The darkness is alive.
Glowing threads, datapaths, stretch limitless before me, behind me, around all sides, reaching and connecting hundreds of thousands, millions even, in a never-resting exchange of information. These threads are a web, and I travel its strands with ease, at home in my native environment. My icon is a gleaming onyx black widow spider, the red hourglass glowing balefully in the non-light of the Matrix. Delicately I probe its depths, searching for Mika Petrovna, or for some piece of data that will at least give me a lead as to where I can find her. According to Hisho, the Vietnamese elven woman who is even now standing next to my meat body and watching in case I start twitching and foaming, the Yakuza, more specifically the Ichiwa-kai, had taken her from Yomi to put to work in a bunraku brothel. The problem now is this: Which brothel? They had hundreds of them all over the world, at least five to ten of which were in or near the Philippines itself.
There is also the small matter of her implant; all flesh-puppets (as the bunraku girls are called) had one in order to use the chips which dictated their behavior when with a client. Mika would have to get one put in, which meant that they would eventually have to take her to a cyber clinic sometime, either theirs or a corp's, in order to have the necessary surgery. It would also have to be a slightly better-than-good one, as well; sure, you could get a cyberlimb implanted at any Dr. Bob's Quickstitch, but headware, which is what her behavioral shunt would be, requires more delicate work. One screw-up, and you've got an attractive, drooling vegetable. Not much of a market for those, male ideals aside.
I've managed, however, to narrow down the possibilities, as well as track a few suspicious sounding shipments. I also barely managed to avoid getting flatlined by some killer black IC, but the trade-off has been worth it. Two places stand out more than any others: Manila and Olangapo. Both are known for having a wealth of brothels and various other types of supposedly illegal entertainment, and have been especially popular with the Japanese Marines at Subic Bay Naval Base and the soldiers at Clark Air Force Base, both places also owned by Mitsuhama Computer Technologies. And as everyone else knows, MCT and the Yakuza have been bedfellows since the former's inception, at the very least.
MCT also has more than enough access to cyber clinics. Looks like I need to narrow down my two guesses to one certainty, which is why I've got to chase down any possible other lead that could be even remotely connected to that mess. All I've gotten, though, is a big headache. Just about everything I've tried has petered out to nowhere, locked away behind blinds and double-blinds and numerous other fronts that turn out to be nothing but vapors and rumors.
I exit the node I had just been in that had dead-ended another trail, when I suddenly feel absolutely certain that I'm being watched. It's not easily explained, since I'm in the Matrix where all information is digitized and processed. My own cyberdeck would also have picked up on someone cloaking their icon - or so I thought. It is entirely possible that my sensors or even my analyze utility aren't enough to pierce this entity's cloaking program, which puts a chill down my back. If this... person... has the ability to keep himself hidden from me but hasn't done anything to squeal on me or otherwise betray my presence, what do they want?
I don't like this. I've never been much for that whole "Ghost in the Machine" nonsense, even with the stepped-up presences of A.I.'s and otaku in the Matrix, so this is definitely putting a crimp into my equilibrium. Time to perform a graceful logoff.
A nod for who or whatever is watching me, a few keys tapped, and the I flick the switch. I come to again in the hotel room that Saloman had helped me get in Puerto Princesa and jack out; since Puerto Princesa was in Saloman's stomping grounds on Palawan, it'd been a relatively easy task. Plus I'm just another tourist, right? Tall blonde American woman in a tropical setting, what else could I be? Except for my muscles and my cyberware, you'd think I was supposed to be here and posing in a postcard.
"Wish You Were Here."
A much cleaner and healthier-looking Hisho regards me quizzically. Waiting, no doubt, for me to tell her what I found. Between a few decent nights' sleep, some clean clothes, good food, and a few things besides, she was looking a little happier, too, although I'm sure it's a front. During some of my excursions into the Matrix, I'd look over to where she slept and see her tossing and turning in the throes of some pretty bad dream. It was going to take her a long time to get over Yomi. Even the needle track marks in her arms would fade before that.
"Get anything good?" she asks softly in her accented English. She had learned it during her time with the Ichiwa-kai as one of their tattoo magicians. Normally someone like her would have been worth their weight in gold with the Yakuza, but they'd gotten rid of her for more than a few reasons, not the least of which was the fact that she'd begun sampling some of their intravenous drug products without permission and then gotten herself hooked. She'd told me her story while the crew that had helped me get her out of Yomi had piloted the boat back to Palawan. And since she was female and Vietnamese, suddenly the addition of her addiction, the fact that she'd stolen from them and her refusal to repay her debt with prostitution had made her very unwanted. No doubt they could get another magician that could work with the tattoo needles just as well, if not better, in their minds.
Their loss had become my gain. She had more than a few things to say about the Ichiwa-kai and more than a few insights into their business, on top of that. Between her and our Huk connections, that had given me a start in my investigation. What was that saying? "Hell" - or in this case, Yomi, -- "hath no fury like that of a woman scorned"? Close enough. She had no delusions of loyalty where they were concerned.
"Yes and no. I've got two places where she could have gone, and that's about all I've got. I need more leads, because the rest that I have followed ended up being dead ends or falling apart. The rest is so sketchy...," I say, shaking my head. My headache is beginning to ebb, but the aftereffects still don't feel too great. I need rest.
"They have so many holdings. Where?" she asks. She tucks a strand of long dark hair behind her pointed ear. With the relatively nice clothes we were able to get her, I guess I can see why they wanted her to work in one of their brothels instead of working off her debt some other way. Admittedly she had that exotic look that even the Japanese probably went for at times, if the most ethnocentric could get over the whole 'racial purity' thing.
"Milan and Olangapo. Both are down the road from military bases, Subic Bay and Clark AFB, and both belong to MCT, you could say, which makes them doubly suspect. If I could get something concrete that led me more to one than the other, I might be able to find her, see what condition she's in. Of course it'd be better if we can pick her up before she got her shunt," I say in answer, and Hisho nods in agreement. Something that I thought was a little funny in a dark kind of way; apparently 'hisho' was the Japanese word for 'secretary', also. Someone further up the chain of command must have gotten a laugh when they assigned Hisho her post in the Yakuza.
"Olangapo is the biggest place, but if the Ichiwa-kai knew where Mika came from, they might want to put her in a smaller brothel so that she would be, how do you say, the big fish in the small pond? She would get more money that way. More men want her, more they are willing to pay to have her." Hisho is right, of course, and that just muddies things further. There are any number of those that would fit the bill.
I sit back and rub my forehead. I think my headache is coming back.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The island of Palawan in the Philippines, despite the incursion of the Japanese megacorps and refugees from wars elsewhere, has retained most of its beauty; it has pockets of pollution here and there, but you'll find most of that actually elsewhere, such as the island of Luzon. I hear that Manila, its capitol, had already been smog-choked before the Japanese came, and they certainly didn't make matters any better.
The streets of Puerto Princesa still cater mostly to tourists - they come for the beaches and the resorts - so it's a pretty big mixture of cleanliness, for the most part, and the occasional bit of littering. Trees, real ones, line the streets and sway in the warm, gentle breeze of a Saturday afternoon in March; where Seattle would be cold and rainy, in the Philippines, it is still two months away from the rainy season and very temperate. Just reminds me that I'm a completely different world.
At this moment, Hisho and I have hit the streets to drum up leads the old-fashioned way. The fact that I'm not Filipino can work either for or against me, depending on who we talk to, which is another good reason to have Hisho; she speaks Japanese and a little bit of Korean on top of her native Vietnamese and the English she learned from the Ichiwa-kai. Right now Hisho is using her language skills to buy the two of us some lunch - or merienda as they call it here - from a Vietnamese street food merchant. He has what look like hot dog buns on a rack and a tub of cooked loose meat and vegetables in sauce. I watch him dish some of this up for us as I talk to Kenji via my pocket secretary.
"Good news and bad news, Kenji," I tell him, grabbing a seat at a café table nearby. In the viewscreen, Kenji is wrapping up his work day at his office. He puts a datapad and notebook into his briefcase and shuts it, looking tired and drawn. For a moment I debate telling him the news, then shrug it off. It's up to him how he deals with it.
"Please, go on."
"The good news is that she isn't on Yomi. The bad news... the Yakuza have her. She's slated to go to a bunraku brothel." My news meets with dead silence, and I can see him grip the edges of his briefcase. His eyes close tightly; I can only imagine what he must be going through. I watch as he pulls himself together with great effort.
"Find her. I don't care what it takes," he says, his clipped and curt tone barely holding back the obvious anger and fear.
"That's what I'm doing. I know it's gotta be hard, but there's nothing you can do right now. Try to find a way to relax, okay?" I say, watching him impassively. Getting him to relax was good business, otherwise if he went nuts with grief, he might do something to screw up this whole thing. I'd be out of a job at best; at worst, either the Yakuza or Shiawase or any number of other folks would have me hanging by my toes over a pit of cockatrices. This of course is besides what they would do to Kenji.
He slowly takes a deep breath and nods. "Yes, alright, of course." He finishes latching his briefcase and glances outside of his window. From what I can tell, it's another rainy day back in Seattle. Here, though, the sun is shining with only a hint of cloud in the sky.
I discover that I would rather be back in Seattle.
"Have a good evening, Kenji. Don't take any wooden nickels," I say in parting, and look up to see that not only does Hisho have our food, but an uncommon sight, a young Filipino suit, is heading straight our way. I glance at Hisho, who only shrugs and sets our food down, equally at a loss for explanation. Looks like we'll see what he wants soon enough.
As he approaches, I can see that his suit is no where near as slick as most suits usually are, but it is a linen one, his hair is neatly combed, and his smile is pasted on firmly. It's a pretty wide and generous one, but there's an air to it, as if it's been practiced. Even the heat doesn't seem to bother him, but that could be because he's used to it. He stops in front of our table and indicates one of the chairs with the same smile, white and even teeth gleaming.
"May I have a seat with you? I come as a representative from someone who is interested in your activities," he says. Some preamble. I don't know who else would be interested in what I'm doing other than Kenji or the Yakuza, and I just got off the phone with the former. I nod shortly; if this guy is from the Yakuza, then maybe Mika's release can be negotiated before any harm's done. Beyond what's been done already, of course.
"Go right ahead, chummer. You are...?" I ask. Names are important. Sometimes they tell me just who is really in power in any given organization. You know the head-honcho's name, and the names of his henchmen, then you're good; you'll know when they're coming to talk to you or shoot you.
"Paolo Lumasan. And you would be Widow," he says with a straight face, betraying nothing. I have a hard time not tensing up. How in hell does he know my name? He's here by himself, or so we think. And now I'm trying not to look around to see if he doesn't have a sniper or two hidden someplace, to geek us at this suit's command if we don't come through with whatever he's come to ask us for.
"I've been known by that name," I say in return, picking up my food to eat it. It turns out to be soy-meat in a tangy, almost sweet-and-sour sauce. The bun is made from French bread, and flakes of crust crumble off into my plate. I can't let him see that he's caught me off guard, but I suspect it's too late for that, judging by his smile.
"Excellent. I was not entirely sure that it was you, but how many tall, blonde American women can there be here in our beautiful islands? Aside from the ones working in the bunraku brothels." His smile almost vanishes at that point, his generous mouth compressing into a thin, disapproving line. My suspicion and paranoia step up a notch. Who in drek is this slag? What does he know about my business here? I set my food down and dust my hands off briskly, swallowing my mouthful of food.
"Probably not as many as women of other nationalities or races. What do you want? Who do you work for? And why are you poking around in my business?" My tone is sharp; I can't help it. Paranoia tends to make me a little bitchy.
Paolo nods curtly. "Actually, your business is indirectly mine... or rather, my employer's. The target of your investigation, the Yakuza, is one whose influence he'd like to see eradicated from these islands. He regards them as a blemish upon the native culture of the Philippines. As such, he keeps a close eye upon their activities and upon the things that happen around them. He has vast resources, and so was able to discover your presence, who you are and what you are doing." He pauses, then slowly reaches inside his suit jacket and takes out a datachip, setting it on the table in front of him.
"And he would like to offer his help."
I have to raise an eyebrow. A mysterious benefactor? I don't like playing that game. "Benefactors" tend to have their own agenda, and use their benefactees in their schemes, sinking them into something they would have originally stayed well away from.
"How generous. But that still doesn't tell me who he is," I say, leaning back in my chair. Hisho, in the meantime, has been sitting quietly next to me, nervously nibbling on her food. Her eyes keep straying to a small tattoo that I suddenly notice at the base of Paolo's thumb, near his wrist. It looks like Japanese writing. My hackles rise; this is too odd.
"My... patron... is, if you will pardon the term, gun shy. He has a difficult time trusting others. But he has a good heart, and he believes that you do, as well. Otherwise you would not be on your mission to find Mika Petrovna. Yes," he says, acknowledging my surprised scowl. "He knows of her. As I said, he discovered your activities surrounding the Yakuza and found out why. While he cannot help you directly for a great many reasons, he can lend you assistance and will be most happy to."
"Oh, I don't doubt that, Mr. Lumasan. What I'm not sure of is his motivations. What does he get out of this? I don't know anyone that does anything completely out of the goodness of their own heart," I say. I look deliberately at his tattoo, then glance over to Hisho. She looks slightly pale and shakes her head. Frag it. I need her to back me up. I make a note to talk about it to her later.
Paolo looks down at his tattoo and over to Hisho as well, then smiles broadly.
"Perhaps you would like to ask your assistant? She knows whom I represent. In the meantime, as a demonstration of my patron's good intentions and willingness to extend trust to you, Widow, I leave you this datachip and a number that you may call. I urge you to consider this offer, and call the number when you are ready to accept assistance." He reaches inside his jacket once more and pulls out a card, laying it on top of the encased datachip, and slides both over to me. I don't make a move to take either, watching him as he rises gracefully from his chair to leave.
"I'll think about it," I say quietly. He nods, a knowing look in his face. He's sure that I will call. Well, whether I do or not isn't important, not now at least. Right now, what's important is checking bona-fides and making sure that my trail is a little better obscured from now on.
"I'm sure you will. I wish you ladies a good day," he says, tipping at his sunglasses as he turns to go. There's a golden flash from his eyes: cyberware? It's too hard to tell, especially with his sunglasses back in place and his back now turned to us. He has continued his way up the street, and I turn to watch him get into the passenger side of one of those small and cheap electro-motored cars, a Jackrabbit, and pull away. I turn back around and see that Hisho has stopped eating her food, and is staring at the datachip and card as if they will bite her. I pick both of them up, ignoring her seeming fright, and tuck them into my pocket. I'll look at them later.
"Well Hisho? Mind telling me what that was about?" I say, picking up my food again. She can ignore her food all she wants, but I'm hungry. I take a bite and eat, waiting for her to answer. It takes a few moments, but she finally seems to come out of her paralyzed reverie and begins hesitantly.
"You... may not believe me. I have a hard time understanding, myself," she says, swallowing.
"Try me." The food is good and filling, and I may have to finish it when we're done talking. Whatever is going on, the elven woman seems to think it's pretty fragging important. She's managed to survive Yomi, after all, and I doubt much of anything would impress her after that. Or so I thought.
Hisho sighs and looks down; she is wearing shorts today, which shows the eastern dragon on her leg. She must have done it herself, because she is tracing its lines perfectly with her finger.
"The tattoo on his hand. You know it was Japanese," she begins. She stops tracing at the dragon and looks up at me. "What you don't know is what it said."
"Go on." I'm beginning to get impatient.
"It is Masaru."
Well ain't that fragging dandy. A dragon. Check that: a great dragon.
Why me?
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I have to hand it to him; Masaru, or his flunkies, have done their homework. That I know of, at any rate, because there's no way for me to know if any of this is really true or not without doing some checking of my own. And some of this will be hard to try and verify, even through the Matrix.
We're sitting back at our hotel room, where Hisho is resting again and I'm reading the datachip Paolo gave me. According to this, MCT's involvement with the Yakuza, at least around here, is much deeper than folks have thought previously. They've got their fingers into so many businesses it isn't funny, legally as well as illegally. Everything from business insurance (AKA the protection racket) to machinery to Matrix services; they do a lot. Heck, what they don't cover, Shiawase and Renraku pick up the slack - energy sources, hydroponics, textiles, you name it.
The business that's highlighted here is a restaurant chain, the Bahay Ng Isda. They've got six restaurants in Milan alone, with one in Quezon City, San Fernando, and - surprise, surprise - Puerto Princesa. But why exactly has this restaurant been pointed to, specifically? I try to think back and see if I can remember anything in the Shadowland files on it. That's when it comes to me - I saw an entry for them in the section dealing with piracy in the Philippines, the same section that had told me about the Huk and other things Filipino. But I don't recall what, so it looks like I'll need to dive back in and see what the skinny is. Whatever it is, though, if it has anything to do with Mika or the Yakuza, I'll be all over it like a dirty diaper.
And, I have to admit, I'll probably be calling Paolo as well. I get the feeling that it's going to take more than just me and my ineffable charm to rescue Mika. I grab my deck and jack in; I'm on the trail once more.
Half an hour later, I jack out again and take a long, hard look at that phone. Not only do I have a good idea about what goes on behind closed doors of the Bahay Ng Isda, but I know who's in control and why Masaru pointed me this way. Oh sure, yeah, he did, or does, more than likely have a genuine concern about Mika and her plight; no woman should be forced into sexual slavery, especially not with cyberware implanted so that she has no control over herself either. There's no dignity in that, although in a way it does save you some kind of dignity; flesh puppets have no idea what happens while they're with a client. The persona-fix chips take over for them, and suddenly they're Sybil, a multiple who gets to change personalities as often as she changes her clothes, if not more so.
But Masaru has his own game on top of that. He's no friend to the Yakuza at all, as Paolo said, nor to the corporations that have barged in and begun ruining his country and his people. The fact that it is the Yakuza, specifically the Ichiwa-kai, and a megacorporation like Mitsuhama Computer Technologies, certainly helps him. I go after them and possibly expose their activities, or at least put a cramp in their style, and that's obviously going to make both of us happy. Well, relatively so, at any rate. Only it's Mika's happiness that I'm being paid to worry about, and it looks like that happens to coincide with the great dragon's.
Business makes for very strange bedfellows, all right. And I'm about to climb in bed with a dragon.
I must be crazy.
I pick up the phone and dial the number. Paolo's face appears as he answers. "How good to see you again, Widow. How may I assist you?" he says. His sunglasses are still on his face. That's a little annoying.
"Mr. Lumasan. You know why I'm calling. Tell Masaru I'll be his agent... one time only, and only for Mika. I'm a little gun shy too.mmy people have a saying. 'Never deal with a dragon.' You familiar with that?" I ask him. If the dragon deals straight with me, it'll be a first from what I hear. Most dragons don't give a frag about (meta)humans, and use 'em all that time. No skin off their noses, either, since they live a lot longer than us. I think, though, that one day all their double-dealings will come back and bite them in the ass. Too bad I'll probably never live to see the day.
“I am quite familiar with that, yes. I spent some time in Seattle - your home, I believe - and I heard that quite often. I even saw it spray-painted in bioluminescent graffiti on many a hovel that also had metahuman slurs and Humanis symbols painted alongside,” he replied with a hint of reproach. Okay, he knows way too much about me. I can’t argue with his point, though. I could say that dragons deserve that saying, but what if we’ve only been basing it upon the actions of just one of them? Everyone usually means Lofwyr when they repeat that sentence, anyway. And yet it was repeated in Dunkelzahn’s will, in an entry dealing with some slag who was going to have all access to his money and identity cut off for a period of time...
To hell with it. Mika needs help.
“Fine. I see your point. You know I’m going to need Masaru’s help in order to get Mika through the Yakuza’s pet restaurant chain and sex slavery ring. But I want some assurances from him in return for simultaneously doing him a favor. I need a little more trust in him, since he obviously knows so much about me. That makes me more than a little paranoid,” I say in response. Offer and counter-offer; this is how it goes. Let’s see what this nets me.
“Then perhaps you would like to speak with Masaru?” Paolo regards me thoughtfully, or so it seems. I can’t read his eye movements with his sunglasses in the way.
Not exactly what I expected, but what the hey. Talk to a great dragon. Sure.
My palms are suddenly sweating. I take a breath and nod.
Yeah. When can I meet him?” He has to be a busy type, since he’s the one heading up the Huk, not to mention pursuing other dragonish interests.
Paolo looks down, then removes his sunglasses, a small smile playing about his mouth.
“Would now be a bad time?”
Golden, reptilian eyes regard me from Paolo’s side of the viewscreen, and my eyes can’t seem to look anywhere else. And then I blink.
Masaru’s long bewhiskered dragon face floods the viewscreen, the barbels flowing grandly to either side. I hear a chuckling in my mind; for some reason, he finds my reaction amusing. Myself, I have a hard time blinking now.
“Now then. We have a girl to rescue, and a lesson to teach the Yakuza. There is much work to be done. Will you trust me now?”
What do I say to that? I’m out of my element now and on unfamiliar territory.
And I’m not so sure how healthy it would be to say ‘no’… for me, or for Kenji’s sister.
“Normally, I’d say ‘as much as I can throw you’… but this is not normal. This is far beyond normal.” I sigh and sit back in my chair, my eyes still glued to the screen.
My head is pounding.
Oh yes, I must be completely out of my mind.
“I trust you.”
To be continued...
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