Road Brothers: Tales from the Broken Empire was published 14 December 2015 by Amazon Digital Services LLC.[GdM]
The Nu-Thai Screwjob
GAV THORPE
22.38 Local Time
The ride to Sayam Towers takes us from near-slums to the glittering business district in just a few minutes, going through the whole spectrum of Nu-Thai life along the way. Go-go bars and strip joints in the basements and lower floors of half-kilometre-high tenements give way to restaurants, theatres, and then into the sky towers of the mega-rich. Needle-like phalluses with neon-lit glans compete with each other against the backdrop of a hexodesic atmodome: Nu-Thai’s prophylactic against the elements of a hostile world.
The streetwagon glides down a ramp toward the vendors’ entrance of Sayam Towers. For seven-hundred-and-fifty metres above us the glory of the SunstarRegusCorps’ executive entertainment division stands out in gold and white, the company logo holo-blazoned on the dark sky above while green and red lamps strobe into the air.
We’re expected, and the gate lowers at our approach, admitting us to a sub-level parking lot. I’m deposited outside an elevator, the doors already open. The inside is like a small foyer, decked tastefully in white marble and scarlet textiles. The doors slide shut and I’m carried up to... Whatever’s waiting for me up there.
Everything has been conducted over a synch-net, not a single manual operation or person involved. Their security system has to be fireproof and watertight, so someone has put in a lot of effort to get clearance. An inside job, it has to be.
The doors open, revealing a lavish buffet in full swing. In my overwhelmed state the sudden noise of chatter and the bright chandeliers overhead are an assault. Thai-ethno staff in skinsuits that leave nothing to the imagination waft around like leaves on a breeze, bringing and taking plates and glasses to thirty or more executive-types that are either sizing them up like cuts of meat or treating them like mobile furniture.
Most of the party-goers are white, over fifty, overweight. Some have the lean, slightly hunched look of body-modders, their core muscles not quite carrying their augmented mass properly. It’s why I’m a gym girl—you just can’t get the poise and gait right unless you go for serious mil-grade core implants. It’s probably why Ms Monotyama prefers my sort of look too.
She’s easy to find, an invisible shield of hierarchy separating her from the lesser beings craving her attention like moths around a star. Two others are allowed into her direct presence: a grey-haired, shrivelled Mandarin and an ebony attaché whose fake twenty-something face is as featureless as a neodeco sculpture, the studs of implants betraying high grade neuroware knitted beneath her scalp. The rest keep glancing in Monotyama’s direction, longing for just a look or smile to acknowledge them. They get nothing.
Ms Monotyama is physically stunning. Late forties, no treatments, perfect skin and bone structure from, an educated guess, a seventy-thirty mix of Sino-Caucasian ancestry. At least ten centimetres taller than me, her height definitely speaks of some European great-great-grandaddy or grandma. Elegant, refined, eyes like emeralds. Every cliché of a hot female oriental executive that ever appeared on a porn-feed.
If half of what’s been printed about her is true, she’s also smart, the kind that no amount of memory upgrades and surfware can replicate. Ruthless, too. Looking at her and the froth of white, cis-hetero privilege she’s risen above I can’t hold it against her despite the circumstance I’m in.
Brains and beauty backed by serious ambition, the pampered corporate ladder-climbers never stood a chance. No wonder she rules SunstarRegusCorps in all but name.
She looks in my direction. Her gaze parts the crowd like a laser, leaving nothing between me and her. The assembled execs look on with curiosity, hate and envy, wondering why a piece of downmarket sexmeat is suddenly gifted with an attentive moment.
She beckons and I obey, heels clicking on the marble floor as the party’s ambient volume dips. I’ve never felt so exposed, even when I’ve thrown myself onto a dance floor trying to hook a mark in front of thousands of stim-happy partygoers, or undressed in front of hulking body-modded egomaniacs who would tear me apart if they had just an inkling of what I was going to do.
Their judgement burrows into me more cleanly than x-rays or terrawaves, trying to pierce my datacore to work out how I fit into their narrow world.
But not from her, not from Monotyama. Her appraisal is far more delicate and considered than the simmering resentment and lust washing from the assembled executive corps. A hint of a smile, even.
Her appreciation makes everything even harder to bear.
It takes everything I have, all my will and strength to walk straight, to keep my head high and chin out, poised and elegant. I want to throw up. I have my hands clasped in front of me so that they don’t form fists or shake.
There’s no way this nightmare is going to end well, but I haven’t got a choice.
34 minutes earlier
Just as my mark is about to blow his wad, I make my move. Orgasmic joy blossoms across his synapses like Freeday fireworks, his neuronet opening up as easily as a cheap Nana Sphere kathoey. For a while I’d worried he wasn’t going to come at all, he’d been banging away for a good twenty minutes. It would be just my luck that he’d had some kind of everstiff or ejaculate inhibitors implanted. But now, good old Eric—or is it Erlich, or Heinrich? —shudders for a moment, eyes like dinner plates, and I activate the ultra-def substrate of his brainware.
I had spotted his cheap network implants on the crossmall three days before. Huawei 8500 series. Chinese export, low quality. Q-jumper, looking for the only thing his type look for on Nu-Thai. He would be halfway to the terminal and thinking about home before he found out anything was wrong. He couldn’t miss his transit—nobody wants to stay on Nu-Thai, we are all abandoned or unlucky or our accounts ran out of ‘stream’—and the authorities couldn’t give a crap for some offworlder sex tourist. A perfect screwjob.
Talk about a kid in a candy shop. Passwords, accounts details, synmails, all of it laid out in front of me in a stream of digital glory. It takes milliseconds, but in that moment of opening, of physical and mental release, poor Eric—pretty sure it’s Eric—hands me everything. Just as he took what he wanted from me, I take back all I want from him. I don’t strip him bare. I’m not an asshole. I leave him a few thousand bytes to get by, shunting the rest through a succession of data caverns and a bit of Swiss architecture I picked up from Kevin the Dolphin.
‘That’s it, stud, give it to me,’ I moan as I ride the last few drops out of his rapidly diminishing cock.
I step off him and the bed before I eject the vaginal sheath. He looks at me, surprised, as the molecule-thin lining slaps to the tiled floor, spilling his precious seed across the ceramic.
‘What do you have that for?’ he says. ‘Are you a pro? I ain’t paying for it!’
I wonder what sort of ego he has, that a fat, balding fifty-something thinks he can come to Nu-Thai and get some action for free. He’s going to be wishing he’d dropped a kilobyte or two on one of those skinny workers.
‘No worries, stud,’ I tell him, slipping back into my orange all-in-one. His eyes follow my hands as I smooth the skintight fabric over my curves. Curves I’ve worked hard for—no subdermal layering or corset-like interstitial tightening in this body. Gym time and good eating, surprisingly effective and cheaper once you get going. ‘I’ve got everything I need.’
I sit on the end of the bed and pull on black calf-length boots, ignoring Eric as he flops out of the pay-by-the-hour motel cot. Still thirty minutes on the clock but no point hanging around.
I scoped a taxi-port on the eighteenth floor earlier, and I already have my downgrid package ready to offload the moment I can hit a hard station. Twenty minutes from now I’ll be in the wilds and in the clear.
The door explodes inward, splinters from the frame and pieces of molten lock spraying across the room. A giant, snow-skinned blond amazon in black-and-red p
artial body armour steps in, the Securecorp logo golden on her chest, just above a smaller Okura/ Taisei Corporation kanji. There’s a heavy pistol on her belt and a shock-wand in her hand.
‘I thought this was legit! I didn’t pay a byte!’ Eric proves once again that he’s an idiot. Prostitution is not only legal on Nu-Thai, it’s taxed... His second mistake is making a bolt for the door.
Steroid-carved muscles bunch beneath anti-bullet weave as the enforcer thrusts, the flat of her hand connecting with Eric. The blow sends him spinning back onto the bed, a red handprint forming on his flabby chest.
I play it cool, eyeing the enforcer’s muscles.
‘I think your night just got even more interesting, stud,’ I say to Eric.
‘Chemically celibate on duty,’ a deep voice says from the corridor outside. ‘She’s not interested in either of you.’
The man that steps into view is below average height, no taller than me, with an almost pitch-black complexion that immediately puts me in mind of the Axum Belt settlements, but his face is clear of tattoos and piercings. His clothes are non-descript, shirt and trousers, nothing different from what the glorious Eric might wear at work on a hot day, but his eyes are pure silver.
It’s the eyes that give him away, a telesynch, an instant before my head explodes with noise and images.
It comes as a blur at first: a child, six years old, her birthday party. She seems vaguely familiar, I don’t know why. Then the scene rewinds, a montage of her getting younger and younger. A piercing flame jets through my cortex. I’m standing on the steps of the Nevermind clinic, having my last moment of panic before the adoption appointment. The child looks at me with her beautiful green eyes. The child. I never even gave her a name.
It all becomes clear, as does my vision. The telesynch turns off his full spectrum state-of-the-art transmission matrix, dropping me back in the room.
‘ ‘My... daughter?’ I take a breath. And another. It doesn’t calm my racing heart. ‘Who... Where is she? What happened?’
‘If you want her to live, listen,’ he tells me. His silver eyes move onto Eric staring up from a foetal position on the bed. I see a tiny flare of power. Eric slumps.
I take a step as blood starts pouring from his ears and nostrils.
‘He’s already dead,’ the telesynch says abruptly. ‘As well as your daughter being killed, you will be a wanted felon in three minutes if you do not comply absolutely with my demands.’
I nod dumbly. The telesynch turns and walks out of the room, the enforcer waits for me to follow. I fall into place with the amazon close behind.
‘My name is Ebn Melek. I am a representative of FedGov.’
‘The pro-democracy terrorists?’
Melek laughs but I don’t share his humour.
‘That’s what the media corporations would have you believe.’ He stops at the elevator and looks at me. His eyes have returned to their normal colour, the nanos dropping away to leave a warm, deep shade of brown. A lot less intimidating until I remember what he’s just said and done. ‘We are the last vestiges of non-capitalist power in the colonies. But there’s no time for a history lesson.’
The elevator arrives and we get in. Melek says nothing. He glances up at the video stud in the corner of the ceiling. I feel the outward edge of an EMP surge as my dampeners kick in and there’s a spark from the device.
‘As I was saying, we do not have a lot of time. At the Sayam Towers executive apartments a person of interest to my organisation is about to deliver a speech to a collection of high level corporate officers from nearly two dozen of the largest colony-rapers around.’ He says the words in a matter-of-fact way, but there’s an edge just beneath. This isn’t just a professional arrangement for him.
I’m trying to concentrate on what he’s saying, trying not to think about having a daughter and what that means.
‘How does an underground movement afford a telesynch?’
‘With something other than bytes,’ Melek replies, his gaze fixed on the tarnished doors of the elevator. ‘My companion, the capable Mrs Stuttgartner, will escort you to the amenities where we have arranged for you to employ your specific charms and skills to access the contents of Chief Financial Officer Monotyama’s junk-syn. Once you have inloaded the data, Mrs Stuttgartner will bring you back to me.’
‘Wait, what? Monotyama, CFO at SunstarRegusCorps? She pretty much runs that corporation. I’m not going to get anywhere near her. And even if I can, there’s no way she’s going to have an outmoded data collection inport for me to exploit. And even if my homemade tech could work, my experience is purely hetero. And...’ I cock a glance at the burly enforcer. ‘Mrs Stuttgartner?’
‘For sure, honig,’ she replies with a wink. ‘You think a heavyweight gunplatformer gets what he wants from a stick-thin Muschi like you?’
‘Yes, we will get you next to Ms Monotyama,’ replies Melek, darting an irritated glance at the both of us. ‘Yes, you are just her type. She prefers athletic, petite, non-augmented flesh. Female, obviously. I’m sure you can improvise on that front. And as for how you’re going to get what we want, that’s what this is for.’
His eyes turn silver again and my brain tears apart under the assault of his drillcoding. It lasts half a second, less, but is worse than the most intense post-implant migraine I’ve ever suffered. I drop to one knee, panting.
Inside the homemade data-corer I use to glean the account details of my marks there is now a small package. I take a peek, marvelling at the simple reverberating code inside. It’s beautiful, far more streamlined than anything I could ever afford. In fact, so streamlined it can only have one purpose.
‘This was made for me, for this moment, for her?’ The nausea subsides and I stand up. ‘How long have you been planning this?’
‘We have been following you for four years. There were possibilities, potential scenarios in which you would be useful. I’ve given you an Archimedean, designed specifically for you to get into the target’s junk-syn. Just open her up as usual, it’ll do the rest.’
‘You’re a freaking telesynch! Why do you need me at all?’ I jerk a thumb at Stuttgartner. ‘If truck-hips here can get me in, why not you? Just take what you need.’
‘Apart from the obvious lack of deniability and distance should anything go amiss, my involvement is not subtle. We want Ms Monotyama to remain oblivious to any intrusion.’
Looking at Melek and Stuttgartner, I know I’m screwed, and there won’t be a payday for this one. I think of Eric and then my daughter, whoever and wherever she is. At least they don’t want me to kill anyone. It’s just a job, I tell myself, but can’t help feel scared and angered by everything going on. That won’t do. I need to be level-headed.
‘Steal her junk-syn, that’s all? Why?’
He answers with a blank stare.
The elevator chimes and the doors open, revealing the lobby. A movement from Stuttgartner encourages me to step out, just a pace in front of her. The elevator hisses closed behind us, taking Melek with it.
Escorted by the private contractor, I walk to the entrance. The reception area is conspicuously empty, and the desk isn’t manned.
‘Was it necessary to kill Eric?’ I ask as the door slides open.A streamlined black streetwagon with mirrored windows idles in the pick-up bay outside.
‘Derek Thompson-Bagget the Third,’ Stuttgartner replies, ‘was a complete kackfass of the highest order. He made two terabytes on his shares by cutting costs on a production line on Abyssinia-Delta. Heat shields, who needs them, hey? Thirty-eight workers died, but no compensation was paid. Don’t shed any tears for him.’
‘You too, huh? An idealist?’
The wagon door gull-wings open as she approaches. The synthetic leather and mock-walnut interior is empty.
‘There are more around than you might think,’ Stuttgartner says and ushers me inside.
22.40 Local Time
Ms Monotyama’s attendants depart without a word, leaving me alone wit
h her. Everything has gone silent, all I can hear is the thud of my heart and the soft exhalation of SunstarRegusCorps’ de facto queen. It’s not just my imagination, I realise. There is an actual desonic field in effect, cutting out all the worthless chit-chat from the peons.
‘What is your name?’ she asks, just a hint of native Japanese in her accent.
‘Emelia,’ I reply without hesitation. It’s one of several aliases I have set up for my work, with enough net-persona to seem legit to all but a full security sweep. It’s just a job, I tell myself. Just a job. A mark, like the others.
But I didn’t choose her and I don’t like what’s at stake. Melek’s using me more than any of those worthless desk-humpers I take for a ride.
My gut is a knot but the reflex of several years of looking enthusiastic while sweating execs ram their stuff into me experience kick in and I fake a smile.
She leads me into an adjacent room, through a door flanked by two augmented rent-a-goons in the same uniform as Mrs Stuttgartner. I have no idea if they are part of the scheme or not and don’t give them a second glance.
I was expecting some tricked-out sex chamber, or at least a bed, but the room is actually for storage—stacked chairs and broken down trestle tables against one wall, floor-to-ceiling cupboard doors on the other two. She notices my surprise.
‘I like improvisation, spontaneity. Call me Hiromi.’
I size her up, trying to figure out what I need to do. With men it’s easy—just let them put themselves inside and they do all the heavy lifting. This is unknown territory, and the more I consider the consequences of failure the less I can think straight.
An idea fights its way out of the static in my head. She’s the most powerful woman in one of the most successful trans-stellar operations going. Inside she’s not much different to the lecherous execs I fleece every week. In their world you don’t survive if you’re different.
Grimdark Magazine Issue #7 MOBI Page 6
