Svaha, page 7
The leader stared wide-eyed at the medé, knowing his death when he saw it, but Gahzee stayed the killing blow. He let his hand drop and looked away from his enemy. The square was empty except for two dead men and those few who were dragging themselves away on wounded limbs. He let them go. Reaching down, he grabbed the leader's shirt, his fist filling with bunched folds of cloth at the man's throat, and dragged him up into a sitting position.
"You and I will talk now, I think," he said, "and the first thing you will tell me is your name."
"Uh…it's Ellis…" The fact that he was still alive was only just sinking in.
"Ellis," Gahzee said softly, tasting the name of his enemy's name. It had little resonance.
He rose smoothly to his feet and gathered up his clothing. It was torn in places, but it would suffice. When he came upon Ellis's crutch, he picked it up and offered it to him.
"You have gear that belongs to me," he told the leader. "We will recover it."
"Sh-sure," Ellis said. "Anything you say."
He led the way towards the nearest buildings at his limping pace. Gahzee followed, barefoot in the dirt. He had recovered his medicine bag. After checking that its contents were undisturbed, he retied it to his belt. Along the way to the buildings he collected his compass, his empty pack with its straps torn off, his half-finished bow. Ellis stopped a half-dozen yards from the gaping doorway of the closest structure.
"The gear," Gahzee said.
"It's inside."
Gahzee motioned for him to precede him and followed him in. The medé walked a Stalker's Wheel now, a hunter's Walk. His every sense was alert—as they should have been when he was first attacked.
The trick is not simply to acquire the knowledge, Oktowanakskam would say, but to survive the lessons.
He could sense the people of this place, in hiding, watching him, but no longer a threat. He had broken that Wheel of theirs, but that didn't mean he could relax.
He paused in the doorway, waiting for his eyes to adjust to the dimmer light, then joined Ellis on the far side of what had once been an enormous foyer. A door there opened into a large room overflowing with what could only be the spoils of their raids. Gahzee smiled when he saw the old twelve-speed bicycle close at hand. It had a black solid frame, fat tires to take it easily over the rough terrain, racks on front and back to carry gear.
"Where did you get that?" he asked, pointing to the bike.
Ellis spat. "Took it off a rat that strayed too far from the squats."
"Squats?"
"It's where the little fucks live—clustered like rats 'round the Plexes, 'stead of livin' the free life we do."
And it's such a good life, Gahzee thought, but he was touched with pity. From satellite photos and tapping into Megaplex vid broadcasts, he knew of the slums that had sprung up around the Megaplexes. Life there was hard, but life for Ellis's people was harder still. Those who lived in the slums still had the chance to buy into the Megaplex. Ellis's people had no chance at all. And even the slums were denied to them. But they still had their pride.
"How far are these squats?" he asked.
"Day—day an' a half." Ellis pointed northeast as he spoke.
He was closer to them than he'd thought, Gahzee realized. He felt the weight of Ellis's gaze upon him.
"The gear," he said.
Ellis called out and an old hag came out of a far door. She was stoop-shouldered, obviously in pain, her greasy hair growing in uneven splotches from her scabbed scalp.
"My wife," Ellis said.
Startled, Gahzee realized that it was disease that had made him think her an old woman. His pity grew stronger, but he didn't lessen his stance on the Stalker's Wheel. Under his watchful eyes she collected the rest of his gear. He packed it away as she brought it to him, tying the pack to the rack behind the seat of the bike he'd spotted when he first came in. Ellis made no comment at his commandeering it.
He wheeled it outside and waited for Ellis to join him.
"You're dead, y'know," Ellis said. He scratched at a sore, his eyes empty of antagonism, which gave his words a curiously prophetic quality. "God'll fry you all for what you Clavers done."
"And what have we done?"
Ellis lifted a limp hand that took in the desolation all around them. "Fucked the world."
Gahzee shook his head. "We withdrew from the world—you have only yourselves to thank for what you did with it." He spoke calmly enough, but doubt touched him again. And shame.
Ellis shrugged. "Don't matter now, I guess. Everythin's fucked. But somebody's got to pay."
Looking at him Gahzee thought, somebody already has, but he kept his thoughts, as he had his doubts and sense of shame, to himself.
He swung onto the bike. For a long moment they regarded each other, then Gahzee pedaled away. When he looked back, far down the long block, Ellis was still standing there, just staring at the blazing pyre. A shiver touched Gahzee and he pedaled quickly out of sight. A half-mile from where he'd left Ellis, Nanabozho rejoined him, loping alongside the bike as it bounced over the ruts and holes that were eating away at the roadway.
He heard Oktowanakskam's voice again.
The trick is not simply to acquire the knowledge, but to survive the lessons.
A simple lesson this time: Pay attention. Failure to do so resulted in finding oneself on the wrong side of Stalking Death. The hunted, rather than the hunter.
"Hey, brother," he told the coyote. "Next time a little more forewarning would be welcome."
Nanabozho yipped once, then ran quickly ahead. Gahzee had to pedal hard to keep up.
2
"Maki Ota, nan datte?" the doorman of the Hama Tanoba said as he ran Lisa's ID through a security check. He was a needle-thin man with a disconcertingly broad face that made him look like a ball on a stick. He had enough Nipponjin blood to work the door, but probably wasn't a yak.
Lisa tapped her deactivated buzz-stick against her thigh, wanting to give him a slap with it, with the buzz thumbed to high to wipe the leer off his face, but she wasn't stupid enough to think she'd get away with it.
The Hama Tanoba was a yak meat bar on the Strip, the fringe of the squats closest to the Plex where most of the clubs were, and the doorman'd be wired up to a computer-laser system, just like the kind the security drones inside the Plex had as part of their riot gear. They wore computer backpacks that also contained a power core, hooked up to a hand-held firing mechanism the size of a small rifle. The only difference between those of the drones and the doorman was that his wouldn't be so bulky.
The computer spat back her ID card, the doorman catching it with familiar ease.
"You got a green, sweets," he said, handing it back to her. "In you go. You need any frost or fibrewire, you come back and see me. Kinky Kyoto's the name—making you happy's my game, neh? You have yourself some fun now."
"Domo," Lisa murmured.
She gave Donnybrook a quick look, then swaggered into the interior of the club, leaving him behind on the bench where the other strongarms waited for their charges. The only security the yaks liked inside their meat bars was their own.
Though it was still early, the noise and glare of the place hit her like a slap. Leather boys and swagger girls, chinas and a few rats with the credits to blow, were all partying. Vid screens dominated the walls, playing the latest Yakiman vid at full aural and visual volume. On the slow spin of the dance floor, individuals were swaying to the fast rhythm of the vid, multicoloured glory lights flashing 3D holos all around them. Half the tables were empty. Those that were occupied were already overflowing with bottles and drink glasses. The waiters here were naked except for small bird costumes around their genitals that used their penises as bills. The waitresses might as well have been nude as well, with their long cloaks of black streamers that opened strategically with their every movement to show holographed dragon tattoos on their breasts and butts.
At any other time Lisa would have killed to get in here, just for the kick. Tonight all she wanted to do was get the job over with. Finger those chinas and get on to some serious yak-hurting. Kay's death was still a raw pain inside her; a hole that could never be filled again. Nothing seemed to help. Not even seeing Jammy Jim sitting with a couple of swagger girls in a corner. For just about as long as she could remember she'd had the hots for the vidjammer. Now here she was, finally in a position when she could waltz right up to him and give his admirers a little buzz-stick hint to shake their butts away from him, and she couldn't even muster up a smile behind her mask.
She went to the long bar at the far end of the club and ordered an Akari Fizz. Sitting on a stool, with her back against the bar and her legs crossed, sipping the Fizz, she made a careful survey of the room.
"Try a hot wire?"
She turned to see that a leather boy had taken the seat beside her. His temples had burn marks from his fiberdisc nodes and under his synth leather jacket he was wearing a bodysuit with a plasti-crotch. Nothing to be proud of, Lisa thought, as she raised her eyes. From his hand dangled a web of fine wire mesh holding a hot pink fibredisc chip.
"Guaranteed to fuck your mind."
She thumbed on her buzz-stick and slapped it lightly across his knees. He jumped at the contact.
"Bitch," he muttered and backed away.
She gave the room another slow survey then left the bar, her drink unfinished.
"Leaving so soon?" Kinky Kyoto asked as she collected Donnybrook at the door. "What kind of action you looking for, sweets?"
"Nothing you've got."
"Ja mata. You don't know till you…" he was saying, but she was out the door before he could finish.
Out on the street she leaned against Donnybrook for a moment, tugging up her mask slightly at the chin to give herself a flash of real squat air. The stink hit her like a line of frost. She was getting too used to the antiseptic filtering system of the mask. It was making her act too much like a real swagger girl would, and she didn't like it.
"How many's that?" she asked wearily.
"Who's counting? You want to call it a day?"
"It's a day," she said, but neither of them smiled at the weak joke. She looked down the street. "Guess the Oku's next."
She led the way down to the next meat bar.
* * *
By midnight the meat bars were hopping, but Lisa was beat. She and Donnybrook had gone from one end of the Strip to another, checking out the yak bars, the tong gambling dens, and every kind of club in between, without success. Even taking it easy, she had too much alcohol thinning her blood right now, leaving her a little light-headed. The dope and Tabaccanin smoke was so thick that it was starting to clog up her mask's filters. The taste that came through was still antiseptic, but it was mixed with something not so clean at the same time. It was sort of how you'd expect used ashtrays to taste.
"That's it," she said as they left the Tanaka Tanoba. "I need a break."
"You heading for the squat the Ragman set up for you in the Plex?"
Lisa shook her head. "I don't think I've got the energy to play the game right if one of their drones stops me."
"I got room."
The sexual innuendoes that had marked the beginning of their search had long since been put aside. Donnybrook knew she was hurting, and whatever else he might be, he wasn't one to push at a time like this.
"You know what I'd really like? To take that yak's Usaijin and head out into the badlands again. Not to where we…you know. Just to get away."
Donnybrook didn't question her. "You got it," he said.
He put his arm around her and steered her out of the Strip to where they'd stashed the scooter on their return from Kaoru's cairn. Lisa leaned gratefully against the solid presence of his shoulder and put her legs on automatic, happy to let him take the lead.
3
"There," the leather boy said. "That's them."
Kanji Yono stepped from the alley beside the Tanaka Tanoba and tracked the pair that the leather boy had pointed out. He gave a brusque nod. A swagger girl and her strongarm. The girl, according to their informant, had been in and out of the clubs all night, sitting at each bar with a drink, watching the crowds, making no moves, then leaving for another. It was possible.
He tossed a pair of hard credits to the leather boy. "Ugo-kuna," he told him. Get away. He waited until the boy was gone before turning to his partner. "What do you think?"
"It's worth checking out," Masao Sho said.
Yono nodded. "Ja mata. Let's see where they go, neh?"
This close to the Plex, it was better to be certain that what they had was a rat playing the swagger girl instead of the real thing. Oyabun Goro wouldn't appreciate having security drones sniffing around because a pair of his yaks got a little too eager in plain sight of their patrols.
The two big men split up, Yono continuing after the pair on foot, Sho waiting until his partner was almost out of sight before following on a two-man Usaijin scooter. When Yono gave a sudden wave, Sho booted the quiet engine into a higher gear and sped to join his partner.
"They've got themselves a Usai," Yono said as he climbed on back.
"Chiksho! Which way did they go?"
Yono pointed down a long corridor of a street, deserted tenements rising like walls, four stories high, on either side. Going that way would take them out of the squats and right into the badlands.
"What are they doing out there?" Sho muttered as he sent the Usaijin down the street.
"What does it matter?" Yono replied, leaning closer to speak. "Sa. She's the one we want."
4
When Yip returned to his apato from his briefing with Tomiji Takahata and his section head, Kimitake Aoki, he called up a plastican of Tombo beer from the pressurized fridge and collapsed in a chair to drink it. Popping the tab, he took a long swallow and stared moodily out the window.
The seventh-floor apartment was in the Baidai District, the middle-class suburbs of Sector Three. The only difference between this area and that of the lower-class Mazushii District was that the high-rise apato jutaku here were separated from each other by squares of Zen rock gardens, giving one some sense of space from one's neighbours. In the Mazushii only narrow lanes disjoined one building from the other, but even there no one complained of overcrowding. Not when the squats was their only other option. No matter where one lived in the Plex, at least you could always hope to move up in the world.
As he was doing now, Yip realized. The thought didn't please him at all.
Everything was changing. Too quickly. And the rewards that were coming his way—a better job, a raise in pay, a sense of greater worth in Ho Anzen's upper ranks—he hadn't earned any of it.
He had planned to inform the Combank that he wouldn't accept the yak deposit in his account, but then thought, why bother? The gesture would only be that. A gesture. The fact of the transaction couldn't be altered. It would remain in the Combank's system whether he accepted the credits or not.
What he should do, he thought as he started his second Tombo, was withdraw the deposit into hard credits, then take them down to the squats and hire some rats to make a kamikaze run on the oyabun. Who knows? They might even get lucky and take him down, though in the long run it wouldn't make any difference.
After years of inter-clan wars, Shigehero Goro's father had consolidated the various yakuza clans of the Trenton Megaplex under one oyabun. Upon his death, the younger Goro had continued his father's work, maintaining the yaks' war against the triads and tongs while taking over more and more legitimate businesses. They meant to rule the Megaplex and were slowly succeeding. And now that the Goro Clan had access to some Claver technology, the inevitable would be drawing closer that much sooner.
Yip sighed. The worst thing was that most of the Kaisha were run by Nipponjin, who, while they publicly professed abhorrence at the idea of the yaks ultimately having control of the Megaplex's corporations, privately preferred that to either the tongs or triads gaining dominion. At least the yaks were pure Nipponjin—in some cases, more so than the various Kaisha presidents and owners.
Yip didn't see it that way, but then he was a half-blood himself and part of a younger generation who believed that racism had been as much to blame for the world's troubles as individuals seeking power. Asian people had once been the minority on this continent. Now they were in the majority with—except for the dojin no in their Enclaves—the other races mostly relegated to the squats.
Live and let live, was Yip's credo. Rat or citizen, it didn't matter to him. They were all humans.
But he had his exceptions—those who had no respect for the rights of others. Like the yaks. He would be happy to see Shigehero Goro dead. The oyabun was a heartless criminal who cared for no one outside his clan. But even if Goro were successfully assassinated, there were a dozen lieutenants eager to take his place. The yakuza were more like a hydra than a dragon in some ways. When you cut off one head, twenty more would rise up to take its place.
And besides, Yip didn't have it in him. Moving against Goro through anything but legal channels would make him no better than the yaks.
Ja mata. Maybe he should just call up the Dragon Lady and spend those credits on a dinner with her in one of the Tonda District's restaurants, where most meals cost the same as about two weeks of his salary. His old salary, he amended.
He finished the Tombo and crumpled its plastican in his fist. Maybe he should just give the credits to Huan and let him burn out his nose on some top quality frost. Areya-koreya. One thing or another. What difference did it make?
His com-vid buzzed on his way to fetch another beer. He thumbed it on to find Fumiko Hirose regarding him from its vid-screen.
"Mushi-mushi," he said to her. "Why is it that I'm not surprised?"
"Yip-san?" she asked, obviously puzzled.
He studied her for a moment, but could find no trace of mockery in her features at the use of the honourific.
