by Jak Koke
"Neither was the magnitude of your error." Tashika glared at Rose, peering into the biker’s dark eyes, framed by frowning black brows. "Do something like that again, and your secrets will hit the newsfax so fast you won’t know your drekhole from a . , ." Tashika smiled and caught himself. He was sure Rose understood the situation well enough.
Dougan just stared wide-eyed from the screen. He was obviously still in some pain from his confrontation with Jonathon Winger. "Don’t worry, I scan. I know some . . . people in LA who handle this sort of thing."
"I thought you might."
"I’ll be in touch," Dougan said.
"Goodbye." Tashika disconnected and leaned back. A smile crept over his face and he kicked himself around in his chair, pulling his knees in for a 360-degree spin. Ah, the pleasures of blackmail.
15
Her face hung before his eyes. Smooth, olive skin, high elven cheekbones, copper-colored eyes, bright and full of life. Her lips were a dark red, almost brown, and her hair shone raven black in the glow of the fire . . .
"Tamara?"
"Mr. Winger? You’re in recovery. DocWagon clinic." The voice was distant, as though filtered. And into the silence that followed, the hiss rose like a tsunami of static crashing in his skull.
Jonathon opened his eyes to a small room, lit overhead by fluorescent fixtures. He lay on a hard mattress, an IV needle taped to his arm. The woman above him looked like his mother. Human features, red hair streaked at the temples with gray. Freckled face, blue eyes.
"I’m Doctor Mitchell," she said. Her face became round and plump as she smiled, unlike Mom’s. Wider, older than Mom’s. The doctor’s face wrinkled at the corners of her eyes, dimpled at the edges of her mouth.
"Where’s Tamara?" he asked.
"I’m sorry, Mr. Winger," the doctor said, dropping her smile. "Miss Ny is dead."
Jonathon blinked. "H-h-how?"
"Mr. Winger, are you sure-?"
"Tell me!"
The doctor straightened up at the abrupt vehemence of his tone and took a step back.
"I need to know if it was an accident or not," Jonathon said.
"Miss Ny died from blood loss, according to the report, but I wasn’t the attending doctor so I’m not sure—"
"Then get him in here!" Jonathon was screaming.
"Please calm yourself, Mr. Winger." The doctor looked concerned, very much like his mother again. Too much.
Jonathon took a breath. "I’m sorry," he said. "But I’ve got to know for sure. There’s a buzzing in my head ever since the accident. I was jacked through to her, you see, when it happened."
"I know, I know." The doctor dabbed his sweaty forehead with a white towel. "We’ve done all we can. We’ve erased your headware memory and rebooted your simlink and vehicle rig, but our brainwave scans still show a faint background like a dead area in your mind.
"It seems to be part of your organic brain, but truthfully, Mr. Winger, none of us has seen anything like it. All we can do is hope it fades with time."
Jonathon said nothing, merely rolling to his side and bringing his knees up into a fetal crouch. Sharp pain shot through his chest as he turned, and his right leg burned with agony.
"I’ll get Dr. Abramson." Then she opened the door and squeezed out.
Jonathon heard loud voices—a crowd of reporters and fans pressing against the door, trying to get a comment from the doctor or a quick glance inside for a headcamera photo.
Tamara’s dead, he thought. Really gone. Then the memory of her emotions shook through him. Surprise. Pain. Regret. "Jonathon, I . . ." Love. He pulled his knees closer into his chest to ease the emptiness in his gut. To suppress the nausea.
He had first met her when he was thirteen, the year before the fire. His father was still alive then, and their orchards outside Redding produced olives and almonds by the truckload. That was just before the war with the elves, who say the Northern Crescent area belongs to Tir Tairngire. Just before Dad died.
Tamara had come through town with her caravan of gypsies, an unlikely melange of metahumanity. The caravan numbered about forty or fifty orks and dwarfs and trolls, sprinkled with a few elves and humans. Bound for the shores of Lake Shasta where they camped for the summer.
Jonathon was water-skiing up on the lake when he saw her swimming naked, the blue-green water cascading down her adolescent body. He stared at her and her ork friends as they swam, and when they looked up, he turned away. Embarrassed.
Later, two of the ork girls nearly beat him drekless before Tamara stepped in and made them stop. Feeling sorry for him, she helped him up and asked his name, even offered him fish for lunch.
They became best friends over the course of the summer. Nearly inseparable. He thought he would never see her again when the elves of Tir Tairngire attacked. The Battle of Redding they called it now.
More like a slaughter.
The gypsies fled the area in a panic, and Jonathon’s father took up arms with the other locals to defend his land. But that act cost him his life, leaving Jonathon’s mother pregnant and with only Jonathon to run and farm the land.
But unlike his human father, Jonathon was an elf, and no one would work for him. No one would buy from him. After the massacre by invading elves, none of the locals trusted him. Hatred of elves continued to grow for nearly a year before the Native Californians came—a human supremacy policlub with ties to Humanis. Shortly after the birth of his elven sister, they came, dressed in dark clothing and stocking cap masks, and set fire to the house.
Tamara and the other gypsies had returned to Lake Shasta by then. So Jonathon was off with her when it started. But his mother and newborn sister were not. They had been napping.
They burned to death in that fire.
When he finally got there, all he could do was stand and watch the blazing house, his heart cold inside, his gut empty. Skin burning from the heat. Tamara had stood there with him, holding his hand. And after the firefighters finally gave up on trying to beat the inferno, the torchers returned in their masks. Tamara took him, ran with him back to the caravan. And Jonathon had lived with them until he was old enough to enlist in the UCAS military.
Jonathon still owned the orchards and the remains of the house, but he’d never been back since.
"Mr. Winger?"
Jonathon rolled over as a human doctor squeezed through the door. The man stood tall and lanky, sporting the custom cybereyes and elongated finger extensions of a surgeon.
"I’m Doctor Abramson. You wanted to talk to me?"
"Yes. They say you were there, that you can tell me how Tamara Ny died. She’s the closest thing I have to family."
"Actually, Mr. Winger, you are the only person I can tell. She left you as next of kin on her platinum account records."
"Well?"
Dr. Abramson ran one hand through his graying brown hair. "Plain and simple blood loss, Mr. Winger. Followed by cardiac arrest."
"Nothing suspicious?"
"No, not really."
"Not really? What does that mean?"
Dr. Abramson rolled his reflective green eyes. "It’s probably nothing, and I won’t go on record for its validity, but. . ."
"What? Don’t play games with me, Doc."
The doctor stared at Jonathan for a moment. "I have to ask you not to repeat this because it isn’t conclusive. In fact it’s highly speculative and would never be considered valid evidence in any corporate court."
"I’m listening."
"It’s not something I found, really. But a lack of something." Dr. Abramson started to pace around Jonathon’s bed. "Miss Ny was in excellent physical health, and she had no record of hemophilia, and yet we found very little evidence of clotted blood around the wound."
"What does that mean?"
"Normally, blood coagulates when exposed to air, but Miss Ny’s did not. Or not much anyway. Now, the wounds she received may have killed her despite that, but..." Jonathon shot upright, wincing against the grating pain in his leg.
"Is there another explanation?"
The doctor frowned. "You should lie down, Mr. Winger."
"Just tell me."
The doctor sighed. "If she had an anticoagulant in her system, even a small wound could have resulted in excessive bleeding. Perhaps even death."
"Are you saying—?"
"I repeat, Mr. Winger, I am not saying anything except that her blood didn’t clot normally. We detected no known anticoagulants like Heparin or Parclo-V, but there are similar drugs that can be made to degrade in minutes."
Jonathon sank back into his pillow. Oh, Tam, what did you get yourself into? Damn you! Tears rose in his eyes, and he turned from the doctor’s gaze. What was it she couldn’t tell him before the match? Did it involve Michaelson? Had Dougan Rose killed her intentionally? And if he had, then why?
Too many fragging questions.
The hiss rose in his head and dried up his tears, grated at the raw edges of his nerves. He would find out the truth of what happened. That much he vowed to do. And afterward, he would destroy those responsible.
16
Cinnamon sipped her mocha, made from real coffee and Swiss chocolate. Only the best ingredients would satisfy the hunger of her human form.
The dwarf sitting across the etched glass coffee table was trying unsuccessfully to sip his drink as delicately as she did. She knew how he loved the sensual pleasures; his soft round body reflected that.
"Help yourself to some biscotti and chocolate," she said, tossing her golden hair back over her shoulders.
The dwarf’s name was Frank Rupert, but he hated it. He preferred to go by his Matrix handle of Mole. Like most deckers, he was only truly at ease flying the electronic skies of the Matrix. Moving his persona icon through restricted systems, burrowing for data. Digging in electronic dirt.
Which was precisely why Cinnamon had demanded a face-to-face meeting. In her line of work, every edge mattered. The extra bit of discomfort gave her the advantage, and that was the way she liked it.
Mole grabbed a small palmful of biscotti and crunched it with his dirty teeth.
Cinnamon sipped her mocha again, savoring its rich taste. She gave the dwarf a moment to finish chewing, then leaned forward in her leather recliner. "Let’s have it," she said finally. "Give me the short form; I’ll read your full report later."
Mole brushed crumbs from his black beard and gave her an apologetic look. He had to gulp his drink to swallow what was in his mouth. "Sorry, Cinnamon. It’s just that your treats are so wiz."
She gave a small shrug. "Thank you, Mole, but I didn’t bring you here for your lovely company. Now, just sum up what you’ve discovered."
"Okay, okay. Tamara Ny is dead, as far as I can tell. The New Orleans DocWagon Trauma Center is pretty tough to crack, but I got in thanks to my own special sleaze arsenal, a wonderful little—"
"Mole!" Cinnamon felt the scales on the back of her neck bristle. I might just eat this halfer right now, she thought.
"Sorry, Cinnamon. Anyhow, I got inside and took a glance around. Tamara Ny was never admitted, but the records of her death were on file. She never made it to the Trauma Center. Died on life support in transit. Loss of blood, heart failure, brain death, the works."
"What about Dougan Rose? Why would he kill her?" Mole tried to smile, but it was an ugly expression on his pimpled, red face. "Rose works for the Buzzsaws, which are owned and operated by Pollster Sports, Inc., a subsidiary of Mistuhama Computer Technologies. Tashika is the veepee of MCT’s entertainment division. His promotion to that position roughly coincides with Rose’s appearance on the combat biker scene ten years ago."
Cinnamon nodded. "Perhaps Tashika brought Rose into the game, or ‘discovered’ him, then used Rose’s success to get his promotion."
"That’s what I thought. Before that, Tashika was in a semi-secret division called special projects, whatever that means. And there’s only sparse information on Dougan Rose prior to 2046, just rumors about how he came out of the El Infierno gangs before they stopped letting people out of that hellhole. His file is very shadowy, notably lacking in specifics like parentage and the origin of his death’s-head tattoo, but that’s all consistent with the gang story. He probably didn’t have a SIN until after he started riding for the Buzzsaws."
"Good work, Mole," Cinnamon said. "What does his SIN indicate now? Any blemishes, any little slips?"
Mole shook his head. "Not one, that’s what bothers me. He’s been squeaky clean. As it stands, the connection between Tashika and Rose is purely circumstantial. Too intangible to say for sure why Rose might agree to kill for him. Tashika did place a call to a New Orleans LTG, but that could be more coincidence; I couldn’t get an exact trace."
"Too many coincidences," Cinnamon said. Still, she thought, Dougan might be dancing to Tashika’s tune. But why? There were too many unanswered questions. "Perhaps the death was accidental," Mole said.
"Is that what you think?"
"No."
"Me neither," Cinnamon said. "That’s why we have to ask what possible motive Luc Tashika could have for wanting Tamara Ny dead even though she might have information extremely valuable to him."
"Perhaps he already has the information."
"Did he have time for that?"
Mole shrugged. "Given the time frame, I don’t think so. But we could be underestimating him."
Cinnamon smiled. She liked this decker, despite his lack of refined manners. "Noted," she said. "I won’t do that again. Now, tell me about Grids Desmond."
Mole sat upright and nearly bounced on the couch. "Yeah, Grids," he said, gesticulating in broad motions. "Grids is known among the shadow community, but he faded out of it about eight years back when he landed a corporate job with Brilliant Genesis. Before that he did some decking. Rumor said he was wiz with the hard, wank with the soft. A brilliant deck tech, but mediocre ice cutter."
"Get to the point."
"He most definitely checked into the Venice Hilton the day Tamara Ny was there with Michaelson. Room 2305, under the alias of Joe Smith. Who else would Ny have used as her technician for the simrecording? He’s been living with her in Beverly Hills for about a year now, according to his SIN data, off and on freelancing on big simsense productions for Amalgamated Studios."
"Has anyone else tried to track him down?"
"As far as I know, he’s at their condo in the Hills, only about ten kilometers from here in the meat world."
"We are in the meat world, as you call it," Cinnamon said, finishing off her mocha and setting the mug on a ceramic coaster. "Is there anything else I should know? Any others who might be involved?"
"Nothing conclusive," Mole said. "But she and Jonathan Winger have a very sordid history together."
"Elaborate."
"Records show they entered UCAS military service together in 2049 and flew experimental jetcraft out of Fort Lewis for a few years."
"So what? Is there any real evidence to implicate Winger in the scam with the others?"
"Nothing except their history together. They’ve been nearly inseparable for over ten years, including time before the military, then prison, and now they ride for the same combat biker squad." Mole sniggered. "At least one still does . . ."
Cinnamon scowled at him, finding him a distasteful creature at the moment. "All right," she said, "here’s what I want you to do. Keep digging into the connection between Tashika and Rose. And find out what you can about the Winger connection, but drop it if there’s not much to go on; I don’t want to be paying you to hunt down deadends. Meanwhile, tell Hendrix to contact me. I’ve got some more easy work for him."
Mole nodded, shifting uncomfortably. "Standard rates, I assume," he said, then gulped what remained of his mocha, knowing the conversation was nearly over.
"As always," Cinnamon said, rotating the telecom on the coffee table toward her. "Goodbye now. Contact me when you learn something."
Mole stood to leave, finding himself flanked by Bardolf and Githon—two earth elementals.
Cinnamon could not directly control other spirits, but the more intelligent ones found her goodwill rewarding since her commerce was often in favors—life force, income, and other goodies. They could also find her anger a hindrance to their continued existence.
Bardolf and Githon served as bodyguards, very large, very intimidating, when they manifested. They escorted Mole outside.
"Com," Cinnamon said when Mole was out of the room. "Open a secure line to Luc Tashika."
A minute later, Tashika’s face glared at her through the telecom’s screen. "Why are you calling me?"
Cinnamon smiled sweetly, hoping to charm the man into a calmer state of mind. "Konichiwa, Mr. Tashika. I merely seek a moment of your precious time."
"For what? I’m a busy man."
And a rude slag, Cinnamon thought. Fine, if that’s how you want to play . . .
"Since Miss Tamara Ny is . . . shall we say ‘metabolically challenged,’ I take it that you have acquired the information you sought regarding my client."
Tashika blanched. Then he composed himself, taking a deep breath. "No, Miss Cinnamon, your information is in error. Miss Ny’s predicament was an accident, and I know nothing about any information she may or may not have stolen from your client."
Cinnamon scanned the inset screen on her telecom, which showed a voice-stress analysis of Tashika’s voice. It showed that he could be lying.
Why would he lie?
"Very well," she said. "Then you remain committed to our earlier arrangement?"
"Of course."
"Good. I will commit some resources to containing the stolen information." She paused deliberately. "If it exists."
"Get back to me," Tashika said before disconnecting. He must know more than he’s saying, she thought. Maybe he already has the information from Ny, but doesn’t want to pay for the mop-up work of hunting down Grids Desmond. Perhaps he is telling the truth.
Either way, she had to spend nuyen to track down Grids Desmond. Ice him and get rid of the chip. That slotted her off. This Michaelson extraction is getting out of hand, she thought. And Michaelson isn't even out yet.
Cinnamon changed, letting her human form give way to her true shape, the one given her by her former master. Slamming her fist—now a reptilian claw—through the glass coffee table, she released the roar that had been building, causing the walls of her home to shake.
