by Lee Bond
No longer concerned with getting caught by The Man, Garth popped one of the chips into an easy-to-reach slot and waited. As the tiny leads on the chip locked into place, Garth’s devious mind was rewarded with absolute confirmation of his suspicions. After scanning the chip for viruses and other illegal codes, an Ident program started cycling up. Worries that he was going to have to go through some sort of password protection were belayed when the program began working through its preposterously huge database. Thirteen minutes later, a series of mug shots appeared on his hotel Screen, along with the dead man’s name, last known location, known affiliates, and a warrant as long as his arm.
Cackling evilly, Garth popped the other chips in and waited to see what would happen next.
Armed with a host of cross-referenced data from the three additional credit chips, the program began building up a database that the proteus immediately shunted off to the Screen. In forty minutes, Garth was reading through a comprehensive catalogue of criminals operating in and about Port City.
The first four thugs he’d killed did in fact belong to a gang calling themselves ‘The Port Side Boys’. The Port Side Boys -or Portsiders- had their fingers in a number of different Hospitalian pies, varying from prostitution to gambling, but their biggest claim to fame was a supposed ‘inside man’ at the Space Port.
If reports were true, the mafia-style gang used this alleged contact to aid in their import/export business, which was ludicrously profitable. Since the Portsiders also proved to be very difficult to infiltrate, the list of stolen goods they dealt in was purely hypothetical. Law enforcement agencies worldwide believed that the absolute worst thing they were doing was stealing the drugs that kept God soldiers from falling apart and selling that mélange of chemicals, nutritional supplements, and narcotics to cashiered God soldiers. By making the supplements available to those fallen men and women, it was all too likely that the Portsiders were subverting the loyalties of abandoned ex-soldiers to their cause. Case file after case file ended with undercover agents being caught, killed or burned before learning anything of value. All they got were low-end nobodies. They wanted someone to send to The Peak and couldn’t get any leverage.
The Portsiders ran Port City’s seedy underside with utter impunity, but they also moved in the suburban circles by running rackets in the right-hand pie wedge community traditionally known as Porttown. Like all really good gangs, they also had a turf war running with their immediate neighbors to the east, a gang calling themselves ‘The Devil’s Left Testicle’.
Garth had a good chuckle. The Devil’s Nuts wanted to move in on the Portsiders because everyone coveted their territory. They believed in the inside man theory and imagined all it would take was extra money in this mystery person’s pockets to co-opt the Portsiders’ trade. A little further probing into the database on the Portsiders revealed that they were slowly branching to other planets, edging out tougher, better-established gangs. If left unchecked, it was probable that the Portsiders could transform into a Glass Hammer or Yellow Dog. If that happened, Chairwoman Doans would have serious trouble. Once gangs went systemic, it was damned near impossible to shut them down.
Learning that the Portsiders were badass gangsters was all very well and good, but nowhere did Garth see anything that could explain their sudden rage boner for one measly Offworlder. A holographic sidebar announced that thirty percent of the ‘Latelians’ living in Port City were Trinity émigrés, which was even more bizarre; if the gangbangers came into contact with non-native citizens on a daily basis, what in the hell did they really want? Their dislike sure as hell didn’t have anything to do with him being Outsystem, no matter what they shouted.
Garth shifted the credit amounts from the chips - totaling a little over thirty thousand dollars- into his own accounts before erasing them. Staring at the complex web of data and worrying at a thumbnail, Garth tried to find a common element between his experiences with the Portsiders and their criminal activities.
The key had to be whoever was in charge of the Portsiders, and Garth wasn’t thinking top-level stooges. It was the moneyman, the mover and the shaker, the one who’d undoubtedly hooked the thugs up in the Space Port that Garth wanted to meet. It was this jackass and no one else who had to be giving the gangsters their orders, because as far as his Intel went, Garth couldn’t see any other straight assassination attempts in their six-year career. Plenty of turf-related beefs gone to the morgue, sure, but no assassinations.
Trying to reason out why this mystery man –or woman- wanted him dead was going to be a tough nut to crack. Government Intel on the Portsiders had a big fat question mark at the top of the Portsider food chain, so unless he could learn something a crack squad of agents couldn’t, Garth guessed he was just going to have to suffer.
He saved the search and grumped. He’d give the Portsiders one more chance to leave him the fuck alone. If they tried to kill him again, all bets were off. It’d be explosions and fires and lots of running and screaming.
Garth sighed grumpily. Every goddamn time he turned around, someone was coming at him. The Portsiders, OverSecretary Terrance, Yellow Dog assassins. It was like people didn’t like him or something. It was enough to give a guy a complex.
The proteus chimed, and Sa Herrig’s shiny face appeared on the Screen.
“Fuck me sideways.” Garth slapped his head. During his search, his tricky subconscious had contrived to make him forget about the newest, and potentially even more irritating, changes to his life. “Hi, Sa Herrig.”
“Hello, Sa Garth. How are you today?”
Herrig would probably shit himself if he knew what kind of a day his new Offworld buddy was having, so it was banalities. “Not too bad, man. You?”
Herrig rubbed the back of his neck. With all the work Garth had given him to do over the last few days, he was inordinately grateful of the fact that very few Latelians did their banking at FHSB; many ‘natural’ citizens preferred to deal with local banks that didn’t come from Trinityspace, and sooner or later, all of the immigrants did the same. “I was in the middle of compiling the information you wanted on Conglomerating when I got a priority request from someone named Robret concerning legal changes to your status.”
“Yeah.” Garth shifted in the chair, trying to get comfortable. He was pretty pissed at the Portsiders. That massage had been fan-effing-tastic, and they’d spoiled it completely. “Si Mijomi –she’s the hotel manager or lobby gargoyle- told me I can’t stay here in the Hotel anymore because as a Latelian, I’m not allowed.”
Herrig read over the brief notes he’d made before placing the call. “Well, technically speaking, she and Robret, and by association, The Game promoters, are correct. The legal wording in The Game regulations unfortunately does not make allowances for non-Latelian citizens; even with your citizenship being probationary, all of The Game decision-makers are bound by the original wording –you cannot forget that Offworlders were not permitted to join in The Game until five years ago.”
“Cut to the chase, Herrig.” Garth couldn’t shake the feeling that the pudgy banker was trying to figure out a way to sugarcoat a not-very-nice blow to the head with a forty-pound mallet.
Herrig harrumphed. “Latelians aren’t allowed to be housed with Offworlders. Since many contestants already live here, have family, or are being sponsored by various companies, they’re allowed to stay wherever they want.”
That didn’t sound so bad. Garth rather enjoyed the notion of staying at an upscale Hotel where the other guests didn’t try to take your eye out with a spoon because you drank their orange juice. He could tell by Herrig’s attempt at a blasé attitude that this wasn’t the bad news. “There’s more, isn’t there?”
“Yes, well … yes.” Herrig pursed lips and for a moment looked so much like a hangdog Basset Hound it was comical. The resemblance faded as Herrig came to his decision. “There’s no easy way to say it, so I’ll just come right out with it. Latelians, immigrants or not, cannot fight Offworlders.”
>
Garth blinked slowly, all the blood rushing out of his head and into his feet. “Are you telling me,” he asked quietly when he rediscovered the power of speech, “that I have to fight God soldiers instead of the fucking bozos in this Hotel?”
Herrig looked supremely apologetic as he nodded. “Not, uh, right away, no, but … yes. If you progress far enough … yes. I’m sorry.”
“God soldiers.” The ‘danger’ feeling resting along his spine tripled in intensity. Garth kissed goodbye any chance of sleeping any time in the next decade. Or, at least until he had his head pulled off. “Big guys, look like tanks? Contributing to the depletion of the ozone layer one protein-heavy meal at a time?”
Again, Herrig nodded, this time with a slightly queasy cast. He hastened to interrupt. “As I said, though, not immediately. With there being nearly two times the number of entrants this go around, we’re looking at nearly two full months of Elimination Trials before everyone gears up for the Finals.”
“How is this any good for me?” Garth demanded woefully. “I mean, really?”
“Weight classification, Sa Garth. You’re expected to try out against men and women in your weight group, going up tier by tier until you’re in the Finals. By the time that happens, the Offworld portion will have been completed, all the losers shipped out-system.” Herrig scratched the top of his head doubtfully. “It’s all rather confusing to me, I’m afraid. I feel as though I’m not explaining it very well, and that frown on your face is making me quite … nervous.”
Garth irrationally tried to figure out how in the hell Herrig had lived in the system for so long without being exposed more fully to The Game before refocusing on the fact that he was going to have to fight God soldiers. Didn’t matter when, just that he had to. “I don’t suppose there’s any way out of this?”
“That was one of the first things I checked when I saw where the rules were taking us, sa. You can appeal to have your citizenship rescinded, and I began the paperwork on your behalf, but I got a message from the Bureau of Admissions saying that all appeals will be dealt with after the Game.”
“Fuck me sideways!” Garth bellowed. He slammed a hand down on the chair, then leaped out of the way as it broke. “Shit. Goddamn motherfucking OverSecretary!”
Herrig raised his voice just enough to cut through Garth’s tirade. “Sa, I feel I need to warn you against saying anything further. Though I cannot of course possibly understand anything you just said,” he tapped his proteus meaningfully, “government officials are held in the highest possible regard, and their offices would treat even irate and unintentional slander very seriously. If you would like to come to my offices and discuss anything of a delicate nature, I would be happy to accommodate you.”
Garth stopped punching holes in the wall and actually smiled. “Bless your heart, Sa Herrig.” Garth’s opinion of the chubby banker rose several notches. The man was no fool; he knew, or at least suspected, that his client/potential employer was already up to his blue eyeballs in unsavory activities and was willing to help him. He shook his head. “No, no, that’s cool. Just, um, keep on with the whole Conglomerate thingie and, uh, general type stuff of that nature. Oh, yeah, and, uh, give yourself a raise. Like, a thousand dollars a day or something. I don’t know. I have some thinking to do.” A question occurred to Garth. “What would happen if I decided I didn’t want to fight in the Game?”
Herrig raised an eyebrow at that one. “If you weren’t a citizen, I’d say they’d most likely throw you out of Latelyspace and bar your return for life. As a citizen? If they wanted, they could probably sue you for breach of contract, throw you in jail for a few years, that sort of thing. With your past, though, I’d say that is beyond the best-case scenario; you’d probably have to bribe every official in the system to get off so lightly. You could do that quite easily and have a lot of money left over, but it’s inadvisable. Knowing how the government works, seeing how they work after the last few incidents with the Offworlders, I’d say you would most like find yourself in very dire straits. I will contact you once I have more information, sa. Good afternoon.”
OverSecretary Terrance was one slick bastard, Garth had to give the politician that much. Forget the explosive proteus; it was nothing but a red herring, thrown into the mix to give the stupid Offworlder something to focus on while the big bad problem came lurching around the corner at terminal velocity. OverSecretary Terrance’s apparent willingness to let Garth get on with the rest of his day without any serious warnings or overly heavy-handed displays of intent should have twigged his Spidey sense, but it hadn’t: the gift of both citizenship and a fancy new proteus had completely blinded Garth to any really underhanded tricks.
OverSecretary Terrance had maneuvered Garth, a guy so crafty he could chew gum and walk at the same time, into the perfect scenario. No matter what happened, there was simply no possible way that an ‘ordinary’ man could defeat a God soldier. OverSec Terrance didn’t need to worry about blame for the Offworlder’s death falling at his feet, and anything he got Garth to do he could simply spin into the maddened behavior of a terrified lunatic looking to avoid death in the ring.
It was a perfect solution, and Garth had fallen for it hook, line, and sinker.
“Son of a bitch.” Garth dropped onto the bed, trying to think.
Did he dare dream he could defeat one of those monstrous men in the ring? Since coming to Hospitalis, he’d grown appreciably stronger and faster. There was also the bizarre occurrence during the scrap with Injiri and the mysterious recollection of metallurgy. Was it possible his ‘adaptive morphology’ -ever-sensitive to mounting danger- would continue to do its genetic witchery? What were the upper limits of fleshy augmentation?
These God soldiers … How could Trinity allow them? The irony was frustrating.
Trinityspace and all its peoples were extremely lucky the Trinity AI controlled the Q-Tunnels and that there was no such thing as a hyperdrive or warp speed or any other space-obliterating drives. If it weren’t for that small bit of luck, the Latelians would be running the show. Their alleged immunity to the Dark Ages and their bloody-mindedness made them the ultimate menace. They’d already displayed their willingness to attack for no reason and they had a massive army twiddling giant thumbs; if Q-Tunnels worked during a Dark Age, they’d descend on their enemies –everyone not them- like locusts.
His proteus pipped. Garth dragged himself to a sitting position on the edge of the bed. The search avatar he’d sent off to find the owners of Hotel Hospitalis had finally completed its task. He read the information over once, and then, -to make sure he wasn’t going blind or stupid- shot the data to the Screen in the other room. According to the in-depth search, no one owned the Hotel. Oh, The Game Company got humungous kickbacks from the holding company who managed the finances, as did various government officials and all the other people associated with keeping a harness on the unruly Offworlders, but there were no names on the bottom line. Even the holding company was just a shell that owed no particular allegiances to anyone. There was a hotel, with people in it, who got paid and all of that, but no one owned the building. The person who’d yelled at Si Mijomi the other day wasn’t anyone special, just some guy in the holding company who’d been told to yell.
It was a mystery, but one for a later day. He’d only wanted to get in touch with Management to fill them in on Si Mijomi’s ‘illegal’ activities, and only then out of pure spite. Childish as hell, but it was one thing in his control. Garth saved the search, tagged various sections that the avatar hadn’t been able to probe for one reason or another, and went to lie back down.
He needed to stop dithering and find a new place to stay, even if it was only a temporary stopover. Si Mijomi was the sort of person who’d call down thunder and lightning if he weren’t gone soon, and the last thing Garth wanted right then more trouble. There was enough going on to last a few years.
A twenty-minute search revealed few prospects that suited his needs. Other than Hotel Hospital
is, he’d find better accommodations camping out in the wilderness. Within ‘city’ limits’ there were dozens of flop houses and rent-by-the-hour rooms that were about as sanitary as a noxious chemical plant, and offered about as much protection as a house made of toilet paper. Any Portsider wanting to kill him could do so with a minimum of muss and fuss. To make matters worse, much of the entire planet’s bulk storage and heavy industry dominated the ‘city’, which added the tang of pollutants and the crashing of multi-ton vehicles tearing around at all hours of the night. There were a few nice bed and breakfast nooks tucked away into the quieter sections of Port’s suburbs, but again, the opportunity for Portsider exploitation was too much. He didn’t want to be responsible for bringing a gang war into a sleepy neighborhood unless it was absolutely unavoidable.
Other than Central City, no other idyllic choices remained. For one reason or another, the supplementary cities fell below his standards, and for a man who could eventually bring doom and doubt to a population, hanging out alongside government officials and politicians was pretty damned risky. Unless he wanted to take the plunge and stay somewhere where innocent people could get hurt, it was Central or the mountains. While transforming himself into a mountain hobo might tickle the fancy of the lunatic gameheads, Garth didn’t relish the notion of doing so unless circumstances demanded.
With a grunt of irritation, Garth signed off on a presidential suite at one of the more grandiose hotels in Central City. Staying there would make him an easier target for covert surveillance, but the situation demanded what it demanded. Hopefully Lady Ha’s skills were as advertised, otherwise things would go south in a hurry.
The Hotel Palazzo’s primary netLINK confirmed the new reservation, telling him that one of its own limousines had been dispatched; it would arrive in fifteen minutes or less, reminding Garth he needed a local pilot’s license. Once he was done at the port, there was no reason to keep dealing with Jimmish. The cabbie was a standup guy who sure as hell didn’t need to know Garth Nickels.
