B-spine Page 5

  “Methodology – there’s nothing elaborate about this part. Five Chalks of ten men leave by Amtrak before week’s end. Frog One’s given the hit list but we’re not going in shooting until we get eyes on every building and facility. We scope them, go back to schematics then scope them again. Once we get the word to go loud, we’re prepped and ready to hit them one at a time and topple them like dominos. Chalk One takes target one, Chalk Two the next and so on in a constant rotation. I’ll go into details with Chalk leaders later but for now, someone hit the lights…”

  He stood in the glow of a Slate linked to an overhead projector, touching the screen to bring up maps, satellite images and street-level shots while he talked.

  “Background first, not that you need it for Meat4 Power. If you didn’t work for M4 before you came here, chances are your mom and dad still do. They’re one of the original big six livedrive congloms that formed out of pre-Hub GM food and genome tech industries. They’re dominant in the Toronto Hub because they built it, backing the federal concept of low consumption, high-density housing in return for a guaranteed marketing monopoly.

  “They own Toronto the way DuPont Zimmerman own Chicago although probably more strongly. Since M4 hold the copyright on B-spining and since it’s the procedure that gives every livedrive a workable power-to-weight ratio, Washington’s got a history of looking the other way with this company. That should give us operational latitude but doesn’t give us the right to break any laws. Remember that.”

  Hemblen brought up a map of the North American Union, the empty drought States in the west shaded gray, the sixteen Hubs joined by rail links. He pointed to the Seattle Hub, the NAU’s last remaining contact with the Pacific.

  “If your parents are model M4 employees, look to any scagband gig for average Bostov recruits. They’re a young, aggressive company run by young, aggressive people and Frog One feels that Bostov are little more than a gang with corporate trappings. They’re small scale and have made a name with some fancy livebikes but the details are kind of sketchy…

  “Eight years ago, a venture capital firm took a federal grant and founded Bostov in the Seattle Hub. Its initial purpose was to breed foodstock and wetware for the Marine Corps, back when they were spearheading anti-resettlement sweeps down the Pacific Coast.

  “Bostov excelled at food production. Six years ago, they hit the newsfeeds for the first and only time when it was announced that the rivers of Washington and British Columbia had salmon in them for the first time in forty years. Bostov had released recoded fish that could survive the algal blooms that choke the Pacific. This bioengineered but essentially wild stock has since become a major element of the Seattle Hub’s diet and restarted the West Coast fishing industry. Oddly, Bostov don’t seem to have made a cent out of it. Since they run neither fishing fleets nor commercial inland netting operations, they’re either saints or fools.

  “Even stranger is that having won that Hub’s hearts and minds, they abandoned it. Five years ago, Bostov started moving manpower and machinery out of Seattle in direct contravention of federal transport restrictions. They paid millions in fines and reduced the volumes of shipments but kept on rolling eastwards. Currently, their power base is the Denver Hub.

  “By relocating existing hardware and manpower instead of recruiting locally, they’ve managed unprecedented set-up times and also maintained a tight core of their original staff. We don’t know the names of Bostov management, or whether they’ve got management at all. Like I said, they’re like a gang franchise with each Hub run by a self-contained cell. They’re currently spread wide but thinly. Most Hubs have small pharms producing specialist wetware for medical pumps, vehicles and the construction industry.”

  Hemblen nodded for the lights, took a drink of water and looked around. “That’s my briefing, folks. Anyone got questions?”

  Joe Bydalek, Chalk Five leader: “We’ve got Sue For Peace and PINTO on our side. Who’s Bostov going to use?”

  “Good question. Bostov security is handled by Aurora Bor, a mercwar outfit from the Seattle Hub formed the year Bostov started moving east. Since they don’t seem to have taken contracts from anyone but Bostov, that would make them Bostov’s private – and totally illegal – army. Monty’s checked with the Union and Aurora Bor are already under investigation. If we’re lucky, taking down Bostov in Denver will speed their demise.”

  Ben Auclair, Chalk Three medic: “I appreciate that Meat4 Power are holding serious green. How much money are we talking about on this one?” The question got a ripple of laughter.

  “Frog One has identified forty three targets in the Denver Hub. The lowest insurance is five million, the highest are three manufacturing facilities insured for over a hundred million each. Capture bonuses would be a million three for each Crash The Pad employee, assuming we take every one. You’d get combat pay and win bonuses on top of that for every assault you participate in. That enough for you?” The whoops and whistles said it was.

  Chip Penny, the new guy. “You said each Chalk will take its turn to attack. Why bother? Why not send everyone in at the same time and get the job done in a fifth of the time?”

  There was a murmur of agreement and Hemblen felt his stomach roll. He’d brought this up with Monty before the meeting and they’d disagreed. His boss thought that everyone should know everything, Hemblen didn’t. These were soldiers. They needed to know what the target was and when to hit it. Anything else, like finding out the whole operation was a diversion, would be a distraction that might get people killed.

  “Meat4 Power don’t just want to take Bostov out, they want to be seen to be taking them out,” he said. “They feel that the longer we take, the more mileage they’re going to get out of it.” It was the truth. Kind of.

  Shannon Ruttenberg, Chalk Two leader: “What’s Meat4 Power’s beef with Bostov? They hardly seem big enough to bother with.”

  Hemblen hesitated again. They were asking all the questions he’d be asking. “Why hit Bostov? Frog One’s official line is that since Bostov are encroaching on their Meat4 Power’s marketing territory so aggressively, it’s better to take them down now rather than later. I checked this out and it seems doubtful, since Bostov retails less than one percent of the wetware in the Toronto Hub. More likely, Bostov are linked to a string of recent attacks on M4 research facilities. Monty’s found at least six bioweapon attacks on remote sites dating back to last October.”

  Travis Richards, Chalk Three leader: “Bioweapons? You mean like bug bombs?”

  “Well shit, Travis,” said Hemblen, “that’s the big maybe in this deal and you know why? Because bug bombs turned up twelve years ago during another wetware-to-wetware mercwar. These days they’re practically street-level munitions but back then, cryostored insect swarms were cutting-edge weaponry.”

  “They’re still bitching mean,” said Travis. “The government bans guided weapons but guided insects are a loophole no one’s closed yet.”

  “Here’s the thing though,” said Hemblen. “The first bug bombs appeared during Praxis-Koi versus Walthauser Jen and killed mercwar guys on both sides. Modified armor kept most of the bugs out until five years later, when Vespula Visage went up against Cooper-Rembrandt five years later and modified bugbombs with augmented insects still took their toll. Seems like wetware manufacturers like testing next-gen bioweaponry on each other.”

  Travis shrugged. “So what do we do? Pack insect repellent?”

  “Frog One’s keeping quiet on that one. Best guess is that insects are out and mammals are in. Meat4 won’t say since they’re probably got a weapons program too but what they are doing is letting us tour a pharm facility. Since we’ve got similar facilities to take down in Denver, we can check out lines of fire and layouts while getting educated about wetware. After all, what do we really know about steaknology?”

  Tom Pepper, Chalk One grunt: “I know wetware makes useless combat vehicles. We had some supposedly heavy-duty transport down on the Southern Wall. Got stuck with h
ungry trucks that got sick when it rained.”

  Jaime Calderon, Chalk One pointman: “Wetware’s just cattle that rattle, right?”

  Eric Yu, Chalk Four medic: “Yeah, foxes in boxes.”

  Travis Richards: “But if it bleeds, we can kill it, so what’s the worry?”

  Hemblen nodded. “Which proves we know nothing and that we’ve all got plenty to learn from a pharm visit. But I want to end on a word of caution.” He looked around the room at eager faces.

  “We’ve talked about making money but we haven’t talked about why we’re getting paid so much. This is a risky job, people. Individuals can and do get hurt.

  “Now I’ve done a lot of worthy things with Crash The Pad. We’ve defended our stretch of the Southern Wall. We’ve gone into buildings and rescued hostages. All that was righteous shit and we can be proud for knowing that we all did the right thing.

  “This gig though, it’s not about who’s right and who’s wrong. It’s about greed. Meat4 Power want what’s not theirs and we want to get paid for giving it to them. There’s no moral dimension to that and I don’t want anyone killed over it. Win, lose or draw, I want to see everyone pull through safely, okay?”

  He looked around at nodding heads and pulled a dog-eared laminated card out of his jeans pocket.

  “If we’re clear on that then let’s finish how we always finish. I am obliged by the Mercwar Union to read the terms and conditions under which the federal government of the NAU allows limited, controlled acts of aggression – hereafter termed mercwar – to be conducted within its borders…” Everyone was looking restless already so Hemblen put the card back.

  “To hell with it,” he said. “Let’s just shout it out.”

  They bellowed the mercwar mantra with one voice. The rules laid down by the Union. The rules that allowed them to fight.

  “Places not faces!” they roared.

  “That’s right,” said Hemblen. “Mercwar fights over fixed installations, not people. We’re not assassins and never will be. Two…”

  “Earn not burn!” they chorused.

  “Earn not burn,” he repeated. “Mercwar fights to change ownership of property, not to destroy it. The government allows us to fight only so long as we’re the cheapest, most straightforward option for big business, which means we keep the structures intact. And three…”

  “Stay down or go down!” they chanted.

  “Absolutely… stay down or go down,” repeated Hemblen. “Mercwar is a business to business confrontation between Union crews. Anyone else siding against us, anyone thinking about shooting at us from the sidelines, anyone who doesn’t keep their head down, we’re allowed to put them down.

  “Stick to the rules, follow your Chalk leaders and we’re heading for the top. Now let’s start to prep for this, people…”

  Tuesday 11 March

  05:09 am

  KIRSTY FIRST SEES Georgy five blocks south of Arclights, lounging in the back of a Cyclo pedal taxi that pulls up alongside while she stops at a red light, breathless and shaking and cursing for being dumb enough to compromise herself like that. Slate didn’t assign her yet she barged in without proper authority – dumb. She could have swallowed her pride and walked away but instead she recorded testimony she now can’t erase – dumb. Now she’s agreed to wait to be fed test results by a man without a first name. Dumb moves, each and every one.

  Then she looks over and sees him, slumped in the passenger seat bolted between the Cyclo’s rear wheels. The rider’s lean and lycra-clad and cocky like every other cycle taxi operator. She ignores him as he smiles and tries to make eye contact.

  She stares at the passenger instead. Hands shoved into a long leather coat, strands of greasy hair escaping a dark fleece cap and hanging over the sunglasses he’s wearing even though it’s still dark. She flinches as he pulls something out of his coat and points it at her, but its just his pale hand with two fingers extended towards her. “Pow, pow,” he mouths as the traffic light changes and she lurches into an unexpected right with his mocking laughter chasing her.

  At least she’s got work to occupy her now. Five o’clock is when construction crews are going to work and they’re starting to wake up to problems with their livedrive systems. Kirsty, suddenly wanting to be off the street and around other people, heads to where she’s needed.

  She cycles into the mallsprawl, the donut-shaped urban grid that sits between the industrial core of every District and its Clave-studded greenbelt fringes. The mallsprawl is what became of the suburbs when Hub designers displaced the drought-stricken West Coast’s population and crushed their cars into the steel substructure of the emerging Hubs. These days, everyone lives near where they work. Now you can walk, ride a bike or take the Tramtrax.

  If you drive a utivan, it’s work related and Slate guides her to one full of roofing contractors stalled by the roadside. They’re cold and late and pissed off. Kirsty peers at the underside and spots the pus-yellow of septicemia following a low speed shunt the day before. The driver says he thought it had been a minor fender-bender so Kirsty flashes her Maglight to show where the plastic wasteflow pipe has been pushed through the wetware’s sphincter wall, splitting the intestine and seeping excrement into the abdominal cavity. It needs surgery and medication so she uplinks requests for both. Slate gives her a work log number which she passes on to the driver, telling him to wait for help to arrive.

  Kirsty is walking back to her bike but stops dead at the sight of him. The guy from the Cyclo, sitting on a wall and sipping coffee from an insulated mug. She bunches her hands into fists a couple of times and looks back at the construction workers before deciding against running. She’s a federal officer. Despite the run-in at Arclights, she still believes she’s untouchable.

  “This is the second time I’ve seen you today, pal,” she says, stepping up as confidently as she can. “And it’s not even breakfast.”

  He nods, his hair swaying heavily. “Yeah, ain’t that a kick?” he smiles. “It’s ’cos I’m following you. Name’s Georgy.”

  She looks him over, rates her chances on taking him down as good. He’s about her age and might be handsome if he wasn’t falling apart. Underweight, chipped teeth, bad skin and dressed head to toe in cheap leather that’s nothing more than wetware offcuts stitched together, pressed and tanned. He’s not her idea of corporate security.

  “You with Meat4 Power?” she asks but he just stares and grins. “Because if you are, you can report back that I’m working a normal shift, just as agreed.”

  “If I was with them… and I’m not saying I am… that’s what I’d tell them.”

  “The guy back at the club, Bishop, did he put you onto me?”

  Georgy shrugs. “Don’t know names, don’t know details. Just took a call telling me where you were and what to do.”

  “It’s just that Bishop didn’t mention a tail and you’re kind of creeping me out.”

  “Well, new plan, get used to it. Until they tell me, I’ll be around, drinking my java, maybe playing a few tunes.”

  He sips his mug and she notes the big-bin headphones hanging round his neck. He’s dressed cheap but those headphones, they’re high-end. Bad skin and good stereos is a profile she’s seeing more and more these days.

  “You got the monkey on your back, Georgy?” she asks. “You tapped for thrilltats?”

  He eyes her suspiciously. “Ain’t illegal yet, is it?”

  “Not that I’ve heard,” she replies. “Call it professional interest. I like to keep up with new wetware and you’re the first scagbander I’ve been able to talk to. All the others, I just had to step over in doorways.”

  “Ouch. Are you always rude to people you’ve just met?” he asks.

  “Only the ones that are stalking me,” she replies. “You going to show me the tats or not?”

  He thinks it over before sweeping his greasy hair aside and turning his head. She sees intricate swirls of red and black running down his neck. “Four ounces so far. Maybe af
ter this job, I’ll be able to afford a couple more.”

  Turned away, his neck to her, he’s an easy target. She thinks about punching and running but hesitates. “What brand?” she asks, stalling.

  “New range from Arm Garbage,” he says. “The mood matches the music more closely. Euphoric highs with trance and dance, dark thoughts in empty places when I listen to scag bands.”

  “And what kind of music will you be getting high on today, Georgy?”

  He turns back and grins a lost-tooth smile and her chance to take him down has gone. “Depends on whether you’re planning to fuck me around or not, don’t it?”

  Seven thirty, the daylight flat and gray and still, Kirsty walks out of a residential block and Georgy’s outside, same as the previous three calls. He’s drumming his palms along to the music in his headphones and grinning so wide that Kirsty again feels the need to unleash some of the kickboxing moves she’s practiced so long and hard at her local gym. “So…?” she says.

  He drops the headphones round his neck. “So what?”

  “So why are you standing next to my bike? The last calls, you stood way over there and looked at my ass.”

  “You noticed that, huh?” He rummages in his coat pockets and she wants to kick him in the balls and crash a clenched fist into the thin bone of his temple. For a moment, she prays he’ll pull a weapon so she can shatter his knee with a roundhouse kick but Georgy pulls out a box instead. It looks like Slate, only palm sized.

  “Someone dropped this off and told me to show it to you,” he says. “They tell me it’s locked to your Slate so I can track you down any time, any place, any where.”

  “Then they’re shitting you,” she snorts. “Slate’s federal kit. Bomb proof casing, hack proof software, tamper proof hardware.”

  “Sure it is, so the data in there stays there. But yours isn’t one of the ones made for the government by the government. Yours is made in Toronto under license by Garplex who happen to be the electronics subsidiary of Meat4 Power. And the look on your face tells me you already see where I’m going with this.”