The Lucifer Deck (11 page)
No wonder Mrs. Samji was reluctant to talk. One word about her husband’s work and she’d be lion-dog chow. The spirit creature might be only semi-corporeal, but Carla was sure it had a nasty bite. Or that its handlers did.
Mrs. Samji continued steering Carla toward the door. Clearly terrified, she was trying to end the interview. Carla tried to get her talking again. She focused upon the playback icon in her cybereye, keying an instant replay of the last ten seconds of data. "Uh, you were telling me about Zarathustra." she prompted. "You were starting to tell me the origin of his name . . ."
They had reached the door. Carla glanced behind her, saw that the lion-headed dog was close at her heels. Now that it was closer to her, Carla could feel the chilling cold that radiated from it.
"The word is Persian." Mrs. Samji answered. "In the ancient tongue, it translated as ‘the golden light.’ We conceive of Ahura Mazda as the source of all light, of all love. And thus his prophet shared this attribute. Now I really must insist that you leave. My husband’s death has left me feeling very drained. We will continue this interview at another time." She held the front door open, motioning for Carla to leave.
"The source of all light." Carla mused. "How interesting." She turned to capture a good, clean image of
Mrs. Samji. The lion-headed dog squatted behind the
woman, its mane ruffed. Carla had no way of knowing if the creature would react to the question she was about to ask, but decided to take a chance. She stepped closer to Mrs. Samji, and framed her in a head-and-shoulders shot.
"Is that why your husband wanted to make public the spell formula for summoning a spirit made of light?" she asked suddenly. "Did he really believe they were messengers sent by Ahura Mazda, your god? Did Mitsuhama murder your husband because of what his religious beliefs compelled him to do?"
Tears welled in Mrs. Samji’s eyes. "Farazad was wrong." she cried. "If the creature had been a
farohar
it never would have—"
The lion-headed dog lunged forward. It was amazingly fast—quicker than Carla expected. She gasped and leaped backward, expecting to feel its cold fangs lock on her throat. But instead it thudded against the door, knocking it shut.
"Drek!" Carla pounded a fist against the door. She’d almost had it in the can. And what was going on in there? Carla stabbed at the com unit on the wall. "Mrs. Samji! Are you in there? Are you all right?"
"Please." Mrs. Samji said through the speaker. "I have my children’s welfare to consider. The interview is over. If you do not go, I will call security to remove you." Carla felt a rush of relief. The woman was unharmed! Then the reporter’s instincts took over. "Mrs. Samji! Can you make a statement on the record? Can you confirm that the spirit that killed your husband was conjured as part of a Mitsuhama research project?"
"The Samji family thanks you for stopping by." an automated voice replied. "Unfortunately, we are not receiving visitors at this time. Please call again."
The pills Carla had taken earlier were starting to wear off. She blinked, trying to fight off a sudden rush of exhaustion. She’d been so close to confirming the link between the spell on the memory chip and Mitsuhama. If only the lion-headed dog hadn’t. . .
Then it struck her. The doglike spirit had acted in a sophisticated manner. What if it had been providing a direct, telepathic feed to Mitsuhama? The corporation certainly had the resources to have someone on the scene immediately, possibly even the corporate goons who’d tried to gun down Pita last night. And given the knowledge that Carla had just displayed about the contents of the datachip, they might be ready to take measures to keep her quiet. Measures like those they’d taken against the pirate reporter. Measures that could kill both the story—and Carla.
Carla sprinted for her taxi. This story was getting hot. It was time to get back to the station and its nice, bullet-and spell-proof glass.
Pita rolled over in her sleep. She knew she was dreaming, but was unable to shake the terrifying images from her mind. She was being chased by people whose tattooed skins were made of thick dabs of water-soluble paint. They followed her through the rain, their skins melting from their bodies, revealing skeletons beneath. The click-click of their bony feet was growing closer, closer . . . "Hey, kid, wake up."
A hand shook Pita’s shoulder. She awoke instantly, her heart pounding.
Wayne
, from the editing department, looked down at her. He was a red-haired man in his thirties with a slight pot belly. Tucked under one arm was a miniature decks whose flatscreen displayed a freeze-framed image of an oil rig going up in flames. Wayne smiled and jerked a thumb at the door. "There’s someone at the front desk asking for you, kid."
"There is?" Pita was immediately wary. "Who?" She swung her legs over the edge of the plastifoam cot that was tucked into a storeroom just off the newsroom. Through the partially open door, Pita could hear the buzz of voices and the sound samples that were being mixed in the studio.
"Some guy with goofy-looking hair. He wouldn’t tell the receptionist his name. All he would say was to tell you he wants to talk to you about ‘little pork dumpling.’ " Pita jumped to her feet. "Yao’s here?" Her streetwise skepticism warred with hope and relief. "But I thought he was dead."
"Doesn’t look like it to me." Wayne pushed the door open. "Come and see for yourself. I’ve got the guy’s image on the monitor that’s patched into the surveillance camera in the lobby. Maybe you should scan it, just in case."
Pita followed Wayne into the studio. It was laid out in an open plan, with glass-doored editing booths along one wall, work stations at the center of the room, and banks of telecom equipment and computer terminals. An entire wall was devoted to hundreds of flat-screen monitors. Each displayed a different trideo channel. On several of the monitors, large letters that spelled out the word "RECORDING" were flashing.
"Which monitor?" Pita asked.
Just as Wayne was about to answer, his wrist began to beep. He glanced at the watch implanted into his skin. "Uh, oh. Thirty minutes to air. I’d better get back if I’m going to finish editing the interview Masaki did with you." He pointed toward the left-hand side of the bank of monitors. "It’s the one just over there. Between the satellite feeds and the foreign language channels."
One of the reporters called out urgently from across the room. "Hey, Wayne! You added that take to the Quetzalcoatl story yet? We’re running out of time!"
"It’s nearly done!" Wayne shouted, then hurried away.
Pita glanced at the monitors, but their sheer number overwhelmed her. She didn’t see any that seemed to be showing the lobby. Besides, did it really matter? Only Yao knew about the "Little Pork Dumpling" code. It had to be him.
Pita hurried down the corridor that led to the lobby, but paused before opening the door, just to make sure. Looking through its tinted glass, she peered out past the reception desk. An ork in frayed jeans and a loose synthleather jacket was standing in the lobby, his back to the door leading to the street. He held one arm tucked against his chest and his shoulders were hunched, as if he were in pain. When he crossed over to one of the chairs and sat down, Pita recognized him at once by his narrow jaw and the wary look in his eyes. It was Yao, all right. Alive. For the first time in days, she smiled.
Somehow, Yao had escaped from the corporate goons. Pita was intensely curious to find out how he’d managed to survive the hail of bullets that had cut him down. But she was also reluctant to face him. She’d abandoned him on the street after he’d been shot. Just like she’d run off when Chen was gunned down. It would be easier just to hide in the newsroom, to let the receptionist send Yao away. But he’d promised to do a story on what Lone Star had done to Chen and the others. Unlike Carla and Masaki, he would surely keep his word. His own brother had died, after all. Pita should keep her end of the bargain and finish the interview. Assuming Yao still wanted to.
She opened the door and stepped out to the receptionist’s desk. Yao immediately looked up and flashed her a smile. "I thought I’d find you here." he said. "Are you all right?"
"I’m sorry I ran away, Yao. I thought you were—" He waved a hand in a dismissive gesture. "It wasn’t anything a bulletproof vest couldn’t stop. I’m just bruised is all."
"But I saw blood on your—"
"One bullet did hit my arm." He shrugged it gently. "So who was that woman in the car?"
"Her name’s Carla. She’s a reporter here."
"How do you know her?"
Pita scuffed at the floor with the toe of one sneaker. "Uh, I asked her to do a story on how the cops killed Chen." She glanced briefly at Yao to see if he was angry. "I would’ve come to you first, but I didn’t know where you were. So I went to Carla, instead. But she wasn’t interested. She didn’t seem to give a frag about Chen."
"So how come she showed up when I was interviewing you?"
Pita shrugged. "I guess she changed her mind. She says she’ll do the story now."
"I see." Yao said with a sneer. "So you were going to give my story to the competition."
Pita looked up. "I thought you were dead. Yao. I didn’t know what else to—"
"Forget it." He stood awkwardly, shoulders still hunched. "Now then, are you ready to finish our interview?"
Pita chewed her lip. "I don’t think I should leave the station. Masaki doesn’t think I’d be safe on the streets. He says those guys who shot you were yakuza."
"We won’t be on the streets." Yao reassured her. "I’ve got a room at a hotel, just down the block. We’ll finish the interview there. I’ll walk you back here afterward if you like." He gestured at the door that led to the newsroom. "You got all your stuff? Need to get anything before we leave?"
"What you see is what I got." Pita answered. "Not much. So how did you know where to find me?"
"I got the bar code of the car, and had a friend of mine deck into the vehicle registry databanks to find out who the owner was. Imagine my surprise when I found out it belonged to Jun."
"Who?’
"Jun Masaki. The reporter who was driving the car. I helped him out with a news story once before I started working with
Orks
First
! But he probably wouldn’t remember me."
"Oh." Pita said. "Everyone calls him by his last name, around here."
Yao
pushed the door open. "Anyhow, I knew that Masaki was a reporter for KKRU. I figured that he might have brought you back to the station." He held the door open for her. "And I was right."
Pita hesitated. "I should tell him where I’m going."
"Why?" Yao asked. "You’ll be back soon enough. He won’t even miss you."
Pita sighed. Yao was probably right. Masaki had been working furiously ever since they’d returned from Aziz’s shop, and the lack of sleep had made him irritable. He’d practically bitten her head off during the interview, snapping at her for mumbling and for playing with the junk in her jeans pockets. He said the rattling noise spoiled the audio, and told her to empty her pockets. Grumpy old fragger.
"O.K.." Pita told Yao. "As long as we’re back in half an hour." She wanted to be back at the station in time for the six o’clock news to make sure Masaki kept his promise and blanked out her face to hide her identity. Those corp goons knew what she looked like by now. But there was still a chance those Lone Star fraggers didn’t.
She followed Yao outside. "Hey," she said, noticing his ear, "you lost your scanner."
"Yeah. Come on."
He led her down the steps, one hand resting protectively on Pita’s shoulder. As she descended them, something nagged at her. Something she couldn’t quite put her finger on.
Then it hit her. She’d had to tip her head back to look at Yao’s ear. He should have been shorter than that. And some of the things he said had been odd. As far as Pita could remember from things Chen had told about his brother, Yao had never worked as a real reporter. He’d only done pirate trideo broadcasts. And the body language had been all wrong. Yao kept a careful watch on doors; he didn’t stand with his back to them, the way he had just now in the lobby.
Pita glanced nervously at the man beside her.
This wasn’t Yao.
She didn’t want to find out who it really was. Ducking out from under his hand, she bolted for the top of the stairs, back toward the main entrance of the KKRU building. But before she’d taken two steps, the man behind her barked out a sentence in a foreign, lilting language. Suddenly Pita was running in midair. She struggled wildly, trying to make contact with the ground. But the stairs were a good half-meter under her feet. She twisted about—just in time to see the man who’d been posing as Yao shed his skin in a shimmering transformation. Clothes, hair, features—all blurred and changed. The man was suddenly thinner, darker. With a shock, Pita recognized the dreadlocked elf who’d tried to cast a spell upon her earlier. The mage! The one who’d led the goons to her! Like a fool, she’d fallen into his trap, despite the dream warning, despite Wayne’s reminder that she should scan her visitor on the monitor first—where his true form would have been revealed. Now she was trapped, and he would kill her. Pita cried out, but even as she did, a bolt of yellow streaked from the elf’s fingers toward her, enveloping her. Pita’s eyes closed and she fell forward into darkness.
