Nyx Smith - Fade to Black

Even in his youth, during his days in Sector 19, the violent districts of Roseland and Pleasantdale, he had been like this. Ambition came first, but nothing came before honor, self-respect, and his beliefs about his rights and obligations as a man.

He had joined gangs and had led gangs. In time, he'd achieved a position with a local syndicate known as Rueda, the Wheel, and from there had gone on to forge his own network of contacts and agents. Everywhere he went, he always spoke to people politely, with respect Always, he dealt with others as a man of honor. He did not lie and he did not cheat He endeavored to give a fair value for any moneys spent. Fulfilling bis ambitions had not been difficult. People were only too willing to be persuaded of his ability as a negotiator and intermediary. They knew they could rely on his discretion. They knew his word stood for something. Amid the routine betrayals and vicious treacheries of the Sixth World, his word had become as valuable as platinum.

No longer did he carry any weapons. The days of blood and thunder had passed for him. It seemed to Victor that if he could not survive based on the alliances he had made, the work of more than half a lifetime, then perhaps he deserved to die, or perhaps if was fate's inexorable ruling.

The Japoneses had a saying: A man's fate is a man's fate. If so, he would meet his fate willingly.

So it was that when Victor heard a crash from above, and a squad dressed as commandos descended through the roof of his garden on rappelling lines, he remained seated calmly at his table, sipping his coffee and awaiting what would be.

The battle for his house was soon at an end.

A number of dark-clad, helmeted figures surrounded him with weapons at the ready. The initials E.A.B. showed on the left breasts of their upper-body armor. Victor knew what this stood for and could guess who had sent these troopers to his house.

He could also guess why they had been sent.

One distinctive figure emerged from the front of the house. She wore a silvery bodysuit and black-studded bands. Her eyes were like violet holes, empty, as emotionless as her face. Victor knew this woman by name and by reputation. Some years ago, when she was new and unknown, he had given her a number of jobs, her first professional contracts. She had since risen through the ranks of the Newark underworld. She now commanded a certain respect from even the most powerful of the crimelords ruling the metroplex.

"Como estd, Ravage," Victor said.

Ravage paused beside his round table, watching him, perhaps surveying him for weapons. She held a Scorpion machine pistol pointed at his face. Likely, she did not understand how he could sit here, calmly sipping his coffee, and therefore she suspected some as yet unnoticed threat.

Victor would show her no fear.'Pride alone demanded that. Ravage had become just another animal. She had put morals and ethics aside to do whatever a client might desire. This added untold quantities to her merchantability, and spoke clearly of her character, or lack of it. Victor saw little difference between the Ravage standing before him now and a common whore. She had packaged herself as a product for others to rent.

No honor. None whatsoever.

"Someone wants to talk to you," Ravage said.

Victor nodded once, and said, "Si. I know"

From the large unpaned window of his office 230 stories above lower Manhattan, Gordon Ito watched the lights of the city gleaming against the night. He lit a Platinum Select cigarette. He recalled that his current mistress had said something about having dinner tonight. Too late for that now. He checked his watch to confirm it. No great loss.

He returned to the high-backed chair behind his desk, looked across the room at his bodyguard, and pointed toward the door to the outer offices. The guard bowed formally, then turned and left.

An optic key hi the touch-sensitive top of his onyx desk brought a telecom screen rising up out of the desktop. Gordon tapped a few more optical keys. Call-protection software designed to scan the phone lines for taps and other forms of eavesdropping came on-line automatically each time Gordon made a call, unless for some reason he chose to cancel such security measures.

The Fuchi logo appeared briefly on the telecom screen. This was replaced by a straight-on view of an oriental woman wearing a Fuchi corporate blazer.

"Mr. Ito," the woman said.

"Ms. Yin," Gordon replied.

The digital clock on Gordon's display ticked off five seconds. This pause was standard protocol. Yin said, "One moment, please."

The Fuchi logo returned, but subtly modified, veiled by a black triangle. This represented Special Administration, and, hence, Gordon's own department as well.

As far as most Fuchi employees knew, the S.A. did not exist. It appeared on no corporate schematics delineating lines of authority, and it received its funds from diverse sources, funneled through obscure bank accounts. Gordon suspected that not even the board back in Tokyo knew of its existence, with the exception of Richard Villiers, Chief Executive Officer, and Villiers' number two man, Miles Lanier. Villiers had set up the S.A. and charged it with counterintelligence and other covert functions.

"Mr. Ito."

"Mr. Xiao."

"Konichiwa."

"Konichiwa."

The veiled Fuchi logo remained on the screen, but the voice belonged to Xiao, Gordon's boss and chief of Special Administration. A small icon appeared on Gordon's screen-voiceprint confirmed. Xiao never allowed his image to cross telecom lines, not even protected internal lines. A little touch of paranoia. Gordon understood that Xiao looked Korean, trim and spare, with close-cropped black hair. "Your calling time is convenient," Xiao said. "I have just finishing eating."

That was no coincidence. The hour was approaching midnight. Xiao usually woke in the late afternoon and worked through the night. Gordon's informant had predicted that Xiao would be awake now and just concluding his evening meal. There was no more propitious time to call than as Xiao concluded a meal. He apparently had a penchant for fine food. Gordon had a psychoanalyst working on that one, as well as other traits that had come to Gordon's attention.

"What brings you to my screen tonight, Gordon? Is it business? The Farris business?"

Gordon held back a curse. The bastard already knew. Xiao had informants of his own, and at least one of them was in Gordon's own outer office. Gordon would have the informant removed, except that it was sometimes useful to see Xiao misinformed, indirectly, discreetly. "I take it you've heard about the abduction at Crystal Blossom."

"Most certainly I have heard," Xiao replied. "I run the most efficient clandestine service in the corporate over-world. I have the most efficient chief of operations in the human sphere. Would you not agree, Gordon?"

Xiao's voice was, as always, emotionless, monotone. Gordon suppressed his immediate reaction to the implications of Xiao's words, and admitted, "I could have called you sooner. But I wanted more data before I laid things out for you."

"Your obsession with completeness is gratifying."

"It has plusses."

"Has Fuchi Internal Security become involved?"

"Negative." IntSec was totally in the dark, as it should be. Technically, IntSec and the S.A. were on the same team, but Xiao didn't see it that way. Neither did Gordon. The two organizations were as different as spies and security guards.

"Have you identified the criminals who abducted Marena Farris?"

"The data's on my comp. Partial ID's. My tech teams pulled a lot of trace evidence from the scene. We're cross-referencing with police databases. I suspect a local group."

"Is it the same group that ran on Maas Intertech?"