Who Hunts the Hunter (20 page)
Richmond also enjoys a reputation for absolute adherence to corporate protocol and bureaucratic procedure, whereas Hurley-Cooper has been described in trade publications and elsewhere as “informal.”
Another word for sloppy, in executive parlance.
When Enoshi starts talking about meat being fatty or lean, and what that may lead to, from a corporate perspective, Amy swallows an orange-flavored bit of sushi whole.
Looking up the table, she says, “Of course, it is difficult for a scientist to accurately predict where the creative process integral to all research may eventually lead. Leonardo Da Vinci claimed that nature is full of infinite causes that have never formed part of anyone’s experience. We limit our chances of discovering these causes, these scientific unknowns, if we as executives attempt to micromanage the course of pure research.”
Several blank looks turn her way, but the quote from Da Vinci seems to grab Enoshi Ken’s attention. Amy hopes it goes further than that. The man’s fondness for quotes is well known. Enough that Amy had her aide Laurena searching databases all afternoon for any “wise words” that might be flung at Enoshi to make a point.
Enoshi replies, “Perhaps you are suggesting, Ms. Berman, that many details make up perfection, and perfection is no detail?”
If perfection is seeking truth, searching for real answers, not merely commercial success, then Mr. Enoshi Ken has a point. True research is no minor detail. Trying to better the world is no trivial effort. For what it’s worth, Amy agrees.
Dinner ends at eight. Vernon makes noises about adjourning to one of the glitzy nighthowls on the Plaza: Twelve Chrome Spikes. Tonight featuring ME-109. Amy decides to make her exit.
But before she can quite complete her escape, the executive VP touches her elbow, and says, “You asked to see me this afternoon.”
Amy nods, admits it. She feels like she’s way out on a limb. It would probably be smart to tell the executive VP everything she’s learned about the Metascience mystery file, so if and when she gets around to making any incriminating disclosures she’s got someone firmly in her camp.
“I’m sorry,” Amy says."Tomorrow would be better. I’m really not feeling very well tonight. Excuse me, won’t you?"
"Certainly.”
The Plaza monorail ferries Amy back to her office tower. Escalators carry her down to the first level of the Plaza’s underground parking garage. She gets into her sedate, silver-gray Toyota Arbiter GX, closes the door, sits back and shuts her eyes.
It’s going on eight-thirty. She shouldn’t be wasting time. Scottie promised to visit her tonight. She keys the ignition and puts the Toyo in reverse, and then her cellphone bleeps.
It’s Harman, reduced in size to fit on a twelve-centimeter screen, seen against a background of flaring strobes and blazing laserlight. As the Managing Director of Sales for Mitsuhama Systems Engineering, Harman has no choice but to participate in after-hours business meetings and affairs. It’s written right into his contract.
“I have only a few moments, darling,” he says, “but something came to my attention. I felt you should know. Well, what I mean is, I feel I have to tell you ...”
Why is he acting so ambivalent? It isn’t like him."Does this have to do with business?”
“Yes, it does.”
“If you’re uncomfortable, don’t tell me anything.”
“No, that’s wrong,” Harman insists."I mean, you’re correct. I do feel uncomfortable. I suppose I’m not used to trusting people like this.”
The smile he adds only makes him seem more uncomfortable. Amy struggles to conjure up some sort of appropriate response. They usually don’t discuss business, except in general terms, simply to avoid any conflicts that their relevant corps might use against them. They know for a fact that on a few occasions Mitsuhama spies have followed them around on dates. That’s yet another reason why Harman is considering getting away from Mitsuhama.
Can Harman trust her? That seems to be what he’s asking for, without actually putting the question to her in so many words."It might be better if you say nothing,” Amy replies."But if you’re telling me something in confidence, it goes no further. It’s your decision, Harman.”
“Yes, I know,” Harman says."Of course I trust you. It’s just that .. well, you’re aware of the risks we both face.”
“Of course.”
“I don’t know if this means something or nothing, but I know what you’ve told me about recent events at your corp. That makes it seem possibly of significance.”
Amy says nothing, waits. It’s his choice. If he wants to tell her .. .
“A Mr. Enoshi Ken of Kono-Furata-Ko International dropped by the tower this morning. He was in conference with Bobinek and El-Gabri for about three hours. One of our senior attorneys attended as well.”
Bobinek is exec VP of Mitsuhama UCAS."Who’s El-Gabri?” Amy blurts.
“He’s the exec VP for the Biotech division.”
“Oh, my god.”
That’s all Harman knows, but it’s enough. Amy tries to keep her expression neutral till she and Harman are off the phone. There’s no point in upsetting him, too.
His information brings back everything Enoshi Ken said at dinner, about meat being lean or fatty, and the need to avoid redundancies, and her own thoughts about Hurley-Cooper’s rival subsidiary over on Staten Island. The obvious implication is that KFK International is considering or possibly already arranging for the sale of Hurley-Cooper Laboratories.
It can’t be.
If KFK divests Hurley-Cooper ... if MCT buys ... If anything like that happens, Amy’s career is as good as over. Any career that she cares about is finished. She’d rather spend the rest of her life cleaning toilets than find herself thrust into a brutal environment like MCT. Unfortunately, she might not have even that option. Hurley-Cooper owns her contract just as surely as any other asset. MCT would have every legal right to insist that every last employee of Hurley-Cooper be part of the buy-out agreement. She could be compelled tomorrow to work for MCT in whatever capacity the predators might want.
But ... thoughts like that won’t help.
What does it mean?
What
should
she
do?
If her guesses are correct and a sale really is in the works, maybe she should blow the lid on the discrepancies she’s discovered in hopes that MCT will take one look and say, “Thanks for the offer, but forget it.”
No, that’s crazy. She really would end up cleaning toilets if she blows a sale desired by KFK’s Tokyo office. She’d regret that for the rest of her life. All she can do is hope, hope that her guesses are wrong. But, no—that’s no good. She can’t just sit and wait and hope for the best. She’s got to do something and do it now. Somehow, she must get to the bottom of the mysteries she’s uncovered and find a way to cast Hurley-Cooper in a positive light. She must see to it that in the end Tokyo will be too content with its little research subsidiary in downstate New York to consider divesting it. Maybe it’s time she tried something a little extreme. Everything’s on the line.
The warehouse stands in the shadow of the elevated Cross Bronx Expressway, not far from the Throgs Neck Bridge. The warehouse loading bay is large and strewn with the garbage of uncounted squatters, no longer present.
Across the broad ceiling run the rails of a small crane. From this crane dangle several loops of thick cable that run through a large pulley. At the bottom of the pulley is a hook. Hanging from that hook by her wrists is the elf razorgirl Tikki fought and captured inside O’Keefe’s brownstone. In addition to being bloody and bruised, the elf is now nude, and her tattooed hide bears several small burns from the head of a slim Sumatran cigarro. The tips of her toes brush the gritty concrete floor.
Tikki walks around to her rear.
The elf has a shapely rear end for a ganger: full and round. Pear-shaped. This is good. Such behinds are full of fatty tissue and tissue like that is mostly water. Salty water. That sort of water is an especially good conductor of electric energy.
Tikki places the head of a Defiance AZ-S shock baton against the elf’s body, touches the key marked 7, and pulls the trigger. The baton’s lithium capacitors deliver a jolt that makes the elf jerk as if kicked by a horse. For a moment, she is rigid—then, she screams. The scream is loud and raw and, combined with scents in the air, bears witness to her pain. It is intense. She goes on grunting and gasping for minutes."What is your name?” Tikki asks.
The elf moans."Shaver ...”
Finally, an answer, a streetname, essentially meaningless, but a place to start. Instinct urges Tikki to threaten the elf with immediate death or dismemberment, but she knows better. Interrogations cannot be rushed. They must be carefully executed.
“Who is your leader?”
Shaver shakes her head and snarls something vicious. Tikki triggers the baton. The elf’s scream rises high and shrill and goes on longer than before. The pain is more intense. Shaver’s resistance appears to be wearing thin.
“Who is your leader?”
Shaver grunts."Tang.”
Tang is O’Keefe by another name. The former mercenary. The bounty hunter. The elf with many names and many dummy corporations."Who is the other elf female?” Shaver mutters, “Frag you.”
Tikki applies the stun baton again, this time to Shaver’s front, to her groin. When the screaming finally ends, Shaver is pale and shuddering. Weakly, she murmurs, “Whistle ...” Another streetname."Why does Tang want my cub?"
"Bounty ...”
“Who offered bounty?”
“Don’t know ... Tang’s client ...”
“Why was the bounty offered?”
Shaver sneers."Ask Tang ...”
Tikki applies the stun baton to each of Shaver’s thighs, with the power level set to 9. This time, when the screaming ends, Shaver’s eyes seem about to roll back into her head. Her head lolls.
“Ree ... research ...”
Tikki frowns.
Research? Shaver does not smell like she’s lying and yet her answer is one that Tikki had not anticipated. Research? What possible use could her cub be for that? What kind of elf scheme could O’Keefe be involved with? Tikki abruptly realizes it doesn’t matter. She doesn’t care. It’s irrelevant.
She has a cub to retrieve or a cub to avenge and scores waiting to be settled. Get to the point.
“Where is my cub?”
Shaver mutters, “Frag ...”
Another jolt of the shock baton. More screams. More time wasted."Answer. Where is my cub?”
“Tang ...”
“Address.”
The address is not long in coming. It takes the form of a street name and a building description, right here in the Bronx. Tikki sheaths the stun baton and walks to the rear of the warehouse.
There wait two dark blue synthleather-clad members of the Kong Destroyers: Baka and Dogmeat. They are here because the Kong gangleader owes favors to certain individuals who command his respect. Baka and Dogmeat are each well over two meters tall and as massive as mountains. One is hairy; the other bald. Both have horns and huge fangs and great quantities of spikes and studs distributed about their clothing. Both wear smartguns.
“I’m leaving the weedeater here,” Tikki tells them."Make sure she’s alive when I come back.”
Dogmeat grins."No shick, chummer.”
“We’ll be real gentle,” says Baka.
Tikki lights a slim Dannemann Lonja cigarro, takes a drag, then walks out. Even if she hadn’t understood what the trolls meant by their words and leering grins, she would have guessed it by their smell.
She should have warned them about the elf’s belly knife.
The living room is in ruins. A table is overturned. Several plants are smashed right out of their pots. Lamps and pictures lay scattered about, some in pieces. There are dents, gashes, and holes in the walls and smears of blood on the walls, furniture, and carpet. By all that he sees, a pair of trolls might have done battle here.
“Shaver?” Whistle blurts.
“Wait.”
But too late. Whistle is already darting ahead, down the hallway toward the kitchen and dining room. O’Keefe waits, listening, his Luger SPv3 in hand. He turns to open the panel beside the front door and check the household security system. Whistle comes running back up the hallway and dashes up the stairs to the second floor, shouting Shaver’s name. O’Keefe wonders why she goes through this exercise. It would be far more efficient and cautious of her to simply use her mage’s ability and survey the house from the astral.
The security system informs him that only two live bodies are present.
It’s still early evening, but for Shaver it’s obviously too late. Shaver arrived per O’Keefe’s instructions to watch for Striper, but Striper was perhaps already here and lying in ambush. Obviously, they fought. Obviously, Shaver was not the victor or the pair would still be present. That presumption adds to O’Keefe’s awareness that he has made the serious error of underestimating his quarry, the time Striper would need to track him down. He will not make that mistake again. Next time it could mean his life.
Of course, in this case he has every reason to suspect that Shaver played a vital role contributing to Striper’s early arrival."The phone at NewMan is out of service,” Shaver said. O’Keefe can hardly believe that Shaver could have been so incredibly lax as to call the NewMan number from here in this very house. His house. How many times, he wonders, has Shaver committed similar breaches of security?
