by John Helfers
Once she was mostly clean and dressed, Mamba felt the wave of nausea coming. Sweating, she fought it down. A flashback hit her; a crowd of men, the smell of sun-baked clay, the pain of her cheek shattering under a huge fist. Mamba closed her eyes, forced herself to visualize the four Igbo today, bleeding, dead, helpless. Forced the flashback away with the image of today’s fight, the feeling of their blood spilling over her hands. I’m not helpless anymore.
“Mamba?” Pharisee was standing in the doorway, a backpack slung over one shoulder, her fingers gripping the blue hand amulet at her throat. “You okay?”
Mamba took a deep gulp of air, felt it scour her throat. “Yeah.”
• • •
The trip to Lagos Island involved getting an okada, one of the narrow, modified motorbikes common to the feral city. Mamba dealt with this with cool practicality; she stole one, leaving the driver lying in the street with a broken nose. Pharisee sat behind her, arms clenched around Mamba’s waist, eyes closed as she skillfully wove through the thick traffic, cutting through pedestrians and zipping down the narrow, stinking alleys when the vehicle traffic grew too slow for her taste.
“Our employer wants to talk to you,” Pharisee said after Mamba had come to a stop on the Eko bridge. The Eko was one of two ways onto the secured enclave of Lagos Island, and even the modified motorbikes couldn’t get through the packed traffic clogging it. The heavily guarded gates on the island side of the bridge were clogged by the jam of Lagosians who wanted on the island enclave. “He’s been calling for the last hour.”
Mamba jerked her head. “You talk to him.” She’d replaced her AR glasses and breather, part of her oyibos disguise that would prove valuable on the island enclave. For once, the damn disguise would come in useful: as a foreigner, she’d be able to get past the guards with few questions. Unfortunately, the Eko bridge was a heavy spam site. Clusters of garish ads—everything from bridgeside vendors selling palm wine to whores advertising their services—cluttering her view.
Pharisee made a rude noise. “What am I supposed to tell him?”
“Tell him the job’s screwed six ways to hell, that asshole Nubian stole the artifacts, and there’s no fucking way we can rob Lekan’s mansion with just the two of us. And I want my face back.”
Mamba heard Pharisee swear in Arabic, then suddenly a connection was opened in Mamba’s AR view, the Johnson’s very annoyed icon staring at her in the AR window. Behind the translucent man, Mamba saw the packed bridge and the crowds of Lagosians. Pharisee had done some techno thing to get all the spam to drop out of sight.
“Damn it, Pharisee,” Mamba muttered, as the AR image sprung to life in her view. “Stop hacking my ‘link.”
“Buy a better firewall,” Pharisee replied. Mamba snorted. “Sweet goddess, was that a laugh?” Pharisee asked.
“Black Mamba,” Mr. Johnson’s icon said. “I’ve been waiting for your report.”
“Well, fu—” Mamba felt Pharisee jab her in the ribs. She cleared her throat. “We’ve continued onto Lagos to finish the job, sir. I should have more to report later.”
“And the artifacts? My gift to the Yoruba king, to gain me admittance to his auction next month? You have them?”
“Ah,” Mamba stared straight through the translucent icon, to the gleaming highrises of Lagos Island. The land of promise for much of West Africa. “Unfortunately, we lost the trail on the artifacts. We’re exploring other options.”
“In other words, after you’d stolen them, someone else knocked you out, took the artifacts, and left you high-and-dry in the middle of the desert,” Pharisee interjected. “You want to tell him how I came to the rescue when those Apep goons realized you weren’t Dr. Madeira?”
Mamba gritted her teeth.
“Black Mamba, your reputation is excellent. I’d hate to find my trust in your abilities unwarranted,” Mr. Johnson replied. The warning was clear. In the shadows, you lived and died by your reputation.
“Understood,” Mamba replied. Mr. Johnson cut the connection. Mamba’s AR view was once again flooded with spam.
As they moved slowly through the traffic, Pharisee asked, “So, do you have a plan? Or are we really screwed?”
“Six ways to hell,” Mamba muttered.
• • •
She left Pharisee at a tiny park on the exclusive Victoria Island. The Egyptian woman would be safe enough there. Polite and well-armed guards patrolled the island enclave, and anyone bothering an oyibos woman would find themselves facing a squad of security goons. No one would bother her as she did her techno thing and hacked into the mansion of the Yoruba “ambassador” to Lagos. The very foreignness which made the women so vulnerable in the feral slums of mainland Lagos was a magic charm here. Even the air was cleaner, the streets made of well maintained pavement, the buildings sparkling with thousands of reinforced-glass windows.
A completely different world.
The mansion was in the quiet suburban area of Victoria Island. Masses of well-tended, flowering vines grew on every wall lining the streets in the upscale neighborhood, scenting the hot air with a sweet, floral fragrance that covered the stench of the city beyond. Vehicle traffic was light and orderly, pedestrian traffic heavier, but just as polite as they walked down sidewalks shaded by trees and vine-covered walls. The walls all stood two stories tall, pristine white showing beneath the thick greenery. Wide iron gates forged in fanciful designs were guarded by heavily armed men, sweat rolling down their impassive faces as they stood statue-still in the hot December sun, unaugmented eyes hidden by dark glasses. No AK-97s here; those were the guns of the slums, the gangers and the common masses. These guards—and by proxy, their masters—played a blatant game of one-upmanship. If one house was guarded by men with chromed Colt Cobra TZ-118 submachine guns, their neighbor would have upgraded HK Urban Combats with pearl handles and gold-alloy chasing. It was an arms race for the pampered wealthy, an amusing game, nothing more.
Black Mamba thought it was sickening.
The guards ignored her as she leisurely walked down the clean-swept sidewalks, passing within arms’ reach of them. She wore the perfect camouflage for the island enclave: an embedded RFID chip that proclaimed her ID, a commlink broadcasting a valid SIN—even if it wasn’t hers—and skin dyed chestnut, with a face shaped to mimic Sioux heritage. Had she looked like herself, they’d have watched her behind those dark glasses, and no doubt one or two island guards would have followed her as she meandered along the streets, ready to hassle her if she paused too long in any one spot.
Her AR glasses served a dual purpose, blocking the harsh sun while they displayed images. The map she’d bought for a thousand naira from a Festac Town hacker was displayed in her lower view, a birds-eye view of the streets she was navigating. There were lots of maps of Victoria Island available to purchase legally, but none of them listed who lived in each walled-off mansion. And none of them mentioned that Olabode Lekan lived behind the vine-covered walls of 12 Adua Street.
I’m in the system, Pharisee messaged Mamba, the text scrolling across her AR view. Cameras embedded in the walls. I can see you now. You forgot to brush your hair, by the way.
Mamba scowled, but ran a hand through the tangles. Luckily, Dr. Madeira had chosen a very short cut for her silky, black hair.
Six guards stood outside the wrought-iron gate at 12 Adua Street, each holding an Ares HVAR with military precision. The gate itself had a clever arrangement of garden-soil filled boxes attached to its base, supporting verdant twining vines, heavy with scarlet flowers, on the gate itself. It was an attractive way to block the only view into the inner courtyard from the street.
Mamba gritted her teeth and continued to walk down the street, pretending to admire the colorful flowers draping the walls. A flock of bright mini-parrots started to squawk in a tree two houses down from Lekan’s mansion. Mamba paused beside the tree, pretending to take a video of the birds with her commlink. Surreptitiously, she continued to scan Lekan’s walls, looking for a weak
ness.
Pharisee transmitted the inner view of the courtyard and mansion. Mamba saw a dozen more guards standing at attention inside the gates.
Looks impossible, the technomancer texted. Sensors in every wall. No drones, but I see where they’ve got some caged beasties. Probably use them to patrol at night.
“Shit,” Mamba muttered, staring back at the place. Olabode Lekan had the invitations to the auction in his mansion; she’d bought that information dearly enough. Goddamned physical invitations. Without the two ancient, sacrificial knives to buy his goodwill, they’d have to steal an invitation for their employer. Mamba analyzed the data Pharisee was sending her while she inspected the neighborhood, trying to find the weak point. She didn’t see one.
If she hadn’t had been watching so closely, she’d have missed the man standing a block down, watching the same gates. As it was, her gaze passed over him once before snapping back.
His face was mostly hidden behind oversized black glasses and a fashionable breather, but she recognized him from the cocky way he stood, the breadth of his shoulders under a bright red shirt. When he turned his head, the line of his skull, under the tightly braided rows of black hair, triggered her memory.
Pure rage had her taking a half-step towards him before cool logic overrode her instincts and had her turning away.
Slipping into a group of women, Mamba crossed the street and worked her way past where the Nubian stood, keeping him in her sight. Screw breaking into Lekan’s mansion. If Medjay was here, then perhaps the knives were, too. And if they weren’t, well, he’d know where they’d gone, wouldn’t he?
Mamba? Pharisee asked, Where are you going?
“I found someone who needs to die,” Mamba replied, baring her teeth.
What? Who? Mamba!
Mamba ignored the technomancer.
After a few more minutes, Medjay turned back down Adua, going towards the island’s busier commercial center. She shadowed him, using every bit of her skill and inborn abilities to blend into the crowds of shoppers and upscale residents. The Nubian wasn’t a beginner at this himself, and Mamba found herself reluctantly enjoying the challenge of shadowing a professional.
Eventually, he ended up on Anmadu Bello road, the main thoroughfare, where the streets were packed with residents and foreigners alike. When Medjay walked through the gleaming front doors of the Federal Palace hotel, Mamba paused at a street vendor selling iced drinks.
“I’m at the Federal Palace hotel, Pharisee,” Mamba told the technomancer. “I need you to hack the hotel.”
“I’m on my way,” Pharisee replied. “Don’t do anything stupid before I get there.”
The busy AR signage on Anmadu Bello overwhelmed Mamba’s view for a second, until she reset the stupid ‘link to weed out the spam. The frozen-drink vendor had a brightly colored menu available in AR; Mamba picked a frozen limeade and made the 5 nuyen transfer. Drink in hand, she settled down on a bench under a shade tree and pondered the hotel while waiting for Pharisee. To drink the iced limeade, she had to unclip her breather. The air was harsh, gritty from the hot Hamattan winds, carrying a faint hint of the stench of the lagoons: putrid vegetation, stagnant water, and rotting fish. The iced drink tasted like heaven by comparison. The hotel had several public AROs broadcasting and she began to browse them idly as she enjoyed her drink. The prices were high, as she’d expected for a hotel on the exclusive Victoria Island enclave, and the history was boring as hell. She browsed through the hotel’s amenities for a few minutes, clicking open panoramic AR views of various hotel suites and even the hotel’s layout. Security procedures looked standard, with MAD scanners at the front doors. Mamba sighed. When no one was watching, she slid off her forearm snap-blades and stowed them under a dense, flowering bush. Idiot wageslaves didn’t see a thing. Mamba had finished her drink by the time Pharisee arrived, the plump Egyptian woman puffing from the long walk and the heat.
“Are you in the hotel’s system?” Mamba asked her, as the woman stared longingly at the frozen drink stand. When the technomancer nodded, Mamba stood and strode up to the hotel. Pharisee reluctantly followed.
Armed men stood in a line by the front door, wearing snappy blue uniforms with gold pin striping and matching breathers. Even their Ares Alphas were the same bright blue; obviously someone’s idea of a well-coordinated security team. Mamba rolled her eyes as she stepped through the revolving door and into the blessedly cool lobby. Gold-veined marble floors were topped by plush blue carpets, while teak tables held massive urns of star-gazer lilies, their scent almost overpowering. Mamba looked around, didn’t see Medjay anywhere in the main lobby. She glanced casually into the dimly lit lounge to the left, but it was almost completely empty. She didn’t remember him as being the bar-type, anyway.
“What exactly are we doing here?” Pharisee asked.
“Human male, one-point-eight meters tall, black skin, black hair in braids. Red shirt over tan pants, silver breather, black glasses. Just came in a few minutes ago. Can you find him?” Mamba asked, scanning the lobby.
“Um…” Pharisee got that far-off look, the one Mamba associated with her hacking. “Mr. Marius Jay, room 804,” she said, after a few seconds. “Why?”
“Bastard’s the one who narcojected me at the Apep dig, stole the knives, and left me to take the blame,” Mamba muttered.
“The knives you’d just stolen yourself,” Pharisee pointed out, with a raised eyebrow. “After you’d killed Dr. Madeira and taken her place at the dig.”
“Details,” Mamba replied, waving her hand. “Let’s go.”
They didn’t have a pass for the elevators, but the doors still slid open when they approached. Normally, Mamba didn’t like working with other people. Still, a hacker—in this case, a technomancer—could be damn useful at times.
Medjay used to take care of the hacking when they’d worked together.
Pharisee directed the elevator to take them up to the eighth floor.
The hall was carpeted, the walls covered with brocaded wallpaper, gilt-edged mirrors reflecting the light from crystal wall sconces. Mamba sneered at the luxurious indulgences of the rich, blocking off any slight longing she might have otherwise felt. Luxury made you soft. Weak. Easy prey.
Room 804 had a wood-paneled door with a maglock. Mamba raised an eyebrow, and Pharisee shook her head.
“Are you planning on killing this guy now?” the technomancer asked, piping the question over Mamba’s ‘link and into her earpiece.
“Stop hacking my commlink,” Mamba replied. “And stand back when I open the door.”
Pharisee stared at the maglock, concentrating. Mamba tried to imagine Medjay, what he would do. Would he recognize her? With a different skin color and silky straight hair, her eyes hidden behind the dark glasses, most people wouldn’t see anything other than a Native American woman.
The Nubian wasn’t most people, however. Still, Mamba unclipped her breather and popped out her earpiece, then handed both items and her AR glasses over to Pharisee. The technomancer gave her a startled look.
The light on the maglock flicked from red to green. Mamba put her hand on the door knob, took a breath, then slammed the door open.
The Nubian was just coming out of the bathroom, and for one shocked second, he stared at the unfamiliar woman bursting into his room. The shock didn’t last. He had the same lightning quick reflexes she did. Hell, they’d gotten their synaptic boosters at the same clinic, at the same time. By the time Mamba was through the door, Medjay had dropped into a crouch, ready to engage.
She came at him cautiously. She prided herself on fighting with cold calculation, not hot rage. He didn’t have any weapons on him, unless they were hiding under the towel he’d tied around his waist.
Mamba’s own blades were tucked under a bush outside the hotel.
A matched fight, then.
Mamba acted first. She kicked out, spinning, her foot passing a hairsbreadth away from his face. Medjay sprung back, landing on his hands, his fee
t kicking out and hitting her in the thigh. Mamba took the hit and spun with it, using the momentum to snap a kidney punch at his exposed right side as he sprung forward and back onto his feet. He blocked her shot almost effortlessly, then snapped his left arm up barely in time to block a second jab.
“Dr. Madeira?” he said, puzzled, and Mamba felt her rage kick up, infuriated that he didn’t recognize her, hatred of her assumed face pouring out as she attacked him. Her cold calculation dissolved under her fury and impotence. She made a quick jab to his throat, which he blocked, using the motion to slam her shoulder. She fell back with the hit, using the energy to spin around him, punching at his face. He dodged left and back, coming up against the wall. Mamba’s momentum had her fist blowing past his face and into the wall, hard enough she felt the plaster crack. Her body slammed against his.
Pressed together for one startled moment, she felt Medjay tense, knew the moment he realized it was her.
She followed the revelation with a solid punch to the gut, but pressed so close, there was no real energy behind the blow. He slid out and away, spinning and swinging out a foot to crush her knee. She foiled him by throwing herself to the right almost too fast to see.
He countered with a lightning quick blow to her face. She jerked her head to the side, not quite quick enough, and his fist connected with her cheekbone, a burning sting of pain. She punched him solidly in the shoulder, but he turned with the blow, using the motion to twist her arm up and behind her, sliding his other hand down her free arm and pinning it, too. He jerked her close to him, her back pressed against his chest. His breath was hot against her aching cheek. For a heartbeat, two, they held the close embrace.
