Shadowboxer (30 page)

One tick later, explosive decompression hit, the dome rupturing from the shock and spiderwebbing cracks for hundreds of meters in every direction. Unstoppable, the ocean poured in through the ever-widening rupture. Clawing at anything, men and women screamed, their bodies banging helplessly against walls as the deluge poured into the city, smashing everything.

Alarms sounded everywhere, from The Cube to Old Dome, and banks of monitors were flashing red in the Command Center.

“Breach in Sector Ninety-four!” cried a technician, frantically throwing switches and levers. “No . . . Sectors Eighty through One-twenty! And on levels eight, seven, and six!”

“Launch everything!” screamed the duty officer, brandishing his fist at the computer screen. Overhead the lights flickered and died. “Motherfragger! They got the fusion plant!”

The sea outside the wounded dome was filled with spheres of fire as drones and torpedoes battled for supremacy. A flash, and a pirate submarine was gone. Another, then a third! Then the roof of the city violently shook as tremendous bombs dropped from out of the dark sea overhead to pound the dome in unrestricted fury. Cracks spread to every quadrant, knives of water roaring in through splintering cracks. A geyser of boiling water shot across the center axis of the city, toppling buildings into the central granite mesa. A thousand death screams were drowned in the titanic roar of the sea unleashed.

A bomb larger than the rest combined hit the top of Old Dome. The five meters of resilient dome material held for no longer than a heartbeat against the blinding fury of the hellish onslaught. The upper city burst apart like a cheap lightbulb, the inhabitants jellied from the stark implosion. The steelloy girders of buildings were driven into the reinforced granite of the central mesa like tent pegs, splitting the rocky edifice to pieces.

The fuel tanks of liquid hydrogen for the fusion generators detonated, sending out a death cloud of shrapnel toward the damaged city below. Overloaded, circuit breakers exploded into molten metal, power relays slagged solid and the superconductor cables heated to the point that they ignited their own fireproof casing. Soon, billowing clouds of poison gas were added to the chaos. Busbars hissed into nonexistence, then the mighty fusion reactors exploded and melted. Gigawatts of stored power were released, and blue lightning crackled over the wounded arcology, setting fires everywhere that were promptly extinguished by the flooding from above and both sides.

More torpedoes arced in through the weakening defenses and struck the dome, embedding in the transparent material, then detonated in unison, the titanic force vectors separating the crack with a screech of tortured glass unheard by any living soul. The physical shock wave rippled along the streets and granite of the central mesa, shaking off chunks of cliff. The main dome split asunder, the remaining atmosphere woofed out as the sea rushed in, carrying with it a million tons of debris and failing bodies. Bridges, buildings, streets collapsed, crushed flat under an avalanche of falling concrete. A hundred unoccupied escape pods launched. Even underwater a chemical fire raged unchecked in Industrial, and the bubbletown went dark.

The pirates fired salvo after salvo of torpedoes into the ruins as bombs dropped from overhead to complete the utter destruction of the trillion-nuyen arcology and its many inhabitants.

* * *

The tridscreen went dark and the theatre lights gradually came on to rosy levels. The rows of seats were completely empty except for two patrons, a man and a woman. Both were norms, both elderly, and neither seemed the least bit pleased.

“Pitiful,” stated the skinny male slumped in his seat. “Absolutely pitiful.”

“Agreed,” replied the distinguished woman, sitting alongside. She was lovely but severe in a restrictive dress of formal function. “And that was our best combat simulation so far.”

“I can see why you hired me, Ms. Harvin.”

“My Miami contacts recommended you highly. Lights, please!”

Instantly, the theatre was illuminated. Turning about in her chair, Barbara Harvin studied the old norm siting near her. Pole-thin, with gray hair and a chromed datajack in his temple, the decker wasn’t physically impressive. On the other hand, she could hire all the street muscle ever needed, and it wouldn’t do the job. Shawn Wilson could.

“So you agree with my assessment?”

The decker nodded. “Totally. Your people seem to lack the necessary . . . um, non-linear thinking mandatory to defend this type of installation.”

“Pirates attack in a straightforward manner, why not? All the advantages are theirs. They’re small and mobile, we’re large and stationary.”

“A single torpedo and the dome is gone.”

“Oh, more than just one. Our althropic”—she stumbled over the word—“glass shell is the most resilient material known.”

“Radio waves can’t travel through salt water,” he observed. “How do you communicate with your subs and control the torpedoes?”

“An acoustical phone called a Gertrude. It’s limited only by the thickness of the water, compounded by the distance needed and the power of the sonic transmitter.”

Wilson rubbed the chrome jack on his forehead. “Like shouting at a car in the wind?”

“Exactly.”

He chewed that over. “Bad for your subs. The pirates can hear every command.”

“We have a solution for that,” she said, but that was all. Wilson gave a wry smile. “Only one way to shout in public and not have the world understand what you’re talking about. Codes.”

She nodded. “Changed daily.”

“What about cutting off the problem at the source?” Shawn Wilson lit a cigarette. “The dead can’t hurt you.”

“If we knew the location of the pirate base, it would have been over long ago,” said Harvin.

Wilson sent a puff of smoke toward the ceiling as a perfect ring. “You must have already tried capturing one and torturing the location of their main base out of him. What was the name of this gang again? IronHell?”

“Yes, that has also been tried and also failed. The pirates have cerebral bombs surgically planted inside their skulls set to explode if anything happens to them. We believe that the upper echelon do not, but so far it’s been impossible to confirm this, much less find and capture one of their leaders.”

“Drugs? Hypnosis? Magic?”

“All tried and failed,” Harvin said. “Mr. Wilson, if these are the best suggestions you can offer, then perhaps it was a waste of time bringing you here.”

“What about infiltration?”

“We already have a very special team working on that particular angle.”

“Any progress?”

“Oh, most assuredly. Our contact is incommunicado at the moment, but we expect good news at any time. They are most resourceful.” A pause. “Of course we’ll never be able to use them again after this.”

“Ah, they know too much,” Wilson did not state it as a question.

Barbara Harvin stared at him. “Quite the contrary. They know absolutely nothing about what’s really going on.”

Thoughtfully, Wilson ground out his smoke in an ashtray, and lit another. “How much time have we got?”

“For the moment, all the time you need.”

He raised his eyebrows in surprise. “How is that possible?”

“Gunderson currently has an ... agreement with IronHell. In exchange for leaving the city alone, we provide them with all the food and medical supplies they can carry in ten ships every month. Other times they want money, and sometimes they want ships.”

“Expensive.”

“Extremely expensive. It cuts our profit margin to the bone. It is, however, necessary for the present.”

“Any reason this place is so attractive to them?”

“None to our knowledge. Aside from the obvious fact that they know it’s here and can successfully extort supplies and nuyen and ships from us. Only the deep-water location of this city is unique. People have been successfully building underwater cities since the 1970s.”

He stared at her.

“Incredible, but true.” Harvin took a cigarette case from a pocket of her suit, removed a slim cigarette and puffed it into life. “The difference is that until now the dometowns have always been located in shallow waters. Old Japan and America both tried deep-water cities and failed. So did Brazil, Australia, France, and Russia.”

Harvin gestured expansively. “The ruins are still out there somewhere. Secret cities of the dead. A fortune for anybody who ever finds one, figures out why they failed, and brings back the data.”

“Interesting.”

“However, until confirmed, the reason those primitive arcologies are believed to have failed is thermal inversion. There are rivers of water running through the ocean, some hot, some cold. They shift about and move freely, so there can be a dynamic difference of twenty degrees in ocean water within a mere ten meters. For a dometown a thousand meters tall, the differences can be incredible, and deadly. Mini-fissures are created by the temperature differences. These lead to a general weakening, then cracks and explosive decompression and total dome failure. Millions, and in some cases, billions lost in an eyeblink.”

“Then how is it that yours is still standing?”

She inhaled deeply, letting the smoke trickle out her nose. “That information is on a need-to-know basis only.”

He took a deep drag on the cigarette, the tip glowing red as a laser sight. “I may need to know,” Wilson informed her.

“Demonstrate that, and I shall personally brief you.” Another puff and the cigarette was ground out on the expensive carpet underfoot.

“Fair enough.”

Harvin rose and started for the exit, trailed by her entourage of guards and aides. “There is a tremendous profit to be made down here from pressure-welding unique alloys, superconductor chips, and the near limitless supply of food for the surface.”

“Which you will happily sell to the starving of the world.”

“Of course. Gunderson is a business. The ocean is also a pharmaceutical cornucopia of plants with fantastic medical, and even recreational, properties.”

Barbara Harvin held out a hand, and a dapper aide proffered a small wooden box. She lifted the lid and drew out a handrolled cigar with a golden band bearing the Gunderson logo. She offered it to Shawn Wilson. “This is deepweed, a prime example of the resources down here. It has much more nicotine than land tobacco, and a good dose of the chemical THC, just like fine Colombian marijuana. The world market potential for such a luxury item is staggering.”

With a pocket lighter, Wilson lit the tip and inhaled, lolling the smoke on his tongue like an expert. “Draws like a good Havana,” he complimented. “Very mellow.”

“Yes, it is very popular in the lower districts.” Harvin watched him puff contentedly on the cigar for a moment, then turned and started along the hallway. “So you see, we desperately need the freedom to harvest the sea without hindrance or interference. The Gunderson Corporation wants those pirates dealt with once and forever.”

Continuing along the plush hallway of the theatre lobby, Wilson looked at her over the cigar. “By the way, exactly how do you get staff down here?” he asked. “Not many folks would want to work in a fish tank situated in a warzone.”

“Normally, we hire them in gangs through fake ads,” Harvin said. “We have many thousand workers at present, but always need more. And if there is a specialist we need and cannot lure here”—she shrugged—“we simply kidnap him.”

“Such as mages?”

Barbara scowled at him. “There are no shamans or mages in the city. This is important for us to maintain absolute control. Riggers and deckers we allow because of their tremendous usefulness, and because the dometown is not connected to the world computer grid. With no access to the Matrix, there is little harm a decker can do. And if they’re foolish enough to try a run against our coldframe, then the problem solves itself.” She smiled at this last.

“If babies are being born, you’re going to have mages someday.”

“When a child shows the talent, we kill him or her in an accident.”

Wilson frowned. “Crude.”

“But efficient. It has served us so far.”

“No mistakes?”

Barbara Harvin stopped at the elevator, and an aide pressed the button for them. “Only once. And it was also corrected. Although there have been complications from the
solution. However, that was before my administration, and
such an event will not be allowed to occur again.”

With a sigh, the elevators doors parted, and then parted again. Wilson blinked. “Just like an airlock.”

“It is one,” Harvin informed him. “All major doors to the executive quarters of Old Dome are. For the safety and protection of our people in case of a minor dome leak.”

“What do you tell the workers when they want to go home? Pirates again?”

“Oh, no. We control all the submersibles and Jym suits.

Nobody leaves without our consent. Also, upon arrival we give them a medical injection to help their bodies cope with the terrible pressures down here. Actually, it’s a powerful narcotic extracted from deepweed and genetically altered. Once administered, the worker must continue to take more of the substance daily for life. If an unauthorized person escaped to the surface, he’d be unconscious within hours, dead in a day without the antidote.” She smiled. “Because, you see, they don’t even know about the drug. We place it secretly in their food, beer, soymilk, candy, even the free cigars and cigarettes we regularly distribute from quote—manufacturing excess—end quote.”