by Jak Koke
But now, the time for action was near at hand. Even though, technically, he wouldn’t participate in the flesh. Simming Tamara’s wet feed from five floors away was as close as he wanted to get. He never took action directly if he could help it.
Better living through vicarious reality.
Grids turned from the window and sat on the bed next to the simrecorder. The Truman was a small quasi-portable unit in a black plastic box about the size of a briefcase. He set the small gray CCD binox next to the Truman, took the last gulp of cold soykaf in his cup, and double-checked that the chip in the slot was still the ten-gigapulse stack he’d popped in earlier. Wet-record simsense gobbled memory like a ghoul in a graveyard—one megapulse per second at baseline. That meant he had just under three hours’ worth.
Unless Andreas Michaelson was some sort of sexual marathoner, three hours would be plenty for what Tamara had planned.
Grids jacked in and made another check of all the systems for lack of anything better to do. A few minutes later, as he was running a diagnostic on the on-the-fly decryption algorithm, the unit picked up Tamara’s simlink signal and started recording.
A thrill of excitement shivered down his back as he reclined against a stack of pillows and faded himself into her feed. The signal was strong and clear, the decryption working perfectly.
Suddenly he was in a helicopter, feeling the resonating rhythm of the rotor blades as the machine descended toward the roof of the hotel. His body was tall and elven, lean and well-muscled. And female, very female.
He drank in the ecstasy of her scent—the primal sex of this new body, Tamara’s body. Drekking tailored pheromones.
The signal coming from her was full-X, the entire spectrum of sensory and emotive tracks, but Grids had programmed the Truman to record only the baseline—the sensory tracks—to save on memory. Besides, Tamara had specifically requested that her emotions not be recorded, saying they weren’t important or relevant to the task at hand.
She was the boss on this one. He was just technical support. It felt like old times, really, back when he used to run the shadows, decking for Grayson Alexander. Burning ice. Those were really old times. Before his stint with Brilliant Genesis, before Amalgamated Studios.
At least he wasn’t dueling IC on this one. He hated decking, and had never really gotten good enough at battling intrusion countermeasures to suit his sense of self-worth. No matter that the Matrix was virtual, it was all too real for him. In the consensual hallucination of cyberspace, the virtual became realer than real. Data turned physical. The drek in there could kill you.
It was harder to die in sim. Not impossible, but harder. The technology was the same in both cyberdecks and sensedecks—Artificial Sensory Induction System Technology, otherwise known as ASIST. But commercial sim-sense chips were regulated and most sensedecks had built-in peak controllers. Cyberdecks did not.
In the sim, Tamara’s svelte elven form sat poised on the edge of the helo’s synthleather seat. Grids tasted mint and the faintest hint of garlic leftover from Tamara’s dinner. It amazed him how fit she was, how good it felt to be able to move with grace and dexterity without strain or effort.
That professional athlete training really does pay off, he thought.
Tamara was broad-shouldered for an elf and strong for her size, though Grids knew she was acting the role of the female consort this evening.
Cool wind blew her long hair back, tugging at the loose hem of her sleek black evening dress as the helicopter door breathed open. The security guard holding the door for her was a troll of considerable size. Horns jutted from the top of his head, curling up and back like the rack on a huge mountain goat. The ends had been filed to a point and tipped with engraved silver caps. The troll wore a black tuxedo, mirror shades, and he smiled at Tamara as she stepped out.
Behind her came a large man, easily as tall, with a barrel chest and a graying brown beard. His name was Andreas Michaelson, and Grids knew he was an exec of some rank at Saeder-Krupp. He’d been seeing Tamara off and on since before Grids had come into the picture.
Michaelson wore an impeccably tailored suit of sharkskin gray, and a fancy datajack gleamed gold on his balding forehead. He took Tamara’s outstretched hand, his palms rough against hers, and escorted her through the blustering wind of the helicopter to the set of double doors. »
The troll took up a position behind them as they reached the edge of the helipad and passed through the doors, flanked by two Saeder-Krupp security guards. She flashed them a coy smile as they passed, all the while cozying up against Michaelson’s shoulder.
She was really turning it on.
When the high whine of the helicopter’s motor faded enough to hear, Tamara spoke. "I’ve missed you so much," she said. "LA is hardly bearable when you’re gone." Her voice was breathy—a harsh rasp in the back of her throat. "And, of course, I can’t come to Essen."
Michaelson laughed. "Yes, well, I’m sorry my wife is such a traditionalist."
Tamara smiled at him. "Is she?"
Michaelson nodded. "But soon, my sweet, soon I shall be spending more time here." He pulled her close and put his mouth over hers.
She reacted in kind, pressing her breasts against his chest and parting her lips slightly in the embrace.
Grids recoiled instinctively as the hairs of Michaelson’s mustache and beard scratched against the edges of Tamara’s mouth and the warmth of his tongue pushed past her lips. It tasted of cigar and beer. He was glad when Tamara pulled back and pecked Michaelson on the side of his mouth. She jerked her head in the direction of the troll with the mirror shades who walked behind them, simultaneously pulling at Michaelson’s arm. "Let’s get inside first," she said.
The hall led to another set of double doors adorned with antique-looking silver door knockers in the shape of lions’ heads. A palm-scanner hung on the wall next to the entrance. Michaelson pressed his hand against the scanner’s matte-black surface.
A second later, the lock released the doors with a sliding click, and Michaelson escorted Tamara into the plush suite. She kicked off her shoes and rubbed her stocking-covered toes into the thick gray carpet as she pulled from his grasp and danced away from him. Playing.
"Ruger," Michaelson said, addressing the troll who stood waiting to attend them, "please have Claudio bring up some chilled champagne and a sushi tray."
Ruger inclined his horned head. "As you wish, sir."
"And nothing local. The champagne should be French and the sushi from Japan or San Francisco."
A slight frown touched Ruger’s face. "Of course," he said, "I’ll tell him right away." Then the troll closed the double doors, leaving Tamara alone with Michaelson.
Grids took in the hotel apartment through Tamara’s eyes as she looked around. The suite was massive and luxurious, with a full kitchen, a dining room, a sunken living room, and a large bedroom. The walls were adorned with paintings of beach or desert scenes represented in Southwest impressionist style—lots of browns and gray-blues, blurry images, and such. A wall-sized trideo filled one side of the living room and adjacent was a bay window offering a fantastic view of the ocean.
Tamara walked to the window and stood watching the blazing half-circle of the disappearing sun. "Grids," she whispered, "I hope you’re getting this. I’m sure you’ll enjoy it as much as I do."
Michaelson came up behind her and put his arms around her in a bear hug. His beard nestled up against her neck.
She moved her head against his, nuzzling him.
Shivers of the heebie-jeebies shook Grids, but he fought them and stayed locked into the sim.
Michaelson kissed Tamara’s neck, and she responded by granting him access. His kisses were warm and wet, leaving a trail of cooling saliva on her neck and up to the point of her ear.
Grids fought down the urge to yarf up his soykaf.
But Tamara’s physical body was responding to Michaelson’s attentions. Her breathing grew deeper. Her lips parted slightly, her eyes close
d.
Michaelson moved his hands over her body. One pressed low on her stomach, crushing the black silk of her dress against the sensitive skin of her abdomen. His other hand traced tiny circles over her breasts, causing her nipples to harden.
A knock at the door brought Michaelson’s advances to a halt.
Grids breathed a sigh of relief.
"Yes?" Michael said.
"It’s Claudio. Here to serve you, my executiveness." Even through the electronic modulation of the intercom, Grids could hear the affected, fake British accent.
"Come in."
The door clicked open and Claudio entered with a silver cart. Michaelson’s aide was a fat dwarf, plump and aging; the stark white hair on his head had mostly migrated to his chin. He wore a traditional black tuxedo. "Ah, my dear lady, Tamara Ny," Claudio said, parking the cart near the dining table. "How good it is to see you again."
"Likewise, Claudio."
"I must say that I was impressed with my lady’s performance last week against Atlanta. I particularly enjoyed the goal you scored on the hand-off from Jonathon Winger. That was—"
"Claudio!" Michaelson cut in. "Please set the cart by the couch. And then go."
"Yes, of course. So sorry."
Tamara burst out laughing, rich and full. And after a slight pause, Michaelson joined her.
"I will expect your assistance with the Magenics visit tomorrow," Michaelson said.
Claudio nodded and smiled his assent. "I will be ready." Then with a slight bow, he retreated through the doors.
As Tamara glanced after the dwarf, Grids caught a glimpse of Ruger standing alertly just outside the door. Several other security personnel stood with the troll, including a human woman Grids took for a security mage—a potential problem if the simlink signal was discovered and decoded.
"Now, where were we," Michaelson said, "before that rude interruption?"
"Right about here." Tamara put her arms around his neck and kissed him.
He reacted by lifting her into his arms. She laughed as he carried her into the bedroom, then laid her down on the king-size bed. Grids tried to get a sense of the room while Michaelson caressed Tamara’s whole body as he slowly undressed her. Anything to avoid concentrating on what was about to happen. He thought briefly about jacking out for this next part, but Tamara would kill him if anything went wrong. So he clenched his teeth and tried to keep his attention on the periphery of Tamara’s vision, on the decor and layout of the bedchamber.
The room was huge and had a desk along one wall, presumably where Michaelson worked late into the evening. Executive VPs were expected to work long, hard hours, or at least that's what Grids knew from his friends at Amalgamated Studios. On the desk was a cyberdeck and a small telecom unit as well as an open briefcase.
Tamara’s vision was filled by Michaelson’s hairy chest now. She was naked down to her black silk bra and panties. Her body, when Grids could catch a glimpse of it, was fantastic. Abdomen, arms, back, and legs cut with muscles hard as stone. Michaelson’s, by contrast, was soft and pliable. She kissed one of his nipples, then the other, working her way down.
Grids knew what was about to happen and he cringed. She removed his pants slowly, teasing him. Driving him wild. Grids faded his senses out as she reached to brush Michaelson’s groin. Grids couldn’t take any more. He dulled the input to where he could know what was happening, but he didn’t have to experience it.
The fact that she seemed to enjoy it was bad enough.
Thirty-three minutes later, the two of them had finished and Tamara fell asleep. The Truman simrecorder recognized it and paused itself. Grids had faded himself in once or twice to make sure the signals were clear and strong. After the initial act, to which he had a particular aversion, the sex was more bearable. He even found himself having fun. Michaelson was no porn star, but Tamara knew how to enjoy herself.
By the time the Truman shut off, Grids himself was ready for sleep. Instead, he reviewed the chip. Tamara would be pleased; for a wet record, the chip was excellent. It would serve her purpose well. If Michaelson’s wife was as traditional as the exec implied, Tamara now had a perfect tool for blackmail.
Grids fell into a deep sleep on the bed, and didn’t wake until 09:28:43 am the next morning. He went to pack up the Truman and noticed that another fifty-eight minutes had been recorded after the sex. The Truman had detected Tamara’s signal in the morning and started recording again.
Grids prepared some instant soykaf, then jacked in to sim it. And as he experienced Tamara’s morning, a sinking feeling took hold of him. She had done something stupid. Dangerously stupid.
Something that could easily cost them their lives.
3
Jonathon breathed deeply and took in the lazy morning. The Cafe du Monde was crowded as usual, filled with tourists and New Orleans locals enjoying the tastes and sounds of the French Quarter.
Even on this humid, cloudy mid-morning, the Vieux Carre was a feast for the senses. The rich aroma of freshly ground coffee filled the air. Real coffee, not soykaf. A lazy jazz melody drifted in from outside where a blackskinned ork wailed on a dented trumpet while his human companion picked accompaniment on an acoustic banjo.
Jonathon took a bite of his powder sugar-adorned beignet, then took a sip of his cafe au lait. Damn, I like the feel of this old city, he thought. Timeless and vibrant. So serene compared to the insane rush and dirty air of Los Angeles. The people here know how to live.
Across the polished hardwood table sat Synthia Stone. A petite human with shoulder-length red hair, Synthia’s features were sharp and delicate, as though painted by some artist with fine strokes of a detail brush. Her irises were the color of faded denim, and her oval eyes were outlined with carmine-colored pencil.
She extended a delicate hand and laid it over his. The bones of her wrist were thin, birdlike beneath porcelain skin, but Jonathon knew appearances could be deceiving, especially in Synthia’s case. Her thin hands could wield powerful magic, at least as powerful as any of her associates at UCLA’s Department of Occult Studies. She wore a bracelet on her left wrist, crudely hammered from dull bronze-colored metal and covered with fine engravings. Jonathon had never seen her take it off, even at night. Even during sex.
She squeezed his hand. "Isn’t this wonderful?" she asked. "The two of us alone in the French Quarter."
Her childish romanticism always brought a smile to his face. "It’s great," he said. "As long as no one recognizes me."
"You’re not all that famous, Winger."
"Shh, not too loud. They must hate me here."
"No one’s going to recognize you; I’ve masked us with an illusion to make us look like Japanese tourists."
"And what about Venny?" Jonathon nodded toward Venice Jones, his troll bodyguard seated at the next table. A huge mug of coffee steamed in front of him, but Venny hadn’t touched it yet. He was working, totally alert, his eyes scanning the crowd, his magically enhanced senses primed to detect danger.
"Venny looks like a huge troll with surfer blond hair, a goatee, and mirrored razor glasses," Synthia said.
Jonathon laughed. "Right, I suppose he looks touristy enough without masking." He munched down the rest of his beignet, and grabbed another from the plate. Gotta feed the beast, he thought. His gengineered hyperactive thyroid boosted his metabolism and gave him extra quickness and strength, but it also made him hungry all the time.
"You seem . . . pensive," Synthia said. "You nervous about the game tonight?"
"Not really," he said. "Just tired, I guess. But by bogey time, I’ll be prepped and in a zone." Jonathon paused. "The only thing is . . ."
Dougan Rose. The name jumped into his head unbidden. Like a ghost from the past.
"What?" Synthia asked.
"It’s Dougan."
"What about him?"
An image came to Jonathon. He was young, some time after the fire, after the funeral of his mother and sister. He’d gone away with Tamara and her band of gyp
sies when they’d left Lake Shasta, becoming part of their raggedy caravan of old rusted vans, junked cars, and a few motorbikes. Jonathon had ridden with Tamara on her old Honda, and when the caravan stopped for the night to set up camp in some farmer’s field, the two of them would weave the bike along gravel roads. They played a street version of combat biker with Ryan and Homey and the other caravan kids, all dreaming of being able to dodge and jump and flip the bikes like the great players. Like Dougan Rose. "He psyches me out of the game every time."
"Why?"
Because he’s been the greatest biker for the last ten years, and he still rides the line better than anyone.
"He was my idol when I was growing up," Jonathon said. "I even had a holopic of him and his Yamaha."
Synthia grabbed his hands and made him look at her. She stared into his eyes, unflinching. "You’re better than he is," she said. "You don’t know it yet, but you ride better, you’re younger, stronger. You’ve got quickness and drive."
"You sound like the producers: ‘Wingman and Sabers versus Rose and Buzzsaws.’ I’m sick of the comparisons."
Synthia gave him a hard look, then smiled.
"No, you’re not," she said. "I know you. You eat up all the media type."
Her smile was infectious.
" ’Tis true," he said. "As long as we keep winning, I’ll continue to enjoy every minute of it."
But even though Jonathon was smiling, and even though he was happy to be alone with his love, taking in the scent of fresh-ground coffee and the wail of lazy jazz, in the back of his mind he worried about the upcoming, must-win match. About Dougan Rose, and how in the Awakened world he was going to beat his childhood idol.
4
Andreas Michaelson hummed as he checked himself in the mirror. Tie straight, hair nearly perfect. Nice smile. Claudio would have to check his appearance for the luncheon, but all in all, not a bad bag of bones. Slick, elite. Definitely shark-proof.
"Still good enough for Tamara," he said to himself. Michaelson was amazed at how voraciously the elf responded to him sexually whenever he visited Los Angeles. He liked her, liked her almost too much. They romanced each other, but neither of them really expected the relationship to change.
