The next morning finds me early, wan sunlight glowing through a streaked and dirty sky. The breezes coming in from Puget Sound surround me, drafts of cold, clammy salt air settling on my skin in a mist while my sneakered feet pound a hollow thumping rhythm on the weathered wooden boards of the Tacoma docks. I can hear my blood echoing in my ears at a slightly faster pace as if it were goading my feet on in some unfathomable race, no end in sight.
Men, their muscles pulsing and straining through their flannel and polyester blend blue collar shirts, grunt, curse, and shout at each other as they heave fresh cargo from a new-come Tir freighter. Dockworkers. Some stare at me, openly suspicious. Most people these days run because there's someone behind them, not because they want to keep fit. It's the times we live in, I suppose; there's been more upheaval in the last forty to fifty years than this world has seen in... let's just say, a long time. Further back than my own memories, which are painful enough, and further back than the memories that my father would have recounted to me as stories told to amuse or astonish. If he were still alive, that is.
My breath is beginning to saw at my lungs, no more the smooth bellows action it had been nearly an hour ago. This is my cue to slow down and head for home; my morning jog ritual is over and has done its duty in preparing me for the long day that I am anticipating. I have a lot to do if I'm going to handle Kenji's problem with the attention that it deserves. Finding his sister Mika in the Matrix will be the easy part, since a data trail can't grow too old or stale like a real scent trail could. The problem in tracking her (I'm beginning to see myself as some old but reliable bloodhound now; the thought makes my mouth twist wryly. A lone dockworker blinks and gives the universal sign for craziness.) will be when she arrives at Yomi. The island will swallow her whole. She will vanish without a further trace. She will be... no one.
I turn off my previous trail from the docks and make my way back to the spartan but comfortable apartment that I call home. The usual graffiti scrawled on the street's walls, proclaiming turf, seniority, breeding rights, greet me as I approach the unremarkable brownstone tenement. Bricks pockmarked by acid rain and chipped by stray bullets seem to stretch agonized and crumbling grins from the brownstone's façade. Unfazed, I open the door and let myself in.
A stairwell and hallway present themselves to me, the paint on them a nicotine-glazed yellow from years of cigar, pipe, and cigarette smoke. I ignore the hallway and plod up the stairwell to my door; beneath its peeling exterior I can see the dull shine of metal. I had this door replaced with the strongest one I could find and pay to have installed. Humanis policlubbers with no more sense than a bowl of saimin had broken down its previous incarnation in their haste to attack me. I left them in the same state as my door - broken, useless, mute. Stupid savages.
It takes me less than a minute to key in the entry sequence; the door clicks and swings in minutely. I'm home.
Half an hour later sees me showered and dressed for the day (comfort and practicality are my watchwords: jeans, t-shirts, boots), halfway finished eating breakfast. I've got a bagel, a real one smothered with real cream cheese, in one hand, the other hand loosely wrapped around a coffee mug nearly empty of soykaf. My brain is busily wrapped around what to do about Mika; I've got several avenues to exploit on behalf of her rescue. One of them, represented by the long matte black macroplast-encased CMT Avatar cyberdeck, sits across from me on the table, waiting to be plugged into the Matrix. I think of the glow of the telecommunications grid, an electronic virtual web that is the playground of my black widow spider icon, and already I can feel the kiss of the plug when it makes contact with the datajack in my right temple. The electrons flowing through those datapaths, firing the neurons in my brain... I blink and come out of the reverie. I'm either going senile or, more likely, running the 'Trix has become my drug and like a junkie Pavlovian dog, the thought of it's got me drooling.
I set down my mug and my bagel and reach for the cyberdeck. Time for a fix...
Thanks to Kenji's chip, I'm able to find Mika - in the Matrix, at least. She could actually be anywhere, but according to the files that he pulled up for me that led me to the mother lode cache in Shiawase's system, she's been incarcerated in Shiawase's "Meifumado" prison on Yomi island. They'd also made her change her surname - why, I don't know. Mika's new last name is Petrovna, probably her mother's maiden name. Trying to deck files tagged with the "Yomi" keyword isn't easy, because they tend to either bury them deep or lock them away in systems that are either isolated, cryogenic, or just plain labyrinthine. Scanning through all the drek even associated with it can leave you with a head buzzing from black IC frostbite. Lucky me; I've got the requisite delicate touch and patience needed. You could say that it goes with the territory.
What I find isn't very cheering. The sector that she is, or will be, housed in is the dumping ground for the poor slots with iffy psychological profiles - manic-depressives, anorexics and bulimics, alcoholics, junkies, the suicidal, the mildly paranoid, etc. Not only do they segregate the racially undesirable, but they make sure the head cases don't sully the mix, either. Of course I'm puzzled as to why they put her in there, until I remember the report they filed on her relocation process. Apparently she had kicked up a huge fuss and even became hysterical. She'd pulled a gun off one of the members of her 'escort' and waved it around pretty convincingly until they were able to disarm her. From thereafter they must have decided to label her as anti-social with homicidal tendencies or some drek. Who knows. The point is, this makes my erstwhile rescue attempt that much harder.
I pull the cord out and coil it back into its housing, sliding the little cover closed, and sit back to take stock for a moment. I'm going to need some support on this trip across the Pacific, which means magic. I'm also gonna need a lot of ammunition for my guns; the Walther, my sniping rifle, will have to stay home, but the Predator II and the Mossberg are coming with me. Transportation's also an issue. I shake my head. It looks like I'll be calling on a friend of mine within the Ork Underground tonight. First, though, I've got to make a call to Kenji.
He picks up after the second ring, and I'm straining my ears to listen for the click of a relay or someone else also picking up to listen. Nothing. So far, so good.
"Moshi moshi, Kuroyama. How can I be of assistance?" I'm surprised he doesn't have a secretary to answer his phones for him. Or maybe he didn't want one? That seems to fit with what little I know of the guy so far; he seems to favor a more personal approach.
"Good morning, Kenji. Did you enjoy the rest of your evening after Fenris Nacht?" I say, letting that serve as my introduction. He might still have a tap on his phone, so spouting my name indiscriminately will only result in me getting tagged and investigated. I don't like uninvited hangers-on - they make my trigger-finger itch, so I avoid collecting them, period. My question is also supposed to remind him of the invitation he'd extended to me outside of the dingy bar. I'm a sucker for blindsiding people. Their reactions tend to tell you a lot about them, how they think when caught off guard.
"Oh! I didn't... hold on for a moment, will you please?" I hear him say, and echoing faintly in the background is the sound of a heavy door clicking shut. It's easy to imagine a faint blush blooming on his face, quickly draining away as he reminds himself of why I must be calling.
"There. I have closed my door. What kind of news do you have for me, ah, Wi-"
"Good news and bad," I say quickly, cutting him off before he can get out the rest of my name. Maybe I'm too paranoid, but who cares? Better this than to be caught sleeping some day. "She's in your Meifumado prison, bunking with the psychologically unstable. The good news is that I was able to find out that much. Otherwise, I risk giving myself a lobotomy with all of the IC they have layered around the Yomi files."
"Yes, I... I think I understand." I can almost hear his shoulders slump with the weight of disappointment. It's the creak of encroaching age, with bitterness and regret added for spice; a familiar sound to me. But defeat is not certain... not yet.
"It isn't impossible, Kenji. Don't be too ready to hang it up. I have someone to talk to tonight that will probably be able to give me a hand," I tell him, sounding more convincing than I'm feeling. Maybe if I sound good enough to him, I'll be able to sound good to me, too. I'm not completely sure that Walter'll help.
"Yes... thank you. Sometimes it seems quite hopeless. I appreciate your call. You will continue to keep me abreast of what you are doing?" he asks, relief plain in his voice. A delicate clatter in the background: china? A soft, murmuring female voice says something that I can't quite catch, but it sounds like "tea". An office go-fer, likely.
"Of course. Just relax. Drink your tea and don't think about her... and trust me," I say, then hang up. Now to set things up for a visit tonight to the Crying Wall, the monument crafted in the basement of the Bickson Building by dwarves and orks as a memorial to the Night of Rage. It stands at the entrance to some of the tunnels leading to the Ork Underground, an entrance not open to the public. But I've got connections, and I've got the right toll, too. Walter will at least talk to me if nothing else.
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Nightfall. I'm back near the waterfront, approaching the lobby of the Bickson Building on East 11th Street and St. Paul Avenue. The sodium arc lights around the building light it with a fitful orange and yellow glow, flyers for The Palace of China blowing past on tangy-smelling gusts of wind from the Sound. In the distance I can hear the rumbling of the Ragers' bikes approaching the area; I've tangled with them too many times in the past, and only recently have I been able to come to a truce with the ork and troll gang. Now is not the time to jeopardize that if I want to stay friendly with the Underground, whether I've got friends there or not, so I step up my pace and walk inside.
Cool mottled grey marble dominates the lobby's décor. Off to one side, opposite the security desk where the night shift is looking me over, is a section set aside for visitors. Its floor is carpeted with a vast fake blue and grey Victorian rug, bench-like couches and chairs covered in bleached tapestry dotting the expanse. They're supposed to give the illusion of comfort and welcome, when in fact they offer neither. I put on a somewhat friendly face for the night security's benefit and approach the desk.
"I'd like to go down and visit the Crying Wall, please," I tell him, pulling out the three nuyen to pay for my ticket.
"Ma'am, I'm not sure if you're aware of this, but it's night out there," the guard says, as if that is supposed to explain something to me. I'm well aware that 'visiting hours' are during the day, but it pays to know how to get around things like that.
"Yes, it is, isn't it? Tell me, sir, what time do you get off work? As in, when is your shift over?" I ask him in the most pleasant voice I've used to date. I despise sugar-coating things excessively as a general rule, but security guards require softening up first.
He looks mildly surprised at my question, perhaps thinking that I'm hitting him up for a date or something. Idiot.
"Why, my shift is done at 4 in the morning, ma'am. What..." he says, a little hesitantly. Like he's giving away state secrets.
"I'll bet that the proliferation of violence in today's society bothers you quite a bit, doesn't it? I will be willing to bet that this is the reason why you became a security guard, not to mention the fact that it pays you for doing not much more than sit on your kiester, make phone calls and watch the video cameras, isn't it? I'll even go so far as to suggest that maybe you've even applied to Lone Star, hoping they'll accept such an obviously shining example of the citizenry into their ranks." I pause. Let him think about that for a second.
I lean forward over the desk.
"Do you know what's out there?" I gesture at the doors to the lobby, to the waiting darkness and unreliable street lighting outside. My voice lowers a fraction. "Gangers. The Ragers. You know who they are? Got an idea, omae? Orks and trolls who haven't been happy about the way things have been since the Night of Rage, even though half of them weren't even a twinkling in their Mommy's eyes while people like me and their parents were scared pissless and running for our lives away from the warehouses that the Hand of Five were herding us towards." Another thing to let him soak in. His eyes have opened wider with each successive word that I'm now nearly whispering through clenched teeth. Slags like this guy really slot me off with their little bureaucracies, and I don't feel like dancing around with him while he tries to figure out if he should call Walter or not.
"Yeah, I'm human, but I was there. You got that? That's the only thing that keeps those gangers out there from ripping my guts out and playing patty-cake with them." I don't mention that I could probably do worse to the gangers and have, the combination of being wired to hum and having ten ginsus under my fingernails being a deadly one.
"You don't have that benefit of protection, do you?" I say quietly, my jaw relaxing. It was beginning to ache under the strain. Understanding washes over his face, and he bites his lip nervously, looking at the lobby's glass and steel double doors.
I reach over the desk counter and gently tap at his phone, laying down my three nuyen plus twenty more next to it.
"Call Walter. Tell him that Widow is here to see him, please." I even give him a smile. He nods hastily, licking his lips. Sweat glistens on his upper lip and I can see the faint shine of it starting on his forehead. The guard's eyes dart towards the doors once more as he picks up the phone and dials down to the basement. I turn and walk to the visitor's lounge, taking a seat. I don't have to hear what he tells Walter.
Five minutes pass as I sit on the torture rack they call a couch, and finally one of the elevators opens with a muted chime, disgorging Walter's hulking form. As a troll, he stands at just over two and a half meters, which dwarfs me since I come up to barely two meters myself. His betusked mouth opens in a wide, toothy grin, one huge hairy paw of a hand waving me towards him.
"Come on down, lady! Been too long, been too long!" his voice bellows in the lobby's acoustics. I'd levered myself from the couch as soon as I had heard the elevator, so I wince, the echo rebounding in my ears. Mentally I add cyberears with a sound dampener to my cyber wish list. I wait to talk to him until I'm inside the elevators, the doors closed.
"New guy at the desk?" I ask him, meaning the security guard. Walter nods, the tassel hanging from the horn curling out of his left temple swaying. Brown eyes edged with yellow glitter with genial malice.
"What'd you tell this one, Marlene? Are the trolls gonna come eat his babies if he don't play nice?" he says. His ham hands disappear into the tent-like folds of his long coat.
I shake my head. "Nah. He pissed me off so I started telling him about the Ragers. Heard'em outside on my way into the building." My own hands slide into the pockets of the synthleather jacket I'd thrown on before leaving my apartment. I dig about the right hand pocket for a second and then bring out a necklace, a copper penny pierced and strung on a length of black string. It winks in the wan fluorescent elevator lights; Walter notices it.
"That serious, huh? Wanna go in the tunnels?" he asks, now curious. I hadn't told him what any of this was about, yet. But I've known him since the weeks immediately after the Night of Rage; he'd helped patch me up and set me on my feet again. He's also helped me in my crusade against Humanis Policlub and its cronies, Alamos 20K and the Hand of Five. I'm hoping our history and what I'm trying to do for Kenji will make an impression on him. The necklace is my token, the toll needed to pass through the tunnels without being messed with by their inhabitants. Well, the living ones, that is. Rumors, verified ones, had it that there are ghosts that live in some of them that hate everything with a pulse. I don't think we'll encounter any of them tonight, however.
"Just inside, and someplace kinda private. Need your undivided attention, as it were," I say, putting on the necklace. It's for the sake of the guards down at the Crying Wall; for some reason that I haven't figured out yet, they never have the same guys guarding it and the tunnels. If they weren't there, I could just walk on in. Then again, so could anyone else, and the tunnels next to the Crying Wall are some of the original ones. Be a bad thing to have one collapse on John Q. Public, so they don't let'em in there.
The elevator comes to a stop and opens in the basement, revealing an odd mix of torchlight, directed track lighting and fluorescent light sticks. The track lighting spotlights the bas-relief on the wall, throwing haunting shadows on the events depicted on it. For a moment I get lost in it, reliving the horrors of the Night of Rage, then I shake my head before it becomes too much. Walter lays a hand on my shoulders, gently pushing me towards the guards who stand under a brace of huge tiki torches. The flames remind me of the flames coming off the warehouses that had been set on fire with men, women, and children, human and metahuman, shut inside. All part of Governor Allenson's 'relocation program', backed by the Seattle Metroplex Guard and the Hand of Five, militant members of Alamos 20K who advocated against metahumanity much like the old Klu Klux Klan had against anyone not white.
God, the memories are still vivid. I avert my eyes from the torches and fix them on the guards themselves, two burly orks with light sticks hanging like overgrown charms around their necks. They see Walter and nod, then peer at me with suspicion until they see my penny necklace. Then they give me a grim smile, a shared knowledge within those expressions. It's a shame how one night has affected so many so deeply. We walk past them, going right up to a carving of a Guardsman with a club in his hand. Walter pushes gently on a stone underneath him and a section of the floor a foot to our right slides back to reveal the tunnel opening. He gestures towards this at the same time one of the orks gives him a light stick. I head towards the opening and peer into the gloom.
"Home sweet home," Walter declares, then descends through the opening. I can make out by the light of his greenish-yellow stick the rough hewn steps. Dripping noises echo from further up the tunnels. We've entered what should be the setting of a dungeon-hacking sim. Trying not to think about the darkness and the possibility of ghosts and specters beyond us, I plunge in after him.
