Chapter Four
When the Corporations took power and decentralized the government, they unwittingly damaged their own cause in the long run. An entire generation of American citizens was fragmented. Fragmented into the corporate elite, the old line Americans, and the sovereign state supporters. Each fragment headlined groups and organizations that included a thousand others. They were torn apart and so was the country. The East and most of the Midwest were still under government control. The orders came down from the White House, to the congress, then to the local congresses. The South, however, spilt into the separate freeholds that they had been. They were loosely held together in the Neo-Confederacy. This was not the South of the civil war, but the Neo-Confed, one that hated the North deeply. To pass from the North to the Neo-Confed required a passport, as well as currency exchange. All these changes further debased the power of the central government, and in time debased the Corporations as well. California formed its own country, as well as Montana. Texas also took this course, though through unique circumstances, at a much earlier date.
The border along Texas, Arkansas, Louisiana, and Oklahoma was underneath a massive fault that had been silent and undiscovered. One day, in October, not long after the Infowar began, the earth was rocked to its very bones. The ground cracked open and tore the state of Texas away from its Eastern neighbors. It took only minutes, killed thousands, and caused billions worth in property damage. The massive tear quickly filled with seawater from the Gulf of Mexico.
Governor LaBoef took rapid action. He declared that the state of Texas was now the Country of Texas, and that all properties and equipment of the American government were annexed. The population of the new country heartily backed this move; since most of them had been raised on the notion that Texas ought to be its own country anyway. The sentiment ran deep, even among "naturalized" Texans.
The National Guard, now the Texican Army, was sent down to secure the border. Other states sent their own Guards to combat this new enemy. They met with a terrifying new weapon that had been developed at NASA in Houston: Laser emitter cannons. These Laser emitter cannons were developed to carve out habitat space and facilitate mining purposes off Terra. The Texican army used them differently. After about two hours of combat, Texas stood victorious on its new shore.
A bloody and embittered race war occurred two months after this event. It was not between any ethnicity, it occurred between those who were considered Texans, and those who were not. It ended almost a year later, when the sheer volume of Texas overwhelmed the outsiders whom they called "Jaybirds".
The US government was helpless to intervene, the Corporations unwilling to. They lacked manpower and materials. A huge number of Texans living in other parts of the country flocked back to their native land. There was plenty of room for them, as hundreds were being deported every day. To remain in Texas, one had to prove that one was either born there or a benefit. Even this did not help in some occasions. New Yorkers, for example, were merely shipped out, no questions asked or answered. The same for people from Maine, Delaware, New Jersey, Massachusetts, and Pennsylvania. Their economic assets were liquidated and redistributed to native Texans.
This series of actions prompted other states to tighten up control of their own borders. Native Texans, for example, were held under close surveillance, sometimes jailed and extradited. The states to the North under government control were referred to as the North Forty. The rest of the country swayed neither one way nor the other, but held firm, and tried to ignore the politics.
This gray area was called just that: the Grays. Travel through these areas was simple, but the new "nationals" were viewed with suspicion. So, Instead of two political parties to deal with, the Corporations had hundreds to keep an eye on. Eventually, it would be their undoing.
.
The primary Section X was located in Colorado. Section D was little more than a myth to those in the Section, and to those outside it, it was nothing. Section D's location was rarely revealed to those in Section X, when it was, it was moved. One week it was in Washington State, the next it might be in New Zealand. The public knew about Section X, but the media referred it under an ancient name, one that Stoltz had planted to further confuse things: The OSS, or Office of Strategic Services.
No one knew why Stoltz did this, for security reasons, personal reasons, or merely for amusement. The public knew about Section X because Stoltz realized that their activities were bound to draw attention, from the Ultra Teams and the results of their missions to other activities that were far more bizarre.
One such activity was the building of a replica of a small town in North Africa in Arizona. It was constructed in less than a week. It had high fences around it with guards and searchlights. After seven months, it was turned over to the city of Tempe, it being close by. They turned it into an amusement park. Every now and then, it would close for a month or two. No explanation was forth coming. When the press began to ask questions, it was stated the town was built to test out satellite optics. It was built down to the smallest detail. Even natives were brought in to check it out. Periodically it would close to refine the technique. Everyone accepted this smoke screen as the truth and Section X continued operate behind the screen.
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Deckard mulled over the information that he had acquired, and incomplete was the word. He decided to go check out Jones and Blut. Jones and his animal secondary, his partner, Blut, were early casualties of the Section. Deckard had met them just before they were pensioned out. They were near basket cases, the gene therapy having been taken too far. They were more like wild animals now. Once in a while, the phone would ring and Deckard would answer, only to hear unintelligible noises followed closely by a disconnect. He would then realize that it was Jones, trying to stay in touch. In touch with who was another matter. In touch with Deckard and Kitka, or his own humanity?
He and Kitka got into his car and guided it along the paths of the city into the outback's of the country. The same area that Murphy resided in, but in the opposite direction. Survivors of the Section usually wound up being loners. The treatments that were applied, the conditioning, and the training made them almost unfit to live normal lives. The ones that survived the countless missions, the searing tension and the life of defiance, spent their days waiting, waiting for the memories to end. Waiting for the memories to end, or waiting for the next chance for action. The feline instincts of Channelle made it easy for her to be indifferent. That nature had been transferred to Deckard. But, the chance for action was now, and it was hard to walk away from it, no matter what it was.
The roads decayed into thin dirt paths winding around small streams and tree. It ended and they got out of the vehicle and went the rest of the way on foot. The woods were teaming with life. This area was one protected by Zydel Corporation, whose executives used these woods for recreation. There were guards, supposedly, patrolling to keep out the riff-raff and aid execs who might have a little of trouble. Channelle and Deckard made slow progress to their destination. They had a small yard of their own, but only small rodents and birds came there. Here, larger birds and animals roamed. They stood in perfect stillness as a mule deer wandered into their line of vision. Channelle activated her collar and faded from sight. As soon as she did, the stag bolted off, galloping away into the thick of the woods. She returned to sight, sneezing in reproof.
"I guess he's seen your type before." Blaine remarked. She blinked very slowly at him and they continued.
A large tree loomed ahead, atop a small hill. Garbage was strewn all about its trunk. The bark of the tree was badly scarred and damaged. Deckard and Kitka poked around the garbage for a minute. Fruit rinds, bones of various sorts, paper containers and metal cans were various states of decay. Blaine took a step back, shading his eyes with his hand, and peered into the branches. Planks of wood were fastened haphazardly. Ropes were tied and even an old truck tire was hanging there.
The former Ultra Team leader stood there for a moment, silently debating
whether to climb it. The climb itself posed no problem; it was what might be waiting for them up there. Jones and Blut had always liked them after a fashion, but to surprise them in their own tree, perhaps while they were asleep did not seem wise.
Behind them was a loud thump. Deckard whirled around, crouching, as Kitka arched her back and hissed. Blaine swiveled back just as fast in time to observe Jones land in front of him. An old trick Jones and Blut had mastered. One member would surprise a group from one side, while the other ambushed them from the other. Jones was clad in worn black pants, much like his own. He wore no shoes and a torn and stained red and white-stripped shirt. For a split second, things were quiet in the forest. The four regarded each other and it seemed like a fight was looming, but slow recognition came.
"Dek, dekkkk, Dekie." mumbled Jones. It was difficult for him to talk, as the "therapy" had transformed his mouth into a slightly elongated muzzle full of misshapen teeth. Indeed, his entire body was covered with grayish-stripped hair, his cheeks sprouted whiskers. His hands and feet bore heavy blackened claws. Jones appeared husky and chunky, but Blaine knew that he and Blut could move with surprising speed. His eyes were black and hollow.
.
"Dek, yes, Dek." He stood and extended a hand, palm facing him. Deckard did the same, not touching him.
Channelle and Blut cautiously moved towards one another. Blut was a mammoth raccoon. He was unchanged as appearances went, except for the size of his front paws, which were more like hands. Channelle and he were along the same size, but he had the weight advantage. They touched noses, both of them with mouths slightly open.
"Jones, I came to ask you a question."
Jones nodded.
"Do you know about the Blueprint vault?"
A nod.
"What do you know?" Deckard was beginning to regret coming.
"Used to practice, practice there, in the beginning, when things were clearer, cleared." Slow and labored speech.
Blaine raised his eyebrows in surprise.
"Clearer, much clearer."
"When." A swallow. "The beginning. Blut and I practiced in the vault, when they made us. Used to be good, then one day..." Jones put his hands together and then tore them apart.
"What about the vault? Can you remember more?"
"It was just being built. It was em, empty. They bbuilt it when they came up with the plan. A plan."
"Which plan?"
He shook his head, jerking it to one side, like a spasm.
"Something went wrong, somewhere. That's all. Find out. Where, then You know."
Jones nodded, then showed his palm. With a single leap, he was back in the tree, disappearing into the top branches. Channelle rubbed against his leg. Deckard turned around. Blut was already gone. He picked her up, and she climbed onto his shoulders and sprawled across them. Her tail flicked playfully across his nose.
"Lazy," he commented. They touched noses and made their way back to the car.
Blaine now had a larger picture to look at. He had assumed that Jones and Blut were always basket cases, but the facts that they had been through training, was something else altogether. They had trained, and trained in that vault. For a moment, he considered that they had the plans, but that was just not possible. Jones could barely talk, and Blut never gave an outward sign of intelligence, although he knew that to be a smoke screen. The two of them seemed hardly capable of getting to the vault.
The vault had just been built, and it was empty. A logical place to train, supposedly. And when they came up with the plan? What plan? The Habakkuk plan? Or the Ultra Team plan?
He had run through his list of suspects quickly. Mallos and Goramund were the only ones he had not been able to rule out completely. The fire story seemed like just that: a story.
The theft of the plans had been a professional extraction was what he had been told. What if it weren't? Perhaps someone with clearance had just walked in and taken it? No. He had seen the security set up. Maybe someone who been there during the construction of the vault. More information was needed about these plans. This guy Wouk who thought this all up needed to be tracked down and questioned.
On a sudden impulse, he swerved towards where Halidan lived. Outside of town, of course, in a communal co-op. It seemed that none of the Ultra-teams strayed far from the point where they were rotated out. Their homes had been carefully chosen for them, Deckard guessed. His home was the only one that was in the center of town, in the middle of the action, so to speak. In about fifteen minutes, they were there. It was a sprawling habit-trail of wood and metal buildings that all seemed to be connected. Several people, men and women were outside, tending the gardens and the grounds. They all looked at him and smiled, but kept to their own doings. Kitka ran up a wide flight of wooden stairs, hissing and swiping at a woman that bent to pet her and raced on. Deckard trudged up the stairs.
"Sorry," He said to the woman as he passed her. Kitka was sitting in front of a door far down the landing, looking up at it, tail twitching. Deckard knocked on it. Jeff Halidan opened the door.
"Deckard Blaine!" He opened the door wider. "C'mon in." He had a three-day beard and gained a little weight. He was dressed in jeans and a flannel shirt. Deckard stepped in. His place was full of low comfortable furniture. Several cats were sitting, lying, standing around.
"Nice cats." Deckard said as he looked around. Halidan had gone into the kitchen and come back out with a tray of glasses of iced tea and cookies.
"Oh, they're not mine." He said. "Sit down, make yourself at home." Deckard did so.
"Have some iced tea."
"No thanks,"
"Man, you've got to have some, my neighbors grow the leaves and I have tons of it." Jeff said, as he sat down.
Kitka sniffed around and smacked any cat that got too close on the head with her paw.
"So, these aren't your cats." Deckard stated, as he sat with his glass of tea.
"No, they belong to Shea. He ought to be back in any moment."
Deckard nearly dropped his tea.
"I suppose you've come to check on Orrin's work?"
Bowden's oft forgotten first name. "Well, not to put it that way,"
"But, yes, huh?" Jeff shook his head and munched on a cookie. "Boy, you guys just can't leave it alone, can you?"
"What do you mean by that?" Deckard began to get angry.
"Dude, look at yourself. Still wearing all black, stalking around, looking for secret plans.' Halidan chuckled to himself. "Buy, hey, if that's what you're into..."
Deckard put down his tea and leaned forward.
"Why don't we discuss these plans? And you, for that matter. Bowden gave the impression that you and Shea were hiding in the closet, jumping at small noises."
Jeff laughed depreciatingly. "Okay, double 0, I'll come clean,"
At that moment, the door opened and Shea walked in. He was on all fours. A simian-like creature, his front legs were longer than his back ones and he was covered in a luscious black and white fur. His face was long with a long pointed nose. His eyes were large unblinking orbs of solid brown. His face was more lemurish than simian. Shea shut the door and looked at Deckard and then began to look about. Kitka, hearing the door open and close, ran in from another room where she had been investigating. The two approached each other slowly. They touched noses and Shea began to make quiet squeaking noises. Deckard could almost make out the words. Channelle sat down and appeared to be listening.
Deckard watched for a while, then turned to face Halidan again.
"Where was I? Oh, yeah, coming clean. I'm sure you remember when we folded on that drop, yeah? Well, it was all an act. We asked for time off, or rather I did, and they refused. MacGregor said after one more drop, we could go on leave. We decided to go on leave for the rest of our lives. So, we folded on the drop and played 'sick'. We were rotated out and got our pay. That's it. I'm sure you have questions now."
Deckard started hard at Jeff. He seemed to telling the truth. He was sitting back,
feet up on the table, eating cookies, maintaining eye contact, completely relaxed. There was no guile or falsehood in his manner at all.
"An act? You decided to quit? What the hell does that mean? You loved the work! We saw you in action on the tapes, you were pros!" Deckard almost shouted at him.
Halidan took it in stride.
"Yes, we loved the work at first. I like Chinese food too, but I don't want to have it every night. Also, Shea wasn't responding to my instructions like he used to. I don't know if it was because he was getting older or if it was because I didn't care about the job anymore. All I wanted was out of it. So we rigged it up. Of course, Shea did a little over acting. Anytime anyone with an authoritative air comes around, he hides under the bed."
"Including Bowden?"
Jeff gave him a you've-got-to-be-kidding look.
"Yeah, I see your point. An act. All this time. The plans, you didn't steal them, huh?"
"No, I didn't. You're back to it, huh?"
"Hey, the Section doesn't control me." Deckard said, defensively.
"That's because they don't need to anymore."
They made some small talk about each other's lives. Deckard accepted some boxes of tea and he and Kitka drove back home.
They don't need to anymore.
.
Back in their solitude, Channelle and he lazed about. Kitka amused herself by climbing up the wall and then leaping onto the ceiling, hanging there by her front paws, and then dropping down. Deckard gazed into the screen of his MIL cradle. It was a compact unit that performed all the tasks of other electronics. It was a computer, phone, infranet link, game player, and music recorder. The Multifunction Integrated Link could be used with or without a cradle. The cradle was a unit that contained a larger screen and keyboard. It was also capable of being hardwired into a telecommunications setup. The acronym had replaced a lot of other verbs.
He had been doing some routine checking on the infranet. The search had gone nowhere. The information was far too superficial to yield anything useful, except that Kelly Wouk had been born in a small town in Louisiana. It was gone now, swept away in the violent birth of the Texas gulf. He stared into the screen, seeing nothing. To find him, that was the next step to be sure, but even an SSN check had yielded nothing, not even an address, just basic bio stuff. Blaine yawned widely then shook his head violently. Looking up, he saw Kitka hanging from the ceiling. She looked back at him and meowed softly.
He sighed and flipped from the net to his remote camera relays. He and Channelle frequently "ghosted" the various dwellings and headquarters of the politicos of the township, but now only on special occasions. For the routine instances, he merely eavesdropped on them via the micro cams and microphones that they had secreted here and there over the months. At first, he only had cameras in the bathrooms, but found it necessary to add microphones later, as an amazing amount of data came from these sources. Deckard flipped from one cam to the next, until he landed at the convention center bathroom. He paused and boosted the volume. Two men were standing at the urinals. Both were in formal wear and their backs were to the view.
"Have you and Kathleen received your invitation to the Midwinter ball?"
"Yes, it arrived last week."
"Attending?"
"Of course, are you kidding? With LesPaul as the guest host?"
"You're serious? LesPaul? Where did you pick this up?"
"Well, you know who's hosting it this year? Jack and Tracy Haining."
"And?"
"Well, when LesPaul got out of the army and was looking for investors, Jack Haining was one of his first. In fact, his wife Linda and Tracy Haining were good friends before his company ever existed."
Jeordi LesPaul was the founder of CyberTech, the company that produced the MIL chips that 70% of the planet used. Blaine had not known that he had been "in the Army." At the most polite, that term could be called completely inaccurate. LesPaul had to be Section X. Nobody would have put that kind of talent in a uniform near a DMZ. Blaine wondered how he had kept his activities concealed while in the Section. There must have been some kind of deal made with higher ups. Interesting. LesPaul would have known many people in the Section, many people indeed. His thoughts were racing along so fast that he almost missed the most important part.
"...October the 17th. We'll pick you two up at....seven. We'll go for drinks first then go to the ball."
He shut the transmission off, and rose thoughtfully. With a sudden burst of speed, he sprang on Channelle and they rolled about. Channelle darted off with Blaine in close pursuit. The house, being circular, directed the chase. Then in the same breath, they both leapt onto their futon.
"There's a ball in a month, and we've to figure out a way to get an invite."
They lay there breathing heavy. Channelle rose to her feet, stretched, and lay back down again.
"Wanna go out tonight, girl?" Deckard murred to her, as he stroked her whiskers.
Her eyes closed briefly at him. She turned over and looked at him upside down.
He read her mind then, and replied to question she was unable to speak.
"Blackmail. That's how." Their luck was in, now all they had to do was chase it down.
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Jack Haining was the proverbial master of his domain. His early investments had brought him great wealth when he was quite young. He had tired of being a big fish in a big pond full of other big fish. He looked around for the spot to establish his rule. A small town was perfect for his intentions. He moved in and started buying up everything in sight. Restaurants, bars, movie theaters, drug stores, abandoned buildings, everything was his. Haining's wife, an interior design major, personally redecorated everything that he bought. This done, he began urban renewal, on a smaller scale. Haining donated vast sums of money to the city and every charity around. Stores and shops of every kind sprang up over night. Having done this, he got a hold of a local booking agent and gave him an immense budget.
The agent, previously dealing with only local acts and minor performers, raked in every big name that he could find a MIL number on. After all, he would point out to the mangers, agents, and assistants; we have a new coliseum, capable of seating forty thousand, and it's almost within walking distance of the famous Disco Volante Hotel, which had been built in the late 1930's, and had recently revamped up to a five star rating. It was a hard offer to turn down, particularly when the quote had been met and topped by about twenty percent. Not many passed it up. The Moonlighters, Johnny Vid, Nightmare 5, The Imperial Russian Ballet, the New York Shakespeare troupe, Richard Bachman III, and the Hollywood Ice Works and Stunt show, all came. The Colorado Bulldogs chose it as their summer training camp.
Product follows demand and restaurants of every sort sprang up in every nook and cranny. Suddenly, the locals found they were able to describe in detail what was the difference was between good Couscous and Spanakopita and bad. The town and the town's folk became culturally elite seemingly overnight. Haining sat back and let the city fathers lavish him with praise, awards, plaques and banquets. When it was suggested that he run for mayor, he laughed and told them who they should really elect, and that was precisely who won. Haining decided who would rule and who would lose. The townspeople scarcely noticed, as they were too busy drinking pints of real English ale, eating shrimp gumbo, and getting tickets for theater, or the ball game or the passing big act name. The world was his oyster. The oyster had a bit of sand in it though, one that refused to become a pearl. Haining scarcely noticed, as he was too busy reaping what he sowed.
.
Deckard and Kitka crouched on a rooftop, five stories up, watching Haining. They had been observing him for a week and their efforts finally bore fruit. Haining's wife was on a shopping trip to L.A, and Jacky boy was out on the town. He had been in the bar of the Hotel Orleans, which was a bit on the shady side, for two hours. It was the first time that he had shown he was able to do something interesting.
Previously, all he had done was go to
his office, to meetings, the bank, lunch, and home. Very boring. Occasionally, he would step out with his wife, but it was always at the same place, where he ordered the same thing. His estate was undergoing some changes for the big bash. Deliveries, workers, and caterers going in and out.
"Must be having a good time," Blaine muttered, as he ran his hand down Kitka's spine. She whacked his hand with her tail, and growled amiably in her chest.
The doors opened, and their target came out. He was wrapped around an elegant looking blonde, with an ornate hair bouffant studded with what looked to be pearls. They lurched on the curb for a moment, barely able to contain themselves. A cab pulled up.
As soon as the two of them came out, Kitka and Deck abandoned their perch and slid down to the surface. In another place, and another time, they would have removed the cable used. They left it this time, as they had used it there first, two years ago, and then removed it, then after about the third time, they left it. It was a good building to watch from, and to remove the cable now might attract attention, now that everybody was used to it.
When the Haining and his girlfriend got into the cab, Channelle slipped in with them, before them actually, with her shroud activated. Her diamond choker was more than decorative; it concealed the light refraction unit, a small camera, a tracking beacon, and a mic. As the cab pulled away, Deckard placed a small receiver in his ear, as he stepped out of the shadow and listened to the two pant and moan.
"Where to," A disinterested voice.
"The Belmont."
Perfect, some of the best work had started there. Maybe their luck would hold further and they would even get a room they had already tripped. Channelle activated the camera, Deckard's watch flashed softly to let him know. The small image showed Haining's hand doing highly interesting things under the blonde's dress. Whatever it was that he was doing, she liked it.
Blaine snorted. Channelle was a voyeur by definition, and she had an almost human desire to try to shock him.
Shaking his head, he broke into a run and covered the distance between himself and his car rapidly. Sliding in, Deckard spun out into traffic and was at the Belmont in two minutes.
The cabby, was obviously boosting his fare, or enjoying the show, because Blaine arrived first and had to wait. The cab pulled up and they got out. As they went into the motel office, Deck reactivated his audio and listened to Haining order a room.
Room 317. Damn! That room, as the lingo went, was virgin. Grabbing his work belt, he sighted the room and leapt up to seize the second floor and vaulted himself upwards, once again and he was on the right one. The sounds of his movements were silent and Deckard kept an eye on the two lovers. They were still in the office, hanging all over each other like high school kids. He got through the lock without breaking stride, and had his surveillance set up in seconds.
Deck backed out, and passed them on the stair. They didn't even notice. His arms were full, all of a sudden with cat. She unshrouded, and climbed up on his shoulders.
"Good work." Deckard whispered.
Channelle sniffed his ear in response. He walked down to the ground floor.
"Let's get a room and a pizza."
She made no objections. They were on the trail and letting their targets get out of sight was something that just was not something they would do. In the before time, they might have broken into the adjacent room, and hope that no one rented it, or perched on the roof. The team would have been on edge. Deckard would have set up perimeter alerts and cameras, his guns locked and cocked. Kitka would have stayed in her shroud, waiting to attack. Nowadays, it was easy, a game. She jumped down and explored the motel's cheap shrubbery as he went into the office.
"Could I get a room, preferably one on the third floor? My MIL infranet receiver is real temperamental."
"Yeah, I got one of those myself, cheap ass thing." The clerk replied. He was a goateed young guy, who looked as if this was a night job, while he went to school during the day. A brief glance over the counter revealed several textbooks lying open on an adjoining desk. Deckard chatted the guy up while filling out the form, all with a fake chit, of course. It was a good way of getting low level data, after all one never knew when one might need the services of a night clerk who studied Folklore, or what he might know.
Channelle danced up the stairs, and they took their room across the courtyard from their targets. The room was small but comfortable, there were free movie channels and the pizza place was running a special on large with everything plus a six-pack. Deckard ordered it, along with a six pack.
"Thirty minutes, or it's FREE!" He said as he hung the phone up, grimacing at Kitka. Her eyes got wide in turn as they stared at each other. They broke away, and he went about setting up the transmission.
The surveillance came in crisply, although he had to adjust for light. The two of them were ardently thrusting into each other, the bed rocking up and down and back and forth. It was punctuated with groans and subjectives, and occasionally commands or expletives. He muted it and turned on the DV in time for "Star Troopers Invade!"
.
The rest of the night passed without great consequence. The two of them watched the movie, and the amorous display. They ate and drank. Haining and his current interest moved on to S&M games and then showered, put their clothes back on, and left in two different cabs. Blaine and Channelle, wanting to cover all their bases, followed the blonde home. They had already been to Haining's house many times, though not by invitation. The girl's cab took her to a small apartment on top of an Italian restaurant on the fashionable west side. It was after three in the morning by now, but the citizenry was still in full swing on the town. The former Ultra Team could move about virtually invisible to the eyes of the authorities.
Standing on the corner opposite the apartment, Deckard and Kitka watched her silhouette in the window. Channelle stood on Deck's shoulder, lifting her nose high in the air. Passers-bys glanced curiously at her, some cooing softly and reaching out to pet her, others just looking. When the light went out in her window, they walked across the street and through the security door. Deckard dumped his overcoat in a cleaning closet, leaving him clad only in his black outfit, what he called his "creeper". Drawing a headset out of the belt, he set it on his head and adjusted it. With a gesture from him, Channelle vanished and they broke into the blonde's apartment. With the infrared light glaring about from his headset, his altered eyes could see everything. The two-bedroom place was stately looking with high ceilings. There was an astonishing DV stereo set in the main room, quite expensive. She obviously was not much of a cook, for her pantry revealed nothing major, and the fridge was full of take out cartons.
The dressing room also had a MIL cradle on a small desk, of which Blaine downloaded all the files. Her purse had a compact, ID, a driver license, three credit cards, none of them with her name on them, several receipts, tissue, and a small .25 cal handgun, chrome with a pink handle. Blaine held up the gun with a smile, one reserved for children and small animals.
The ID gave her name as Lillith Carbona, surely an alias, but it was all scanned in. Channelle and he systematically searched everything and recorded it. They both stopped at the bedroom, and glanced at one another. They both knew that they had all they needed, but they hadn't looked at everything. Curiosity was an impulse and a state of mind. They had to get a closer look.
Softly treading on the carpet, they drew to the side of the bed and looked in it. Lillith was supine on her back, her arms under the pillow. Her breathing was soft. Without makeup, she showed a smattering of freckles on the nose. Lilith's ornate hair was now spread all over the bed in a tangled mess. Slowly the sheet began to slip downward. Blaine glanced sharply at the foot of the bed. Channelle was pulling the sheet downwards with her claws. Deckard motioned her to stop. Kitka did for a moment, blinked at him and then continued. In spite of himself, he stayed still.
She was about five seven, and 127 lbs. 36 across the hips, and a 42 across the chest. Her breasts wer
e maintaining an unnatural shape as she lay there. Deckard tilted his head at this, and bent over for a better look. Closer examination revealed two small scars, mere nicks, really, just under each breast. Enlargement surgery. They had seen enough. Backing out of the room, they cleaned up their tracks, and left.
Fetching his coat, they went up to the roof instead, and vaulted onto another roof. Two more and they descended close to where the car sat. The sun was breaking over the humble skyline as they made their way back home. They parked, went inside, stretching and yawning, and fell asleep on the couch. First thing in the morning, they would break open the 'pouch' and get a look at the tricks and treats they had brought back.
.
A quick analysis of the pouch they had acquired revealed that Lillith Carbona was 27, a graduate of Sillvingdale high school, owned a red Jupiter 2 Matador, which was the latest POS sports car, and had a doctor's appointment on Thursday of next week. That was the hard data, the obvious. Further delving concluded that she was an employee of Varna Wherres, who ran the most exclusive escort service in that part of the territory. Disappointing. Blaine would have rather it been the daughter of some social climber businessman or factory worker, not just some hired hand. He was a romantic, after all.
Oh, well, he thought, as Channelle dozed in his lap. Editing the material that they had gathered at the Belmont into a neat E file, he sent it off to Haining's E-account with a small note: City parking lot, top level, midnight: discussion. Deckard looked at his watch. He had quite a few hours yet, so he and Channelle went back to sleep on the couch.
.
Rising at around ten, the two of them bathed, ate, gathered the standard gear that they would need and then staked out the parking garage. The first thing that they noticed is that they were not the only ones staking it out. Two unimaginative goons were sitting in a white mini van in plain sight. The former Ultra Team let the air out of the tires and pulled the oil plug, the antifreeze plug and transmission plug for the sheer sport of it. Then using a molecular bonding paste, they sealed the all the doors all without being found out.
The only way the two goons would be able get out of the car now was by breaking the windows. It was a sure bet that Haining would have more muscle with him. There could be more out of sight as well. Deckard and Channelle checked over the structure very carefully, finding nothing. An hour later and a late model Mercedes Shokran town car pulled in to the garage and circled around to the top level.