Black Madonna s-20

  Black Madonna

  ( Shadowrun - 20 )

  Carl Sargent

  Carl Sargent

  Black Madonna

  Marc Gascoigne

  Prologue

  00:00 A.M.

  The world was about to fall apart, but he could hardly have expected that to happen. Some things don’t exactly happen every day.

  Sam Kryzinski expected another boring, normal day at the office. Renraku had been paying him a comfortable salary as Coordinator of Matrix Security in their Chiba offices for four years. and that was as long as most good deckers lasted. Sam had stayed the course. It was a day just like any other; April 20, 2057, gray clouds and sixty-one degrees in the late afternoon, very comfortable for the time of year. There were no new wars of any significance on the globe, and no fool decker had tried anything more than flirt with the fortress-thick IC around the peripherals of the central Renraku system for weeks. It was also another day closer to his retirement and a good pension. Sam was thirty-four years old, already balding and slightly overweight, an American with the elevated coronary risk normal for someone of his age and profession. He divested himself of the jacket of his cut-price, Taiwanese rip-off Italian suit and dumped himself down on the titanium-chrome frame of the ergonomically designed chair in his office. Just another day.

  Until midnight.

  He was already looking forward to the company limo calling to take him home to his standard-issue, mousy, uninterested wife and two mildly hyperactive brats, with their range of behavioral problems resolutely average for American children of their age, when the brown stuff hit the fan with a vengeance. A real five-alarm frag up.

  There was absolutely no warning at all. No IC activation, no alerts from the system’s patrol of deckers. One second the system was operating perfectly and the next instant everything was shot to hell. Sam was idly checking some data on a laptop wired into the mainframe when the screen went blank with a soft clicking sound. He cussed and fiddled with the power cable. Then he realized something was seriously wrong. If his planner diary hadn’t just crashed along with the rest of the system, he might have noticed his incipient coronary leaping forward a few months.

  The blackout lasted fifteen seconds. Before the screen of his laptop flickered back into life he was already out of his chair, through the door and yelling bloody murder down the corridor even as the phones started ringing furiously on his desk. A white-faced technician almost ran smack into him, escaping from the computer labs and running around in a fair impression of beheaded poultry.

  “What the frag is going on?” Sam yelled, clutching the man’s arm. Any reply beyond the man’s initial stammering was drowned out by a chaotic swirl of yells and shouts as Renraku’s finest tried to figure out just what the mother-rubbing hell had fragging happened to their megabillion-nuyen Matrix systems.

  By the time some kind of calm had finally descended again, Sam was back in his office with his heartbeat still an unhealthy 105 and a gaggle of ashen scientists clucking around him. Feedback came mainlining back up on to his laptop and the larger displays in his office. He tried to take in the mass of data streaming into his senses.

  “It wasn’t a power failure,” one of the whitecoats said helpfully.

  “Brilliant, that was fragging obvious. That’s what the quadruple backup systems are for,” Sam snarled. “Frag, we’ve even got our own generators in the basement and more power stabilizers than you’ve had therapy sessions with your shrink. Surprise me more: tell me they worked too. Come on, come on. Tell me something I don’t know yet!”

  Nearly tripping over a wad of printout that cascaded down his legs as he struggled in with it through the half-open door of the office, Dmitar Radev finally arrived, and Sam thought he might at last get a sensible response out of somebody. Sam had a high regard for the Bulgarian, one of the top computer minds at Chiba. The Japanese made the best and cheapest hardware, but they’d never had the minds for programming and decking. Whether the incomers were from Europe, America, or elsewhere, fully seventy per cent of Renraku’s best systems analysts and deckers were non-Oriental. The black-haired, fat-fingered, stooping Bulgarian with the vodka-rotted teeth and nicotine-stained hands was maybe the best of them.

  “Massive system invasion and shutdown,” Radev growled in his fifty-a-day rasp. “Someone got into the core CPU instantly. I mean instantly. No activation response.”

  “Im-fragging-possible,” Sam stuttered.

  “Sure. Unfortunately, when you’ve eliminated the improbable, all you’re left with is the impossible. That’s what happened. I’m telling you.” Radev sat on the edge of Sam’s huge desk and demanded some coffee from one of the lackeys.

  “What are you telling me? We’ve spent four billion nuyen upgrading the IC in the last year and some fragger waltzed through it like it wasn’t there?”

  “You’ve got it,” Radev said flatly, tapping the filter of a cigarette on the teak of the desktop. Sam threw a glance at the No Smoking sign on the nearest window, sighed with feeling and pulled an ashtray out from a desk drawer.

  “Thought you gave it up,” Radev said laconically, extending the pack to him.

  “Picked the wrong time to do that,” Sam replied with a grin, sensuously removing a cigarette from the proffered pack and accepting a light from the sweaty, saturnine Bulgarian. Then he had one of the smartest ideas of his life.

  “Was this just us?”

  Radev shrugged his shoulders as he inhaled, breathing out what was almost a neat smoke ring.

  “What the frag does this guy want?”

  “I think we may find out before long,” Radev said slowly.

  “Try Fuchi,” Sam said urgently, his demand spraying out to cover his whole team. People started moving fast. “Get on it! I want to know if we’re the only ones who got hit. And get me damage reports. And a full update on peripheral status throughout the system. Damn it, get me everything and get it now.”

  1:59 A.M.

  It isn’t the done thing to deck the frag out of another megacorp’s central Matrix systems. It’s virtually tantamount to a declaration of corporate war. But there are times when a little skirting around the edges is acceptable, especially if you’ve got reason to think something very strange is going down.

  And when Kryzinski's deckers checked out the Fuchi system, they found proof that something way beyond merely “strange” had gone down. The entirety of the central CPU systems of Fuchi Tokyo had gone AWOL at midnight for exactly fifteen seconds. Having accessed the revealing data, the Renraku team got the hell out of the Fuchi system. The only casualty was a single decker who simply didn’t get away from the trace and burn fast enough-a completely acceptable resource loss as far as Sam Kryzinski was concerned. It could be made to look like an accident of some sort. And even if it couldn’t, Renraku could afford the few hundred thousand to buy off the guy’s wife from making any claim. The data his team brought back told him instantly that the stakes were much higher than that.

  “Fuchi?” Sam was incredulous. “At the same time?”

  “Not even a millisecond later. Instantly, at midnight,” Radev confirmed for him. “Just like us. Now, isn’t that interesting?”

  “Do we know if they’ve been decking into our system in return?”

  “No, but they will,” the Bulgarian said with a harsh grin. “We’re on full system alert, of course. But then so Were they.”

  The second hand on the old-fashioned clock across the office clicked one step closer to the hour. Sam had bought it on a trip to England, paying some ridiculous sum for a Victorian grandfather clock that was almost certainly a late twentieth-century forgery worth a fraction of what he’d paid, but the thing’s bronze pendulums and its metronomic ticking could be soothing
at those times when his stress levels shot through the roof. Hands folded on top of a huge pile of status reports on systems around the globe, Sam sat in reverie for a few seconds as the silver metal swept relentlessly to its zenith. Two A.M.

  Tock.

  Tock.

  Every screen around him went blank.

  Gravity switched off for an instant. Sam’s heart rate spiked skyward and peaked at over 110. For a terrifying second he thought the chest pains he usually put down to too much caffeine and junk food were going to fulfill their grisly promise early. He was still young enough, and therefore stupid enough, to labor under the illusion of immortality that is the province of the youthfully immature. A sharp stab of pain radiating into his diaphragm gave him an intimation of approaching middle age. Next to him, Radev was jacked into the Excalibur on the desk, his teeth bared and his eyes wide like he was ready for a bloody fight.

  God, just get me through this night alive and I’m out of here, Sam prayed. I’ll jack out of this damn job and retire with Judith and the kids. Live on a remote Scottish island or in a beach hut in Polynesia, anywhere, just get me through this night still alive. Please.

  By the time the stabbing pain had dulled and he was reaching for the analgesic shot in the bottom desk drawer, the screens were no longer blank but filled with static. Radev was absolutely still, blood wholly drained from his face. He didn’t look quite like he’d seen a ghost lie looked more like he was actually shaking hands with one.

  Sam had the flocculated hydrocodeine-methoxymorphine complex into the cannula and into his bloodstream by the time the image appeared on the screen. His pulse had just managed to return to double digits by then. When he looked, open-mouthed, at the extraordinary picture appearing before him, his heart skipped a few beats. The image was less than six centuries old, but it had more than two and a half thousand years of lies and history bound into it, and though he didn’t fully understand it or its significance, its presence right here, right now, filled him with fear and dread.

  There was a short text message accompanying the image. He didn’t bother to take in the contingency clauses. It would all be recorded; he could review the details at his leisure. The part he did notice was the demand.

  Twenty billion nuyen to be delivered by midday on the second of May 2057, or else every system Renraku possessed would be wiped and destroyed utterly, rendered completely useless.

  Very slowly, hand flat over his heart to reassure himself he was still alive, Sam used his other hand to tap a key on his telecom.

  “Get me Yukiano Watanabe,” he spluttered in Japanese even before the image of the impassive Japanese secretary deliquesced onto the screen.

  “I’m sorry, but Ms. Watanabe is-”

  “This is Sam Kryzinski, Coordinator of Chiba Matrix Security,” he said, deathly calm. “This has absolute priority. This is a Red-10 crisis. Now get me the lady, or the value of her stock will collapse to zero by morning. If the London Stock Exchange gets hold of this, it might be even earlier. Do it now.”

  The screen flickered and a holding pattern appeared, an incongruously tasteful and peaceful Oriental garden. Seventeenth century, but Sam wasn’t into history at the moment.

  Beside him, the Bulgarian had jacked out and his shaking hands were struggling to light another cigarette.

  1

  The Englishman was surprised to find himself in Chiba. He'd worked for Renraku before, of course-he numbered virtually all the megacorporations among his clients-but it was the first time he’d been obliged to travel from his Manhattan base to talk to a Johnson. Luxury suborbital was what he’d expected, but why did they want him in Chiba? The limo they sent to meet him had the usual darkened windows and armored paneling, even a life-support system built into its formidable carapace. He was met at the airport by four troll samurai, including the chauffeur, and even that seemed excessive. They know something I don’t, he told himself.

  Though almost thirty, Michael James Sutherland still enjoyed a reputation as one of the finest freelance deckers on the planet. Diplomatic and discreet, he got paid not just for what he could do, but for how he could do it and how he could keep his mouth shut afterward. A tall, blond, elegant man, he levered himself carefully into the passenger compartment of the limo, but it had more to do with an injury to his back than any show of dignity. Two years before Michael had taken a bullet to the spine that just missed paralyzing him for life, and he now had to wear a special corset for support. He’d briefly considered a silver-topped cane to ease the pain of walking. It would, certainly, have enhanced his carefully fostered image and his perfect Saville Row suit, but he’d eventually decided against it as just a little too over the top somehow.

  Marveling at the absolute silence of the Phaeton’s ride, Michael arrived fifteen minutes late, at the door of a restaurant that must surely cost the better part of five million a year in rent just to keep the door open, given Chiba’s overcrowding and the prodigiously wasteful use of space within. Each table was cocooned in its own curved walled partition complete with cunningly designed acoustic shielding and sliding plastic and alloy doors.

  I don’t know what it costs to eat here, Michael thought, but it must be a few hundred just to draw breath.

  “Sam Kryzinski,” the balding man said to him as he entered the swishing doors of Space 17. “Coordinator of Matrix Security. Pleased to meet you.” The handshake was a little limp and definitely sweaty. Michael put aside his dislike of the man. It wasn’t relevant to the matter at hand. Whatever that would turn out to be.

  “We have a minor problem,” the American began, mopping his brow with a silk square as he perused the menu. Gleaming crystal glasses of absolutely pure water already decorated the crystal-topped, lacquered table. Orchids nestled in tiny, exquisitely decorated ceramic bowls.

  “I assume so or else I wouldn’t be here,” Michael said evenly, sipping at the cool water and casually flipping open the menu. There were no prices. He hadn’t expected to find any. If you had to ask, et cetera.

  “Best sushi in Japan,” Kryzinski informed him. “The seven-spiced seaweeds are something else, too.”

  “I’ll take your advice” the Englishman said smoothly. “Now why don’t we have a look at the contract?”

  “There’s a disclaimer and a confidentiality agreement,” the American replied defensively.

  Michael gave him a look that verged on the pitying. “If you really needed me to sign those, I wouldn’t be here,” he pointed out. “You know what I’m going to cost you, more or less. You know what you’re getting for your money, more or less. Can we please dispense with the formalities?”

  “It’ll make me feel better,” Kryzinski said fervently.

  “If you wish,” Michael said with a very slightly affected sigh. Accepting the documents, he plucked a silver fountain pen from his inside jacket pocket, initialed each page with his delicate, calligraphic hand, and signed the last page. Kryzinski was about to take them when Michael jerked the documents our of his grasp with a mildly theatrical gesture.

  “Now I’ve signed them, I think I’ll read the small print, old boy,” he said mildly. “I’ve worked for Renraku before and I trust them, but it never hurts to know that one’s trust is well placed.”

  For the first time, the American smiled a little and relaxed slightly. The doors swished quietly open and a Japanese waiter, clothed in incongruous and almost-perfect English butler’s attire, silently appeared to deposit a tray of appetizers. Tiny portions, mostly seafood, perfectly arranged and with exactly the right array of microscopic bowls of dips and sauces; three types of chili, ginger, plum, two strengths of soy, and a creamed tarragon for those not wholly reconciled to Oriental tastes. Chilled saki and miniatures of Dom Perignon, with linen squares to swath the corks and silvered stoppers to preserve the aeration for the slower drinker, completed the service.

  “I took the liberty of ordering appetizers,” Kryzinski mumbled as Michael continued through the small print. The waiter had already van
ished.

  “Wonderful,” Michael replied impassively, ladling a first small portion of bean sprouts and white fish with a smear of ginger and plum onto his plate. He ignored the chopsticks and settled for the silver spoon. If you can’t do something well, don’t do it at all, he thought. Stuff the chopsticks.

  “We’ve suffered a certain violation of our computer systems,” Kryzinski said carefully, watching in fascination as Michael, mouth still and eyes closed, allowed the contrasting textures of the crisp vegetable and soft fish to entice his senses. The sauces were perfect, sharp enough to stimulate the taste buds and smooth enough to warm the throat.

  “Um-hum,” Michael vocalized through closed lips as he allowed the last of the mouthful to slither down his throat. Whatever the job was, lunch was just fine. He set his spoon back on his plate and reached for the quarter-bottle of champagne. He wrapped the cloth around the cork and twisted the bottle to extract it slowly, with the proficiency of the habitual champagne-drinker. A gentle hiss of escaping carbon dioxide and the biscuity delight of Dom Perignon’s bouquet prefaced the pouring of perfection into his fluted glass. He took a first sip of the drink and gave the sigh of the satisfied hedonist appropriately pleasured.

  “An intrusion into the second-level CPU here at Chiba,” Kryzinski continued. “An instantaneous system crash.”

  Michael was instantly alert. “For how long?”

  “Some fifteen seconds.”

  “Any warning?”

  “Absolutely none.”

  “I shall need a complete sysmon report.”

  “The system monitoring was rendered inoperative.”

  “Really?” Michael was impressed.

  “Until the end-state of the crash. We have end-state reports for the systems and all peripherals.”

  “If there was no warning, you presumably have some end-state data. Did your decker leave any message or demand?”