Chapter 13
After the meeting with Tanaka, I kept replaying the participants and the details of the upcoming manipulations in my head. All the pieces fit together harmoniously. I'd finish it in a month, tops. Could probably do it in two weeks.
The results are going to be explosive. I'll get Lucy plus one hundred twenty thousand eddies, Tanaka will get the illusion of justice served, and my mercs will get paid. We'll all live happily ever after, except for those who have to die in the process.
Once I have Lucy for myself and Tanaka's money hits my account, I can seriously think about retirement. I could put in my resignation. God knows I've been wanting to for a long time. To break free from the corp and then... Mmm! No more Abernathy, no more overtime, no more crappy reports and spreadsheets. Just the good life of a ruthless monster, forced to regularly consume human souls, in a city full of vice and street brutality. Glorious!
I even had trouble falling asleep because of the sudden rush of motivation. A clear and tempting goal was now in sight.
The next morning at work, I decided to look into Maine's fate. He didn't fit well into my plans, and I needed to quietly get rid of him somehow. I even drafted a couple of plans to hand him over to MaxTac and send him to a clinic, but the info monitoring system brought me a rather interesting report. I glanced through it quickly and then opened the attached summary from Channel 54. The headline read: "Massacre in Westbrook. The Morning Doesn't Start with Coffee."
The footage from the scene showed an alley between buildings and a coffee shop, all cordoned off by the police. The walls were pockmarked with bullet holes. Holographic tape blocked off areas where bloodstains and body outlines could be seen on the pavement. Most of the bodies had already been zipped into black bags by the medics.
I skimmed through the text. Early that morning, the owner of a small coffee shop called the police because of an argument between two customers. I recognized Maine and Dorio from the surveillance footage. The big guy survived Tanaka's kidnapping, but the cyberpsychosis was irreversible. The footage showed Maine first smashing up the coffee shop while arguing with his partner. Then they moved outside to the alley, where a police patrol caught up to them.
I don't know what the cops said to the merc, but Maine attacked first. Using his projectile launcher system, he took out two officers at close range. He did this and then casually continued arguing with his partner. Damn... The chrome had completely fried his brain.
What followed was expected: a shootout with the police, an attempt to escape, and then the arrival of SWAT and MaxTac.
"The cyberpsycho was neutralized. His accomplice was taken to the hospital but soon died from her injuries."
Rejoicing in someone else's misfortune isn't exactly right, but Maine's death definitely made things easier for me. The gang is gone. Lucy is in a vulnerable and uncertain state. The perfect time for me to make my move—but first, I need to get in touch with Faraday. Although, I'm not planning on calling or messaging that scumbag. I'll use another method of communication—a neurovirus or a bomb.
The workday was tough.
It was hard to focus on the bureaucracy when freedom was already on the horizon. A little hazy, maybe, but so enticing.
Later that night, Lucas gave me a ride back to my place. With Okamura dead, the ride felt a lot more relaxed.
I tried to get to bed early, but sleep just wouldn't come. I decided to head out to an entertainment district, take a walk past the bright storefronts, and sort through my plans in my head. Plus, I could get in a bit of practice with puppet control.
I grabbed a cab and soon found myself near Victor's clinic. This place felt familiar to me in more ways than one, both in my current and past memories. The gaudy neon signs tried to distract from the dark, foul-smelling alleys. I wasn't keen on venturing into those without some protection, even though I'd dressed down to blend in.
A lone cop was loitering around, trying to pretend he wasn't drunk, but he was stumbling like he was caught in a seven-point storm.
At a table down the street, two Tyger Claws sat, either keeping the peace or waiting for the chance to break it.
I wandered slowly, peering into shop windows and the tiny stalls of semi-legal stores. In one, I overheard a conversation between two self-taught techies repairing some ancient terminal.
"What the hell, Sammy?" one of them asked, working a screwdriver aggressively. "Look around. People are drinking, having fun. Why are we stuck here sucking dick, doing nothing?"
"It's called work, choom."
Man, I get you. But for now, I was enjoying a brief respite myself. I grabbed some cheap, chemical-tasting cocktail and settled down at a street food counter. Call Jackie? Nah. I'm not planning to stay long.
'Now then…' I started thinking, glancing at the flow of people outside. 'We set up an ambush for Faraday. Make it clear we know everything, that Militech won't save him. Scare him, lay down conditions and surveillance. After that, he hands over Lucy. We put on a little show for her and bring her in. And then…'
My attention was suddenly drawn to a tall, slightly unsteady man with the look of an actor, a slick corpo, or a merc obsessed with style. He staggered along like a sleepwalker, occasionally bumping into passersby. His expensive leather coat was unbuttoned, his eyes vacant, his face pale. Guys like him show up on the streets sometimes—overdosed, but not on alcohol. Either he picked a particularly brutal black braindance or got hit with a neural shock. Yet something about him piqued my curiosity. I scanned the guy and...
Nothing.
No recognition, no records in the database.
It happens. Good ICE, some plastic surgery, the right fixers doing quality work. The guy probably just wanted a little privacy in the age of total digitization. Prophet Gary would approve.
I reached out to the guy not just with a scan but with a multi-functional data thread. There was something on him. Not just a decoy script. Concentrating my netrunning skills, I made out a strange, semi-transparent thread. Thin, intermittent, swaying like a jellyfish's tentacle. It was incredibly complex and specialized, unlike a typical runner's virtual link with a target. No. It was more like my own abilities.
Could it be…
I'd stumbled upon the influence of another Night City demon?
I got up from the counter and followed the strange man, keeping my distance. I wasn't planning to tail him for long—too risky. I had enough problems of my own, but damn, I was curious about where fate was leading this sleepwalker.
Fate pulled him from the main streets into the alleys. I waited a bit, then slipped into the same alley, finding myself at a crossroads. Chasing after him wasn't worth it, but maybe there were cameras around here.
I hid in a niche beside a bolted door. Syringes, trash, the smell of urine. Not the nicest spot, but I wasn't planning to stay long. Leaning against the wall, I released threads, sliding through the nearby communication cables. Ah, there—some cameras. I hopped from one to another and spotted the sleepwalker.
The man had stopped in an empty dead end among looming fire escapes and humming transformers. An ugly graffiti of a many-eyed Maelstrom skull decorated the wall. Few windows overlooked the alley, and those that did had metal shutters. A shitty spot, even for taking a piss. Yet the guy seemed to love it here. He grinned broadly, lifting his dark-blue biotic eyes toward the sky, almost obscured by the wires and balconies above. The strange man whispered something under his breath, lips moving without sound. A look of utter bliss spread across his face. Was it some kind of drug, or a program transmitted through the wire? No one knew.
What did he see in that moment of bliss? Who did he imagine among the buzzing wires and balconies? I'll never find out.
Just as the man spread his arms, a heavy blade pierced him from behind. In a flash, a powerful electric shock coursed through the blade, leaving the night wanderer with no chance of survival. His body began to smoke immediately. His coat caught fire.
For a split second, a translucent silhouette of an assassin appeared behind the dead man. Two lenses glowed with yellow lights. Fully enclosed in high-tech armor, with incredibly fast movements—that's all I could discern. The scan didn't even pick up the killer. I wouldn't have had time to use the threads, and I wouldn't have dared to try.
Let's say we're both demons, but clearly on different levels of experience. I'm not ready to mess with such a chrome-and-data monster.
The assassin disappeared, leaving the burning corpse twitching in convulsions. It seemed that the assassin didn't just pierce the body with the blade and fry it with electricity—he left some kind of device inside that continued to burn the remains. A thorough job. They didn't just kill this guy. They erased his existence on every level. A powerful directed EMP pulse caused a collapse of his implants. Electricity fried the circuits. The flames disfigured his appearance. Maybe he could still be identified by his teeth or the prosthetics replacing them, serial numbers, stuff like that. But no information from his implants about his last hours could be retrieved. And would the police even bother identifying this charred body? Who cares. Time for me to get out of here.
'There are enough monsters in this city without me,' I thought.
Stepping out of my hiding spot, I bumped into three cyber-thugs. Cheap chrome, cheap bravado. I veered to the side, trying to pass by, but one of them blocked my path.
"Where you goin', choom?" asked some ageless jerk in a stretched-out T-shirt with a faded print, using that universal tone of a street punk.
"Heading home," I replied calmly. "And I'd suggest you do the same."
"Damn, check out his pretty face," laughed the second, hiding a hand behind his back. "Corporate, huh?"
This conversation was heading in a bad direction. I might have to use Kerenzikov. They weren't the scariest thing Night City could throw at you, but they definitely had guns.
As if to prove the point, the thug nearest to me pulled out a iron. A shitty Unity. If he tried to aim at me, I'd need to activate Kerenzikov and draw my Kenshin. Problem was, there were three of them. And they even had some sort of tactic. Two stood right in front of me, while the third was a bit further back, watching the alleyway exit. Two of them definitely had guns...
And then the solution to the problem came to me.
"Why so quiet, corp boy?" sneered the nearest one with the gun. "The air here's bad enough to kill you, and you're out here without your mommy, poor thing."
Oh. He even sing-songed his line. Trying to be mocking or perhaps poetic. Well, fine. I'll answer in kind. Switching to Russian, I began speaking, weaving invisible threads:
"Угрозы, насмешки, короны примеряют пешки. На лицах, отметки…"
(Threats, mockery, pawns wear crowns. On their faces, signs…)
"Что все они марионетки," I finished while taking over the body of the lookout.
(...that they're all just puppets)
He happened to be holding a gun—a makeshift revolver. I aimed it and fired twice at the head of the other armed thug, splattering some blood onto my real face.
The third, unarmed thug screamed:
"Vex, what the fuck⁉"
He lunged at his companion, grabbing his gun arm as if trying to stop him. Perfect. I jumped back into my own body, ignoring the chill in my fingers, drew my Kenshin "Phantom," and shot the bewildered Vex three times as his friend tried to pin him to the asphalt. Then it was the third one's turn. The metallic sound of the electromagnetic gun, the scent of ozone, and then silence.
Phew…
Well, I can now take out a pack of low-grade street thugs on my own without any health issues. Not bad. I didn't bother searching their bodies. They probably had no more than a couple hundred eddies between them. Better to leave quickly. I wiped someone else's blood off my forehead with a handkerchief and, stepping over the dead thugs, said:
"Not everyone gets to be Johnny Silverhand and screw over Arasaka. Most of the time, it's Arasaka screwing you."
I took a Delamain home, switching cars several times and making maneuvers to shake off any tails. Just in case. I also kept checking Cyberspace for any suspicious threads, but found nothing out of the ordinary.
Who were that mysterious killer and his victim? No idea. Should I get involved? Definitely not. I had a different target at the moment. Faraday.
The next day, Tanaka somehow managed to arrange things with Abernathy and Jenkins. I got a week-long assignment to investigate suspected industrial espionage at the Academy. Officially, some students were suspected of stealing proprietary training software. That was our cover story.
In reality, after spending twenty-two thousand on surveillance, insurance, and a hired bodyguard to avoid involving Lucas, I soon found myself at the fixer's hideout.
I wasn't planning on storming the place. It took about thirty minutes to circle around and study the house's defenses. Whoever set them up wasn't bad—probably Kiwi.
Then I connected to the fixer's computer and infected it with an outdated but still nasty Arasaka neurovirus, targeting respiratory and digestive implants. All that was left was to wait for the fish to take the bait.
Faraday was out of the house for a while. But then a Chevillon Thrax roared down the street—a heavy but well-armored ride. Two bodyguards got out first, followed by the fixer himself.
His guards weren't anything impressive. Cheap muscle, probably recruited from some dive club. Then again, keeping high-grade mercenaries with good chrome on standby is expensive. So, Faraday settled for some vulgar semi-thugs.
The fixer himself was quite the sight. Neo-kitsch. Style over substance. Flash, backed up by a fat stack of eddies. Do those three eyes on the right side of his face help him see better? Maybe two of them are just for show? Who cares.
In his maroon jacket with gold stripes on the sleeves, standing next to his bodyguards dressed like streetwalkers, Faraday looked more like a pimp than a fixer.
The trap worked after twenty-two and a half minutes. Wanting to transfer or download something, the fixer connected to his computer and...
That's when my digital tendril, lying in wait like a snake in the grass, struck. I used a soul-rip. (previously essence ripper) Faraday crumpled over his desk.
He gasped for air, his eye implants spinning in all directions. What? Don't like it? Well, the worst is still yet to come.
But I didn't have much time. The fixer's ICE had taken a hit, but it was already searching for the intruder. I left a message and ordered the guard to drive the car far away.
The message was set up like this: the computer monitor would go black, then display a scrolling line of large red letters, accompanied by a woman's voice mimicking an ad:
"Bad day? Headache and a creeping sense of dread? Got a deadly neurovirus? Only a few hours left to live? Call V! V from Arasaka Counterintelligence is still ready to talk to you right now. Don't waste a minute. The clock is ticking."
Then there would be contact details for secure communication. After that, the computer monitor would explode, erasing all traces of my intrusion.
A minute, two, three. Would he call, or try reaching out to his Militech employers first?
The call came through.
A moment later, a voice came from the other end, trying hard not to betray his fear.
"Is this Mr. V?"
"That's me," I replied with a smirk.
"I just got your message."
"I assume you didn't like the delivery method. Well, we didn't like what happened to Mr. Tanaka either. Have you sent the data to the client yet?"
"Not all of it. I sent part and am waiting for the rest of the payment."
Either he's lying, or Tanaka got really lucky.
"Oh, really? Wonderful. Now, here are a few technical details. The neurovirus currently playing around in your chrome and brains is quite special. It has two parts. A harmless, easy-to-detect top layer, and the submerged part of the iceberg that's about to eat you from the inside. If you try to remove the harmless part, nothing will save you. Because the 'antidote' is delivered through it. It's experimental," I boasted. "A custom order, and standard treatment is useless against it. I'm sure you've already experienced the unique sensations of the infection? Not quite like combat scripts, is it? They say it feels like a piece of your soul is being ripped out and dragged into the void."
I could hear the fixer's labored breathing. He believed my terrifying tale. Believed it and was afraid. The idea of having his soul torn out was indeed far from standard hostile software. It was easy to believe in a special two-part virus. Fear sees things bigger than they are, and Faraday had four eyes to see it.
"So, since we're having this conversation, does that mean we still have a chance to negotiate?"
"Exactly," I replied. "You started this game on the wrong team. You get what I'm hinting at?"
"And how do I switch to the right team?"
"For starters, instead of sending the second half of the data, you'll send the information that is a bit misleading in nature. Secondly..." I added with anticipation, "For full amnesty, you'll bring me one person. Delivered right to my doorstep."
"Name the person."
"She's known to you as Lucy. The backup runner of the now-deceased Maine's team. This needs to be done quickly, smoothly, and with minimal damage. You can manage that, Mr. Faraday, right?"
"Rest assured," the fixer replied, sounding noticeably more confident.
"Optimal approach is using an EMP pulse, no stronger than police-grade, a shard with the virus, and some neurotoxin. I'll send you a link to a good sample."
"I hear you. But what does Arasaka want with this street girl?"
"For now, what's required of you is action, not questions, Mr. Faraday. Time is running out. And you don't have much of it," I said, both diplomatically and ominously. "Consider this a test. A very important test."
"Understood, Mr. V. I'll arrange everything soon."
"That's the answer I was looking for," I said, my tone turning more friendly.
It seemed Faraday had managed to regain some of his composure even after the whole soul-ripping ordeal. He could smell the opportunity even through the stench of imminent death.
"If Militech swallows the disinformation, you could keep using me to string them along."
Ah, already dreaming of being a double agent. Probably hoping to become a triple agent later if the chance arises. What a breed of people these days! No shame, no scruples. Not like the good old Vincent Price... A blackmailer, murderer, chronic liar. But then again, I'm a reanimated corpse in the body of an Arasaka corpo. Considering all that, I'm actually behaving quite decently.
"For now, Mr. Faraday, complete my task, and do it as cleanly as possible," I reined in his ambitions a bit but then tossed him a bone with a hint of hope. "And afterward... Maybe the corporate gods will smile upon you. I'll be waiting."
I cut the connection. It had been a long time since I felt this good. Seems like Vincent Price's life is on an upswing. I'm sure there'll be more dark days ahead, but I need to ride this wave while it lasts.