Streets of blood s-8 Read online

  She made a quick check on her bearings, the data bits glowing and swirling around the nondescript child that was her persona in the Matrix. This was no more than a routine job, really; checking the datastores of a very minor research group stuck away in Kent would take no more than half an hour, after which she could copy and decrypt anything interesting at her leisure. The job didn’t really justify the fee, but they were paying for her reputation. Besides, she needed extra for Rutger, the barman at the Lounging Lizard, where she often had her meets. Keeping him on a hefty retainer greased the wheels of her style, making her negotiations generally swifter and more professional. That also helped guarantee more work to follow. This was just a preliminary snoop, after all.

  As she entered the system access node of Howarth Associates’ system, a feeble access program tried to check her ID. The sleaze program got her past the barrier so effortlessly that she was actually looking forward to something more challenging further into the heart of the system. Meanwhile she used the analyze program to check the sub-processing unit ahead, identifying it as the SPU controlling the flow of data to other SPUs within the system. Super! No need to get to the central processor, where she’d surely encounter more severe countermeasures and checks. She could work from this basic point.

  The SPU had one nice touch in defense: a tar baby trap that would have crashed and dumped her sleaze program without ceremony had her sleaze not been able to fool it. It looked like that sleaze had been worth every nuyen she’d paid for it because the tar baby let her pass easily. Speeding further along the cluster of SPUs and into the datastores, she ran her analysis and data-checking programs while also keeping tabs on the alarm seed monitors. No reaction from the system, no alerts. It was like stealing candy from a sleeping baby.

  As she was preparing to exit the system a microsecond’s jarring of her awareness kicked her pulse rate over a hundred. The analyze program gave her only garbage about what had happened, but she knew the disturbance came from some other presence in the system snooping on her and the data she’d just finished downloading into her deck. Her alarm seed monitors had not spotted the intruder, so he was probably well cloaked. She leaped from the SAN and into the grid beyond.

  Her child persona spun around to see a black figure with a leather bag fleeing into the distance. She gave chase, keeping pace with the figure, wanting only to get a better look. Racing past a bewildered pair of street-walkers, she followed the figure to a SAN that screamed black IC, the deadly countermeasures programs, at her.

  The figure stepped into the SAN, then turned to face her. It was utterly faceless. Where its face should have been, there gaped a bleak nothingness, a vortex of swirling emptiness.

  Numbed, half-paralyzed with fright, Francesca suddenly flew back out of her chair, the trodes snapping out of her datajacks and their leads dangling over the worktable.

  She was astonished. Checking her deck quietly, she found no damage. The data was downloaded and ready for the frame to decrypt and analyze it. But this was the first time she’d ever been dumped from the Matrix by a simple glance from another decker persona. For all the power of that faceless thing, however, neither she nor her deck were damaged. She’d have expected it to deploy some vicious black IC, but it hadn’t. What the hell was going on?

  "Right, you ugly bastard, whoever you are,” she said to her empty apartment. "I’m coming back with some armor and defenses that’ll make even you think twice.” But when she gingerly reentered the Matrix and tracked the SAN into which the figure had vanished, her child persona drew back suddenly. It was the entrance to the Transys Neuronet system. No way! Her resolve evaporated as fast as it had formed. She didn’t intend to go headlong into the system of the most paranoid and dangerous cyber-research corporation in Britain.

  Francesca didn’t like letting go of an unsolved mystery, but she knew when she needed a little help. Armor and shield programs executed from an independent frame would be just a start, but first she needed to touch base with some contacts outside the Matrix. She ignored her aching shoulders and back and keyed in the telecom code. He wasn’t home, but that was expected. She left a message instead.

  “Geraint, you slippery cobber, I’ve got something a little wild on my hands. Dinner at the Savoy Grill at eight? Don’t drink too much-I need your mind intact. RSVP, Welsh boy.”

  * * *

  The government won by a majority of twenty-one votes, the Cambridge meeting looked worthwhile, and Geraint arrived home to find that the Empress had called. He’d been half-expecting to hear from her, yet when he wrote a card to be sent by courier, he put the date for dinner at the Savoy Hotel at two days from now. He wasn’t sure what made him want to delay. Some stubborn uncertainty in him just wasn’t ready for things to begin happening so swiftly.

  * * *

  The killer is satiated right now, but he’s still learning what needs to be done. With no one to mourn her, what’s left of Polly Nichols lies in the morgue. It has begun, but no one has noticed. Yet.

  4

  “I like the way you do that." Francesca grinned as she sat down at the table glittering with silver and crystal. “Thank you, sir!"

  “Hmm?” Geraint blinked at her, unfurling an immaculate linen napkin from its gleaming ring. Her smile broadened at his quizzical, absent-minded expression.

  “Oh, nothing. Just that men back in L.A. wouldn’t draw back my chair as I sat down. You Brits may be broke, but you sure have manners."

  “Not so broke, Francesca. HKB’s last set of global estimations show that we own seventeen percent of your gross domestic product. Almost as much as the Japanese, in fact.

  "But you aren’t here to talk about Hildebrandt-Kleinfort-Bernal," he said, leaning across to light her cigarette. "The lemon sole’s good, but I expect you'll want your usual lump of dead mammal with added steroids and antibiotics?"

  “Yes please," she said. "Good and rare. And don’t forget the growth hormone additives!” Francesca blew out smoke from her cigarette as she dug around deep in her handbag. Just how did women get so much into the space of a purse? Geraint wondered. Legions of credsticks, powder compacts, and chipbooks for addresses bore testimony to the enduring violation of the laws of physics in women’s handbags. Staring down into the depths of the bag, she finally found what she was looking for and drew out the slim palm-sized screen. “Take a look at this.”

  She tapped in a code and passed him the screen. Immediately fascinated by the holographic images that unfolded before his eyes, Geraint drew in his breath at the sight of the faceless persona. With a kind of shudder he set the screen down on the table. He said nothing for a few moments, fingertips wandering distractedly over his chin and lips, then asked simply, “When was this?”

  “Just last night. Ever seen anything like it?”

  He shook his head. "I doubt I’d even have believed it if you hadn’t shown it to me. But I’m no decker, Fran. Why bring this to me?"

  She leaned forward, elbows on the table, her fragrance blotting out the scents of food and cigar smoke. "I’m not sure. Maybe because you know all kinds of stuff, all kinds of people. There might be something in that magpie mind of yours… And, well, I suppose it’s also that I wanted to see you again. It’s been a while." There was the slightest hint of reproach in her voice. She stared at him intently, only a breath away from knocking over her sherry glass. He smiled slightly and moved the glass a little distance from her elbow.

  “I know, and I’m sorry. It’s been busy." He was glad that the waiter chose just that moment to come pour their wine, providing a welcome diversion while he ordered his thoughts. When he looked back at Francesca, her face was slightly drawn, the embryonic crow’s feet around her eyes showing, but her blue eyes shining as always. He closed his hand around hers and took a chance on his intuition.

  “You’ve been dreaming.” His eyes met hers across the table, and she sighed as her whole body slumped a little. She looked away briefly, then met his gaze straight and strong.

 
“Only once. It may be nothing… when it’s only once." But her tone of voice said she knew better.

  Geraint tried to hide his shudder as he thought of the last time they’d been together and she’d awakened with the old nightmare. He’d never heard anyone scream like that before. They’d been lovers then, lying beside one another. Though her terror had set his own heart to pounding violently, he’d shushed and tried to calm and comfort her. Now he smiled as reassuringly as he could. She wanted that, and she fumbled the hologram pad back into her bag.

  “There’s another reason." She looked mischievous. “What do you know about Sir Jonathan Ambrose?”

  Geraint puckered his tips as a sensation of relief passed through his body, relaxing the tension he’d begun to feel. This was familiar territory. ‘‘He’s an absolute dweeb, my dear. Ancient noble heritage, pots of money, degree from Oxford, and absolutely no chin at all. He’d be as much use in bed as a Fuchi Sensation without the batteries. Why do you have such appalling taste in men?”

  Francesca pretended to look shocked as he directed the arriving steak and fish to their respective quarters with a polite smile. When the waiter had finished scooping the shrimps and cream over his sole, Geraint raised an eyebrow to her and lifted his fork to the feast. She was giving him that old, familiar look. The shadow had passed.

  “Look, leave the holopad with me and I’ll make a copy, give it some thought. But you’d best keep it quiet for now. Don’t tell anyone else until we know a little more. You have work?”

  "May-be, maybe,” she said slowly, tantalizingly. “It’s not just for lunch with Jonathan to the Lounging Lizard that I’m going tomorrow. We’ll see what Lady Luck turns up with the day’s Mr. Johnson.

  “And hey, speaking of Lady Luck, what do your cards have to say these days?”

  It was a query Geraint did not wish to answer. He paused just long enough to let her know he didn’t want to talk about the cards, but she knew him well enough to permit him his cautions and silences. Whatever noncommittal remark he gave faded into a stream of small talk and enjoyment of the gracious surroundings.

  * * *

  Clutching his carryall tightly Serrin strolled down Regent Street, passing the Stuffer Shack on his way from Cambridge station to the University Arms. Three days of pointless time-wasting had ended in a meeting where Smith and Jones had been a no-show. All that greeted him at dinner was a card expressing their profuse apologies, along with a credstick to persuade him to accept an additional assignment. A couple of minor nobles who were major stockholders in Optical Neotech PLC, one of his surveillance targets, would be attending a seminar at Cambridge’s finest hotel that weekend. Could he please tag a watcher or two to their rooms after an initial snoop?

  God knows what I’m doing here, the mage thought with a sigh. It’s fifteen minutes before midnight and this could have waited until tomorrow. All the corps I’ve been checking out have hermetic circles and goons around their laboratories, and none of my little spies have been able to entice one out far enough to fry them. It’s all been standard security, ordinary precautions, the usual drill. Whoever’s behind Smith and Jones could have easily learned the same without paying me thousands of nuyen.

  While passing through the strange juxtaposition of Cambridge colleges and the cheap burger joints run surreptitiously by the university to supplement its engorged bequests and landholding revenues, Serrin suddenly had a flash of spine-chilling awareness. This was rarer now than when he was younger, this depersonalization, this sense of being out of his body as he walked and moved through the world. Of course, the mage was used to astrally perceiving and traveling, of seeing the world as emotions and impulses and the shadows of souls, but what he was experiencing for this eternal second was quite different. At such moments he felt as though he was splintered across all the metaplanes and beyond, at once unreal and perfectly lucid. Time froze into stillness as his legs pounded along the sidewalk. He didn’t even notice the police car with its hawk-eyed trolls sliding slowly along the road past him. Nor did his wayward senses notice the fine drizzle slowly dampening his overcoat.

  I’ve been looking at what is, he mused. But what about what isn’t?

  Minutes later, he was sitting on the lumpy bed in his hotel room, the trid turned on out of pure habit, but the inspiration was gone. Like a vivid dream recalled only in fragments and whose message confounds the waking mind, the negative stubbornly refused to turn into a positive. He chewed at the shriveled sandwich that was all room service could scrounge up at this time of night.

  All right, he thought, mentally conjuring an image of the suits at breakfast those few days past, I’ll play your game. I’ll give you a report so complete it’ll bore you stiff with detail and show you I’ve been a very conscientious dupe. I’ll take all the nuyen you care to deal out. And I’ll take my time finding out what’s really going on here. Just maybe you’ll discover that I’m a stubborn fragger who likes to know the truth.

  * * *

  Francesca drained the bulbed glass and licked at her lips as she set it down, the simple gesture symbolically marking the end of the meal. “Good wine. I enjoyed that.”

  “Well, with the Tairngire vintages, at least you know it’s grown on soil that isn’t completely corrupted by pollution. Not bad. Could have done with a little extra Cabernet Franc, though." The waiter was placing the silver coffee service on the table and Geraint said. "Large Calvados for me, and-Cointreau?”

  Francesca smiled. “You remember little details, don’t you?"

  A trace of a grin played around the corners of his mouth as piano music drifted across the emptying room. He was barely aware what he was doing as he glanced idly at a northern Lord making a fool of himself with a heavily made-up Asian girl at a table opposite. Francesca noticed, though, and her hand gripped the wrist of his left hand, stopping him rubbing at his temple.

  "Geraint." Her voice had just an edge of urgency in it. “I’ve seen that before."

  He drew back from her, suddenly conscious of his action, nervous now and not wanting to hear what she was going to say.

  “What’s happening? What is it?" She knew about his rare moments of Sight. He’d told her about his ancestry and relatives, the cousins with temporal lobe epilepsy, the family curse. So she knew what that dull throb in the left side of his brain might mean, and she had her own nightmares. He hadn’t wanted the evening to come to this, and he shook away her query.

  “Oh, it’s nothing. Too many nights up late among the smoke-filled rooms of the House of Nobles." He distracted her attention with anecdotes of their lordships' scandals and misbehaviors. The fool with the bored girl across the room provided a good starting point. Between them, they unconsciously agreed to a false meeting ground of laughter over inconsequentialities.

  Geraint had his chauffeur drop Francesca off at her place, declining her offer of a nightcap. His head was beginning to ache quite horribly, and for once it wasn’t due to either alcohol or smoke. He looked forward to simply being safe and secure in his own home, where he might take some drug to smooth the rough edges. The feeling of queasiness in his guts was still only a forewarning. It was not a vital sign; that was yet to come.

  Once inside, he threw his cashmere overcoat, slick with the filthy rain of London’s night, over an armchair, then stooped to pick up the wax-sealed packet lying on the floor. The seal was the Earl of Manchester’s. Inside was a very glossy brochure-"Nobles in Business: Strategies for Success"-listing more corporate sponsors than London had honest policemen. Accompanying it was a personal invitation to the Earl of Llanfrechfa from Charles Nakatomi of Fuchi Industrial Electronics, no less. Dumping it unceremoniously on the hall table, Geraint rubbed his forehead and pinched the sinuses throbbing over the bridge of his nose to stave off the dull ache in his head. He undressed in the palatial bathroom, put on his silk dragon kimono, and made for the enkephalins in the top desk drawer. Just for good measure, he also took a hit of flocculated ibuprofen complex to turn every voluntary muscl
e in his body to jelly as he collapsed into bed. Better living through chemistry, boyo. We’ll worry about the weekend and the after-effects tomorrow. Cambridge, here I come.

  5

  Imran was late back from Shoreditch, and Rani was fretting over the chicken jalfrezi, splashing ghee all over the kitchen floor and the hem of her sari. Her nerves were still frayed from the attack, not least because she was sure she hadn’t heard the last of it. All day the front room, kept only for honored visitors, had seen a procession of cousins and friends who all suddenly developed an inventive range of pretexts for calling, usually soon after Imran had been using the telecom. She knew he was probably putting the word out. Today at least he’d been out of her hair, out hawking some Italian BTL chips and shady cyberware. Usually he traded in kind, haggling and bartering for goods he could then pass on in turn, balancing every deal with the finesse of a watchmaker. He enjoyed the game, reveled in bargaining with his fellow traders and customers, and salted away the favors any ork needed to get by in the world. It upped your survival chances like nobody’s business when the racists knew you had heat on call.

  Sanjay was happy, too. Most of the nuyen he’d gotten in exchange for his home-cooked drugs had come up good, and one he’d even been able to "tune up," as he put it. He was dulled with poppy now, but he’d be heading for Mohsin’s soon, checking out the skillwires and street cyberware. She smiled remembering the day Sanjay had come home, stiff and sore, with the muscle replacements. Though grimacing with pain, he’d lifted her clean off the floor in his arms, not something he’d been able to do since that horrific day and night of agony when she had transformed. The new biceps gleamed under his oiled skin and she could see the enlarged pectorals straining under his sweat-soaked shirt. Mohsin was distant family; street gear was a far sight safer when the scalpel was wielded by one’s own blood.