Shadowboxer (39 page)
Emile asked, “Why?”
“We need to hit the medical examiner to get some props for the show,” he said. “Nothing opens doors faster than having a brain in pan.”
“What a disgusting, but clever, notion,” acknowledged Emile, nodding at the troll. “There must be some elf blood in your lineage.”
“Still?” asked Thumbs brushing at his pants. “Damn, thought that would have washed out by now.”
“Ha! I laugh.”
“Too bad Moonfeather got flatlined,” sighed Silver, as they walked up the front steps and past the snoring guards. “With two mages, we’d be going home by now.”
“True,” agreed Delphia, placing an ear to the door and pausing. “She was a bella ginzo, indeed. However, if wishes
were drek...”
“Yes, yes, I know. Then sewers would be heaven. Ready?”
On a cue from Delphia, they kicked open the door with guns drawn, Emile gesturing at everybody in sight. The nurse slumped at the duty desk, an intern slid off his chair, two more guards dropped in their tracks. In seconds the lobby was clear and a wall alarm started beeping. Silver slashed at the exposed wiring with her fingertips, razors glinting under her nails. The wires separated and the alarm went still. Instantly, another took up its strident cry somewhere else deeper within the building.
“Elevators?” asked Emile, pointing.
“Stairs,” snapped Silver, rattling the exit door handle. “Ghost, it’s locked!”
Delphia’s Manhunter boomed and the lock was blown off the frame. Then Thumbs slammed a fist forward and the door crashed open, falling to the floor on the other side.
“Arctic. Let’s go!”
* * *
In the Old Dome Command Control, every screen was full of blips moving toward and away from the bubblecity. Half the view screens were dark, others so badly scrambled they resembled a pay-per-view trideo channel before you coughed up the nuyen. In various stages of dress, the staff members were racing in through the doors and jumping into the first empty seat they found. In the middle of the organized chaos stood Shawn Wilson. He was scowling and chewing an unlit deepweed cigar.
“Atlantic Security has scrambled a flight of Eagles armed with long-range underwater missiles. ETA ten minutes!” called out a norm holding a com to her head. “Missiles will be transferred to our control at a depth of one thousand!”
“A thousand what?” barked Wilson, reading a pocket computer while a City Guard belted a pistol around his waist. He then adjusted the belt to a more comfortable position.
“Meters, sir!” the fem hastily corrected. “Surface battleships with depth charges two hours after that!”
“We don’t have two fragging hours!” stormed Wilson, lighting the cigar. Addiction be damned, he wanted a smoke! “Motherfragger, without a roof we’re a sitting crab! Repair crew, what’s the status of one and two?”
“Laser number one is still down, sir! Two is back at half power, nine has been zapped by a limpet mine,” reported a tech. “Completely destroyed. The others are ready and still waiting.”
“Sir, permission to use the rest of the lasers immediately!” called out a lieutenant, standing and saluting.
Crossing his arms, Shawn Wilson snorted at the newbie.
“Not yet. We get only one shot before those damn pirates hit back. We save ’em until . . .” The data screen and cigar dropped to the floor as the west view screen showed a single submarine rising above the mountain range. It was twice, three times—more—the size of any other pirate craft and there were so many torpedo launch tubes its bow resembled a honeycomb.
“Mother of gods and demons,” breathed a technician, “it’s the
Emperor Yamato
!"
“But that sank decades ago.”
“Looks like they found her!”
A norm corporal snarled at them. “Gleebs, that’s way too small for the
Yamato
!"
“It’s too
what
?"
“Fire all lasers!” shouted Shawn Wilson, drawing his pistol for no sane reason. “Launch all AP torpedoes! Have the gunner go to independent firing! Call in the reserve subs! Prepare to detonate the land mines in the fields! Send out the suicide Jym suits!”
Nobody bothered to answer his commands, they just did it.
* * *
“This is it. Gods, I hope we’re in time!” The City Guard rushed along the corridor, the race of the heavily armed soldier indecipherable in the full combat armor. Looking grim and serious, the medteam said nothing, just urged him on faster.
“What happened? Was she shot? A heart attack?”
“Shrapnel through the window,” said a tall, thin medico wearing a surgical cap.
“One of our windows?”
“Yes.”
“Zow! Didn’t think that was possible.”
“Drek happens,” stated a troll, carrying a refrigerated trunk. The guard had checked inside when it arrived unannounced, and it was full of body parts packed in ice: arms, legs, lungs. He’d almost yarfed on the spot, but managed to keep his lunch internal.
At the end of the upholstered hallway, the Guard put his face against a receptacle that scanned his responsive retinas. He spoke a few words into a mike, placed his palm on a sensor pad, then the door opened and he stepped briskly out of the way. But the norm medico with the moustache shoved him into the office ahead of the rest of his team.
“Hey, what are you doing?” the Guard demanded, staggering, when the troll dropped the trunk of parts and threw a punch at him, the fist looming larger than a hairy express train.
* * *
“He’ll live,” said Silver, checking the pulse of the sprawled norm. “He’ll be eating soymush for a month, but he’ll live.”
Closing the office door behind them, Delphia played with the lock using his unknown device, while Thumbs slid a chair under the latch and Emile tapped the door with his wand. The border of the door glowed red for a tick.
“Yowsa, nobody’s coming through that thing without a Panzer,” gloated Thumbs, running a finger around the inside of his uniform collar.
“Agreed,” said Emile, kneeling on the plush carpeting and opening the two halves of a small medical bag. Grand leapt out onto the floor and immediately started cleaning himself.
Opening the trunk, Thumbs tossed aside the body parts they’d taken from the freezer and reached into the ice for his own Mossberg, the Predator, and the rest of their larger weapons.
Silver saw what she was looking for over on a huge wooden desk near the window. She sat down at Harvin’s computer and tried a few commands. Good, no resistance. Perhaps Barbara Harvin thought nobody would ever penetrate this far into her sanctum. With the Fuchi on her lap, she slotted the cable, boosted every defensive program she had, took a breath, and then plunged into the bubblecity’s coldframe.
* * *
The silver falcon of her icon soared through a mirrored universe of perfection. Pausing on an electric blue hilltop, she perched and looked about. The endless reflection of mirrors in mirrors was gone, replaced by colors and textures she had not seen before. Maybe this was going to work! Above was a plain of green-tinted glass separating her from the thousands of glowing lines that stretched from overhead and off into the incalculable distance of pixel blur. Underneath was a checkerboard of circuits and switches, coldframe representations of the real machinery supporting the incredible artificial world.
In the background a deep and steady throbbing sounded constantly. It was something she had never heard before, and guessed it was some kind of Matrix feedback from the combat. Torpedo hits, laser fire, she didn’t know, or really care. She was here for a datasteal and every nanosecond counted.
Spreading her wings, she flew to a slim ramp that extended over swirling gray clouds. Rising higher, she soared into the air and grabbed hold of an overhead dataline. Her beak sizzled from the illegal contact, but she ignored the pain and alighted on the enclosed byte-stream. Perched there, she activated a shield program that covered her with armor plating. The pain in her beak vanished.
Booting her best can opener program, Silver then ripped open a chunk of the cable and blinding light bathed her like fire. Ignoring it, she stepped into the raw data and was whisked away like a leaf in a river. The currents carried her far and away before sending her plunging over a VR waterfall. With powerful wings, she dodged the jagged rocks. To the right was a vista full of twinkling lights and nodules of every shape and size. A wonderland of data sitting ripe and ready for quick harvesting.
Ignoring the trap, she flew onto the left shore. This plain was barren and empty, devoid of details. But circling about she suddenly saw a curved arch appear out of thin air. Inside the arch was a flat sheet of solid static, crackling and hissing. IC, and some of the blackest she had ever seen.
Appearing from out of the nothingness behind her, as if stepping from a thick fog, came a dozen mastiffs, their powerful, rippling, muscled, bodies covered with plates like armadillos, their fanged muzzles dripping foam. As the dogs bounded toward her, Silver waved a miniature version of the bubblecity—Jim Harvin’s passcode—before the door, and the main lock clicked open. Yes!
After checking that the doors were closed behind her and the dogs unable to follow, Silver proceeded on. Throwing a cloak program over her, she now became a bronze samurai, hoping nobody would notice she was the only one about. A second arch led to another room. Here the rumble of feedback was gone and there were no other deckers visible. This inner locale was a quiet cool room of pastel marble, the air full of floating cabinets, each jammed with swarms of tumbling numbers and letters, encrypted files. The data vault. Hot damn!
Scanning the directory only took a nano, and she easily found the subdirectory needed. However, this one refused to accept Harvin’s code, so she pulled out her best can opener program. But the crowbar bent on the translucent node and shattered into bits. Drek! Not getting in this way.
Hmm, a bit of chaos might help things along. Give the coldframe something else to work on and divert its attention. Going to a smaller, less protected node, Silver easily decoded it and deactivated every door lock in the building. Then she changed her mind and sent out an executive order to disengage every internal lock in both domes; jail cells, arsenal, elevators, food storage, exits, everything was now available to her chummers.
The room around her dimmed as power was shunted elsewhere—probably to responses and alarm calls—and at the speed of thought, she hastily opened the directory. The warmth in her empty hands told her the Fuchi was nearly overloaded running the deciphering program, but it seemed to be holding out long enough to translate most of the minor file headings into readable text. Scanning the text as it flashed by, Silver went cold inside and as a beep sounded telling her the info-dump was done, she jacked out immediately.
* * *
“Hoi,” she said, exhaling deeply, raising her fingers from the keyboard and flexing them. “I’m back.”
“Did you get it? IronHell’s location?” asked Thumbs.
She shook her head. “No, the coldframe doesn’t know. It’s why they hired us—to find it for them.”
“What?”
Wiping moisture off his chattergun, Delphia frowned. “We were hired by Gunderson?”
“Yes. And Moonfeather was working for them covertly.”
“She was a mole?”
“And our executioner if we succeeded.”
“So they wouldn’t have to pay us?”
“So it seems.”
“The traitorous slitch!” growled Thumbs through clenched teeth, hands bunched into fists. “I’ll kill her for that!”
“Already dead,” reminded Emile, stroking Grand.
“Yar, but I didn’t get to do it,” grumbled Thumbs menacingly. “And somebody’s gonna pay for that, too!
“Once I get the frag out of this aquarium,” he added softly to the room at large.
“Done is done,” Delphia said, waving one hand dismissively. He turned back to Silver. “Did you get an entry code for a sub? Anything at all useful?”
She swallowed. “I ... I found out everything. Harvin’s old code from the ork librarian worked down here also.”
“Very strange,” said Delphia.
Thumbs, however, gave a drek-eating grin. “Arctic. And?”
“And?” With a bitter laugh, Silver slumped in the chair. “And we are seriously fragged. Totally and utterly. Might as well put a round into our own heads. ’Cause we’re already dead meat.”
Weapons fire and explosions rumbled in the distance as the door to Barbara Harvin’s office slammed open. She stormed in, flanked by six Guards carrying Vindicators, plus a couple of suits with computers and briefcases. The office was empty, but the limp body of a guard was lying under a table.
“What the frag is going on here?” Barbara demanded loudly. Then she stopped as the guards and suits all tumbled to the floor as if suddenly boneless. The door slammed shut behind her, and she spun about to find herself facing a dirty gang of street toughs who were securing it closed.
“Security! Intruder alert, Level one!” Harvin yelled, backing away from them. “Stat!”
“Their arrival will prove a bit difficult with the spell we got on that door,” said a norm in a rumpled suit of exquisite styling.