Steel Rain (21 page)
"I have not heard of this group before."
"That is because Adachi Dosan, director of intelligence, is a merchant, a son of Yoshida, a clan of merchants. How would it profit a merchant to speak to GSG? If Adachi and his directorate solve all our riddles and identify the threat, the Chairman must give praise and all of Yoshida will grow large in spirit."
"You speak harshly of Yoshida."
"We must avoid the appearance of impotence. The disloyal will use such an appearance to criticize the Chairman's New Way. They will use this to justify putting an end to the extravagance of the Guard and then to cleansing Nagato Combine of metas. You took a great risk walking into the headquarters of the Large Circle League. Extremists will view this as proof of a treasonous liaison."
Machiko finds this difficult to comprehend. "I have been wounded twice in as many days in the Chairman's cause. Who could possibly suspect me of treason?"
"Indeed," says Kuroda
-sensei
. "The timing of these events is fortunate. It is timing that makes all the difference. You must remain aware of that fact. Now tell me what passed between you and Lau Tsang."
This is swiftly done.
Kuroda
-sensei
sits motionless, facing the garden, eyes closed, for many moments. "Lau Tsang is a clever man, a player of Go. He will not wait for circumstances to escalate. He will act on the information you have provided him."
"Have I helped him in some way?"
"You have informed him that a person he once held as a valued asset has conducted offensive operations against Nagato Combine. This was done without his permission. And it threatens him with much more than a visit from one member of the Guard."
"What will he do?"
Before Kuroda
-sensei
gives any reply, Machiko's comm-link beeps. She finds Ryokai on the small screen on her left vambrace. "We have just received a very unusual delivery," he says.
"Please explain," Machiko replies.
Ryokai hesitates, then says, "This defies any simple explanation."
"What do you mean she's gone?"
"She's gone. Jacked out. Flipped off."
"Check with your people in Queens."
"Already did that. Poppy's buzzed—"
Abruptly, Gamma lifts his mage's wand, and the synth-leather-clad cutter before him staggers back, falls to the floor, and writhes, looking like a man in agony, an agony so intense he makes no sound. "I warn you as I warned her," Gamma says. "I do not appreciate disloyalty. Poppy allowed my pet decker to escape, so she was punished. Now she turns traitor and runs. You will send someone to find her. Before she can disrupt my plans. Do you understand?"
The cutter, still writhing, nods his head.
Gamma turns away.
Neona watches anxiously from her couch as Gamma turns, turns toward her. She clutches the platinum-hued case of her Fairlight Invader and wishes the cold steel manacles gripping her ankles would just disappear, like she wishes Gamma's anger would disappear. The manacles, she knows, are just for her protection, to deter anyone from trying to snatch her, but they make her anxious, like Gamma's anger makes her anxious. She knows Gamma's got every right to be angry, he's been so good to everyone in the group, but his anger, his moods, still make her anxious. Gamma's dangerous even when he's calm. Very sensitive about things. He could do a person serious harm.
Now he sits right beside her, lays his mage's wand across his lap, and slips an arm around Neona's back. The hand gripping his mage's wand is twisted and gnarly. The hand slipping up the back of Neona's neck feels like an invading army of creepy-crawling bugs, raising her hackles.
Gamma smiles. "It's time for you to meet your contacts in the Matrix."
Neona nods her head. "Yeah, wiz."
"I need more detailed information. I need specifics. I want to know what the defilers are planning. I want the names of their allies. I want details on the malefactors who lead them. Most of all, I want specifics on the great parasite himself, where he will be, whom he will meet. Do you understand?"
Neona nods her head. "Jewel."
"Remember. They are a cancer. A festering wound on the face of the planet. Once we have accumulated sufficient evidence, we will heal that wound forever. All is in alignment. The formula of our tomorrows is clear, bidding us onward."
Neona nods her head. "Got it."
Gently. Gamma kisses her brow, right near her datajack. It gives her shivers. "My electron Angel."
Yeah . . .
She jacks her Fairlight Invader into the telecom beside the couch, then snugs another fiber-optic lead into her head.
Then she's sliding down a quick blackness, flashing through the virtual workspace inside her deck, initialing progs, triggering utilities, and then diving down the dataline—swift as light, nimble as angels dancing on pins—into the burning neon nightscape of the local telecommunications grid.
Neona Jaxx no longer—she's a ramjamming electron Angel in pulsing gold armor, suited up with a halo and wings and her Invader iconic keyboard guitar.
She skates past a thousand nodes in the blink of one golden eye. She fires herself across the grid, a poseur fone call, a fantasy data transfer, slipping through node after node, disguising her signal, cloaking her backtrail. Not the easy way to play it. but for an Angel like herself it's the only trip to Paydata Heaven that doesn't include a free ride to Deadly Feedback Hell.
At exactly 11:03:01:47:14:29, a yellow dot appears on the dataline directly in front of her face and unfolds like a
blossom of light into a twelve-sided polyhedron that shimmers like it's made of mirrors. In fact it's a teleporting SAN—system access node—that appears and disappears around the grid according to a time schedule defined by a very secret algorithm, one Neona's still trying to scope out.
She dives right into the node.
Then the weirdness happens.
It's like the much-fabled Ghost seizes her signal. She feels a tug. The whole LTG seems to flash blurring past her iconic eyes. She isn't sure what the frag's going on, and she's been trying to scan it for weeks, but, abruptly, she's in the node.
A sculptured node. Very weird.
She stands facing a narrow corridor of brilliant yellow light that extends on straight as a dataline to infinity. Something approaches out of the farthest reaches of the corridor. At first it looks like a simple rectangular icon. The rectangle swiftly evolves into a sort of booth, like from a carnival arcade. Two meters tall, trimmed in elaborate swirls of gold, with a transparent pane like a window. On the other side of the window sits something like a big life-sized puppet of a gypsy lady: eyes like pits; black hair wrapped in a bandanna; ears, neck, and arms loaded with gaudy jewelry; blood red talons adorning each finger.
As the booth draws near and halts, a thousand little glinting silvery motes swarm out from about the sides of the booth and surround Neona like a cloud.
Neona reaches out, and, with one golden electron finger, presses the button on the front of the booth.
"Press Here," it says.
Thunder rumbles and crashes. Something creaks. A cat yowls. The Gypsy Lady in the booth slowly lifts a blazing electron card to her brow, then says, "Your fortunes are on the rise. What do you desire?"
"Gamma wants more dirt on Nagato Corp," Neona says.
"The spirits give their answer."
Golden coins the size of soyburgers begin pouring from a chute in the front of the booth: datastores downloading. Neona snatches and scans each coin as it flies toward her belly: data on toxic waste, pollutants dumped raw into the environment, people paid off to look the other way. All kinds of squat like that. Just the kind of squat Gamma always wants, the kind he lives and breathes for. The kind that's kept him sending Neona into the Matrix over and over.
"What about the Great Defiler?" Neona asks, using Gamma's name for the slag. "Where's he gonna be?"
The Gypsy Lady lifts another card. "Spirits predict."
More coins sluice from the chute. Neona finds herself scanning plans for the Chrysanthemum Palace, an immense hotel and casino complex built someplace in Brooklyn, a place called "Coney Island." The datastores give every detail of the Palace's defenses, as well as the agenda for the Great Defiler's visit.
Absolutely jewel.
"Now spirits demand a service," the Gypsy Lady says.
"Null sheen,
omae
."
More coins, dozens and dozens of coins, every one of them winking with nuyen and the coordinates of distant LTGs. "Complete these data transfers," the Gypsy Lady says. "Take care that you are not traced. Dark forces watch the grid."
It's a steal of a deal, a little net running in exchange for proprietary data Neona would have to risk brain and body to get on her own. "What's the algorithm for our next meet?"
The Gypsy Lady downloads the data.
The man on the telecom is Adachi Dosan, Nagato Director of Intelligence, and his manner is modest and conciliatory. "My agents have heard only rumors concerning White Octagon, Machiko-san," he says. "We are investigating these rumors, but currently we know very little about this group. They are apparently a local bias group, virulently anti-meta. I have nothing as yet to tie White Octagon to the attacks on Nagato Combine. One source indicates that they may be a splinter faction of other, better-known bias groups, but this again is mere speculation."
"But potentially of significance," Machiko replies. "I would appreciate being kept apprised of such news, Adachi-san."
"I will certainly see that you are."
They end the call. Machiko turns from the telecom to the room's only other source of light, the broad pane of a two-way mirror providing a private view of the room immediately adjacent. In that room, otherwise bare, with walls of concrete, sits a young woman of Chinese blood. She sits slumped, handcuffed to her chair, head lolling forward. She wears black synthleather and boots and studded bands around neck and wrists. The evidence of a savage beating is quite clear. Her face and head are purple with bruises. Veins of dried blood descend from her nose and mouth. She is missing at least one tooth. Her arms and hands bear numerous abrasions. Her over-sized jacket, lying on the floor beside her, her sleeveless blouse and fitted slacks are dirty, stained and torn.
But what holds Machiko's attention are the octagonal tattoos adorning both the woman's arms, and her hair. The hair about the sides of her head has been shaved in such a manner that, with her head slumped forward, the hair atop her head also takes the form of an octagon.
"You say she was dumped by the main entrance?"
"Correct," Gongora says tersely. "A car pulled up. She was thrown out. The
kobun
at the entrance said that a man in the car, a Chinese, said she is a gift from Lau Tsang."
The entrance Gongoro refers to is the entrance to the headquarters building of the Yoshida
-kai
, located in Bensonhurst, Brooklyn. The room where the "gift" now sits is in the basement of the headquarters building. Doubtless, Lau Tsang's people recognized that Machiko traveled with Yoshida
-kai
kobun
and so chose the Yoshida
-kai
headquarters as the place to deliver his gift. The key point about all this, in Machiko's view, recalls Kuroda
-sensei's
words to mind:
Lau
T
san
g
is
a
clever
man
. . .
He
will
act
on
the
information
you
have
provided
him
. . .
Someone
conducts
offense
operations
without
his
permission
. . .
Gongoro growls, "What has this to do with the attacks on Nagato?"
Machiko explains about her visit with Lau. "Apparently this woman is intended to demonstrate that the Large Circle League has no intention of inciting a war."
Ryokai appears astonished.
Gongoro seems unimpressed. "I could have told you this," he growls. "If for once you would just
listen
to
me
!"
"I seek intelligence," Machiko says. "Is that not what one does in expectation of war? You speak often and loudly, Gongoro-san, but you offer only words and more words to substantiate your claims."
"And what is this woman? She proves nothing! She is barely conscious!"
Machiko gives no reply.
A medtech arrives to treat the woman's wounds. Two techs from the Nagato Security Service arrive moments later to scan the woman for implanted cybernetics. The medtech reports that the woman is suffering no life-threatening
injuries and requires rest. The senior security tech informs,
"She has a number of basic street samurai augmentations, such as eye and ear replacements, an oral dart, not loaded, a fingertip compartment and hand razors, as well as muscle improvements and an adrenal pump."
"You found no evidence of cranial explosives?"
"None whatsoever."
Before the coming of war, the warrior must learn, ask questions, confer. Very well. Machiko turns again to the telecom and contacts Colonel Satomi, deputy chief of Nagato security operations, and says, "I have not yet had the opportunity to review the latest findings concerning the killers who attacked Sukayo-san, Ryokai-san, and myself." The colonel quickly arranges himself to give a quick briefing. The telecom screen divides into several windows. In one, Machiko sees the bodies of the dead killers laid out on metal tables.
