Reno, Nevada. 5THSUN.
88 examined the data her Mirrors collected. Whoever was at 5THSUN manipulated the market with the same skill as Lokner. Up to the moment where it became an attack, the moves were identical in character and style.
The answer seemed clear: Lokner had moved his Scan and now resided in 5THSUN in Reno. Who else would have access and control over the company’s stock portfolio?
But Archaeidae had brought her Lokner’s Scan—along with a great many other interesting minds—from M-Sof.
Who then, if not Lokner? And why make it easy for her to trace the attack to M-Sof? Why not hide it like the connection to 5THSUN was hidden?
Because I’m supposed to think M-Sof attacked me. This didn’t make sense.
88 dug deeper, assigning spinoff tasks and trails to Mirrors.
Whoever helped Lokner cover his digital footsteps was a master. 88’s infinitude of Mirrors were better. Lokner and M-Sof had ties with the Mafia and black market crèches. He had ties with Anisio Jobin, and funded much of that crèche’s research. He might, she realized, know something of her mother.
She also found equipment purchase orders. Someone at 5THSUN wanted to copy Scans. Something that, with the cascading accumulation of errors and high failure rate, wasn’t normally attempted.
Someone with Lokner’s skill and access to M-Sof manipulated the company’s stock in an attack meant to make her think Lokner and M-Sof were responsible. They must have assumed that she’d strike back. They must have wanted her to destroy M-Sof and Lokner.
Lokner, one of the wealthiest men in the world, could afford the many attempts it would take to achieve a viable copy of his Scan.
Lokner must be at 5THSUN.
For an instant she thought of him as Lokner1.1, but realized that he was nothing like her Mirrors. This was a sentient being, a whole new line. Lokner2.0, she decided, was more fitting.
Lokner2.0 attacked her, used her to attack M-Sof and presumably the original Lokner Scan living there. Though Lokner1.0 was no longer a threat, the copy was. Not only did it know of her existence, but it was dangerously deceptive.
Her search for mother would have to wait. She must see Archaeidae. He must destroy Lokner2.0.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN: Sunday, August 5th, 2046
Working for Capo Riina had been very different than working for Tennō 88. During Riina’s employ, Archaeidae spent so much time in various training virtualities he’d begun having trouble differentiating between reality and virtuality. Though he enjoyed it at the time, he now saw much of it as a waste. Killing pretend people and running pointless assassination missions, while cool and entertaining, achieved nothing real. Now, everything he did was real. He’d been working for Tennō 88 less than twenty-four hours and done more than in the last six months with Riina.
Though the Shogun referred to Tennō 88 as male, Lokner had referred to 88 as female. Was the Emperor a she? Jotei instead of Tennō? Did it matter? What was gender worth in virtuality? Archaeidae shrugged it aside as unimportant. He wanted to look like a samurai, he looked like a samurai. She wanted to look like an Emperor, she looked like an Emperor. Reality was deeper than mere appearance.
88.1 took the form of a 12th century Shogun during their virtual meetings. Once again the Shogun conscripted a dangerous amount of the faltering NATUnet to make this meeting possible. Archaeidae, still wearing the samurai skin he was so fond of, knelt across the tea table from his Master’s Shogun. The thin rice paper walls glowed yellow as if lit from behind by a host of candles. The straw tatami mats, worn smooth by centuries of kneeling tea drinkers, were bordered with a seaweed-green brocade. In this four-and-a-half mat layout, never did the corners of more than two mats come in contact. The sweet scent of fresh-cut rush grass filled the room.
88.1 nodded to the samurai across the table. “Sesshō Archaeidae.”
Archaeidae bowed deep. “Sei-i tai Shōgun.”
Taking several minutes to pour tea, 88.1 sipped from his chawan before continuing. “The Lokner copy is a threat.” He paused for another sip. Archaeidae sat silently, waiting. “It is aware of our existence and possibly of our history. It may know our geographical location.”
Archaeidae’s eyes focused to sharp slits. Yes! This sounded like more fun stuff was coming his way. “Is this the other threat you spoke of?”
88.1 offered Archaeidae more tea. The assassin nodded acceptance and sat waiting. The Shogun refilled the chawan. “There is also the NATU investigation, headed by Agent Griffin Dickinson.”
“Hai.” He didn’t answer my question. Why? What does that mean? Is that a no? So there were multiple threats to the Emperor, one they were not yet willing to tell him about. But why? One thing at a time. Kill Lokner, kill Dickinson. The first he was happy with, the second left him feeling uncomfortable. Agent Dickinson and his partner defeated him and then spared his life when they had him at their mercy. The debt hung over Archaeidae. He didn’t like debts.
“An attack on 5THSUN might draw the attention of NATU,” mused the Shogun. “We must not bring attention to Tennō 88.”
So a stealth mission. That’s what assassination was all about. “If Dickinson and NATU are pursuing the black market Scan angle they must be suspicious of our attack on M-Sof,” Archaeidae said. The Shogun watched him without expression. Archaeidae resisted the impulse to ask about the connection. If he needed to know, 88.1 would tell him. Right? “But the danger of their investigation leading to us is real. Unless...” He paused in thought. “Unless they are led to the Lokner copy.”
“Interesting. Continue.”
Two birds, one stone. Lokner could be slain—or at least removed from contention—and Dickinson would have arrested the man behind so many crèches. It would be a fitting payback for sparing Archaeidae’s life. “We lead agent Dickinson to 5THSUN and the Lokner copy. NATU arrests or kills Lokner. They have the perpetrator they seek, the man behind the majority of the black market Scans and crèches around the world. Case closed.”
“That would give us the time we need.”
To do what? “Hai. We can defeat both enemies—the ones I am aware of—by squaring them off against each other.” Maybe not as exciting as an all out battle, but this could still be interesting. Intrigue sounded fun. Was the hint too subtle?
“How do we put Dickinson on the right path? Perhaps we could manipulate the results of his data searches, influence him subconsciously to move in the right direction.”
That didn’t sound fun at all. “I think a more direct approach will better achieve our goals,” suggested Archaeidae. Personal debts should be paid in person.
Changing chassis wasn’t like swapping bodies with another human. It was more like swapping bodies with a frog or a spider. There you were with your customary bipedal layout and your standard five senses all working in the usual way, comfortable and skilled at moving it about, manipulating its fine motor controls, and interacting with the world around you. All of a sudden you had four or more legs, you heard and saw in radically different frequencies, and your best form of mobility was either hopping or shuffling about with more limbs than you were accustomed to. It took time to adapt, and the greater the variance, the longer it took. Spending time in virtuality training programs helped immensely. It reduced the time spent jumping into walls and running in circles as you struggled to get your three left limbs moving. But there was no substitute for the real world.
Archaeidae’s new chassis made a soft whirring as he spun circles in the Hilton Bellevue Hotel lobby. Annoyed guests dodged around him and he ignored them. He’d had no acclimatization time and felt slow and ungainly, like he might topple over at any moment. His torso was a slim tuxedo-fitted upright cylinder with a round head incapable of displaying any emotions other than servitude and a North American version of a French waiter’s appalled displeasure. The torso sat centered atop a soft felt-like continuous tread incapable of leaving a mark on even the most expensive carpet. No matter how hard he tried.
H
e tightened the spin, testing how fast he could corner, and ran over a man’s toe. The guest yelped and hopped back, scowling at Archaeidae.
“Damn it drone! Watch where you’re going!”
Drone? Archaeidae attempted a murderous snarl and failed. The man didn’t look the least intimidated and stomped away with a huff of indignation.
This wasn’t funny at all. He called up the hotel busboy chassis’ statistics. He couldn’t jump small buildings or throw cars. There was not a single armament on board, not even a sharpened steak knife. He couldn’t bend iron bars, tear limbs from people or even make a scary face. What he did have was access to a complete library of mixed drinks, sheet folding techniques, and a desire to leave mints on pillows. Seriously. Not funny. In a straight-up fight against an unarmed human, chances are Archaeidae would get his ass handed to him on a buffed and polished silver platter.
“Shogun?” Archaeidae had asked, upon being loaded into this chassis. “Are you sure this is the right chassis for the job? What about a hotel Security Chassis? Something with just a little firepower.”
“You are delivering a simple message,” 88.1 had replied. “This is the right chassis for the task.”
True, Security Chassis weren’t used to run messages to hotel guests, but what if something went wrong? The beating he took at M-Sof yesterday was still fresh in his mind. He wanted payback, retribution. He wanted to even the score.
Nobody pushed Archaeidae around.
Seeing Griffin Dickinson exit the hotel lobby and head onto the street, he spun to give chase. He’d have to hurry to catch his prey. This is embarrassing.
At top speed, the chassis issuing an asthmatic wheeze, he managed to catch Griffin in less than a block.
“Mister Dickinson?”
Griffin turned, right hand going for the Glock Archaeidae knew to be concealed in a shoulder holster. Even in this shitty hotel chassis, Archaeidae had to wait for the man’s slow biological reaction time to realize he was no threat. Griffin stopped himself before the gun was drawn.
“Scared the crap out of me.”
“I have a message for you, Sir. You have some identification?”
Griffin dug out his wallet and flipped his NSI badge open. “A message? What message? From whom?”
“No name was left with the message and it is labeled No Reply Required.”
“Okay. The message?”
“The message Sir is as follows.” Archaeidae changed his voice as if playing back a recorded message. “Mark Lokner is alive and well at 5THSUN Assessments in Reno.”
Griffin’s eyes widened as the meaning of the message sunk in. “Holy shit.” His eyes narrowed suspiciously. “Where did this message come from?”
“It was given to me to personally deliver, Sir. I was tipped quite well, I might add.”
“Tipped? Oh, you’re a Scan and not a drone?”
“Yes.” Archaeidae let a little note of hurt slip into his voice. “I’m working off my contract with the hotel and saving up enough to buy a chassis of my own.” People loved a sob story. “What’s it like being a Special Investigator for NATU? If you don’t mind me asking, Sir. Is it exciting? You ever meet any really cool assassins?”
***
Griffin’s mind whirled like a drunken dervish on the latest amphetamine sulphate derivative (which he was hoping to acquire at the first drug store he found). Lokner at 5THSUN. He remembered the company, that’s where Miles Pert went. Lokner must have got out of M-Sof before the attack. “Exciting? Sometimes a little too exciting.” He looked at the little hotel chassis. “Sometimes I think I’d rather work in a hotel.” He remembered and his hand itched, the skin crawling. He wanted to claw at the flesh, still red and raw from the last bout of scratching. “A hotel where no one tries to kill you.”
“Well, good luck to you, Sir.” The chassis spun away and Griffin stared at its retreating faux-tuxedo finish.
Wait. Really cool assassins? What a strange—
“Archaeidae,” he called out, and the little hotel chassis said “oh shit” and put on a burst of speed.
Griffin gave chase and the fire in his gut, quiescent after a night’s rest, sparked to life like a match tossed into a tank of aerated jet fuel. The chassis ducked and dodged around pedestrians, running over feet, bumping into old ladies, and doing its best to leave a trail of chaotic confusion. Griffin followed, shoving his way through the complaining crowd. He drew the Glock right-handed and racked the slide. Now people got out of his way.
He heard Nadia’s voice. Safety’s still on. Griffin disengaged the safety as he saw the chassis disappear back into the hotel lobby, the automated doors whisking open and then closing behind it. He took the corner fast, his shoes slipping on the carpeted entrance. The doors saw him coming and snapped back open.
The little chassis screamed, “Gun! Gun!” as Griffin burst into the lobby waving the Glock and already wheezing.
Oh f—
“Drop your weapon! On the ground!”
A Hotel Security chassis, weapons threatening, cut between him and the fleeing bellboy chassis.
Griffin slid to an awkward stop. “I’m a NA—”
“On the ground now!”
There was a blur as a second Security chassis stepped in and knocked the gun spinning from his hand. The trigger guard tore skin from his fingers.
Griffin stepped sideways, trying to see beyond the Security chassis in front of him and watch where the bellboy chassis was going. “I have—” He was reaching for his ID when Security tasered him. The two security chassis hit simultaneously with over one hundred thousand watts each.
His muscles spasmed and contracted and the still healing wound in his stomach felt like it split open and spilled his intestines. The heavens opened and poured lightning through the top of his skull. A swimming sea of twisting sparks arced across his vision and he didn’t see the floor coming. His nose broke a second time and the universe splintered in endless oceans of agony.
When he could once again string two cohesive thoughts together he lay face down on the floor, his hands plasticuffed behind him. His skull throbbed and tracers of incandescence shot through his limbs causing spastic twitches.
One of the hotel Security chassis stood over him, keeping its taser pointed at his torso. A crowd of people watched from further back, recording this for their friends to watch later.
“Nurk,” was the best he could manage.
“The police have been notified and are on the way,” the Security chassis informed him in a deep voice.
Griffin rolled onto his back and his skull threatened to shred apart if he persisted in further movement. “Special Investigations,” he enunciated carefully. “ID inside pocket.”
The chassis plucked the ID from his pocket and scanned it. “Damn.” It dropped the wallet on his chest, and he winced when it struck a bruise. “You came in here waving a gun.”
Was that an apology, or an explanation? “Chasing busboy.”
“Which one. We have twenty-three currently working here.”
“A Scan,” he said.
“No Scans,” answered the security chassis, “they’re all drones.”
The sparks faded from his vision, and his jellied muscles stopped twitching. He glanced to the rear of the lobby. There was no sign of the chassis he’d been chasing. “Gone.”
“I’ve notified the police they are no longer needed.”
Griffin stared up at the chassis. Blood ran down the back of his throat from his rebroken nose. Pain pulsed through his skull with each beat of his heart. “Uncuff.”
“Right. Sorry.”
Griffin spent the next ten minutes convincing the hotel concierge he wasn’t going to press charges. Yes, he ran into the lobby waving a gun. Yes, it was his own damned fault. No, he didn’t need an ambulance. He stifled the blood pouring from his nose with a fistful of tissues gripped in his left hand. The right, skin torn from his fingers, dripped blood onto the expensive carpet. The concierge noticed with a distasteful
grimace but said nothing. Griffin’s gun was returned, the trigger guard still damp with his blood.
When he stepped out onto the street the sun was blindingly bright. His nose stopped bleeding, but the front of his shirt and suit were spattered in sanguinary Rorschach. He’d splashed water on his face and removed the worse of the blood from where it caked his upper lip and chin. His front teeth felt loose. It took effort not to worry at them with his tongue. Pedestrians gave him a wide berth as he stood in front of the hotel, looking dazedly up and down the street.
He pulled out his palm-comp and said “Abdul” to it. It sounded like Am-nool through his broken and blood filled nose. It took three attempts before the comp understood him.
“Hey Boss,” answered Abdul, and then “Seriously?” when he saw Griffin’s face. “You’ve been gone ten minutes.”
“Stomped shit?”
“Stomped shit is a fond memory. This is a whole new look. Now stop screwing around. Go to a damned hospital.”
“I’m fine,” Griffin lied through loose teeth. “Mith—Misunderstanding with hotel security.”
“NATU not paying its bills?”
“Funny as always. Meet me at the Redmond NATU office. Half an hour. I haven’t made it to the pharmacy yet.” Griffin killed the connection before Abdul answered.
The streets of downtown Redmond were a crush of pedestrian traffic, cyclists, and electric taxis. The lush wealth displayed in the suburbs and golf courses surrounding the M-Sof grounds distinctly absent. Trees and grass appeared only on faded posters advertising vacation packages few could afford. Hints of lichen festering in the cracked sidewalks and potholed roads were all that suggested this land was capable of supporting life. Even though nine out of ten people here were dressed in business suits, those suits showed signs of extended wear. Missing buttons, cheap material beginning to shine with the matte finish rubbed away, dress shoes worn flat. Griffin shoved his way through the crowd. Those who saw him coming were quick to give way. In ten yards the stabbing fury in his guts returned with a vengeance and he limped, bent forward, arms clutching his abdomen. His right hand felt like it was being held in a vat of molten metal. His nose started bleeding again, a slow, warm coppery leak.
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