Fallen Angels Page 8

  The Shadowland system was one of several pirate and underground data havens catering to the needs of those specializing in information: finding it, acquiring it and, most importantly, selling it to those willing to meet their price.

  Beyond the doorway was a virtual representation of a bar, its surfaces all polished black marble highlighted by veins of white and silver, tables of gleaming chrome and smoked glass, and booths of dark, polished wood and soft black leather. It was filled with a menagerie of characters drawn from history and fiction, dream and nightmare. They chatted in an unintelligible buzz of conversation as ice clinked in thick glasses. Privacy protocols made it impossible to hear any conversation but your own.

  Jackie spotted her contact immediately. Even though some patrons of the bar sat alone, as if waiting to meet someone, every persona was unique, custom-crafted and coded by deckers who made their own rules. Except one. This individual’s persona didn’t prove a reckless disregard for programming protocols, or show off an individual flair and attitude. This persona was a standard, realistic representation of a woman hidden behind a nondescript dark suit and stylish sunglasses—the very image of corporate conformity. The perfect mask of her face didn’t betray the annoyance in her tone as Jackie slid into the booth opposite her.

  "I hope this is important," she said tartly. "I don’t like meeting here."

  "Only you can be the judge of that," Jackie replied, "but I think you’ll find that it’s worth your trouble."

  "If this information is so important, then we should meet someplace more secure."

  "Trust me, Eve, there is no place more secure than Shadowland."

  Jackie’s contact considered that for a moment. Then she nodded curtly.

  "All right, what have you got?"

  "A name. Toshiro Akimura."

  Although the features of Eve’s persona lacked the refinement necessary to make her thoughts visible on her face, Jackie was an expert at reading reactions during conversations in the Matrix. The pause before Eve replied, and the way she steadied her voice when she did, told Jackie a great deal.

  "What about him?"

  Jackie shook her head. "No free samples."

  "Just a name isn’t worth much," Eve scoffed.

  "Well, I guess I could find out if anyone else in the company is interested . . ." Jackie replied.

  There was barely a pause before Eve responded. "What do you want?"

  Jackie’s persona beamed an impossibly wide smile.

  "Twice the usual finder’s fee, plus first shot at any follow-up work based on this."

  "The usual fee plus twenty-five percent, plus a bonus, if what you’ve got is worth it."

  "Done."

  Eve’s persona reached into her suit jacket and withdrew a small card, which she slid across the table. When Jackie’s persona picked it up, her cyberdeck accepted a download of data from Eve’s system, which contained the requisite codes to access the funds she had just unlocked as part of their deal. Eve waited while Jackie checked to make sure the data was correct.

  "So?" she asked.

  "Akimura is in Seattle."

  "Why?"

  "I don’t know that yet, but I know it has something to do with Kellan Colt. He’s been trying to set up a meeting with her. He also apparently paid one of the downtown gangs to cause her trouble—either a genuine hit that failed or a successful attempt to scare her."

  "Colt? The girl from that cargo acquisition?" Eve asked. "What would Akimura want with some punk-kid shadowrunner? Did she do something to cross him?"

  "I don’t know yet."

  "You don’t know much, do you?"

  "I know you lost track of Akimura and that you didn’t know he was in Seattle, and I know that I can find out more, if you’re interested."

  "I’m interested," Eve said, "but I need all the details next time we meet. I want proof Akimura is here. I want to know why he’s here, what he’s doing, and the name of everyone involved in his biz, and I want to know if it gives us a shot at him."

  Jackie nodded. "No worries. I’ll come up with the data."

  "I’m glad you brought this one to me, Jackie. I won’t forget this. If it pans out, I’ll see to it you're properly rewarded."

  "Always a pleasure doing business with you," Jackie said, as their personas both slid out of the booth and stood. "I’ll have more soon."

  "Good hunting," Eve said, then turned and walked out of the bar. Jackie did the same before logging off the system and the Matrix.

  She felt heavy as the sensation of her real body returned. She slowly opened her eyes, blinking against the perceived brightness of her room’s subdued lighting as her pupils adjusted.

  She checked her cred balance again just to make sure everything was in order. It would be even fatter after she tracked down more information for Eve. The company woman played it cool, but Jackie could tell she was actually excited about this intel. It was a pretty rare event for one of Cross Applied Technologies’ top agents to go rogue. It was even rarer that he lived to enjoy his freedom, and the company had to be very interested in finding out if the apparently untouchable Toshiro Akimura was potentially vulnerable. So would Akimura’s other enemies, for that matter.

  Yes, this promised to be a profitable operation. She would pass on some of what she found out to Kellan, so that her friend could keep her head down and stay out of the line of fire. Kellan was a good kid, but she just hadn’t developed the chops yet for facing off against a fixer of Akimura’s caliber—not face him and hope to survive the encounter. Jackie didn’t want to see her get hurt, and this way it seemed like she could protect her friend and rake in the nuyen at the same time.

  Settling the cyberdeck comfortably in her lap once more, Jackie called up the system’s display mode, overlaying floating screens of data on her vision, and began figuring out sources to track down why a shadow fixer who operated mostly in New Orleans was in Seattle, and what his interest might be in a young shadowrunner like Kellan Colt.

  * * *

  Icarus Ascending sustained its reputation as one of Seattle’s trendiest restaurants because it served what it classified as elven cuisine: a northwestern fusion of traditional Asian, vegan and Irish/Celtic dishes with some creative reinterpretation. Most of Icarus’ patrons chose not to question how a traditional cuisine could exist for a people who’d only been around for fifty years or so. If they thought about it, they usually chose to ignore the question and just enjoy the illusion Icarus created—an opportunity to step out of the mundane world for an hour or two and indulge in something exotic and magical. Naturally, a great many of the restaurant’s patrons were humans.

  Midnight hated the place. It was designed to appeal to faerieland wannabes and tradfant elves and dwarfs who wished they came from someplace magical and special. It was a childish fantasy of dashing and beautiful elves playing Celtic harps and living in tree houses, dwarfs in their stout stone halls drinking hearty ales and singing rousing songs. Given the choice, she wouldn’t be caught dead in the place, but it didn’t surprise her in the slightest that her contact wanted to meet there. And if that was what she needed to do to get the biz, then she could stand it.

  She waited at the bar. It would have been easy to pick him out when he arrived even if she hadn’t memorized recent holos of him. He was escorted to his table as if he were visiting royalty, the staffs deference so sickeningly overdone that you’d think they’d never seen an actual elf before—despite the fact that they themselves were elves. Midnight allowed him to settle into his seat and acknowledge the liveried waiter before she picked up her drink, slipped from the bar stool and strolled over.

  She’d chosen her outfit for maximum effect. Rather than her usual close-fitting synthleathers and vest with numerous pockets, she wore a dark Ultrasuede skirt, slit up the side to show a generous amount of leg clad in dark, sheer stockings, and black suede boots with silver toe caps and heel accents. She had left her smooth raven hair down, so that it flowed freely over the shoulders of t
he deep blue blouse, which was unbuttoned to show some décolletage. A silver necklace with a Celtic knot-work pendant completed the outfit and sent a subtle message of their common heritage. The black synthleather handbag she carried concealed just enough of her usual equipment to make her feel not entirely naked. She didn’t expect to need any of it, but she believed in being prepared, especially when walking into an unfamiliar situation.

  "May the shadows fall lightly across your path," she said in greeting. The translation wasn’t exact. She spoke in Sperethiel, the elven language, and every word carried multiple layers of meaning. A more traditional greeting would have been to wish the man a bright and joyous day; Midnight’s implied a measure of daring and risk, and his answer made it dear he understood her perfectly.

  "May you carry your light with you," he replied in the same language, suggesting the importance of honesty and cooperation among those who walked the dark path together. Midnight nodded her understanding.

  "Won’t you please sit?" he asked, switching to slightly accented English, and gesturing to the empty chair across the table from him. Midnight slid into it gracefully, setting her drink on the edge of the table. The man opposite her gave her a long, appraising look.

  "Your facility with our language is quite good for someone who has been away from the Land of Promise for so long," he said. Midnight inclined her head gracefully, refusing to rise to the bait of his implication. She was not interested in playing his little games.

  "Thank you," she said. "I do not have as many opportunities to exercise it as I would like."

  "I can imagine."

  She doubted that. "I’m pleased you agreed to this meeting, Mr. Telestrian. It wasn’t necessary for you to come to Seattle."

  "It seemed the most efficient approach," Telestrian said. "How could I refuse such an opportunity? Especially since the invitation came from someone I’ve heard so much about."

  "Have you? I’m surprised. I would suspect it is forbidden to speak my name."

  "It is," he replied, "but just because something isn’t supposed to be done . . ."

  "Doesn’t mean that it isn’t done," Midnight concluded, and he smiled faintly.

  "Exactly."

  "Which is precisely why we are here," Midnight said, and the man’s attitude immediately became more serious.

  "I found your offer . . . intriguing," he said, leaning forward slightly.

  "I thought you might."

  The exceptionally discreet waiter reappeared, and they put their conversation on hold while they ordered. If the waiter took any special notice of the woman dining with the wealthy and influential Timothy Telestrian, he didn’t show it. After he withdrew, Telestrian returned his attention to Midnight.

  "I’d like more details on the information you’re offering," he said. "I need to know if it will be worth my while."

  "I’ll leave that for you to judge," she replied, "once I’ve placed it in your hands."

  "I would be willing to provide you with a finder’s fee," he began, "and have someone else retrieve the information. . . ." Midnight shook her head.

  "I’d rather do this job myself," she said. "And if you want the information, then you need to go through me."

  "A chance to visit home?" he inquired.

  "To take care of some unfinished business," Midnight replied, and Telestrian arched a delicate eyebrow in response.

  "I need to at least know the general nature of this information," he countered.

  "Notes on a research project that was supposed to have been terminated by order of the Council of Princes, and evidence that it was not, in direct violation of their edict."

  A slow smile spread across Telestrian’s handsome face. "Clear proof of defiance of a Council edict?" Midnight nodded. "Plus possible links to similar instances. Certainly enough to start a comprehensive investigation."

  "Possibly implicating others . . . ?"

  Midnight smiled widely. "Possibly."

  "And you’re certain you can acquire the information?"

  "I’m sure I can, with your help," Midnight assured him.

  "I cannot be connected with this in any way."

  "Naturally. There will be no reason for your involvement to be revealed."

  "How will you—?" he began, but Midnight gently covered his hand with hers.

  "It’s better you don’t know," she replied, and he nodded in understanding. "I’ll only need a few things that shouldn’t be a problem for you to provide, assuming that we have a deal."

  Telestrian looked from Midnight’s hand over his to her smiling face, and smiled in return. "I believe that we do," he said. "Shall we toast to the enterprise?"

  "By all means," Midnight said, lifting her glass. "Here’s to the resolution of old business. .

  . . and the creation of new opportunities," Telestrian concluded.

  "I couldn’t have put it better myself."

  Glasses clinked, and Midnight threw Timothy Telestrian a smoldering glance over the rim of hers as she sipped her drink. If things went well, the new opportunities would be considerable; far more than just settling some family infighting—but there was no reason he needed to know that.

  Now only one element remained to be put into place.

  Chapter 8

  The gleaming sword slashed through the air, keeping a steady beat: one, two, three, turn, one, two, three, spin. Tamlin O’Ryan, dressed only in a loose-fitting pair of jeans, performed a deadly dance of flashing steel as he moved up and down the floor of his converted loft, in a warehouse in the district of Seattle called Tarislar, elven for "remembrance."

  The dying rays of the sun gleamed on the sword’s razor-sharp edge as it twisted and turned, as Tamlin hacked at imaginary foes on all sides, moving through the steps of the set with the ease of constant practice and the power of the magic flowing through his body.

  Not all of the Awakened cast spells and summoned spirits. Some, adepts like Tamlin, focused their magical talents inward, on the improvement of body and mind. They gained preternatural strength and speed, sharper senses, amazingly quick reaction times. What other street warriors accomplished using cybernetic implants, adepts achieved with magical power, dedication to their art and training. Some said it made them something other than human, but Tamlin, an elf, had little concern for his "humanity" and little love for humans.

  After all, Tarislar earned its name in memorial of events that took place many years ago, when the "human" government of Seattle rounded up metahumans in the dead of night and forced them into "relocation centers," intending to deport them elsewhere, claiming they were diseased, a threat to public health and safety.

  Tamlin’s father was among the first elves born in the world, right around the time of the Awakening. His son knew very little about him. Tom O’Ryan had been a student of history at the University of California— Berkeley, which was where he developed his great love of swords. When he learned he was going to have a son, he bought the unborn baby a toy sword. Tamlin remembered playing with that sword, but the Night of Rage took his father before he was born.

  His mother was human. He remembered in vivid detail what she told him about the armed men coming to their door late at night. He remembered how she and her husband were led away to join the stream of displaced metahumans being herded down to the docks—the crude jokes about her being a "faerie fragger," unclean because she was carrying a metahuman’s child. He remembered what she told him about the big warehouse, stinking from so many bodies packed together in one place, the sudden explosions, the screaming—

  Tamlin’s blade slashed down when the door buzzer sounded. He grabbed the sword’s scabbard, sliding the blade back into place with a click, and grabbing the small green towel from the back of the beat-up chair to mop his forehead and neck as he headed for the door. The buzzer sounded again.

  "Yeah, yeah," he muttered, "I’m coming." He draped the towel around his neck and peered through the peephole to see who was there, hand near the hilt of his sword, just in ca
se. After a quick glance, he rolled the door open.

  "Hey, Kellan," he said with a note of surprise. "Hey," she said, standing in the doorway. "Can I come in?"

  "Sure," Orion stepped aside. The loft space wasn’t very big, but it was almost palatial compared to the standard living space in the run-down elven neighborhood. The high ceilings and skylights made it look bigger, and the space was open enough for Orion to work out. Most of the furniture was secondhand, but a few personal items gave it character here and there: a Celtic-style wall hanging, the place where a spare sword hung from a peg, the blend of neo-Celtic elven and Japanese furniture and decorations.

  Closing the door, Orion asked, "You want anything? Water or something?"

  "Yeah, thanks," she said, and Orion walked the few steps over to the small kitchen, pulling two bottles of water from the fridge. He passed one to Kellan before opening the other one and taking a long gulp.

  "So what’s going on?" he asked. He set down the water, threw the towel back over the chair and picked up the tee-shirt draped over the back of his ancient sofa, pulling it on and tugging his ponytail out of the collar. "Came to see if you were interested in a job."

  "Yeah? What’s cooking?"

  "Data extraction ... in Portland."

  Orion nearly spit out a mouthful of water. He paused and forced himself to swallow, taking a gasping breath.

  "You serious?"

  "Yup," Kellan said. "Midnight has—"

  "Wait a minute, this is Midnight’s run?"

  "She’s setting it up. Look, I know you’re not Midnight’s biggest fan . . ." That earned her an incredulous look.

  "You could say that," Orion snorted.

  "But this is business. It’s not personal."

  "Does Midnight know you’re talking to me?"