With great effort, she rolled onto her back and put a hand on her forehead. The victim pose offered a more comfortable sleep than a chair, even if it did leave the texture of the carpet imprinted on her breasts. Beds left her feeling too exposed and seldom provided a good view of entrances.
Using the chair to steady herself, she stumbled to the nightstand and covered herself with the robe. From a wall terminal, she placed an order for a hangover cure as well as breakfast. When a chime came from room service, she disappeared into the bathroom with her handgun and held her lips to the door.
“Just leave it in the room, I’m in the shower.” Her Vox unit changed her voice to sound like that of a stocky older man, something that would fit the name she put into the hotel’s system: Angus Brinn.
The door opened with a beep and a hotel employee pushed a hovering tray in. The smell found her right away, making it quite difficult to wait. No sooner had the door closed than she ran to the food and attacked it, not even bothering to sit. Clicking upon the balcony door drew her attention to a shoebox-sized bot tapping a little robotic arm on the glass. She padded over while wiping egg crumbs from her mouth, and pulled the door to the side. The bot opened a small hatch and let her take the hangover pills before turning and rocketing off into the skyline.
The combination of food and medicine made her feel much better, though she still had a long, anxious day sitting around wondering if today would be the day that they found her. Being up to her right eyeball, literally, in debt addled her nerves even more. She obtained the part from a facilitator of loans because she wanted one that looked like a natural eye as opposed to the chrome one her owners gave her. He expected a repayment of three hundred and sixty thousand credits, more than twice its value, but having it made earning money easier.
The hundred grand she got from Joey would go almost all to that cause to buy her some relief for a few weeks. She paced like a trapped tiger before trying to watch a holovid that she just could not focus on.
In the middle of a silent room, she sat cross-legged on the sofa, staring at a hologram of the little white-haired girl.
The head dispersed as the NetMini projecting it rang with an inbound call. The shock almost made her scream. It was Alex.
He spoke in French. “Good morning, my dear. I have an easy job for you. Sixty thousand credits,” he added with a smile.
“Alex, sixty grand doesn’t make me think easy.”
He bared perfect teeth with a broad grin and swept his shoulder length hair out of his eye. “Sometimes there are clients that pay extra for discretion. The money is not all for risk you know.”
Discretion could also be a bad sign. “Just how illegal is this?”
“Not illegal at all. You’ll be working for Sentinel Systems.”
Katya glanced off to the right as she thought. “I’ve heard of that before, armored cars?”
“Close.” Alex nodded. “They operate armored boats, cargo vessels to be exact. They have a military contract to run supplies that are too heavy to fly.”
“I don’t think so.” Katya shook her head. “I’m not getting into a pissing contest with the military.”
He touched his fingertips together. “Calm yourself my dear. It’s the military that wants to hire you.”
Katya stared. “I smell bullshit.”
Alex chuckled. “They suspect the crew of this particular vessel has been diverting shipments and offloading some of the hardware to mercenaries. What they want is for someone to sneak on board and plant a tracking beacon to monitor its movement independently of the boat’s systems. If someone hacked their transponder to fake the route, this will show them where it’s really going.”
“Don’t they have people for that?” She squinted at him.
Alex nodded. “Of course they do, but they don’t want to run the risk that someone will see it coming. They want to keep it external. All you need to do is get onto the boat, drop a bug, and get out without anyone seeing you. It is docked and empty with minimal guards.”
“Alex, you know this sounds like a setup.”
Alex tilted his head. “For what? They don’t know who I’d offer the job to.”
“Unless they got into your files and knew your talent pool. Aren’t I the only one in your contact list that does the sneaky thing?”
“You may be the best; however, you’re far from the only. Most of them are less discreet. I assure you… my contact list is secure, even your friend Joey would find it difficult to go poking around here.”
“What are the details?”
He leaned back with a smile. “That’s better. They are trying to keep this as quiet as possible. If you are seen on or near the dock, the whole thing is a bust. Be at the Crystal Swan restaurant tonight at six. Go alone and order the Wellington. Tell the waiter you have not had it in a year and have heard theirs is the best. When you are done eating, the signal to their guy is that you lean forward and blow out a candle in the middle of the table.”
“Who’s paying for dinner? Even synthetic, that’s a 2500 credit plate.”
Alex laughed. “Then you haven’t had it made properly. It should cost four. Anyway, the employer will be handling the bill. If the waiter asks you to pay, something went wrong and you should call me right away. Once you blow out that candle, he will drop a case by your chair with the device in it. Then all you need to do is get onto the boat, at these coordinates.”
Her mini chirped with an arriving NavMap pin.
“I’ve done training exercises harder than this.”
“Call me when it’s done.” Alex’s holographic presence collapsed.
Katya stripped and walked into the bathroom, staring at the autoshower. She hesitated by the door, closing her eyes. After a minute, she forced herself inside and tried to ignore memories of being locked in a gel-filled tank. Despite knowing the plastic tube would open if she wanted it to, it took a moment for the shivers to subside. When the dry cycle stopped, she kicked the door open and backed away from the clear cylinder, gasping for air.
Next hotel I pick will have a bathtub.
She went to the Crystal Swan to record video from every angle. Only the wealthy even knew of the place; a full dinner for one could cost as much as an average family made in a week. The restaurant took up a quarter of a city block far in the north, Sector 316. The area still held some trappings of its former Canadian heritage, and the Badlands snow forest peeked over the distant wall.
After getting a decent sense of the building, she went to the dock. The massive boxy vessel, four hundred and fifty meters long and as high as a four-story building, nuzzled against the pier like a suckling piglet. It had a heavily armored look, most of the hull segmented into thick plates. The top was flat except for a small bridge house at the stern bearing the logo of Sentinel Corp; a cybernetic arm held a sword aloft between the words with a half-starburst from the tip. Alex had good information, only two guards staffed the gate. Katya zoomed in, using her artificial eye to survey the rest of the pier. Two guards walked the deck, and a twenty-foot high security fence sealed it off from the adjacent pier. After pondering the layout, she felt a sea approach offered the best chance of success.
She arranged for a dress from a high-end clothing boutique. Infiltration without a governmental budget behind you required improvisation. The synthetic pheromones her enhanced endocrine system produced worked, and she convinced the manager to let her borrow a sixty thousand credit scarlet heart-stopper of a gown. For some reason, perhaps thinking of the StarPoint girl, she was glad she did not have to trade herself this time. Dread came over her; she fell against the wall, hearing bellowed Russian in her mind scolding her for developing an exploitable attachment.
She stood up, adjusting the garment. If she returned it late or damaged it, she would have to cover the cost. There was little worry about its condition as she needed it only for the restaurant so she did not stand out in pauper’s rags. The dress split with a three-inch gap down the right side, leaving an un
broken view of skin all the way down. Microscopic hooks in the fabric clung to her skin to hold it up, controlled by a button disguised as a ruby at the apex of her cleavage. The tiny matching purse could not conceal a pistol, and the dress offered nowhere to hide it. She put her hair up, shifting its color while staring at the changing room mirror until she settled on leaving it black.
Four hours later, she presented the maître’d with the reservation code. The feeling of eyes following her to the table made her regret the dress. She had picked the scandalously short thing for mobility’s sake; the other offerings at that shop had all been ankle-long and tight, and she did not want a hobble.
So much for blending in, I feel like the one item of color in a black and white vid.
She found it difficult to enjoy the Wellington while being so anxious about the matter at hand. This whole situation felt like a last meal. It was as if her former owners had finally found her and were playing a cruel game before they dragged her back to Europe. The lone candle in the center of the table flickered then steadied, trailing a perfect line of black smoke into the air.
When she decided she finished with the food, she leaned forward and blew it out. The smoke from the dead wick darkened, and the waiter gave a knowing glance before he ducked out of sight. A moment later, he walked past without making eye contact and set a briefcase down near her chair. That everything had gone as Alex said it would made her more nervous. She suppressed the shiver as she braced for the other shoe to fall.
The briefcase felt solid, as though it contained a dense object, but not burdensome in its weight. She folded her napkin onto the table and gathered her purse. A few meters from the door, the approach of a large older man in a cream-colored suit startled her. He looked to be in his late forties, with thick brown hair neatly sculpted. Heavy brows hung over narrow eyes as he approached, she could tell by looking at him that he was Russian.
Fear hit her like a bucket of ice water. She turned to run, but he grabbed her wrist and pulled her back, far faster than she expected a man of that size to be.
“Wait.” His words burst through a thick accent like bubbles from syrup. “I want only talk.”
Katya’s eyes widened with helpless terror; she had no armor or gun. Fear that her owners had sent him made her struggle to free her arm from his grasp, but it might as well have been locked in a manacle.
“Please.” He drew her closer as he whispered. “I am not who you think.”
Resistance faded to imperceptible trembling as she stared with the look of a deer facing down a hunter. “Who are you?”
He led her out of the main dining area toward the bar. His grip was just shy of painful and left no doubt that she followed him as a demand and not a request. He pushed her into a booth and hovered for a long moment before letting go and taking the facing seat.
He relaxed into the cushions, draping his arm over the back of the bench. “My name is Anatoly. I believe we can help each other, yes?”
Anatoly’s casual demeanor unsettled her even more. “How did you find me?” She switched to Russian.
He chuckled, ordering a cognac from the passing bar waiter. “Your electronic identity is the product of a most impressive hacker; however, it is still forged.”
She shuddered with a passing breeze, her fear made the bare stripe down her side feel colder. “What do you want?”
“I want to help you. A favor for a favor.” He sipped his drink. “You have talents useful to me. Me, I have many friends back home. People who could make your…” He waved a hand around, searching for a word. “…situation go away. Surely you do not wish to be hunted until you are old, or dead?”
Her wonder if this man had come seeking a bribe ended, as did her breathing. The realization that she sat three feet away from Anatoly Nemsky, the Butcher of Kiev, came to her. Hundreds of civilians died at this man’s will, never mind the rumors that young women were often spared death in the streets to be used by him and then later by his troops. Waves of fear ran up and down her soul as she tried to cope with being so close to a man so far from human. He could kill everyone in the restaurant and not lose a second of sleep over it. Judging by the grip he had on her arm, he could snap her neck like a twig if he chose.
Katya would play along; this man got what he wanted and did not take rejection well. In addition, his offer was tempting. Even if it meant a deal with the devil, if anyone could secure her true freedom it would be him.
Training kept her voice calm. “What do you need me to do?”
The little curl in his lip gave away his amusement at her fear. He loved it; she played up to him, letting more out.
“I need someone to get inside the manufacturing plant at Siege Arms Corporation. A shipment of rifles must be diverted. You do this for me… I leash the dogs nipping your heels.”
The little girl came back to her mind again. If Nemsky could be believed and trusted, neither of which were sure bets, he could change her life. If he could get the corporation off her back, she could stop running. Giving this man a truck full of weapons could be disastrous to many innocent people, but was that her problem? She could always do it and then tip off the authorities once clear. Despite being off the books, she did feel a sense of patriotism for the UCF. Even if they did not know it, they protected her from a proverbial leash.
Nemsky picked at a NetMini, causing a momentary image of the StarPoint girl to appear. He took particular delight in her reaction. “That is what you want, is it not?”
She made an easy leap to rationalize he could get them without her help; if she did not do it someone else would. Calling in a favor back home was less expensive than paying credits to a mercenary to do it, which explained why he came to her. Of course, if he found her―her old “employers” could too.
She allowed a tremble to manifest as she nodded. “I will do this for you.”
“Good. Join me for a drink?” He raised a hand at the bar waiter.
Every second spent with him made her feel more unclean, like a moth having a drink with a spider while stuck to its web, but she stayed to humor him. Her filter kept the alcohol out of her system, and the small talk was somewhat pleasant, though she avoided asking questions that could get her killed.
As she stood to leave, he again grabbed her wrist and pulled her face to face. She gasped from the force and almost lost her balance. Her feeling of helplessness got into a full on war with her anger at being manhandled, but his reputation was not something her newfound independence wanted to butt heads with. The more she appeased him, the better the odds he would follow through on his promise. He could always cast her aside or kill her after the fact; only the smallness of what it would cost him to help her gave her confidence.
“It goes without speaking.” He paused, sensing something wrong with his thick accented English. “It goes without saying. Yes, that is better. Do not share details of our arrangement.”
Katya was many things at that moment: embarrassed, pissed off, desperate, and scared witless, but stupid was not one of them.
“Yes, General.” She offered a demure bow that made him smile and walked out.
The red dress was cold, but was downright cozy compared to the bay, even in a wetsuit. Micro caterpillar drives in sleek black housings on her shins and forearms carried her through the frigid currents without a sound. They pushed or pulled water depending on the angle at which she held her hands or feet, and allowed for an incredible degree of maneuverability once she got used to them.
Most of her face hid behind an armored visor, flat and featureless except for tiny lens clusters at the top corners. Her air synthesizer mask rearranged seawater at an atomic level, extracting breathable air right from the ocean. She would taste salt for a few hours, but it was far more portable than an air tank.
She held her arms at her sides, tight against her body. The ocean floor drifted below through the green on black translation of reality in the visor. The little motors pushed her along without a sound, like a living torpedo.
Ridges of sand slid by in bright gradient ripples as ghostly blobs of differing luminosity darted in and out of her view from passing sea creatures. A pack of enormous underwater bots huddled like manatees, attempting to scrub pollution out of the seawater.
Her passage created no sound or disturbance at the surface, and soon, the pylons of her destination emerged through the black water. Beyond them, the ship’s hull appeared as an indistinct blur of emerald light. As she neared her target, she pivoted her hands to a neutral position, which stalled the pods. After moving her arms out in front of her, she tilted her fists down to activate them again. She found it easier to steer with her arms pulling, and circled the pylons for several minutes until she found a maintenance ladder.
A flick of her eyes opened a heads up menu in the visor, and she shut down the caterpillar motors and rode her momentum into the ladder. Gloves scraped small barnacles away from the rungs as she climbed. Once her face breached the surface, the visor switched modes; ultrasound replaced with passive nightvision. The voice of the sales weasel from the military surplus store rambled on in her head about how the plate could stop a bullet. She pulled her weight up out of the water, hoping she did not get to find out if it was true.
The breathing mask went back into a pouch on her belt as she filled her lungs with natural air once more. The faint vibration of the drives ghosted in her limbs, and she took a moment to adjust to being on dry land. Above her, a maze of lasers streaked a bright crisscross over the ladder. As expected, the security team had covered it well with electronic detection. At least her former ‘employers’ had been liberal with her cybernetic enhancements. Neuromuscular amplification allowed her to move in superhuman ways and climb through and over the beams without breaking them. The spiderlike ascent brought back memories of her training; she felt like she had run this course before.
Virtual Immortality Page 45
