Striper Assassin (5 page)

From little more than a step away, she can see he’s dark for an Amerind, if that’s what he is. The darker the better. Really light-skinned people make her feel glitched, like a cake too long in the oven, burnt almost black.

“What’s in the bag?”

A flush of anxious heat rushes up the back of her neck. She forces a smile. “Nothin’. Just a deck.”

“A good one.”

How did he guess that? She deliberately mixed truth and falsehood to try and protect the deeper truth, the fantasy deck in her hands. She feels a gnawing of real fear, but shrugs, struggling to keep up the act. “It’s decent.”

“You’re a decker.”

“Yeah.”

“A good one.”

Where is he getting this from? A rush of giddy fear blossoms into an uncontrollable grin. Is he reading her aura? She’ll fall over dead if he turns out be a mage. “I’m decent, too.”

“You want a ride?”

Is he kidding? “Sure.”

“What’s your name?”

“People call me Angel.”

“Get your pack, Angel.”

“Okay.” She’s practically breathless, and grinning, as she turns back toward the shoulder of the road. This slag has got her reeling! She’s never met anyone who affected her this way before. He’s just scary enough to be real, but not quite so scary as to send her running. She stumbles and almost flops on her face just reaching down to pick up her small backpack. Good thing she’s been traveling light. She’s feeling way too muzzy to even
want
to deal with much luggage. She slings the pack from one shoulder, the Fuchi-6 from the other, and turns back to the chopper man.

She can’t stop smiling.

“What do I call you?” she asks.

“Ripsaw.”

More chills up her spine. The name suits him. Any handle he used would have to be hard and sharp like razor claws. Anything less menacing would seem absurd.

“Get on.”

“Okay.” That growly voice is turning her to butter. She lifts one leg up and over and slides onto the back of the hi-rider seat, which is just high enough for her to see over Ripsaw’s shoulders. The bike never moves, never sways, like it’s planted in stone, till she’s settled in her seat. Then, the engine rumbles, briefly revving, and the chopper rolls around in a smooth half circle, then starts accelerating up the road, running straight as an arrow.

It’s still hours before dawn when they pull into the hard-packed lot of a truck stop just off the main highway. In the light of a passing rig, Neona gets her first clear look at the back of Ripsaw’s jacket. The synthleather bears the cat’s head logo of the Sioux Wildcats. She’s heard that name before. On the news somewhere. Something about some banger Native American Nations military unit.

She’s got herself a real killer here.

A real killer chiller. Yeah…

8

: : :
North Central Metroplex

05-19-54/10:17:03

Switch on, plug in, engage…

This must be his lucky day!

Natch, he’s got all the standard gads, and today everything seems to be working—scum damn fragging incredible as it may be, and
is
—to him at least.

His Seretech Evening Shade cybereyes with FlareGuard and the thermographic-enhancement option provide a crisp, direct-vision image of the crumbling tenements and decaying sidewalks along Erie Avenue, not far from the Frankford Creek toxic waste dump. His Eyecrafter opticam package provides a complete diagnostic readout in the form of a direct-vision overlay right in front of his eyes. With a touch of the Bionome tridlink controller strapped to his right forearm, he enhances the overlay to include data on all the rest of his hardware, both implants and strap-ons. The datajacked Sony CB-5000 camera in the steady-mount atop his helmet comes on-line with a flood of snow that blinds him before clearing to crystal-linked clarity. Even the AZT Micro25 minicam strapped to his right wrist gives him a picture-perfect image.

Utterly damn fragging amazed, he swings his arm up and around, panning right, optics cued to the Micro25, only to close-frame on a lovely thermographic image of Sidewipe, the scrod-frakkin’ nit holding the Fuchi short-range transmitter, smiling at him and looking stupid, taking a pause from adjusting his crotch.

Dweezle dirtbrain ignoramus…

“Skeeter! Skeeter,
come on
!” J.B. calls impatiently.

The hell with it.

Main lens: pan left, zoom, up-focus, close-face. The so very trid-o-genic Asian features of J.B. come clearly through the datajacked Sony mounted atop his helmet and the optical receptors inside his skull: onyx A-sym hair, bangs across the brow, one long tuft curving down over right cheek; one pointed elven ear showing; coal-black eyes; powder-white skin; crimson lips; red serpent tattoo on left cheek.

If she ever gets a direct network feed, she’ll be deadly. She’s bad enough as it is. A real pain in the back-door trumpet, excuse my scum fraggin’
francais!

“Am I on?”

Skeeter jabs a finger at her—
YOU’RE ON!

“This is Joi Bang of WHAM! Independent News coming to you direct from North Central Philadelphia where yet another victim in a series of cannibalistic mutilation killings has just been discovered.”

Yea, team.

Then of course she’s running, running right out of the frame, only looking back to wave frantically—come on! come on! The very trid-o-genic biff never stands still for very long. Damn blast her anyway. Skeeter hustles forward, feeling a tug from the right of his belt. That’s because the dirtbrain with the Fuchi transmit dish can’t stop picking his nose long enough to wake up and smell the poop.

Just another twerkin’ newsday chasing J.B. around.

Fraggin’ scrod-damn bull-hooey…

’Scuse my
mutha muckin’ French!

* * *

05-19-54/10:19:44

Establishing shot: J.B. and Minuteman cop standing on the sidewalk inside a ring of shabby slummers. Zoom in, split-view, close-focus, and hold. Main lens on cop, direct-view cybereyes on J.B. Roll cams.

“You were the first officer on the scene?” J.B. prompts.

“Yeah,” the cop replies.

This is sum-biff news?

“What did you find?” she inquires.

“Talk to the sergeant.”

Great.

Eat my sokkin’ mutha chip.

J.B. smiles, glances back toward Skeeter. That’s the usual signal. Skeeter realizes what’s coming. Stop cam, close eyes. He briefly shuts down the Sony atop his helmet, too. When he re-engages, a faint cloud of some damn golden particulate stuff, glinting with tiny motes of light, is drifting around the cop’s face. The cop is now smiling. J.B. lifts her mike.

“Is it true the victim was cannibalized?” she asks.

“What a mess,” the cop says, now grinning. “I mean, there wasn’t hardly nothing left. You shoulda seen it!”

“Was the victim male or female?”

“Who could tell?”

“Which way to the body?”

“Right in there.” The cop points. “Have a look. But don’t say I didn’t warn ya.”

Then of course J.B.’s running up the steps and into the tenement. Skeeter hustles forward. Another tug from his belt. Dammit to all fraggin’ hell, Sidewipe.

Get your finger outta your nose!

* * *

05-19-54/10:20:07

Close-frame, close-focus: dingy tenement hall. A sprawl rat peers out from around the frame of a doorway. They call ’em devil rats. More like rodents from hell. Red glowin’ eyes, wrinkly mutant skin, shiny little black claws.

J.B. pulls up abruptly, cutting short a shriek.

Heh.

* * *

05-19-54/10:22:18

“Fraggin’ hell! Get the hell back! All of you! Get the hell back!”

Main lens: low-light, zoom in. J.B. heading down a dark, decrepit stairway into some blackened, garbage-strewn junkyard hell of a basement. Minuteman cop with stripes coming into the stairwell waving his arms around. J.B.’s already blabbing into her mike, “This is Joi Bang for WHAM! Independent News. Is it true, Sergeant, that you’ve found yet another victim in the series of mutilation cannibal killings that Minuteman Security Services seems unable to crack?”

“Get the hell outta here!” the sergeant shouts.

Another damn cloud of glinting gold blossoms into the air. No warning this time.

Reverse and purge.

* * *

05-19-54/10:22:57

“Well, heck,” the sergeant says. “It ain’t that bad. I mean, there’s only been three so far. Three bodies. And we’re workin’ on it. The detectives—”

“Can we see the body?”

“Yeah, it’s right over there.”

* * *

05-19-54/10:23:46

Establishing shot, slow pan. Garbage-strewn basement, ancient pipes crossing the ceiling, graffiti and unsanitary-looking moisture covering walls. What’s left of the body is bloated and kinda greenish. Main lens: pull back and hold. Direct-view: close in and scan maggot-covered skull. Exposed bones. Quick thermographic sequence from the AZT microcam on his wrist.

J.B. provides voiceover.

Blah blah blah…

“What you’re looking at is the third victim in a series of cannibal-mutilation style killings occurring within the Philly metroplex within the last month. So little of the body remains it’s hard to tell if the victim was male or female, or even human. Some of the bones look gnawed. Large portions of the cadaver seem to be missing—limbs, internal organs… at least they don’t seem to be anywhere nearby…”

New voice, demanding, “What’s happening here! Who are these people! Sergeant!
Sergeant!”

Someone grabs Skeeter’s shoulder and tugs. He hears a whimpery exclamation from Sidewipe while staggering around in a half circle. The line to the damn Fuchi dish is wrapping around his ankles. Fraggin’ wackweed Sidewipe.

Main lens: up-angle, broad view, sharp focus. Some big slag in plainclothes with a brass detective’s shield hanging out of his jacket pocket. Face mottled red with anger. J.B. steps up from his right, mike uplifted. Zoom in, split-screen.

“I’m Joi Bang from WHAM! Independent News. Do you have any comment, Detective, on this latest in a series—”

“This is a crime scene, dammit!”

“Can you explain why Helter-Shutt Inc., Minuteman’s parent corporation, has called upon renowned metazoologist Doctor Marion Liss of the University City Science Center?”

“How the heck should I know
that
?”

“Isn’t it true that numerous sightings of the metabeings called ghouls have been reported to Minuteman police within just the last week?”

“What! Who—?”

“Do the police intend to send out death squads in order to neutralize the threat posed by these creatures?”

“Who says it’s ghouls, dammit!”

“Are you suggesting, Detective, that some other metacreature is responsible for this series of cannibalistic mutilations?”

“I didn’t say that!”

“Then what are you saying. Detective?”

“Slot it outta here! And
now!”

J.B. looks back toward the camera view.

Dust the fraggin’ badge and be done with it.

Damn scragging nithead biff.

9

At six minutes past the hour of seven a.m., Enoshi Ken steps from the elevator and makes his way briskly down Teak Row, as the corridor is known, toward the suite reserved for his immediate superior, Bernard X. Ohara, member of the board of Kono-Furata-Ko Corporation and Chief Executive Officer of the KFK subsidiary, Exotech Entertainment.

The day is hardly begun and already Enoshi is in a position he dislikes intensely, that of being behind schedule. Too well, he knows how swiftly small delays and other minor problems can mount and mount, till serious disruptions result. His job as Executive Chief of Staff to the CEO of Exotech Entertainment is to see that, among other things, such disruptions do not occur. It is a job for which he considers himself well-suited. It is his firm belief that the quality executive must find ways to circumvent trouble, regardless of circumstance, even before it occurs, and where necessary, make silver purses from sows’ ears. Enoshi is not so naive as to believe that it is always possible to attain such miracles, but neither is he so self-indulgent as to imagine that fate or bad luck should ever be blamed for personal failures.

Probably, there are those who do not share Enoshi’s determination, and may therefore consider him intolerant or perhaps excessively devoted. It can be difficult to know what others think. Despite this, he does his best to maintain good relations with his own subordinates, those members of Ohara-
san
’s staff who are under his supervision.

Enoshi turns a corner and strides briskly into the reception area of Ohara-
san
’s suite. Remarkably, the receptionist is not at her desk. Shocked, Enoshi checks his watch, if only to confirm that he is not dreaming, that it is in fact just past seven a.m. on a day when a full complement of staff persons should be at their posts. He then moves quickly through the door to the right of the reception counter and into the staff office. Here he finds his explanation. The desks running up both sides of the room are all empty. The entire staff of eight, including one receptionist, one office lady, two secretary-transcribers, a data aide, a computer aide, a statistical aide, and an assistant manager are standing in a group midway up the center aisle.