With the flick of his thumb, the recliner turned to face a two-story picture window that granted an incredible view from the forty-first story apartment in the Lake Niskey Executive Suites Condominium Tower. If he had wished to rise from his comfortable position, he could have gazed down upon a manicured park that no fewer than a dozen genetically engineered drudge gardeners kept in pristine condition. Niskey Lake glittered in the lowering sunlight like a bowl of jewels as groundsmen gathered up the flock of swans for the night. Gently rolling hills spread out from the lake, with oaks and willows hiding the tall, reinforced concrete wall that surrounded the compound. Further protecting the elite inhabitants, lethal monowire topped the wall, Red Echelon security guards patrolled it, and neohounds roamed the grounds at night.
Ulric squinted. Deep wrinkles radiated from the corners of his eyes. A friend had suggested counting those lines to prove just how old Ulric really was. Of course, Ulric declined to permit such an endeavor. Not many knew it, but he’d seen three centuries thanks to expensive cybernetics, organ transplants, and even cellular telekinetic manipulation by psykers.
“Dim window forty percent, emerald,” Ulric said, his old voice still strong and powerful. The large window in front of him fogged to a tinted green, casting a sylvan glow into the room.
The door chime sounded.
“Open door,” he said, and walked to the foyer. The man from the phone entered, followed by two armored security guards. The man wore black combat boots, black denims, a soiled grey shirt, and a dirt-caked overcoat. He did not look pleased.
“What’s the idea, having your goons manhandle me?”
Ulric raised a hand. “I do not allow armed men unescorted into my home.”
One of the security guards held up a Smith and Wesson 10mm submachine gun. “This is all that he was carrying, sir.”
“I see. Please remove the magazine and leave the weapon on the table there.” The guard obeyed and stood by the doorway. “You may leave. My internal security will handle it from here.”
The guards backed out of the entry, closing the doors as they left. The man moved toward the table and his gun.
“Please,” Ulric said, “leave that there until you depart. I am not very comfortable around guns, Mr.…?”
“Munk,” the man said, turning aside and following Ulric to the sunken living room. His eyes widened as he walked into the opulent room.
Ulric, his features glowing green from the window’s light, sipped from his snifter, and looked at Munk from head to foot. Ulric had no doubt that the man, tall, bulky, and imposing, could intimidate just about anyone. “Now, what is it you need?”
“I told you. Skates.”
“Yes, yes. Skates, skippers, fake identification, supplementary credentials. I know you’re not here for tea and crumpets. What, exactly, do you need?”
“Three full sets, including vacation passes and border access for the North American Wilderness Preserve, all sectors.”
Ulric whistled. “My, my, my. That is a tall order, Mr. Munk.”
“How tall?”
“You know, of course, I do only the best work.”
“That’s why we came to you. We want this done right.”
“How soon do you need it?”
“An hour. I’ll wait here.”
Ulric raised an eyebrow. “A very rushed job. I can’t fabricate three sets of IDs in a mere hour.”
“How long, then?”
“Three hours. But I must inform you that the quality of the credentials will suffer, and I will revoke all guarantees.”
“Fine, fine.”
“Can you pay the fee?”
“Which is?”
“One-hundred thousand digitally-encrypted credits.”
“Are you freaking insane?”
“Not in the slightest. Global passcards are quite tricky, and your haste is also a factor. If you cannot pay the price, I suggest you leave now or I will recall security.”
Munk sighed, and leaned against the sofa. “No, I got the creds. We need the skates.”
Ulric leaned forward. “I require payment in advance.”
“Of course.” Munk reached into a deep pocket, removed a thick stack of cards, and counted them out to Ulric.
The old man accepted the cashcards, smiling. “I’ll just authenticate these and be right back. Please don’t sit on anything.”
Munk watched the forger as he went into another room, then he slumped in the nearest sofa, stretching out. He had hardly begun to relax when Ulric returned.
“What are you doing on that sofa?” the old man demanded.
“For a hundred large I’ll sit where I damn well please,” he answered, plopping his heavy boots onto the fragile coffee table and glaring at the old man. “Everything check out?”
Ulric swallowed, but kept his eyes locked on Munk’s. “Yes, your cards are authentic.”
“Then you’d best get to work.” Munk reached into another pocket and pulled out a datachip, which he tossed to Ulric. “Here’s picfiles and bios.”
Ulric frowned. “I see. Please wait here and do not leave this room. I will program security to eliminate you if you attempt to access any other area. I will return with your cards.”
18
Munk woke to the prodding of Ulric’s foot.
“Your IDs are ready.” The old man dropped a small packet onto Munk’s chest. “You may now leave, and take that grimy coat with you.”
Munk took the packet and rose to his feet, rubbing his bruised left eye. “Thanks a bunch, Ulric. We won’t forget it.”
“Yes, yes, yes,” Ulric said, leading him to the door. “I’m sure you won’t. Now leave before you destroy any more of my furniture.”
“Hey, that is nice stuff,” Munk agreed. “Really comfortable.”
Before Ulric could reply, the giant vidwall came to life of its own accord, flashing red. “Intruder,” a deep voice stated.
“What the hell is that?” Munk demanded.
Ulric addressed the vid. “Display.”
The screen showed the hall just outside Ulric’s apartment. Standing in front of his door were three men in suits, holding short machine pistols. One of them placed something on the door, just below the handles.
“That’s a demo–” Munk started to say, but was cut short by a small explosion. The doors burst open in a cloud of smoke and the three men entered.
Ulric hurried up to the men as they strode purposefully inside. “Just who are you and what do you think you are doing?”
The trio kept their weapons trained on Munk. They had buzzcuts, and wore dark shades. One of them held up a badge to Ulric.
“Regional Police.”
Ulric frowned and snatched the badge from the man’s hand. “Let me see that!”
One of the other Reggies walked a few steps closer to Munk, his machine pistol aimed at his gut. “We knew with all that cash you’d go for the best forger in town. Now, where are Grue and Earless?”
Munk shook his head.
The man took a step forward and whipped out with his right leg, quicker than Munk’s cybernetically enhanced reflexes could react. Munk fell to the floor holding his groin.
“Where are they?” All three men now stood around Munk.
“Go screw yourselves,” Munk muttered from his kneeling position.
“Cuff him and let’s go.”
“Hold on,” Ulric interceded, striding forward and shaking the badge in his hand. “This is a forgery. A poor forgery, at that.”
“You’re too smart for you own good, old man.” The fake cop waved at one of his associates. “Take the geezer into the bathroom and put a bullet in his head.”
Ulric’s eyes widened and he stepped away. “Security!” he said quickly. “Eliminate three intruders!”
The impostor raised his gun and fired a burst into Ulric’s chest, but not quick enough to silence him. As Ulric tumbled backward onto the oak floor, several small ports opened at various locations on the foyer walls.
>
The man ran for the open door. Despite his obvious technological improvements, he couldn’t outrun the automated gunfire that ripped through his body.
Bullets whizzed across the room for only a few seconds. In the ensuing silence, Munk raised his head from beneath his arms and then stood. All three Reggie imposters lay dead in spreading pools of blood. Ulric was alive but bleeding badly, and Munk noted the blinking and beeping medical emergency band on his wrist. The forger had a BioTechnix Archangel contract, which meant there’d be an aerodyne ambulance here inside two minutes. Munk retrieved his weapon and ran out the door, cursing. He’d probably have to spend another hundred grand bribing his way out of the compound before the real cops arrived.
19
Noose finished his last cigar and hailed a cab. He gave the driver an address in the Blackzone and, after agreeing to pay extra for the risk to the cab, sat back hoping his instincts turned out to be right. The cabbie was thankfully taciturn.
Noose pulled out the missile tube from his inside duster pocket. The markings on the tube told him that it was a high explosive round for an Akbar man-portable missile launcher, property of the Global Security Agency Peacekeepers. Not something you’d find at any corner pawnshop. There were only a handful of fixers in Atlanta that could come up with military weapons. If the Stiltzkin job had been orchestrated from outside RAM, he’d have a much harder time finding out where it came from.
If he couldn’t find the fixer who brokered the Akbar, he could have one of his hacker contacts break into the GSA network and track the missile tube serial number. Then, with luck, he could find a trail leading to the scum who had fired it.
Noose replaced the tube in his pocket and watched the road as the cab entered the Blackzone. A tram station burned brightly with no emergency vehicles in sight. Several people stood nearby, watching the flames.
Fifteen minutes later, the cab was deep within the unpoliced neighborhood and had passed at least a dozen burned-out cars, three bodies, and a rumble between two turf gangs. The driver grew noticeably anxious.
“Relax,” Noose said, patting the guy on the shoulder. “It’s only a few more blocks.”
The driver looked over his shoulder. “Then you can walk it. I ain’t going any deeper into–” The cabbie never finished his sentence. The windshield shattered under a barrage of gunfire. One of the bullets entered the cabbie’s head through his left eye and exited the back of his skull, along with the greater portion of his brain.
The cab careened across the street and into a convenience store, smashing through the plastic windows and sliding through two rows of soda and candy, finally jerking to a stop against the back wall. Noose kicked open the door and jumped out, trying not to get any of the cabbie’s brains on himself. He pulled out his Stormer, and moved toward the shattered windows. A young blonde man, no doubt the owner of the store, stood behind the counter screaming something in Norwegian.
The dwarf shrugged. “Sorry. Took a wrong turn.”
He moved up to the window and peered out around the wall. A bunch of punks jumped up and down just across the street, cheering and pointing at the store. One of them waved a Global Arms M70 submachine gun.
Noose scowled. Just a bunch of boosted thrillkids taking advantage of the general state of chaos to shoot cars and kill people. They probably didn’t even know what planet they were on. The dwarf took a step through the shattered window, but was met by a hail of fire from the punks. He ducked back behind the protection of the wall.
“Hey! Let’s shoot the dwarf!” one of the punks yelled.
“Yeah, we can add to the total!” the one with the gun replied. “That dwarf ain’t gonna dance no more neither!”
Noose glanced around the wall, and saw the young thugs skipping across the street. Only one had a firearm; the rest held bats, pipes, and chains. It didn’t look like any of them were out of their teens.
The dwarf shook his head in disgust at his spate of bad luck. No reason to get into a firefight with a bunch of punks. He jogged back into the store, where the ventilated cab blocked the door to the back rooms. He jumped in the rear seat and tried opening the opposite door, but it was jammed against the far wall and wouldn’t budge. He leaned back and kicked the window. The duropane splintered and broke away.
As he crawled through the cab window he looked back to see the thrillkids beating the clerk. Apparently the man had tried to defend his store, valuing his income more than his life.
Noose turned away and walked through a storage room. He found the back door easily enough, exited into an alleyway, and hurried down the darkening pavement.
“Ain’t getting away that easy, dwarfman!” Six thrillkids jumped into the alley in front of him. One leveled the M70 at him.
“Dying time’s here!” the kid said gleefully.
Noose fired a single shot from his Stormer. The punk’s head exploded, spraying blood on his friends. The gangers looked down at their dead companion, but in their drugged state barely managed to comprehend his fate.
Noose walked across the garbage-strewn alley. “Now, the rest of you fade and you won’t die like worm-meat there.”
The five remaining kids screamed various profanities and rushed him.
Shaking his head at their addled stupidity, Noose raised his gun and shot two of them in the knees. They barely felt the pain, but their legs gave way beneath them. The last three kept coming. He had time to put another bullet in the foremost attacker’s knee, but the other two ran up and attacked.
Noose ducked a swinging pipe and kicked the legs out from under its wielder. The second teen swung a chain, which the dwarf caught in his left hand and pulled. His assailant, overbalanced by the attack, fell toward him, and Noose rammed the Stormer into his face. As the kid fell, jaw broken, Noose turned to the last thrillboy, who was trying to rise after being tripped.
“Oh, god!” the kid groaned. “Please don’t kill me! I didn’t mean to do it. It’s not my fault. I ain’t got nothing else to do. I was just trying to have fun.”
Noose held the Stormer to the kid’s forehead. His eyes went wide. Whatever drug this kid was on – boost, turbo, or some other happy juice – it seemed to be wearing off.
“You said it was dying time,” Noose whispered.
The kid shook uncontrollably, his eyes white balls of fear, his pants suddenly wet. “Please…”
“Bang!” Noose said, and pushed his Stormer hard against the kid’s forehead. The kid collapsed like a wet noodle, sobbing. Noose stepped over the growing puddle of urine leaking from the wannabe thug’s pants, to the thrillboy who had fired the machine gun. He picked up the M70. Some politicians might have punished the kid with anger management courses and sent him in for attitude readjustment simulations, while fining his parents for negligent contribution to the delinquency of an adolescent. At least now the only taxpayer money spent on him would be for funeral expenses.
The dwarf crossed to the other side of the street, tucking the submachine gun under his long coat.
20
“So, Mr. Shonkwiler, what now?” Earless giggled as she leaned over the large bucket seat in which Grue sat.
“Enough already with the Shonkwiler crap,” Grue snapped. He looked through the large windshield of the Grand Safari, zooming his cyberoptics on the western containment wall. In the dimming light he could easily see the flashing alert strobes, patrolling Reggies, and hovering police gunships guarding the gates out of the metroplex. He caught the movement of one of the large double-barreled plasma batteries that topped the wall, tracking a civilian skycar that hovered along the edge of the no-fly zone.
“Looks like they’re taking the lockdown seriously,” Munk noted from behind the wheel of the Safari.
“Damn.”
“Atlanta’s a closed plex, Grue.”
“We’d better get clear of here. Looks like those Reggies are spreading out a bit.”
“I told you we should’ve got a pilot,” Munk said, turning down a side street.
<
br /> “Just shut up and let me think.”
“You’ve been doing all the thinking lately, and where’s it got us?”
“You think you could do better?” Grue asked.
“Maybe.”
“Yeah, well, you don’t have the guts to take control,” Grue jabbed a thick finger into the man’s shoulder. “You don’t have the guts to risk making a wrong decision. One that could end up with us dead or locked up. I’m the one making the decisions and I’m the one who takes responsibility.”
“When you’re sober.”
“Oh, just dump it, Munk.” The goon heaved himself out of the passenger seat and headed back toward the mini-bar. “Just drive a few kilometers and park in some damn lot. We’ll lay low for a day or so, and wait for the Reggies to get lazy.”
Earless took the goon’s seat, pushing her hair back from the side of her earless head. “He’s a little pissed.”
Munk said nothing, watching the road.
“What I want to know,” the pleaser said, “is how can the police be on double alert on the walls, roust all the suspects, and fight all the rioters at the same time? What, they got a million cops on the payroll, or something?”
“Guess it helps when you ignore the Blackzone,” Munk noted. “That’s where the big problems are, and Regional’s just letting it be.”
“Yeah, but they’re holding it in. That takes manpower.”
“Sure, but in case you haven’t noticed, those aren’t all Reggies down there at the gate. Some of them are Global Peacekeepers.”
“I guess Global wants to give the governor a hand.”
“Yeah, right. They just don’t want any of this spreading into their precious Wilderness Preserves. Wouldn’t promote global harmony to have a bunch of rioters upsetting the natural ecology.”
Munk drove the Grand Safari down a side road. He glanced back and saw Grue gulping down another beer and watching the vid. The man shook his head. It wouldn’t be long before Grue was a useless pile of drunken goonflesh.
Dead Dwarves Don't Dance Page 8
