Running Black (Eshu International Book 1) Page 8

  “Whatever it takes,” Tam echoed. “Where are you going with this, Al?” I asked.

  “We used to say it’s good to be prepared, remember? So keep a few old things around here in the basement, and I teach my children how to look out for themselves, stay safe in the sprawl. But Curro over there,” he jutted his chin at his eldest son, who still stood in the doorway, “he is very capable. I even think Curro has el tacto del fantasma—the touch of the ghost.” He lowered his voice so Carmen wouldn’t overhear. “I think that boy could run—run for what is good, that is.” He looked at me and Tam. “He would need more training, of course.”

  I almost squirted coffee out my nose. “What, and have Carmen gunning for us? I’d rather be darkside on Luna.”

  Alejo barked out another laugh, and even Tam cracked a smile. Our old friend looked at us expectantly, but neither Tam nor I were willing to pick up that line of thought. The moment hung in the air, then moved on, and suddenly all the noise and smells and chatter of the big cellar room rushed back in. After a few minutes, we poured out the last of the strong black coffee, cleared the plates and started working on enjoying our little seaside vacation.

  Still, later that morning, I caught myself watching the dark-haired Curro, watching the way he moved, spoke with Gibson or the Triplets, carried away the trays. Oddly enough, I caught Tam doing the same.

  CHAPTER TWELVE: PRIMARY OBJECTIVE

  Asian Pacific Consortium Trade Legation. Barcelona Port Complex, South Dock, Section D, Level Five. 11:30 a.m. Day One.

  Colonel Keiji Otsu kept his face neutral. Three thousand kilometers away, Avery Hsiang’s sneer was a slap, even through the video link. His father had once said that bureaucracy was a giant mechanism operated by pygmies, this man’s blindness and arrogance was as solid as an iron mountain. Grateful for the distance between them, Keiji knew he must take particular care to avoid being crushed by this one.

  Still, the man was his immediate superior, so he endured and remained at attention, staring at a point over the top of the screen. Avery Hsiang was still speaking.

  “…derelict in your obligations, Colonel. Consequently, I am remanding you to an assignment you can handle. I’ve ordered three clone units to Spain. These are shinigami designation, highly valuable prototypes, sent to accomplish the mission you, apparently, could not. I have ordered them to keep you informed, but they are deployed on my authority and answer directly to me. Do you understand me?”

  The colonel’s mind halted. Three of the prohibited replicants deployed in one area together? New prototypes at that? Two clone units was the maximum permitted short of unanimous Board approval. There was too high a risk of exposure and U.N. censure if they were discovered. He’d known Mr. Hsiang considered this venture important, but what exactly had the zone mercenaries stolen?

  The manager continued. “You and your men will be reviewing the security measures at our Barcelona Port interests. You will use this position to support the clone agents in any and every possible way. Do you think you can perform those duties adequately, Colonel?”

  “Of course, Mr. Hsiang.”

  “I hope so. These ronin completely disregarded the terms of our agreement, missed the rendezvous, and fled to the Barcelona Metropolitan Zone. I’ve been informed there was a message outlining their intention to disappear until they felt more secure, but I suspect a more devious motive. They’re attempting to sell the item to another buyer, some other corporation.”

  “Sir, we’ve employed this outfit in the past. They’ve always delivered per terms. Why think they’d break a contract now?” the colonel asked.

  “They are mercenaries,” Avery Hsiang sighed. “You cannot trust their kind. Without honor, self-interest is their guiding star, and even they understand how valuable nanotechnology is. Like whores, anyone with credits can entice them. The prototype must be obtained before they can sell it. Secondly, I’ve ordered the shinigami to eliminate them, but not at the risk of their primary objective. Consequently, you and your men must be ready to eliminate this zone trash once the replicants have completed their mission.”

  “Mr. Hsiang, if I cross that line, other contractors will refuse to undertake jobs with us.”

  “Colonel, I want to send a clear message to their kind: Asian Pacific does not tolerate duplicity. Besides, with this technology, we won’t need sprawl whores to service us anymore. Expect the clone units tomorrow and see that my orders are carried out.”

  He cut the link without another word, and Colonel Otsu found himself looking at a blank screen.

  ---------------

  He was small, quiet, nothing obvious. Fit perhaps, with dark hair, but not out of the ordinary to cause you to remember him one way or the other. He smiled at the very pretty, very Spanish customs constable, and she smiled back, scanning the back of his hand. She checked her screen. He waited. Just another tourist, she thought. An Anglo. American or UK perhaps. No, not American, he was certainly a N.EU citizen. His scan said so. The accompanying profile pop-up warranted no attention, raised no flags. He was suitably boring, nobody special. A business traveler, probably something with the Port Complex, the constable thought. She punched a few more keys on her computer console.

  “Have a pleasant stay in Spain.”

  “Thank you. “ He smiled again.

  But she was already looking away as the next arrival stepped up to the counter.

  The man called Hester walked slowly past the lounge area, put on his sunglasses, and stepped out into the bright Mediterranean warmth of Barcelona. In the distance, the bells of the Cathedral of Santa Eulalia began their noon chimes, and he waved for a cab.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN: THE GOLDEN RULE

  Barcelona Metro Zone, Sant Adrià de Besòs district. Callejón del Apuro, “Trouble Alley”. 2:18 p.m. Day One.

  Later in the day, the team had settled in the Garcías’ cellar. Our Mitsu suits were stacked in a corner, and most of our gear was sealed away in two of Al’s ubiquitous old military crates. Alejo and Carmen had gone off, doing whatever they did for work here in the northern sprawl, while Tam and I took turns watching over Poet9. I guess I could say his condition was “stable” in that it was unchanged. There was still no word on Doc Kalahani.

  Gibson was my other concern. On some level, I knew being a clone, the boy wouldn’t be “normal”. I’m not sure what I expected, but he certainly wasn’t a “kid” the way I understood them. He didn’t whine, or cry, or try to run. Except for the escape at the labs, he never even appeared frightened. He simply watched, listened, and took everything in. Whatever he was feeling, he kept it all inside as if he was processing the whole event. Other than to Carmen, or the Triplets, he barely spoke a word. That afternoon, he sat watching the three big soldiers fieldstrip their assault rifles.

  Before Alejo had left, he’d gotten through to Jaithirth Rao, our agent in Belfast. Our chip was now in the BMZ system, and we could access our front accounts for cash. As long as D-H or Spanish Security didn’t trace us, we could stay underground indefinitely. Carmen’s calls had paid off too. It wasn’t long before bundles of clothes started coming in through the side cellar door, and since I’d volunteered to get chipped and be the outside man, I got first pick from the goodwill racks.

  I grabbed loose, drab-colored khakis and a suitably dingy denim jacket with Kevlar under-weave. Al said between police patrols and the zone-wide surveillance, it wasn’t wise to carry any kind of weapon, but if I was running errands in the zone, I at least wanted some kind of protection—just in case. The jacket would only turn away blades and small shrapnel, but it was better than nothing. I was fitting the side straps when Curro ducked in, all concerned.

  “Sorry, but the newsnets are ‘casting emergency flashes, level Orange. They say there’s narco-terrorists going after the B-Port with a nuke, and that they’re hiding in the sprawls, signing up volunteers for the seventy-two virgins tour of Paradise. UpCity execs are offering big rewards for any information, suspicious persons… all that stuff. It
’s coming on every channel, every half-hour.”

  Tam grinned. “Don’t stress. No one traced us here. We’re transparent, and the last thing we want to do is endanger your mom and dad. In fact, Jace is on his way out to contact our agent. We’ll be gone in a couple days. I promise.”

  Curro nodded and disappeared back up the stairs. “That didn’t take long,” I said after the door shut.

  “Nope. Guess D-H wants their stuff back. On top of that, Jaithirth said Asian Pacific wasn’t too happy about our missing the rendezvous. Sent him a nasty response when he told them what we’d done. All the more reason to make delivery asap.”

  “Well, from the money being thrown around, I guess the suit that hired us is out on a limb. He’s bound to be touchy about his expenditures.”

  “Yeah, well, they should know us by now,” Tam said. “We’re practically on retainer with APAC for Christ’s sake. Something this big, they have to allow for contingencies.”

  “And we have a man down,” I said.

  “And we have a man down,” Tam nodded. “When you go out, have Rao tell them no worries. This is a detour. Eshu International abides by the contract. Always. Their tech is on the way.”

  I zipped up the jacket and edged in closer to him. “Tam, you think they realize this tech is a kid?

  “A clone?”

  I glanced over to see Mopsy all serious, trying to explain to the boy about the workings of the upper receiver and bolt assembly on his 10mm H-K assault rifle. “Yeah… a child clone,” I said slowly.

  “Couldn’t say,” Tam shrugged. “Nothing in the contract brief or tacticals hinted at it. C. B. sets the payment terms, while the Ts provide target data.” He thought for a second. “Am I supposed to care here?”

  “I’m asking,” I said.

  “My guess? They probably had no idea about a bio-unit. Then again, they wouldn’t tell us everything. No ‘need’ in the ‘need to know’ loop. Doesn’t matter as long as we deliver the package and get paid, right?”

  “Except this time the kid is the package.”

  “He’s a clone, Jace.” Tam’s face went serious.

  “So?”

  “He’s a package. Blonde, brunette, clone or little black box, we do our job.” He stared at me. “This isn’t another one of those conversations, is it?”

  “Maybe it is. So?”

  “So we always end up talking in circles. Stay focused.”

  I looked over at Gibson, who was laughing as Mopsy reassembled his rifle, blindfolded. His large hands were moving in precise, fluid motions, making the weapon reappear as if by magic. When he finished, the pale soldier tore off the bandanna and made a little bow. Gibson clapped.

  “You have to admit this is a first,” I said.

  Tam had watched the little show with me. “Custom cloning isn’t new, look at the Triplets. The fact that it’s a kid is new ground, I’ll give you that. And if it helps, it’s not like I’m enjoying this.” He shook his head. “But we finish the run. That’s our secret to survival.”

  “We go through with this, what does that make us?”

  “Ummm… a lot of money?” Tam said, irritated. “Why the sudden attack of conscience?”

  “Well, no one’s shooting at me right now…”

  “My point exactly. Employment-wise, we’ve got very limited skill-sets here. Black contract work is our only option.”

  “There’s always work for guys like us—” I started.

  Tam shook his head. “Like the Bunnies are going to be mall security... No, we need corporate coverage. Period. Otherwise, we’re no better than some scab standing in line for a handout. I’m not giving the bastards the satisfaction.”

  “So we’re going to hand over the kid and ghost off screen?” I said.

  Tam’s face hardened. “We’re going to contact APAC, arrange delivery, and request an extraction. In the meantime, Doc Kalahani will come and fix up Poet9.”

  “What do you think APAC is going to do to him?”

  “How would I know that? Damn, Jace, listen to yourself. We’re not even with Al and Carmen one day and you go all soft and cuddly.”

  “Piss off, Tam! We’re talking about a kid.”

  “No, we’re talking about the future.” He was adamant. “It’s ‘The Next Big Thing’, remember? First it was robotics, then genetics, now it’s nanotech. If what’s inside that clone is real, it’s the key, and the corp that holds that key stands to make billions, even trillions, over the next decade. Once that happens, the Golden Rule kicks in: those that have the gold make the rules. You don’t piss off people like that. Especially not Execs.”

  “Those Execs are going cut him open, squeeze him dry and toss the husk in a dumpster. You OK with that?”

  “Suddenly you know what APAC is going to do?” Tam asked.

  “Call it a guess.”

  “Well here’s a fact: we’re not welcome in polite society. We drop a contract, we might as well roll over and die right here. We’d be useless to any corp on the planet.”

  “So we’re useful as long as we do their dirty work, but how long before we get labeled a liability?”

  “And here’s our chance to stow a pile of credits away against that day,” Tam said. “We can’t burn bridges now.”

  I kept silent and went back to watching Gibson and the Triplets.

  Tam sighed. “Look, we’re not the black hats here, Jace. We didn’t develop the technology, we didn’t grow the kid, we didn’t play God and weave the stuff into him for a higher quarterly return. We’re just delivery guys.”

  “How Eichmann of us…”

  He grabbed my shoulder. “Life’s tough; get a helmet. If it wasn’t us, some other crew would step up, and who knows how that’d go down? At least we’ll deliver him in one piece.”

  “I’ve got a bad feeling,” I said. “Had it right from the drop.”

  “The contract doesn’t give a shit about our feelings. Like Alejo used to say, we’re ‘between the sword and the wall’.” He grinned at me. “Remember that song ‘a scab’s gotta cover his ass…’?”

  “You’re not helping,” I said.

  “Sorry, them’s the cold, hard facts, brother. Survivor’s guilt will kill you.”

  Now Tam had seen every shit storm combat zone on the planet in the last eleven years, not to mention a major chunk of heavy black ops, and made it out alive. Right then, he was bone-tired and worn to the core, but his eyes had that hard brightness to them. He was right. He knew it. I knew it. Stay focused, finish the job, move on. That’s how it was done.

  I had nothing else to say, so I changed the subject. “Speaking of scabs, any change in Poet9?” I moved over to the corner where our friend was lying on the bed pallet. The autodoc beeped faintly.

  “No way of telling,” Tam said. “Carmen looked him over and says he’s fine except for the brain box. She thinks it shut down, and it’s got him in a shallow coma. Patching up a body is hard enough, but cyber gear is way past her. She can’t tell if the neural fibers got damaged, or if it’s permanent. How close were you?”

  “Right on the edge,” I said. “I grabbed him, threw him down as the EMP popped, but it still frazzled my onboards. They rebooted right away, but—”

  “Carmen says she’ll pray for him,” Tam interrupted. “Every little bit helps I guess.”

  “Now who’s all soft and cuddly?”

  A tiny smile played on his lips. “She better pray Doc K gets here fast.”

  “You tell her that?”

  “No. That’s your job. She always liked you better. ‘Darkside on Luna’, eh?”

  “Hell, yes!” I laughed. “Remember that time off Qatar, on the boat? Those Muj came after us in Swifties with M60s. Alejo went down, and damn, Carmen could shoot.”

  “Well, they wanted to see Allah, and she wasn’t going to disappoint them,” Tam said.

  We both laughed, but the smile dropped off Tam’s face. “We’re going to make it through this. We’ll finish, fix up Poet9 better than n
ew, and take some time off. A month or two, like we said. Then we can have Jaithirth flush out the next job. With a cash reserve, we’ll be in a better position to pick and choose. We won’t step in it like this again. OK?”

  “There another choice? Maybe I am getting soft. I’m still not into handing a kid over to APAC, uber-tech or not.”

  “Choices are for rich people,” Tam said. “Us? We’re sharks. We have to keep moving or we die.”

  “Stop with your homey analogies. Most of the sharks are dead from the dumping. The only ones left are in reserves or aquariums.”

  “That’s part of the point,” he said.

  “Yeah, great. Somehow that makes it even worse.”

  Tam said nothing, so I moved past him for the side cellar door. “I’m going out, do a walk around and grab some food. I’ll go to the café Alejo mentioned and check in with Rao. See what APAC has to say about an extraction team. They’ll probably want to take it out of our finals, cheap bastards. I’ll be back in a flash.”

  I went out the metal door into the narrow alley and slipped into the current of people moving on the sidewalk.

  --------------------------------

  Hermano had a pounding headache. He leaned over, washing his socks under the tap, and the throbbing only increased. Another bad shift at work, unloading container after container of things he could never afford for the Old B corporates he would never see. His supervisor, Señor Vandarm—an anglo—had yelled at him, called him slow and stupid. Well if they paid better, Hermano would work better. What did they expect? A man couldn’t feed his family on such piss-poor wages. There was barely any to buy a few drinks after work. They did that on purpose to make it just enough to crawl back the next day and stand in line at their gates, groveling like some beggar. Hermano wasn’t stupid. He knew what was going on. Well, as long as they pretended to pay, Hermano and the other dockers would pretend to work. And if that greasy little punta yelled at him one more time, he’d show him. He’d smash him in his greasy little face. Hermano twisted the thin damp cotton in his hands, wrenching out a few more soapy drips.