Wolf and Raven Read online

  She sipped and returned the mug to its place on the armrest. As she licked her lips I felt an urge to procreate, then counted to ten—no, fifteen—to regain control. “Sorry,” I said, and smiled, “but after the Weed, drinking in here just wouldn’t be the same. You understand.” For her benefit I added, “Maybe another time . . .”

  The door opened again. La Plante’s chauffeur hovered by the door with my gun in hand. “Tonight, Mr. Kies, at warehouse building 18b, on the docks. We will give you the southern and western approaches. I would prefer this to be an intimate gathering.”

  “My feelings exactly. You bring a dozen of your grunges and I’ll consider it even.” I succeeded in getting myself perched on the edge of the seat. “And leave Ronnie at home ...”

  La Plante waved my last remark off with a silvery flourish of his right hand. “Do not concern yourself with him. He has been assigned new duty. He’ll be feeding fish for the foreseeable future.”

  The Chauffeur handed me the pistol, then swung the door shut. I smiled at him and his plastic mask of servitude cracked. “Someday, Wolf, it will come down to you and me. I’ll make it quick. I want you to know that.”

  I met his mirror-eyed stare with my number two nasty glare. “Good, I like that. If a fight goes on too long, the blood stains set and then you can never get them out. . .”

  His plastic mask back in place, he turned and walked away. Though every olfactory nerve ending in my nose protested mightily, I reentered the Weed. My beer still waited on the table, but Ronnie Killstar and the Wonton boys had vanished. I waited and sniffed, but I couldn’t smell the mulch drippings that passed for Ronnie’s cologne. Given how that stuff smells and sells, the Weed here could bottle its mop stoppings and make a fortune. I shook my head. Never happen—they 'd actually have to mop this place.

  Instead of returning to my table, I walked over to the jacktables. I pulled the bug from inside my jacket and tossed it on the black woman’s deck. “Did you get it all?”

  Valerie Valkyrie, Raven’s newest aide, gave me a smile that made me forget La Plante’s taste-tester. “Everything, including your pulse rate and blood pressure when she sucked on your beer.” felt the burn of a blush sweeping across my face, and it grew hotter as it pulled a giggle from her throat.

  “We’ll discuss how much of that makes it into the report for the Doctor later. Right now we’ve got work to do.”

  II

  “All right, Zig and Zag, let’s go through the drill one more time.”

  Zag frowned and the razor claws on his left hand flicked out, then retracted with the speed of a snake’s tongue. “We’ve got names . . .”

  I raised myself up to my full height, which put me a centimeter or so taller than the smaller of them. “And right now they’re Zig and Zag. You’re local talent and I’m your Mr. Johnson. Now, you claim you want to join this elite circle? Fine, this is a tryout. Try living with new names for a second or two, got it?”

  Zig elbowed Zag and they both nodded. For street samurai they weren’t bad. Zag had gone the obvious route of adding chrome in the form of razor claws grafted to his hands and some retractable spurs that popped up from the top of his feet. He’d replaced his right eye with a rangefinder modification linked to the scope on his autorifle. He’d gone a bit far, in my mind, by having a fluorescent orange cross hairs tattooed over that eye from hairline to cheekbone and ear to across his nose, but it came close enough to warpaint that I could understand it. Still, I knew if I was on the other end of a sniper rifle, that would make a real nice target.

  Zig had been more discreet. He’d gone in for body work. From the way he moved I knew he’d had his reflexes cranked up to move with the speed of something between a Bengal tiger and a striking cobra. I didn’t see any body blades, but he was a bit more subtle than his partner so he might not have flashed them. I also got the impression he’d had some dermal sheathing implanted to protect his vital organs—a wise choice. One never knows where those replacement organs were grown, and the failure percentage on cut-rate Khmer hearts made having a Band-Aid slapped on the old one look like a good bet for survival.

  “Val and I are going to jack into the Matrix. No one should be able to track us to where we’re going, but we can’t be a hundred percent certain of that. I need you two to be alert and careful because when we bust the system we’re going after, things could get messy. What do you do if there’s trouble?”

  Zag grumbled and walked over to where my MP-9[5] rested on the bed. “We slap the trodes off you and hand you this toy. Then we get the wirehead out of here.”

  Val didn’t notice the rancor in Zag’s voice at his having been shot down earlier. When he asked if she would be interested in a little horizontal tango to “relieve the tension,” she looked at him as if he were a deck with “Made in UCAS” stamped on its side. Zig and I shared a smile as Zag’s anger deepened when Val continued to ignore him.

  “Good. That’s it. You get her out and get her to the place she tells you. Don’t worry about me. I’ll be fine.”

  “Or dead.” Zag hefted one of the spare clips for my MP-9 submachine gun. “Freaking nine-millimeter toy and you’ve got silver bullets? Who do you think you are, the Lone Ranger?” He thumbed one bullet from the clip and tossed it to Zig.

  Easy, Wolf. Better this tough guy act to hide his nerves than him falling apart on you. “I think I’m your Mr. Johnson—and a superstitious one at that.”

  Zig looked closely at the silver bullet in his hand. “Drilled and patched. You got mercury in there to make the bullet explode?”

  I shook my head solemnly. “Silver nitrate solution. Physics is the same, the result is nastier. Burns as it goes.”

  Zig tossed the bullet back to his partner. “You planning on hunting a werewolf or something?”

  “Were you in Seattle during the Full Moon Slashings?” The mention of that series of killings tore Val away from her deck. “A half-dozen years ago? That was the first anyone had heard of Dr. Raven, wasn’t it?”

  “Yeah.” I let that one-word answer hang there long enough for all three of them to realize I wasn’t going to say anything specific about that outing. “After that I’ve carried silver bullets. Never want to be without them if you need them.”

  Val shivered. “Viper too?”

  “Amen.” I forced myself to smile and break the mood. “You got that Hibatchi chip encoder prepped yet?”

  Val scolded me. “Hitachi, Wolf, and you know it.”

  I accepted a trode coronet from her slender fingers and pulled it onto my head. I adjusted it so the electrodes pressed against my temples and ran back over the midline of my skull. Val reached over and tightened the band to improve the contact, then she clipped the dangling lead into a splice cable. She slid that jack into the slot behind her left ear, then flipped a switch on the deck.

  I winked at her. “Let’s do it.”

  She winked back and hit a button on the keyboard. “Play ball.”

  * * *

  Doc Raven had warned me that Valerie Valkyrie was special, but until we plunged through that electric aurora wall of static and into the Matrix, I had no idea how special. I’d jacked into the Matrix before—who hasn't—but it had always been on a public deck where I ended up inside an entertainment system. Moving from game program to game program, I caught glimpses of the Matrix through the neat little windows the programmers had built into their systems, but I’d never had any desire to go out adventuring on my own.

  Before, the form and shape of the Matrix had always been decided by the local network controllers. Here in Seattle the RTG resembled a vector graphic of the urban sprawl it encompassed. Well-fortified nodes were surrounded by fences and walls, and Matrix security teams patrolled the electronic streets like cops cruising a beat. I’d heard it had been designed that way because it made the casual user feel like he was in familiar surroundings and thus easier to find his way around.

  As things got strange and the world shifted, so did the Matrix. When a u
ser entered the Chinatown area here in Seattle, for example, the buildings melted away and the nodes took the form of mahjong tiles. Deckers claimed that made it easier to pick out unprotected nodes, but I don’t know about that. I’ve heard it said, and can believe, that no one goes near the nodes represented by dragons.

  But that’s the way of the world. Steer as clear as possible from dragons—words to live by and advice it’ll kill you to ignore.

  I’ve heard decker tales that if a decker got good enough he could impose his own sense of order on the Matrix. With enough skill he could make the Matrix appear the way he wanted it—free of extraneous data. Another urban legend born in the Matrix.

  Valerie Valkyrie was a legendary decker.

  After only two seconds, the landscape construct shifted. Gone were the clean lines of glowing, lime-green streets and shining white buildings. Suddenly I found myself standing beside the pitcher’s mound in a monstrous baseball stadium. Val, outlined in a neon-blue that matched her eyes, pulled on a baseball cap that materialized from thin air and gave me a broad grin. The cap had a Raven patch on it.

  “Sorry if you aren’t used to this, Wolf.” The shrug of her shoulders told me she wasn’t sorry at all and that my surprised reaction made her day. “Warping the Matrix to my conception of it gives me a home-field advantage.”

  Within the solar yellow of the glove on her right hand, she twitched a ball around and got the grip she wanted on it. From a dugout over on the third-base side of the field a smallish man walked up toward the plate. Behind and above him a scoreboard flashed to life and spewed out all sorts of information in hexidecimal.

  I pointed up at the display. “Can you translate?”

  She looked at me as if I’d disappointed her, then nodded. Suddenly the scoreboard flickered and the handy notation of baseball replaced the curious array of numbers and letters. Coming up to bat was Ronnie Killstar’s personal file. The count was zero balls and two strikes, and the scoreboard reported his batting average as .128. He batted right-handed.

  Val licked her lips as a catcher and umpire materialized behind the plate. “Can of corn.” A green ball appeared in her left hand and she spun it around until she grasped it between her thumb, index, and middle fingers. Rearing back, her azure outline blurred and she delivered the pitch. It arced in at the plate, then dropped a full fifteen centimeters below Ronnie’s futile swing. “Yer out!” screamed the umpire.

  All sorts of data poured out onto the scoreboard. It was a bit more nasty than one might expect to find on the average baseball card, but it still bespoke nothing more than a mediocre career. A quick comparison of his successful stolen bases versus times caught out in the attempt confirmed that he was an unsuccessful smalltime thief before La Plante took him on as a leg-breaker.

  As the record of his most recent telecom calls started to flash up on the scoreboard, I looked over at Val. “You can cut this any time you want. He’s useless and now he’s dead.” I glanced over at the number of the last call he’d made. “Hope it was to his mother.”

  Val wrinkled her nose. “I was unaware anyone had taught Petri dishes to answer the phone.” She caught the ball the catcher threw back at her. “That was just a warm-up. I shouldn’t have used a forkball on him—that was overkill.”

  Certain things started to click into place for me. Cracking systems required a vast array of ice-breaking programs. Most deckers used commercially developed software and, consequently, could only break into the most simple of bases.

  True artists like Val modify and write their own wares. I once talked with a decker who went by the handle of Merlin who’d named all of his ice-breakers after spells. “It helps me remember what’s what. When some system’s trying to flatline you, you want to be able to react quickly with a codebomb that will do the job.” Val, with her passion for baseball, had designed and named her ice-breakers for pitches.

  “Let’s get on to the main show, okay?”

  “Roger.”

  Val concentrated and slammed a fist into her glove a couple of times. I noticed some subtle changes in the stadium as the Fujiwara system came into range for us to access it. “Okay, we’re ready to begin. Kind of like robbing Peter to pay Paul, isn’t it?”

  I nodded. Fujiwara Corporation was a legal shell that laundered money for a yakuza group based further down the coast in Tokyo West. Whereas La Plante was a broker who facilitated the movement of things from one party to another, Fujiwara actually brought contraband materials into Seattle from all over the world. On a scale of one all the way up to Hitler’s SS, both groups ranked fairly high, but Fujiwara exercised a bit more restraint in how they dealt with rivals.

  That meant they preferred a single yak hitter to a mad bomber. La Plante did too until Kid Stealth had the temerity to defect to Raven. Neither group played nicely with their enemies, and this little Matrix run was about to deposit us on Fujiwara’s bad side.

  The butterflies started in my stomach as a behemoth stepped from the dugout. He looked like something from a cartoon. He had tiny legs and a narrow waist that blossomed up into immensely powerful arms and shoulders. The bat he carried looked like it had been cold-hammered into shape from the hull of an aircraft carrier, but he wielded it like it weighed no more than a spoon.

  The field changed abruptly when he stepped into the batter’s box to hit right-handed. Runners appeared on second and third and the count stood even at 0 and 0. The batter’s name appeared on the scoreboard as Babe Fujiwara and his batting average stood at a whopping .565.

  I swallowed hard. “Why do I get the feeling this man is the All-Star team all rolled into one?”

  Val wiped her brow on her sleeve. “That’s because he is.” Then she shot me a winning grin. “But that’s okay, baby, because I’m Rookie of the Year.”

  “Play ball!” cried the umpire.

  Val’s fingers twitched as she toyed with the ball hidden in her mitt, then she reared back to throw. The fastball sizzled yellow and gold as it streaked toward the plate. Babe Fujiwara swung on the pitch and missed, but not by much. From the look on Val’s face she’d expected a larger margin of victory.

  Her cerulean eyes narrowed. I saw her grip the now-green ball in the same way she’d done to deal with Ronnie. The forkball shot from her hand at medium speed, then dropped precipitously. Even so, his bat whipped around and he hit the ice-breaker solidly. Suddenly it shifted color from green to red and rocketed back onto the field.

  It hit me in the left ankle and fiery pain shot up my leg. The ball popped into the air as I dropped to the ground. Val sprang off the mound, gathered the ball up, and tossed it over at Babe as he lumbered up the baseline toward first. When the ball hit him in the shoulder, he exploded into blue sparks.

  Gasping against the pain, I looked up at her. “What the hell was that?”

  Val’s nostrils flared. “Fujiwara has put some cascading IC on line. The fact that you hurt means it’s blacker than La Plante’s heart. I managed to flip a couple of bits into that program and used it to destroy the ice layer that spawned it, but I’m not sure I can do that again.”

  I got an uneasy feeling in the pit of my stomach. “We’re in a bit deeper than we want to be, aren’t we?”

  She looked over at the runners on second and third. “We got a pass on the first two layers of ice. We would have wasted time and broken them, but I thought speed was of the essence. Fujiwara gave them to us to make it difficult for us to get out of here . . .”

  I raised an eyebrow as I massaged my ankle. “You mean we’re trapped in the Fujiwara system.”

  She shrugged. “It’s a matter of perspective.”

  “Well, try it from my perspective, one of pain.”

  “We’re trapped.” She must have seen my icon begin the fingerwork for the spell that would deaden the pain. “Don’t waste the effort, Wolf. That stuff doesn’t work in this environment.” Her fingers convulsed and a blue mitt appeared on my left hand. “Just use this to block anything they hit at you and it sho
uld protect you.”

  I looked at the mitt and pounded my right hand into its pocket. “If I get something I just put the runners out?”

  She nodded. “Don’t tag them. It’ll destroy the ice layer, but you don’t want to be that close when it goes.”

  “What happens if they score?”

  Val’s smile died. “Don’t ask. This is the big leagues.”

  “Got it.”

  The next layer of ice materialized as a somewhat smaller batter dubbed Mookie Fujiwara. He took position to bat left-handed and I saw that did not please Val at all. The ball in her hand took on a bright orange color. She wound up and threw. The whirling screwball arced in and broke toward Mookie, jamming him on the fists. He fouled it off.

  Up on the scoreboard his batting average went from .500 to .375 and I took heart in that. It cheered Val up as well. She prepared another program, and the ball coalesced into an opalescent sphere. Her knuckles rested on the seams, then she started her motion and threw.

  The program flew slowly toward the plate. It spun not at all, but floated and dipped erratically. It dove toward the ground as it neared the plate, and Mookie missed it with a clean cut. Another strike toted itself upon the board and his average fell to .175.

  Val shot me a wink. “The knuckler always works on these cascaders—it reverses the value of the variables they use to get better, making them weaker. Better yet, it never shows them enough for them to create a countercode quickly.”

  I smiled reassuringly. “Gonna use it again?”

  “Nope.” She studied the scoreboard and shook her head. “Do it again and I give it a chance to react. Got something else for this ice.”

  A white ball formed in her hand. Val grinned cruelly and delivered the ball with a half-sidearm motion. It jetted in, then broke at the last second. Mookie swung and missed and the umpire called him out. He vanished and I heard a couple of voices cheering.

  Turning around I saw a couple of figures in the grandstands. One looked like a glass spider and another wore the form of a black cat. “What the hell?”