That was easier said than done, of course. The sound channel of news broadcasts is always electronically enhanced, with added supersonics, so that it insinuates itself into your brain. A ratings-garnering trick, of course, making it more difficult to switch off or change channels. The video feed behind the blonde changed from the standard, pro-smooth shots of carnage and chaos to a more arresting image. We were looking down on the nighttime cityscape of Seattle. From the vibration and the way the perspective shifted, I knew the camera must be aboard a high-speed aircraft, maybe a small helicopter. It reminded me of war coverage. I started to pay more attention.
"And now, a KONG exclusive," the bottle-blonde was saying. "Last night, a KONG remote-camera crew rode along with an emergency response vehicle operated by Crashcart."
Oho. I sat up. Crashcart was a new entry on the metroplex scene, but the company had taken only a couple of months to make its presence felt with a vengeance. They were in direct competition with DocWagon, the emergency extraction and medical service, and were doing surprisingly well. Some of their success was due to wooing clients away from DocWagon with lower rates or attracting new subscribers who couldn't pay the other company's tab. But mostly it was due to their special "guerrilla marketing" tactics. All roving Crashcart vehicles carried scanners tuned to the same channels as DocWagon's receivers. Later, as DocWagon started encrypting their transmissions, the scanners were coupled with the appropriate decoding gear. Whenever a DocWagon vehicle got a High-Threat Response call-say, somebody went down in what some media wags call the DMZ, or Downtown Militarized Zone-the nearest Crashcart vehicle would tag along. Crashcart would always let the DocWagon trauma team make the first extraction attempt. If the DocWagon team got themselves geeked or had to abandon a particularly hot extraction, only then would Crashcart go in and try to do better. In nearly a dozen cases, Crashcart had been able to pull the victim out after DocWagon had failed. What made it worse for DocWagon was that three of those extractions had been top-tier "corporate suits holding DocWagon Super-Platinum contracts.
Understandably, quite a few other Super-Platinum clients were wavering in their devotion to DocWagon.
After all, if you're paying 75,000 nuyen a year, you expect the best. Some had already made the switch to Crashcart.
Sure, DocWagon mouthpieces were screaming that the whole thing was a set-up, that Crashcart was hiring street thugs to shoot the drek out of DocWagon vehicles and then pull a quick fade when the Crashcart buggies arrived. But they had no proof. Crashcart didn't even bother to deny it. They just kept blasting the airwaves with their slogan: "Why go with the first when you can go with the best?"
The bottle-blonde on the screen was still talking. "Around midnight last night, the vehicle carrying the KONG crew picked up a DocWagon High-Threat Response call. The broadcast identified the victim as Daniel Waters, a newsman and trideo personality with a minor local station."
Minor local station? That was a hoot. Like just about everyone else in the plex, I knew Waters' name, and could easily visualize the avuncular half-smile that was his trademark. He was the top anchorman for KOMA, the local ABS affiliate, and definitely not a minor player. In fact, most people in the sprawl seemed to rate Waters as a source of Truth, perhaps one small step below god almighty, and he had the ratings to prove it. "In accordance with Crashcart's mandate," the talking head went on, "the vehicle carrying the KONG crew stayed clear while the DocWagon trauma team made its extraction attempt.
After that, well . . ."-she smiled almost broadly enough to swallow her ears-"the pictures tell their own story."
The video "window" that had first appeared behind the blonde expanded until it filled the whole screen, blotting out her image. Simultaneously, the metroplex night-scape pulled back as the cameraman adjusted his zoom lens. For the first time, I could see enough of the aircraft's interior to identify it as a Merlin, smaller cousin of the tilt-wing Osprey II, similar in design to the Federated Boeing Commuter. I could also see that the camera was pointing out the open door on the starboard side of the craft. There was a hulking shape to the right of the image, but not enough light to make it out.
I wasn't interested in what was inside the Merlin, anyway. All the action was outside.
The Merlin was less than three hundred meters up, orbiting above one of the small parks that dot the east side of Downtown. (And that turn into killing grounds for pedestrians after dark. If Daniel Waters had wandered in there, he deserved everything he got.) Another craft hung in the air over the trees and brush.
It was a single-rotor Hughes WK-2 Stallion, slightly larger than a Merlin. The flashes from the helo's anti-collision strobes illuminated the DocWagon logo on its flanks.
The Stallion was trying to put down, but it couldn't find a safe spot. The darkness in the park was alive with large-caliber muzzle flashes and evanescent fire-flowers that could only come from heavy-duty autofire weapons. Impacting rounds struck blue-white sparks against the Stallion's armor.
The DocWagon trauma team wasn't taking any of it lying down. I could see the flames of answering fire from the helo's gunports. But the targets on the ground had concealment on their side, while the Stallion was a big hovering target. On top of that, it was obvious that the DocWagon team was heavily outgunned.
The final outcome wasn't in doubt, and it came quickly. A shot from the ground must have found a vital spot, because the helo bucked wildly and smoke poured from its port-engine housing. The sound of the Merlin's twin engines drowned out all else, but I could imagine the banshee wail as the Stallion's starboard turbojet fought to take the strain.
The Doc Wagon trauma team were hosed, and they knew it. Still bucking wildly, the Stallion clawed for altitude, then sideslipped away from the park.
The Crashcart team responded even before the helo was out of the area, and they did so with almost military precision. The motor noise changed as the Merlin's wings pivoted and the craft dropped like a stone toward the park. The night lit up again as the gunmen on the ground opened up on the new threat.
That was when I learned what was the hulking shape to the right of the video image. A dazzling beam of light split the darkness, looking for all the world like a death ray from an old science-fiction movie. My telecom's small speaker rattled with a noise like a giant canvas tearing or maybe King Kong farting, a colossal ripping that went on and on. The beam swept over the ground, and I could see trees and bushes bursting into splinters as it touched them.
For a moment, I felt sorry for the gunmen on the ground. The shape in the Merlin had to be a 7.62mm minigun, probably the GE M134, a Gatling-gun style weapon with a rate of fire up in the thousands of rounds per minute. Typically, one out of every six or eight shots was a "lit" round, a tracer. And even that minority was enough to make the stream of fire look like a solid bar of light.
There were a few muzzle-flashes as the gunmen shot back, but not many. Nobody in his right mind engages a minigun.
Everything jounced as the Merlin put down, hard. The cameraman panned quickly to the other side of the vehicle, just in time to catch a squad of four armed and armored figures leaping out the other door into the darkness. The cameraman moved, trying to follow, but another bulky figure rose up to block his way.
The image panned back to the port door.
The minigunner had stopped his continuous fire, and was now engaging targets of opportunity. Glare from the muzzle plume was bright enough to effectively blind the video camera, making it impossible to discern the targets. The gunner must have had flare-compensated optics, or he'd have been flash-dazzled himself. I couldn't see any return fire. Either the gunmen were all dead, or they'd headed off for safer pastures.
There was another jolt, and the Merlin was in the air again. Belatedly, the cameraman panned over to the other side. The armed squad was back aboard, and with them was a body-shaped bundle cocooned in ballistic cloth. The image zoomed in, and the familiar face of Daniel Waters filled the screen. His short gray hair was matted with blood
, and his skin looked like old parchment.
The image froze, then retreated back to become a video window behind the buxom blonde. "Another successful extraction by Crashcart," she. cooed, "and another KONG exclusive." Her multi-megawatt smile faded, to be replaced by a look of concern about as authentic as her cleavage. "Good luck to you, Daniel," she said, with a slight catch in her voice. "You know we're all rooting for you." Like drek.
The telecom chirped, announcing an incoming call and giving me an excuse to turn off the trid. I hit the appropriate keys and the blonde vanished, to be replaced by the face of Naomi Takahashi. From the out-of-focus background, I knew she was placing the call from a public street phone. A flashing icon in the top-left of the screen confirmed she had the hush-hood down. I assumed she also had the screen polarization set so that only she could view what was on it. Seeing she'd taken the appropriate precautions, I hit the key that turned on my own video pickup.
Naomi smiled as my face appeared on her display, but it was a worried smile. So she knew what was going down, at least some of it. Her first words confirmed it. "You're in a pretty sweet frame, chummer.
Got any new enemies I haven't heard about?"
I chuckled. "Just a redhead with a gun," I told her. "Nothing unusual." My smile faded, down to business. "Talk to me about Lolita Yzerman," I said. "What's the Star saying?"
Naomi sobered instantly. "Not much," she said. "They're keeping a tight lid on it. Kurtz is in charge."
That was bad news. Mark Kurtz. I remembered that miserable fragger from my training days, and I was sure he also remembered me. Kurtz bad been one of the primary reasons I'd skipped out, and I'd made sure he knew it. The man was a hard-driver and as tenacious as a pit bull. Once he was onto a lead, nothing-including the facts-would distract him. "I suppose I'm the prime suspect, right?" I asked. "Chummer, you're the only suspect." I digested that for a moment. Then I asked, "Aren't you going to ask me if I did it?"
She didn't dignify that with an answer. "I take it you're not at home."
"You take that right." So Kurtz was on the case, and they had the lid screwed down tight. "Well, thanks a lot, Naomi. I know you're sticking your neck out."
"Null perspiration," she said with a grin. "So I guess you don't want to scan the report, huh?" She waved an optical chip before the video pickup.
I goggled at it for a moment, then grinned. Friends like Naomi don't come along very often. Maybe once in a lifetime, if you're lucky. I worried for a moment about the risk she'd taken, then had to dismiss the twinges. For one thing, it was already done. For another, I think Naomi knew more about the Lone Star records computer than the designer.
"So, do you want it?" she teased.
I laughed. "Slot and run, lady. The Star's not paying you to waste cycles out of the office."
"You got that," she agreed. "Here it comes." As her video image slotted the chip into the phone's socket, I instructed my telecom to open a file to receive the data. The machine beeped and chortled happily for a couple of seconds as it digested the upload, then flashed completion. I keyed a verification routine, and telecom and chip conferred over whether the arrival corresponded to what had been sent. A second or two later, confirmation appeared on the panel.
"Got it chipped, chummer," I told her. "Arigato ga-taimashta. I owe you."
She waved that off. "Keep your head down, Dirk," she said seriously. "Knowing Kurtz, he'll see this as a chance to clear the board where you're concerned. Geek first, then fingerprint the corpses, you know what I mean?"
I nodded.
"And then there's the guy that put you in the frame in the first place," she went on.
"You got any idea who?"
"Maybe after I scan the report. Not now."
"Yeah, well. . ." She was looking worried again, so I gave her my best confident, roguish smile. It didn't feel convincing from my side of it, but Naomi seemed to buy it. Her brow smoothed, and her eyes sparkled again. "Okay, I'm gone. Keep in touch, omae. Neh?"
"You got that," I promised. "Head down." I gave her another rebel smile and cut the connection. As soon as her image vanished, so did my smile. Except for the part about Kurtz, it wasn't that Naomi had told me anything I didn't already know, but our conversation had brought home to me the reality of what was going down. X, whoever he/she/it was, had already tried once to get me out of the way. Why not a second time? And Kurtz would be glad to help him out, then arrest my corpse. Ah, well, another day in the shadows.
I pulled my chair closer to the telecom screen, bringing up the file Naomi had transferred. I recognized the standard Lone Star file-header and grinned. Naomi wasn't one to do things by halves. Instead of just scamming bits and pieces, she'd taken the whole fragging file. I started the data scrolling and began to read.
I saw immediately that Naomi was right. I was in a sweet frame.
The first part of the report dealt with the on-site investigation, which was basically just as Jocasta had described it. Lolita had been found lying face-up just inside the door of her forty-eighth-floor luxury apartment, a big nasty hole blown in her forehead. The hole was star-shaped, the report said, which equated to a contact wound: the gun barrel was touching her when the shot was fired, and the expanding gases had torn the delicate skin of her face. The door was unlocked, with no sigh of forced entry. Nor did any evidence indicate that the body had been moved. The reconstruction was simple. Somebody had come to the door, someone Lolly had known and trusted enough to open the door to. The killer had stepped inside, stuck a gun up against Lolly's face, and blown the brains out the back of her pretty blonde head. Time of death was estimated at between 2000 and 2020 hours on November 17.
I stopped the scrolling and sat back. The language of the report was factual, clinically unemotional, making it easy for the reader to pretend that it was all an intellectual exercise. Which is just how it was intended. But every now and then the ugly reality would squeeze its way through the facts. A young, promising life had been chopped short. The irreplaceable individual who had been Lolita Yzerman now existed only in the memories of those who'd cared for her.
I rubbed at my eyes, which were watering a little from the strain of staring at the screen, then restarted the automatic scrolling.
The Lone Star detectives had done all the usual stuff: accessed the call log on Lolly's telecom, reviewed the video record of her apartment building's lobby camera, strong-armed her financial institution into releasing her banking records. A couple of key points caught my eye. According to the call log, Lolly had placed a voice-and-yid call to my LTG number on Saturday, November 16, just short of midnight. The call hadn't been archived, but I knew it was the message she'd left on my machine, asking for help.
Although the log did not mention my name, nobody's better than Lone Star at tracking down an LTG. That was the first strand that tied me to Lolly's death.
Next, the security camera's record. At 2011, on Sunday the 17th, a figure wearing a long duster and a hat pulled down to screen his face, entered the lobby and took the elevator up to the forty-eighth floor. At 2014 hours, the figure reappeared and left the building. That was just long enough to ride the high-speed elevator up, buzz Lolly's door, geek the blonde, and ride back down again. But there was more. As the figure opened the front door, a gust of wind shifted the hat-brim enough for the camera to catch at least part of his face. I stared at a freeze-frame of the recorded image for a few minutes. Either I had an identical twin brother-a murderous twin brother-or X the killer was magically active. The face caught by the video camera was mine. The second strand was in place.
Finally, Lolly's financial records. Her banking behavior was chaotic, to say the least. She made big nuyen and spent big nuyen, and didn't seem to grasp the concept of "minimum balance." But there was a pattern there, and the Star had quickly picked it out. Over the last nine months, she'd made twelve sporadic deposits, each one exactly 10,000 nuyen and all from the same source. And that source was . . .? Three guesses, and the first two don't co
unt. That was the third strand, interwoven with the other two to form a rope. And the rope formed a noose.
A very pretty frame.
Okay, I knew I wasn't guilty, and I knew how it had all been done. Illusion magic can fool cameras, which would explain my face on the security video. Bank computer systems are pretty secure, but some of the deckers running the Matrix could hack a transmission log without even breaking a sweat, especially if nobody was ever going to withdraw the "funds" I'd supposedly deposited. And the phone call to me? Well, that was legitimate, and a pure bonus for X. The way it looked Lolly had called me to put on the screws for another 10K nuyen. I'd responded by dropping over and rearranging her cranial architecture.
Sure, I could figure all this out. But my deductions were based on the fact that I knew I didn't flatline Lolly. Without that key datum? Lone Star would be after me with everything they had.
Time for logic. How could they track me? Some obvious ways first. Like my LTG number.
Theoretically, it's a simple task for a drek-hot decker or for the telephone company itself to cross-reference an LTG number with the phone's physical location. (I'm talking plugged-into-the-wall telecoms here, not portables.) Based on that, Lone Star should already be visiting my Auburn doss.
Luckily, it's not that simple. Buddy, the decker benefactor who supplied my slave utility, also beat the location problem. As far as the LTG self-diagnostics and search routines are concerned, my LTG number doesn't exist any more. It did exist, but was canceled a couple of hours before the trace attempt was made . . . whenever the trace attempt is made. As far as the connection routines go, the number's perfectly on the up-and-up. Wiz, huh? And I don't even have to pay a phone bill. (Okay, okay, I know it doesn't seem to make much sense. But remember how compartmentalized big computer systems are. And how much operators-and even corporate deckers-trust the diagnostics. Ah, the wonders of our digital age . . .)
How else could the Star get a line on me? SIN, maybe? But I don't have one. Driver's license, bank accounts, medical plans? Either I don't have them or else they're associated with SINs that aren't mine.
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