Hammerjack by Marc D. Giller Page B

encryption algorithm I haven’t seen before,” Dex told him. “I got software that should be able to crack it in a few days—but I’m pretty sure you ain’t gonna find any trade secrets buried in there, Alden. All that flash capacity was probably eaten up by the replication parameters. It’s pretty beefy stuff.”
    Cray got up and went back over to the tank, searching Zoe for answers. Never before had he found himself so in envy of a corpse.
    “So it exists,” Cray muttered. “And its only function is to keep on existing?”
    Dex shrugged. “It’s flaky—but are
we
any different?” He hopped out of his chair, strolling over to the wet bar on the other side of the room. It was well stocked with ancient liqueurs—just one of the GME’s many expensive vices. He poured himself a glass of cognac, holding the liquid up to the azure glow and swirling it into a tiny maelstrom. “So what are you going to do with this?”
    “You believe in crusades, Dex?”
    “Not since I started working for a living,” Dex replied. “You planning some anarchy? We could use the entertainment around here.”
    “I’ll work on it. How soon can you run the pathology?”
    “The constructs need a little bit of time to cook. Should be ready about the same time as the numerics.”
    “Good,” Cray said, heading for the door. “If anybody asks you what you’re doing, make something up. I don’t want any of this circulating until I know what’s going on.”
    “Suits me fine. I get paid by the hour. So where are you going?”
    “To stir up some trouble.”
    “I’ll drink to that,” Dex said, as Cray disappeared.

     

    Yin’s sanctuary was at the apex of the tower, another 250 floors up. Cray had visited the place on only one occasion, and that had been ten years ago—back when he was impressed by such things, and the illusion that he was a free man gave him a sense of hope. It was then he had met the man who would become his boss, and the expectations the Collective had for him became clear.
    Cray could still hear the words Yin spoke echo off the walls:
It all sounds so harsh, doesn’t it? I know that in this moment, and from this moment on, you will hate me for it. But I have already made you a rich man by bringing you here—and you will become richer still as you serve me. That is my promise and your price.
    Every word of it had been true. Cray’s endeavors for Phao Yin had earned him a fortune—and therein lay the irony. The art was in how Yin had used the money as a way to twist the knife in Cray’s back. He had all of the spoils, but none of the victories. His conscience wouldn’t allow it.
    There was no one to greet him as he stepped off the elevator. Only the automated sentry acknowledged his presence, and allowed him to proceed to the twin oak doors that guarded the entrance to the sanctuary. The doors parted by themselves, revealing an ornate foyer that was even more magnificent than Cray remembered. Twin marble pillars rose up to touch a domed ceiling, the styles and architecture uniquely Muslim. A collector of antiquities, Yin had put on display some of his most formidable pieces—a sculpture by Leonardo, a bust by Rodin, works of art that demanded an exorbitant price in both blood and money. Not that he was such an admirer of beauty, but the rarity of the relics conveyed the opulence that was Yin’s living and working space—as well as the power of the man who occupied it.
    As if anyone could forget,
Cray mourned. GenTec was one of the Collective’s seven charter companies, and although Yin was not officially on the board, his was the kind of influence that made gangsters tremble. Cray worked in shadows—but even that couldn’t compare with the darker regions of Yin’s existence.
    Cray heard footsteps across the foyer—not hard clicks against marble, but bare feet. He looked into the garden atrium beyond and saw someone coming toward him. It was a kid, no more than fifteen years old; but as the kid