by Nyx Smith
Jeff Wyatt comes in.
“Look at this,” Ohara says, slapping at the monitor, spinning it toward Wyatt. “Our Hermetic line’s outselling practically everything else on the market and now Bairnes comes along proposing some cybernetic warrior drek. You don’t change winning strategies. You enhance them. Doesn’t anyone around here know anything!”
Wyatt just glances at the display, seems to clench his teeth, exhale deeply. “Bairnes is a techie. He doesn’t know marketing.”
Ohara compresses his lips. There is no excuse for ignorance. “The Summoning of Abbirleth hit number one on the charts in its first week of release and stayed there for almost nine months.”
“Six months.”
“Don’t argue with me! Night of the Enchanter followed the same track. Doesn’t that suggest anything to anyone but me? How do you suppose this corporation gained twenty-three percent market share in just under a year? Do you think the skag you were peddling before is what put this organization at the top of the market?”
Wyatt looks unmoved, much as Ohara expected. “You should have asked me for a recommendation, not Bairnes,” Wyatt says. “I’m the V.P. for Product Development. Special Projects is in my division.”
This very unnecessary reminder sends prickles of heat up the back of Ohara’s neck. “Save me your territorial imperatives. This is my show. Understand?”
“I don’t remember questioning that.”
“Why do I always get the feeling that you’re just waiting for an opportunity to usurp my authority? Is there a problem, Jeff? Do you have a problem taking instructions?”
“Just tell me what you want me to do.”
“Oh, Jesus Christ.” Ohara swings his chair aside, struggling to suppress his anger. Goading him to a fit of temper is one of Wyatt’s foremost talents. “What do you think I want? I want a replacement for Neiman! You may recall that our Special Projects Section is the fire that got this corporation going! Without it, the Hermetic line’ll get buried!”
“Do we at least wait till after Neiman’s funeral to announce his successor?”
Widows and orphans wait for bodies to go into the ground—business doesn’t. “Maybe you’d like to be buried along with your former director.”
“Is that a threat, Mister Ohara?”
“If you can’t find a replacement for Neiman, I’ll find someone who can.”
“I think I can handle it.”
“Then get on it.”
Ohara swings back to face Wyatt and makes a point of smiling his most vicious smile. Wyatt’s private agenda is quite apparent to him. Wyatt wants control of Exotech. He plans to get it by making Ohara look bad in front of the directors of KFK, Exotech’s parent corporation. Ohara must remain constantly on guard, take every opportunity to turn the man’s treachery against him. That is why Ohara picked Bairnes to serve briefly as Neiman’s heir apparent. He knew Bairnes would never do. By the time he’s finished, he’ll make it look like Wyatt wanted Bairnes and that only Ohara’s constant vigilance prevented a debacle.
Before Wyatt can leave, another man enters, coming through the side door from Enoshi’s office. The new arrival is heavily built and wears a rumpled trench coat over a rather untidy suit. Both the trench coat and the suit look like they were purchased straight off the rack. Ohara has never seen the man before. He is certainly not an Exotech employee. He isn’t even wearing a visitor’s ID. Ohara frowns and glances at his Birnoth executive protectors, but neither one moves except to look at the stranger.
“Sorry to interrupt,” the stranger says, lifting an identity card that flashes a two-D photo of the man and, in alternating sequence, the easily recognized logo of Minuteman Security Services. “Lieutenant Kirkland,” the stranger says, glancing at the Birnoth guards. “Homicide Bureau.”
Ohara smiles. “Yes, Lieutenant. Is there something I can do to help you?”
With a poorly suppressed sneer, Wyatt departs.
Kirkland merely glances at him, then turns again to Ohara. “You’re Ohara?”
Ohara nods, still smiling. “Bernard Xavier Ohara. Yes.”
“Just want to make sure I got the right guy.” Kirkland gives a quick smile, nods. “I’m sure you’re busy. I’m a little short on time myself. Lemme toss you a few questions about Robert Neiman and then I’ll leave.”
“Of course. You’re conducting the investigation into Bob’s death?”
“Bob Neiman? Yeah, that’s right.”
“Would you care for cha?”
“A cup would go good about now. Thanks.”
Ohara waves a hand. Enoshi, hovering decoratively by the side door, summons the office lady, who delivers the tea. “So you’re the head honcho around here,” Kirkland says.
“I’m Chief Executive Officer and a member of the board of Kono-Furata-Ko, Exotech’s parent corporation.”
“Nice office.”
“Thank you.”
“I understand Mister Neiman was your protégé.”
Ohara smiles, just briefly. Toady might have been a better choice of words. “Protégé is perhaps too strong a word, Lieutenant. I recognized that Bob had management ability and so I saw to it that he found a position where he could exercise that ability.”
“Isn’t that what protégé means?”
“A question of emphasis, Lieutenant. I did not take a special interest in Bob’s career overall. I merely corrected what I saw as a waste of resources, if you’ll forgive the clinical terminology.”
“Is that how you saw it? Clinically?”
“No, not at all. I was very pleased to give Bob a boost upward. I was also pleased to upgrade the structure of the corporation.”
“So everybody’s happy.”
“Good morale is an integral part of a successful corporation.”
“And Exotech’s successful.”
“Quite right.”
“Neiman was a junior researcher and then you promoted him to head of the Special Projects Section? Sounds like quite a jump.”
“I’m sure it might seem that way. But from my perspective, it was not quite so big a jump. You should realize, Lieutenant, that the S.P.S. is really a very small unit, a small subsection of a small department.”
“Is that right?”
Ohara nods. It was not only right, he could prove it beyond any reasonable degree of doubt. “The bulk of our fiscal muscle goes right into product, marketing, sales. You must understand that, by and large, simsense is an established industry. The major R&D work is being done by the electronics people, such as Fuchi or Truman, who produce the sense decks by which end-users experience simsense. Exotech is primarily involved in the production of simsense chips, or what we call ‘wax’.”
“Some real hot wax, I’m told.”
Ohara nods. “Correct.”
“How did a simsense outfit like this end up in Philadelphia, anyway? I would’ve thought Cal Free a more likely locale.”
Ohara smiles. “Actually, Chicago is becoming the ‘Dream Town’ of the U.C.A.S., insofar as simsense is concerned. We maintain certain of our production facilities there as well as in Cal Free. However, Philadelphia offers excellent tax incentives.”
“I understand Exotech produces music, too. Not just simsense.”
Ohara nods. “Digitized extended-spectrum sound on MC-disk and chip, correct.”
“What was Neiman working on?”
Ohara hesitates, forming an uncertain expression. “I’m sorry?”
“He was in charge of Special Projects, right? What was he doing? Recently. Like just before he died.”
“Specifically? I’m afraid I don’t have those details. I’m sure my chief of staff could steer you to the right person, probably Bob’s immediate superior, the director of our research department. Or Jeff Wyatt, our vice president for product development. Both excellent people, quality executives in every respect.”
“Thanks for the suggestion. I’m a little curious, though. You’re Exotech’s C.E.O. Neiman’s management, head of a dep
artment. You took enough interest in him to promote him. How come you don’t know what he’s working on?”
Ohara resists a faint smile. This lieutenant’s style of questioning is so transparent it’s absurd. “I’m sure that must seem odd to an outsider. However, the fact is that when I first came on board about two years ago, I conducted an intensive survey of all Exotech personnel. Part of my charge, you see, was to shape up an industry loser. I did that from the ground up. Rebuilt the entire architecture of the corporation. Once assured that I had the right people in the right places, I could afford to delegate authority properly. Now I concern myself with the corporation’s overall strategies and leave the day-to-day details to my subordinates.”
“You must be pretty pleased with the results.”
“Very pleased.”
“You still don’t get it, do you?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“I guess nobody filled you in. I’ll be blunt. Robert Neiman didn’t just die. It was a hit. Whoever did it wanted Neiman very dead, and wanted everybody to know that they wanted him that way. Your Mister Neiman obviously crossed the wrong person. Any idea who that might be?”
Ohara gazes at Kirkland for a moment, then lets his eyes drift slowly aside. The lieutenant’s remarks are obviously intended to throw him off guard, with the obvious goal of tripping him into blurting something revealing. Obviously, the lieutenant takes nothing at face value. Such a quality might make him dangerous, despite his clumsy technique. “I can’t really think of anyone like that. Who might have had cause to kill Bob. Of course, I really didn’t know him on a personal level.”
“Uh-huh. Well, let me say this. When people get dead in ways like Neiman did, it’s usually meant to serve as an example. Meaning this is what happens when you do the wrong thing. If I were you, I’d be at least a little concerned about who else in this corporation might be a target. Neiman’s exec assistant and data aide were both killed with him. That could be just coincidental or it could indicate a corporate tie-in. I’d suggest you play it safe, tighten up security around here. Maybe assign bodyguards to your key people.”
“Yes, well… I see what you mean. I’ll pass your recommendations along to our security chief. Thank you, Lieutenant.”
Ohara rises. Kirkland takes the hint and steps up to the front of the desk, reaching out to shake Ohara’s hand. “As our investigation progresses,” Kirkland says, “I may need to drop you a few more questions.”
“I’ll be happy to cooperate.”
“Thanks for your time.”
The lieutenant heads out through the side door. Enoshi pauses in the doorway, looking in. Ohara waves him inside. As per usual, Enoshi pauses several steps back from the desk, face impassive, arms at his side, his posture like that of a low-ranked soldier awaiting orders.
“Order Operation Clean Sweep.”
Enoshi hesitates. “Sir, this is very drastic—”
“Don’t question my decisions!”
Ohara pounds the heel of his hand against the desktop and swings around in his chair to face the broad expanse of windows overlooking KFK Plaza. Dealing with one rebellious employee in his first hour of business is enough. The possibility of a police investigation turning up something best left buried pushes his tolerance to the limit.
“Just do it, dammit! Clean Sweep at once!”
“Yes, sir,” Enoshi replies. “At once.”
12
The room is quiet and smells of urine and sweat and the humid aromas of sex. Raman discreetly lifts his head to look around, then rises from the bed, going first to the door, then back to the window, a massive Dragon Slayer knife gripped tightly in his hand. At the door he hears nothing, and a quick look into the hallway reveals only the darkness and decay of this tenement located on Philadelphia’s north side. The only window provides a view of the garbage-littered alley. Nothing moves. Twilight is fading into night.
The female sprawled naked on the bed mutters something, but does not awaken. Raman watches her for a moment. She drank enough alcohol to become extremely intoxicated and to admit things to him. She calls herself Angel, but that’s only the name she goes by in the Matrix of the global computer net. Her real name is Neona, Neona Jaxx. From Dallas, though most recently of Miami.
Raman finds her appealing. He particularly admires the dark hue of her skin and its yielding softness, tempered by supple muscles. She is lively in bed and is also a decker, but that does not make her worth keeping around any longer. Deckers can be purchased when required, then discarded. Female companionship is no less disposable. Raman has had many females. Most have been like this one, hungry for the company of a male, eager to shield themselves behind his strength and power. It is a dangerous world. He supposes it is only natural that some females should barter their physical appeal for the protection offered by a strong male. Most females he has met are about as capable of defending themselves as infants or snowflakes.
What he needs now is a shower. If he had a pot of water he would plunge his head into it and wring his hair out, spill the water over his body. Failing that, he pulls on yesterday’s clothes, thrusts back his hair, and ties the bandanna around his brow. Life on the move is often a matter of making do. It is the lifestyle he prefers. He travels light.
Raman pulls on his jacket, the studded, fringed jacket marked with the mountain lion logo of the Sioux Wildcats. He obtained the jacket in Atlanta, where he killed the jacket’s owner in a fight. He has since worn it with the intent of encouraging the misconceptions of those he meets. With his dark skin, long black hair, and chiseled facial features, people often mistake Raman for an Amerind, and that is convenient. He would rather be taken for an Amerind than other things. For example, something that might verge on the truth. Truth could be very dangerous in the wrong hands.
He distributes his weapons about his person, and thrusts a heavy pistol into the holster built into the lining of the studded jacket. It’s time to get down to biz, find his contact and make some nuyen, and that means going it alone. He throws a last look at the female sprawled on the bed, then steps through the door, down the hall and into the night. Down in the alley, his Harley chopper is waiting.
13
It promises to be a nasty little piece of work, and naturally Dana hasn’t stopped mouthing about it since they got started.
“I’m not a killer,” she says for the ten millionth time. “I’m not going to just walk in and start killing people.”
“Why not?” Mickey jokes. “Sounds like fun.”
“It’s wrong!” Dana exclaims.
“Who says so?” Dog Bite demands. “We got ourselves a contract, woman! There ain’t nothing wrong with that!”
“That’s not what I’m saying!”
“We don’t know who these chummers be! They deserve to get smoked! Somebody’s payin’ to get ’em smoked! It don’t get any righter than that!”
“Dog Bite, you’re not even listening…”
“I’ll tell you what’s wrong! You got your brain screwed in wrong!”
Sitting in the passenger seat of the van. Hammer lights a final Millennium Red, takes a deep drag, and checks his watch. It’s a couple minutes past twenty-two hundred hours. Any time now.
The corpse in the driver’s seat shifts position. His name’s Axle. He’s got cyberoptics for eyes and black-wired jacks stuck into the side of his skull. He can pilot the van without even putting a hand on the wheel. That won’t be necessary tonight, though. Axle’s the rigger so he does the driving, but this job won’t require much of his special skill. This one is pure rock and roll.
“Alley’s still clear,” Axle murmurs.
The alley is about nine blocks away, well within the hell zone of northeast Philly. Axle can see it because he’s got a floater in the air, an Aerodesign LDSD-23, which is like a helium balloon with a sensor pod slung underneath. The alley Axle is watching is important because it provides the only access to the place they plan to visit tonight. Hammer isn’t worried about possible
witnesses. There are no witnesses north of Spring Garden Street and Center City. Just gangs, crazies, thriller chillers, and bikers. Hammer simply prefers no one to get in the way. It would be inconvenient.
The argument in the back of the van starts to get loud. The problem is less Dana than Mickey. They all know about Dana, what sets her off. She and Dog Bite can go at it all day and night yet never take it beyond just butting heads. But once Mickey gets involved, things get out of hand. Mickey just doesn’t care. Not about anything. That really sets Dana to mouthing.
Hammer turns in his seat, looks back, snaps the slide on his Ingram smartgun. The metallic clacking snares their attention. “Showtime.”
Dana gives him a look of profound appeal. Hammer takes it calmly, as calmly as the last drag of his smoke.
“Hammer,” she says.
“Just do your bit. That’s all.”
The look in her eyes turns to resignation.
Axle rolls the van ahead.
Northeast Philly, more than any other part of the city, remembers the Night of Rage when humans and meta-humans met in the streets and set the night to burning. Even after fifteen years the scars are still plain. Block after block of two-and three-story row houses bear gaping wounds, seared and cauterized by fire, many with roofs and whole walls reduced to crumbling masonry, charred timber, and ash. Debris from fallen buildings and mounds of festering garbage flow from the alleys into the streets. Incinerated autos squat along the curbs. The only streetlights are the steel-can fires of derelicts.
Against this background of devastation, tonight’s little job seems like a mere drop of rain.
Clean Sweep, it’s called.
Headlights off, the van turns down a broad alley. The entrance to the target site is just ten meters down, the black metal door of the building on the right. They all put on night-vision goggles with heads-up displays and wire-framed headsets with full ear coverage to guard against interference. All except Dana. The mage doesn’t need that kind of protection.
