Shadowboxer (18 page)

As he fired his Mossberg CMDT into the sky, Sergeant Tanner’s helmet sensors went crazy, indicating his people were being hit with black powder, cordite, thermite, rubbing alcohol, soap flakes, bathroom cleaners, bleach, ammonia, lye, gasoline, ol’ Uncle Sizzle—kitchen-brewed red fuming nitric acid—fragging drek, anything explosive that could fit into a plastic bottle!

An inferno rapidly built on the street.

“But we’re not Lone Star!” cried a trooper over the chatter of his SMG.

“They don’t give a frag! Bug out!” ordered Tanner, slamming in a fresh clip. “First squad give us cover. Go-go-go!”

Coughing and hacking, six troopers cut loose with everything they had, while the others retreated back into the sewer. The rest soon followed, fighting to be first in. Whooping and howling, the locals moved in for the kill, throwing their crude bombs directly into the open hole. More than one fell back, torn to pieces by weapons fire, but the others crowded in close to get their chance.

“Night of Law! Night of Law!” became the mob’s wild chant. Inside the Fiesta Grande, the slaprock thundered on as the club’s patrons danced and drank and chipped their way into oblivion, blissfully unaware that anything more interesting was happening in the sprawl tonight.

* * *

Twenty stories above the streets of Overtown, the Sky Stallion hovered in position as the voice of base command again demanded identification and codes immediately.

Delphia mouthed words: Can they hear us? Jacked into the Stallion’s control console, Silver shook her head no.

“Good,” he said aloud. “What are our options?”

“I don’t know. I can’t find the fragging code,” Silver snapped, her face a mask of concentration. “I can try to override the autopilot, but they’re trying to activate the antiintruder systems.”

“Stop them,” Delphia commanded coolly.

Her fingers tapped at the keys of her deck as if with a will of their own. “I’m trying, frag it! I can’t fly this thing, do that, and try to use the satellite uplink to access their node in order to jack into their system all at once. Nobody can!”

Rising up, Delphia stuck his head into the aft compartment. “They’re going to haul us in soon if we don’t do something,” he said grimly. “We’ll jump when we reach the canal.”

Thumbs started divesting himself of his heavier items, while Moonfeather began to search frantically under the seats.

“What’re you doing?” asked Thumbs, frowning.

“Can’t swim,” she replied on her hands and knees, head in a storage locker. “Where are the parachutes?”

“Helos don’t carry ’em,” he told her.

Moonfeather jerked out. “You fragging me?”

“No.”

“Drek!”

Removing his ballistic cloth coat, Delphia folded it neatly
and placed it on an empty seat. “What’s our altitude?”
he asked, looking out the port window. “It looks like a long way down.” Removing his sunglasses, he turned to Silver. “Are you done yet? Can you find out if there’s a maximum height from which you can jump and still survive? Undamaged, that is.”

Silver said nothing, staring at her motionless hands. Memories of her chummers in Blackjack’s team getting geeked came vividly to mind, and she gasped aloud at the recalled pain of the shark attack.
No, never again
.

“Silver?” he prompted, as the console beeped steadily. “Could it be that simple?” she wondered out loud. “That easy? Do it backwards?”

“Yes!” snapped Delphia, shaking her shoulder. “Whatever it is, try now.”

Slow and sure, Silver pulled an optical chip from the pocket of her blood-smeared jacket. Slotting the chip into her deck, she tapped in commands. Instantly, the satellite link opened up. She could see the fountain, her favorite spot in the Miami grid, and then the resistance cleared. She was flying down the datastream. No IC, no system alerts, nothing. She had the golden codes, and they blew her straight into the Atlantic Security mainframe.

Yes! She ripped the operational codes from the mainframe, and then stole everything she could stuff into the banks of the hot Fuchi in her lap.

Sending the codes back through the radio, with a mumbled message about snipers and radio interference, she watched as the intruder alert went clear and the autopilot kicked in.

“We’re clear!” she called over the internal PA a second later as the Sky Stallion started moving again to gain altitude.

“Roger Helo Eighty-six,” said the ceiling speaker. “You are on independent recall. Troops are en route to your street team. See you in ten.”

In the aft compartment, the wind whipping his clothes, Thumbs gratefully closed the side door. “Thank Ghu.”

“How?” asked Delphia, slumping heavily in the pilot seat. Wearily, she beamed at him. “It was dicey for a bit, but I let them control the helo and I went for the satlink.”

“But how?” he insisted. “What was that chip? Some special can opener program?”

“A ten-year-old data chip, nothing more.”

“Say what?” gushed Thumbs, filling the doorway. “Oh, I get it!”

“Gordon,” said Moonfeather from behind him. “You used his old chip.”

“
Hai
,” replied Silver unjacking the deck. “Gordon had an access code to talk privately with Harvin about the book. It got him through the Matrix for secret yaks with the big cheese. Damn code also worked via a satellite uplink and it was cleared for Atlantic Security. It let me past their IC to talk to them directly. After that”—she snapped her fingers—“done deal.”

“Indubitably a superb demonstration of non-Euclidian logic conquering corporate jacdictation,” breathed Delphia, with a lopsided grin. “Utterly outstanding.”

“Crab poop, why can’t you ever speak English?” demanded Thumbs, sliding his sunglasses back on.

Flying over downtown Miami, the massive helo skimmed low over the jumbled rooftops, running lights out, motors on hush, a whispering ghost masking the stars one by one.

“I’ll land us on the next rooftop and send this bucket back to AtSec headquarters on George,” Silver said. “Look for a likely spot. No power lines or antennas.”

Stuffing loose items into a bulging dufflebag, Moonfeather stared at the other woman. “George?”

“Aviator slang for the autopilot,” Silver replied gaily, crossing her arms as the gunship neatly pirouetted in the sky before beginning its angled descent.

“Great Ghost, I love beating the bastards!”

* * *

Every light in his penthouse office was on, removing any chance of a stray shadow. His tie was removed, jacket gone, shoes off, and James J. Harvin had wrapped a silk kimono about him. An untouched gold tray of food sat on the low table between twin couches nearby. Also untouched on his empty desk was a decanter of chilled wine spotted with dewy moisture.

Harvin sat facing the windows, looking at his reflection in the triple Armorlite barrier. A squarish head, gray hair cut in a buzz, tiny ruby earrings, large hands, no age spots yet, but he knew they would come. Maybe it was time to violate his body and get chipped—skillwires could make him an instant violin maestro. Replacement muscles would give him the strength of a troll weightlifter. He could be strong, fast again.

But that would just be the meat, his soul was tired. Did he
even have a soul anymore? He had taken so many parts from others, their organs beating and living inside his chest. They’d taken him apart and put him together with the lifestuff of other people. Was he still Jim Harvin anymore? The face resembled him, but that too could change in less than a day. His illness was in recession. He’d fought the mutagenic cancer and won. Or so they said. So why did he feel as if he was still dying?

He poured himself a glass of wine and took a sip, rolling the vintage about on his tongue, breathing in through his nose to savor the bouquet as his father had taught him decades ago. How to relish good wine, cut the throats of the competition, and avoid friends.
Muchas gracias, padre
.

So many dark thoughts for such a lovely night.

Faintly, on the other side of the windows, Harvin could see the twinkling lights of Miami. Resorts, hotels, casinos, schools, brothels, air defense centers, his. So much of it was either owned or run by his Gunderson Corporation, which really was the same thing. What other Caribbean League gov could touch him? He ruled Miami. The telecom beeped musically, calling for his attention.

“On,” he said, without turning. “Code fourteen,” answered a VOX, the artificial voice flat and flavorless. He swiveled his chair about. “Accepted. Do not monitor, record, or trace. Unrestricted access granted on my command.”

“Acknowledge,” spoke the mechanical words. Harvin had been expecting this call ever since receiving the report about the Atlantic Security rescue team less than an hour go. Those street samurai Erika Johnson had hired were supposed to be second-stringers, at best. And yet they still stayed one step ahead of the game. He smiled.

The indicators on the telecom lit, but the screen remained featureless. “Report,” came another voice, though the screen displayed no visual.

“They’re close. Very close,” said Harvin. “They’ve acquired the datafiles on IronHell.”

“When?”

“Less than an hour ago.”

“The real files?”

“No. The basic files only. No detailed data.”

“How?”

“Used a private passcode to gain access to the Atlantic Security system, and then on to their central data processor. They got the pirate files.”

“Whose code?” the faceless voice asked from the telecom. “Mine.”

A minute passed. “The ork?”

“Yes,” said Harvin.

“Kill him.”

“Gordon is already dead.”

“But not soon enough, it appears.”

“No.” Harvin shook his head sadly, thinking of Scott Gordon. “Not soon enough.”

“I warned you that trying to write about this could jeopardize our whole operation.”

“Yet you have published several articles on undersea living in the scientific journals,” Harvin returned quietly. “Which have not incommoded us.”

“Yet. Even you find it hard to resist telling someone after you’ve solved a most difficult problem, eh?”

A few silent ticks passed. “Granted. But that is irrelevant right now. Was the ork terminated by in-house staff?”

“No.” Harvin breathed deeply, faintly tasting the wine again. “My friend was killed by unknowns. Crucified. When we find whoever did it, they’ll go straight to the medical labs—dead or alive.”

“How did they get away with this?”

“They had very good help.”

“IronHell?”

“It is likely, or else . . .” An awkward pause. “Or else the elves have developed an interest in our business beyond the wall.” The last words were not stressed, nor spoken loudly, and Harvin wondered if the other heard the meaning he intended.

“Understood. That would be most unfortunate,” stated the voice without emotion. “This changes everything. Stop the investigation immediately. Pay the runners off with a bonus.”

“Impossible. They’re incommunicado. Until they report in, I have no way to contact them.”

“None?”

“None.”

“And they have a chance at success?”

“Expect them at your door any day now.”

“Most unfortunate. In the chaos of this situation, they may
discover what is actually happening.”

“Yes.”

“Terminate them. Immediately.”

Pouring more wine, Harvin softly laughed. “You have such difficulty with the world kill, don’t you, dear sister?”

“
Hai,
I suppose so.”

“And what about the other matter—the trouble we’ve been having with our system? Is it heat again?”

“The matter is being attended to.”

“So, no success from your side either, eh?” Harvin said to the black screen. “Good. Failure loves company. Only success stands alone.”

“That is one interpretation of the facts.”

“Have you found the needed personnel yet?”

“Yes. And he’s on his way.”

“The first good news of the day. Do your best.”

“Acknowledged, dear brother. Out.”

“Off,” he said, toying with the full glass. As the connection broke, Harvin watched to see the brief image of a blue triangle bisected by an irregular red line fade in and then out. Confirmation of an untraced transmission. Then that too was gone, and he was alone again at the top of the world.

Into the Abyss

15

11:05 AM Eastern Standard, 14 June 2058 Latitude 30.14, Longitude 70.29, Atlantic Ocean

Stumbling out of the fresher, Thumbs braced himself against the rusty wall and breathed in through his nose, out his mouth, a few times. They’d been out to sea three weeks aboard this rustbucket and he still couldn’t stop yarfing out his guts every time they hit a wave. The sea, the sky, the deck, and his wobbly self were all gently rocking back and forth, to and fro, with the overhead light fixtures swaying sickeningly in squeaky counterpoint. But he was feeling much better after giving the fish of the Atlantic Ocean a hearty meal.