Land
of the Free
Prelude
NeoYork City, 2030:
The rolling thunder drowned the roaring whine of the aerodyne turbines as the vehicle flew past the dark waters of Hudson Bay. The overcast skies and the ever present cloud of smog hid the gibbous moon and promised showers of acid rain on this evening.
The aerodyne's headlights briefly illuminated the Statue of Liberty's face, before turning northeast towards Manhattan. The ancient symbol of American freedom languished now in the shadows of impossibly high skyscrapers. It was little more than scrap metal now, in truth. Rust and corrosion had bitten off several sections, and the relentless acid rain had scarred her face until she seemed to be weeping. A fitting metaphor for the American dream, lost beneath the pervasive pollution and the new paradigm of corporate imperialism.
The noise of the massive turbofan engine was muffled to a hum inside the cabin's luxurious air-conditioned interior. Bjorn Svenson stared out the window at the seemingly endless NeoYork Metroplex skyline. All the land east of Interstate 287 in Jersey up to the tip of Montauk, Long Island, from the Tappan Zee Bridge to the north, to East Brunswick in the south, was covered in a veritable constellation of lights. Dozens of aerodynes and advert-blimps flitted back and forth like fireflies between neon-covered corporate towers and flame-spewing industrial complexes. The horizon seemed to be on fire. The artificial light from the city and the gigantic pyramids of the Jersey Arcologies illuminated the night sky in a way the pale moon never could. Only Manhattan stood in darkness. For more than a quarter of a century, the island which had been the cultural and social center of the nation had lain in ruins. In 2003, a group of Colombian drug lords had detonated a small tactical nuclear device in Rockefeller Center. The explosion had devastated everything in a one mile radius. Broadway, the Theater and Diamond districts and Times Square had ceased to exist. The shockwave and shrapnel had destroyed buildings for another mile out. The Chrysler and Empire State buildings were gone, as well as the U.N. headquarters. The dilapidated twin towers of the World Trade Center were no longer identical. All the windows and several floors were missing from each ruined edifice. More than 15,000 people had died instantly. Thousands more died in the riots and the panic that followed as the island was evacuated.
But that was in the past. Though no longer known as a center of arts and trade, NeoYork City was still a major port and had become a leading industrial and manufacturing center. Only Manhattan had not been rebuilt, but had become a gigantic combat zone instead.
Svenson took a sip of the expensive Merlot and smiled. The Durant job had gone really well. The team had delivered Mr. Michael Victor Durant, the "Playboy CEO" of Durant industries himself from Night City to JFK International Spaceport. The ride on the transcontinental Maglev had gone off without a hitch. Durant had been impressed with the service. The bottle of wine and the use of this private luxury aerodyne and driver were proof of that. He had even hinted of future employment contracts for Svenson's team.
Svenson chuckled. Ever since having been fired from Arasaka, he had dreamed of opening his own private security firm. Sure, it hadn't been easy. He only had a handful of people working for him right now and he himself went along on all operations, to make sure everything went according to plan. Hell, the money they had made on this job was already gone to pay the bills. Still, he needed a name for the outfit. The Raven Cybermercenary Co.? No. Sounded too much like Raven Microcyb. Street Samurais? Ronin, Inc.? Too Japanese, reminiscent of hated Arasaka. Besides, it could be degenerated into 'Rent-a-Ronin' quite too easily.
Universal Solos? Nah. Sounded too much like a bad 20th century flat vid. Alpha Strike Teams, Ltd.? Mmm. Too aggressive. True, the team was capable of handling offensive strikes, but he needed to emphasize the multiple capabilities of a team of professionals like the one he had assembled. Any type of special operations, covert or overt, from bodyguarding, to courier or guard duty, to infiltration, exfiltration, demolition, counterinsurgency and more. Perhaps something relating to his Scandinavian heritage. The Valhalla Company. The Asgard Corporation. Perhaps the Valkyrie Group? The Choosers of the Slain certainly had a nice ring to it...
But now to the business at hand, Svenson thought. The Durant contract was done. The man had taken a suborbital flight to Europe this morning. This left them temporarily unemployed. Fortunately, Svenson had already made a contact for a possible assignment. The meeting was tonight at some dive in the combat zone. Myers and the team should be there already. They had gone on ahead to check the place out.
-----o-----
Jericho Blake leaned back and silently surveyed the room. The Apocalypse Club was no different from all the other nightclubs in New Broadway. Deep in the ruins of the combat zone that was Manhattan, a series of trendy, similarly themed bars and dance clubs had become the latest fashion among the rich and the dispossessed alike. Clubs like Ground Zero, Armageddon, the Bomb Shelter and the Apocalypse attracted the spoiled corporate mall-brats with the allure of loud music, illegal substances and thrill of rubbing shoulders with outcasts and outlaws: the Edgerunners at the fringe of society.
The driving beat of the chromatic rock resounded deep within Blake' chest. The crowd writhed and swelled like the tide to the compelling rhythm of the music. The dazzling array of lights pulsed with a hypnotizing glare. Dozens upon dozens of flatvid screens made up the walls, ceiling and dance floors of the club, interrupted only by colored lights, smoke generators and laser projectors to complete the ambience. A plastic deck protected the delicate electronic equipment from the stomping feet of the crazed youths dancing above. There were even video screens serving as bases for the crystal tables around the dance floor. Some Silverhand music video was playing in all the screens.
Blake had already checked out the layout of the place and had selected this table as an appropriate location for the meeting. He took a sip from his bourbon and smiled as he studied to the crowd.
He spotted several youths wearing faux cyberlimbs and the latest, most expensive designer streetwear outfits. Leather, vinyl, denim, silk, plastic and a dozen more different types of fabrics, most in black, but many in different colors. These people were lost. Seeking an escape from their dreary, corporate-controlled lives. Seeking adventure and excitement without really understanding the risks and danger that were inherent to life on the Edge.
Svenson would be here at any moment. Myers and Caine should be finishing their survey of the place by now. Their contact should also be here soon.
-----o-----
Myers spotted him first, a few minutes after Svenson came in and sat down at Blake's table. This Weir guy was a scrawny little man. He couldn't be more than 5' 6", a hundred and fifteen pounds. He certainly wasn't much to look at. A two-day old beard, short scraggly hair and thick eyebrows protruding around mirrorshades crowned a mousy looking face. A stylish overcoat several sizes too big was draped over his ill-fitting expensive clothes. That was Weir alright. John Myers had seen the man's face when he had contacted Svenson on the vid-phone earlier today. They had heard of this guy. Had done some checking too, and word on the Street was that this guy was on a level. Really connected. Always gave Edgerunners a good deal, and that wasn't easy to find.
Myers surreptitiously glanced at two scantily clad girls dancing with each other. There was an edge to their movements, revealing cybernetically enhanced nervous systems. With a mental command, the solo activated the thermograph imaging system in his right cyberoptic. The heat sensitive scan showed an outstanding amount of black-market cyberware. Myers did not need to see their focused gaze on Weir to identify them as his bodyguards. Not that the fixer needed any protection. Anyone foolish enough to mess with the man would have to deal with his powerful connections.
"He's here," Myers muttered under his breath. "Only two chromed bodyguards on the dance floor. The sexy brunette with short hair dancing with the blonde in the transparent miniskirt."
"Got 'em," Blake' voice sounded tinny through the mastoid commo glued on behind his ear. "Caine is coming in and Svenson's already here. He says you should come in too. This guy's for real."
"Roger. Will do."
Still, Myers would feel better keeping an eye on the bodyguards. It never hurt to be prepared. Svenson would cut them he a good deal. He was sure of that.
-----o-----
"I'm representing a man who wants someone extracted," Eliot Weir said, lighting a cigarette. "It's a big job. It'll be a tough extraction, and there's a follow-up. The extractee needs to be escorted to Night City by air. My client is willing to pay well, however, and we have inside information that will make the extraction go easier. Also, if you don't want to stay in Night City, we'll fly you anywhere you want to go after the job. Back to NeoYork, or somewhere else if you like." Weir finished the initial pitch and leaned back to study their reaction.
"How much will we be paid?" their leader, Svenson, asked. He was pale and blond, and wore an expensive designer business suit, as well as a stylish goatee and ponytail. He looked every bit the part of the succesful corporate sarariman. A former junior exec at Arasaka's home office in Tokyo, according to Weir's sources. He had left the firm under unclear circumstances.
"Thirty-five thousand Eurodollars." That came out to five thousand euro per person. "Half in advance, half in Night City, plus expenses and per diem." The offer was a good one, and this Svenson knew it. After all, Weir had his reputation to think of. He always gave his people an honest deal. There was too much treachery and uncertainty in this business.
"What if there are any... complications?" Svenson said.
"I will be your contact back here. Here's my vid-phone number." Weir slid a business card across the table. "You'll also have a contact in Night City. If you're delayed along the way, you'll get 200 Eurodollars per person per day plus expenses, until you reach Night City, provided the extractee is in good shape and confirms that no time was wasted, of course."
"Of course," Svenson replied with an amused smile.
" We'll support you all the way." Weir added and he meant it. His employer had provided sufficient funds to hire the operatives and to cover any eventualities. "Your success is our gain. Here is a credit chip to cover those expenses along the way." He handed it to Svenson along with a written number sequence. "Don't forget the PIN number. You'll have to turn it in to your contact in Night City. The balance will be deducted from your fee." Just in case any of them got a funny idea. There were ten thousand eurodollars in that account in Aruba.
"Why did you choose us?" Svenson asked.
"I like to recruit groups that have worked together before. Word is, you are dependable. The Durant people are pleased with your services." That was true. Ian, his contact over at Durant, had reccommended the group to him and had given him Svenson's vid-phone number.
"Where are we extracting from?" Myers asked. This John Myers was one of the team's solos. A former member of Army Special Forces, this man was heavily metalled up. Charlie, one of Weir's bodyguards, had run a thermograph scan which showed a cyberarm and a cyberoptic. Real state of the art stuff. Up to military specs, it seemed. None of that cheap, street stuff. The high impact ceramics and kevlar reinforcements could be seen when he raised his glass to take a sip of his drink. Brown haired, lean but powerfully framed. Little could be ascertained from his expression, hidden behind mirrorshades. A real tough muther, if he was who he claimed to be. Weir had run checks on all these people before hiring them. Most of his inquiries had turned up nothing. These were professionals, and their former identities had been Zeroed. Still, Weir had contacts in unusual places, and had managed to obtain some information. Pentagon records had one John Myers assigned to a higly specialized Black Ops unit during the '20's as an assassin and infiltrator.
"A corporation. I don't know which one." It was not one of the Big Players. That much Weir knew. "It's a small, secret lab here in the city, not a headquarters." Norcross Pharmaceuticals was its name. A small, privately held corporation specializing in surgical nanotechnology and nanopharmaceuticals. The lab was registered as Norcross Biomedical Research on the city central database.
"You said the target was to be escorted by air," that was Jericho Blake. Another solo. Clad in black kevlar-reinforced leather, like the others. This one was taller and heavier of build, with close-cropped blond hair. A former Force Recon Marine. Record said he had seen action in Central America and East Asia, during counter-insurgency operations. Thermograph scan had shown no cybernetic prostheses. Of course, that did not mean he wasn't chromed up. Prosthesis were become less common as newer nanoaugmentations were being developed. Weir could see interface plugs at his wrist. Probably boosted and chipped for action. "Makes sense," Blake continued. "The Transcontinental Maglev will probably be watched. So you have a private jet standing by?"
"I really shouldn't say anymore until I know if you're in or out," Weir said.
Svenson smiled.
-----o-----
