by Jak Koke
He would never leave his wife, Nadine. And Tamara knew that, just as he knew from his sources that she had a boyfriend as well. An unemployed slot named Grids Desmond. It tweaked him that someone of her looks and money would consort with a type like that. From the Sabers alone, she must make at least a million a year.
Michaelson laughed at himself as he realized he should know exactly how much she made, because, technically, she worked for him. The Sabers franchise was ostensibly owned by Angelic Entertainment, which, among other Saeder-Krupp divisions, Michaelson oversaw.
That’s what he was here for: to oversee. At least that was the official reason. In reality, he had come to discuss the so-called Magus File with the team at Magenics, another of S-K California’s puppet corps. The research project was top-secret, and his boss, the dragon Lofwyr, wanted everything checked and double-checked. It was a testament to how twisted the world had become that a dragon could awaken from centuries of sleep to purchase and run the world’s most powerful megacorporation.
But was Michaelson going to face the dragon down? Was he going to tell the worm to crawl back into its hole and leave people alone? No fragging way, omae. Like the marionette he was, Michaelson jerked when his strings were pulled. As long as the dragon’s in charge, he thought, I do what it wants. With luck, it won’t be my fragging boss for much longer.
The telecom beeped as Michaelson completed the finishing touches on his facial make-up, giving himself that smooth-skin appearance. Unmarred. Immutable. In control.
He stepped out of the bathroom and sat at his desk chair. "What is it?" he asked.
Ruger’s huge warty face appeared on the screen. "Hello, sir," he said. "Sorry to disturb you, but the head of hotel security has uncovered something I think you should know about."
The only drawback to staying in the Hilton as opposed to the Angelic Entertainment facilities downtown was the security. Although the Hilton was own by S-K, and was as well-protected as any other elite hotel, even the highly secure penthouse suite couldn’t match the sheer impenetrability of a corporate enclave. But the view here was much nicer, and the privacy allowed him to see Tamara. No price could be placed on such an advantage.
Michaelson looked into the telecom. "What did he find?"
"Last night, they detected a transmission, and they’ve narrowed down the source to your suite."
"What kind of transmission?"
"Well, it looks like an encrypted portable telecom signal. Nothing unusual there, but it lasted for almost an hour. And under the circumstances, I thought it unlikely that you were on your telecom for that length of time."
"I was not."
"And Miss Ny?"
Andreas smiled despite himself. "No, she was otherwise occupied."
"Just as I suspected. And that leaves me with a mystery." The troll frowned, a frightening look on his tusked face. "I don’t like mystery, sir. Not at all. I like clarity. Cause and effect. I like neat and orderly."
Michaelson sank into the synthleather of the executive chair, and breathed a heavy sigh. "Give me your best guess, Ruger."
"Do you trust Miss Ny, sir?"
Michaelson thought for a second. "No, not really." It was harsh to hear himself say it, but he knew the truth. She could be trying to use him, or steal from him, or blackmail him. He’d never thought she’d be that stupid; he’d hoped she was above such actions.
"We have a complete file on her, sir. She doesn’t have a headphone, but she does have a simrig and a simlink transmitter. Perhaps the simlink was tweaked to disguise its signal."
"But how could she record with it?"
Ruger shrugged. "She’d need a simrecorder or a signal booster within range," he said. "Hotel security didn’t pick up anything looking like boosted simsense or satellite uplink, but they’ve scanned their files and someone matching the description of Grids Desmond checked into room 2305 yesterday. He checked out late this morning, just after the helo took Miss Ny to Long Beach International Airport."
Michaelson needed a drink. It became all too clear to him now. She’d been nervous and anxious to leave this morning, claiming that her flight to New Orleans was leaving soon. Had Tamara recorded their sex, to blackmail him later?
Could there be any other explanation?
No. And that slotted him off.
Frag! I’ll make that slitch pay. But what if. . .
Michaelson looked at his briefcase, sitting to the left of the telecom screen. The lid was open, the hardcopy of the Magus File resting inside. Did I leave it open? Yes, I think so. What if she read through it?
He checked to see if any pages were missing or out of order, but as far as he could tell, nothing had changed. Maybe she didn't see it after all.
Ruger’s face peered from the telecom. "What should I do, sir?"
"Nothing. I’ll handle it." Michaelson put on his impenetrable corporate smile. "Thank you for notifying me, Ruger. As usual, your thoroughness is unmatched. It will be amply rewarded."
"It’s my job, sir."
Michaelson disconnected, and his smile evaporated instantly. He was up to his neck in drek. The sex was no big deal compared to the possibility that Tamara had seen the Magus File. If that got out, many lives, including his own, were forfeit.
I have to assume she glanced at the hardcopy and that now there’s a simrecording of it. Spirits, I’m fragged!
He put his head in his hands and tried to relax. I’ll crush the slitch, he thought. If she’s compromised my extraction, I'll watch her pretty face bludgeoned to a sopping red sponge.
Slow breaths, he told himself. Relax. Think clearly. After a minute his breathing was calm and steady, his anger abated. He meditated for a second, then knew what to do. He would call the headhunter he’d hired to get him out of Saeder-Krupp and tell her to find him a place with another megacorp. Yes, that was a good plan; he would contact Cinnamon.
He engaged the security protocol on the telecom, waiting for it to find a secure line, and then brought the fixer’s number up onto his display. Once he was certain the line was secure, he tapped in the LTG number.
After a second, Cinnamon answered, her gorgeous face filling the screen. "Yes?" she said, her soft brown eyes narrowing in a barely discernible expression of distaste. "Ah, Mr. Michaelson, what can I do for you today?"
"It concerns the sale of certain talent which we discussed earlier."
Cinnamon’s golden hair had fallen over one side of her face, and as she shook it back out of her eyes Michaelson reminded himself not to let her appearance deceive him. She was razor-sharp intelligent and quite resourceful. Her full lips curled down into a delicious frown. "Are you certain this is a secure line? My clients don’t wish their acquisition of new assets to be made public until well after said assets have fulfilled the first contractual obligations."
"I'm confident this line is as secure as possible. And the matter is urgent."
Cinnamon looked off to the side, and Michaelson realized she was reading something from another window on her telecom screen. "No line is completely secure, Mr. Michaelson. However, I will listen."
"It seems that one of the ... ah .. . items that was to have been part of the transaction may have . . He took a breath.
"Yes?"
Michaelson swallowed hard and dabbed his forehead with a handkerchief. He hated hitches and despised looking stupid. "I have reason to believe that one of the items may have been compromised."
Cinnamon pursed her lips in thought. "Is this one of the previously discussed assets that were part of the original agreement?"
"Yes."
"It has been stolen?"
"It may have been copied illegally."
"Do you still have a copy?"
"Yes."
Cinnamon ran a hand back through the shimmering gold of her hair. "Do you still wish to proceed with the talent transfer?"
Michaelson took a deep breath and tried to relax despite his pounding heart. "More than ever," he said.
Cinnamon smiled.
"I see no cause for undue concern," she said. "I think my clients will agree to proceed with the transaction despite this setback. However, I’d like you to send me any information you have on the suspected culprit so I can investigate. Perhaps there is nothing to worry about."
Michaelson felt his muscles relax. He should have known that the headhunter would take care of it. That was her job after all. He hated feeling so impotent. In Essen and Berlin, his network of contacts was extensive, especially in the corporate world. But he couldn’t risk disappearing there; only here in the jungle sprawl of Los Angeles would he be able to escape the vigilant eye of that fragging worm, Lofwyr.
And here, he needed Cinnamon’s help. She would orchestrate his extraction and transfer. She came highly rated.
Michaelson told the telecom to interface with his private datafiles and send anything on Tamara Ny. When it was finished, he spoke, "She’ll be in New Orleans this evening for a match against the Buzzsaws, but she should be back here sometime tomorrow."
"Say nothing further."
Michaelson nodded.
"For now, proceed as previously planned. I will contact you when I know more." Cinnamon cut the connection, turning Michaelson’s screen black.
5
Cinnamon stared at the blank screen of her telecom and leaned back against the comfortable cushions of her blond leather couch. Frag me! she thought. That dumb suit went and got himself ripped off just before his extraction. She slid a cigarette from her gold case and lit it. In her other hand was a glass of Italian Chianti, vintage 2017. A very good year.
This should take the edge off, she thought. Cinnamon had acquired a taste for some metahuman vices of this age. Certainly, her human alias was much more palatable than her true manifest form, and the magic made dealing with the people go smoothly. She abhorred mess and often kept up the change even when she was alone, only giving in to nature when the hunger struck and she lost control.
The wine was like sweet nectar in her mouth, soothing in the back of her throat. At 500 nuyen a bottle, it better be. But at moments like this, the expense was worth it. The Michaelson extraction would not be easy; he was too valuable, too high up in Saeder-Krupp. The rumors told that he reported to Lofwyr directly. Extracting someone of such corporate power without compromising anonymity was going to be tricky under the most ideal of circumstances. And now some of the information he’d planned to take with him, a little incentive to get Mistuhama Computer Technologies to bid higher, might be worthless.
Cinnamon took another sip of her wine to calm her rising anger. How could the slag be so fragging stupid? Anyhow, she should notify Tashika at MCT. With a little subtle manipulation, perhaps Tashika could be convinced to commit his resources. He wouldn’t want any of Michaelson’s information compromised.
"Com," she said to the screen on the coffee table in front of her, "get Luc Tashika on a secure line."
The screen flashed green for a second as it routed the call through one of the thirty-two slave LTG numbers Cinnamon kept under aliases at various locations across North America. Then the call connected as Cinnamon sat forward to get a clearer look.
Luc Tashika appeared on the screen, looking somewhat suspicious. No doubt he hadn’t been expecting her to call so soon. Tashika was a second-generation Asian-American, his Asian features blurred with the Anglo and Hispanic. He was a broad, stocky man with a prominent jaw, well-fleshed with pock-marked jowls and wiry black hair. He wasn’t quite fat, but nearly.
Yakuza, Cinnamon knew. An efficient, ruthless exec and not someone I want to cross. His lack of a pure bloodline had kept him from moving any higher in MCT’s corporate structure, and that gave him an angry disposition. Luckily, Tashika liked her.
"Konichiwa, Cinnamon," he said, and his head bowed slightly. "What can I do for you?"
Cinnamon gave him her most seductive smile. "I have news of a potentially unfortunate nature."
Tashika laughed, a high-screeching sound. Not at all pleasant. "To the point as usual," he said. "That’s why I like you. Okay, I’m listening."
Cinnamon unraveled the situation to him, watching him carefully for a reaction. Tashika wasn’t good at hiding his emotions. The chance to obtain valuable information without paying extra for it obviously thrilled him. Tashika wanted that file.
When she was done, Tashika bowed his head slightly. "So ka, my friend," he said. "I will find out what Miss Tamara Ny knows. Either way, Michaelson has the information and you will be paid the same. I will trim it from his new commission. You should not have to pay for his mistake."
"Domo arigato, Mr. Tashika. It is always a pleasure doing biz with you."
"You’re welcome," Tashika said, and disconnected.
Cinnamon breathed a sigh of relief, and turned off the telecom. With Tashika working on it, the situation should resolve itself in short order, she thought. Still, I should get a decker online to monitor things.
She leaned back against the blond leather cushions once more. Her work was nearly done. Or at least she hoped. She sipped the wine, then brought another cigarette to her lips. Michaelson’s new salary at MCT was astronomical and would easily absorb any cost. Tamara Ny was the only person who would really pay the price, whether she was guilty or not.
6
Jonathon’s headclock showed 03:2.7:46 pm and counting. Four hours to game time. The Louisiana Superdome stretched above and over him as he ran the maze of concrete barriers that made up the playing arena. He always ran the entire field on foot before a match, just to get that extra sense, that extra edge which might prove to be the tiny advantage he needed.
The corridors of the maze varied in width from one to five meters, each side a uniform 2.5 meters in height, curved into a half pipe so that the bikes could ride high on the walls for acrobatics or fast turns. The lanes were painted navy blue on this side of the arena and yellow on the other—the colors of the Buzzsaws—and streaked with black tread stains.
The stadium was quiet this early, only the faint echo of the training room’s sound system audible to Jonathon as he increased his pace and concentrated on the details of the maze. This was as tricky one. Few straight lanes, many twists and curves that doubled across the midline. When jittertime came, knowledge of location was crucial.
Jonathon was breathing heavily by the time he reached the goal area on the far side—a two-meter-diameter circle, painted yellow with a huge circular saw in the center. Only three lanes opened up to the goal circle. Jonathon increased his pace, running across to the corridor that led to the skyway—a ramp that traveled across the center of the maze from one end to the other. This one was about two meters wide, perhaps enough for two bikers side by side. Two excellent linebikers or one lancebiker.
Jonathon stopped at the apex of the skyway, about three meters above the top of the maze. He took one last look at the whole, letting his mind absorb the arena. Then he ran down the other side of the elevated track and headed out through the penalty bunkers and quickly past the communication bay where Terry was warming up the team’s trideo and simsense equipment. Terry was a grotesquely fat ork with a crush on Jonathon. Luckily she didn’t look up from her work as he ran by.
Jonathon breathed a sigh of relief as he slowed to a walk and made his way past the offices where he could hear Coach Kalish’s raspy voice bitching at one of the promoters about too many reporters in the secure areas. Jonathon bypassed the check station where the referees would soon survey each player’s motorcycle, armor, and weapons to make sure everything was consistent with World Combat Cycling League regulations.
The training area was underneath the actual playing arena, down a wide spiral ramp. It consisted of a locker room, exercise equipment, a warm-up track, and several simulators. Jonathon found Boges and Mason in the garage area, drinking hi-carb shakes as they watched Vic, the dwarf mechanic, work on Mason’s BMW Blitzen.
Mason was an ork of uncommon ugliness, which was saying something because Jonathon found orks, as a rule, the ugliest of all metahum
ans. Mason was also unusually lacking in the intelligence department, but when it came to jittertime, there was no one else Jonathon would rather have gunning in front of him. Mason handled his bike with ease, was wicked nasty with a lance, and almost impervious to injury.
Boges was one of the goalies—huge even for a sasquatch, bulked up to nearly troll weight. His fur glimmered silver and black in the fluorescent light. Rumor had it that Boges was pretty smart, but Jonathon thought not; nobody with half a synapse would play goalie in this game at this level. Of course, he’d been super-equipped with skillsofts and other neural implants to make possible full communication with the rest of the team.
"Hoi, chummers," Jonathon said as he walked in.
"Hoi," they said.
"Seen Tam?" Jonathon asked as he picked a towel from the clean pile and wiped the sweat from his neck. Earlier, Tamara had seemed distracted and distant. Something was wrong, he could tell. He could always tell. And the feeling had bothered him, insinuating into his thoughts until he couldn’t shake it. He had to find out what it was, get it behind him before the game.
"She’s over at the simdecks," Boges said. "Going over some Dougan Rose pulses. Said something about looking for weaknesses."
"Dougan has no weaknesses," Jonathon said.
Boges laughed. "That’s what I told her."
Jonathon crossed to the row of simsense decks where Tamara lay in a recliner, jacked in, simming one of the Buzzsaws’ earlier matches. He dropped down into the simrecliner beside her and jacked in to the same recording, choosing Dougan’s point of view from the menu.
Sudden disorientation, slight nausea pulling at his gut as he became Dougan Rose. Cold sweat ran down his back, soaked into his fireproof plycra unibody. Over the unibody was the thick Kevlar III armor, integrated with panels of slick polycarbonate like segments of an armadillo so that Dougan could maneuver inside. The segments were painted bright yellow and blue, with a huge buzzsaw on his plated pectorals.
