Fade to Black

5

At the heart of the beast…

Market Street, Sector 1.

The burnt-out ruin of the old county court building stood opposite the shining twelve-story tower occupied by Omni Police Services and associated corporate agencies. Everywhere Rico turned his eyes, the charred, the gutted, and the wasted mingled with the bright and glittery. An addict who'd probably traded his legs, one arm, one eye, and an ear for highs "Better Than Life" lay sprawled on the sidewalk in a simchip-induced coma, while trippers in glinting neo-monochrome and flashing crystal jewels sashayed by. Black limos and gangers riding on whining plastic choppers shared the roadway, roaring past the stripped-down wreck of an old CMC stepvan and other derelicts rusting in the gutters.

Overhead, a help with winking lights thumped through the hazy, smog-veiled darkness.

Devil take it.

Time to focus, Rico told himself. The rest of the team was in position, and he was as ready as he would ever be. Rico didn't like getting Piper into something like this, didn't even like her being on the street, where anything could happen, but she'd insisted. She demanded to be in the game personally, in the flesh, whenever she might do some good. Rico admired courage like that, especially in a woman. But it didn't stop him worrying.

He wore a long black duster to cover the heavy auto bolstered at his hip and the extra magazines on his belt. He drew a black bandanna up from his neck to cover his face as far as the bridge of his nose, flipped up the duster's collars.

The club was just around the corner on the tail-end of Springfield Avenue. Running across the gleaming black front of the place in subdued gold lettering was the word Chimpira. That was Japanese. A joke. Piper had explained that the word came from other words meaning "flimsy gold". Cheap punks. A slick and mean veneer, but take away the clothes and the attitude, and nothing remained. What made it a joke was that all the cheap punks who used the main floor were nothing but a cover.

Trolls guarded the main entrance, and a small crowd of yakuza cutters kept watch on the trolls. The presence of the yak muscle meant that the big boys, the real powers in the Newark plex, the ones who had named the club, roust be meeting on the top floor. It also indicated that one or more of the vehicles lining the curbs or the windows in the buildings along the street would be occupied by U.C.A.S. feds: F.B.I., Secret Service, whatever. Surveillance teams. Techs and vidcams. Watching the comings and goings. The feds had been trying for years to get at the heart of the organizations running the plex. It was a losing game.

Rico walked to the black tunnel of the main entrance. The razorguys standing around, including the trolls, all wore something obscuring their faces: shades, scarves, bandannas, a variety of Halloween and theatrical masks, some glowing in the dark. That was the style. You didn't go to Chimpira with a naked face.

In the dark shade of the entrance stood a slag wearing a broad-brimmed hat, black trench, and a mask like a cartoon mummy. The odd pins and devices stuck to the lapels of the slag's trench coat had nothing to do with Chimpira-style, or any other kind of style. Unless it was arcane-style.

Surveillance mage.

As Rico approached, one of the trolls put out a hand nearly the size of a cinder block, and growled, "Whaddya want?"

"Got biz."

"You a cop?"

"Frag that."

"What's the biz?"

"Private."

The mage nodded.

"Twenty, cred."

Rico handed over a certified credstick.

The troll motioned him past. "Have a great effin' night."

Angst-rap thundered through the entrance tunnel. Trids along both walls advertised pachinko, simsense, whores, and anything else a body might crave. Money talked, guano walked. At the end of the tunnel waited a pair of biffs wearing only skimpy gold chains over their glossy sable skin. They smiled and cooed hello as Rico stepped through the sliding black doors into the club's interior.

"Welcome to Chimpira," flashed a laser display. "Visit our Simchip Suite for the Ultimate in Simmertainment!" The music only got louder. Lights flickered and flashed. Fractal displays on the walls sparkled with kaleidoscopic color. And this was just the front room, like a lobby. A hexagonal counter occupied the center of the space. The biffs there had hair of flaring incandescent light, changing from red to yellow and green and shaped like short, stubby worms crawling all over their heads.

Five passages like enormous, grotty tubes led from the room in five different directions. Rico took the one all the way to the right. The walls of the passage throbbed with light, like a vein. Scarlet fog flowed around Rico's legs. At the end of the passage waited a white biff wearing silvery spandex and fingerless gloves and boots to match. Silver-studded bands ringed her ankles, waist, wrists, and neck. Her eyes were like violet pits, infinite, her expression like stone, emotionless. Her hair looked like white fuzz, shorn practically to the scalp. She had a fine figure, slim but shapely and obviously well-conditioned. Rico paid her figure little attention. Too dangerous.

She was called Ravage. Rico had seen her around, had heard talk about her. She walked the razor bodyguard, courier, collection service. She was supposed to be teflon slick, fast enough to blur. People said she didn't bother with mere guns because she had all she needed under her skin. Boosted reflexes, skillwires, cyberspurs, maybe an implanted pistol. How much damage could this lithe body actually do? Rico wished he had more than just guesses. If she had a gun with her tonight it didn't show. She stood with feet planted and spread wide, her arms at her sides, her head erect, alert. Violet pits aimed right at him. Rico paused about two steps away.

"You solo?" Ravage said.

"Your guess."

"My guess is you're obsolete, old man."

There was nothing in the voice, no malice, not even a shade of menace. It didn't matter. What she said didn't matter. Not from a woman, it didn't. A woman who talked like her didn't merit respect, or anything but a straight estimation of the dangers she might pose. Rico lowered his eyes to the modest prominence of her breasts, then to the juncture of her legs. That was his reply. Ravage didn't seem to notice.

"Road kill," she said.

Rico forced a grin. "Anytime, muchacha."

"Soon as I'm free."

She turned her back and started walking like Rico didn't worry her at all. The studded bands around her body caught Rico's eyes. Some of those studs could be optical pickups. Ravage might well have a 360-degree cyberview of the world. Chipped to the max and fluid as a snake. Nothing would surprise him.

She led him onto a low balcony overlooking the club's main floor. Ranged along the right were softly backlit alcoves outlined in glaring neon. Ravage paused at the fifth one down, and Rico got his first look at L. Kahn.

He sat behind an oval table, on a semicircular bench seat that filled the rear of the alcove. The alcove's subdued lighting cast his face and front in shadows, but only until Rico's Jikku Shadowhunter eyes adjusted. Low-light augmentation with glare compensation pulled L. Kahn's sculptured features out of the shade. He looked Amerind, with maybe a touch of Black-Af blood. A thick black wave of hair dangled down over one side of his forehead. Skinny braids hung in front of his ears. He had heavy brows, a substantial nose, and a broad, full-lipped mouth. His medium brown suit looked pure Armante. The jacket's thin collars rose into massive flanges that curved up and over his shoulders. A cloak curled around his sides, concealing his arms above the elbows.

"Your player," Ravage said.

L. Kahn looked at Rico and gestured toward the right side of the alcove's curving bench. Rico sat there, Ravage moved to sit opposite. L. Kahn tapped the keypad on the table before him, and the pair of nude slitches dancing around on the tabletop-forty-centimeter-tall laser displays-abruptly winked out. "Interesting locale for a meet," L. Kahn said slowly. Rico replied, "Ain't you been here before?"

"I prefer more secluded climes." Rico didn't much care. The main fact on his mind was that job offers sometimes turned out to be setups, traps laid by people bearing grudges. It paid to be careful. Chimpira might be on the hairy verge between darkness and light, but it was safer than some small room off a back alley. The yaks didn't take kindly to murders on the premises. Neither did they admit cops. That the slag calling himself L. Kahn had actually shown up tended to indicate that he was who and what he was supposed to be, rather than some blade out to cap on a contract.

"You got nothing to worry about," Rico said. "You ain't gonna do nothing but talk and pass cred. I'm taking the risks and I don't know you from drek."

L. Kahn gazed at him steadily for several moments, then spoke, his voice a low drawl. "I have contracts to fulfill. Clients to satisfy. The risk is different in form, but shared by all. You were recommended to me by a reliable source. That is why I'm wasting time with you now."

"I'm wasting your time?" Rico said quietly. "I don't know your name. That implies your name probably isn't worth knowing."

From a biff like Ravage, it wouldn't have mattered. From another man, it went too far. L. Kahn's tone made it much more than a casual remark or a simple statement of fact. Rico hesitated about two seconds, then leaned toward L. Kahn and spat in his face.

L. Kahn didn't move a muscle. He didn't have to- Ravage was already moving. Rico didn't catch the first stirring, but the next instant he saw her coming closer, then pitching the table over and out of her way.

Could he get his Predator free of the holster in time? He had maybe a fraction of a second to decide.

The instincts that come from experience answered the question for him. If you're going to blast somebody, you don't bother closing the distance, not in a situation like this, with everybody at point-blank range. That meant Ravage wanted it personal. Rico could almost feel the chrome-steel punch or kick being readied, building up in the distance somewhere, like an earthquake, closing in fast.

Rico thrust his right arm forward, clenching his fist and bending it at the wrist. Muscle memory did the rest.

Ravage's left hand became a claw, blurring in front of his face, on a collision course. She had razors there, Rico realized, jutting out from under her nails. They would slice through his eyes and cheeks, then maybe return to tear through his throat.

The blurring hand halted barely two centimeters from his face, then hung there, motionless. Ravage might rip his face to shreds, but she would see her guts spill to the floor for the privilege. Rico held the curving chrome blades now jutting from the backside of his forearm just short of the slitch's groin.

Rico grinned up into her face.

"Do it," he rasped.

The violet pits of Ravage's eyes showed nothing, not even a glint of emotion. Her voice was almost mechanical, murmuring, "Road kill."

Rico waited. Instants passed like minutes. Standoff or double killing? Rico had been to this place before. Sometimes it seemed like his whole life was composed of moments like this. His heart hammered, but he had no trouble facing the prospect of his death. Like somebody once said, A man's fate is a man's fate. What would be would be. If he died, it would at least be a man's death, an honorable death, giving as good as he got.

A new voice suddenly arose, growling, "The slitch backs off or you're dog meat, chummer."

Out the corner of his eye, Rico saw the large figure now standing where one comer of the alcove met the floor of the balcony. Shank's big hands gripped a massive automatic, an Israeli LD-100. The red blip of the weapon's laser sight shone steadily, unmoving, on the bridge of L. Kahn's nose.

"Ravage," L. Kahn said calmly.

Another long moment passed, then Ravage backed away like a wave slowly retreating from shore. The razors at her fingertips vanished. At near a whisper, she said, "Next time you'll have to be fast, old man."

Rico didn't want to hear about next time. It didn't matter. Whether he could even come close to matching Ravage's speed next time they clashed wasn't important He could be dead a thousand times over before then. He could have a heart attack right where he sat just remembering how quickly she'd gotten into his face. If there ever was a next time, he'd be smart to dust her on sight, and from as long a range as possible.

L. Kahn dabbed at his face with a brown handkerchief, and said, "Let us call a draw a draw and get on to biz."

"We still got something to talk about?"

"If we didn't, you would be dead."

"You got a dangerous mouth, my man."

"I can afford it."

Abruptly, a pair of small red blips caught Rico's attention. Waving around and around in circles on his chest A third blip ran in circles up and down Shank's side. They weren't part of the stroboscopic light effects from the club's main floor. They were targeting sights. Rico ran his eyes around, vision shifting to infrared to microchip-enhanced, but he couldn't spot the shooters. Too much ambient heat too many bodies on the main floor all moving asynchronously. L. Kahn had pros backing him up. At least three of them.

Where the frag was Piper? Rico wondered. Was she safe? He hoped she was under wraps as good as L. Kahn's shooters.

"Ask your friend to relax," L. Kahn said. "We'll talk." Rico motioned with his chin. Shank was down on one knee, using the skimpy railing that guarded the edge of the balcony to gain what cover he could from L. Kahn's shooters. With a growl and a sneer, he slid bis automatic under his jacket Ravage set the table upright on its pedestal and returned it to its place. She did that one-handed, and the table looked heavy. She smiled as she sat down opposite Rico. It was just a glimmer of a smile. On her it looked like a death grin. "So talk," Rico said.

L. Kahn nodded. "Explications first. My clients are powerful people. When they make a contract they expect it to be fulfilled. And I will see them satisfied. If you take my money, you will complete the contract in full. When time is an issue, and for this job, time is an issue, I accept no refunds. You will do the job or face the consequences."

Do the job or die. Almost common enough to be considered standard terms. "You think I'm an amateur?" Rico snarled. "I don't need guano like this. You tell me what the job is and I'll tell you if I'm interested."

L. Kahn seemed unaffected: cool and calm. Rico envied the slag his self-control. Nothing seemed to undo him, even spit in the face. "The job is a bustout."

"I don't do snatches."

"It's a recovery."

"Keep talking."

"The subject to be recovered was in fact snatched. The job is to bring the subject home. This particular subject is highly ranked in a particular field and is therefore of high value. The snatching entity has threatened the subject's spouse, thus forcing the subject to contribute substantially to the snatching entity's various enterprises."

"You're talking about corporate entities."

"Don't ask for specifics unless you're accepting the job."

"Sure. Where's this spouse you mentioned?"

"The spouse remains under the protection of the home entity and will not be a factor in completing the contract. Your only concern will be to recover the subject and deliver the subject unharmed at a specified time and place."

"What's the security threat?"

"It has been assessed as Code Orange."

"A or double-A security."

"Correct."

"So it ain't Fuchi-Town."

"Obviously."

The immense complex that included the five sky-raking towers of Fuchi-Town in lower Manhattan had triple-A security, also called Code Red. Fuchi used everything to keep the facility secure: armed guards, electronics, magic. You didn't go up against security like that unless you had a back door or the possibility of making one-and even then it would probably still be a suicide run. "Tell me about your Code Orange."

"Are you accepting the contract?"

"Not without more data."

"You have all the data you need."

"Not to talk money."

"Then you are accepting the contract."

"With conditions. If you don't make the money worth the risk, forget it. If you lie, forget it. If this turns out to be a snatch, forget it. If your subject ain't a willing subject, forget it."

"Have you ever run against Code Orange security." Rico cursed, then said, lowly. "Don't insult me again or those shooters won't save you."

"You have many conditions for a man in your line."

"Remember it."

The plex was full of amateurs, children with dangerous toys, who went running off on fool's errands because some stone-faced slag like L. Kahn flashed some nuyen. Rico knew better. You started your fight right here. You stood your ground. If the man didn't Uke your terms, you walked away. You had two choices in this life. You could live slow or fast. Given the choice, Rico liked it slow, clawing every bit of the way for everything he could get It was that or nothing.

Moments passed. Rico tried to decide who looked more like a statue: L. Kahn or Ravage. Both seemed cut from the same chunk of stone.

"I will agree to your conditions," L. Kahn said finally, "but I have a condition of my own. You have given me tentative acceptance of the contract. I will tell you more of what you want to know. If any part of what I say reaches the streets, you're dead." Rico hesitated, then said nothing. It made no sense that a slag with L. Kahn's rep would keep bringing up points, terms and conditions that any teenage virgin would know. That fact, nagging at Rico, finally inspired insight He realized he was being worked. L. Kahn apparently knew some things about him, like his sensitivity to personal insults and his difficult-to-manage temper. L. Kahn had been baiting him right from the start, and had intentionally brought him and Ravage into near-lethal collision.

It cast that little death grin of Ravage's in a whole new light. The slitch had known. L. Kahn was scoping him out. Testing him. "Keep talking," he growled lowly. "The facility where the subject is kept makes primary use of passive electronics," L. Kahn said. "There are multiple back-ups and fail-safes. Guards are armed and of good-to-average caliber. They are stationed at checkpoints, entrances, and exits, but make only perfunctory patrols of the perimeter and facility interior. My assessment indicates that in order to succeed you will need both matrix cover and technical expertise in physical penetration."

"What about magicians?"

Magic was always the wild card. In a world of uncertainties, it was the least predictable element. "There are several mages on premises," L. Kahn said, "but none have been incorporated into the facility's security system."

"Sounds pretty weak."

"There is one more factor. The facility's security posture is monitored. Should there be an active alert caused by intruders, additional security forces will respond to the site. These forces are rated as military-equivalent. They are commando-trained, heavily armed, and come with integral astral support."

"What's the response time?"

"Minutes."

"How many minutes?"

"Lead elements could reach the facility in four or five. Astral support would likely be in the second wave."

"Is that a fact or an estimate?"

"The Sixth World has no facts. Only suppositions."

They soon came to the matter of money, nuyen, the one indisputable fact of living. Rico bargained hard, got more or less what he wanted, and accepted the contract. L. Kahn passed him a chip containing the specifics of the job. The only thing left to do then was to verify L. Kahn's up-front payment in certified credsticks, and plan and execute the run.

"The Chinese have a saying," L. Kahn remarked at the end. "May you live in interesting times. You make for interesting negotiations, Mr. Rico. I'll remember your conditions. You remember mine."

Rico glanced at Ravage and left.