Hammerjack (19 page)

The imaging disk displayed another video feed, this one from the building exterior. It showed two figures, a man and a woman, ascending the stairs that led to the main entrance. Way out in the background, slightly out of focus, Cray could also see the large crowd that had gathered outside the Works that night.

Just like the Goth said
. . .

Avalon spoke up again. “Who are those two?”

“NYPD,” Bostic answered. “They were called in to check out a disturbance in the plaza outside the building. CSS doesn’t handle crowd control, which is why cops were first on scene. At that point, we weren’t even aware of what was going on inside. But somehow, these two were allowed to stroll right through the front door.”

“Like they were invited in,” Cray finished for him.

“Something like that,” Bostic said, taken aback a bit. It was almost as if Cray had mentioned something he wasn’t supposed to know. “We don’t know of any malfunction that would have allowed that kind of breach. When you put it together with everything else, there’s only one reasonable conclusion.”

Cray was dubious. “You’re saying it was sabotage?”

“It fits the profile.”

“You got any proof?”

The counselor shifted in his seat just slightly. “The nature of the penetration doesn’t easily lend itself to analysis.” It was the standard company answer for anybody trying to save his ass. “We believe that the intruder bypassed our proprietary network interface and utilized a method that would have been untraceable.”

“Using what gateway?”

“The bionucleic unit.”

Bostic might as well have thrown a bomb into the room.

“Wait a second,” Cray snapped—mostly out of disbelief, but partly out of fear. “You’re talking about an
experimental
SI prototype. Test conditions prohibit the unit from having contact with
any
outside networks—you know that.” He sank back into his chair and scoffed. “What you’re saying is impossible.”

“The logs suggest otherwise,” the counselor said. “According to the active telemetry from that night, it was the bionucleic unit that hijacked the security systems and locked the building down. It was the bionucleic unit that set off the fire controls that killed everybody. And it was the bionucleic unit that allowed the police to storm the building afterward.” He turned off the projector disk. The contrast of the shadows falling across Bostic’s face only underscored his urgency—as well as his latent anger.

“What happened was no accident, Dr. Alden,” he said. “It was a terrorist act.”

“For which you hold the
Inru
responsible.”

“Historically, they’ve always been our enemies.” It sounded so reasonable when Bostic said it. “They also command the loyalty of a great many hammerjacks. Our position is that they found a way to tunnel into the core module of the bionucleic unit—perhaps implanting a virus that caused the unit to behave the way it did.”

The counselor was in sales mode now, and with good reason. His account was sheer speculation. Yet the Assembly had taken considerable pains to act on that speculation by bringing in Cray, and he still didn’t have the first clue as to why.

He took a few seconds to clear his head, then asked: “The nanopsychologists don’t believe this was a spontaneous act?”

“All the ones we had working on the project are dead.”

“What about Lyssa?” Cray suggested. “Did anybody ask
her
?”

“The unit has been unresponsive since the incident.”

“So your theory has no facts to back it up,” Cray said, letting his contempt for CSS methods slip. “Is that about right?”

“We have the disturbance outside,” Bostic replied, on the defensive. “Those people didn’t show up at the same time by chance.”

“You’re talking about the party in the plaza that night?” It was a direction Cray knew he shouldn’t go, but at that point he had to take the shot. “I’ve been meaning to ask you about that, counselor. What happened to those people, anyway?”

The question was loaded, the reply ominous.

“They were detained and questioned.”

“What about the two police officers?”

More leaden moments passed. Bostic cleared his throat.

“One of them was killed,” he admitted. “The other—the woman—is being debriefed as we speak.”

Cray stifled his disgust. Bostic should have just come out and said the cop was being tortured—a fate probably shared by all the street species who had come out to the Works that night. Torture, with death the desirable result. The techniques employed by Special Services made any alternative worse.

“I’ll need to speak with the cop,” he said.

Bostic turned to stone. “I’m afraid that won’t be possible.”

“Why not?”

“The police officer already revealed to us anything that might have been useful,” the counselor replied evasively. “That matter is no longer of any concern.”

“Because she’s done talking, or because she’s brain-dead?”

Bostic started losing his patience. He shot an angry glace toward Avalon, looking for some support, but she only held up her hand, signaling for him to back off. Flustered, the counselor busied himself by shuffling some notes, then stood to regain some of his composure. He straightened his tie and jacket, and only then did he address Cray again.

“I’ll see to it that a detailed interface of all these events is made available to both of you,” the counselor told them. “My assistant will take care of all the arrangements.”

“I don’t interface,” Cray said.

“Of course,” Bostic replied stiffly, as if this was something he should have known. “In that case, my office will be made available to you should you require any more information. Will that suffice?”

Cray wasn’t about to let him have anything for free.

“For now,” he said.

“Good.” Bostic opened the conference room doors and offered his guests the exit. “In the meanwhile, both of you must be tired from your journey. The pulser will take you back to your hotel. I’ve booked each of you a suite at the Waldorf Astoria. The accommodations are the finest in the city.”

“No doubt,” Cray said, coming to his feet and fixing Bostic with a sly glance. “You mind if I ask you one more question?”

Bostic prepared himself. “Go ahead.”

“Why me?”

“I’m told you’re the best,” Bostic explained. “If anyone can track down who did this, the Assembly says it’s you.”

“But I’m no expert on bionucleics,” Cray told him. “What makes the Assembly think I can get Lyssa to talk if nobody else can?”

Bostic seemed to sense his eagerness for an answer. He held it back for as long as possible, enjoying his mastery of the moment. Cray let him have his morsel of revenge, steeling himself for the big lie he was certain was coming.

“Because,” the counselor said, “Lyssa asked for you.”

Cray Alden ascended the stairway in front of the Works. Dirty sunshine filtered through permahaze glinted meekly off the surrounding towers, a breath of half-life that made the open air feel that much more confining. Down at the fountain, especially, where the street species had gathered to await their collective hallucination, the plaza felt haunted by their absence—its emptiness implying far more than spilled blood ever could.

“How could CSS make all those people disappear?”

“It was easy,” Avalon said. She had assumed a position behind him—as always, the dutiful stalker, not losing a fragment of her composure. “Street species are like that. Alone, they might put up a fight. Together, they’re like sheep.”

Cray tossed a glance back her way. In the dark she moved like a ghost, between the spaces, visible only in hints and flashes. But in the light, she was pallid and severe—flesh and bone, but far removed from a state of living.

“Free agents and Special Services?” he asked. “Sounds like a strange arrangement.”

“We only trained their personnel,” she explained. “Their chain of command is completely outside ours.”

“You sound almost proud.”

“I’m not proud of anything, Dr. Alden,” Avalon said, heading for the entrance. “I merely exist to serve a purpose.”

Cray followed. He had insisted on taking a cab from the hotel because he wanted to see what the cops had seen when they arrived at the Works that night. There would have been such a
synchronicity
present—a common pulse flooding the streets uniting both cops and species, drawing each toward something they had no hope of understanding. What was manufactured there was the stuff of myth, not the spawn of logic.

Yet in the here and now, that pulse had stopped. The Works was dead—its people gone, its corridors empty, its screams a dying echo. All that remained was latent intellect, hovering like charnel ash at the ruined entrance to the building. Cracked windows and pitted carbon glass hid the source, but Cray could feel it stirring his blood. It was cold and undeniable.

Avalon took note of his hesitation. “You coming?”

Cray’s sensibilities told him to say no. A stronger impulse, however, pushed him in this direction. For no reason at all he thought of Zoe, of how much they overlapped in those moments before her death. That was her essence, the thing she had passed to him. Now, he was simply bringing it back.

Where it’s supposed to be.

“I’m ready,” he said, certain that it wasn’t true.

With the security sphere down, Corporate Special Services had dropped a full garrison in place to defend the Works. The atrium served as a command post for that operation, the maroon-uniformed officers rallying troops from every incorporated sector across the country. A volatile mix of their fervor agitated the air—bravado and sweat, thick enough to choke on as Cray and Avalon walked into the building. A dozen armed escorts flanked them on both sides, marching in lockstep with one another, a vulgar display of weapons and precision meant to give the impression of order. Pure overkill, but Cray was hardly surprised. Losing its most brilliant and valued people was one thing—but humiliation by
Inru
terrorists was an act of war. The Collective wanted to sound that message loud and clear.

But that was just the politics of the affair. It did nothing to alleviate the fears of the soldiers, who were there to clean up the mess. It showed in their faces—that same silence, that same ashen countenance, eyes looking to Cray for answers only a witch doctor could provide. In their view, Cray wasn’t here as an investigator, or even as a spook. He had come to perform an exorcism, to drive out the malevolent force that even now disturbed this place.

They checked in with a Special Services lieutenant at the duty officer post. His hand dropped to his sidearm when Cray approached. Cray took careful note of the weapon—an antique, semiautomatic projectile pistol, its polished nickel surface a glinting menace against the black fabric of the lieutenant’s uniform. It was a big gun—probably .44 caliber, the kind of thing issued to Israeli desert commandos during the Pan-Arab conflict over a century ago.

“Easy, pal,” Cray said to him. “You could put an eye out with one of those.”

“Another wiseass,” the lieutenant replied, directing his commentary toward Avalon. “Don’t tell me that
he’s
the guy.”

“The Office of Counsel wants him to have a look around,” she told him. “Free roam, vaulted clearance. Check it if you want.”