Jade Dragon (12 page)

There were few human reporters in place at the arrival gateway. Only the
nets at the very lowest end of the spectrum or the stringers clinging to
their hopes of an exclusive, had bothered to send flesh-and-blood
representatives. Stations like Wave-Net, ZeeBeeCee, Scramble News
Network and CanalEuropa had posted squads of avatar drones, a gaggle of
the brightly coloured remotes floating on ducted impellers or resting
inverted on the ceiling. The insectoid machines deployed probes with
wideband cameras and omni-directional microphones. Behind their
unblinking glass eyes there were operators half a world away running
them through goggles-and-glove interfaces.

SNN’s drone, fire engine red with a buzzing, counter-rotating heliblade,
spotted the party first and it launched itself at them. The other
remotes went after it in a string of chattering motors.

Juno was behind a pair of thick polycrys sunglasses by Minnuendo. Her
hat was an Inverse Smile original, a wide-brimmed sunshade in the Loren
style. She wore a Dior delta dress and her shoes were from Westlake. The
clothes, the way she walked, the turn of her head—all of it was
engineered to say “leave me alone”. Around the globe, automatic pattern
scanners were taking the measure of her attire; the same outfit would be
on sale in knock-off stores within less than a day.

Ropé led the entourage, a couple of the more popular band members
trailing behind and a circle of four men from RWB’s Overt Security Team
surrounding Juno as she entered the glare of the floating cameras. One
of the security men carried a handheld microwave field generator to
discourage the drones from coming too close to the group. Wave-Net’s
remote made the mistake of drifting near for a candid shot and it
clattered out of the air, landing on its back, legs kicking feebly like
a gassed cockroach.

In their respective virtual studios, anchors from the networks were
matted in to the live footage, smart transfer programs making it appear
to the viewers that the reporters were actually there at Chek Lap Kok
with the singer. They called out questions to her, but Juno excised them
from her world, never acknowledging them, never glancing their way. Her
face was set and thin-lipped beneath the Minnuendo shades. Ropé threw
the armada of robots a clipped wave that signalled the end of this brief
photo opportunity, as the security men ushered Juno into a waiting
limobus. All the networks showed the same shot of the coach pulling away
from the terminal with an escort of two APRC patrol cruisers. The flanks
of the double-decker were a screen, and as the vehicle moved off a vid
of Juno singing a cover of “Stage Fright” from her Malaysia tour rippled
across it. Each station turned back to studio-bound talking heads who
picked apart the brief flash of celebrity, examining every second of the
footage and speculating on the singer’s mindset. Several new rumours
about Juno’s love life were created spontaneously in the time it took
the bus to emerge from the Western Harbour Tunnel on Hong Kong Island.

If the drones at the airport had been the scouts, then the armies were
waiting in the courtyard of the YLHI tower. Legions of reporters—real
human ones this time –jostled one another for a glimpse of the starlet
as her ride came to a stately halt outside the opulent entrance. Ropé
stepped out first and took Juno’s hand. The girl’s foot touched the
stone steps and ignited a lightstorm of flash strobes and camera floods.
She hesitated and turned her head up to look at them. Somewhere along
the way Juno had ditched the sunglasses. The singer threw the world her
dazzling smile and with a playful flourish, she took off her hat and
spun it into the crowds where her fans pressed in a hundred people deep.

“Hello Hong Kong!” she called, her voice chiming like crystal. “I love
you.” She blew kisses and detached herself from her manager in a
jubilant pirouette. Juno skipped to the closest reporter, a local
correspondent for the Chinese State Channel, and beamed at him. “I’m so
glad to be home again,” she said, “I’ve missed my city and my friends so
much.”

Her behaviour couldn’t have been more different from the cold aspect she
displayed at the airport, as unlike as night and day. The crowd roared,
jarring the stunned journalist to life. “Miss Qwan, what are your plans
now you’re back?”

She flashed that billion-yuan smile again. “I’m going to have some fun
and unwind, but you can be sure I’ll be singing for you all very soon.”

The elation crossed the courtyard in a wave. “Are you going to perform
at WyldSky?” called the reporter as she drifted away from him.

Juno laughed and threw him a coquettish theatrical wink. The chorus of
her name followed the starlet into the building like radiance from the
sun.

“Here we are,” said Alice, as the elevator chimed. The doors parted and
a wave of laughter and music swept over Frankie. He followed her out
into the atrium. They were somewhere close to the upper levels of the
YLHI tower, below Tze’s jade castle. A broad open space some three
storeys high, the atrium was a festival under glass, a classical string
quartet in one corner, a massive indoor waterfall in the other, and
between them knots of people indulging themselves in whatever was on
offer. Frankie spied tables laden with wines and liqueurs, others with
endless swathes of food, including what had to be real meat. There were
more discreet offerings too, vircade pods in the shadow of the stone
pillars holding up the roof, or circumspect waitstaff with dishes of
capsules and droppers. Alice handed him a flute of champagne and he
sipped it gingerly.

“Make yourself comfortable,” she told him. “Mingle.”

“Right,” he said, covering his hesitation with another sip. Over the
woman’s shoulder he saw Phoebe Hi and a group of ruddy-faced men. He
blinked as he recognised Lasse Illstrom among them, the CEO of the
Midgard Securities Group; only last month the Norwegian billionaire had
been on the cover of both
Business Week
and
CORP Magazine.

Alice glanced around. “Do you like films?”

Frankie blinked. “Uh, sure, I guess. ”

She nodded. “Do you know that man? He’s an actor.”

“Where?” Frankie turned to see Hazzard Wu in close discussion with three
men who could only have been the Wachowski Triplets. He was miming the
motion of cocking a handgun. “Uh… Yeah. I think so.” The more
attention Frankie paid them, more A-list faces came into view about him.
He saw the lead drivers from the Tiger Beer highway duel team, the host
of
You’re Out, You Loser,
a few senior men wearing officer tabs from
the Army of the Peoples Republic of China. Alice excused herself for a
moment and Frankie decided to sample some vat-grown salmon.

“Try the little crab things, man, they’re preem.”

Frankie turned to see the lead vocalist from Charlie Fish, an indie band
who were big with the ghettobomber crowd in SoCal. He blinked.

“What?” drawled the singer.

“Nothing… I’m just, well, surprised to see you here. Your music, its
all that anti-corporate stuff…”

Frankie received a weak smile. “Oh yeah. Well. We all gotta change some
time, right?”

The man wandered away and Frankie found himself at the window. He
dropped onto a comfortable sofa, and his hand drifted to the PDA in his
pocket. He popped it open and studied the files Alice had reluctantly
given up when he pressed her about Alan’s death. Yuk Lung had used
contacts with the metropolitan police division to unlock the incident
report, and here it was in brutal colour on the palm-sized screen of the
handheld. The cops said Alan had been walking along a Mongkok side
street when a car had hopped the curb and slammed him into a shuttered
storefront. He died on impact, so the coroner’s report had it. The car
and driver hadn’t been found, but eyewitness testimony suggested that
the attack had been gang-related. The conclusion was a triad hit gone
wrong, most likely a case of mistaken identity. Not that this made
dealing with it any simpler. YLHI had already dealt with Alan’s remains,
cremating him and placing the compacted ashes in a bullet-sized capsule,
to be buried in the company memorial park overlooking Clear Water Bay.
Frankie paged through the data again. It was all blurring into one long
string of dispassionate scrawl.

“Francis,” said Mr Tze, his reflection appearing in the window like a
waking phantom.

Frankie snapped the PDA shut. “Hello, uh, sir.”

Tze gave him a paternal smile, and Frankie absently rubbed his hand,
tracing the lines of the knife cuts. The strange little ritual had
unnerved him more than he wanted to admit. Tze guided him off the sofa
and back towards the party. “I want you to enjoy this evening, Francis.
Put behind you the pain of things past and look ahead. Will you do
that?”

He managed a nod.

“That is good,” Tze took a capsule from a passing waiter and swallowed
it down in one gulp. “We’re on the verge of a new acquisition. Something
that is going to alter the landscape we move through on every level. Yuk
Lung’s reach will truly be global, and we will need men like you to take
us there.”

“Me?” Frankie let out a laugh. “Honestly, sir, I’m flattered you think
so much of me, but I’m only a minor echelon executive. I’m not sure I
have the right stuff—”

“You do,” said Tze firmly. “I don’t want men who look good on paper. I
want men who have spirit.” He prodded him in the sternum. “Courage,
Francis. You’re not some milksop choirboy with an MBA. You came from the
street. You have an edge that none of these men raised on the corporate
teat can even grasp at. I want you to make that available to me. I want
you to understand that your participation in Yuk Lung’s future plans is,
in a very real way, of universal importance. I know that you can fill
the terrible void left by Alan’s passing. I know it. He knew it too,
Francis. He told me so.”

“Really?” Something rang a wrong note in Frankie’s mind. Not since they
were teenagers had Alan been one for brotherly love.

“Oh yes. And there will be rewards the like of which you have not
dreamed.” He leaned closer. “Men crave power, Francis, all of us. I can
give it to you, if you have the will to claim it.”

Something deep inside Frankie was forcing its way up, and it manifested
in a feral smile. He thought of Alan’s dismissive emails, of Burt
Tiplady and a hundred overlooked promotion opportunities, of a lifetime
of second place. It all came together in a hot rush. “Yeah,” he said
quietly, “I’d like that.”

Tze guided him over to the elevator stack as the doors parted, and the
crowd burst into a round of rapturous applause. A cluster of men emerged
and parted to let the executive make a gesture of presentation.
“Francis,” he smiled, “may I introduce you to Miss Juno Qwan?”

Her perfect eyes met his as she stepped from the lift and Frankie’s
heart skipped a beat. “Hello.” He felt a spark of attraction flash
between them.

“Francis,” she said, smiling like a supernova, extending her hand.
“Dance with me?”

Tze left Lam and the singer to fall into one another and passed Hi with
a curt nod. The woman had done well, once again turning a problem into
an advantage. He would have to keep Hi on a tighter leash, less she
begin to entertain thoughts above her station. The three girls he had
chosen for his comfort tonight smiled at him from the shaded table where
he had left them.

Deer Child approached. The Mask had a woman in his grip, half-guiding,
half-dragging her. “Sir.”

“Is there a problem?” He turned an appraising eye on the girl. She had a
lean, wolfish look in her eyes, and he saw immediately that all her
clothes were cheap street copies of current trendsetters. He smelt greed
and fear on her, and there in her eyes was the telltale glint of blue.

Deer Child handed him a silver smartcard. “There appears to be an
anomaly with this young lady’s invite, sir.”

Tze turned the card over in his hand. The code was well past expiry.
“What is your name?” he asked the girl.

She flashed him a sultry look, cool and practised. “Nikita.”

He smiled slightly. “I once knew an assassin with that name. Are you
here to hurt me, Nikita?”

“Only if you want me to,” she whispered.

Tze’s smile broadened. The girl was putting everything she had into it.
He handed the card back to the guardian. “I see no problem here. Bring
the young lady a drink at my table.” He offered her his arm. “Join me?”

“I’d love to,” said Nikita, and followed him into the shadows.

http://junofans.rwb.vnet/r584923921/chatroom_enable

Halo_kisser Has Entered The Chat Room.

Junqfanl4342: hi halo

Rusty: hlo

Halo_kisser: hi yall

Goth*Lolita: it was preem

Goth*Lolita: I was nr teh guy who got her hat grrr. Missed it.

Goth*Lolita: Juno looked sooooo good. I [heart] her!

Halo_kisser: u were there? OMG OMG sooo jealous!

Rusty: G*L lives in Honk Kong

Rusty: sorry Hong Kong [grin]

Goth*Lolita: number 1 fangirl!

Junofanl4342: how did JQ look? She not on ZBC Pulse.

Goth*Lolita: beautiful!

Rusty: did u see pix from airport? She was v. moody

Halo_kisser: not. How would u feel after NO crazeeness?

Rusty: seem weird 2 me.

Goth*Lolita: everything weird 2 you rusty!

Junofanl4342: yeh rusty sez secret messages on junos discs!

Rusty: TRUE

Halo_kisser: is not, you R looped, rusty!

Goth*Lolita: I posted pictures from my eyecam on my site–[link]

Junofan14342: cool. Swipe 4 my wallscreen!

Rusty: did ne1 read netfeeds about NO concert? Mad reports off
samizdata grids