Voices

From the case he took the special black gloves. These gloves were made of soft leather, but at certain points, where neural pads implanted in his palms made contact with the gun's sensors, the gloves were made of a special fiber weave that did not impede neural transfer.

With a purposeful motion Nelson moved to the cases opened one of the longer ones. Inside, seated in a red velvet lining, was a TXK Auto shotgun. In a practiced motion he broke the weapon down, inspected it and reassembled it. From the case he removed the shoulder strap that allowed him to carry the gun. Attaching the strap, he let it dangle underneath his arm. A few practice tries and he was able to bring it to his shoulder and sight down the barrel with his old ease.

Nelson removed the black duster from the coat hook and tried it on. Specially cut, with micro holo projectors to compensate for the extra bulk of his weapons, he looked unarmed to the untrained eye.

Lastly, he removed the strongbox from the corner. From it he removed stacks of bills and a black hat. He placed $25,000 in the secret pockets of the duster and closed the box again. Standing, he pulled on the battered black Stetson and turned on his heels.

Monday, March 16th, 01:00 hours

Nelson walked easily down the street. He'd had the better part of the day to get used to packing again. An observer would mark him as a dangerous man. He moved with fluid grace and his face had taken on a hard edge that had been altogether absent just hours ago. His eyes darted here and there, always on the alert, never resting long on any one object or person.

He was in Singapore's red-light district. Blaring neon advertised hardwired girls and the best live shows. In smaller, less ostentations doorways you could see the bouncers inspecting everyone. Those clubs catered to more than your average seaman on leave or pimply faced kid with hormones raging. This was Singapore and for a price anything could be had.

Nelson passed VR bars with people jacked into a sim reality. That reality was totally dependant on the quality of their hardware and the quality of the chip. The best were still European. Usually coming out of Germany.

He passed the shady doors of opium dens. Even in this high tech world, the age old curse of the Chinese still claimed its share of wretched souls. Other places dealt in high tech synthetics that could bring pleasure beyond enduring or visions of hell that would make Dante cringe.

Each new generation found its own way to do itself in, Nelson thought wryly. He was passing the fringe now. Shops carrying anything from old fashioned sex toys to the latest in create-your-own fantasy chips. The neon was less present, more iron grills and security doors. Here there was an end to the business day. For the majority of the city's waking hours these shops were closed. Their owners were like the vampires of old. Waking with the day's end and secured inside their crypts before the cleansing rays of the sun arrived.

Nelson was now in the section of the red light district they called the Fruit Loop. This section catered to Singapore's gay community. He passed the doors to the Clit Club where a massive bull dyke was standing guard. Nelson eyed her curiously as he passed. Her skin was an iridescent color. Body plating for sure. Her eyes were Yamato Mrk 17s. Corporate security moonlighting, he decided. She stared back at him with the hard appraising glare of a professional. A curt nod was her only reaction to him, but it was enough to make Nelson feel good about himself. Recognition from a kindred soul.

Next was a string of places advertising young boys in red neon. Nelson was already uncomfortable. Long years of training had taught him to feel people's eyes upon him. But here it was more likely one of the made up punks, or an older gent in a business suit eyeing him with nothing more dangerous in mind than a rendezvous. Still he could feel the eyes. He passed a club called Rawhides, a country western bar catering to the leather and denim crowd.

More of the same greeted him as he crossed the street. The streets were still crowded and at places he had to shoulder his way through the press of bodies. Nelson lashed out and broke the wrist of a prissy young man in a mini skirt and halter top who had tried to cop a feel. The scream of pain in a high voice that wasn't close to a falsetto brought a smile to Nelson's face.

"Damn Jolly," he thought as he stalked along through the crowded streets.

Jolly. The man was a legend in Singapore's underworld. No one had a finger on the pulse of the city like Jolly. No one had better connections, with friends in the corporate world as well as in the underworld. Crime bosses consulted him. Corporate execs put out contracts through him. Outside interests paid him handsomely for information when they planed to move in.

Nelson reached a small place between two of the bigger clubs. The Men's Room, a garish green sign proclaimed. There was a young kid behind a sheet of inch thick safety glass. Blonde hair, garish makeup. Clothing off the rack from some cheap discount store.

"Ten dollars honey, two drink minimum," he announced in a falsetto that grated on Nelson's nerves.

Nelson tossed a HongKong ten through the slot in the heavy glass.

"Have fun, honey," the irritating voice followed him inside.

Inside it was dark, his lowlight kicked up and he was sorry they had. A live sex show was going on, up on stage. Two young boys were working hard on a large Negro. Pretty boys in spandex jocks maneuvered through the crowded tables serving drinks. On stages at either end of the club, female impersonators with massive implants did strip teases. In the seats, shows fully as explicit as those on stage were being performed by the clubs many patrons.

The music was a blare of techno pop and howling industrial. Anything with a beat the performers could gyrate to. Nelson adjusted the filters on his hearing until the music was moved far into the background. He dimmed his lowlight with a thought. The unnatural light returned to a dark club, much to Nelson's liking.

He saw Jolly sitting at his usual booth. Two gangbangers in denim stood sentinel. All chrome and swagger. As Nelson made his way, the larger of the two nudged his sidekick and they moved to block him. They dwarfed him, but he was not impressed. In his present mood he more than half hoped they would try something. He didn't like this place. And he was on edge.

Before they could say anything a low whistle issued from the table. Like well trained hounds they stepped aside. Nelson slid into the booth across from Jolly. It had been three years, but he hadn't changed.

A tight, chiseled face. The constant look of someone forced to drink sour milk upon it. Graying hair at the temples. Impeccable suit, tailored to fit his slight frame.

"Well, well. Nice to see you again, Jack." Same voice. Same clipped British accent. Same nasal quality to it. Nelson could easily believe the man had been sitting there in that exact same spot since the last time Nelson had seen him. Fixed and immobile as the Nataki building downtown,

A heavily muscled man in a spandex g-string walked up. His well muscled body glistened with a sheen of oil. Jolly barely acknowledged him.

"The usual," he said curtly.

"And for you sir?" Voice too small for the body. Not the high pitched falsetto, but a softer lisp.

"Bourbon, neat," Nelson replied, not looking at the man. He was vaguely aware of the waiter as he worked his way back towards the bar through the crowd.

There were a lot of rumors about Jolly. And a lot of them centered on his choice of business for a front. The most popular was that the little man was a flamer himself. Nelson didn't believe it. He had watched Jolly's eyes to many times. They scanned over the incredible debauchery going on around him without the faintest flicker of emotion. An almost clinical detachment that any scientist would have envied.

Nelson's theory was that Jolly was asexual. The only time the man showed the slightest hint of emotion was when he was discussing business. Show the man a hardwired blonde bombshell and he wouldn't spare a second glance. Show him a datacard with the personnel info from a minor corp and his eyes would light with an unholy fire. Greed, lust and the many ways the info could be used melded into a look that would make a hungry tiger's stare seem tame.

For a man who reacted like that to power, sex could never come close to the high. It would be more of a chore than a joy.

Nelson believed that Jolly's choice of meeting place was nothing more than another edge. Like using your first name when you only knew him as Jolly. He liked to keep people off balance. And nothing worked like it. Some of the most dangerous men in the world, cool under any kind of fire, were as uncomfortable as a whore in church in Jolly's place.

Jolly knew that vast majority of men in Nelson's line of work were straight. Nelson could name on one hand the number of openly gay runners. Nothing would put these men at ill ease like Jolly's set up. Everywhere he looked, Nelson was surrounded by men engaged in the rawest of acts. The stages were positioned so you could not look anywhere in the place without seeing it. The tables placed nearby, with the muffled groans and animal sounds of passion, added to the overall effect.

Nelson made it a point when he walked in to look at the stages, to let the shock wear off. Then once he sat down, he either looked at Jolly himself or at the table. Even then he was never totally comfortable, which was just what Jolly wanted as far as Nelson could tell.

"So what can I do for you?" Jolly asked.

"Yamato," Nelson said.

Jolly raised an eyebrow. Nothing more. No surprise. He waited for Nelson to expand. When he remained, silent Jolly spoke. His voice was slow, every word calculated.

"One of the pretenders," Jolly said slowly. "They are rumored to be close to a breakthrough in VR. Something more addictive than anything that has been seen. No one knows how close they are. Right now they keep themselves afloat with minor subcontracts and some less than legal operations."

"Cheap chipping?" Nelson asked.

Jolly looked at him sharply. Then nodded slightly.

"Then they have plenty of enemies," Nelson went on.

"What's your interest?" Jolly asked. Nelson had known this would come. Jolly lived on information, and he demanded to know what was going on with the people he worked with. It was just the price of doing business with him. Nelson had to decide how much to tell. To flatly refuse would end the interview. To give away too much would put his life on the line. Nelson didn't trust Jolly that far.

"Marcel Duvet," Nelson said at last.

"Duvet? The Belgian?" Jolly asked.

"The same," Nelson replied.

"He is currently on the Yamato payroll as a security adviser. Read hired killer," Jolly said.

"He is, but in three days he won't be," Nelson said slowly. Jolly's eyes narrowed. That wolfish look of greed slowly settled on him.

"I know his contract is up then, but I had no indication that Yamato was not planning to retain him."

"He isn't going back. He already has another employer," Nelson said simply.

Jolly's face became tight, his eyes hard. They glittered like flint in the clubs lighting. He was mad. Someone would pay for it.

"You already know more than I do apparently," he said shortly. "I do not see how I can help you."

"I don't need information on Duvet. I need a job against Yamato," Nelson said quickly. He could see Jolly was about to cut the interview short. And Nelson needed him.

Jolly made a clucking sound in his throat. His reply was interrupted by the waiter returning with their drinks. Nelson sipped his and nearly spit it out. Real bourbon. Not synth. Only the best for Jolly and his guests. Nelson tried again and this time the fiery, smoky taste was wonderful.

"A job? Ahhh, I see," Jolly finally said. "You intend to kill Duvet. But you need a team to breach the security and get to him. And your employer isn't paying enough? Or anything?"

Nelson nodded slowly. He hadn't counted on Jolly's perceptiveness. He was a little closer to the true picture than Nelson would have liked. The unasked question hung there.

When it became obvious to Jolly that no answer was forth coming he sipped his drink.

"There are three current contracts out for runs against Yamato. Unfortunately, two don't pay enough for what you want. They're funded by private concerns. The one that does isn't something you would like doing"

"Try me," Nelson said.

"You've heard of Syntech?" Jolly asked.

"Yeah, tough Corp. A real predator," Nelson said.

"Yes," was Jolly's reply.

"Four months ago a researcher left Syntech to go to work for Yamato. You know that Syntech never lets you leave. The researcher is, of course out of anyone's grasp. But his family is living inside the Yamato complex. Syntech is offering two-fifty for his daughter," Jolly said.

As he finished he looked at Nelson, his gray eyes measuring.

"What are they going to do to her?" Nelson finally asked.

Jolly's face registered real surprise.

"Come on, Jack. You know I don't know that. And even if I did I wouldn't be at liberty to tell you. For what it's worth I do not believe they mean any harm to the child. I think they just want her as a lever to force her father back to Syntech."

Nelson nodded slowly.

"I'll take it, Jolly," Nelson said.

"Fine. I was beginning to worry. Most of my regulars didn't want it. Yamato is a tough nut to crack. I was afraid I would have to give it to amateurs," Jolly was expansive suddenly. Nelson waited. He knew Jolly always demanded a price. It was usually a cut of the client's payoff.

"I want to know who hired the Belgian," Jolly said easily.

Nelson smiled to himself. He had hoped the hanging question would be more interesting than a cut of the payoff.

"I'll let you know when I do," Nelson said easily.

Jolly nodded and brought out a leather wallet from his inside pocket. He produced a single data card. Sliding it across the table, he returned the wallet to his pocket. Nelson took the card, wondering idly how many more were in there. How much money was sitting there waiting to be earned? How many deaths were in that plain leather wallet?

Nelson took the card, pocketed it and rose to leave. As he exited his eyes kicked up to shield him from the neon landscape.

"That was quick, sweetie," followed him from the glass booth.

Nelson just kept walking.

Monday, March 16th, 09:00 hours

Nelson threaded his way through the crowds of Little China, a black attaché case handcuffed to his arm. Men in their "housecoats" moved by him carrying everything from groceries to brown paper wrapped packages. Those packages contained anything from opium to illegal VR chips, wetware of questionable quality to the occasional package of nothing more threatening than cigarettes.

Women in traditional dresses threaded through the press of bodies, babies strapped to their backs. Little China was like stepping back into time. Only the occasional westerner could be seen. No wonder Chang stayed here.

Chang was something of an enigma himself. A smallish Chinaman with a deep seated dislike of westerners. He was also the best there was at having the equipment men like Nelson depended on, for a price.

Nelson reached the small restaurant that Chang operated to cover his other enterprises. He took a seat in a window booth and watched the human tidal wave as it moved through the narrow streets.

"What can I get you?" a listless voice inquired.

Nelson looked up. A waitress. Caucasian, in a cheap synsilk kimono that left little to the imagination. Pretty face, but gaunt. Nelson immediately pegged her as a junkie. His eyes upped the mag as he looked at her. Arms, legs, hands. No track marks. Then he saw it, DNI jack behind her ear. VR then.

Nelson ordered sake and moo goo gai pan. Her hands flew across her order pad. Hard wired then. As she moved off with an almost mechanical motion Nelson looked at the other help. Three girls. Same cheap kimonos, same washed out looks.

As he watched a hulking oriental grabbed one of them by the arm and half led, half dragged her back to one of the two rooms behind the restaurant. Nelson knew those rooms. He had spent a week in one recovering after a run had gone bad. Chang had been the perfect host, providing him with food, shelter, and deflecting the questions of the corp heavies who were after him. They also served as private places for the waitresses to earn an occasional dollar or two.

Chang took great delight in having caucasian girls doing the menial work of his restaurant. He took even more delight in having them sell themselves to orientals. Always with the chip, or drug of choice just out of reach.

Nelson never really understood why. The little man had a pathological hatred of westerners. He would constantly harp on the wrongs inflicted on his people by the western imperialists in bygone times if you let him. He kept a stable of girls, all addicted to one vice or another. It was rare to see the same girl waiting tables in Chang's place on any two visits.

But he was first and foremost a businessman. As long as you were a paying customer, you got the exaggerated courtesy the asians were famous for. End up owing him and you had an implacable taskmaster. Nelson only dealt with Chang when he had cash.

The little man was happy to let you use credit, in fact he preferred it. Too many young runners ended up being Chang's patsies. Even some experienced runners who'd had a string of bad luck found themselves trapped. It was the old company store syndrome executed with incredible subtleness. Borrow to buy the equipment you needed. Do the job Chang had for you. Simple.

Except somehow you never made enough from the job to pay off your debts. As you continued, you ended up sinking into a state that bordered on slavery. Taking jobs you would never have taken normally. Your freedom of action was gone. What's more, your freedom to refuse a job where the risk was too high was gone.

You reached a point of either getting killed or running. But few ran. Chang made excellent examples of those who tried. The stories were grisly and often almost unbelievable. But Nelson was sure the majority were true. What's more, those in thrall to Chang believed them like they were gospel.

A girl appeared next to Nelson's table. Oriental, in a real silk kimono. One of Chang's daughters? Nelson looked up into her eyes. Hard as flints. Had to be Chang's.

"Mr. Nelson?" she asked in a voice that would melt an old man's heart and send a young man's hormones racing.

"Yeah," Nelson replied.

"My father was wondering if you would like to join him in the private dining room?"

"Thank you," Nelson said as he rose and followed the girl.

The dining room was sumptuous, decorated in the ancient style with silks and stylized lions. A long teak table was set and at it's head sat Chang. He and his five daughters wore traditional garb.

Nelson nodded to Chang and sat down to the meal. He wasn't hungry, but this was Chang's place. You never did business until after you had eaten. The meal seemed to last forever, with Chang and his daughters conversing in Chinese. Nelson spoke the language, but never responded or let on that he did, even when the conversation came to subtle and not so subtle barbs thrown at him. Nelson considered knowing the lingo an edge, and when you dealt with a man like Chang, any edge you could find was important.

When breakfast was over Chang invited Nelson into a comfortable study. Nelson sat and waited, it was impolite to speak first when you were the guest. Chang busied himself with some papers on the desk. After a minute or two he put the papers away and sat back.