Dead Air

by Jak Koke

  "No chance of that," Jonathon said.

  Then the ork flicked the switch to make the cyclone fence gate roll to the side, and Jonathon drove through. The ramp down into the underground parking beneath the rebuilt LA Coliseum welcomed him with familiar smells and sounds. This was one of the places where he felt at home. Comfortable.

  Jonathon realized suddenly that Grids had been speaking to him for the last minute. And that he hadn’t heard a thing. Words drowned out beneath the hurricane roar in his mind.

  "Then she burned everything I own," Grids was saying. "My simth, my cyberdeck. Everything. I don’t have anything now. Nothing."

  Jonathon welcomed the seclusion of the underground parking garage. Most of the team’s cars were already parked there. His headclock read 05:20:34 pm. A little more than two hours to game time. Still plenty of time to make the modifications to his bike and run the maze before bogey release.

  "What do you think happened to her?" Grids asked. "Who?"

  "Synthia, for frag’s sake. Haven’t you been listening?"

  Jonathon parked the limo. "Sorry, chummer. I can’t think about Syn right now. There’s an explanation for what she did, I’m certain of it. But it’s past now. When this is all over, I want you to find her and sort it out."

  "I don’t know."

  "Promise me, Grids." Jonathon turned to face him. "Promise me that whatever happens tonight, you’ll find Synthia." Grids breathed a sigh. "Okay," he said. "I promise."

  "Tell her I still love her."

  "You can tell her yourself."

  "Just tell her," Jonathon said. Then he stepped out of the car and into the cool subterranean air of the parking garage. "Come on, I’ll show you the simsense equipment."

  Grids put an Angelic Entertainment jumpsuit over his Mickey Mouse T-shirt, then retrieved his satchel of tools and chips and whatever other drek he’d brought. He followed Jonathon through the metal door and into the team garage where the motorcycles were parked. They walked past the bikes and up the ramp into the locker room area.

  Most of the team was there, lifting weights or stretching or warming up on the small track. Jonathon saw Vic, the mechanic, and Boges and Mason, plus Ion and Chibba.

  "Hoi, Winger," came Smitty’s voice. "You showed, chummer."

  "That’s right," Jonathon said, looking at the bulked-up dwarf with his feet in gravity boots and doing upside-down abdominal crunches.

  "You’ve got cojones," Smitty said. "I’ll give you that. Cajones the size of cantaloupes."

  Jonathon laughed and let the mood of the locker room permeate him. Let it focus him on the match. He wasn’t in the best condition for a championship game, considering the past few days, but he wouldn’t have to last long to execute his plan.

  Jonathon showed Grids the simsense decks and the simrecliners against the wall. Grids gave the equipment a onceover, shaking his head. "No go, chummer," he said. "Can’t make the modifications here; none of this drek can transmit."

  "Didn’t think so."

  "Tell me again," Grids said. "What data is received by the bikes when they’re in the maze?"

  "As far as I know, just the positions of the other riders. It’s projected onto the retina as a heads-up display."

  "Anything else?"

  "The time and verbal communications, but that’s about it." Grids pursed his lips. "Hmm," he said. "What about in emergencies?"

  "There are transponders in each bike that let the referees shut the engine down to prevent excessive aggression. Basically to keep anyone from repeatedly running over someone else or pummeling them with their bikes."

  "Nice," Grids said.

  "It’s not a game for the weak and fair-minded."

  Grids grinned. "Guess not," he said. "So, where are the transmitters that send the data to the bikes?"

  Jonathon turned to lead Grids to the communications bay adjacent to the coach’s office. "Each side has the same setup," he said as they approached the bank of screens, holo-projectors, and electronic drek. Terry was inside, sitting in front of a complex-looking console. Terry was a gigantic ork woman with more fat than a hippo and a complexion to match.

  Jonathon stopped just outside and whispered to Grids. "We get all the signals, but we can only send the locations of our own bikes."

  "That’s what you think," Grids said.

  "You got the little incentive stick I asked you to bring?" Jonathon said.

  Grids nodded.

  Jonathon smiled, then he stepped through the door to the com bay. "Hoi, Terry," he said.

  Terry turned from her screens, smiling as she saw Jonathon. "Winger, it’s good to see your sexy bod, chummer." She gave him a huge, tusky grin.

  "Likewise, Terry," Jonathon said. "Look, I’ve got an Angelic Entertainment tech out here who needs to make a few adjustments to patch my simlink feed directly to Dexter Hemmingway’s booth. Can you give him some room for a few minutes?"

  The ork considered. "You sure this is legit?" she asked. "Sure it is," Jonathon said. "As legit as it gets. Hemmingway’s spending a load on this direct feed. I’m sure this young man could see fit to share a little of his newfound nuyen."

  Grids stepped forward. "How about ten kay?"

  "Ten kay to walk around for a few minutes?"

  Grids nodded, and held out a certified credstick.

  Terry yawned, showing the dark saliva cavern of her mouth, a truly repulsive sight. "I think I need a little refreshment," she said. "Before the game starts." She stood, taking the credstick from Grids and slipping it into her pocket before walking out.

  "Thanks," Jonathon said, then motioned for Grids to get moving. "I’m going to get to work on my bike," he said. "Come back down to the limo when you’re finished."

  Grids nodded and took a small black device from his satchel. Then he removed the face plate over one of the consoles.

  Jonathon turned away and walked back down to the team garage. He went up to his cache of Suzuki Auroras, seven of them in pristine condition. He pulled a temporary datacord from a wall rack and jacked in to one of the Suzukis. He fired it up and listened to its purr. Checked all its components and systems. Yes, he thought, this will do nicely.

  He killed the engine and dismounted. Then he stepped out through the door and walked back to his limousine to retrieve the brown duffel that held the small cube of C-12 plastique and a digital fuse. He hefted the duffel and walked back with it to his bike.

  Tamara’s ghost whispered incoherently to Jonathon as he pulled on the skin-tight surgical gloves Dexter had graciously included. The explosive was an opaque color. Off white. It didn’t really match the blue or silver paint of the Suzuki, but he didn’t need much. Jonathon pressed a thumbsized hunk of it into the space under the seat, next to the bike’s electronics.

  The detonator fuse had a cybernetic interface, and through the bike’s dog brain, Jonathon was able to access the timer. The digital readout was displayed on his retina in small white numbers. Jonathon set it for five seconds, then he carefully buried the detonator into the soft explosive, leaving the microthin wire jacked into his bike so that he could activate the countdown when it was time.

  The seat fit back nicely, and Jonathon carefully cranked up the Suzuki again to make sure the bike was still working properly. Yes. Perfect. Now, he would run the maze. After which he’d be ready and prepped to ride.

  52

  Inside the dripping, stinking warehouse at the ancient oil refinery, Cinnamon felt the hunger gnawing at her as she paced the outer circumference of Juju Pete’s hermetic circle. Michaelson and Juju Pete were inside the circle, Michaelson looking bored as he sat and stared at Cinnamon with a scrutinizing eye. Juju Pete continued pacing the interior, sustaining the complex formula of his spell. He limped more noticeably now, hours into the ritual.

  Less than an hour had passed since Hendrix had returned with the news that Layla was dead. He’d been withdrawn, cold and distant. Her death had hit him hard, and he was unwilling to go on with the run.

&n
bsp; Cinnamon didn’t understand why. The physical adept’s death was a loss certainly, but she could easily be replaced with another. Hendrix was usually all biz, no remorse. Not one to let emotions cloud his senses. He was always dedicated to any run he accepted, and totally efficient to the end.

  Cinnamon was starting to have her doubts about him now. She’d seen the symptoms in other runners, less experienced mercs who’d lost someone close. They all knew death was a risk, part of the hazards of the job. And everyone took the responsibility for his or her own skin.

  But in their hearts, they believed death would never touch anyone they cared about. And when it did, it could hit them hard. Make them want to stay out of the risky biz—which destroyed their edge. A shame for that to happen to Hendrix, she thought.

  That was why she’d asked him to go to the LA Coliseum for the combat biker match. Not only was that the most likely place for Winger to show up, but it would keep Hendrix thinking about work. About biz.

  In the long run, that was the best thing he could do for himself. Move beyond history, past his insubstantial attachment to the memory of Layla.

  Hendrix had almost refused. Cinnamon sensed his reluctance like a palpable smell in the air. But he’d gritted his teeth and gone, dutifully. Just as he should. Business winning out over his emotions.

  Cinnamon was glad; she had other problems to think about. Tashika hadn’t returned her last two calls. Was he reconsidering? Had he obtained the data himself and decided he didn’t want or need Michaelson at all? Frag, she thought, I need to slaughter something before I eat one of these nice people.

  The dwarf decker, Mole, emerged from his room where he’d been jacked into the Matrix. "I’ve got the data," he said. "But you aren’t going to like any of it."

  Cinnamon ground her teeth together, but on the outside her illusion showed only a smiling face. "Go ahead anyway, please."

  "First of all, Tashika is dead."

  "What?"

  "Lone Star is seventy percent certain that a Steppin’ Wulf gang attack near the El Segundo desalinization plant killed Luc Tashika, formerly of Mitsuhama Computer Technologies," Mole said. "I scanned it off one of the Star’s communications relays."

  "Seventy percent is far from incontrovertible," Cinnamon said.

  "The only reason they limited the stats to seventy percent was because the bodies were mutilated and burned beyond recognition, but DNA from one of the limos at the scene scans positive as his. Two of the other bodies match the identities of his bodyguards. If he’s not dead, the fabrication is pretty fragging solid."

  Frag me!

  "And before you recover from that bit of news, there’s more in the same vein." Mole tried to remain emotionless, but she could smell his fear. "The data you had me double scan ..."

  "What about it?"

  "I couldn’t check it all, too well. . . protected. But what I was able to access—"

  "Yes?"

  "It’s drek, Cinnamon, pure and smelly," Mole said.

  "None of your data scans true. It’s all close, but some of the important details are wrong, inconsistent, or missing from the stuff I’ve been able to get from the Matrix."

  "Michaelson!" Cinnamon yelled, very unladylike of her. She turned to see a startled Michaelson looking at her with a dumbfounded expression on his face.

  Mole looked at her. "Would this be a bad time to discuss my fee?"

  "Shut the frag up! I’ll talk to you later." Cinnamon disconnected and turned from the telecom. The hunger surged inside her and threatened to break her illusion, but she didn’t fragging care. This dumb suit had brought her false data.

  "What is it?" Michaelson asked, standing now, just inside the near edge of the hermetic circle.

  "The supposedly secret data in your briefcase is fabricated and false."

  "What?"

  "The data you carry is worthless. Someone must’ve suspected you were leaving and fed you distorted intelligence."

  Michaelson was obviously stunned, but his mental wheels were turning. Obviously considering the validity of what she was saying.

  "Didn’t that ever occur to you?"

  "No," Michaelson said, a concerned look on his face. He knew what it meant that all his precious data was worth no more than drek.

  "Does that include the Magus File, Mr. Michaelson?" Cinnamon asked. "That fragging data that has cost me meganuyen and the life of one of my shadowrunners?" Michaelson shook his head. "No, I’ve had that for years, tucked away in my files. This other stuff . . . more recently, but still—"

  "Yes? I can’t wait to see you explain your way out of this one."

  "Either my info is false, as you say. Or the data your decker scanned is false. Maybe Brackhaus changed the databanks after he learned I was leaving. To make it look like my info is inexact."

  "You mean Brackhaus altered his own data to make you look less credible?"

  "Exactly."

  Cinnamon thought about it for a second. "Doesn’t matter either way," she said. "No one’s going to trust the information you’ve brought."

  Michaelson’s forehead creased in frown.

  "Oh, and there’s another bit of news," Cinnamon told him. "The MCT exec who was funding your transfer just turned up dead."

  Michaelson sucked in a breath.

  "What that means," Cinnamon went on, "is that without the Magus File data, you are worthless. The integrity of your other data is suspect, meaning it’s worthless, too. Keeping you here costs me nuyen I may never see."

  "Can’t you find another corp who’d want me? Certainly a senior S-K exec has value. Come on, Cinnamon, someone will pay you to get my expertise and knowledge."

  "No, I’m afraid not," Cinnamon said, feeling the hunger break through the veil of illusion. Her petite blond human guise gave way to a huge sinuous, scaly body. Her animal form. Her voice boomed and hissed as she spoke. "Brackhaus could have been feeding you false information for a long time. No corp will risk taking you."

  Michaelson staggered back, falling to his knees. Speechless.

  Hunger overcame her, and she lunged through the veil of Juju Pete’s hermetic circle. She had to push hard and exert a considerable force to make it across, but once she broke the circle, pain washed over her and the spell broke.

  She walked toward Michaelson’s prostrate form, thrashing with her scaly wings. He shrank away from her as she towered over him. "I can think of only one final use for you," she said, running her forked tongue over rows of dagger-sharp teeth. "To satiate my appetite."

  "No, I—"

  "Unless you’re willing to part with life force to pay me off?"

  "Life force?"

  "Your energy. Your experience. Your—"

  "Yes, anything. Just don’t kill me."

  "Open your soul to me," Cinnamon said. "And I will drink from it." Then she touched Michaelson’s aura with hers, and she took great gulps of his life force. White hot flashes of his memory pulsed through her, filling her. The transfer took only seconds.

  And when it was complete, Cinnamon came back to her manifest form to see the human’s prostrate body under her. He was bewildered and drained, confused.

  He screamed as she struck suddenly; her jaw opened and engulfed his head and neck, then bit down, crunching bone and sinew beneath her teeth. She was no longer hungry, physically; it was her anger at his incompetence that drove her to kill him.

  Michaelson’s scream was swallowed as the salty warmth of blood gushed over her tongue. She lifted his body off the ground with her bite, and thrashed her head back and forth to tear off his head. He was a big boy; it took her six or seven bites to finally finish him off.

  53

  Synthia flashed her season pass at the stadium security guard, then ran past him into the Coliseum. It was thirty minutes to game time and she needed to warn Jonathon about Brackhaus. About the assassins he’d sent.

  If I can convince Jonathon to erase the data in his head, Synthia thought, maybe there's one last chance Brackhaus will l
et me live. She refused to give up. If she failed, she died. Any minute now, the toxin would be released.

  Security was tight and wouldn’t allow Synthia into the locker room, but that didn’t deter her. She went to her usual seat in the premier club box, then shifted into the astral plane, leaving her body slumped in the comfortable chair. The game hadn’t started and the watcher spirits should let her pass without warning.

  Synthia didn’t really care, though. If they tried to stop her, she would destroy them without a second thought. She traveled through the macroglass barrier and down onto the stadium floor.

  Jonathon was standing next to his locker, removing his grimy duster and stained jeans.

  Synthia moved close, a few steps behind him as her form became visible in the physical world. "Jonathon," she said. "Can we talk?"

  He turned slowly, deliberately, and when she saw him a trickle of fear passed over her. His aura looked cold and resigned. He nodded to her. "Yes," he said.

  "You must erase the Magus File data from your head-ware," she said. "Or they will kill me."

  "They?"

  "Saeder-Krupp; it’s their data."

  Jonathon nodded slowly. "In a few minutes everything will be all right."

  "What do you mean?"

  "The data will be destroyed . . ." Jonathon trailed off. "After that, there’ll be no reason to kill you."

  "Destroyed? But how?"

  Jonathon didn’t respond, but his aura flared red for an instant.

  "How, Jonathon?"

  "It’s best you don’t know."

  "You don’t plan to survive that match, do you?"

  No response.

  "Jonathon?"

  "If I live," he said. "Too many will die. You, Grids, Venny . . ."

  "You don’t have to die," Synthia said. "Just purge your headware memory."

  "And they’ll take my word for it? I don’t think so, Syn. They’d have to check to make sure, and they’re not going to make the effort. Not now. Things have progressed too far for that. I’ve read the file, too. No, it’s easier for them to kill me. Cheaper."

  Synthia remembered what Brackhaus had said about his assassins. "So, what . . . ?" she said. "You’re going to save them the trouble and suicide? Good fragging plan." Jonathon didn’t respond, but Synthia could see that he was resolved. Unmovable. "I have one more thing to do," Jonathon whispered. "But I wanted to say goodbye to you." Synthia felt a wave of vertigo wash over her. Sadness, manifesting in her physical form as tears. I can’t even hold him in my arms, she thought. Can’t even kiss him goodbye. She waved at him, letting her physical manifestation slip away as she returned completely to astral space.