Then it struck her. The doglike spirit had acted in a sophisticated manner. What if it had been providing a direct, telepathic feed to Mitsuhama? The corporation certainly had the resources to have someone on the scene immediately, possibly even the corporate goons who’d tried to gun down Pita last night. And given the knowledge that Carla had just displayed about the contents of the datachip, they might be ready to take measures to keep her quiet. Measures like those they’d taken against the pirate reporter. Measures that could kill both the story-and Carla.
Carla sprinted for her taxi. This story was getting hot. It was time to get back to the station and its nice, bullet- and spell-proof glass.
9
Pita rolled over in her sleep. She knew she was dreaming, but was unable to shake the terrifying images from her mind. She was being chased by people whose tattooed skins were made of thick dabs of water-soluble paint. They followed her through the rain, their skins melting from their bodies, revealing skeletons beneath. The click-click of their bony feet was growing closer, closer.
“Hey, kid, wake up.”
A hand shook Pita’s shoulder. She awoke instantly, her heart pounding.
Wayne, from the editing department, looked down at her. He was a red-haired man in his thirties with a slight pot belly. Tucked under one arm was a miniature decks whose flatsereen displayed a freeze-framed image of an oil rig going up in flames. Wayne smiled and jerked a thumb at the door. “There’s someone at the front desk asking for you, kid”
“There is?” Pita was immediately wary. “Who?” She swung her legs over the edge of the plastifoam cot that was tucked into a storeroom just off the newsroom. Through the partially open door, Pita could hear the buzz of voices and the sound samples that were being mixed in the studio.
“Some guy with goofy-looking hair. He wouldn’t tell the receptionist his name. All he would say was to tell you he wants to talk to you about ‘little pork dumpling.’ ”
Pita jumped to her feet. “Yao’s here?” Her streetwise skepticism warred with hope and relief. “But I thought he was dead.”
“Doesn’t look like it to me.” Wayne pushed the door open. “Come and see for yourself. I’ve got the guy’s image on the monitor that’s patched into the surveillance camera in the lobby. Maybe you should scan it, just in case.”
Pita followed Wayne into the studio. It was laid out in an open plan, with glass-doored editing booths along one wall, work stations at the center of the room, and banks of telecom equipment and computer terminals. An entire wall was devoted to hundreds of flat-screen monitors. Each displayed a different trideo channel. On several of the monitors, large letters that spelled out the word “RECORDING” were flashing.
“Which monitor?” Pita asked.
Just as Wayne was about to answer, his wrist began to beep. He glanced at the watch implanted into his skin. “Uh, oh. Thirty minutes to air. I’d better get back if I’m going to finish editing the interview Masaki did with you.” He pointed toward the left-hand side of the bank of monitors. “It’s the one just over there. Between the satellite feeds and the foreign language channels.”
One of the reporters called out urgently from across the room. “Hey, Wayne! You added that take to the Quetzalcoatl story yet? We’re running out of time!”
“It’s nearly done!” Wayne shouted, then hurried away. Pita glanced at the monitors, but their sheer number overwhelmed her. She didn’t see any that seemed to be showing the lobby. Besides, did it really matter? Only Yao knew about the “Little Pork Dumpling” code. It had to be him.
Pita hurried down the corridor that led to the lobby, but paused before opening the door, just to make sure. Looking through its tinted glass, she peered out past the reception desk. An ork in frayed jeans and a loose synthleather jacket was standing in the lobby, his back to the door leading to the Street. He held one arm tucked against his chest and his shoulders were hunched, as if he were in pain. When he crossed over to one of the chairs and sat down, Pita recognized him at once by his narrow jaw and the wary look in his eyes. It was Yao, all right. Alive. For the first time in days, she smiled.
Somehow, Yao had escaped from the corporate goons. Pita was intensely curious to find out how he’d managed to survive the hail of bullets that had cut him down. But she was also reluctant to face him. She’d abandoned him on the street after he’d been shot, lust like she’d run off when Chen was gunned down. It would be easier just to hide in the newsroom, to let the receptionist send Yao away. But he’d promised to do a story on what Lone Star had done to Chen and the others. Unlike Carla and Masaki, he would surely keep his word. His own brother had died, after all. Pita should keep her end of the bargain and finish the interview Assuming Yao still wanted to.
She opened the door and stepped out to the receptionist’s desk. Yao immediately looked up and flashed her a smile. “I thought I’d find you here,” he said. “Are you all right?”
“I’m sorry Iran away, Yao. I thought you were-”
He waved a hand in a dismissive gesture. “It wasn’t anything a bulletproof vest couldn’t stop. I’m just bruised is all.”
“But I saw blood on your-”
“One bullet did hit my arm.” He shrugged it gently. “So who was that woman in the car?”
“Her name’s Carla. She’s a reporter here.”
“How do you know her?”
Pita scuffed at the floor with the toe of one sneaker. “Uh, I asked her to do a story on how the cops killed Chen.” She glanced briefly at Yao to see if he was angry. “I would’ve come to you first, but I didn’t know where you were. So I went to Carla, instead. But she wasn’t interested. She didn’t seem to give a frag about Chen.”
“So how come she showed up when I was interviewing you?”
Pita shrugged. “I guess she changed her mind. She says she’ll do the story now.”
“I see,” Yao said with a sneer. “So you were going to give my story to the competition.”
Pita looked up. “I thought you were dead. Yao. I didn’t know what else to-”
“Forget it.” He stood awkwardly, shoulders still hunched. “Now then, are you ready to finish our interview?”
Pita chewed her lip. “1 don’t think I should leave the station. Masaki doesn’t think I’d be safe on the streets. He says those guys who shot you were yakuza.”
“We won’t be on the streets,” Yao reassured her. “I’ve got a room at a hotel, just down the block. We’ll finish the interview there. I’ll walk you back here afterward if you like.” He gestured at the door that led to he newsroom. “You got all your stuff? Need to get anything before we leave?”
“What you see is what I got,” Pita answered. “Not much. So how did you know where to find me?”
“I got the bar code of the car, and had a friend of mine deck into the vehicle registry databanks to find out who the owner was. Imagine my surprise when I found out it belonged to Jun.”
“Who?”
“Jun Masaki. The reporter who was driving the car. “I wiped him out with a news story once before I started working with Orks First! But he probably wouldn’t remember me.”
“Oh” Pita said. “Everyone calls him by his last name, around here.”
Yao pushed the door open. “Anyhow, I knew that Masaki was a reporter for KKRU. I figured that he might have brought you back to the station.” He held he door open for her. “And I was right.”
Pita hesitated. “I should tell him where I’m going.”
“Why?” Yao asked. “You’ll be back soon enough. He won’t even miss you.”
Pita sighed. Yao was probably right. Masaki had been working furiously ever since they’d returned from Aziz’s shop, and the lack of sleep had made him irritable. He’d practically bitten her head off during the interview, snapping at her for mumbling and for playing with the junk in her jeans pockets. He said the rattling noise spoiled the audio, and told her to empty her pockets. Grumpy old fragger.