Shadowboxer (26 page)
* * *
Silent, Chief Captain stood before the window, marshalling his thoughts. Dressed in casual clothes chosen for comfort, not appearances, he was trim and well muscled, with the physique of a trained athlete rather than a stevedore or laborer. His hands were badly scarred, but well manicured, which would have told a lot to any trained observer, which the small norm holding the chipboard in the middle of the executive office was.
Beyond the thick Armorlite windows was a vista, an expanse of wrecked ships, vessels of all kinds, surface ships and all manner of submarines. Barnacles and coral added colorful touches to the mass of gray paint and rusty hulls, as huge schools of brilliant fish darted among the sea-going ruins.
Turning from the observation window, Chief Captain clasped his clean hands behind his back. “And what exactly the fragging hell do you mean we lost a sub, you brain-dead, hoopkissing gleeb?” he screamed in fury.
Executive Yeoman noisily cleared his throat. “Well, sir, I . .. that is . . . we . . .”
“Well?” roared Chief Captain, slamming a fist against his desk, splintering the valuable antique wood. “Was it sunk? Stolen by privateers? Destroyed in a storm? Torn to bits by magic?”
“Boat Number Sixty-five got caught in a storm, killed a snake, looted a cargo ship, then simply went off the air,” reported Yeoman quickly. “There are unsubstantiated reports from our people in Atlantic Security of an attack by a wing of Aztlan Eagles.”
“And one of our subs didn’t get off a single volley?” Chief Captain scoffed. “Not likely, unless the whole crew was already visiting Davy.”
“Our thoughts exactly in Tactical, sir.”
“Hmm. Might be rogues. Unless Old Dome is trying something again. Honorless zombies. Which sub, by the way?”
The name was already highlighted on his chipboard. “The
Manta,
sir. Formerly the
Gahanna Girl
.”
“Julius Romy, eh? Might be a mutiny then. No love lost between him and his crew. It was the man’s greatest flaw. A commander has to be hard to inspire discipline, but not so hard his men lose their fear of death.”
“Truly a narrow line to walk, sir,” agreed Yeoman. “Shuddup,” snapped Chief Captain. “Clear my schedule for the rest of the day. I want a full meeting of the entire council within the hour. And that includes Port Captain and Attack Fleet Captain. Understood?”
“Aye, sir.” A pause, followed by a diplomatic cough. “And if perhaps Attack Fleet Captain is, ahem, busy, sir? Indisposed, as it were?”
“Then call the brothel guards, put the drunkard in chains, and haul his hoop into the council chambers. Along with his First Mate. Maybe we should make her the damn captain. What’s her name again?”
“Her real name, Chief Captain?”
“Yar.”
Executive Yeoman quickly checked the board’s flatscreen readout. “I.R. Helen, sir.”
Chief Captain snorted. “Damn funny her ending up down here with a moniker like that.”
Taking a seat, he pulled a portacomp closer to him on the desk and began to scroll through some supply reports. “IronHell takes care of its own,” he said softly, as if repeating a
daily oath.
“The
Manta
is ours, and we’ll get her back. Even if I have to send out my whole damn fleet to do it!”
In a tuxedo and evening cape, Emile Ceccion walked into the main lobby of the Miami Opera House flanked by a pair of trolls in severe hand-tailored Armante suits of the deepest blue. They stood quietly, relaxed and at ease, while frontdoor security personnel ran sensors over their employer. The handscanners beeped twice. The guards noted the positions and nature of the devices, then waved the Gunderson mage onward. The trolls received only the most passing inspection and, although the scanners beeped constantly, they were passed into the opera house without comment.
The bodyguards took their employer’s cloak and deposited it along with their own elegant ballistic overcoats in the cloak room. The next couple were scanned and forced to check their automatic weapons with Security.
Beyond the entrance, a milling throng of Miami’s elite was sipping champagne while talking music and money. The ladies were mostly in formal ball gowns or slash dress displaying everything and hiding nothing. The few exceptions were slim, smiling women whose eyes tracked everybody, talked little, and wore beautiful, but loose garments that gave them great freedom of movement. The gentlemen were locked in the mandatory tuxedos and white ties, only the most minute differences in the fabric and cut indicating which was an inexpensive rental and which a high-ticket import from England, hand-tailored by the acknowledged masters of the tuxedo.
Sculptured ice in the form of the Gunderson corporate
logo, the interlocked TCG, cooled a tiered fountain of champagne that poured into a marble basin alive with genetically altered Japanese carp. Smiling servers dressed in pristine white moved ghostlike through the crowd, continuously offering glasses of wine or cold hors d’oeuvres. Set high in alcoves above the patrons were clusters of vidcams whose telephoto lenses swept the assembled faces in programmed curves, scanning for known troublemakers.
From beyond a line of closed doors came the sound of the summer Philharmonic orchestra tuning its instruments. Strolling among the rising young executives, vice presidents, department heads, old money, spouses, escorts, bodyguards, millionaires, and gawking tourists, Emile breathed in the excitement of the evening as if the air itself was rife with mana. He accepted a program book from a liveried norm child standing behind velvet ropes, then beamed in delight as he read.
“Ah, Senor Puccini’s
Manon Lescaut
!” he murmured to himself. “Not his greatest, but a favorite of the more discerning connoisseurs of classic opera.”
“Sir?” asked one of the trolls, unbuttoning his suit jacket. His hand was always in motion, scratching his stomach, adjusting his tie, straightening the flower in his lapel. Several of the patrons who noticed the activity also recognized it as an ancient samurai trick of constant activity to mask the readiness to draw a weapon instantly. Many moved discreetly away from him.
The other troll simply kept both hands in his lumpy pockets, foregoing subtlety for better response time.
Accepting a glass of chilled champagne, Emile smiled at the towering metahuman, “Nothing, Bertram. I’m just pleased at what’s on the program this evening.”
“Yes, sir,” said the troll impassively, while the other guard tilted his head, apparently listening over his headcom.
“Monsieur Ceccion,” he said, not totally successfully with the French pronunciation, “your presence is immediately requested at the Tower, please.”
“Indeed?” Emile took a sip from a glass he’d just been served. “On my night off? Who is it?”
Emile, of course, would never have a com unit installed inside his cranium. Any mage worth his salt knew that magic and cyberware were a disastrous mix. Besides, magic offered him abilities that technology could only dream of. While on assignments, he did, however, carry a particularly nasty Fichetti 1mm needler—one with a specially designed oversized clip, a safety installed backward to befuddle anybody trying to use it against him, and a hairtrigger sporting a featherweight half-kilogram pull.
“It’s Mr. Harvin,” whispered the troll guard urgently, motioning for the exit.
Listening to the orchestra run a few arpeggios, Emile shrugged with Gallic unconcern.
“He says he wants to see you right now.”
The CEO of Gunderson wanted to see him? Emile handed his glass away and headed for the exit. He didn’t hear it shatter on the floor, so somebody must have taken it from his hand. But he wasn’t really paying attention.
* * *
The indicator blinked “99” and the elevator doors opened wide with no noise to announce their parting. Emile briskly walked out, leaving his escorts standing on either side of the waiting elevator. It was his own private transport around the Tower for the duration of his stay here.
Crossing the manicured jungle of the foyer, he nodded in friendly passing to the cleaning staff, the guards, and smiled politely to the blonde receptionist. A pretty little norm, tan and bouncy. Emile had scanned her astrally once on a sheer whim and was stunned to discover that she was heavily chromed, with muscles replaced, forearm guns, various cyberblades, and other things that he could not identify. Since then, he always thought of her as Lady Cerberus when he went by.
Passing between some foliage that he knew was artfully tracking his approach, he reached a frosted glass wall extending meters in every direction. The heavy doors swung open with a soft sigh of powerful hydraulics. He was obviously expected.
Emile proceeded through and into the office, where he stood waiting for the doors to close behind him. The huge room was tastefully decorated in a somewhat antique style. Leather couches formed little conversation niches, while two walls of solid windows showed Miami sprawled around the towering home of Gunderson Corporation. Lester Parrish originals hung in illuminated frames on the other two walls, and the desk was a massive slab of cherry wood bigger than a Toyota Elite. An enormous telecom shared a wall with a woodburning fireplace made of tan bricks, the andirons and screen obviously of purest gold.
Over by the bar pouring himself a cognac from a dusty bottle was a powerful, squat man with a military-style flat top crewcut. James J. Harvin.
“Good evening, Mr. Harvin,” said Emile with a bow.
“Emile,” said Harvin.
Emile walked closer, but kept a polite distance. “Always a pleasure. How may I assist you this evening, Monsieur?” Harvin swirled the cognac in his glass, inspecting the color. The purest smoky caramel. “We are finding it necessary to reassign you, Emile.”
“Indeed? Has there been a problem with my work? I knew that my failure to completely cure your ailment has caused you much distress . . .”
Harvin dismissed that with a grunt. “Nothing like that, Emile. Your performance is exemplary, the best we’ve ever seen. No, we need your help in rectifying a special problem of great importance to Gunderson.”
“An extra-corporate matter?” asked Emile.
Harvin stoppered the 400-year old bottle of cognac. “No, nothing like that Seafront matter. This is an internal problem, but very delicate and extremely dangerous.” Amused, Emile gave a polite little snort and waved a hand at the city twinkling below them. Everything was dangerous in Miami.
James Harvin moved to his desk and sat down behind it. “As per your contract, we will pay you for the additional risks.”
Twelve of them
. The thought came violently into his mind, and Emile nearly spoke the words aloud. He had difficulty breathing, and a cold clamminess unlike anything he’d ever experienced seemed to permeate his bones.
“Emile?” asked Harvin in concern, a hand reaching for a control panel on the desktop.
“I .. . am fine,” Emile said, taking a chair without asking permission. “Merely a headache. Perhaps too much of the good life, no? Hard work may be just the prescription needed. Something different to clear the cobwebs, eh?” Harvin studied the fluid in his glass once more as if searching for answers, then set it aside untasted. “Yes, Emile, but time is of the essence. You’ll leave in the morning, and you will likely be away from Miami for quite awhile.”
“May I ask how long, Monsieur?”
“Indeterminate.”
Emile gave a small bow. “Whatever is required, Monsieur Harvin. I shall be glad to offer any assistance or service required.” As Harvin began to explain to Emile where he was going and why, the mage could not completely shake the sensation that had seized his very soul moments before. It had the taste of death.
* * *
On board the
Manta,
it was close to midnight when Silver finished with her work and jacked out of the CDP of the military submarine. She coiled the datacord and tucked it into a pocket of her blouse, then accessed the console-to-console function of her board and started sending messages.
At the map table, Delphia gave a start as words began to scroll across the picture of the Atlantic Ocean. Thumbs at the weapons console did likewise, as did Moonfeather sitting cozily in the captain’s chair watching the tiny monitor built into the arm. Rigger at the navicom continued piloting the vessel unaware of the private conversations occurring around him.
I HAVE FINISHED ACCESSING THE ONBOARD FILES, sent Silver in straight test. THERE IS NO MENTION ANYWHERE OF IRONHELL. NOR OF ANY PLACE MARKED A PRIME LOCATION TO RETURN TO IN CASE OF TROUBLE OR FOR SUPPLIES.
At their posts, the other three runners frowned.
SO I LOOKED FOR SOMETHING NOT LISTED IN THE FILES, she continued. AND THERE IT WAS. OR RATHER THERE IT WASN’T. SEVERAL LOCATIONS MARKED AS DEAD ZONES. AREAS NOT TO BE ENTERED UNDER ANY CIRCUMSTANCES.
WYH? mistyped Thumbs.
UNKNOWN.
SO LET’S GO AND SEE, typed Moonfeather slowly.
AGREED, sent Delphia. ANY LOCATION SEEM MORE FORBIDDEN THAN ANOTHER?
NEGATIVE, Silver replied. IT’S A CRAP SHOOT. THEY COULD BE A LOT OF THINGS. SUPPLY RENDEZVOUS POINTS, SECRET REFUELING STATIONS, AMMO DUMPS. OR ANY ONE OF THEM COULD BE THE IRONHELL HQ.
WHAT ABOUT THEIR SHAPES? sent Thumbs, hunting and pecking the keys with one finger. ANY OF THEM PERFECT CIRCLES OR SQUARES OR SUCH?
