The enemy made their move.
I was already drawing the Yukimura. Smart weapons are excellent, of course, but they need a moment to lock on. The punk, however, immediately fired his old piece at me. A shot rang out. Then another. I felt a heavy impact on my ribs that stole my breath. Immediately, my Yukimura answered with three rounds. All three hit the mark. The Yukimura defaulted its aiming to the head. Clumps of green hair and drops of blood flew onto the floor. My breathing hadn't fully recovered. The vest stopped the bullet, but the shot might have broken my ribs.
I had to remember the main thing—the enemies were also behind me.
I ran down, straight towards the punk, pulling the trigger again. Three more bullets turned the guy's face into a bloody mess. Alas, the Yukimura can't boast overwhelming power, but it hits accurately and reliably.
Steps clattered from above. At least two people. I hurried down, trying to catch my breath, but I clearly wouldn't make it. I turned to meet the enemies face-to-face. Although first, I saw their legs in worn-out jeans. I fired without proper lock-on, but one bullet did hit a thigh. Blood stained the jeans.
Two of them. Armed with a Liberty pistol and some kind of shotgun. Shit. They'll zero me right here! I threw myself backward against the stairwell, simultaneously targeting with the smart pistol. A fireworks display seemed to explode in my head, and everything was covered in a greenish haze. The Kerenzikov had activated. Falling backward, I shot in mid-air. One, two, three. I kept pulling the trigger as much as I could while the implant gave me a precious advantage. Three bullets to the face of one, and the same for the mug of the second. Having fired and hit the floor with my back, I rolled aside. They shot back at me. Both enemies remained on their feet, but my shooting had reshaped their faces. On adrenaline and covered in bloody snot, they were firing wildly.
Pieces of tile flew from the large-caliber buckshot. It reeked of gunpowder and blood.
I hadn't brought the Pulsar today, but I still had a holster with a Unity and a frag grenade. Should I risk it? What the hell. I ripped the pin, waited a moment, and threw it upstairs where the enemy guns were roaring. Then I quickly tumbled down the stairs, sparing neither my suit nor my bones. I was terribly afraid that the grenade, thrown by my clumsy hands, would roll back down to me.
I was spared.
There is no more reliable way to end a shootout than an explosion. About a hundred fragments from the grenade tore through my would-be killers.
Gritting my teeth, I stood up. My ribs ached terribly, my shoulders were bruised from the stairs, and my head was splitting. But the main thing was that there were no extra holes in my body.
If it hadn't been for the Kerenzikov, the body armor, and the trips to the shooting range, my second life would have been very short. All my Napoleonic plans could have been cut short by a couple of bullets. My head was spinning. I felt sick. Blood ran from my nose. The feeling was even worse than after the first full possession of the body. Was this the recoil from the implant? If so, then I was definitely no David Martinez.
Ugh.
He planned to take Kinosura and commit Voodoo Boys genocide, yet he struggled to take down three street rats.
I sent a message to Security about the assassination attempt and began searching the attackers. Five credit chips and a bit of cash, totaling about six and a half thousand. Well... I almost recouped my visit to Clouds. If I also sold their weapons, it would total seven and a half thousand.
Alright.
The most important question: what was this? An attempted robbery? Too many things don't add up. The chooms look like street gangers but have plenty of cash on them. They don't look like runners or techs, yet the elevator was disabled. A coincidence? Hardly. More likely a way to steer me into a trap. It looks very much like a targeted assassination attempt, but who sent them?
I was especially surprised by the choice of perpetrators. A well-planned trap, but instead of professionals, it was a trio of street trash. Strange. By paying a few grand more, they could have hired chromed-out brutes from Maelstrom. I probably wouldn't have survived them. Did the enemy simply underestimate me? Probably. They figured that three cyber-gopniks could easily turn an office sitter into a graveyard sleeper.
Before taking the credit chips, I carefully scanned them for fingerprints. I doubt the assassination organizer would have messed up that badly, but it's better to be safe than miss a clue.
Five minutes later, the security team arrived, and Jenkins called me.
— Alive, but I took a hit, — I answered the question about the results of the attack.
— You understand that an attack on you is, in fact, an attack on me, — the boss replied.
Oh yeah. Jenkins won't die from modesty.
— Go to the clinic. I'll temporarily expand your insurance to management-level coverage. Get checked for poisons, neuro-viruses, and all that shit. You can sleep in the morning. You can skip the meeting about Beijing and come in by noon.
Oh. I appreciate that perk. The clinic checkup is timely, though I need to be careful with scans for dangerous software. Otherwise, they might mistake me for dangerous software.
— You watch yourself there, V. Don't let yourself get flatlined. Especially not now. That would really mess up our business, you know, — Jenkins expressed his concern for my life and hung up.
— I'll certainly try, — I said to the empty air.
The stairwell was occupied by the security team. Black jackets made of shiny synthetic material, square faces, corporate implants. The downside was that they confiscated the weapons of the deceased. They insisted they needed them for reporting and the investigation. The upside was they confirmed that a runner had remotely disabled the elevator.
Voodoo Boys again? I don't think so. They are still scumbags, but I'm a valuable specimen to them. I believe in kidnapping and an attempt at enslavement. I don't believe in such a stupid assassination attempt.
Perhaps this is all related to the old V's past affairs. Some old enemy or offended contractor. Right now, I need to go to the clinic.
I fed the same story about experimental implants to the doctor. I insisted that the only diagnostics I needed were a physical check, not a software one. I hardly need to fear neuro-viruses. I think I could digest them in batches and ask for seconds.
The diagnostics revealed no poisons. There were several hairline fractures in my ribs, which the doctor minimally invasively sealed with some kind of gel. The chest pain was gone, but the headache lingered.
— You don't have very good tolerance for some types of implants, — the doctor stated after running another diagnostic. — Your body is not a construction kit. You can't just install a new part and expect it to work at a hundred percent immediately. You need to prepare the ground first. Train.
Ugh. It's ironic, of course. If my memories of the future are correct, David had a high-grade combat implant shoved into his body by a less-than-honest ripperdoc without proper stabilizing drugs, and the kid managed to use it several times in a row without immediately flatlining. And here I am. A corporate rat, whom ripperdocs treat with kid gloves. Pills, diagnostics, the best conditions. I almost flatlined from a single launch of the not-so-powerful Kerenzikov. David truly has a unique tolerance for implants.
Okay. I seem to have ultra-elite medical insurance right now. Alas, it's too early to jam new chrome into me. However, I can still gain some benefits from the insurance.
— Doctor, I've been targeted multiple times. This time might not be the last. I need so-called emergency self-resuscitation drugs. The best medicine can offer.
— Well, we usually prescribe drugs for a specific disease... — the doctor attempted to object with a soft smile.
— Assassins on my tail is a very common health problem in my profession, — I joked. — Almost like silicosis for miners. So, I urge you to apply some creative thinking. Write down whatever ailments you deem necessary. The company will pay. And I'll thank you personally.
As a result, for an almost symbolic bribe of five hundred eddies, I received a whole package of drugs of all the colors of the rainbow. Enough to rent a red Cadillac and drive to Las Vegas. I was especially pleased with four powerful stims. Some kind of potent cocktail of adrenaline, pressure stabilizers, and combat drugs. Such jokes could raise even a dead man for a short time. But no more than one at a time. My heart might not take it. Plus, I got a bunch of different painkillers, sedatives, and immunosuppressants. I think even half of this stuff could be sold on the black market for two or three thousand. It will come in handy.
And so, after all the adventures, I was home. The security team was still lingering in the stairwell, the elevator was working, and there were no more attacks.
Finally, sleep.
I could skip the meeting about Beijing, but Jenkins still woke me up with a message around nine in the morning.
"Security will assign you a driver-bodyguard."
— Driver-bodyguard, bodyguard-driver, — I said thoughtfully, peeling my eyes open.
On the one hand, this is good; on the other hand, he is loyal not to me, but to the corporate security service. He's not Jackie, whom I can rely on.
I met the driver-bodyguard that same morning. He was a tall, quite muscular man. Neither white nor Japanese. Brazilian, judging by his appearance and surname.
— Lucas Costa, — he introduced himself curtly, looking at me through dark glasses.
Lucas didn't have a deck or a Sandevistan, but he had a Kerenzikov better than mine and many other purely combat implants: artificial muscles, tendons, bones, and subcutaneous armor. I was more vulnerable to bullets in my vest than this guy was in just a swimsuit.
— My job is to drive you to work, from work, and to other places of interest to you, Mr. Price.
Even so. Not bad. Lucas would scare off street trash just by his appearance. However, I'm afraid my adversary will hire someone more formidable next time.
— You can just call me V.
— I communicate with colleagues according to recommended standards, Mr. Price, — Lucas replied.
Right. There are hot Brazilian guys, and I got a cold one. Never mind. It's even better this way.
In the office, many knew about the assassination attempt. I was met with sparse applause and obligatory smiles. I'm sure half of my lower-grade colleagues were thinking something like, "Man, if those bastards had shot straighter, I would have had a chance for a promotion!"
And once again, I immersed myself in the work process, thrice-damned as it was. Guys, maybe another assassination attempt? I'd even agree to four punks this time. Just give me a proper day off afterward.
The next two days passed in standard routine mode. Our agent in Zetatech unexpectedly put a bullet in his head, providing me with a ton of bureaucratic red tape. The classic two questions had to be answered: who is to blame and what to do?
Then an advance payment of forty-five thousand eddies. Nice, but I wanted more. Considering the expenses for training, my account now had 370-something. I need to start withdrawing everything in small amounts. Convert at least a hundred or two into cash and credit chips. Stash it all so that if I get kicked out of work, I won't be left penniless.
Work, range, sleep, strong coffee, work, and so on.
On Thursday evening, I was about to finish another spreadsheet, but then...
An alert.
The trigger I had set went off. An automatic report arrived. A cold sweat broke out on me. Could it be? Of course, there was still a chance it was something related to my main job, but...
Open message.
"Gloria Martinez. Event type: car crash. Request report on event?"
I felt a satisfied, crooked smile spread across my face. It's not right to rejoice in someone else's misfortune, of course. However, this means that my memories of the future are not just ravings. I requested the report.
And...
Everything matched. Every minute detail. She was driving with her son, a shootout, the Animals gang, delivered to the hospital. Very soon, Gloria Martinez will die. This death will set off a whole chain of events and pull the threads of the fates of many different people.
But right now, she's still alive. She must be, if the memory of the future isn't deceiving me.
I tracked which hospital Gloria was taken to. Not the most pleasant place in Santo Domingo. Getting the attending "doctor's" phone number was easy. Now all that was left was to go out for a smoke and call there.
— I'm calling about Gloria Martinez. Is she with you?
— Yes. We have her, — they answered on the other end. — Are you a relative? A colleague?
— Not a colleague, but I'm calling regarding work, — I threw out the first line. — You will transfer her to intensive care immediately and make a great effort to keep her on this side of life a little longer.
— I don't know who I'm talking to right now... — the quack began in a rude tone, because I didn't want to call this sub-par individual in a medical mask a doctor. — But first, we get the money or insurance guarantees, and only then...
— You will do everything, and I will come soon and tell you what you need to do next. You will definitely help me, — I said in a cold and confident tone.
— And why is that? — the quack asked distrustfully, but no longer so brazenly.
He had apparently taken a closer look at my virtual avatar. One glance there was enough to recognize a Corpo.
— Money, power, if that doesn't work, then threats, hired goons, violence. So? Do we take the money or open the black box?
He probably didn't appreciate the joke about Wheel of Fortune, but he grasped the general direction of the conversation.
— Money, of course, — the quack quickly agreed.
— Excellent, — I replied in a honeyed-bastard tone. — I'll be there in about two hours and twenty-one minutes. Naturally, our conversation must remain confidential.
After all, corporate life has its big advantages. Big advantages that strongly resemble the crosses on other people's graves. Power, arrogance, a feeling of impunity. I probably would have even tried to hold onto the corporate position for as long as possible, if it weren't for two things. Firstly, the habit of colleagues to throw, set up, and devour each other with greater pleasure than wild AIs do to their own kind. Secondly, reports, dammit, spreadsheets, fuck.
Immediately after work, Lucas drove me to the Santo Domingo district in yet another rented car. Our impenetrable black sedan sped through the night streets toward someone else's sorrow. Closer to the clinic, I ordered him to slow down. The car gently reduced speed. My attention was drawn to a thin teenager standing at a crosswalk with a black bag in his hands. His entire face was covered in scrapes, his forehead crossed with bandages, and his school uniform was wrinkled. David Martinez himself. He had just picked up his mother's belongings and was going home—to look for money for the operation. His appearance was certainly not very presentable, let alone menacing. The corporate symbolism on his uniform looked like a mockery. It was hard to believe the destructive potential hidden in this kid. Slap enough implants on him, and you get a real monster. My body can barely handle the Kerenzikov. But now his life was poised on the brink of an abyss, and I was sitting in a luxury car, sipping champagne.
— Let's go, — I nodded to Lucas. — Park behind the clinic and come in with me.
The Brazilian asked no questions. He acted with the silent obedience of a golem.
The quack came out to meet us in the parking lot. Seeing the bodyguard, my expensive jacket, and my arrogant face, he immediately understood who he was dealing with. He became nauseatingly compliant, practically hanging on my every word.
My desire to visit Gloria's room did not elicit a single question or complaint. Power simplifies everything greatly. The woman lay in a cramped two-bed room with a flickering light on the ceiling. White tile on the walls and floor. Smudges from poor cleaning, lousy equipment, and a faded poster of a tropical island on the wall.
In the room of artificial summer
We lie on a tiled table
And in the rays of artificial light
Wounds congeal like jelly...
I approached closer, observing the woman's sleeping face. Gloria looked so peaceful. A deserved rest after long years of self-sacrifice in an attempt to secure a future for her son. She was wearing only a short hospital gown. Gloria looked so vulnerable and fragile. The wire connecting the port on her neck to the medical equipment looked like a thin thread of her life. I gently ran my fingertips over her exposed shoulder, below which a bruise was spreading.
— R-respected... — the quack spoke softly and fawningly. — If... well... If you like her... We could... let's just say... Arrange delivery. Wherever you say. No unnecessary witnesses or problems. I guarantee you that.
So that's how they care for patients here? A wonderful establishment. I was already starting to doubt whether Gloria Martinez could have died a natural death or if her life was destined to be cut short by the malicious will of some pervert.
— Not yet, — I replied. — She will stay here. For treatment. She will remain here until I authorize her discharge. No calls, no visits. If she tries too hard to leave—give her a sedative. Just nothing dangerous, understood? Don't skimp on the meds.
— Of course, Sir.
— That's not all. Do you have any unclaimed corpse?
— Oh... We have a whole morgue full of that. Homeless people, addicts, gang members.
— Find a body. Tomorrow morning, call her son David and tell him that Gloria has passed away. A sharp deterioration in health. Immediately perform cremation at the clinic's expense and give him the urn with the ashes. Burn the unclaimed corpse. Give him that ash.
My ideas clearly intrigued the quack.
— Sir, if it's not a secret... — the part-time human trafficker began.
— It is a secret, — I cut him off. — Execute the task.
Twelve thousand. That's what the additional treatment and the bribe to the quack cost. Gloria's life cost 1.6 visits to Evelyn Parker's Dollhouse.
And I believe I'll manage to recoup even that money in the later stages of the plan.
I have already interfered with events, but for now, they must proceed on the old tracks. David will get beaten up at school, learn about his mother's death, and install the Sandevistan. A chain of coincidences will bring him together with Lucyna Kushinada, known as Lucy. The girl who has been running from my "beloved" Arasaka for so long, but she won't escape me now.