With a nod, I left the apartment and stood just outside the door before strolling down the drive to where a car waited for me, compliments of Kazuma. Tonight was cooler than the previous night when I heard back from my own contacts.
The hit on the coffee shop was pointless-it'd been nothing more than one of a dozen false hits within a sixty- meter radius that Tuesday-hits on Horizon owned establishments. All of them coordinated with Knight Errant. Code; Caliban.
That would explain that punk hacker knowing so much. He'd been a plant, a KE mole. Why? I didn't know.
Yet.
I decided to do a bit of digging into Caliban myself-give Kazuma a break. If something snagged, I'd be back in Los Angeles before the sun was up.
They could count on that.
No Such Luck
Matt Forbeck has worked full-time on games and fiction since 1989. He has designed collectible card games, roleplaying games, miniatures games, and board games, and written short fiction, comic books, novels, nonfiction, magazine articles, and computer game scripts and stories for companies including Atari, ArenaNet, DK Publishing, High Voltage Software, Turbine, Ubisoft, Del Rey, Wizards of the Coast, Games Workshop, WizKids, Mattel, IDW, Image Comics and Playmates Toys. His first original novels, Amortals and Vegas Knights, hit shelves in the summer of 2010. For more information, visit Forbeck.com.
'Deal me in,' the dwarf said as he limped along the sumptuous Sioux carpet that sprawled across the wide, polished parquet of rare Yucatan woods. He snickered as he watched the gazes of the men drift inward toward their commlinks, silently demanding that their high-paid security forces earn their exorbitant wages by showing up to take out the trash.
He gimped his way closer to the table, enjoying the growing look of fear on the faces of each the four suits sitting there as they realized that help would not soon be coming. He grunted along on his good leg, favoring his battered knee, and he reached into the fraying pocket of his torn and tattered jacket, fished out a packet of paper, and pitched it into the middle of the table.
The men recoiled as if he'd tossed them a grenade. Then one of them leaned forward and peered at the bound-up papers through tight, beady eyes set deep into his hatchet-shaped face framed by a haircut that cost more than the dwarf made in a week.
'Real money,' the dwarf said. 'The stuff we used to use before electronic transfer. Before trusting the corp banks was mandatory.'
'Is it real?' a white-haired man at the table said. The dwarf heard the telltale click-wheeze of the man's cybernetic lungs. The man stared at the money as if it might sprout legs and fangs and attack.
The dwarf laughed. 'Probably not, but then what is?'
He hopped up onto the only empty chair at the table and stood on it. His eyes still barely came to the level of the men staring at him. He flicked his chin at the man stroking his pianist's fingers along a large tray of thick, colored chips.
'That's a hundred thousand nuyen.' The dwarf waved a thick hand at the decaying paper. 'Count it if you like.'
The man's pencil-thin moustache peeled back in a sneer. 'That won't be necessary.'
The dwarf smirked at that. He reached out for the chips, but the hatchet-faced man slapped a hand on the felt between the banker and the cash.
'This is a private game,' the man said.
The dwarf stuck out his bottom lip at that and gazed out the high windows overlooking the sparkling Chicago skyline-or what was left of it. The space where the Sears Tower had once stood still gaped like a missing tooth.
'So it is,' the dwarf said. 'And it's being held in a private club.' He smiled at that. 'And yet here I stand.'
The white-haired man coughed, then spoke. 'Subhuman species are not permitted in the club.'
'The club? Is that what you're calling it these days? Short for the Policlub, eh?' He looked at his own stunted height, then gave the men a knowing wink. 'Pardon the pun.'
'Humanis is a charitable organization devoted to protecting the rights of a humanity besieged on all sides,' the banker said, a hint of amusement in his voice.
'Or so your commercials claim,' the dwarf said as he doffed his grimy baseball cap. Nanite-inked tattoos snaked and danced beneath the skin of his bald scalp, forming hypnotic shapes like a living screensaver trapped inside his skull.
He leaned forward and put two hammer-like fists on the table. His braided beard, streaked through with gray, grazed the green felt.
'Let's not mince words. We're worldly souls. You're bigots. Wealthy ones too. You get nasty people to do terrible things to people like me, and you pay them well for it because it keeps your hands clean.'
A small gun appeared in hand of the fourth man at the table, the one who'd been silent until now. He looked young and strong, although the dwarf was sure he'd been surgically sculpted that way. He could smell the bioengineered pheromones wafting off the man, designed to tell everyone within range who the big dog at the table must be.
Despite all that, he held the gun like a little boy.
'I'm not afraid of you,' the man with the gun said through rows of perfectly straight teeth.
The dwarf laughed. 'Go ahead, boy. Pull that trigger. Give it your best shot.'
The man hesitated. A bead of sweat ran from his temple.
The dwarf leaned farther over the table, nearly crawling on to it. He pointed right at the center of his forehead.
'Go ahead and shoot, son.' The dwarf's voice dripped with contempt. 'I can take it. Or when you went in for all that cosmetic surgery did they remove your balls because you were clearly never going to need them?'
The gun barked in the man's hand, nearly leaping from his fingers. The bullet zipped high over the dwarf's head and crashed into chandelier overhead. Flying shards of crystal rained down and sliced into the dwarf's exposed skin.
The dwarf pushed himself back to stand on his chair. He reached up and picked out the bits of crystal still embedded in his skull.
The white-haired man with the plastic lungs gasped. 'Lucky Wurfel,' he said. 'You're supposed to be dead.'
A rivulet of blood trickled down the side of the dwarf's head. He snorted at that. 'No such luck.'
'Lucky?' The man with the gun had lost his expensive cool. His hands shook so hard that he dropped the weapon on the table. It went off again.
This time, the bullet tore through Lucky's jacket and creased his ribs. He grunted in pain and grabbed at his side. When he pulled his hand away, crimson coated his palm.
'Oh, my God!' the gun-dropper said. 'I'm-I'm…'
'Sorry?' Lucky said as he straightened back up.
The man scowled at the dwarf. He glanced at the gun again, and his fingers twitched.
Lucky nodded. 'I didn't think so.' He pointed at the man with the chips again. 'Deal me in.'
'So we can play against a dwarf named Lucky? I don't think so.'
'You got something against free money?'
'I don't want you taking mine.'
The white-haired man interrupted. 'The nickname's meant to be ironic, like calling a fat man 'Slim.' This son of a bitch has the worst possible luck.'
'Huh.' The hatchet-faced man gave Lucky a look like he was sizing him up for a body bag. 'Seems that would
