The Dream hit me with a jump cut, and with no sense of transition I found myself walking point along the familiar curving tunnel that would lead Toshi and the others to their deaths. Again, no matter how I tried, I couldn't croak out a warning. And, even worse, I couldn't control my own body. I knew what was waiting for me around one of these corners, but like a passenger in my own skull, I couldn't stop myself from walking on. I felt my hands cradling my Remington Roomsweeper almost as if it were a baby. A lot of good it would do me.
Around the corner we went, and there she was as I knew she would be: the Wasp spirit Queen. The insect spirit summoned by the insane shaman, Adrian Skyhill. She lay there in the darkness ahead of us, a massive, distorted shape the unclean white of a maggot. Her huge lower body was segmented, her upper body the emaciated torso of the human woman she'd once been. Her long blond hair was missing in patches; her skin was bloated and blistered. Thin lips drew back from yellowed teeth in what could almost have been a smile.
I tried to throw myself aside as the magical bolt arced from her hand, but I was too late as I always was. The blue-white fire lashed over the left side of my body, engulfing my arm, and I screamed. Even in The Dream, the pain was overwhelming, all-encompassing. I collapsed to the soft, yeastsmelling ground, as Hawk and the others rushed at the Queen, weapons spitting.
Hawk was the first to go this time, turned into a flaming, twitching firebrand. Then Toshi, transfixed by a torrent of fire, and dancing in death like a dervish. I heard a scream from behind me, a shrill, piercing shriek that went on and on ...
And suddenly I was awake, my pulse pounding an insane tattoo in my ears, my chest laboring like a bellows. My body tingled, from the tips of my toes to the crown of my head, as though someone had tried using me as a resistor in a low-voltage electric circuit. I rolled my eyes wildly for a moment as reality reassembled itself around me.
Yes. I was lying on the bed in my Randall Avenue doss, staring at the shifting patterns that the lights of passing cars painted across my ceiling. I was still fully dressed, and my clothes were wringing wet with chill sweat. Very comfortable indeed. I tried to slow my breathing as I let comforting normality seep into my body and flush out the fear poisons.
It took me a moment to realize that the high-pitched shriek was still in my ears, as if the scream had followed me out of sleep. I blinked and shook my head, and—almost like a digital sound effect—the sound morphed from a semihuman squeal into a more familiar electronic tone. With a muffled curse, I swung into a sitting position and glared at my telecom.
An incoming call, that's all it was. The alert tone had penetrated my sleep, and my unconscious had gleefully taken it and woven it into the fabric of my dream. Just what I needed.
The tone cut off as the telecom software decided I wasn't going to pick up the call myself, and went into auto-answer mode. According to the data display in the corner of the screen, the call was directed to my default, rather than my private, mailbox, so I had little incentive to shake myself out of the rack to answer it in-the-meat. While the ancient telecom was chugging through the initial handshaking, I checked my finger-watch. Nigh on oh-three-thirty. Looked like I'd overslept on my intended one-hour nap. Idly, I wondered if Naomi the smartframe had made it back with the correlations already, or whether she'd been waylaid by some electronic diversions along her path.
The telecom screen blinked and an image appeared ... and my thoughts were suddenly anything but idle. I recognized the face at once. A middle-aged man: a strong face, a commanding, aquiline nose, and cold eyes. His hair was still cut short, subtly spiked, showing the chrome-lipped datajack in his right temple. When I'd last seen him, that hair had been salt-and-pepper, with the pepper predominant. Now it was almost pure gray-white, with only a few streaks of black left near the crown. His face looked older than it had only four years ago, too—a good decade older. The skin looked sallow and slightly loose, and there were dark bags under his eyes. I remembered the last time we'd spoken. He'd been working his guts out on an Ultra-Gym machine, running the computerized system at a setting of eighteen on a scale of twenty. Yet he'd still been able to carry on a conversation without gasping or yarfing up his lunch. Would he be able to handle even level one these days? I doubted it.
Jacques Barnard, his name was. When I'd last done business with him—if that's the right phrase—he'd been a senior vice president of Yamatetsu Corporation, in charge of the megacorp's Seattle operations. If my bookie would lay odds on that kind of thing, I'd have considered him a sure bet for senior management, the ultimate corporate warrior, undeterred by the obstacles in his way.
Now? I'd have tried to buy back that hypothetical bet. He looked like an old man, did Mr. Barnard, worn and ravaged.
Not by time, so much, as by knowledge. The eyes that burned out of my telecom screen looked like those of a man who'd learned things he simply didn't want to know. (And the fact of the matter was, I thought I could make a damn good guess as to what some of those "things" were .,.)
"Mr. Montgomery, good day." Barnard's voice hadn't lost any of its resonance or its somewhat daunting self-confidence. "Or perhaps 'good evening' is more appropriate. It's unfortunate that I missed you, but"—he shrugged with a wry smile—"I don't imagine our daily schedules follow the same lines.
"I have some matters I wish to discuss with you, Mr. Montgomery," Barnard went on smoothly. "I assure you that the discussion will be mutually beneficial.
"I'm appending a secure switching code—a 'cold relay,' I think is the current term on the streets." A Receive icon blinked in the corner of the screen, and the telecom chuckled softly to itself as it stored a digital data string in its nonvolatile memory. "Please contact me as soon as practical," Barnard concluded. "I look forward to the chance of talking with you again." With a faint musical bink, the call terminated.
I don't know how long I stared at the blank screen. When I finally shook myself out of my self-absorbed funk, my eyes were so dry they felt gritty.
It's funny how things work out ... or it might be funny, if those things don't involve you personally. From my side, I failed to see the humor. That faint musical tone had signified more than the end of Barnard's call, hadn't it? It had also sounded the death knell of the life I'd been living. One simple bink, and everything changes.
I shook my head and sighed. What were the odds of The Dream and Barnard's call coming together like that? Quite a coincidence.
Of course, some people wouldn't see it that way. That friend of Jocasta Yzerman's, for example, the one she'd taught with back in the sprawl. What was his name? Harold Move-in-Shadows, or something like that. Old Harold, he'd have told me in that sententious way of his that there's no such thing as coincidence, and that everything happens because it's the will of the Great Spirits. Yeah, right. If that's the case, then the Great Spirits have a pretty fragging twisted sense of humor.
The call ... I sighed again, a deep, heartfelt sound. It had to happen—I'd known that from the outset. When things had gone to hell in a handcart that night underneath Fort Lewis—when Hawk and Rodney and the others had been slaughtered—it was Jacques Barnard's cred that had put things back together again. He'd paid off the "Wrecking Crew"—the shadow team I'd hired—including death bonuses for Toshi and Hawk. He'd arranged for me to "die," at least as far as the people at Lone Star who might want to track me down were concerned. And, most important, he'd paid for the cybernetic replacement of the arm that the Queen spirit had burned away.
He'd never even discussed the matter with me. When I'd woken up in the hospital—an exorbitantly expensive private room, again courtesy of Mr. Barnard—it had all been handled. He'd never put any strings on the payments, never demanded any concessions from me.
He hadn't needed to, of course. We both knew the way things work. Corps and corporators don't give gifts; they make investments. Barnard had invested in me, and we both understood that some time down the road he'd come looking for a return on that investment. Over the intervening fo
ur years, he'd never mentioned the matter; hell, I'd never had anything to do with Yamatetsu during that time, and that was just the way I liked it. But again, he hadn't needed to mention it, or remind me. Megacorporations the world over have integrated a lot of ideas from the old Japanese world-view. When someone is in your debt, it's his responsibility to remember the fact, not yours to remind him.
So now it was time to call in the marker. That's what the call meant. I owed him for my arm, and my livelihood—frag, for my life, if you got right down to it—and he was going to collect.
Dully, I walked over to the telecom and idly pressed a few keys. The smartframe had made it back, filling temporary files with a couple of megapulses of data on Jonathan Bridge. Those files probably contained what I needed to discharge my contract with Sharon Young, and net myself some much-needed cred.
Yet I couldn't work up the enthusiasm to open them. What did it matter anyway? I couldn't guess what Barnard would want from me. Similarly, though, I couldn't imagine that paying off my debt would leave my life unaffected.
I didn't call Barnard back right away.
I couldn't drag it out too long, though. He'd tracked down my LTG number in Cheyenne, so it was a safe bet he knew I was in town. If I didn't return his call within some reasonable span of time, he might start wondering whether I'd forgotten my obligation or—worse—that I was considering shirking it. How would a high muckamuck corporator like Barnard respond to that kind of irresponsibility on my part? I remembered the two business-suited knee-breakers who'd escorted me to Barnard's enclave in Madison Park four years ago, and I had no desire to meet them again on less genteel terms.
Still, I pushed it as long as I figured was politically wise ... and then a bit longer. After all, up until the moment I actually placed that call, I could still lie to myself that I was a free agent.
I spent some of my time running a quick research scan on Jacques Barnard (know thine enemies in case your friends turn out to be a bunch of bastards, and all that). I'd assumed that Barnard was still part of Yamatetsu's Seattle operations—the fact that the "cold relay" number he'd given me was a local node just reinforced the idea—but that turned out to be off the beam. Y-Seattle was now the purview of some slitch by the name of Mary Luce, while Barnard had been bumped upstairs to become executive vice president of Yamatetsu North America. With the promotion had come a transfer to the bright heart of the Yamatetsu world—the city of Kyoto, in Nihon.
So Jacques Barnard had shaken the mud and grime of the sprawl from his thousand-nuyen shoes, had he? What would that mean for me?
Putting off the inevitable is a mug's game. Finally I bit the bullet, and placed the call: seventeen hundred hours my time, oh-nine-hundred in Kyoto. I watched the icons flicker and flash along the bottom of the screen as my telecom dialed the LTG number Barnard had given me, and made the connection. My system synched up and shook hands with the Seattle node, then the call was suspended—put on hold, basically—by the remote station. I watched as my screen echoed a call to Denver ... and was put on hold again. The process happened three more times—when Barnard said a relay was cold, I decided, he meant you could use it for cryogenic research—before I finally saw the standard Ringing symbol blink.
I frowned as the telecom waited for an answer. What the frag was I going to get pulled into, here? If Barnard figured he needed a five-node relay to talk to me, I had the nasty feeling that we wouldn't be chatting about the weather ...
The telecom whined for an instant, then an image of Barnard himself filled the screen. He was sitting at a desk, as I'd expected, but not in an office. Or, at least, not an office like any I'd ever seen before. The background was slightly out of focus, but I could still make out white marble walls, broad windows, and an open door leading out under a portico, and beyond into an ornamental garden. Life-sized, classical-style statues stood in uncomfortable-looking poses among the flowering shrubs.
Barnard looked up from what he was doing—something that was outside his telecom's field of view—and smiled when he saw my face. "Mr. Montgomery." There was real warmth—or an impressive simulation of it, at least—in his voice. "I'm glad I was able to reach you."
It was funny, but in that instant, I was glad, too. I hadn't known it until now, but this moment had been haunting me for four years. Just as you can get so used to pain like a toothache that you forget it's there, I'd become accustomed to the chronic, low-grade stress of wondering when the call would come, when the other shoe would drop. But that didn't mean the stress hadn't been there, hadn't been real. Now, as Barnard smiled at me out of the screen, I felt a strange, twisty sensation in my gut . .. and I realized, with a shock, that it was four years' worth of tension finally being relieved.
"Mr. Barnard," I said noncommittally. "Long time."
His smile—more genuine than I'd have given his acting ability credit for—grew broader, and he leaned back in his chair. His telecom's video pickup adjusted focus, and I got a better view of the statues beyond the portico. "How are you enjoying the sunshine in Cheyenne, Mr. Montgomery?" he asked lightly. "A pleasant change from Seattle, I would imagine."
I shook my head, momentarily dumbstruck. He was talking about the fragging weather. With an effort, I brought my thoughts back under control. "A change is as good as a rest, that's what they say, at least." I glanced away from his face to the view behind him. "Wouldn't you agree?"
He chuckled. "There are some significant .. . perquisites ... to corporate rank," he admitted. "I do rather like Kyoto. Have you ever visited the city?"
"Never had the time."
"Unfortunate." He pursed his lips momentarily. "But you do like to travel, I trust?"
"Only if I get to keep any frequent-flier points they give me," I said dryly. "Look, Mr. Barnard, despite appearances, I'm assuming that this isn't a social call."
He blinked, and his expression changed. For an instant, I could have almost believed that there was disappointment in his eyes. It was gone in a microsecond, and his face became the cool mask of the seasoned negotiator. "As you wish, Mr. Montgomery." He paused, as if to order his thoughts. "As you might have guessed, there is a ... a matter, one might say ... on which you can help me. Do you have a passport? Not in your own name, of course"—he chuckled softly—"considering that Derek Montgomery officially died in twenty fifty-two. But one that will pass muster?"
I nodded.
"Good. Then I have a request for you. I have a message that I need delivered to a ... a colleague of mine. I would like you to deliver it for me, Mr. Montgomery."
I snorted. "You want me to be a delivery boy?"
"I wouldn't put it quite like that," Barnard hedged.
"But it's accurate."
He shrugged. "If you wish."
"Why can't you do it electronically?" I asked. "Or virtually, over the Matrix?"
Barnard's dark eyes hardened, and I felt my internal temperature drop a couple of degrees. "I have my reasons, I assure you," he said coldly. But then his mien softened an iota. "Personal contact is required in this situation, Mr. Montgomery. Circumstances are such that nothing else would be acceptable."
He was trying to win me over by being reasonable, by actually explaining—to some degree, at least. But I wasn't going to get sucked in that easily. "So why not send one of your flunkies from Kyoto?" I shot back. "There's got to be hundreds of keeners just dying to—to kiss hoop, is what I started to say, but at the last moment I reconsidered—"to do the executive veep a personal favor. Neh?"
Barnard frowned. "Perhaps. But that would be ... inappropriate ... in this case."
"Why?"
"Because the contact must be untraceable, Mr. Montgomery. I need a deniable asset."
"You mean an expendable asset, don't you?"
Barnard sighed in mild frustration. "Not in this case, Mr. Montgomery." He gave a wry half smile. "Under other circumstances"—he shrugged—"who knows? But not in this case, I assure you."
"Why not?" I asked sarcastically. "You'd ha
ng someone else out to dry, but not me. Because of my winning personality, no doubt?"
I snorted again. "Look, Mr. Barnard, I'm willing to go along with you because I owe you for the arm, and I'd rather pay off my marker than be hunted down by Yamatetsu hard-men. But please don't insult what I like to consider my intelligence, so ka?"
For a moment I thought I'd gone that one step too far. For nearly ten seconds Barnard just stared at me out of the screen, his eyes like targeting lasers. Then he leaned forward, and again the vid pickup adjusted, putting the statues out of focus. "Listen," he said, "I'll tell you this once, and only because I want you to understand. I'm not calling in a marker, Mr. Montgomery. You've already paid back for the arm, and more." He smiled faintly and gestured around him. "Do you think I'd be sitting in this office if Adrian Skyhill was still undercutting me with the Board of Directors at every turn?" The smile faded, and for a moment the executive looked even older than he had before. "And there's more to the debt, of course, but I'd rather not discuss it, even via a cold relay."
I nodded slowly. He meant the insect spirits, of course. "The way I view the matter, Mr. Montgomery," Barnard continued smoothly, "Yamatetsu owes you for your services." He spread his hands in a disarming gesture. "This is part of the payback. I understand you need the work, and the credit." I forced a laugh. "Mr. Barnard, you'd better give your information conduits a swift kick. I've got contracts out the hoop; I don't have the time to be your glorified messenger boy and—"
His voice was no louder, but the edge to it cut me off as short as a gunshot. "No, Mr. Montgomery, you haven't got contracts, as you say, 'out the hoop.' The one matter you have to concern you at the moment—since you so smoothly discharged the matter with The Avalon for one Jennifer Amequist—is a minor contract with Sharon Young." He smiled—he was enjoying this, the slot. "And, as a matter of fact, the business for which Ms. Young has contracted you is directly connected with my request, so there's not even any conflict there."
House of the Sun Page 3
