Virtually True (34 page)

“The first world corporate war.” De Bris’s eyes far away.

“The Global Fortune 1000 Board tried to mediate, but neither side is having it. Both ADC and Sato are lining up support. Could get bloody.”

“What kind of support?”

“Well, for example, banks on ADC’s side are funding the war effort. Why? Because they underwrote the R & D investment—a series of low-interest loans—for cloning an army. When the infection crippled the clones, the banks were threatened with default. It could cripple them, too, so they continue to funnel money into ADC.”

“Owe a bank a thousand dollars, it owns you. Owe it a thousand million, you own it.”

“Right. ADC retaliated with a series of hostile takeovers of key Sato assets, including Six Days, a software company. ADC pushed the U.S. Government into backing their claims—kind of a corporate-nationalistic manifest destiny. Round two: ADC by TKO.”

“And the quake?”

“I don’t have that answer. It’s conceivable Sato knew of the potential of conflict with ADC years ago and acted accordingly, selling assets to plow into a war juggernaut.”

“You’re onto something bigger. Tell me.”

“Not until I’m sure.”

De Bris’s wheezing picks up. “Fine. Don’t tell me. Knowing you, it’d hazardous to my health anyway. But take some homespun: Don’t let anyone else enter your mind.”

*          *          *

War in full fury. True experiences the news coverage on the majors. Standard analyses, interviews, air surveillance pics from long-range zooms, nothing from ground view. True sees Eden dig through plastic peanut packaging, looking for a piece of hardware. Some packaging material soaks in solvent; a gelatinous accident, she explained. There only until she can locate a hazard-waste disposer.

Eden now at the console, the War Room, as she calls it: “Sato retaliated minutes ago by taking over ADC holdings in the Southern China Republic. Sato’s private army went in with mercenaries from sixty countries.” Eden’s mouse-clicking is breakneck. “WWTV’s Tokyo bureau is situated near a tempting Sato target, an R & D firm.”

True hails Reiner, fills her in. “You’re taking a huge risk.”

“That may be, but we’re not leaving. We can handle things. Besides, Odessa’s onto something. He left hours ago and hasn’t returned. He wouldn’t tell me what it was, only that if he’s right, none of us would ever look at things in quite the same way.”

“What’s that mean?”

“I don’t know.”

“Anything peculiar happening?”

“No-o-o-o. Yeah. There have been scattered reports of people disappearing.”

“Kidnappers? Extortion hunters? People leaving town?”

“Who knows. Lots of rumors, though.”

“Call me when Odessa gets back.”

“What are you going to do in the mean time?”

“Talk to Rush.”

*        *        *

Actually, not talk to Rush. True taps into the Nerula bureau’s telebank, kneads his way into the database, plugs in Odessa’s security breaching software, and is into the network so fast he has to double-check he’s really in.

Hackers. Indispensable in this neo-world of digital fabrication. The software instructs him to narrow the choice of conversations, and True, who isn’t sure what he’s angling for, codes in dates from a month before Tokyo’s quake, hyphen, the present. All WWTV network calls are recorded, to protect against libel. Key phrases encapsulate content. True scrolls through every conversation Rush had until the day of the quake, and beyond.

Most of them are sugar substitute: a hairdressing appointment; telemarketing firms; some of True and Rush; Rush and WWTV editors; and accountants; Rush and Reiner; rows of
misc.
calls. True pulls up the abstract of Rush/Reiner’s conversation. A split screen, Rush one side, Reiner the other. The conversation is short, Reiner informing Rush of her hacker, Odessa Flashfire, and if anyone comes to Tokyo, she nominates True, but prefers no one. “My disaster. Find your own.”

True scans the
misc.
, a bland assortment of personal calls. Didn’t Rush do anything journo-related? At list’s end are a dozen calls with no identifiable second party. Callers with sophisticated identification protection technology or whose voices were never ID’d, sources with stories for sale. Rush declines; budgetary constraints. Some rely on an auto-translator. They speak Luzonian or another tongue, Rush responds in English, and via technology, True eavesdrops. One call from outside Nerula but not originating stateside or from Japan. True keys in. No icon, just blank air, Rush on camera, talking back. The voice: Aslam.
The insurgency wants to make a major announcement. We’ve decided to pass word through you. I’ll give you an exclusive.

I’ll send my number one man.

No. You. Alone. Or no exclusive.
True can feel Aslam smirking through cable feed.
You’ll be sorry if you pass on it. Big time careers have sprung from less.

Rush stroking his chin, hedging.
How do I know you won’t kidnap me?

Why would we kidnap you? We are revolutionaries who need you to spread our message. You are a journalist who needs a message to spread. We need each another.

You have a very pragmatic world-view, Mr. Aziz.

Practically pay-for-view as the need arises.

Rush tells Aslam he’ll have to mull. Later, more calls from Aslam, settling on interview content, rendezvous-time, coordinates; Rush finalizing, OK-ing footage from the insurgency’s PR firm (for use in the promos), then a six-hour research link with WWTV’s database from Luzonia’s interior. After Rush’s return to Nerula, another flurry of calls. True accesses the latest one, from twenty minutes ago—Rush on one side, blank, the other, originating from a nearby pre-millen phone booth. No ID, no voice print. A sophisticated ID block.

Rush scratching at uneasiness, talking back.
OK. OK. But no more talk over the link. Come by. Now. You’ll get what you want. But this is the last time.
Rush hangs up, brings gray static to bear.

True calls to Eden. “By tapping my wrist-top, can just anyone key on my location?”

She’s touch-screening, tap-tap. Holds up a finger, so wait. Tap-tap. “Not unless you want them to. You can transmit your location to anyone you want. You can also send out a false signal. That’s always fun. Reroute it through any toaster oven in the country.”

“I’m going out.”

Eden unhitched from her post. “Where are you going?” From her, an unusual query.

“Checking into something.”

“There’s so much we need to do here.”

“It’s important.”

“Not more than tracking the war effort.”

“You’re upset. Why?”

She pulls aside. “While I’ve been scavenging computer equipment from every second-hand crap hole I know, you’ve been on the telelink.”

Curiosity prickling. What
is
she up to? “Journalism isn’t exact. There are no special algorithms you can rely on to pull a story together. There are lulls and breaks, followed by spasms of activity. That’s the reality. That’s why I’m going.”

“I’ll go with you.”

“What’s come over you?”

“Nothing.”

“Then”—True kisses her forehead—“I’ll see you in a while.”

He’s at the door and Eden’s sulking at her computer, trackpad-tapping with furious hands.

*          *         *

True’s relieved to be away. It’s not supposed to be this way, wasn’t like this before.

The streets are grim, sun-dappled plague-ees in degrees of decay. A body sweeper, a black truck that scoops up corpses, converts them to fuel, is spewing charcoal wind and bleached flakes. A perpetual motion machine. Chaotic queues at the phone bank, those in front hold off the rest. True thinks about asking to see a phone log—perhaps there’s a signature—but mayhem is not conducive to careful record-keeping. In the same building next door is a new VR shop. 3D-posters jostle for position on the front plexiglass, ads for hardware, primo-violence software, sexicles, one special offer:
Dial internationally from next door, take 10 percent off any software.

A familiar sari stepping out. “Baba, I am surprised to see you. You are legendary in the shanties. Like a cat with nine lives. How many are left?” Her cancer spots have faded. Business must have picked up.

“Lost count, Rajput. Were you able to de-glitch that imaginary lover software?”

“I was indeed.”

“What did you buy?”

She shows four packages: “I borrow a little from one module, combine it with another, shape it with a third. With the proper recipe, I’ll have sizzling autumn sales.”

“Aren’t they copyrighted?”

“Do you see any CopyCops?” She tucks the package under her arm. Speaks in pianissimo. “Would you like a taste of pure FREEze?”

“How can a synth drug be pure? And no.”

“Perhaps a real woman this time? Or if you are intrigued with organ donation, I can arrange a buyer.” She writes an imaginary $-figure in her palm.

“That’s below market value.”

Leavening shoulders. “This is why we haggle. I propose a price, you tell me it is too high. Haggling helps us to feel comfortable with each other and our transaction.”

“Just the same, I’ll pass.”

“Then until we biz again.” Her sari billows as she leaves. True zooms in on the Rajput while at the same time messaging Piña, who’s reduced to a cube in the upper right-hand corner.

“You got your ass back here.” Piña smiles broadly. She’s in her arcade. VR static, missile whistles, and laser fizz, sadistic sex as ambience.

“Lying low, but I’m into some odd-frequency ozone. Can Piña meet in, say, a half hour?”

“Where are you?”

“Near home but on my way to the shanties.”

“Tailing someone?”

“Yup.”

“Piña’ll send word. A guide OK?”

An in-situ drug deal in progress. True has to accept that her business comes first. “Fine. The guide rendezvous is over the tunnel. Track me over this channel.”

“Ooooh. New equipment? That what you been spending Piña’s money on?”

“No.”

“Most guides can’t read, so Piña’ll say,
Take care of the guarang
.”

The Rajput cruising up the tunnel paths.

“The tailgate party has begun.” True follows the Rajput to the shanties over landfill picked clean. Milling at the entrance, a small figure in a long, black coat. Face obscured by a hood. Just two green-olive eyes. “Piña’s guide?”

Nodding cloth. True projects the map so the guide will know where to go. Through the hologram True sees a house on fire, its twig-like foundation crumbling to earth. “We’re here.” True points to a dot in the holoscreen. “We want to go there.” In the spleen of the shanties. “Can you speak?”

The hood shakes, no. True’s voice synth repeats the question in Luzonian. No again. At least True won’t have to listen to idle chatter. They follow the Rajput past huts that are luxury-less except for TVs. The Rajput enters a home fused from refrigerator crates, a fire curling from a hole in the floor. True accesses the volume visualization software and, through a series of clever algorithms he doesn’t understand, strips away crate layers until he sees inside. He filters the conversation through the translation program.