Shadowboxer Read online

  “Great Ghost, I love beating the bastards!”

  * * *

  Every light in his penthouse office was on, removing any chance of a stray shadow. His tie was removed, jacket gone, shoes off, and James J. Harvin had wrapped a silk kimono about him. An untouched gold tray of food sat on the low table between twin couches nearby. Also untouched on his empty desk was a decanter of chilled wine spotted with dewy moisture.

  Harvin sat facing the windows, looking at his reflection in the triple Armorlite barrier. A squarish head, gray hair cut in a buzz, tiny ruby earrings, large hands, no age spots yet, but he knew they would come. Maybe it was time to violate his body and get chipped—skillwires could make him an instant violin maestro. Replacement muscles would give him the strength of a troll weightlifter. He could be strong, fast again.

  But that would just be the meat, his soul was tired. Did he even have a soul anymore? He had taken so many parts from others, their organs beating and living inside his chest. They’d taken him apart and put him together with the lifestuff of other people. Was he still Jim Harvin anymore? The face resembled him, but that too could change in less than a day. His illness was in recession. He’d fought the mutagenic cancer and won. Or so they said. So why did he feel as if he was still dying?

  He poured himself a glass of wine and took a sip, rolling the vintage about on his tongue, breathing in through his nose to savor the bouquet as his father had taught him decades ago. How to relish good wine, cut the throats of the competition, and avoid friends. Muchas gracias, padre.

  So many dark thoughts for such a lovely night.

  Faintly, on the other side of the windows, Harvin could see the twinkling lights of Miami. Resorts, hotels, casinos, schools, brothels, air defense centers, his. So much of it was either owned or run by his Gunderson Corporation, which really was the same thing. What other Caribbean League gov could touch him? He ruled Miami. The telecom beeped musically, calling for his attention.

  “On,” he said, without turning. “Code fourteen,” answered a VOX, the artificial voice flat and flavorless. He swiveled his chair about. “Accepted. Do not monitor, record, or trace. Unrestricted access granted on my command.”

  “Acknowledge,” spoke the mechanical words. Harvin had been expecting this call ever since receiving the report about the Atlantic Security rescue team less than an hour go. Those street samurai Erika Johnson had hired were supposed to be second-stringers, at best. And yet they still stayed one step ahead of the game. He smiled.

  The indicators on the telecom lit, but the screen remained featureless. “Report,” came another voice, though the screen displayed no visual.

  “They’re close. Very close,” said Harvin. “They’ve acquired the datafiles on IronHell.”

  “When?”

  “Less than an hour ago.”

  “The real files?”

  “No. The basic files only. No detailed data.”

  “How?”

  “Used a private passcode to gain access to the Atlantic Security system, and then on to their central data processor. They got the pirate files.”

  “Whose code?” the faceless voice asked from the telecom. “Mine.”

  A minute passed. “The ork?”

  “Yes,” said Harvin.

  “Kill him.”

  “Gordon is already dead.”

  “But not soon enough, it appears.”

  “No.” Harvin shook his head sadly, thinking of Scott Gordon. “Not soon enough.”

  “I warned you that trying to write about this could jeopardize our whole operation.”

  “Yet you have published several articles on undersea living in the scientific journals,” Harvin returned quietly. “Which have not incommoded us.”

  “Yet. Even you find it hard to resist telling someone after you’ve solved a most difficult problem, eh?”

  A few silent ticks passed. “Granted. But that is irrelevant right now. Was the ork terminated by in-house staff?”

  “No.” Harvin breathed deeply, faintly tasting the wine again. “My friend was killed by unknowns. Crucified. When we find whoever did it, they’ll go straight to the medical labs—dead or alive.”

  “How did they get away with this?”

  “They had very good help.”

  “IronHell?”

  “It is likely, or else . . .” An awkward pause. “Or else the elves have developed an interest in our business beyond the wall.” The last words were not stressed, nor spoken loudly, and Harvin wondered if the other heard the meaning he intended.

  “Understood. That would be most unfortunate,” stated the voice without emotion. “This changes everything. Stop the investigation immediately. Pay the runners off with a bonus.”

  “Impossible. They’re incommunicado. Until they report in, I have no way to contact them.”

  “None?”

  “None.”

  “And they have a chance at success?”

  “Expect them at your door any day now.”

  “Most unfortunate. In the chaos of this situation, they may discover what is actually happening.”

  “Yes.”

  “Terminate them. Immediately.”

  Pouring more wine, Harvin softly laughed. “You have such difficulty with the world kill, don’t you, dear sister?”

  “Hai, I suppose so.”

  “And what about the other matter—the trouble we’ve been having with our system? Is it heat again?”

  “The matter is being attended to.”

  “So, no success from your side either, eh?” Harvin said to the black screen. “Good. Failure loves company. Only success stands alone.”

  “That is one interpretation of the facts.”

  “Have you found the needed personnel yet?”

  “Yes. And he’s on his way.”

  “The first good news of the day. Do your best.”

  “Acknowledged, dear brother. Out.”

  “Off,” he said, toying with the full glass. As the connection broke, Harvin watched to see the brief image of a blue triangle bisected by an irregular red line fade in and then out. Confirmation of an untraced transmission. Then that too was gone, and he was alone again at the top of the world.

  Into the Abyss

  15

  11:05 AM Eastern Standard, 14 June 2058 Latitude 30.14, Longitude 70.29, Atlantic Ocean

  Stumbling out of the fresher, Thumbs braced himself against the rusty wall and breathed in through his nose, out his mouth, a few times. They’d been out to sea three weeks aboard this rustbucket and he still couldn’t stop yarfing out his guts every time they hit a wave. The sea, the sky, the deck, and his wobbly self were all gently rocking back and forth, to and fro, with the overhead light fixtures swaying sickeningly in squeaky counterpoint. But he was feeling much better after giving the fish of the Atlantic Ocean a hearty meal.

  “Try this,” said Silver, tapping him on the shoulder.

  Thumbs look down and accepted the steaming mug.

  “I asked Moonfeather to make it double strength this dose,” she said. “Maybe that’ll do the trick.”

  Thumbs nodded and swallowed the herbal brew. Remarkably, in a few ticks his stomach stopped doing the cha-cha-cha. “Better,” he said around a tongue like shag carpet. He repeated the word, “Better.”

  “Another?” she asked.

  Thumbs gave her an expression of total agreement and started to stumble off. Taking hold of a hairy arm larger than her leg, Silver turned him about. “Engine room is down there, galley this way. We’re on deck five, not two.”

  “What the frag are we doing out here?” Thumbs demanded, trying to ignore his throbbing horns. “I’m a street troll, not fragging Popeye the sailor guy. El trains and alleys are my turf.”

  “Hey, chummer, this was your idea, remember.” She was holding open a heavy hatch in the causeway for him.

  Yeah, yeah, he’d have to take the fall for this brilliant twig. The files Silver had uploaded from Atlantic Security showed that they we
re definitely hunting pirates for the Gunderson Corp. The files had also offered up lots of rumors about fields of sunken ships and secret cities inside mountains. But you could take all the hard data, carve it in granite, stuff it up your nose, and never be aware that anything was there.

  With one notable exception. They’d learned the meaning of the word IronHell. According to the AtSec files it was a special code word for the headquarters of one of the bigger pirate groups preying on ships in this part of the Atlantic. The location was apparently well-hidden even by shadow standards. Atlantic Security had no idea where or who they were. Half the time IronHell seemed to refer to the organization and the other half to its secret base of operations. Whoopdie-fragging-do. Thumbs was not impressed.

  However, unlike Queen O’Malley and her ilk in the waters around California Free State or the Black Mariha gang operating in the coastal waters of the Mediterranean, these Caribbean brigands were well-organized, heavily armed, and none had ever been taken alive. Not one. Ever. Delphia considered that a significant fact. Silver thought it was unnatural. Moonfeather said it was a lie to cover AtSec incompetence. Thumbs’ personal opinion was that the slags had simply never been captured by a meanhoop Slammer with access to handcuffs and a cheese grater.

  Apparently, there was a nifty little bomb surgically implanted inside their brains. Not just inside the skin and bone of the head—lots of folks had com units, decoders, and all sorts of drek stuff in there. No, this device was deep inside the living brain. If the pirate was captured alive by enemy forces, even unconscious, his head would explode, making interrogation what you might call difficult. Neither deckers nor mages had been able to circumvent the security device. X-rays and CAT scans set the thing off instantly.

  Once the wearer was dead, he or she always went boom. It was obviously the IronHell pirates who’d tried to ambush the team in Dorsey Park. Whoever built those headbombs knew what they were doing. Thumbs didn’t think even Aztechnology and Fuchi could have done better.

  From other data in the files, they learned that Atlantic Security had investigated every isle and cove from Bermuda to the equator. But IronHell remained elusive. The pirates ruthlessly sank search parties almost as soon as the vessels left dock, proving they had plenty of chummers on the inside feeding them info. Cargo ships were sometimes hit, sometimes not. But they seemed to specialize in hitting military craft, sending them straight to Davy. Rumor had them working with new experimental equipment, nova-hot stuff that had never seen the light of day. Sailors called it the return of Atlantis, but then again, Thumbs knew sailors spent too much time in the sun and not enough time on land.

  Outside the old hull, he could hear the wind and waves getting rough again, but Thumbs felt his stomach accept the condition without qualm. Thank Ghu. And half their job was done. They knew what IronHell was. Delphia had called the Johnson and left him a telecom message. Now all that remained was finding something the Gunderson Corporation, Atlantic Security, Lone Star, and every independent shipping line operating in this ocean couldn’t locate. Where the frag IronHell was.

  The team had decided they needed to go straight to the source if they were ever going to find the truth. They began to hang out at the dockside hiring halls, and had landed work as security. This was their third trip in as many weeks, but they hadn’t seen a whisker of anything vaguely pirate. The Esmeralda's cargo had seemed plenty hot enough, but maybe they’d get luckier on their next trip.

  * * *

  Silver found the others sitting in a corner of the galley picking at their food. Delphia was in the usual natty suit with tie and soft brim hat, while Moonfeather was in a cut-off jumpsuit that hugged every curve tightly.

  Sullen sailors, mostly grizzled norms and tattooed orks, sat at other, more distant tables, talking in low voices about what sailors always have since time immemorial: how much they hated their jobs, and then, once they got to shore how soon they could get back out to sea again.

  “You’d think El Segundo Lines would feed their security personnel better than this swill,” said Delphia, removing the napkin from his shirt collar and placing it over the food on his plate like a death shroud. “Bah. Swill is a compliment.”

  “I’m sure they do,” said Moonfeather, gnawing on a strip of baco-flav soyjerky. “But don’t forget, Handsome, we’re lowly mercs. Neither corp nor captain give two dreks about us till the hammer falls. The crew thinks ballast is more important than us.”

  “The laborer is worthy of his pay,” said Delphia, wiping his hands and moustache clean on a pocket handkerchief.

  “Bulldrek. Why do you think there’s only the four of us for a ship this size? The only reason we’re-here is to help keep the insurance premiums low, that’s all.” She stopped her attempts to consume the undamaged strip of soymeat in her grip. “Maybe I’ll sew some of this into the lining of my duster as armor.”

  Delphia gave a dry laugh. “Good idea. Ought to stop a nine-millimeter easy, but I don’t think anything short of a missile could breach the pancakes.”

  “Broke a tooth on a waffle.”

  “Hai, the pay is pitiful, and the food wretched.” Delphia shoved the plate of fish stew aside. “Three miserable weeks at sea and no sign of pirates. The Esmeralda’s haul should have attracted their attention by now.” He glanced out a nearby porthole. The weather had been growing steadily worse ever since the freighter had departed the coastal waters of Africa and begun steaming for Rio de Janiero, then back home.

  Home? he thought, taking a sip of his kaf. And since when had Miami become home to him?

  “Who knows what they’re looking for these days,” Moonfeather said, studying his face. “Nuyen for your thoughts.”

  Delphia shook his head. “Almost tastes like the real thing. Incredible.”

  “Should. It is.”

  He paused, the deliciously fragrant brown liquid moving back and forth from the motion of the ship. “Beg pardon?”

  “It’s from the private stock I brought on board.” Moonfeather gestured behind her. “I bribe what they laughingly call the cook on this floating grease lump with a cup a day to make it special just for you and I.”

  Turning about, Moonfeather stared across the room and shook a wrist, her bracelets jingling softly. In the galley, the fat ork in a stained apron and ridiculous hat stopped smearing soylard on a sizzling grill already thick with it to look up abruptly and smile innocently toward her. “I also threatened to turn him into a toad if he crossed me.”

  Delphia took another sip, watching her closely. “None for Silver or Thumbs?”

  “Frag ’em,” she purred leaning closer, nearly popping out of the tiger-stripe leotard under her jumpsuit, her cascade of curly red hair framing a lustful grin.

  “And how can a simple sprawl shaman afford real coffee?” he inquired softly. Enjoying the view.

  Her smile vanished. “Stole it.”

  “O-hio,” greeted Silver, sliding into place between them. “Figured out how to cut the soup yet?”

  Moving as if made of glass, Thumbs eased himself down into the fourth chair, making the cheap steel creak ominously. “This place never have a troll on board before?” he griped. “Hey, shaman. Thanks for the herbal stuff. It helped a lot.”

  “Null perspiration,” said Moonfeather, flipping curls off one shoulder. “Catch a bullet for me in a brawl and we’re even.”

  “Ha! I’d rather bed a rabid swamp gator.”

  “Granite.”

  A tick. Two ticks. “Catch a bullet where?”

  “Anyway, we were just talking about the ...” Silver tapped her head meaningfully. “You know, and we’re wondering if there’s any way to know who’s got one before it goes off?”

  Thumbs nudged Moonfeather. “Can’t you look astrally inside their heads to see if they got one?”

  “Possibly. The problem is if they’re only adding and not replacing.”

  “How about some kind of truth spell?” probed Delphia. She snorted. “If we take one alive and I can
mind proble him, sure. But that won’t make the bomb not go off or disarm it or even give us any info. The power of the spell might just make his head pop, and personally I don’t want to be that close when one does.”

  His stomach rumbling, Thumbs looked at Silver. “So much for secretly hypnotizing a pirate to get him to spill the chips.” Then he looked over at Delphia’s covered plate and pointed. “You gonna eat that?”

  “The fish stew?” Delphia recoiled askance. “No. Please. Help yourself. Enjoy.”

  “Thanx.” Thumbs removed the napkin with a flourish and starting making serious inroads into the greasy concoction.

  “I see your appetite is back,” said Silver dryly.

  “Yar,” he mumbled, mouth full of seaweed and bones. “Starved.”

  “It’s part metacrab.”

  “Hey, axe da cook,” slurped Thumbs. “I dunno wats in it.”

  The ship pitched and a heavy wave crashed over a porthole, throwing the window open and water streaming in to flood the deck. Cursing and grumbling, sailors rushed to force the porthole closed. As the salt water rushed to the walls and down the causeway stairs, the deck inadvertently became clean in several areas.

  “It’s painted blue,” said Moonfeather in wonder.

  Then an alarm sounded down the corridor, to be repeated all over the ship in echoing repetition. “Red alert,” warbled the decrepit PA system. “Storm at force five levels. Repeat. Force five levels. All hands to battle stations.”

  Scrambling in every direction, the crew tossed aside beers and card games to grab weapons from wooden wall lockers and rush up the causeway for the higher decks.

  “Time to earn your ride, lubbers,” said First Officer O’Shanassey, a grizzled woman with missing teeth and no direct knowledge of soap. She thrust a large canvas bag at them.

  Thumbs dropped his spoon and spread the salt-stiff canvas wide. “Jesus, Buddha, and Zeus!” he swallowed. “It’s fulla grenades!”

  “Are we to slay the storm for you, madam?” asked Delphia emotionlessly, sipping his coffee.