by Jak Koke
Even the tsunami of ’45, which had ripped many of the mansions from their precarious perches along the ocean cliffs, hadn't stopped the ultra-rich from putting more grandiose houses and castles in their place. Now, the sea of beggars below crashed like waves against the walls of the elite, trying to erode away their hard-earned lifestyle and security.
He turned from the window and walked-to his desk chair. Well, it won't happen to me, he thought.
The walls of his office were a tasteful antique white, unadorned except for two glass-framed holopics. One was a morale poster of Tiger Mitsuhama, the founder of the corporation, and the other was a portrait of Samba Oi, chairman of the board of directors. Samba Oi held the true power in the corporation. Each photo served to remind Tashika of where he was and where he wanted to be.
He sat at his desk and activated the flat-screen telecom. Bridget’s lovely face appeared. "Yes, Mr. Tashika?"
"Get me Dougan Rose on a secure line," he said.
"Right away, sir."
Less than a minute passed before she had Dougan on the line. Tashika was treated to the elven face of one slotted-off biker. "Why the frag are you calling me? In case you didn’t know, I’m trying to prepare for a playoff match." Dougan’s features were those of an exaggerated elf—cheekbones so high they nearly blocked out his perfect almond eyes. The points of his ears, sticking up through his straight black hair, seemed sharp enough to cut.
On the side of Dougan’s neck showed the death’s-head tattoo that had become his trademark. It was large and unmistakable—a surreal vision of a metahuman skull with fiery wings.
It was a brilliant move to retain the tattoo, Tashika congratulated himself, all those years ago when I discovered Dougan, changed him and brought him to the Buzzsaws.
"Something very important has come up, Rose-san," Tashika said.
"What is it this time? Haven’t I done enough for you?" Tashika smiled, leaning back in his chair. "The debt you owe me has yet to be paid in full."
"I owe you nothing."
That burned Tashika up inside. How ungrateful. "Let’s just say, elf that what I’ve done for you—what I know—is worth more than you’ve paid."
"And probably will ever be able to pay, right?"
"Give the man a cigar. Have you been slotting those intelligence chips?"
Dougan sneered at him through the screen. "Just tell me what you want."
Tashika saw the hatred in Dougan’s eyes, but Luc Tashika was used to dealing with people who hated him. All part of the biz of climbing to the top. "There is a certain individual who is known to you," Tashika said. "Her name is Tamara Ny, and she rides for—"
"Cut the gangster dialogue and get to the point. Half the world knows her."
"Yes, that’s true. And I want you to make sure Miss Ny leaves this evening’s match before it’s over."
"In a body bag, right?"
"No. Most definitely not. But a DocWagon helo would be perfect. I will intercept it enroute."
"You want me to injure her?"
Tashika nodded. "Make it look like an accident." Dougan breathed a sigh. "Of course," he said, irritated. "Is that all, corp-san? Or is there anyone else you’d like me to hurt while I’m at it?"
"No," Tashika said. Then he cut the connection and asked Bridget to get a certain DocWagon employee on the telecom—a fine artist in the practice of persuasion who Tashika knew through the yakuza. Doctor Franklin was not kobun, not part of the organization. And that was what made his involvement perfect for Tashika. Any yakuza involvement would trickle back to the oyabun, and Tashika did not want that.
I will allow no one to steal the credit for the Michaelson acquisition, he thought. When I reveal Michaelson’s stolen portfolio, they will have to move me up.
Any of the portfolio would be valuable, but Tashika wanted one thing more than anything else. The Magus File. Cinnamon had promised that Michaelson would bring it along with him, and for Tashika that file alone was worth the nuyen. Combined with their own data, the research it contained could put Mitsuhama Computer Technologies years ahead of the other megacorps. It was Tashika’s ticket to the presidency, with Michaelson as his top aide.
And maybe, just maybe, the Magus File was part of the data Tamara Ny had managed to steal. If so, Doctor Franklin would extract that information from the elf biker slitch. Tashika would know soon.
The prospect gave him a hard-on. Which was exactly the way he liked it.
8
In her three-bedroom house in San Bernardino, Maria Nightfeather cleaned up after dinner with Pedro and Angelina. She stood in the blue-and-gray tiled kitchen, rinsing the pots and pans and absently scratching the tattoo on her neck. The Muerte symbol—a death’s head with wings of flame.
La Muerte was the El Infierno gang her brother, Jesse, had led so many years ago. She and Dougan Rose had both been Muertes, and stayed on when the gang had turned to shadowrunning. They’d been quite a force, all bound together by Jesse’s dark, sharp eyes. By the strength of his leadership, which was never questioned. All tied by the symbolic bond of their identical tattoos.
La Muerte had been running the shadows for just a little over a year when the government had decided to declare war on the gang-ruled El Infierno. The California State Guard, Lone Star, and assorted merc forces had come pouring into its streets to bomb, burn, and smash everything in their path. Jesse had died that day, giving up his own life to save the rest. After that, La Muerte had disbanded. Maria stayed with Dougan for a few years, sharing his bed as they traveled out of California Free State, trying to escape from their past.
Now, Maria shook her head, trying to settle those memories back into the pockets and niches were they belonged, where they couldn’t come out to haunt her. But her thoughts had been turning more and more to Dougan lately. And she knew why—the combat biker playoffs.
She didn’t want to think about him after all these years of trying to forget him. But he was still there in her mind, still there every time she looked at Pedro’s high cheekbones and almond eyes.
Dougan had disappeared before Pedro was born, forcing Maria to sell her magical talents while caring for an infant. But it wasn’t long before Dougan was a famous athlete and began depositing credit into her account. She never asked for it, but she certainly wasn’t going to refuse.
"Pedro," she said. "It’s your turn to clear the table. Get to it or you can’t watch the game."
"Okay, Mom," came the reply. And soon the boy entered the kitchen carrying the dirty dishes. Pedro was almost twelve, with olive skin and black hair like Maria’s, though he didn’t seem to have her ability with magic. At least he hadn’t shown it yet.
Angelina came skipping in behind Pedro. "Can I watch too?" she asked. Angelina was six and darker-skinned than Maria and Pedro, almost black like her father—a human named Wallace who passed through Maria’s life once in a while.
"No, Angel," she said. "Talon will help you with your homework."
"Please, Mom. Please let me watch."
"No, it’s too violent. No discussion."
Angelina gave her a scowl, but knew Maria’s resolve was inflexible. She turned and walked out. Her footsteps echoed hollowly on the wooden stairs as she climbed up to her room where Talon, Maria’s ally spirit, would supervise Angelina’s homework.
"Hurry, Mom," Pedro said. "It’s coming on."
Maria started the dishwasher and walked into the trideo room just as the pre-game hype began. "Millions are watching worldwide," said the plastic-faced man whose 3-D image hovered inside the trid box. "Biker bars are crammed full of combat cycling fans, all eyes focused on New Orleans. It’s the fourth game in a best-of-five series for the WCCL Championship.
"The LA Sabers led by superstar Jonathon Winger has got to win to stay alive. But Dougan Rose is the greatest linebiker in the history of the World Combat Cycling League, and his Buzzsaws are at the top of their game. Here to give us an in-depth analysis of the two star players is Rand Anpretty. Rand?"
/> The angle shifted to a dark-haired, but just as plastic, elven face with perfect make-up. Enticing, but distant. "Dougan Rose is the most popular biker in the world," the elf said. "And most analysts believe he’s the best linebiker in the history of the sport. But the younger crowd identifies with Jonathon Winger. He makes up for experience with sheer athletic ability and intelligent play.
"Hard-core Buzzsaw fans think Winger is still no match for Rose, but followers of the Sabers point to Winger’s mysterious link with teammate Tamara Ny. Ny is a top-flight biker herself, one of only six female elves in the whole league. Passions are running high across the globe as millions tune to watch."
Maria felt some of that passion despite herself. A thrill of excitement coursed through her as she sat down next to Pedro. This was going to be fun.
9
The score was even at three points each. Jonathon took a slow, deep breath and tried to ignore the screaming of the crowd, crammed to the rafters inside the Louisiana Superdome. The roar was deafening, drowning out the drone of the rice burners and even the deep throb of the lance-bikers’ Harleys.
Jonathon silently thanked the international rules for the ten-meter barrier of reinforced macroglass that separated the crowd from the combat maze on the stadium floor. The barrier prevented stray stun rounds from injuring the fans, but more important, it kept rabid spectators from mobbing the players.
Jonathon quickly checked his weapons as the officials prepared to release the bogey. Three shots of stun ammo in his Roomsweeper clip, holstered at his right thigh. The Roomsweeper was a shotgun with a short black barrel and almost no stock, outfitted with a smartlink interface and great for doing stun damage to a wide area. A standard-issue mace made from high-impact plastic and densiplast hung from the stripped frame of the Suzuki. In his hand, he held a polycarb filament whip. With a two-meter-reach and a wicked snap, the whip was his weapon of choice—delicate, tactile, and at the same time, deadly.
His blue and silver armor fit tightly against his augmented body, pumped and taut, prepped for the imminent release of the bogey. The rigid plates of Jonathon’s armor dug into his skin as he wove his custom Suzuki Aurora into position. This bike was heavily modified, felt like an extension of his body as he controlled it cybernetically. Straight jack. He felt the engine purring like a second heart, the wheels gripping the concrete like another set of legs.
The bike had been stripped down to the titanium alloy frame to make it light and fast. Oh so fast off the line. No heavy armor for this dragon. But Jonathon had added a few extras—microbust hydrojack in the suspension for certain jumping moves. Extra sensors for improved rigging control, and all the necessary latches and holsters to lock down whatever weapons he needed. The bike’s balance had been honed to perfection for Jonathon’s size and weight when his armored legs were latched to the frame. It was as chill, as wiz a ride as the rules would allow, and he had six more just like it in the team garage because he never knew how many he’d destroy in a game.
The sensory details of the stadium faded from Jonathon’s awareness as he steadied his breathing and focused on the here and now. The smell of exhaust and the scent of a hundred thousand sweating fans thankfully receded. The roar of the crowd faded to background static. Jonathon was ready.
He brought the tactical overlay of the combat maze into focus on his retinal display. Four Saber linebikers wove along this side of the midline. Jonathon held the straight corridor, which ran from goal to goal in the shadow of the skyway; Tamara and Bozwell patrolled sections of lane one, and the dwarf—Hragth—took his place in the tight arc of lane three.
Just across the midline from Jonathon rode Dougan Rose. Like Jonathon, Dougan wore semi-flexible Kevlar-3 armor slotted with narrow, rigid plates of high-impact polycarb. Like wearing an armadillo skin, except stronger and with more freedom of motion. Dougan’s was bright yellow with a blue number "5" painted on his back and chest, and "ROSE" along the line of his shoulder.
All external distractions dwindled as Jonathon achieved focus. Dougan seemed preoccupied and was riding a little under his usual spectacular level of play. But even that did not break Jonathon’s focus. His zen.
Only the linebikers could move before play began, and only on their side of the midline. The lancebikers had to hold their position until the flag carried by the bogey drone had been snagged and slotted by one of the liners. Riding lance for the Sabers were the orks, Mason and Webber, plus Tank, a fat black human, and Gnash, the troll. The thunderbiker was a dwarf named Smitty, and he too had to maintain his position until flagsnag.
The lancers were set, ready to rock’n’roll. Smitty revved the engine of his Yamaha Rapier, a bike superficially similar to a linebiker’s machine. But the thunderbiker had two distinct differences, first was the fixed-mount grenade launcher and second was the heavy ballistic armor. Smitty’s role during play consisted of establishing a position on the skyway so that he could locate enemy riders, then relay that information to Jonathon and the team. The dwarf also got three chances per play to wreak havoc with concussion grenades. When used at key moments, those babies would take out three our four riders in a single shot.
Everyone was ready for play to begin. Clock reset.
Breath.
The officials in their turrets—protected crow’s-nest platforms on three-meter masts—raised their green flags. Bogey release imminent.
Jonathon tensed.
Breath.
"Bogey away," came Bozwell’s screechy voice.
Jonathon rolled, accelerating across the midline toward Dougan Rose, pulling his mace with his left hand, cracking his whip with his right. Trying to establish position for flagsnag.
Dougan feinted left and shot right, up the rounded slope of the lane’s floor, around Jonathon and down the corridor.
Jonathon spun around to face Dougan again, expecting to see the bogey shoot by overhead. Instead he heard a shot.
Tamara’s Roomsweeper.
"Bogey down," came her voice over the com. "Blew that drone clean out of the air. Flag in play. Repeat. Flag in play."
"In position." That was Smitty.
Jonathon saw a flash of white highlight the top of the wall on his left as a concussion grenade exploded in the next lane. Then the sound hit, shaking the air around him. That’s Tamara’s position, he thought.
"Tam?"
"I’m wiz," she said. "Dodged at the last second."
Smitty came on. "Two lancers approaching, Tam. Retreat for backup. Mason and Gnash, swing over."
"On it." Mason.
"Rollin’." growled Gnash.
"Retreating to skyway," Tamara said.
"Negative," came Smitty’s voice. "Pick up Mason and Gnash at turn seventeen. No time for skyway. Crunch in twenty seconds."
There was a ka-thunk and another explosion shook the lane on Jonathon’s left. Then Dougan Rose approached, moving back toward his goal circle to help his team. Jonathon stashed his mace and pulled the Roomsweeper from his thigh holster.
The induction pads in his gloves synched with the smartlink in the gun’s grip to show a dim red circle over his vision. The center of the circle corresponded with the gun’s barrel, and the perimeter was the smartlink’s estimate of damage scatter at Jonathon’s focus distance.
Jonathon focused on Dougan, targeting his approaching shape. Then he fired, gel pellets spraying at the other biker. Dougan snapped his whip as he rocketed past, trying to make Jonathon alter his shot. The whip cracked against Jonathon’s shoulder with a sharp shock, the distraction giving Dougan a split second to dodge the main force of the blast.
Jonathon had no time to lament as Dougan faded behind him. He had to get to turn seventeen. The count was up to nineteen seconds. The most he had left were eleven seconds, but any one of those could be the last. That was the thrill of jittertime.
Tamara’s voice came over the com radio, "I’m cutting to skyway for crossover. Mason will front for me. Jonathon underneath. The rest of you slags block the ram
p behind me."
"Bad idea, Tam," Smitty said. "Not enough time. Take Mason through lane three and jet. Better chances, and you can cross over to lane two if any major drek-fraggers find you."
"Too late, Smitty," Tamara said, "I’m there, and I’ve got six seconds to spare."
Suddenly, a concussion grenade blew Smitty off the skyway. Jonathon saw the dwarf get knocked back from the ball of flame, then fall five meters and hit the edge of a concrete barrier under his bike. Jonathon winced inside.
"Jonathon," Tamara said, "run ground shadow. Mason, you’re up."
Jonathon watched as Mason’s huge, armored BMW Blitzen cranked up the arc of the skyway. Approaching from the opposite direction were three Buzzsaws. T-bone on his thunderbike, Gorgon with his lance, jousting on the narrow path, head-to-head against the big ork—Mason. Behind them was a linebiker named Pollack.
Tam’ll never make it across midline, Jonathon thought.
The Buzzsaws’ maze was set up such that only three lanes crossed the midline between territories. Two lanes crossed it three times each, snaking in a series of hairpin curves. Jonathon’s corridor was straight, and it crossed the center only once, running exactly below the skyway as it stretched from one goal area to the other.
"I’m here," he said, accelerating beneath Tamara as she shot onto the skyway behind Mason’s block. Gorgon and Mason clashed as the big ork’s lance connected dead center with Gorgon’s chest. The rending of metal and the sharp crack of macroplast armor rang out above the roar of the crowd. Both bikes stopped.
Gorgon flew clear of his bike and missed the narrow strip of the skyway, plummeting to land hard against the edge of Jonathon’s lane and slide limply down the curve of the half-pipe. Motionless.
Mason’s bike slid out from under him, and he went into a skid as Tamara edged around him and shot on toward the midline.
