Hammerjack Read online

  It didn’t take him long to realize he no longer fit in.

  That was a conceit he had learned from too many years in the Asian Sphere—his perceived ability to blend in anywhere, anytime. Back there the rules were few and savage, making it easy for any player with reasonable street smarts to become part of the culture. But here in the core of civilization, they could smell it on you. Cray saw it in the way people looked at him, their stares brief but riddled with intent. Cray might have taken offense, had it not been so true. What made you slick in Malaysia branded you in Europe, and there was nothing you could do to hide it.

  For Cray, it was like walking through a sterile curtain. The last few years, he had become accustomed to the closeness of bodies—air thick with the chatter of a thousand dialects, the persistent subtext of pheromones. Now, there was a distinct lack of sensory input, as if someone had turned down the volume of his life and dropped him into the middle of a neutral void.

  Quickly, mercifully, the sensation dissipated as he followed the signs that pointed the way to the transit station. There, Cray ran into the long lines of tourists trying to hash out the complex regulations that governed civilian traffic in and out of the city. Bypassing all the others, he flashed his corporate credentials at the first-class line and was allowed to join the other Collective types who were headed into Oldtown Vienna. It was nice getting the star treatment, but being around them still made Cray feel uneasy. He wasn’t used to seeing anyone in a suit who wasn’t Japanese.

  “You must have some serious jack.”

  It was a woman’s voice, from behind. Cray sensed her distance at about two meters, his right hand reaching for a weapon that wasn’t there. He caught himself, remembering that he was now in the civilized world. Coming about slowly, he tried to put a casual spin on the hasty move he had started.

  “Jumpy, too,” the woman said, firing off her observation like the two of them were old friends. “First-class travel, heavy creds—I had you figured for some kind of a player.”

  Cray knew the kind right off. She appeared to be somewhere between nineteen and twenty, and fit the profile of a fringe junkie. Cray had seen them before, hanging out at the edge of the subculture—above the life, maybe by money or family, but with enough impulse to take a taste whenever they could get it. They followed gangbangers and hammerjacks like groupies chasing after rock stars. This one looked like she picked up her habits at school. Universities were breeding grounds for that sort of character.

  “You trying to win some kind of bet?” Cray shot back.

  The girl smiled. It was obvious how this one had breezed past airport security. She was beautiful enough to inspire a few extra heartbeats, and smart enough to work what she had. But it was the way the girl looked him up and down that made Cray take notice. She inspected him the same way she might check out something before she bought it.

  “Maybe there’s some money involved,” she replied, not letting much else slip as she came toward him. She was so totally assured, her body not wasting a single gesture. “Maybe I’m just looking to score.”

  Used to getting what she wants, Cray decided. But way too young to be this cocky.

  “Anybody tell you you’ve got a big mouth?”

  “Nobody’s ever complained,” the girl said, smiling. “I’m Lea. I’d tell you more, but you look like you enjoy mystery. And you are . . . ?”

  “Busy,” Cray told her, and headed for the next empty transit vestibule.

  “Give a girl a break, will ya?” Lea asked, falling in step beside him. The way she brushed her arm against his as they walked wasn’t lost on Cray, and a part of him started to welcome it—she was that good. “You haven’t even asked me to talk dirty to you.”

  “Baby”—Cray chuckled—“I don’t believe you know hot from cold.”

  “It’s all the same to me. Try it. You might like it.”

  She wet her lips a little with that last comment, adding just the trace of a laugh. Ignoring her was clearly impossible.

  “I’m listening,” Cray said.

  “Got a couple of friends with me. We’ve been in the Metro for a couple of days. Now we’re looking for someone to take us into Oldtown—maybe hang out with us for a while, show us the sights. You know.”

  “Oldtown’s off-limits to civilians.”

  “I know. But why should I let that stop me?”

  “Because it’s illegal. You could get yourself arrested.”

  “It wouldn’t be the first time,” Lea said offhandedly. “Besides—I get the feeling that’s something we might have in common. So what is your story, anyway? The way you were checking your back, my friends thought you were a dealer. Synthroids maybe. You carrying weight?”

  “I never mess around with biologicals.”

  “That’s cool. Don’t care for them much myself.”

  “Nice that you’ve got standards.”

  “You get around, you figure it out,” Lea said, adding a little bounce to her step. “But I’m not worried about you anyway. I can tell you’re from the street, but you’re not species. You’re not wired like that.”

  Is this girl for real? Cray thought. The way Lea was pushing his buttons, it was like somebody had plucked her out of his imagination. That made her bait, pure and simple—but knowing that didn’t prevent him from tugging just a little.

  Cray stopped short of the vestibule door. “How can you tell?” he asked, turning toward her. The idea was to unnerve her, but it had little effect.

  “You don’t have the eyes,” she explained. “The serious ones always have that look—like they’re disconnected, you know? Like they turned it off so long ago, they forgot how to turn it back on again.”

  It was enough to make Cray take a serious look at her for the first time—and see how much he had missed on his first glance. At a distance, he had just assumed Lea’s beauty was artificial. Her hair was a radiant blond, almost white, a pair of pale green eyes measuring his intentions. But she was missing the absolute symmetry of the surgeon’s scalpel. There were subtle imperfections in her complexion, a tiny pale birthmark just beneath her chin—minute flaws that defined her magnetism rather than detracted from it. What Lea had was all hers.

  “How much?” he asked.

  She cocked her head a little—a coy gesture, impeccably timed. “How much what?”

  “How much you got riding on me with your friends?”

  Lea slipped her arms around his neck and pulled him closer. There was meaning in that touch, the method with which she drew his body toward hers and held him at just the right distance.

  “Fifty standard,” she said.

  Cray raised an eyebrow. “Expensive,” he remarked.

  “Anything worth having is.”

  “Maybe,” Cray said, and reached into his jacket. He peeled the fifty away from his stash, and pressed the money into her hands. “But it would cost me a lot more if I said yes.”

  The mirth that was living behind Lea’s eyes quickly faded. She was not the kind of girl who was used to getting turned down. “What am I supposed to tell my friends?” she asked.

  “Tell them you lost,” Cray said, then disappeared into the vestibule. He marveled at how hard it was to tear himself away.

  The interior of the vestibule reminded Cray of the hotels in Osaka: cramped to the point of claustrophobia, adorned with advertising flyers and an outdated electronic console. The autosensors didn’t even detect his presence until he sat down, then brought the tiny space to life with muted lights and soft music.

  “Good afternoon, fellow traveler,” the city’s transit computer greeted him. The voice sounded pleasant, but obviously manufactured. Systems that serviced the general public were usually designed that way—to reassure customers that they were not dealing with a human being. “Please provide identity and verification for access to your itinerary.”

  He slipped a data card into the reader slot.

  “Hello, Dr. Alden,” the computer said. “I trust you had an enjoyable flig
ht.”

  “I had nothing of the sort,” Cray replied. “But thanks anyway. So what adventures does GenTec have planned for me today?”

  “An autocab has been reserved in your name. Your destination is the Hotel Bristol on Kartner Ring—a very historic part of Oldtown. Would you like to add a programmed tour to your journey? I’m certain you’ll find the details fascinating.”

  “I’m certain I would,” Cray told the computer. “How about you tell me a little more about it?”

  He paid no attention as the machine went through its spiel. Instead, he used the active time to mask his signature and sweep the interior of the vestibule with his new integrator—a precaution that had become a matter of habit during his travels. Finding the space clean of monitoring devices, Cray switched to a low-level jack. Piggybacking the transit computer’s network connection, he ran a quick feedback trace. If anyone was following his movements virtually, the activity would show up as spikes in the background noise that marked his existence in the Axis. As it was, the MFI indicated nothing but nominal levels.

  He closed out the jack just as the computer finished its sales pitch. The entire process had taken twenty seconds from start to finish and left the city’s transit authority none the wiser.

  “So would you like to order the tour?” the computer asked.

  “Sounds like fun. Add it to my bill.”

  The computer encoded everything on his card and spit it back out at him. “Complete,” it announced. “Welcome to Vienna, Dr. Alden.”

  “No place I’d rather be,” Cray said, packing up his gear and heading out.

  Phao Yin could be accused of a great many things, but being cheap was not among them. GenTec more or less maintained a permanent suite at the Hotel Bristol, perhaps the most distinctive example of lodging in the new or old world. At only 140 rooms, it was by no means a palace—but there was enough history associated with the place, just in the last fifty years, to fill a space ten thousand times its size.

  Watching as Vienna passed outside his window, drawing him close to the heart of the Collective, Cray finally understood what all the fuss was about. The streets in Oldtown were more than streets, they were conduits—rivers where the ebb of power flowed. Not power as an abstract concept, but as a palpable entity. As beautiful as the restored city was, it could not mask that singularity. It was as real as gravity, drawing all things toward it.

  “The Hotel Bristol is a fine example of Oldtown’s second renaissance,” Cray’s automated driver informed him. “Only days after the Consolidation, terrorist gangs loyal to the old European Union laid siege to the city—looting many of the structures you see here, destroying many others. Before Collective troops were dispatched to quell the riots, the Bristol itself was firebombed and very nearly burned to the ground.”

  “Those were the days, weren’t they?” Cray said. He had availed himself of the minibar, and raised a glass of knockoff scotch to the passing scenery.

  The disembodied voice continued without acknowledging him. “In the aftermath,” it said, “the Assembly decided on a statement of unity to reassure all law-abiding people that their future had arrived, and it was a bright one. As part of that statement, they decreed that Vienna—which had suffered so terribly under the ravages of the old world order—should be rebuilt as a center of hope for all humankind. The Bristol was among the first of the buildings to be restored, along with the Vienna State Opera—which was soon converted to diplomatic purposes and now serves as the headquarters of the Collective General Assembly.”

  And a fine history it has written for itself. The painstaking restoration of Vienna was just a part of that concoction. As illusory as it all was, Cray could not help but be impressed. The virtual tour kept pace with the scenery, and as he listened he could easily imagine himself in a time when court politics were the highest drama of society and Mozart held the premiere of The Marriage of Figaro. Outwardly, Vienna appeared exactly as it had been during those centuries. Contemporary intrusions had long been declared illegal, which only served to perpetuate the supernatural mystery that surrounded the doings of the Assembly. It actually made perfect sense when Cray thought about it. Every religion needed mysticism—science and commerce were no different. God had made man in His image, and so the Assembly had made itself as God.

  But it was only an illusion—and like so many others the Collective manufactured, this one was hidden behind a thin veneer. Cray pierced through it as soon as the cab slowed at the corner of Operngasse, where he saw the opera house for the first time. On the surface, the building looked remarkable only as a relic, perfectly preserved from an age that had long since passed. But beneath, it transmitted on wavelengths that quietly suggested the magnitude of purpose within.

  Cray made a quick sweep of the building with his MFI, only to find his scans reflected back. Countermeasures, he correctly deduced, and after taking a few random shots he still couldn’t penetrate the electronic wall that surrounded the place. The countermeasures operated on shifting frequencies, generated by onetime ciphers in any one of a trillion combinations. There would also be sensor webs and threat detectors, all tied in to an automated defensive system. Cray had no doubt that any unwelcome guest would be reduced to ashes before getting within spitting distance of the front door.

  Hello, Vienna . . .

  The car rounded the corner slowly, pulling into the long circular driveway in front of the Bristol. A stout bellman welcomed Cray, plucking his one bag out of the trunk and showing him to the front desk. The clerk on duty there seemed just as friendly—and became even more so when he saw the suite reserved in Cray’s name.

  “We’re quite honored to have another one of Mr. Yin’s guests,” he said. “They’ve all been very pleased with the Bristol’s accommodations.”

  “I’m sure they have,” Cray replied. “There wouldn’t happen to be any messages from Mr. Yin, would there?”

  “I’m afraid not. There is, however, another message for you—coded as private. You can check it on the display in your suite, if you like.”

  “That’s fine. Thanks.”

  “You’re all set then,” the clerk told him, motioning for Cray to place his palm on a portable scanner. “Room access is biometric, coded to your handprint. Should you wish to dine in, the Korso Restaurant here is one of the finest in Oldtown. And if there is anything else you require—anything at all—please let us know.”

  An old-fashioned lift deposited Cray on the top floor, where he discovered that his was the only suite. Pillars of green marble flanked a pair of cherrywood doors leading into the rooms. Cray gripped the doorknob and heard the lock click open. He went inside, finding the appointments within even more lavish than what he had seen downstairs. In the foyer, light so natural and thick that it flowed like water poured in through a single large window, between parted velvet curtains that showed him a view of Oldtown. Alabaster walls practically glowed, and as Cray heard the doors closing behind him, he felt strangely trapped—like he had been sealed in a vast coffin of luxury.

  He tossed his bag and his jacket on the nearest sofa, taking some time to scout the place and map out all the possible exits. He also made a sweep with his MFI, locating no fewer than eight bugs—none of them active, probably left over from the last few times GenTec hosted their heavies here. Cray just disabled them, making a note to turn the devices back on before he left. He didn’t want to interfere with Yin’s voyeuristic habits.

  Finishing up, Cray fished a portable ECM seal out of his bag and placed it next to the front doors. It was another one of his innovations—a scaled-down version of the same blanket that protected the State Opera House across the street. While not nearly as powerful or sophisticated, it was enough to discourage most remote monitoring hookups; and if anyone did manage to punch through it, Cray’s MFI would broadcast an alert and automatically trace any sensor activity back to its source.

  The seal responded with an affirmative beep when he turned it on. Checking his MFI screen, Cray w
as satisfied with the stream of telemetry coming off the device.

  No jamming, no intrusions. Time to check the mail.

  The suite came equipped with half a dozen virtual terminals. Cray opted for the one in the bedroom, which was embedded in the ceiling directly above the huge, oversized bed. Amused by the sheer novelty of it, he plunked himself down and activated the terminal. The level of comfort was extreme enough to be disconcerting.

  “This is Cray Alden,” he exhaled. “Display coded message, please.”

  The room lights dimmed a little, and a three-dimensional construct phased into existence above his head. Cray skipped past the usual welcome blurbs from the hotel and the confidentiality agreements, expecting to find some verbose communication from the Assembly or from Phao Yin. But instead, the message he received was cryptic. A seemingly random collection of large red letters floated in the air, though there were enough vowels arranged in the correct order to tell him this wasn’t a code—just a jumble of scrambled words.

  Somebody was being cute.

  “I don’t like puzzles,” Cray announced to the construct. “Get to the point.”

  The letters seemed to respond to his cue, darting around each other like a swarm of excited insects. They settled back down after a few moments, regrouping into a series of words—a simple enough message, ominous in its tone:

  NOTHING IS RANDOM

  Another line beneath it began to take shape. Letters bounced over one another, playing leapfrog in a jolly way that was presumably meant to give the impression of laughter. Cray expected nothing less, considering the source:

  A REMINDER FROM YOUR FRIEND,

  HERETIC

  He terminated the construct. “I hate this hammerjack shit.”

  “I’d say you’re in the wrong business.”

  The voice came from the bedroom door. Cray jumped off the bed, not knowing what to expect—least of all the woman who had breezed into his room unnoticed. Her shape was unnervingly still, concealed beneath a full-length overcoat, her hands coolly clasped behind her back. The voice matched the face: darkly female, features immutable as her body, eyes concealed behind opaque glasses. Her long black hair swept back dramatically over her head, creating an image that was statuesque in its severity.