The Lucifer Deck Read online

  The screen dissolved to a close-up of Carla’s face. The on-screen image asked a question: "And what does the Humanis Policlub advocate as the solution to the ‘problem’ of metahumans? More brain-bashings?" Wayne’s fingers flicked across the keyboard, pulling in a series of one-second clips of some of the recent bash victims. Then he froze the screen.

  Carla studied it a moment. "Toss in the ‘bash back’ quote from the Ore Rights Committee piece we aired yesterday, and wrap the piece up with a five-second clip of the Los Angeles Meta Madness concert. The part where the lead singer leans into the lens and spits on it, then screams, ‘Frag the securi-goons. Madness must rule.’ That ought to stir something up."

  Wayne looked uneasily over his shoulder. "You sure you want to do that?"

  Carla smiled. "The only way I’ll ever get noticed by the majors is if I get down ’n’ dirty and prove I can muckrake with the best of them."

  As her editor worked, she watched her image on the second monitor. Long black hair pulled back in a single braid, dark hungry eyes. The right eye tracked a fraction of a second faster than the left; hidden behind its iris was a miniaturized cyberoptic camera. Subdermal fiber-optic cables one-tenth the diameter of a human hair carried the images it recorded to a data display link implanted behind her right ear, next to an audio recorder. A datajack just below it had allowed her to download the images that Wayne was manipulating. The shots of herself, repeating the questions she’d asked earlier, had been mixed in later.

  Two years after her surgery, Carla was still getting used to her new face. Wider cheekbones, a slightly flared nose, and melanin boosting had shaped her into a passable replica of an Indian. The Native American Broadcasting System actively denied any racial bias in its hiring practices, but one look at its anchors told the story. Someday soon, Carla hoped to leave KKRU’s nuyen-pinching behind and move up to NABS. Their producer had promised her a slot if she could demonstrate to him that she had what it took to "play hardball with the big boys." By that, he’d meant the ability to do tough, investigative pieces—the kind that probed deep into the dark underbelly of the corporate beast. "Show me something worthy of NABS, and I’ll give serious consideration to your application." he’d said.

  Carla was determined to do just that. And soon. Her exclusive interview with the leader of the local Humanis Policlub chapter was a good start. But it would take a bigger story than that to prove herself.

  On the trideo screen, the Humanis Policlub leader was droning on. "We do not advocate violence." He favored the camera with a sickly smile. "Just segregation. Metahumans belong with their own kind. They’re not happy in the general society. Those of us of pure stock make them feel inferior. And we don’t want them mixing with us. Can you imagine one of those rabid, hulking orks, dating your daughter?" His mouth curled as if he’d eaten a spoonful of warm drek. "Or your son? Do you really want a goblinized grandchild?"

  "And cut." Carla said, stabbing a finger against the on-screen menu. "Add a clip of those three ork kids that were bashed the other night, and fade with some Meta Madness music. Then patch in my usual sign-off and the station call letters and it’s a wrap."

  Stretching, she looked around the editing booth. Someone was tapping on the glass window. Opening the door beside it, Carla stepped out into the studio. "Yes?"

  Masaki, one of the other reporters, jerked a thumb at the monitors that lined one end of the newsroom. One of the screens showed a view of the front entrance of the KKRU building. A young ork sat on one of the synthleather lobby chairs, hands clenching the fabric of his jeans. The kid’s eyes darted nervously around the room.

  "Some ork kid claims to have a hot story. Won’t talk to anyone but Carla Harris, ‘ace snoop’ for KKRU Trideo News."

  Carla stifled a yawn. It had been a long shift, with three hours’ overtime. "Did he say what it was about?"

  "She." Masaki shrugged. He was overweight, and spoke with a wheezy voice. A graying mustache and beard framed his soft mouth, but his cheeks were clean-shaven. "The kid muttered something about your series on Humanis Policlub. When I pushed for more, she froze up. Hard to tell if she’s got anything worth saying. But there might be something there."

  Carla snorted. "Trying to steal my story, eh, Masaki?"

  He grinned at her. "Can’t blame a snoop for trying."

  Carla walked down the hall toward the lobby. Pausing before the reception area’s tinted door, she put her cybereye in record mode. The kid was probably just another Streeter, vying for her fifteen seconds of fame. But it didn’t hurt to shoot a little trid, just in case.

  "Hi, kid." Carla crossed the room with smooth, graceful strides, intending to settle on the chair beside the ork. But halfway across she caught the odor that clung to the kid. Had the girl been sleeping in a trash heap? Wrinkling her nose, Carla chose a chair a couple of meters away. Her cybereye whirred as it telephotoed in on a tight head shot, then automatically focused.

  The girl visibly started at the greeting. Synthleather creaked as she leaned forward, resting on the very edge of her seat. The toes of her sneakers were poised on the polished tiles of the floor as if she were a sprinter preparing to run. Carla leaned forward in her best reassuring pose. "You got a story for me, kid?"

  The ork wet her lips and glanced up at the videocam that monitored the lobby. "Not here." she whispered.

  "Before I’ll let you in the studio, you’re gonna have to convince me you’ve got something." Carla prompted.

  While the ork chewed her lip, trying to decide whether or not to talk, Carla let her camera pan the girl. It was hard to tell how old these ork kids were. They bulked up quicker than normal children. Carla guessed the girl was in her mid-teens. A street waif, by the look of her torn clothes. And by the smell of her. Carla half rose, as if tired of waiting.

  "Wait!" The girl cracked her knuckles with nervous twists of her hands. Carla groaned inwardly. If the interview really cooked, she’d have to edit the noise out later.

  "That story you did, on the three orks that died." The girl’s lip quivered for a moment as she sucked in a deep breath. "Those were my friends."

  "Sorry to hear that, Miz—"

  "Pa . . . Pita." The girl answered.

  "No last name?"

  Pita shook her head.

  "And you want to make a comment on their deaths?" The girl nodded.

  "Sorry." Carla answered. "Old news. They died two nights ago. We gave it a thirty-second spot. Quite a long piece, considering the fact that it was the tenth Humanis Policlub bashing this year. Only the fact that their blood was used to paint the slogans made it newsworthy at all."

  The girl’s face suddenly paled. Carla sighed and hoped the kid wasn’t going to heave on the floor. Maybe she shouldn’t have been so blunt. But then, news was a hard-ass business.

  Carla nearly missed the girl’s whisper as she walked back to the door. Only the amplified hearing mod in her right ear picked it up.

  "Humanis Policlub didn’t kill my friends. Lone Star Security did."

  "What?" Carla spun around, cursing herself for not getting it on trideo. "You got proof of that, kid?"

  The ork met Carla’s eyes for a fleeting second, then dropped her gaze back to the floor. "I saw the whole thing. They were shot from a Lone Star patrol car. The cops tried to scrag me, too, but I ran away. Later I came back and saw ... and saw ..

  Tears spilled down the girl’s cheeks. Carla crouched low, giving her cybercam a better angle. She did a slow zoom until the girl’s face filled the eye’s field of view, let it linger there for a full three seconds, then pulled back to frame a head-and-shoulders shot.

  "My friends were already dead, but the cops were cutting the bodies with machetes." Pita whispered. "Then they used their blood to paint the slogans on the walls."

  "The autopsy didn’t find any bullet fragments in the bodies." Carla pointed out. "The pathologist said the wounds were consistent with an attack by edged weapons. I trust my sources. If there’d been anything unusual,
I’d have heard about it."

  "But there must have been bullet holes in the buildings where it happened." The girl looked up hopefully. "That would prove—"

  "It proves nothing, kid." Carla resisted the urge to shake her head. She kept the eyecam locked on the girl, waiting for any reaction. "Columbia’s a rough part of Seattle. Every building in it has its share of scars, many of them carved out by Lone Star guns."

  "One of the cops had a cyber hand. If you could find him, you could—"

  "Cybernetic enhancements are pretty common among cops." Carla countered. "There must be dozens of officers with cyberhands."

  "I know it was cybernetic, because it gleamed like chrome." Pita continued. "I couldn’t see the cop’s face, but I could see that."

  "A chrome cyberhand?" Carla asked. "It sounds like you got that one out of a comic vid. What you saw was probably an interface on the cop’s glove that caught and reflected the light."

  The girl winced, then stared up at Carla with angry eyes. "I’m not making this up."

  "I never said you were, kid."

  Carla sighed and deactivated her cybercam. "You tell a very passionate story, Pita, but the Star could refute every word you’ve told me. You’ve got no concrete proof to back you up. No firm details. And without proof, I haven’t got a news story."

  The ork girl dropped her eyes, her shoulders hunching in a defensive slump. Carla keyed her security code and opened the door that led back to the studio. She paused on the threshold, debating whether to offer the kid a few words of reassurance. She’d seen the bodies after the Policlub was through with them. If those were really the girl’s friends...

  But when Carla turned back again, the lobby was empty.

  3

  Pita sat in an alley in the shadow of a rotted-out chesterfield. She’d tried sleeping on it the night before, but the springs had dug into her back. Now she leaned against its padded arm, ignoring the musty smell of moldy fabric. She took a bite of a Sweetnut Puff and washed it down with some steaming soykaf. The doughy pastry made her teeth ache, so she tossed it aside. Then she dug inside her pocket.

  The alley was only faintly illuminated by the sodium light up the street. Tilting her hand to catch its dim yellow glow, Pita looked at the capsules that lay on her palm. Three pale white ovals that promised an end to the flip-flops that wrenched her stomach and the nightmares that plagued her sleep. They’d cost her plenty—an unpleasant favor for the off-duty DocWagon attendant she’d met at the local bar. She grimaced, still feeling his sloppy kisses on her shoulders and neck. It hadn’t been anything like what she’d had with Chen . . .

  Blinking away the sudden sting in her eyes, Pita tossed the capsules into her mouth and took a gulp of her soykaf. It was still hot enough to burn her lips, but she drank it anyway, not wanting the capsules to get stuck in her throat. Then she waited.

  She heard a rustling noise somewhere to her left and turned her head. A cat with a matted coat and torn ears emerged from a recessed doorway and began to nibble at the piece of Sweetnut Puff she’d tossed. It paused as it sensed her movement, then turned to stare at her. Its eyes were twin red moons, reflections of the streetlights at the end of the alley. Pita felt suddenly uneasy, as if the cat were looking into her soul. Somehow, the cat shared the hunger that burned inside her. Then the animal turned and scuttled back to cover, favoring one leg in an ambling limp.

  A wave of warm fuzziness washed over Pita. The Mindease capsules were kicking in. Her hand drifted out in a gesture of goodwill to the cat, willing it to return and share the bounty she’d offered. Her head felt like a balloon attached to a string, floating high above her body. Something hot flowed over her other hand, trickled down her arm to her elbow. The soykaf. It must have been burning her skin. Pita laughed, and raised the cup to her lips to take a drink. The dark liquid sloshed out over her chin. Her wide grin made it impossible to shape her lips around the cup, so she dropped it and watched the kaf splash in slo-mo across the cement.

  The bang of a metal door brought her head around. She frowned, peering deeper into the alley. The office buildings in this part of town had been closed for hours. Lights still burned in some of the upper stories, but only for the benefit of the cleaning crews. Were they coming out into the alley to empty the trash? Pita hunched down in the shadow of the chesterfield and giggled. This was just like playing Hide and Search, the virtual reality game she’d enjoyed so much as a kid. She even felt like a computer icon, all thin and transparent.

  A man staggered up the three steps leading to street level. He emerged from the doorway clutching his shirtfront, gasping as if he couldn’t catch his breath. Even though the drug blurred her vision somewhat, Pita’s low-light sensitivity allowed her to pick out details. The man was sweating profusely; the underarms of his expensive-looking suit jacket were heavily stained. His tie had been jerked loose and sweat plastered his dark hair to his head and trickled down his neck.

  The man took one staggering step, two, then collapsed on the cement in front of Pita. He landed face-first with a solid smack. When he turned his head, she could see blood trickling from his nose. His mouth gaped open wide and his eyes rolled back in his head. A strange burning smell rose from him.

  The Mindease stripped all of her fears from Pita’s conscious mind, burying them deep in the back of her brain. She sat forward, intrigued. Giggling, she reached out a finger and poked the man’s cheek. It was hotter than her soykaf had been.

  A dim red light appeared in his mouth and nose. Pita knelt forward, lowering her head to the cool cement to peer closer. The smell of burning meat filled her nostrils. Then a steady rush of smoke began pouring out of the man’s mouth and nose. Sweat steamed off his body.

  "Mega wiz." she whispered, wondering if it was only some crazy effect of the Mindease. Then her street instincts took over. She flipped the man over and patted down his suit pockets. The way he was dressed, this guy had to be a corporate executive, his pockets full of goodies.

  The first suit pocket held a smog filter and a melted Growliebar. Pita tossed them aside. The next held a folded hardcopy printout and an optical memory chip, which she palmed. It just might have a simsense game on it. The only other thing the guy had on him was a credstick. But even if it had a million nuyen on it, she wouldn’t be able to access a single credit of it. To do that, you had to give a thumbprint, retinal scan, or voice sample. And Pita didn’t have the technical knowhow to fake any of that stuff. She was just about to throw the credstick away when she spotted the magnetic keystrip on the side of the stick. Maybe, just maybe, it opened a locked door with something worth boosting on the other side. She slipped the credstick into her pocket.

  The man was flopping now like someone hooked up to an electric current and his skin was nearly too hot to touch. And something else weird was happening. White light was now pouring out of his mouth and nostrils, the beams straight as lasers. His movements jerked the light around in jittering arcs. As it did, Pita glimpsed a flash of gold around the man’s neck. It was a gold chain, hung with a tiny pendant shaped like an angel with outstretched wings. She reached for it.

  "Ouch!" One of the light beams brushed her arm. Even through the dulling effects of the Mindease, she felt it burn. A bright red line now creased the inside of her wrist. She jerked her arm back, afraid the burning light would catch it again, but the man had already stopped flopping and lay still, his head to one side. The beams now focused on the wall beside her, slowly charring the cement. Still giggling, Pita experimentally held the hardcopy she’d pulled from his pocket in the path of the beam and watched it burst into flame.

  Suddenly, the light beams slid away from the man’s head. They merged into a single ray of light that ricocheted off one wall and did a zigzag across the alley, bouncing back and forth from one tinted window to the next. The night was filled with strobing light as the light alternately broke apart into a scattering of laser-thin beams, each a different color, then melded again into a solid white flash that left Pita
blinking. It was weirdly beautiful, and at the same time terrifying in its intensity. At last seeming to find its way out of the alley, the light shot up into the darkened sky like a reversed shooting star. Then the sky lit up with a flash of sheet lightning. Pita waited for the thunderclap, but none came.

  The smell of burned meat was overwhelming. Pita couldn’t help but gag when she saw that the skin around the man’s lips and nostrils had blackened and was beginning to flake away. She glanced down at his wrist and saw a DocWagon wristband. A winking light indicated that it had been activated.

  Drek! The meatwagon could be here any second!

  The artificial calm of the drug dampened her fear. She wanted to curl up and sleep. But instead she willed herself to rise to her feet. The last thing she needed was to be questioned about a corpse—especially one whose pockets she’d just rifled.

  It took Pita a moment to orient herself. The Mindease was making her fuzzy, making it hard to think. With one hand on the wall, she staggered out of the alley. Dimly, she registered a man across the street, fiddling with a trideo camera. A tiny red light glowed above its lens. Pita smiled and waved at it, remembering how the cat’s eyes had glowed red with reflected light.

  The man’s head jerked up. He flattened against the wall, looking wary, tucking the trideo camera in against his body. Then he relaxed as Pita staggered past him.

  "Fragging druggie." he whispered under his breath. Lulled by the Mindease, Pita let his comment slide away like oil down a gutter.

  "Hey, Carla! Got a minute?"

  Masaki grabbed Carla’s arm, jerking her to a halt in mid-stride. Angrily, she turned on him.

  "No, I don’t have a minute, Masaki." she snapped. "In just thirty minutes I’m doing an interview at the Chrysler Pacific showroom. It’s going to take me twenty-three minutes to get there—longer, if traffic is bad. I’m already cutting it fine." Tucking the coil of cable she carried under one arm, she used her free hand to pry Masaki’s fingers away.