Dead Air

by Jak Koke

  "And you still let him go? What a pixelheaded thing to do!" Now she was yelling.

  "Hey, calm down," Grids said. "That astral hurricane or whatever must’ve hit you pretty hard. They’ll be all right." Maybe, Synthia thought, but I won’t. I need to destroy all copies of the data, including the one that's in Jonathon ’s head.

  She didn’t have time to be nice, to be discreet. She had to move now. The spell slipped from her, forming in astral space and passing through her aura and into his as she reached to touch him gently with her fingertips.

  She framed the first question in her mind, "Where are all copies of the simsense chip and the translated data?" And he yielded to her easily, collapsing to the floor as his memories washed over her like waves of surf.

  She saw the original recording, Grids in room 2305 of the Venice Hilton. That was the same chip he carried in his own chipjack behind his ear. Goofy, the smartframe, had translated the text and there were two copies of that on two chips, and one in Jonathon’s headware. That was it. Good, he hadn’t been lying.

  She sustained the power of the spell and probed further, asking where Jonathon went. Grids’s memories of Jonathon and Venny leaving flowed over her. Jonathon said they were going to the stadium, but Grids didn’t believe him.

  Another memory filled Synthia’s mind. Hours earlier, before she’d returned, Dougan Rose had called for Jonathon, and Grids had tapped into the telecom. He had watched the whole conversation through his Fuchi Cyber-7 deck, invisible.

  After some preliminary sparring, Dougan had made Jonathon an offer to leave the Sabers and come over to the Buzzsaws. "MCT is prepared to pay handsomely for your transfer, plus protection and whatever else you might desire," Dougan said.

  Jonathon’s response was too quick. Too eager. "And what will they want from me in return?"

  That smirk pasted itself to Dougan’s face again. "Only that you ride the line with the Buzzsaws. We could make an unstoppable duo, chummer. Also, they want the simsense recording. They won’t go for the deal without that."

  "What simsense recording?" Jonathon asked.

  Dougan just laughed. "Here’s my private number. Think it over and get back to me." Then he disconnected and the telecom screen went dark except for the white alphanumerics of Dougan’s LTG.

  Fear crept icy fingers along Synthia’s flesh as this memory poured through her. Dougan was convincing, and Synthia could see how Jonathon might go for the deal to switch to MCT even if he didn’t believe Dougan. To protect her and the others.

  Frag me blue!

  She released Grids, who rolled to the floor, unconscious. Her head burned with the pain of the mind probe, and she sank to the floor as the effort of sustaining the spell hit her. She took a moment to gather her strength, breathing steady and slow. Then she decided what she must do. She’d already tipped her hand; it was time to strike.

  She popped the simsense chip from the jack behind Grids’s ear. Then she placed it with the other chips, against the wall with Grids’s simsense equipment and cyberdeck.

  "Iopos," she called. The fire elemental manifested, ablaze and crackling. "Destroy that equipment," she said. "Burn it to cinders."

  "Yes, mistress," came the response. Then the elemental engulfed the electronics, swathing them in red and blue flame. In a few minutes, everything was black and melted. Destroyed beyond salvage.

  Synthia released Iopos, then drew up the astral energy for one last spell—an enhanced physical illusion that made the room look as if nothing had happened. No argument, no fire. She drew on the power of her bracelet focus and extended the illusion to mask the smell of burning, then she held the pattern of the spell in her astral sight and sustained it until her quickening power had fused it into place, making it permanent.

  The whole effort left her even more exhausted and weak, but her strength would return in time, and her escape from Hemmingway’s was crucial if she was to catch up with Jonathon. She took a minute to get her things together, another to make two telecom calls, then she rented a Saab Dynamit from one of the runners at The Fixx and was gone, out of the chateau and rolling along the highway in her new set of wheels.

  She only hoped she could find and reach Jonathon before he passed the contents of the Magus File to MCT. She could almost feel the toxin building inside the symbiotes, waiting for the molecular clock to signal release into her system. She shuddered and pressed the accelerator.

  ACT THREE

  -

  HIS FINAL DEATH

  41

  Jonathon went to Dockweiler Gardens for lunch with Venice Jones. He wanted to bring Venny over to MCT with him, but he wasn’t sure what the troll would say. One way or the other, Venny always had the practical view, and Jonathon needed that right now.

  The Gardens were crowded with the usual lunch crowd—upscale criminal types, semicorporate wageslaves anxious for a little risk outside the arcology, and overpaid pleasureseekers from the entertainment industry who were just recovering from a late night of hot simchips and parmaceuticals.

  Jonathon found himself worrying that his disguise wouldn’t hold up to close scrutiny. He was dressed as before in the same mirrorshades and long duster, though now the coat was dirty and blood-stained like a real shadowrunner’s might be. Still, it was the day of the big, finale match and everyone seemed to be talking about it.

  No tables were available so they waited in the bar, a dark place whose walls were covered with holopics of pro athletes, including one of Jonathon. Everyone watched the huge trideo hyping the upcoming combat biker match and specifically the rivalry between Jonathon and Dougan. Jonathon and Venny huddled at a corner table while Jonathon reviewed the Magus File data Grids had downloaded into his headware. Venny was content to wait; he knew something was bothering Jonathon and kept silent.

  The Magnus File was divided into three parts; the first discussed the AZ54 bio-AI that Grids had told him about.

  The second went into details about the Magus Factor, the genetic elements that gave someone the ability to use magic. And the third discussed ways to combine the bio-AI with magic. They called it the artificial mage project.

  Most of the technical data was over Jonathon’s head. But he thought he understood the significance of it. A bio-AI, like any artificial intelligence, would be alien and unpredictable. It might have extraordinary abilities in the Matrix, and could tip the balance of power between the megacorporations.

  Likewise, if all the loci of the Magus Factor were discovered, a supermage could be engineered. The file had details and projections on how much the various megacorps knew thus far. Jonathon didn’t really understand the intricacies of genetics, but he thought shamans and mages were powerful enough already. Magic scared the drek out of him.

  The last section was technical information about how to build an artificial mage. The file warned that Aztechnology was working toward the creation of a biological AI with a potential magical ability far beyond what could be done within the known confines of a human or metahuman soul. Magenics was conducting research into finding weaknesses in such a creature, and its parent corp, Saeder-Krupp, had been organizing covert operations designed to ascertain the level of this threat.

  The file contained all the details of what Magenics knew about the artificial mage, plus specifics on the covert ops staged by S-K and the information recovered from them. The gist was that the Azzies had a working prototype that was unpredictable, but had limited spell-casting ability. Its thought processes were alien and its magic power fluctuated.

  Shivers shot through Jonathon as he scanned this. What would happen if he gave the data over to MCT? It was the age-old question; was it better that sensitive data be in the hands of a few elite or at the disposal of the masses?

  Everyone knew that atomic energy had been used first and foremost for war. To blow people up. It had been developed for that reason, and once the principles were discovered it was impossible to contain. But afterward, it was used for good. To generate power. Its discovery le
d to others: fusion energy, atomic microscopes, magnetic resonance imagers, and quantum interference devices. All powerful tools, some of which were used to heal.

  If MCT also has the info, Jonathon thought, it might keep Aztechnology from getting too much of an edge. Something about the Azzies gives me the creeps.

  Besides, for me it's personal.

  If he could save the lives of Grids and Synthia and Venny by selling the data, it was worth it. That was the bottom line.

  "Mr. Jones, your table is ready," said the hostess.

  Venny nodded, then stood. Jonathon followed him to the table, ordering a tall mycoprotein chocolate shake for starters. Venny ordered iced lemonade.

  "I’m thinking about taking Dougan’s offer," Jonathon said when the waitress had left. "Joining the Buzzsaws in exchange for the protection of their parent corp, MCT."

  Venny gave him a long, unreadable look. "Why?" he asked.

  "I’m tired of running," Jonathon said. "When Synthia disappeared, I realized that what I’m doing is insane. I still want revenge; the crackle in my head keeps pushing me to get it for Tamara. Frag, I can’t even remember what she felt like inside my mind. My memory of her emotions is fuzzy. All I have left of her is that hiss, the dead space in my mind.

  "And for that, I’ll find and destroy whoever killed her." Jonathon took a breath. "But at what cost? Synthia’s life? Your life? Grids’s? I can’t risk that anymore. What Dougan is offering is an escape. Everyone will be protected. Then I can kill him later for what he’s done, in a few months or years when he’s forgotten."

  Venny listened in silence, his eyes moving over the crowd as always. Alert for any possible threat to Jonathon’s life.

  "I want you to stay with me," Jonathon said.

  "I will remain by your side as long as you want me," Venny said. "Wherever you go. There is and never will be a question about that."

  "I know."

  "Something about this offer from Dougan rings false. He may be lying."

  "I know that too," Jonathon said. "But I don’t see another way out."

  "Just be ready for it."

  "I plan to."

  The waitress brought their drinks and took their order. The mycoprotein shake soothed the beast inside Jonathon, pumped him full of energy, and made him yearn for the biker match. "I’ll be right back," he said.

  Jonathon stood and walked to the restaurant’s public telecom. He placed his hand over the video pickup and dialed the LTG that Dougan had given him.

  The elf’s face appeared on the screen.

  "Hoi," Jonathon said.

  Recognition registered on Dougan’s face. "Ah, it’s you, my friend. I’m glad to hear from you."

  "I want to make a deal."

  "Of course. Have you got the data?"

  "Yes."

  "Wonderful, then we can proceed. Meet me—"

  "First you must guarantee the safe transfer of my friends."

  "I assumed that as well. My associates will agree, I’m sure."

  "Where shall we meet?"

  Dougan smiled. "I have a place in Laguna Beach."

  "A neutral site, perhaps. Try Hollywood. Or Venice Beach."

  "Isn’t Venice yakuza territory?"

  "Mafia, but it’ll be safe enough."

  "All right," Dougan said. "I’ll meet you at Grandma’s Pharmacy and Survival. Do you know where that is?"

  "Yes."

  "In the basement is a firing range. Meet me there in an hour." The line went dead.

  Jonathon returned to the table and sat down. He stared at the ocean for a few minutes, mesmerized by the surf and the deep primordial roar. Then he looked up at Venny. "I hope I’m making the right move," he said. Venny nodded. "So do I, chummer. So do I."

  42

  Luc Tashika sipped his tea and sighed. It was mid-afternoon Friday and he’d been wading through an insurmountable pile of paperwork pertaining to a new recording contract for some mediocre talent. When the phone rang, he was glad for the distraction. Hearing that it was Dougan, his breath caught. For a Friday, today was certainly turning out to be one of the drekkiest.

  Tashika looked into the telecom. "This has better be good news," he said.

  Dougan gave him a smirk. "I think you’ll like what I have to say."

  "Yes?"

  "Winger’s bringing the data to me," Dougan said.

  "How—? No, don’t tell me."

  "I promised him a position on the Buzzsaws. And he thinks MCT will protect his friends."

  "Do you know how much that’ll cost?"

  "Don’t worry, Tashika-san. I have no intention of keeping my word."

  Dougan gave a harsh chuckle. "No, I’ll take care of Winger. I just wanted you to be ready for the exchange."

  A thrill of excitement coursed through Tashika. Dougan’s plan was brilliant if Winger fell for it. "I’ll be ready," he said. "What time should we meet?"

  "I’ll call you after I deal with Winger," Dougan said. "We can set a time and place then."

  "Very well," Tashika said, then disconnected. Dougan plays the corp game well, he thought. Almost as good as me.

  43

  Hendrix pushed down the accelerator on his modified GMC Bulldog stepvan, weaving between an old couple in a beige Jackrabbit and a convertible full of chipped-out teenagers. Trying to keep up with Synthia’s Saab Dynamit as she zipped through the afternoon traffic on Cal-Trans 405, heading toward the Santa Monica Mountains. Her car was a sleek and sporty inverted bubble of macroglass and cherry-red steel. It was exceptionally fast, and since his modified Americar was no longer functional, he had to follow her in the stepvan.

  The GMC Bulldog was a cross between a truck and a van. It handled much better than a full tractor rig, and it had a huge capacity for weapons and all the wiz equipment Hendrix could ever want to pack into it. The stepvan was armored and outfitted with sensors so it could be rigged cybernetically, but Hendrix didn’t bother with all that drek. The rearview screens and heads-up tactical display were all the tech he needed to pilot the truck.

  Hendrix liked to use the big vehicle on runs because it was better equipped for combat, but when it was just he and Layla, he preferred the Americar; it was faster. Or at least it used to be until the mage slitch burned the drek out of it.

  Hendrix kept the Saab in view, three cars ahead and looking to pass the little red Mitsubishi Runabout. This Synthia is in a mighty rush to get somewhere fast, he thought.

  After Cinnamon had shown up at the ancient Wilmington oil refinery and learned from Michaelson that he no longer had the Magus File or whatever drekking info, she’d called on a frightening group of spirits and elementals to help Juju Pete keep Michaelson secure. Then she’d asked Hendrix and Layla to try to track down the data, offering them a ridiculous amount of nuyen. The whole biz was getting a tad out of control, but Hendrix wasn’t ready to bail just yet. Besides, the extra cred would come in handy for fixing up the Americar.

  Layla’s leg had been magically healed by Juju Pete, but it was still far from one hundred percent. She was in the back, arranging her weapons, grumpy because of the pain in her leg; she’d refused painkillers on the theory that it would affect her abilities.

  Mole’s synthesized voice buzzed into Hendrix’s headphone. "I’ve cleared up the file," he said. "You’re going to like what I got."

  "Good," Hendrix subvocalized into his throat mike. "I’m patching it through the truck's telecom." Hendrix glanced back at Layla for a second. "You want to hear what Mole’s got?" he said.

  "Yeah," Layla said. She pushed her way past a pile of machine guns and a box of grenades to get into the front seat. "Go," she said.

  "The Condor II laser microphone picked this up a few minutes ago," Mole said. "It’s still somewhat staticky, but I’ve passed it through a digital signal-enhancer to make it as clear as possible. It’s a miracle we got anything at all." Hendrix smiled at that; he’d been the one who’d made the modifications to the laser mike. The laser beam was ingeniously polarized
so that it was able to penetrate the reflective surface of The Fixx’s huge hangar windows, then detect microvibrations on the surface of the leaded glass of the chateau’s windows inside.

  In the recording Synthia said, "How many copies have you made so far?"

  "Just these two," came the voice of Grids Desmond. "Plus the one I downloaded into Jonathon’s headware." There was a rush of static, then a long silence. Synthia said, "Iopos, destroy that equipment. Burn it to cinders." Then the sound of fire crackled from the truck’s speakers.

  Then came the sound of someone placing a telecom call. "Hello, LA Sabers," came a modulated voice.

  "Hoi, Terry. Syn here."

  "How’s biz, chummer?"

  "Biz is wiz, Terry."

  "Hey, Syn, you know if Jonathon is coming down for the match? Lotsa chummers been calling, wanting to know."

  "He’s not there?"

  "Nope," Terry said. "Sorry."

  "It’s chill," Synthia said. "I’ll find him."

  Synthia disconnected and entered another LTG number. Hendrix could hear her pushing the buttons instead of using the voice interface. The reason became clear when the rumbling voice echoed into the room.

  "Yes?" the voice said.

  "I’ve destroyed the chips," Synthia said. "All but one copy."

  "Good. Why not the last one?"

  "It’s in Jonathon Winger’s headware memory, and he’s gone."

  "Find him," rumbled the voice. "Use ritual magic if you have to, but find him."

  "I will," Synthia replied.

  "Find him and erase the memory. You now have about six hours." The line went dead and the tape ended with the slam of a door.

  "That’s it," Mole said. "Winger has the only copy of the data. He’s not at the stadium, and the only way we’ll find him is by shadowing the mage."

  Layla reluctantly agreed. "Fine," she said.

  "Mole," Hendrix said as he tried to weave the stepvan between two tractor trailers. "Get a scrambled and coded line open to Cinnamon; she should hear this."