The enemy made their move.
I was already drawing Yukimura. Smart weapons are great, but they need time to lock on. The punk, however, fired at me right away with his old piece of junk. Bang. Then another shot. I felt a heavy blow to my ribs, knocking the wind out of me. Yukimura responded with three shots. All three hit the mark. By default, Yukimura aims for the head. Green hair and drops of blood sprayed across the floor. I was still struggling to catch my breath. The bulletproof vest stopped the bullet, but it might have cracked my ribs.
I had to remember—there were enemies behind me too.
I rushed down the stairs straight at the punk, pulling the trigger again. Three more bullets turned his face into a mess. Unfortunately, Yukimura doesn't pack a lot of punch, but it shoots accurately and consistently.
Footsteps thundered from above. At least two of them. I hurried down, trying to catch my breath, but I wasn't fast enough. I turned around to face them. The first thing I saw were their legs in worn jeans. I fired without proper aiming, but one bullet hit a thigh. Blood soaked into the jeans.
Two of them. Armed with a Liberty pistol and some kind of shotgun. Damn. They were about to take me down right here! I threw myself backward onto the stairwell, all the while pointing my smart pistol. It felt like fireworks exploded in my brain, and everything was shrouded in a greenish haze. Kereznikov activated. Falling back, I fired mid-air. One, two, three. I squeezed the trigger as much as I could while the implant gave me a precious edge. Three shots to one face, three more to the other. After emptying the magazine and landing hard on my back, I rolled to the side. They fired back at me. Both of them were still on their feet, but my shots had messed up their faces. Fueled by adrenaline and covered in blood and snot, their aim was getting worse.
Chunks of tile shattered from the buckshot. The air stank of gunpowder and blood.
I hadn't brought my Pulsar today, but I still had a Unity in my holster and a frag grenade. Should I risk it? Might as well. I pulled the pin, waited a moment, and tossed it up toward where they were shooting from. Then I rolled down the stairs, not caring about my suit or bruising my bones. I was terrified my clumsy throw would send the grenade bouncing back toward me.
It didn't.
There's no better way to end a firefight than with an explosion. About a hundred fragments from the grenade tore apart my would-be killers.
Clenching my teeth, I got up. My ribs hurt terribly, my shoulders were bruised from the stairs, and my head was pounding. But the most important thing was that there were no extra holes in my body.
If it weren't for Kereznikov, the vest, and those hours at the shooting range, my second life would've been a short one. A couple of bullets could have ended all my grand plans. My head was spinning. I felt nauseous. Blood dripped from my nose. The sensation was even worse than after my first time entering this body. Was this the implant's backlash? If so, I was definitely no David Martinez.
Fuck.
Here I was, planning to take down the Voodoo Boys and lay siege to Cynosure, but I barely managed to take out three street rats.
I sent a message to Security about the attack and began searching the bodies. Five credit chips and a bit of cash, totaling about six and a half thousand. Well... almost enough to cover my visit to "Clouds." If I sell their weapons, that should make it seven and a half.
Alright.
The main question: what was this? A robbery attempt? Something doesn't add up. These idiots looked like street punks, but they had a lot of cash on them. They didn't seem like runners or techies, yet the elevator wasn't working. Coincidence? Hardly. More like a deliberate way to lead me into a trap. This felt more like a targeted hit, but who sent them?
The choice of attackers puzzled me the most. A well-planned ambush, but instead of professionals, they sent three street scum. Strange. With just a few extra eddies, they could have hired chromed-out bruisers from Maelstrom. I probably wouldn't have survived that. Did the enemy just underestimate me? Probably. Figured that three cyberpunks could easily turn a corporate desk jockey into a corpse.
Before pocketing the credit chips, I carefully scanned them for fingerprints. I doubted the mastermind behind the hit had been this sloppy, but better safe than sorry.
Within five minutes, Security was on the scene, and I got a call from Jenkins.
"I'm alive, but I got hit," I responded when he asked how the attack went.
"You understand that this wasn't just an attack on you, it was an attack on me," my boss replied.
Yeah. Modesty was never Jenkins' strong suit.
"Head to the clinic. I'll temporarily upgrade your insurance to executive level. Get checked for poisons, neuroviruses, and any other bullshit. Take the morning off to recover. You can skip the Beijing meeting and come in by noon."
Oh. That was a nice perk. I mean, the clinic visit was really needed, though I'd have to be careful about scans for dangerous software. Otherwise, they might mistake me for dangerous software.
"V is watching over you there. Don't let yourself get flatlined. Especially now. It would really screw us over, you know," Jenkins expressed his concern about my life and cut the connection.
"I'll do my best," I said to the empty air.
The entrance was occupied by security forces. Black suits made of shiny synthetic fabric, square faces, corporate implants. On the downside, they took the weapons from the dead. Insisted they needed them for reports and investigations. On the upside, they confirmed that the runner had remotely shut down the elevator.
Voodoo Boys again? I don't think so. They're scum, but I'm a valuable asset to them. Kidnapping and attempts at enslavement, I believe. But not a stupid assassination attempt.
Maybe it's something to do with V's past affairs. An old enemy or a disgruntled partner. For now, I need to head to the clinic.
I fed the doctor the same story about experimental implants. Insisted that I only needed a body checkup, not a software diagnostic. I doubt I have to worry about neuroviruses. I think I could digest them in bulk and ask for more.
The diagnostic didn't reveal any poisons. There were a few cracks in my ribs, which the doctor bonded with some kind of gel, minimally invasive. The chest pain went away, but the headache wouldn't let go.
"You don't have the best tolerance for some types of implants," the doctor said, running another diagnostic. "Your body is not a construction set. You can't just install a new part and expect it to work at a hundred percent right away. You need to prepare the ground first. Train."
Well, that's ironic. If my memories of the future are correct, a not-so-honest ripperdoc jammed a high-end combat implant into David's body without proper meds, and the kid managed to use it several times in a row without immediately frying. And here I am. A corporate rat, with ripperdocs blowing dust off me. Pills, diagnostics, the best conditions. Almost died from one run of a not-even-the-most-powerful Kerenzikov. David really had a unique tolerance for implants.
Okay. It seems I have some ultra-elite medical insurance right now. Unfortunately, it's still too early to shove new chrome into me. However, I can make some use of the insurance benefits.
"Doctor, I've been the target of several assassination attempts. This might not be the last. I need emergency self-revival meds, the best that medicine can offer."
"Well, we usually prescribe medication for specific diseases..." the doctor tried to gently protest with a soft smile.
"Killers on my tail are a very common health problem in my professional field," I joked. "Almost like silicosis for miners. So, I kindly ask you to get creative. Write me up whatever conditions you deem necessary. The company will pay for it. And I'll be very grateful."
In the end, for a nearly symbolic bribe of five hundred eddies, I got a whole pack of drugs in all the colors of the rainbow. Enough to rent a red Cadillac and drive to Las Vegas. I was especially pleased with four powerful stimulants. Some kind of cocktail of adrenaline, pressure stabilizers, and combat narcotics. Stuff like that could raise the dead for a short while. But no more than one dose at a time. The heart might not take it. Plus, I got a bunch of different painkillers, sedatives, immunosuppressants. I figure I could sell half this stuff on the black market for two or three grand. It'll come in handy.
And so, after all the adventures, I ended up at home. The security forces were still lingering in the entrance, the elevator worked, and there were no more attacks.
Finally, sleep.
I could skip the meeting about Beijing, but Jenkins woke me up anyway with a message around nine in the morning.
"Security will assign you a driver-bodyguard."
"Driver-bodyguard, bodyguard-driver," I muttered thoughtfully, rubbing my eyes.
On one hand, it's good. On the other hand, he's loyal to Security Dep, not me. He's no Jackie, someone I can rely on.
I met the driver-bodyguard that same morning. A tall, fairly muscular man. Not white, not Japanese. Brazilian, judging by his appearance and last name.
"Lucas Costa," he introduced himself curtly, looking at me through dark glasses.
Lucas didn't have a deck or a Sandevistan, but he had a better Kerenzikov than mine and a lot of other pure combat implants: artificial muscles, tendons, bones, subdermal armor. I'd be more vulnerable to bullets in a full suit of armor than this guy in just swim trunks.
"My task is to drive you to work, from work, and to any other locations of interest, Mr. Price."
Not bad. Lucas will scare off street punks with just a look. Though I fear that next time my enemy will hire someone more serious.
"You can just call me V."
"I address colleagues according to the recommended standards, Mr. Price," Lucas replied.
Alright. There are fiery Brazilian guys, and I got this cold one. Most definitely not Jackie. Not a problem though. Better this way.
In the office, many knew about the assassination attempt. I was met with weak applause and perfunctory smiles. I'm sure half the colleagues a grade below me were thinking something like, "If only those bastards had aimed better, I'd have a shot at a promotion!"
And once again, I dove into the cursed work process. Guys, maybe there's another assassination attempt coming up? I'd even settle for four punks this time. Just give me a proper day off afterward.
The next two days passed in a routine. Our agent at Zetatech suddenly put a bullet in his head, dumping a pile of paperwork on me. I had to answer the classic two questions: who's to blame and what to do?
Then a forty-five-thousand eddie advance. Nice, but I was hoping for more. With the costs of my training, I had about 370 eddies in my accounts. I need to start withdrawing it in small amounts. Transfer a couple hundred to cash and credit chips. Hide it all so I'm not left broke if I get kicked out of the company.
Work, shooting range, sleep, strong coffee, work, and so on.
Thursday evening, as usual, I was getting ready to finish off another table, when suddenly…
A notification.
The trigger I had set went off. An automatic report came in. A cold sweat ran down my back. Could it be? There was still a chance it was something related to my main job, but…
Open the message.
"Gloria Martinez. Event type: car accident. Request event report?"
A crooked, satisfied smile spread across my face. It's wrong, of course, to revel in someone else's misfortune. But this means my memories of the future aren't just nonsense. I requested the report.
And…
Everything fell into place. Every single detail. Riding with her son, a shootout, the Animals gang, hospitalized. Very soon, Gloria Martinez will die. This death will set off a chain of events, pulling on the threads of many people's fates.
But for now, she's still alive. She has to be, if my memory of the future doesn't fail me. I tracked down the hospital Gloria was taken to. Not the most pleasant spot in Santo Domingo. I easily found the phone number of her "doctor." All that was left was to step out for a smoke and make the call.
"I'm calling about Gloria Martinez. Is she in your care?"
"Yes. She's here," came the response. "Are you a relative? A colleague?"
"Not a colleague, but calling on business," I cast the first line. "You're going to transfer her to intensive care immediately and do everything in your power to make sure she sticks around for a while."
"I don't know who I'm talking to right now..." the hack doctor started in a rude tone, because calling this guy in a medical mask a doctor didn't sit right with me. "But first, we get money or insurance guarantees, and only after..."
"You'll do everything, and I'll come by soon to tell you what to do next. You'll be sure to help me," I said in a cold, confident tone.
"And why would that be?" he asked, now skeptical but no longer so brazen.
He must have taken a closer look at my virtual avatar. One look was enough to recognize a corp.
"Money, power, and if that doesn't work, threats, hired thugs, violence. So, what's it going to be? Take the money, or open the prize box?"
He probably didn't get the joke about Wheel of Fortune, but he caught the general drift of the conversation.
"Of course, money," the hack quickly agreed.
"Excellent," I replied in a sugary-sleazy tone. "I'll be there in about two hours and twenty-one minutes. Naturally, our conversation stays private."
There are, after all, some huge perks to the corpo life. Huge perks that resemble the crosses on other people's graves. Power, arrogance, a sense of impunity. I'd probably even try to stay in the corporate role longer if it weren't for two "buts." First, the habit of colleagues to backstab and screw each other over with more relish than rogue AIs do to their own kind. Second, reports, damn it, and spreadsheets, damn it.
Right after work, in yet another rented car, Lucas drove me to the Santo Domingo district. Our pitch-black sedan sped through the night streets toward someone else's sorrow. As we neared the clinic, I ordered him to slow down. The car smoothly decelerated. My attention was drawn to a skinny teenager standing at the crosswalk with a black bag in his hands. His face was covered in scrapes, his forehead crossed by bandages, and his school uniform was crumpled. David Martinez in the flesh. He had just picked up his mother's things and was about to head home—looking for money for the surgery. He didn't look very presentable, let alone threatening. The corporate symbol on his uniform looked almost mocking. It was hard to believe what destructive potential was hidden in this boy. Strap on enough implants, and he'd be a real monster. My body barely handles Kereznikov as it is. But right now, his life was hanging on the edge of a cliff, while I sat in a luxury car, sipping champagne.
"Let's go," I nodded to Lucas. "Park behind the clinic, and come with me."
The Brazilian didn't ask questions. He acted with the silent obedience of a golem.
The hack doctor came out to meet us in the parking lot. Seeing my bodyguard, my expensive suit, and arrogant face, he immediately understood who he was dealing with. He became disgustingly obsequious, practically hanging on my every word.
My desire to visit Gloria's room didn't raise a single question or objection. Power simplifies everything. The woman was lying in a cramped two-bed room with a flickering ceiling light. White tiles covered the walls and floor. Streaks from poor cleaning, lousy equipment, a faded poster of a tropical island on the wall.
В комнате искусственного лета
Мы лежим на кафельном столе
И в лучах искусственного света
Раны застывают, как желе…
I stepped closer, observing the sleeping face of the woman. Gloria looked so peaceful. A well-deserved rest after years of self-sacrifice, trying to provide a future for her son. She was wearing only a short hospital gown. Gloria looked so vulnerable and fragile. The cable connecting the port in her neck to the medical equipment seemed like the thin thread of her life. I gently ran my fingertips over her exposed shoulder, beneath which a bruise had spread.
"Sir..." the hack doctor quietly, obsequiously spoke up. "If... well... if you like her... we could... let's say, arrange a delivery. Wherever you want. No extra witnesses or trouble. I guarantee that."
So this is how they care for patients here? Wonderful establishment. I was starting to doubt whether Gloria Martinez could die a natural death or if her life would be cut short by the sick will of some pervert.
"Not yet," I replied. "She'll stay here. Under treatment. She stays here until I give the go-ahead for discharge. No calls, no visits. If she tries to leave, give her a sedative. Just nothing dangerous, got it? Don't skimp on the meds."
"Of course, sir."
"That's not all. Do you have any unclaimed bodies?"
"Oh... we've got a morgue full of them. Homeless, junkies, gangsters."
"Find a body. Tomorrow, in the first half of the day, call her son David and tell him that Gloria has passed. Sudden health deterioration. Then immediately cremate the body at the clinic's expense and give him the urn. Burn an unclaimed body. Give him the ashes."
The doctor seemed intrigued by my plan.
"Sir, if you don't mind me asking..." the part-time trafficker began.
"I do," I cut him off. "Now get to work."
Twelve thousand. That's how much the extra treatment and the bribe cost. Gloria's life was worth 1.6 visits to Evelyn Parker's dollhouse.
Though I believe I'll be able to recoup that money at later stages of the plan.
I've already interfered in events, but for now, things should proceed as they were. David will get beaten at school, find out about his mother's death, and install the Sandevistan. A chain of coincidences will bring him to Lucyna Kushinada, known as Lucy. The girl who's been running from my "beloved" Arasaka for so long—but she won't escape me.