PART 2: The Little Vagabond
-1-
The sky above Tokyo
was the color of crushed violets, electrified with rainbows. The distant warning lights of planes and copters and the
orbital habitats were the only stars there were. Steam pumped out of the city, hot water vapor the only exhaust coming
from an otherwise dirty city, ripped apart by canyons and ravines from an earthquake half a generation gone. It was
winter in Tokyo, or Mega-Tokyo as it was called nowadays, and Fargo was going to work.
He checked his
watch, more for the look of the thing than to really see what time it was, then walked down the concrete steps, passing underneath the neon sign that read
'Disco Mobius' in buzzing, electric rainbow colors. It was an old-fashion sign, and the place itself was fairly
traditional in its ways. The bar was set in front of a mirror that stretched nearly the entire length of a wall, with a
bartender wearing a red vest and black bowtie. The dance floor was, instead of being cleared, was crowded with small,
high tables and stools, while the back and side walls had booths with high backs and sides, thick and burgundy, with tables of glass and steel. The stage was temporarily empty, as technicians fiddled with their equipment before setting it down.
Yet he was not the
only customer. The booths held groups talking excitedly, while the tables on the dance floor were about halfway
filled. The balcony, which covered all but the dance floor and stage and extended into wings overlooking the sides of
the club, was filling up with people as well, all looking down eagerly upon the empty stage. The noise was just loud
enough to make any conversation heard from only as close as a meter nearly unintelligible. This fact was just one of
the reasons that he'd chosen to meet his prospective client here today.
He saw her there at
the bar, a short, slim girl with black and blue hair in a pageboy, necking a magnum of champagne with all the abandon of a college student. She had a group of older men in expensive suits trawling at the edges of her presence, waiting for her to get drunk enough to
stagger home with them and offer sweet, unconscious loving. He understood that; she was very pretty indeed. If he hadn't had a girlfriend, one who had the preternatural ability to tell when he strayed in thought, if not in deed, he
would have most definitely flirted with her, even if she had been a client. At any rate, though it wasn't in his
nature to draw attention to himself, Fargo sighed inwardly, squared his shoulders, and walked purposefully towards his client.
Radiating ownership and alpha-male-plus, he strode through the opportunistic rapists as if they weren't worth looking at and sat next to the girl,
smiling familiarly. He put a proprietary arm over the girl's shoulders and whispered in her ear, "Rose
Bud."
She had stiffened
at his first touch, instinctively flinching away and getting ready to fight, yet when he said the magic words Fargo could tell that she forced herself to
relax. He saw the edges of her smile from out of the bottom of his eyes, even as he drew in even closer to give her a
kiss on the cheek. As he pulled back, Fargo saw the other men drift away, disappointed and looking for easier
meat.
"Darling! Hello!" she squealed, hugging him enthusiastically.
"Don't
oversell it," whispered Fargo. Then, in a normal voice and manner, one that wouldn't go far but would still
give the impression of intimacy, he said, "Let's get a booth so we can talk more openly."
Silently leading
her to a darkened booth, ones perfectly suited for semi-public debauches, Fargo seated her while he waved a waitress over.
Ordering for the both of them, as she had already finished her bottle, he sat next to her and leaned in close.
"All right, you wanted to palaver, so spill."
"I'm a
little drunk," said the girl. "How unprofessional."
"Why not start
with a name? Doesn't have to be yours, but it might make the conversation go faster."
"Call me . . .
." She began snapping her fingers and looking cross-eyed. "Damn, I
can't think of a cool enough name. Oh, never mind. Just call me by my first
name, Usagi."
"Sure, why
not," said Fargo. He was bemused and not a little horrified by how cavalier she, Usagi, was being. He hadn't gone by his real name in decades and that she should just so casually drop it to him, an incomplete stranger, was
just so very alien and wrong. Not that he let on. She was a mystery, and one he
meant to solve. But trying to grill her wasn't going to work, he could tell that already. He would have to wait for her to open up.
"Well, I need
your help, obviously," said Usagi, straightening up and staring squarely at him. "And I need the help of your
other clients."
He looked at her levelly, saying nothing. Often silence bought
more information than threats.
"You
know," she said conspiratorially, leaning in. "Them up there."
Fargo remained
silent.
"Fine,"
said Usagi. "The Knight Sabers."
"Never heard
of them," said Fargo.
"Aw,"
said Usagi, rubbing her temple. "Don't be that fellah, fellah. Mr.
Deny Everything. All right, whatever. Say, Mr. Mysterious Stranger, I happen to
need armored mercenary types, women preferably, for protection detail, length unknown. Color coordination a
must. How's that?" She took a deep pull from her newly arrived
highball and muttered, "Jackass."
"I think that
something can be arranged," said Fargo evenly. "If you can leave off the insults."
"Sure,
sure. Anyway, protection, mainly. Possibly some intelligence work. No wetwork, of course. Possibly setting up some meet-and-greets, possibly not. Haven't quite decided that yet. Basically I need your
infrastructure."
Fargo nodding,
thinking to himself. This girl, no older than eighteen at best, had known of protocols for communication that she
shouldn't have, that really no one besides himself and his primary client should ever know. When she had contacted
him, Fargo had investigated her and found her to be a ghost. She'd appeared in Mega-Tokyo a month and a half ago,
with vast credit lines and a fake data trail and past. He knew it was false, though it was damned difficult to say
why. There were people mentioned in her fake biography, and when he'd had them surreptitiously interviewed,
they'd provided what seemed to be genuine information about their common past. There'd even been photographs of
her, old photographs made chemically. Yet there was something off about it, the shallowness to their recollections that
went beyond tired memories that had faded with time. This said to him that this girl somehow had the power to insert
herself into the memories and lives of other people: a not-so-fantastical possibility, given the world that they lived in.
The world of the future present, the year 2035.
The band was
walking onto stage, and soon the noise would be so loud that they would never be able to talk. So Fargo, quickly coming
to a decision, said, "All right. I'll see if my other clients are willing to do protection. They probably won't, but I'll see. As for the rest, I can see to
that."
"Tell the
Knight Sabers that I won't pay in money." The girl smiled widely and finished her drink and his. "You investigated me. You know what I did and can do.
Tell them that I can give them access to the Space Public Defense Corporation's secured shadow network.
Tell them I can give them the Genaros Station."
Fargo blinked and
grabbed at his drink, downing it without tasting, needing to do something to keep busy while his mind started up again.
How did she know about Genaros? How did she so damned much? Who was
she? Those words ached to erupt out of him, but he was still too much the professional to say them. Instead, he took another sip and then, silent still, nodded. Any desire to flirt with this
mysterious girl had left him. She knew too much.
"All
right. I'll tell them."
"Good. Listen, I'm going to go to the bar, get something to wash down these bennies I have, then hit the dance
floor. Call me tomorrow with a yes, or I'll assume it's a no."
With a faux-angry look in her eye, she slapped him hard in the face and jumped to her feet. With that, she left, a
scent of roses lingering in the air behind her.
The band was coming
onto the stage. Fargo rubbed his cold glass against his cheek, cooling it down.
There had been too much emotion in this meeting, and he felt drained and tired. He didn't know what tomorrow would
bring, didn't know what kind of trouble such a powerful person like that girl could need protection from, but it would likely take him down no matter what
happened. The only good thing about the future was that the band was beginning to play, and he could listen to his
girlfriend on the stage as she sang.
-1-
The sky above Tokyo
was the color of crushed violets, electrified with rainbows. The distant warning lights of planes and copters and the
orbital habitats were the only stars there were. Steam pumped out of the city, hot water vapor the only exhaust coming
from an otherwise dirty city, ripped apart by canyons and ravines from an earthquake half a generation gone. It was
winter in Tokyo, or Mega-Tokyo as it was called nowadays, and Fargo was going to work.
He checked his
watch, more for the look of the thing than to really see what time it was, then walked down the concrete steps, passing underneath the neon sign that read
'Disco Mobius' in buzzing, electric rainbow colors. It was an old-fashion sign, and the place itself was fairly
traditional in its ways. The bar was set in front of a mirror that stretched nearly the entire length of a wall, with a
bartender wearing a red vest and black bowtie. The dance floor was, instead of being cleared, was crowded with small,
high tables and stools, while the back and side walls had booths with high backs and sides, thick and burgundy, with tables of glass and steel. The stage was temporarily empty, as technicians fiddled with their equipment before setting it down.
Yet he was not the
only customer. The booths held groups talking excitedly, while the tables on the dance floor were about halfway
filled. The balcony, which covered all but the dance floor and stage and extended into wings overlooking the sides of
the club, was filling up with people as well, all looking down eagerly upon the empty stage. The noise was just loud
enough to make any conversation heard from only as close as a meter nearly unintelligible. This fact was just one of
the reasons that he'd chosen to meet his prospective client here today.
He saw her there at
the bar, a short, slim girl with black and blue hair in a pageboy, necking a magnum of champagne with all the abandon of a college student. She had a group of older men in expensive suits trawling at the edges of her presence, waiting for her to get drunk enough to
stagger home with them and offer sweet, unconscious loving. He understood that; she was very pretty indeed. If he hadn't had a girlfriend, one who had the preternatural ability to tell when he strayed in thought, if not in deed, he
would have most definitely flirted with her, even if she had been a client. At any rate, though it wasn't in his
nature to draw attention to himself, Fargo sighed inwardly, squared his shoulders, and walked purposefully towards his client.
Radiating ownership and alpha-male-plus, he strode through the opportunistic rapists as if they weren't worth looking at and sat next to the girl,
smiling familiarly. He put a proprietary arm over the girl's shoulders and whispered in her ear, "Rose
Bud."
She had stiffened
at his first touch, instinctively flinching away and getting ready to fight, yet when he said the magic words Fargo could tell that she forced herself to
relax. He saw the edges of her smile from out of the bottom of his eyes, even as he drew in even closer to give her a
kiss on the cheek. As he pulled back, Fargo saw the other men drift away, disappointed and looking for easier
meat.
"Darling! Hello!" she squealed, hugging him enthusiastically.
"Don't
oversell it," whispered Fargo. Then, in a normal voice and manner, one that wouldn't go far but would still
give the impression of intimacy, he said, "Let's get a booth so we can talk more openly."
Silently leading
her to a darkened booth, ones perfectly suited for semi-public debauches, Fargo seated her while he waved a waitress over.
Ordering for the both of them, as she had already finished her bottle, he sat next to her and leaned in close.
"All right, you wanted to palaver, so spill."
"I'm a
little drunk," said the girl. "How unprofessional."
"Why not start
with a name? Doesn't have to be yours, but it might make the conversation go faster."
"Call me . . .
." She began snapping her fingers and looking cross-eyed. "Damn, I
can't think of a cool enough name. Oh, never mind. Just call me by my first
name, Usagi."
"Sure, why
not," said Fargo. He was bemused and not a little horrified by how cavalier she, Usagi, was being. He hadn't gone by his real name in decades and that she should just so casually drop it to him, an incomplete stranger, was
just so very alien and wrong. Not that he let on. She was a mystery, and one he
meant to solve. But trying to grill her wasn't going to work, he could tell that already. He would have to wait for her to open up.
"Well, I need
your help, obviously," said Usagi, straightening up and staring squarely at him. "And I need the help of your
other clients."
He looked at her levelly, saying nothing. Often silence bought
more information than threats.
"You
know," she said conspiratorially, leaning in. "Them up there."
Fargo remained
silent.
"Fine,"
said Usagi. "The Knight Sabers."
"Never heard
of them," said Fargo.
"Aw,"
said Usagi, rubbing her temple. "Don't be that fellah, fellah. Mr.
Deny Everything. All right, whatever. Say, Mr. Mysterious Stranger, I happen to
need armored mercenary types, women preferably, for protection detail, length unknown. Color coordination a
must. How's that?" She took a deep pull from her newly arrived
highball and muttered, "Jackass."
"I think that
something can be arranged," said Fargo evenly. "If you can leave off the insults."
"Sure,
sure. Anyway, protection, mainly. Possibly some intelligence work. No wetwork, of course. Possibly setting up some meet-and-greets, possibly not. Haven't quite decided that yet. Basically I need your
infrastructure."
Fargo nodding,
thinking to himself. This girl, no older than eighteen at best, had known of protocols for communication that she
shouldn't have, that really no one besides himself and his primary client should ever know. When she had contacted
him, Fargo had investigated her and found her to be a ghost. She'd appeared in Mega-Tokyo a month and a half ago,
with vast credit lines and a fake data trail and past. He knew it was false, though it was damned difficult to say
why. There were people mentioned in her fake biography, and when he'd had them surreptitiously interviewed,
they'd provided what seemed to be genuine information about their common past. There'd even been photographs of
her, old photographs made chemically. Yet there was something off about it, the shallowness to their recollections that
went beyond tired memories that had faded with time. This said to him that this girl somehow had the power to insert
herself into the memories and lives of other people: a not-so-fantastical possibility, given the world that they lived in.
The world of the future present, the year 2035.
The band was
walking onto stage, and soon the noise would be so loud that they would never be able to talk. So Fargo, quickly coming
to a decision, said, "All right. I'll see if my other clients are willing to do protection. They probably won't, but I'll see. As for the rest, I can see to
that."
"Tell the
Knight Sabers that I won't pay in money." The girl smiled widely and finished her drink and his. "You investigated me. You know what I did and can do.
Tell them that I can give them access to the Space Public Defense Corporation's secured shadow network.
Tell them I can give them the Genaros Station."
Fargo blinked and
grabbed at his drink, downing it without tasting, needing to do something to keep busy while his mind started up again.
How did she know about Genaros? How did she so damned much? Who was
she? Those words ached to erupt out of him, but he was still too much the professional to say them. Instead, he took another sip and then, silent still, nodded. Any desire to flirt with this
mysterious girl had left him. She knew too much.
"All
right. I'll tell them."
"Good. Listen, I'm going to go to the bar, get something to wash down these bennies I have, then hit the dance
floor. Call me tomorrow with a yes, or I'll assume it's a no."
With a faux-angry look in her eye, she slapped him hard in the face and jumped to her feet. With that, she left, a
scent of roses lingering in the air behind her.
The band was coming
onto the stage. Fargo rubbed his cold glass against his cheek, cooling it down.
There had been too much emotion in this meeting, and he felt drained and tired. He didn't know what tomorrow would
bring, didn't know what kind of trouble such a powerful person like that girl could need protection from, but it would likely take him down no matter what
happened. The only good thing about the future was that the band was beginning to play, and he could listen to his
girlfriend on the stage as she sang.