Undercity Gotham - Part 2
Alex sat on the steps of the Metropolitan Museum of Art and waited for Kawashira-san and his soldiers to show up. The Met was more or less in its original form, saved via a concerted effort by the people of New York to rescue one of the city’s few remaining landmarks. It had been covered in a thick protective coating that made the limestone look like bone-colored wax. Anything less and the Indiana limestone would have melted away long ago....
Yesterday: Part 1 of Undercity Gotham
Alex sat on the steps of the Metropolitan Museum of Art and waited for Kawashira-san and his soldiers to show up. The Met was more or less in its original form, saved via a concerted effort by the people of New York to rescue one of the city’s few remaining landmarks. It had been covered in a thick protective coating that made the limestone look like bone-colored wax. Anything less and the Indiana limestone would have melted away long ago.
Alex enjoyed people watching at the Met, watching New York’s upper crust stroll by. They were dressed in their ultrachic, body armor and carrying umbrellas that doubled as concealed blades or single shot holdout guns. The idiots carried the worse than useless things and suffered under a false sense of security that the concealed weapons made them safe from street punks. The punks probably used the umbrellas as trophies. Alex would have.
The downpour had stopped and the public works trucks were out spraying diluted lye on the roads to neutralize the acid rain before it did too much damage to the streets. The rain must have been harder than usual since the puddles were steaming and bubbling like Vulcan’s own carbonated soda.
In New York, at least among the people Alex usually worked for, punctuality was priced above all else. And for the first time he was late completing a contract. Kawashira-san’s requirements had been so strange that it had taken Alex three extra days to finish the hardware, and Alex had hoped that Kawashira-san wouldn’t hold it against him. Unfortunately, the oyabun and his retinue of bodyguards, assassins, and miscellaneous yakuza heavies were already 15 minutes late. That was not a good sign.
After a half hour, as Alex was just about to write off the entire project, a small motorcade came down 5th Avenue and pulled up in front of the museum. The lead and tail cars disgorged several people in blatantly milspec body armor and two small, elderly Asian men. The few random people in the area seemed to evaporate, scared off by the obvious firepower. Unfortunately, the delay meant that there were fewer people around than Alex usually liked for his meetings. He hoped this wasn’t going to be a problem.
One of the small men, the one named Yoshio, prowled over and motioned Alex toward Kawashira-san’s limousine. Alex had interacted with both men previously – Yoshio and Hiro were Kawashira-san’s primary lieutenants and bodyguards and he suspected that their suits were tailored to leave them both unencumbered in a fight. Alex stood up off the steps, straightened his overcoat and hat, and sauntered over to the back door.
The tinted window rolled down and Kawashira-san voice wafted out of the dark interior. “Alex san, I am most disappointed in your tardiness.” The voice was like fine silk soaked in cyanide.
“I humbly beg forgiveness, Kawashira-san. The item is complete now, however, should you still have need of it,” said Alex, bowing deeply to the powerful yakuza oyabun.
“It remains valuable to my purposes, but your delay has put my timetable at significant risk. So, kindly give it to me now.” The taloned hand that extended out of the darkness was smooth and hairless, with the dull sheen of brushed titanium.
Alex recalled the story about that arm every time he saw it. When Kawashira-san was a lieutenant to the prior oyabun of New York, he’d screwed up badly enough that the oyabun claimed Kawashira-san’s arm as punishment. When Kawashira-san orchestrated his take over of New York’s crime scene, he cut off his former boss’s arm and used it in place of his own missing arm. The word on the street was that Kawashira-san had only replaced the dead boss’ limb with the cyberarm after Kawashira-san’s body rejected the foreign flesh. True or not, the street couldn’t say, but the story served as a cautionary tale about what happened to people stupid enough to cross Kawashira-san. Best not to keep the man waiting any longer, Alex thought.
“Of course, Kawashira-san,” replied Alex. Alex turned toward Yoshiro, the lieutenant who usually paid him. But Yoshiro didn’t move for five long seconds, and so Alex, eyebrows furrowed, turned back to face the limousine. “I must have misunderstood something, Kawashira-san. Am I correct that you still want the cracker I built for you?”
“Oh, very much so, Alex san. But you were late in your delivery, so I want you to actually give it to me. Free of charge,” said Kawashira-san, his pleasant voice drifting by like chlorine gas. “Of course, if you’d care to discuss the issue further, you’re welcome to join me in my limo.” One of the yakuza soldiers stepped up and opened the back door of the limousine and motioned Alex toward the darkness.
This was very bad. Alex knew that if he refused to give the oyabun his cracker, Alex would either be killed here where he stood or he’d be shoved into the back of the limo and killed in a more private location. Probably the latter, given the public nature of the Met’s steps. And if Alex voluntarily got into the limo, he’d likely find himself discussing how far his head would land from his body when the swords came out. Alex saw nothing but death within that limo, so that was right out.
On the other hand, if Alex gave Kawashira-san the cracker for free, one of two things would happen. The first option was that Alex’s rep would get hammered by the oyabun’s men and he’d never get another job with the syndicates. The second option was that Alex would call in his many markers throughout the city’s VIPs and hammer Kawashira-san’s rep to the point that the oyabun would never be able to work on the eastern seaboard again. Either way, sooner or later, one of the men was going to kill the other.
Alex wished he’d worn his armored overcoat instead of the more stylish London Fog coat. If the bullets started flying here, his chances of surviving were slim. Hopefully the number of security cameras watching them right now would prevent the oyabun’s men from uncorking their weapons.
Alex sighed and pulled the cracker out of his coat. “I see. Please accept my most humble apologies at my tardiness. If you are satisfied with my work and everything goes well, I hope that you will change your mind about paying me for my services.” Alex, ready to be jumped by the yaks standing around, stepped forward and placed the black box in Kawashira-san’s taloned hand, and then stepped back. The arm retracted into the darkness and Kawashira-san chuckled.
“Don’t hold your breath.”
Alex tensed up slightly, expecting the two elderly bodyguards to leap forward and throw him into limousine. Alex’s old Tang Soo Do training told him that they had prepared themselves to do that very thing. But then the yak soldier closed the limo’s door and the other yaks began to pile back into their respective vehicles.
Yoshio and Hiro stepped around Alex and placed themselves between him and the limo. They both bowed deeply and then clapped their hands twice close to their chests. In unison, they said, “Goodbye, Alex san.”
Alex backed up several steps before turning and climbing up the stairs toward the Met’s front doors. When he got halfway up, he turned to wait and to watch the small motorcade leave. The bow the bodyguards gave him had been respectful, and he’d never been worthy of respect before. A respectful bow after a screw up couldn’t be a good sign. Alex waited on the steps until the motorcade had turned out of sight before leaving the steps and striding into Central Park. Once he was safely away from the Met’s eavesdropping tech, he called home.
“How can I help you, Alex?”
“I need a trace and dump on Kawashira-san. Start a penetrator running. Then pull up the list of markers I’m owed. Everything.”
“Initiated. I take it the meet did not go well.” It was not a question.
“He demanded the cracker gratis and suggested that I join him in his limo for a private chat. Oh, and his bodyguards bowed too deep for my relative importance to Kawashira-san.” Alex had worked with various yakuza syndicates for years, but he still didn’t totally understand all the foibles of their honor code.
“Did they clap twice before bowing,” asked Sylvie, sounding concerned.
How the hell did she know that? “Yeah.... Why?”
“They were performing a brief Zen Buddhist ritual for the dead, bowing before you as if you were already a tombstone.”
“Oh shit.” Apparently Kawashira-san was at least one step ahead of Alex. There had to be a couple of assassins on Alex’s trail already.
“I’ll keep you informed about anything I find, but I suggest that you get back here to relative safety, and soon.”
“Unfortunately, I haven’t eaten yet,” grumbled Alex. “I came close, though. Way too close. Remind me to have Jack clean up any bodily viscera before I show up next time.”
“Reminder logged,” replied Sylvie. “You nearly ate someone who passes for a friend? If you nearly lost control on Jack, that’s very bad, Alex.” Sylvie’s voice was simultaneously very stern and concerned.
“I know, Sylvie,” Alex said. He paused to look up at the stars through the trees, and then he yawned.
“You sound tired,” said Sylvie.
“I am tired,” he sighed. “So very tired....”
“You’ll feel better after you’ve had something to eat. Now go out and have a meal, you tired, grizzled old man you. Stay to very public places, though I may not find anything before you do. Kawashira-san’s netsec is some of the best in the world.”
“I know - I wrote part of it.” Alex was beginning to think that maybe it hadn’t been such a good idea to upgrade the oyabun’s security last year after all. Oh well, too late for regrets now. “Just do the best you can. Oh, and remind me next time I meet with a client to wear some body armor. I feel naked right now.”
“Reminder logged. Good hunting, Alex,” said Sylvie, and she disconnected.
The dance club Primatia was one of the most exclusive and popular in New York, and with its five independent levels, it was one of the largest clubs as well. Primatia currently sported a motif that was a fusion of urban cityscape and cloud or rain forest. The top level had cloud forest intertwined with the spires of the great European monuments, while the bottom level sported rain forest mixed with simulated Undercity and sea wall. It was chic this year to pretend that the hellish and squalid Undercity was just another borough.
The current decor wasn’t Alex’s thing, but he’d been welcome as a regular, no cover, ever since he’d helped the owner solve a little mafia problem opening weekend.
The music varied from night to night and from level to level, but there was always at least one level where house music would be playing at ear damaging volume. Tonight it was on the main level, and that suited Alex just fine - the main level was his preferred hunting ground. Even better, In Nominae Projectus wasn’t “performing” tonight. He had long thought that consuming the DJs from INP would do the world a favor, but he made a policy of never partaking of celebrities. Doing so drew far too much attention, and unfair as it was, INP qualified as celebrities.
The bouncers knew Alex and they ushered him in and around the standard weapon and explosive scanners. The owner, CG left instructions that Alex was allowed anywhere he wanted, even the exclusive top level and the private rooms, and Alex occasionally met with clients in the rooms. The inevitable rumors circling the club about Alex and CG’s relationship were kept vague enough that they didn’t invoke much interest from the undercover cops on staff. Neither CG nor Alex wanted to have the cops busting up a perfectly good deal on black market goods.
Alex headed for a booth in the back, hung his overcoat and fedora on the coat rack where the acid rain could run off into the stainless steel drain basin, and sat where he could see the dance floor.
The hunt always filled him with ambivalence. Not because he wasn’t excited, but because his excitement at the thought of feeding made him sick with guilt and ashamed of the fear that made him too weak for suicide. So here he was, hunting for a needy, solitary, and healthy person. The kind of person who wouldn’t be missed if they disappeared tonight. Man or woman didn’t really matter. All that really mattered was that the prey not be a drug addict or have any blood borne diseases. He hadn’t enjoyed his experiences with either. The woman on LSD had given Alex a week of hallucinations about explosions, dismembered bodies, and circuitry, and it had taken him eight weeks to recover after he’d fed on a guy with a mild case of West Nile.
Alex could always tell these days if someone was sick or an addict. A quick kiss and a sniff told him epics about the prey’s genetic and environmental history. If he concentrated, he could hear heart and lung irregularities that might indicate any number of dysfunctions, even through the pounding music. Unfortunately, finding someone who met all his needs was hard these days. Most people healthy enough for his needs would be missed. That was part of the reason he hunted on the dance floor. At least here all the dancers were minimally healthy.
Alex cleansed his palate with a swig of water and then wandered through the dancing mass. On nights like this, he couldn’t help but see them all as unsuspecting prey. He knew that if he’d been surrounded by this many hormonal, pheromone oozing people when he was newly changed, he’d have lost control and slaughtered half the club. But Alex had learned self-control and, in the process, he’d perfected his hunting techniques. He’d wander through the crowd until his enhanced senses found just what he needed to satiate his hunger, and then he’d start dancing with the unlucky prey, slowly releasing his own concentrated pheromones. After a few minutes, his quarry wouldn’t be able to resist the seduction. He’d take dinner back to his booth and then slip out the back door when no one was looking. They’d take a slow walk toward the river, and when they were alone and the prey was totally relaxed, he’d strike.
And then Alex would dump the carcass into the river where the concentrated pollutants would dissolve it, flesh and blood and bone, in a matter of hours.
Tonight, however, Alex was having some difficulty. That woman was healthy, but the ring on her left hand indicated that she was either married or recently divorced. That young woman was needy enough to be an easy catch, but her sweat said she was a regular user of Tempt mixed with crack. The young man over there was clean and healthy, but not only would his parents miss him, he wouldn’t sustain Alex very long. The man lighting his cigar with his thumb lighter had other obvious cybernetic implants, and Alex disliked cyborgs’ oily, metallic tang.
Alex gave up on the main level and headed toward the stairs up to the next level. He was rounding the faux banyan trees when he caught a whiff of something odd. Alex paused and it took him several seconds to realize that the odor was the combat drug p SIP. He had just started to move again when the stabbing pain hit his back, right between his spine and left kidney.
Alex’s training kicked in as he spun around just in time to block a second shiv. Alex felt the drug-enhanced assassin’s forearm shatter on impact with Alex’s unnaturally strong block, and the impact sent the second shiv flying. Alex immediately punched the assassin’s solar plexus, caving in ribs, collapsing both lungs, crushing the heart, and snapping the assassin’s spine for good measure. The dead assassin slumped forward into Alex’s arms.
Alex carefully pulled the first shiv out of his back and called CG’s private line.
“What’s up, Alex,” CG’s raspy voice asked.
“Your insurance rates if you’re not more careful. I’ve got a dead yak in my arms. Where should I deposit the body?”
“Be right there.”
Alex didn’t wait long. CG, followed closely by two of his personal bonecrushers, walked up as quickly as the crowded dance club would allow. One of the bonecrushers came up to claim the body from Alex. As the bonecrusher took the dead assassin, he said “Come on, pal, you drank too much. Let’s get you to a taxi and home.”
CG and the second bonecrusher stood by as the body was carted off for disposal. “What happened, Alex,” CG asked.
Alex slipped CG the shiv that had recently been stuck in Alex’s back. “He snuck that into Primatia, and then sunk it into my back.”
CG looked concerned. “You need meds? I’ve got symbiotic healers up in my office.”
“No, I’ll be all right. It didn’t hit anything serious. Besides, you know I’m allergic to healers.” There was no way on this earth Alex would let CG see his back. The wound had already healed.
“This brand claims they’ve fixed all that. You sure?”
“Yeah, I’m sure. Never met a symbiote that didn’t make me swell up and puke, so I’d just as soon not push it. By the way, you might want to update your scanners to catch these shivs before your insurance catches wind of them.”
“They already do. The guy must have been a real pro to slip one of these by my security.”
“Two."
“Two what?”
“He had a second shiv. I sent it flying over there,” Alex motioned toward the dance floor, “when he tried to sink it into my chest. Probably busted into a million pieces by now.”
“I hope so. Bad karma, man. Sorry about that.”
“Not a problem. I guess I shouldn’t have come here after pissing off Kawashira-san.” CG stiffened at the oyabun’s name.
“Oh fuck. Nothing personal, man, but get the hell out of my club. I don’t need his yaks screwing up my business, you know?” CG was not pleased.
Alex smiled. “Yeah. Tell you what, when my business is settled with Kawashira-san, I’ll come back and we’ll drink to living in a safer city.”
“Sure, whatever. If you come back. And you never drink anything but bottled water.” CG’s smile was tight and small, but at least it was a smile.
“Good thing, too, or I’d be dead now. Reaction time and all that. Let me gather up my stuff and I’ll get out of your hair.” Alex started toward the dance floor, but CG stopped Alex with his hand.
“Miles, get Alex’s stuff,” said CG, inclining his head toward the remaining bonecrusher. The dancers parted around Miles as the bonecrusher walked toward Alex’s usual booth. “You don’t know how many more assassins might be gunning for you in that crowd.”
“Good point,” replied Alex, thankful for the help. Miles returned and handed Alex his overcoat and fedora. Alex put them both on and pulled the hat low over his eyes.
“Good night, CG,” said Alex as he walked out of the club.
Alex was walking across Central Park toward the Met and eh secure garage where he’d parked when Sylvie called.
“Let me guess, Kawashira-san hired an assassin or four to take me down,” said Alex as he answered the call.
“Six, actually. I take it from your tone that one or more have already shuffled off the mortal coil?”
“Something like that, yes. And before you ask, no, I still haven’t eaten. But it sounds like I may find someone to eat tonight after all.” He hoped the next assassination attempt would be private enough to let him feed.
“Speaking of that, I’m receiving a call from Kawashira-san currently. Shall I connect you?”
“Why, certainly. I’d love to hear what the good oyabun has to say.”
“Hello, Alex san,” said Kawashira-san. “How have you been tonight?”
“Except for a bit of a back ache, quite well, thanks,” said Alex, feigning discomfort.
“I hope your aches and pains aren’t symptoms of something more severe, perhaps even terminal.”
“They haven’t been yet. I am honored by your concern for my welfare, Kawashira-san.” Alex’s voice could have stripped paint off steel. “How might I help you this evening?”
“I had the opportunity to test your box. It performed better than I anticipated, and so I wish to give you what you deserve. I was hoping we could get together more privately to discuss the terms of a new arrangement. Might you be available at 0300 hours this morning?”
This was it. “For you, Kawashira-san, I’m always available. If you don’t object, we can meet at the old crematory and cemetery in the Undercity. I was heading there to honor my ancestors.”
“Excellent. I look forward to meeting you again. I’m sure you’ll say ‘hello’ to your ancestors for me, Alex san. Good bye,” said the oyabun, and then he hung up.
“Sylvie, I’m swinging by to pick up my combat gear,” said Alex. “How late will that make me?”
“If you take the subway and hurry, you’ll get there on time, but you’ll need to leave the truck until tomorrow. Regardless, Kawashira-san’s soldiers will almost certainly be in place before you arrive.”
“That can’t be helped. They’ll permit me to make peace with my family they have that much honor. And I’m thinking tonight might be a good night to hit the cemetery after all. I’ll be home soon, Sylvie.”
Tomorrow - the conclusion of Undercity Gotham!