the main screen displayed a map of the world. “Almost fifty years ago, just before the return of magic, the Jappers built a supersubmarine called the Emperor Yamato. It carried every bit of advanced technology of the day. And was supposed to be unstoppable, the ultimate war machine.”

  A long, low whistle from the rigger. “I heard of it. Thought it was a fable. Like Atlantis or the Flying Dutchman.”

  “Oh, no, it was very real.” She paused. “It also sunk one day.”

  “Why?”

  She shrugged. “Nobody knows. But we’ve got a rough location.” Silver changed chips for one showing the floor of the ocean. “Lost military tech. You tell us how much that’s worth. On the market, or off.”

  “Done and done. I’m in,” Rigger said, smiling.

  Satisfied, Delphia stood and walked over to the pirate. “Good.” He stood alongside the man and read the name tag on his shirt pocket. “Is Rigger your real handle?”

  “Huh? No, ’course not. That’s my position and job.”

  “Change it. We use street names.”

  “Never heard of a pirate doing that.”

  “New captain, new rules. You copy?”

  “Tone and bars, Cap.”

  Delphia nodded in satisfaction. “Now show me what this tin can is capable of.”

  * * *

  Silent, Chief Captain stood before the window, marshalling his thoughts. Dressed in casual clothes chosen for comfort, not appearances, he was trim and well muscled, with the physique of a trained athlete rather than a stevedore or laborer. His hands were badly scarred, but well manicured, which would have told a lot to any trained observer, which the small norm holding the chipboard in the middle of the executive office was.

  Beyond the thick Armorlite windows was a vista, an expanse of wrecked ships, vessels of all kinds, surface ships and all manner of submarines. Barnacles and coral added colorful touches to the mass of gray paint and rusty hulls, as huge schools of brilliant fish darted among the sea-going ruins.

  Turning from the observation window, Chief Captain clasped his clean hands behind his back. “And what exactly the fragging hell do you mean we lost a sub, you brain-dead, hoopkissing gleeb?” he screamed in fury.

  Executive Yeoman noisily cleared his throat. “Well, sir, I . .. that is . . . we . . .”

  “Well?” roared Chief Captain, slamming a fist against his desk, splintering the valuable antique wood. “Was it sunk? Stolen by privateers? Destroyed in a storm? Torn to bits by magic?”

  “Boat Number Sixty-five got caught in a storm, killed a snake, looted a cargo ship, then simply went off the air,” reported Yeoman quickly. “There are unsubstantiated reports from our people in Atlantic Security of an attack by a wing of Aztlan Eagles.”

  “And one of our subs didn’t get off a single volley?” Chief Captain scoffed. “Not likely, unless the whole crew was already visiting Davy.”

  “Our thoughts exactly in Tactical, sir.”

  “Hmm. Might be rogues. Unless Old Dome is trying something again. Honorless zombies. Which sub, by the way?”

  The name was already highlighted on his chipboard. “The Manta, sir. Formerly the Gahanna Girl.”

  “Julius Romy, eh? Might be a mutiny then. No love lost between him and his crew. It was the man’s greatest flaw. A commander has to be hard to inspire discipline, but not so hard his men lose their fear of death.”

  “Truly a narrow line to walk, sir,” agreed Yeoman. “Shuddup,” snapped Chief Captain. “Clear my schedule for the rest of the day. I want a full meeting of the entire council within the hour. And that includes Port Captain and Attack Fleet Captain. Understood?”

  “Aye, sir.” A pause, followed by a diplomatic cough. “And if perhaps Attack Fleet Captain is, ahem, busy, sir? Indisposed, as it were?”

  “Then call the brothel guards, put the drunkard in chains, and haul his hoop into the council chambers. Along with his First Mate. Maybe we should make her the damn captain. What’s her name again?”

  “Her real name, Chief Captain?”

  “Yar.”

  Executive Yeoman quickly checked the board’s flatscreen readout. “I.R. Helen, sir.”

  Chief Captain snorted. “Damn funny her ending up down here with a moniker like that.”

  Taking a seat, he pulled a portacomp closer to him on the desk and began to scroll through some supply reports. “IronHell takes care of its own,” he said softly, as if repeating a daily oath.

  “The Manta is ours, and we’ll get her back. Even if I have to send out my whole damn fleet to do it!”

  21

  In a tuxedo and evening cape, Emile Ceccion walked into the main lobby of the Miami Opera House flanked by a pair of trolls in severe hand-tailored Armante suits of the deepest blue. They stood quietly, relaxed and at ease, while frontdoor security personnel ran sensors over their employer. The handscanners beeped twice. The guards noted the positions and nature of the devices, then waved the Gunderson mage onward. The trolls received only the most passing inspection and, although the scanners beeped constantly, they were passed into the opera house without comment.

  The bodyguards took their employer’s cloak and deposited it along with their own elegant ballistic overcoats in the cloak room. The next couple were scanned and forced to check their automatic weapons with Security.

  Beyond the entrance, a milling throng of Miami’s elite was sipping champagne while talking music and money. The ladies were mostly in formal ball gowns or slash dress displaying everything and hiding nothing. The few exceptions were slim, smiling women whose eyes tracked everybody, talked little, and wore beautiful, but loose garments that gave them great freedom of movement. The gentlemen were locked in the mandatory tuxedos and white ties, only the most minute differences in the fabric and cut indicating which was an inexpensive rental and which a high-ticket import from England, hand-tailored by the acknowledged masters of the tuxedo.

  Sculptured ice in the form of the Gunderson corporate logo, the interlocked TCG, cooled a tiered fountain of champagne that poured into a marble basin alive with genetically altered Japanese carp. Smiling servers dressed in pristine white moved ghostlike through the crowd, continuously offering glasses of wine or cold hors d’oeuvres. Set high in alcoves above the patrons were clusters of vidcams whose telephoto lenses swept the assembled faces in programmed curves, scanning for known troublemakers.

  From beyond a line of closed doors came the sound of the summer Philharmonic orchestra tuning its instruments. Strolling among the rising young executives, vice presidents, department heads, old money, spouses, escorts, bodyguards, millionaires, and gawking tourists, Emile breathed in the excitement of the evening as if the air itself was rife with mana. He accepted a program book from a liveried norm child standing behind velvet ropes, then beamed in delight as he read.

  “Ah, Senor Puccini’s Manon Lescaut!” he murmured to himself. “Not his greatest, but a favorite of the more discerning connoisseurs of classic opera.”

  “Sir?” asked one of the trolls, unbuttoning his suit jacket. His hand was always in motion, scratching his stomach, adjusting his tie, straightening the flower in his lapel. Several of the patrons who noticed the activity also recognized it as an ancient samurai trick of constant activity to mask the readiness to draw a weapon instantly. Many moved discreetly away from him.


  The other troll simply kept both hands in his lumpy pockets, foregoing subtlety for better response time.

  Accepting a glass of chilled champagne, Emile smiled at the towering metahuman, “Nothing, Bertram. I’m just pleased at what’s on the program this evening.”

  “Yes, sir,” said the troll impassively, while the other guard tilted his head, apparently listening over his headcom.

  “Monsieur Ceccion,” he said, not totally successfully with the French pronunciation, “your presence is immediately requested at the Tower, please.”

  “Indeed?” Emile took a sip from a glass he’d just been served. “On my night off? Who is it?”

  Emile, of course, would never have a com unit installed inside his cranium. Any mage worth his salt knew that magic and cyberware were a disastrous mix. Besides, magic offered him abilities that technology could only dream of. While on assignments, he did, however, carry a particularly nasty Fichetti 1mm needler—one with a specially designed oversized clip, a safety installed backward to befuddle anybody trying to use it against him, and a hairtrigger sporting a featherweight half-kilogram pull.

  “It’s Mr. Harvin,” whispered the troll guard urgently, motioning for the exit.

  Listening to the orchestra run a few arpeggios, Emile shrugged with Gallic unconcern.

  “He says he wants to see you right now.”

  The CEO of Gunderson wanted to see him? Emile handed his glass away and headed for the exit. He didn’t hear it shatter on the floor, so somebody must have taken it from his hand. But he wasn’t really paying attention.

  * * *

  The indicator blinked “99” and the elevator doors opened wide with no noise to announce their parting. Emile briskly walked out, leaving his escorts standing on either side of the waiting elevator. It was his own private transport around the Tower for the duration of his stay here.

  Crossing the manicured jungle of the foyer, he nodded in friendly passing to the cleaning staff, the guards, and smiled politely to the blonde receptionist. A pretty little norm, tan and bouncy. Emile had scanned her astrally once on a sheer whim and was stunned to discover that she was heavily chromed, with muscles replaced, forearm guns, various cyberblades, and other things that he could not identify. Since then, he always thought of her as Lady Cerberus when he went by.