by Anthology
Cayman turned to Alex.
"What happened? Who was that?"
Alex watched the short, rag-draped man flee with the arm while his stomach dropped to his ankles. He had recognized the face as soon as he saw it, once the Toad fell.
"His name is Cassowary," Alex said. "I was drinking with him last night."
Thursday, 12:15 am
Cassowary wasn't going to stop running until he met his fence. The transaction should only take a minute – drop off the arm, get a credstick loaded with 50,000 Nuyen. Far less than the actual worth of the arm, but the best he could do considering the way he got the item. Still, it was enough to keep Cassowary happy for a good long while.
He didn't look over his shoulder. The wind whistled through the dozens of holes in his moth-eaten clothes. He knew Alex and his crew would be following him. Looking back would just slow him down. All he had to do was get to the fence first.
Tires squealed. Something was approaching from behind, quickly. The empty streets made him an obvious target. He had to get somewhere more public, where there might be a crowd to get lost in.
He ducked around a corner as a few pistol shots whizzed over his head. The car made the turn after him, but Cassowary had already reversed himself, running back down the street he'd just came from. Halfway down the next block, he ran through a geyser of steam into an alley. The car pursuing him hadn't been able turn around in the narrow street and get back in time to see where he went. He might have just bought himself some time.
Cassowary's breathing was labored. The arm was quite heavy – and, in its current state, almost useless as a weapon. Two minutes ago, this arm had made Burt the Toad the most feared Yakuza enforcer in town. Now, it was little more than an awkward club – but a club worth 50,000 Nuyen.
Cassowary ran through alleys as long as he could, only coming out to cross streets. He saw a few cars and street people, but no one gave him a second look.
After four blocks, he hit Novelty Hill Road, not far from Touristville. The farther west he went, the more foot traffic there'd be, the easier it would be for him to blend and disappear. He started to relax, but still ran. A few people looked at him, but then quickly looked away.
A screech of tires from behind him got his attention. He looked over his shoulder, trying to see what kind of car it was, but he couldn't see anything past the wide, glaring headlights.
He didn't want to leave Novelty Hill Road, but the car bearing down on him left him little choice. He veered right as soon as he could.
The car reached the intersection and kept going straight. It was a different car. It wasn't after him.
Cassowary was so relieved he almost slowed to a jog. He could take a left at the next street and get back on track.
Just as the last moment of a sigh of relief floated off his lips, a car ahead of him flashed its lights on, gunned its engine, and surged toward him. It was a taxi.
He didn't hesitate. He held the arm in front of him and ran forward at full speed. He knew his pursuers wanted the arm intact. He knew what they'd do.
At the last minute, the taxi wheeled sharply and hit the brakes, screeching its tires. Cassowary leapt, slid across the hood, then fell onto the street. He was on his feet again almost instantly. He'd feel the bruises tomorrow, but he'd have plenty of cash for painkillers.
He was into an alley again, hoping the taxi didn't see him. This time, though, he wasn't so lucky. The screech of tires followed him immediately.
Cassowary cursed his legs as he pumped them. The car drew closer, Cassowary could hear it, but he didn't look back. Two hundred more feet, then 150, then 100, he'd make it to the other end of the alley and have space to maneuver.
The blow to his back made him think he'd been hit by a cannonball. It caught him squarely between the shoulder blades and he tumbled. He clutched the Toad's arm tightly, protecting it with his body. The pavement tore several holes in his skin as he rolled across it.
When he finally stopped, he tried to get his legs moving, but it felt like he had a two hundred pound weight sitting on top of him. He was stuck, his left shoulder in a shallow puddle, in an alley with 50 years of grime smeared on the pavement. He twisted his neck and saw that the weight was a man with close cropped silver hair, a square jaw, and deep scars beneath grey eyes. His face looked quite angry – until he grinned.
"Got a next move?" he asked.
Cassowary couldn't have struggled if he tried without losing his grip on the arm, which would have made any struggle pointless. He lay silently. He could feel each individual bruise on his body pop up, one by one, as the adrenaline slowly faded. It hurt.
Behind the silver-haired man, X-Prime, the guy from the bar last night, appeared. He didn't look happy.
"Stay back, Alex," the silver-haired man said without turning around. "I'm taking care of this."
"I just wanted…"
"I know what you wanted. But you're not fixing anything right now. Stay back."
X-Prime frowned. But he stayed back.
Cassowary wasn't sure if he should to close his eyes to brace himself for the end or leave them open so he could see it coming. He decided to leave them open.
"First things first," the silver-haired man said. Moving quickly for a man of his build, the silver-haired man jerked the arm away from Cassowary and handed it to a slender, serene-looking woman behind him. "Get that secured, Spindle," he said. The woman took it back to the taxi. The silver-haired man still hadn't moved his eyes off Cassowary.
"Now," he said. "Here's what we'll do with you."
Cassowary grimaced. Why'd they always have to talk about what they were going to do? Why not just do it? Shoot him, hit him, run over him, whatever, just do it. He hated the talking.
"I'll give you 500 Nuyen," the silver-haired man said.
Cassowary blinked. He thought about what the silver-haired man said. Then he blinked again.
"Is that fair?"
Cassowary's tongue, one of the few muscles he had that wasn't bruised, found a way to work. "What… what for?"
"For your trouble. For giving the arm up without further difficulty. I don't blame you for what you did – I would've done the same, if someone was stupid enough to leak the information to me." X-Prime opened his mouth, but a quick hand gesture from the silver-haired man shut it again. "It's my way of saying 'no hard feelings.' Okay?"
Cassowary couldn't resist. "I was going to get 50,000 for it.'
The silver-haired man pressed the nozzle of his gun deep into Cassowary's temple, right on a bruise. Cassowary winced.
"You were also going to be shot in the head, if Leadhead or Spindle got to you first."
"500 is fine," Cassowary gasped. "Great."
Thursday, 3:35 am
Cayman had told Alex there was one more stop before he'd call the job done. Alex half-expected – more than half, really – that the last stop involved him, the Snoqualmie River, and a significant quantity of concrete. He didn't ask where they were going, or any other question, since Cayman hadn't responded well to any remarks from him except to say that the 500 Nuyen for Cassowary was coming from Alex's portion of the money for the job.
They walked through a weathered wooden doorway beneath a burnt-out neon sign. A few patrons sat around a bar that was a piece of plywood lying across stacked plastic buckets. Most of the customers were asleep. A bartender watched trideo in the back, waiting for someone to wake up and place an order.
Suddenly, Cayman started talking. "You should've known this already. Duster should've told you. I don't like having to play teacher, but here it is. You take in as much information as you can get. You give out as little as possible. You make sure what you're getting is good and complete. You understand?"
"Yeah."
"Yeah, yeah, until you get drunk again. Let me show you something." He pulled out a knife, not quite as honed as the Cougar fineblades on Alex's cutters, but still plenty sharp. Alex reflexively tightened his abdominal muscles, as if that could hinder the bla
de.
Cayman raised the blade, whirled it a half turn in his hand, and spiked it down into the hand of a man slumped at a nearby table. The man screamed, raising his head. It was Doc Holiday.
No one else in the bar moved.
Cayman turned to Holiday and waited patiently for the screams to subside into whimpers. Then he spoke.
"You were supposed to give me complete specs on the arm," he said evenly. "It would have been nice to know about the retractable knife." He glanced down at the knife sticking straight up, embedded in the table beneath the man's hand. "Knives you don't know about can be a problem." He turned and walked out. Alex tried to make a gesture that said "I'm sorry, I had no idea we were coming to stab you, perhaps I could have done something about it had I known," then followed Cayman out.
Cayman was in mid-sentence, resuming his lecture to Alex. "… foolish enough to work with you again. Information is food. Eat all you can and only crap out what's bad. Keep the good stuff inside."
Then he let Alex go home.
FRENCH TOUCH
by Anthony Bruno
August, Saturday 11th 2063 – 02:35
The night was as dark as coal but the freeway was well lit, and the Eurocar Westwind was speeding up to a hazardous 150 kph on the Autoroute-50. The driver would have been glad to push the pedal to the metal, but the French Gendarmerie had built a reputation on clamping down heavily on highway jockeys; there had been too many frenzied riggers on the French Riviera roads in previous years, wreaking havoc among the sometimes dense traffic. It wasn't good for France's image, and repulsed tourists.
Except that for now, Laurent Artaud didn't give a frag. He was fleeing from enemies that concerned him far more than the police, driving via the sports car's virtual dashboard, jacked in the onboard computer. He was tired, but at least he didn't have to hold the wheel. For the hundredth time he tried to call Celine or Nolwenn, to no avail.
He was now leaving behind him the war harbor of Toulon, which was sheltering most of France's naval fleet. Above the dark waters of the Mediterranean Sea, lights were twinkling as helicopters were flying to and fro between the ships gathered around the Valery Giscard-d'Estaing aircraft carrier and the land-based facilities.
They'll be leaving soon to join EuroForce operations in the Aegian Sea… there's no doubt the Marine Nationale is feeling nervous, Artaud thought.
As he was driving fast westwards through the easternmost parts of the Marseille sprawl, he tried to recollect the events of the night.
* * *
Monsieur Dupont had hired them through their regular fixer, a troll named Marius, an ex-mafioso from the Marseille Milieu and famous arts dealer. Nothing exceptional, they just had to find a specific file at a specific date on the personal computer of a corporate yuppie. The only problem was that the place would be so crowded that they would never have a chance to insert a decker. Plus, they had no idea where the computer would be. And naturally, they couldn't just steal it. They could have decked the place's host from the outside, but the inner security systems and the doors' maglocks were rigged with a CCSS system and not connected to the PLTG. It sounded hard, but in fact it was Laurent Artaud's specialty. He was an ork in his mid-thirties, and that made him very old for one of his kin indeed. But great age meant great experience, and experienced he was. Although he was an ork, he was well-educated, very clever, and a highly social person. And sometimes, fast talk and charisma worked where blazing guns or even stealth could only fail.
So there they were, in front of the Casino de Monte-Carlo, while the Grand Tour events were in full swing in the free city of New Monaco and the security thicker than black IC on a Z-OG glacier. Every summer, the Grand Tour went for weeks throughout several of Europe's social hotspots, gathering the corporate, political and cultural elite of the Old World as well as some figures from over the Pond, especially some famous ones boasting an aristocratic heritage. This was the perfect cover of social events to conduct backroom agreements and strike deals among aristos, corp execs or politicians. It also drew media sharks by the dozens, getting 24-hour coverage on some of the specialized trid channels.
Celine was at Laurent's side as they were crossing the gardens surrounding the luxurious building. Her role was perhaps the most dangerous: she would have to plug a miniature satellite dish onto the computer, allowing their decker, a young elven woman from Nantes street-named Nolwenn, to access the files. It would probably take only a few seconds, then she could get the dish back and walk out as if nothing had ever happened. Nolwenn was safe in a Renault-Fiat Eurovan, parked a few blocks away. She could follow Laurent's and Celine's moves through the micro-cameras set in his tiepin and her necklace. Accompanying the decker in the vehicle was the team's magician, a German witch with a disturbing, gloomy demeanor. His name was Kern, and he would provide astral overwatch for them all, leaving a spirit to watch the van. The whole place was warded, but he had managed to bypass it by attuning his aura to the magical barriers.
As the couple was stepping up the large stairs leading to the front door, going through the two discreet but very present and efficiently manned checkpoints, they were aware of the various security and surveillance devices scanning them. Artaud tried to remember who had once said that Casino security was like an onion: layer after layer after layer, and the more you peeled it back, the more you wanted to cry.
* * *
Artaud stirred in his seat, and sighed. He would soon reach the outskirts of Dragonville proper: there, he would be safe. Or at least safer.
* * *
They had walked inside after presenting the invitations Marius provided them. I got them from a friend who's a regular, so null sweat guys, he'd said. You're supposed to be a high-ranking exec from ESUS's PR department and her husband. Artaud prayed this was true. They went in without further complications, taking a first glance at the gigantic hall. It was crowded with the creme of Europe's elite. While heading to the back of the room, Artaud spotted at least five members of the Royal Family of Orange, including Queen Amalia, Saeder-Krupp rep at the New European Economic Community Julian Sergetti as well as French Minister of Culture Thierry Lang. Artaud wasn't sure, but he also thought he saw the beautiful Ga‘lle de Rohan before she got lost in the crowd. Few people knew yet that she had a romance with a recent expatriate from North America who was none other than Aithne Oakforest. And the king of the hill, the lord of the city, Spinrad Industries CEO Johnny Spinrad was surrounded by Sol Media and DeMeko paparazzis while ending his thanks speech.
– Looks like all the crowned heads of all Europe have gathered here, Celine muttered in his ear.
– Yes, and even more: the corp suits are here, too, he answered with a smooth nod towards a CATCo executive speaking with a dwarf and an older woman.
– Did you locate our Mr. Yuppie, Laurent?
– Not yet… Maybe…
They were interrupted by a trio of men in their late forties, early fifties.
– Don't tell me it's…, Artaud thought.
– Yeah, Nolwenn answered in his head. Piotr Dabrowski. The drek has hit the fan.
– No, Artaud thought. I think this fan was already full of drek. It stinks of treason.
Artaud turned to face his old enemy, who was smiling broadly, offering Celine and him flutes of champagne.
"My old tusky friend… If I had only thought I would find you here. Let me introduce you to His Highness the Cardinal Mazotti, of the Roman Catholic Church, and to General Hermann Reuber of the German military. But who is that delicious person that accompanies you?"
Artaud didn't hesitate. For years he had learned never to look embarassed. "My wife… "
"… Celine Chaumont," she completed. "Delighted to meet you, Your Highness… General… And Mister…?"
"Ivan Davidowicz," Dabrowski answered, his eyes on Artaud.
– Abort? Nolwenn asked in his mind.
* * *
Artaud slowed down as he was entering Marseille. He wanted to get to the Tunnel du Prado,
the decaying walls of which ran like a hollow snake of concrete and metal underneath the Old Port.
Yep. I should have cancelled the run right there and then.
* * *
"Honey, why don't you go and look for our friend, while I talk to these gentlemen?" Artaud said.
"Yes, of course. Maybe I'll see you later," Celine said to Dabrowski, who nodded gently, her champagne flute still in his hand. She served him the coldest smile she could give, then disappeared in the crowd. Dabrowski kept his gaze on her for a little while, then absent-mindedly emptied her glass before putting it on the tray of a passing waiter. Then he looked back at Artaud.
"You've always had good tastes regarding women. Well, since you are here, have you seen Adam Alome's latest exhibition in Paris? I take it you like troggish art?"
– From what I get from her feed, Laurent, it looks like she found the guy.
– Good.
Laurent Artaud's 'ware was well-concealed, and fully dedicated to his art. Nothing lethal. No boosted reflexes, just knowsofts and linguasofts, a voice synthesizer, a cranial phone, some memory and naturally a datajack. No synthacardium or enhanced articulations, but tailored pheromones and a mnemonic enhancer. Tonight he would have killed to have an oral slasher, just to see Dabrowski's head ripped off and dripping with blood. The discussion was going on and on, and he couldn't get away from it.
"… I mean, the secular powers of Neo AtatYrk in Ankara won't stand if EuroForce doesn't step in against the fundamentalists in Eastern Turkey," General Reuber was explaining. "They're gathering forces around Adana, and plan a major offensive to retake Constantinople. And we don't want a third act in the Euro-Wars, do we?"
"Turkey doesn't strike me as critical, General," Dabrowski answered. "And the Balkans are here to serve as a buffer… as they always did," he added with a smile in Artaud's direction. "But you have one real problem in the north, if you want my opinion. If Suchov decides to get rid of Rybinski in Poland and crushes the Liberation's Army, your country will face a new threat on its Eastern range… "
