by Jack Womack
Another gentleman was admitted into the office, a portly chap with neatly brushed white hair.
"Hi, Lope," said Avalon, looking up.
"Good morning, my dear," he said. "Good morning, Mister O'Malley."
I nodded. He returned his attention to Avalon.
"So well you look this morning," he said to her. "New outfit?"
"It's for the conference."
He sighed. "Take care, my dear." The first three gentlemen departed and Lope went in. Lope and his two brothers began working with the Old Man early on, while they themselves yet lived in Colombia. They assisted the Old Man in securing his own trade routes following the death of his original partners. Over the years, Lope provided great assistance to the Drydens in every way, and so came by his own fortune-his brothers proved not so efficient, or not overly so, and never made it quite so far.
"Want to rag it, Shameless?"
"Sure," I said; we exchanged papers. The lead headline of the Times was MOM KILLS, EATS BABY; the leftovers were photoed on page two. Psychic Sex Secrets of the Senators, read the second lead. The local news was nothing new. Two bombs blasted at the Trade Towers; none of Dryco's floors suffered. The Statue of Liberty's arm was blown off ; there was a photo of the amputee, rather resembling an Ambient in her newmade loss. The Dow hit 500. The Army-estimated population of New York City-for all intent, the island of Manhattan-was reported as approaching four million; the National Census figure, three years earlier and as accurate today, was 450,000. The Harlem River was on fire. The Hackensack Ripper perpetrated his one thousandth outrage. A cancerous young Bengali was brought to New York on Air Force One by the First Lady; American medical care could work clock-round to save a child who, once saved, would be shuttled back to the motherland to starve.
There was national news. In Washington, vids to be released by the FBI were said to show the president engaged in what was judged a doubtful if unspecified action; the press secretary issued a statement saying that the president could not be concerned with minor domestic problems when the complexity of foreign relations demanded his full attention. SOVIETS SHOOTING FRIENDLY SPACE VISITORS? an editorial wondered. And E, who many-the Old Man among them-called this world's true king, was reported seen in Cleveland, risen again, wan but sturdy, tramping uncertainly down Euclid Avenue. His followers rushed to that city.
A figure toting a large parcel approached the waiting room from the public hall and buzzed. Renaldo signaled Mister Dryden.
"Recon?" Renaldo asked.
"Si," Mister Dryden said. "Abiert, porfav. Momento."
Renaldo pressed the remote on his desk, opening the door. The bookstore manager smiled, wearish beneath the weight of the load. I stood and walked over to take delivery. Avalon got up and rolled over to the info desk, looking for something else to read. Mister Dryden stepped from his office, Lope following not far behind.
"Deliver now or never," said Mister Dryden. "Other work more import?"
"Our clerks are dreadfully slow, sir-"
I was reaching for the parcel when I noticed its ripped corner. A blue wire protruded.
"Down!!" I screamed, shoving the manager into the public hall, knocking the package from his hands, and further away. "The door!"
Renaldo pressed the closure as he ducked beneath a chair. Mister Dryden and Lope leapt back and dropped behind the desk. I threw myself onto Avalon; she wrapped her legs around me as if to guard my lower half. Her daggers pricked me; I didn't mind, and they wouldn't penetrate the Krylar vest I wore beneath my shirt. The bomb blasted as the suite's metal door closed.
The glass wall surrounding the door held, thanks to the wire embedded within; it webbed inward from floor to ceiling. Looking up, I saw a gaping hole in the floor outside; the hall walls smoked and blistered. Renaldo opened the door and doused the fire with an extinguisher.
"Was that the bookstore guy?" asked Avalon, squeezing me. I had no desire to get up, leaving her grasp to risk being shattered again, but knew I must.
"Was," I said.
"Damn," said Mister Dryden, rising, peering about as if there might be more incoming. "Good work, OM. We'd termed if you hadn't spotted. "
"Just what's expected," I said. When I stood it felt for a moment as if I had thrown my back out. This sort of thing, these minor disturbances, happened about once a month, always had. It should have seemed as if it would be only a matter of time before they got us, but it never felt that way-it was simply part of the job. Nonetheless, it did tend, I think, to keep us all a bit overtuned to our surroundings, and perhaps keeping so eversharp and toepoised made for some uncertainty we could have done without.
"You'll be extraed, weekend. Lope, you viabled?"
Lope arose-carefully-from behind the desk.
"I believe," he said, holding the desktop, pulling himself up as if into a life raft, "if you station someone at the public elevator to doublecheck no one could get this far. "
"Fortress life isn't mine," said Mister Dryden.
"Ask for trouble, Thatch, and you'll get it. Please take my advice. On this, if on nothing else-"
"Needless. Ignorance was his, I reason." He looked irritated, and not for having just avoided being blown up. "Avalon, you? AO?"
Avalon rose, nodding. "Shameless, they're bent," she said to me, pointing to her daggers. "Straighten them for me, will you?"
"So who behinded it?" Mister Dryden asked me, looking down the hall. "Dred?"
"Too white," I said. "Not the turf." Her daggers scratched my fingers as I twisted them into place. Throwing her shoulders back, Avalon lifted her breasts so that I might shape with greater ease.
"A loco?"
"He'd have swallowed it, for sure. We'd be far, far away."
"Renaldo," he asked, turning. "Mariel?"
Renaldo frowned. "Fuckin' penejo. "
"As guessed," said Mister Dryden. "A store insider. Grudging." He reached for the phone, pressing out a number. He connected instantly; his lines were owners' lines, and always worked. You could punch in the same number on a public phone thirty times and get a different response each time, on those odd occasions you got through at all. Emergency lines were another thing; those were always out of service.
"Captain?" he said. "Dryden here. DIA8782"-that was his phone code. "The big bookstore on Fifth. Right. Hotbedded. Attack tactic tacked. Neuter and buy. Snap it. AO." He hung up.
The Home Army always did Dryco's bidding: as did the Regular Army, the other forces, the Senate, the House, and the President. Of all magics practiced, the Drydens' was the most infallible. For years it puzzled me. Over time, by the retrieval of dropped hint and tossed-away suspicion, it entered my head that they had something: something picked up during the Ebb, something much more frightening in perception than it could ever have been in use-so I thought.
"Hall?" asked Renaldo, gesturing toward the smoking floor beyond the shattered wall.
"Call a maintenant."
"Cono. "
"No me hoda," Mister Dryden laughed. "Lope and I were concluding."
"In a way-" Lope began, but didn't finish.
"Ready up, Avalon."
"Fuck this-"
"No danger foreseen. A ready suffices. AO?"
"Let me get my stuff," she said, rolling into his office.
Lope moved toward the public hall, as if attempting to leave without notice.
"No exit there," said Mister Dryden.
"Where, then? Isn't the guard's stairway close?"
"That won't do. Neither OM nor Renaldo can stair you down and with the boobies up you can't stair single. You'll have to conference."
"Please, Thatcher-"
"It'll inspire. You'll brisk new blood. Viz. See."
"I won't watch. Thatch. Please-"
"Such a mari. Avalon, prep. We activate in ten."
Avalon rolled out of Mister Dryden's office, a thick pillow tied over her bottom as if for a bustle.
"You can't move, pillowed," said Mister Dryden.
"I
'll wear what I want to wear."
"It's unsexed-"
"You're not gonna get knocked on your ass. Let's go."
Avalon removed her choppers and her wig, giving them to me for safekeeping. I checked her crasher to see that the full-face visor moved smoothly and then pressed it down over her head. She picked up her bat and wrapped a heavy chain around her waist.
"Ya!" Mister Dryden yelled, shouting out an arcane victory howl he'd developed in free moments. "Renaldo. Info to Jake. AO to concept. Kap?"
Renaldo nodded. Mister Dryden caught my glance, and winked. Something afooted. We left.
The conference room was on-was-the sixtieth floor. There was high-gloss flooring; areas were fenced and bleachered at each end for company reps and guests. Windows ran along each wall.
Conferences had been held monthly during the past year; all top-position midmen participated. Conferences were only one of several ideas of which he'd conceived since he began spiraling down: ideas seemingly designed to bring financial ruin and personal opprobrium upon his own company; ideas that, by his own design or by accident, had the opposite effect.
As Mister Dryden's proxy, Avalon joined in only if her assistance became essential. If called, she threw herself in with such intensity that no one lasted, pitted against her.
"Ready?" Mister Dryden asked Avalon; she didn't answer.
No other companies wished to participate in his conferences, but as they were Dryco conferences, they were unavoidable. They also proved surprisingly popular among those owners, foreign and American, not participating. Japanese, Chinese, and Russian associates of Dryco filled the bleachers on our side, scorecards in hand. Most wore round their necks the low-cost disposable cameras mass-produced in Switzerland, reliable enough to last a roll or two; they loved to permanize what they saw. They always bet as to whether Avalon's assistance would be required, and at what point.
"How do you think we'll do?" I asked Mister Dryden.
"We'll kill 'em."
This month Dryco conferred with SatCom. Under the rules of the game-as developed by Mister Dryden-the winner engulfed the loser, gaining control of the loser's assets but none of its debts. Dryco never lost; I knew that if anyone else ever happened to fairly win, Mister Dryden could simply readjust the score and victor anyway. No one would be left to deny it, afterward.
Lope sat by Mister Dryden, looking nauseated. Our tigers, hopped and action-ready, rolled before our barrier. The camera people readied their equipment in their reserved spot; Mister Dryden never lost his business sense, and so had leased the domestic rights to the Violence Channel and sold the foreign rights for theatrical release. I sat with Avalon by the gate, giving her water, calming her so well as I could.
"I've offered to go out in your place," I said, keeping my arm around her waist for support. "He says no."
"Good thing, too," she said, attempting to see whom SatCom might have brought in as proxy. "Some of them bitches'd eat you for breakfast. Stay clear, Shameless."
Mister Dryden rapped his gavel on the podium, saying:
"Meeting, order." He blew the whistle.
The aim of a conference was to destabilize all members of the opposition so effortlessly as possible. Everyone wore skates, and was armored, and outfitted. I believe Mister Dryden lifted the concept from an old movie he'd once seen, undoubtedly while kite-high. The whistle moved them; at command they tilted full and bore.
The marketing manager of SatCom was first put in his place. Our VP of adverts demonstrated an aspect of the problem under review; the manager went spinning across the floor. Once he went down, one of our executaries brought up a point with her machete and ruled him out of order. The debate continued. A conference such as this really got the adrenals spitting. The average time it took for teams to agree was four minutes; then the proxies emerged, if needed. This meeting was hard and had gone six minutes by the time we led.
"Oh, fuck," said Avalon, staring ahead, pulling away from me. "Goddamnit."
SatCom's proxy rolled onto the floor.
"Close me up, quick," she said. "She'll kill everybody in the building if I don't move."
The new player-wearing skates-was more than six feet high. Her upper armor consisted of black chain mail worn over a breastplate. Long black leather leggies rose on high; her elbow and knee guards bore sharp spikes. She was nude between her navel and thighs. She carried a long mace and a broadax. Her crasher was black, too, with great horns rising from the top; on it was a grotesque face mask with eyeslits.
"You've met?" I asked.
"Yeah. "
"Who is it?"
"Crazy Lola. We grew up on the same block. She's fuckin' psycho."
"How do you know it's her?"
"Look at her hair."
Crazy Lola's pubic hair was dyed blood-red and shaved into the form of a heart.
"Anything for attention."
Avalon picked up her bat and loosened the chain at her waist so that she might remove it more speedily; I'd taught her that trick.
"Scoots, Shamey."
"Break a leg," I replied.
Crazy Lola hadn't run the ground twenty seconds before she'd mated our sales manager. Our last regular player, the VP of de- mographs, dispatched SatCom's last executary with his kendo pole, only to skid into the path of Lola. Slipping her mace into her holster and raising her broadax, she brought the latter down onto his crasher and split his head to the chest.
Avalon shot out to great applause. The women circled warily in opposite orbits, calling each other baleful names. Then Crazy Lola charged, brandishing her mace. Avalon spun to her right and cracked Lola in the faceplate with her bat. Lola fell on her back, her crasher bent back against her head; she was on her feet again in moments. Avalon made a leisurely circuit to the side and then moved. I could barely look, but did; I knew she'd win.
Crazy Lola put away her mace and charged again, flailing her broadax in a wide circle. As Lola flew toward her, Avalon dropped to her knees and whacked her rival on the legs with her bat. The broadax shot out of Lola's hands and hurtled toward our bleachers. Most of us ducked-I, most quickly, I'm sure-but two Mitsubishi reps froze and suffered unexpected haircuts. Lope hid his eyes behind his hands; Mister Dryden grinned, nudging him.
Thrown off balance by Avalon's swing and by the weight of her own armor, Crazy Lola fell forward and slid thirty feet down the floor, Avalon hot on her wheels. Lola hadn't a chance. Avalon, holding fast to the rubberoid end of her chain, rushed by, lassoing Crazy Lola's neck and pulling the chain taut. Then, yanking Lola upright, holding the chain, beginning to pirouette, Avalon started swinging her around. She spun faster and faster; Lola, disoriented, rolled helplessly on Avalon's line. It reminded me of one of the more memorable science fair experiments in high school. When she built up enough centrifugal force, Avalon let go the chain. Crazy Lola cannonshot through a window in a rain of glass.
"Meeting adjourned," said Mister Dryden, rapping the gavel once more.
Our audience, heady with delight-save two-stood Avalon an ovation as she rolled to our barricade. I opened her visor and put her choppers in; she was shaking. She burst into tears; I don't recall that I'd ever seen her cry before, and without thinking of consequence I threw my arms around her and hugged her. She kissed me; her tongue slid into my mouth like an oyster. Mivida, I thought. My corazon. Ambients say of their loved ones that till time's lovely end, their blood beats their beloved's heart everaf- ter; so mine beat Avalon's. She returned my embrace, tightened; my chest stung with the prick of her daggers.
"I've had it, Shameless," she whispered to me as I held her. "I can't do anymore. I can't stand it."
"You won."
"He won," she said. "We've lost. We'll always fuckin' lose."
I didn't want to admit it, because I didn't think it true. "I know. "
"Can you get us out of this? Any way? I'm ready to take off-"
"You'd be guttered," I said. "There's no hope then."
"Damn little now," she
said, squeezing me. "It don't matter. Don't fuckin' matter. I've had it. You've had it."
"I might be able to work something out-"
"What?"
"I'm not sure yet. He wants to talk to me. Something's on. Don't see what yet. "
"Whatever. Talk and tell me. But I've had it, whatever you do."
"I know."
"Better let go, Shameless. He might see us."
"He might," I said, not fearing. He'd been vizzing our way, but I estimated he'd account it to the moment's heat.
"I've had it. Never again. Never."
With little tumult and no shouting, the president of SatCom stepped onto the floor, striding over his ex-employees and ours, almost slipping in the wet spots. Mister Dryden awaited, rocking forthback on his heels, self-full enough to pop. The fellow presented Mister Dryden with the appropriate deeds; they bowed. He knelt down before Mister Dryden, leaning forward, brushing the hair from his neck. Mister Dryden nodded. Jake, the main office overseer, approached, withdrawing his long Kyoto sword. Jake, a real master, handled the more delicate aspects of corporate etiquette; he always wore an immaculate white suit.
He rode with us down to the lobby; he and Mister Dryden chatted on the way about King Dagobert's latest edicts in France and how Dryco reps might best deal with them, whether eyesa- ware or underlight. We walked to the plaza. Mister Dryden bade Lope goodbye, winking at him as well. Lope looked pale, and more than a bit suspicious. Jake went over to hang-as if it were a prized Christmas ornament-the newest trophy from one of the flagpoles. Some of the older trophies were but bony skulls; replaced soon enough, recycled into candy dishes and jewel cases and other useful objets d'art.
