Authors: Nyx Smith
“See me in my office first thing tomorrow. I… I want a full report. We have things to talk about.”
“Yes, sir. I understand, sir.”
“Good.”
Ohara jabs at the telecom, switches off, then tugs at a desk drawer.
The Power Master
just isn’t doing it for him tonight. What he needs is something heavy, a personalized track-loop called
Omnipower.
That’s his salvation.
The call from Enoshi only reminds him of the one real threat to his strategic plans, his accession to ultimate power, the fulfillment of all his goals. The police investigation into the deaths of Thomas Harris, Jorge, and Neiman are practically irrelevant compared to the monstrous evil that turns his sleep into a series of recurring, captivating nightmares, psycho-traumatic recollections of the horror that nearly killed him back in Seattle.
The demonic creature masquerading as a woman called Striper
must be destroyed!
He stabs at the telecom, gets Enoshi back on the line.
“Your top priority job, the special biz. You know what I mean. I want a report on that, too.”
“Of course, sir. I’ll do my best, sir.”
“See that you do!”
Ohara breaks the connection, scans the study for some clue as to where he might have left the
Omnipower
BTL chip. He can feel himself growing just a bit frantic trying to remember where he left it. There’s an excellent reason for that. Neiman, Jorge, now Harris—a progression pointing straight at Ohara himself. Those three men were nothing until Ohara took over Exotech, exploiting their abilities to the max. Doubtless, the demon knows that. Killing Neiman, Jorge, and now Harris is just her way of preparing him for the death she yearns to give him. She wants him to suffer, to squirm, to writhe in unholy agony until the moment when she comes for him.
Ohara won’t give her the satisfaction. He finally finds the
Omnipower
chip in his private bathroom, slots it into the datajack behind his right ear. He realizes then that he’s in absolute control, not only of his emotions, but of his entire situation. He knows what must be done. He returns to the study and calmly punches up the number of Birnoth Security Associates, the emergency line.
The woman who answers promises to have a high-threat response team at his door within twenty minutes.
The time passes swiftly.
29
Seated in his small but comfortable den, still in shirt and tie, Enoshi removes his glasses to rub briefly at his eyes. The tension headache that has been plaguing him all evening shows no sign of abating, and little wonder. His briefcase sits open on the coffee table. The cursor of his portacomp winks relentlessly at him from the display. An abundance of hard copy lies scattered around him on the table and the sofa. The air is full of the smoke from the spent cigarettes now overflowing the ashtray. He’s poisoning himself with carbon monoxide, or whatever it is that cigarettes produce, and he’s probably overdue for an eye examination. And he’s out of coffee again.
A rustling of slipper-clad feet draws his eyes to the doorway from the kitchen. Without his glasses, he sees only a colorful blur, but that’s enough. His wife is wearing her favorite robe, which is a soft pink decorated with white chrysanthemums.
“It’s after two,” she says softly.
Enoshi nods. “Yes… yes, I know.”
Setsuko is a very different sort of woman from Enoshi’s mistress, neither exotic nor the least bit foreign. She is, rather, as familiar and as comfortable as one person could possibly be for another. She is quiet and persevering, his wife and the mother of his children, a trusted and devoted partner whom he would not forsake for anyone or anything. His love for her is more than love, physical love, more than infatuation. It is the sort of love that will certainly hold the two of them together for the rest of their lives.
Enoshi slips his glasses on. “I won’t be long.”
“Something must be wrong.”
“I wish I were free to say.”
“It’s that
gaijin,
isn’t it?”
“Ohara-
san
is my superior.”
And for that reason, if no other, Setsuko should not speak of the man as if he were some kind of barbarian. They’ve had this discussion before. Ohara-
san
’s position demands respect.
“Yes, I know that,” Setsuko replies. “Please excuse me. But it
is
him, isn’t it?”
Enoshi nods. “I must make another call.”
“I’ll wait for you in bed.”
Setsuko bows slightly, to which Enoshi responds with a slight bow of his head. As she turns to leave, Enoshi keys the telecom, tapping in a number he knows by rote, one he could never forget. It is too important.
The other end bleeps twice, then the grave features of Torakido Buntaro appear on the screen. Some of his North American associates refer to the man as Ben, but he is always Torakido-
sama
to Enoshi, even in his thoughts. Enoshi bows his head fully, and says,
“Moshi-moshi,
Torakido-
sama
.”
“Yosh…
�
Torakido-
sama
says softly, more a grunt than a word. “What have you to report?”
Enoshi gives a succinct recap of his conversation with Bernard Ohara, first the facts, then his impressions of Ohara’s response.
“Did he seem unbalanced?” Torakido-
sama
asks.
“No, Torakido-
sama
,” Enoshi replies. “He sounded greatly disturbed, but apparently sane.”
This time Torakido-
sama
actually does grunt, a sound Enoshi perceives as one of thought and evaluation. As he has come to realize, the vice-chairman of the board of KFK International does nothing without at least a moment of thought. He is decisive, but not given to impulse. Unlike other executives Enoshi knows, Torakido-
sama
gives the impression of being fully in command, the master of his own fate, without ever appearing to seek to give that impression.
Enoshi waits for his next question or remark.
“Have you any more information on the matter we discussed?”
The matter previously discussed is Bernard Ohara’s hiring, through Enoshi, of those persons necessary to ensure the elimination of the underworld assassin known as Striper. As Torakido-
sama
himself previously explained, this action is both good and bad. It is good, In Torakido-
sama
’s view, that an executive of the corporation should take whatever measures are necessary to eliminate a threat to his own person, and, hence, the corporation. However, it is also bad for an executive and therefore the corporation to become involved with shadowrunners and other criminals. Any action that might compromise the welfare of the corporation must be considered very dangerous. It is especially dangerous coming on the heels of the highly illegal and morally despicable Operation Clean Sweep.
Each new operation adds to the risk of discovery, exposure. Torakido-
sama
is deeply concerned.
Unfortunately, Enoshi has no further information to convey.
“You must watch this matter very closely, Enoshi-
kun,”
Torakido-
sama
goes on to say, using the familiar, almost paternal form of address. “The image of our corporation could be severely damaged if the worst comes to pass.”
That Torakido-
sama
would bother to say this only emphasizes to Enoshi the depth of Torakido-
sama
’s concern. Enoshi bows. “I understand, Torakido-
sama.
Please be assured that this matter is utmost in my mind, day and night.”
“As it should be. As indeed it must be. We are
daikazoku, neh?
One great family? The shame of one is the shame of all.”
Enoshi replies immediately, and gravely, “Yes, most definitely, Torakido-
sama. Daikazoku.”
In Enoshi’s view, Torakido-
sama
is every bit as ambitious as Bernard Ohara, but with one critical exception. Torakido-
sama
’s loyalty to the corporation of Kono-Furata-Ko and all its subsidiary units and all its employees is beyond question. The course of his career is guided by the needs of the corporation. If Torakido-
sama
has trod on any backs in his rise up the corporate ladder, those backs belonged to his immediate rivals, men who lacked the vision or loyalty to serve the corporation properly.
Enoshi believes that Torakido-
sama
’s karma is great and that he is destined to one day take full control of KFK. It is Enoshi’s hope that when that day comes Torakido-
sama
will remember the loyal service and devotion to duty of those who rank below him.
Even now, at this late hour, in this uncertain situation, Torakido-
sama
is magnanimous. He smiles. He addresses Enoshi in a warm tone, as if speaking to a close friend. “Of course, you will do your best. You have always done so, and I know you will continue to do so. I have great confidence in your ability, Ken.”
Enoshi smiles with pride and pleasure and briefly bows his head. “Thank you, Torakido-
sama
.”
“Your oldest son? He will be preparing for college soon,
neh?”
Enoshi again bows his head. “Yes, Torakido-
sama.
In a few more months.”
Torakido-
sama
’s expression turns sober. “College is an important step in a young man’s life. The entrance examinations can be very challenging. I’m sure that you and your wife are aware that the right tutors can provide a distinct advantage.”
“Yes, Torakido-
sama.
That is certainly true.”
Torakido-
sama
gazes at Enoshi for a moment, then shows the faintest of smiles. “Of course, the best tutors are difficult to engage. They are in great demand,
neh?
I will give you a few names. Certain highly recommended tutors have available slots in their schedules. You should call them immediately.”
The tutors Torakido-
sama
names serve the corporate elite. Merely to seek an appointment requires that one have the proper referral. Enoshi had previously considered such tutors far beyond his reach. He bows deeply, overwhelmed, barely able to contain his gratitude. “Thank you, Torakido-
sama.
You are most generous.”
“It is my duty,” Torakido-
sama
says simply. “But enough. You have served our firm well tonight, and it’s very late. Go to bed, Ken. Men of our age need their rest.”
“Yes, Torakido-
sama.
Thank you. And good night.”
30
The warehouse is six stories of grimy brick, squat and square, and very wide across. It stands north of Franklin Bridge and just east of the interstate, amid the congested confusion of streets and buildings crammed between the highway and the waterfront. The garish neon sign rising from the warehouse roof proclaims:
DELGATO MOVING AND STORAGE
PHILADELPHIA’S PRIMO MOVERS
Axle hangs almost motionless in the night some five hundred meters above the rooftop sign. In reality, he’s sitting in a van on the ground, but that is a trivial detail. He’s jacked into his heavily modified Mitsuhama control deck and flying his Aerodesign Condor LDSD-23 surveillance drone. It’s like hanging from a balloon, dangling in empty air. Hydrogen gas cells provide lift. Turboprop rotors keep him on station. His eyes are Versatek zooms, thermographically enhanced, with a heads-up display in targeting mode feeding him data from his ground-seeking radar. He can see practically the whole world beneath him, every direction at once, kind of like looking through a super wide-angle lens, but without the distortion. Targeting sights direct his attention to everything that moves in the vicinity of the warehouse.
Rats, a flight of birds, an alley cat—another hour of this and he’ll succumb to terminal boredom.
“Anything?” Hammer asks.
The voice jogs his brain in odd ways. For just an instant, he loses touch with the jacked-in analog of his drone senses and he’s back in the van, behind the steering wheel. He
must
be bored. A quick image, more a memory than anything else, flashes through his mind. He sees the inside of the van. Hammer in the passenger-side front seat, Mickey and Dog Bite and Dana sitting in the rear. They dumped Angel, the decker, at Dana’s old place a few hours ago.
“Axle!” Hammer growls.
But for the lights of the glaring sign on the roof and a few spotlights illuminating doors and the loading dock in the rear, the warehouse is dark. Deserted, too. “Nothing’s moving.”
Hammer grunts.
Axle won’t be surprised if tonight’s surveillance turns out to be a waste of time. The biker biff that led them here claimed that Striper had a doss on the upper floor of the warehouse. There’s an apartment there all right, but no Striper. Dana’s inspected the whole building astrally, not once but twice already. All she found was an empty apartment and a lot of packing crates and cartons. The only unusual thing she reported was an “ambiance of violence”. What that means is anyone’s guess. Axle supposes that the warehouse may have once been the scene of violence in the past, but how that applies to their situation now, if it applies at all, he hasn’t got a clue. Neither does Dana, apparently.
Abruptly, a warning bleep sounds in his ears. A targeting sight zips across his field of vision. He zooms in automatically. Way down below, in the deep shadows between the buildings, something’s moving toward the warehouse.