CHAPTER 14
IRIDIUM
According to a recent poll, most teenagers today say that while they’d like to grow up to be a superhero, the supervillains are infinitely cooler.
Lynda Kidder, “Flight of the Blackbird,” New Chicago Tribune, July 2, 2112
The half-burned warehouse on the pilings above Lake Michigan wouldn’t attract the eye of the most desperate junkfreak, and Iridium liked it that way. She patched herself in with her modified wristlet and waited as the antique fluorescent tubes flicked on one by one, all the way down the length of the skeletal structure.
Patched and acrid though it was, and even with the stench of the lake ever-present, the place was home enough, and the old-style steel walls kept out most of the newer scansweeps that the Corp outfitted New Chicago’s Squadron with.
The chatter of the tele from the living quarters floated an echo down to Iridium, of Jet’s voice.
“Boxer, turn that crap off!” Iridium shouted. She put the case of digichips on the workbench and popped the locks, slipping on sterile gloves to handle the chips.
A moment later, Jet’s electronic voice—“Thank you, Mr. Mayor. It’s a real honor to be receiving this award today”—cut off, and Boxer popped his head over the railing, pushing his fedora up with one finger. “Hey, hot stuff,” he called. “You got ’em!”
“You sound surprised.”
“Well, bank and all,” said Boxer. “Not like knocking over the home safe of some corporate fat cat.”
“Boxer,” Iridium said with a sideways smile, “have I ever let you down before?”
“That you haven’t, honey,” he agreed. Boxer was pushing fifty, but he still wore the zoot suit and fedora of the Bugsys, his old gang. “Not even when you threatened to singe my eyebrows off that first time we met.”
“You were trying to mug a couple of kids, Boxer.” Iridium popped the latches on the case and looked at the small digichips, dark green and packed with enough data-pushing juice to handle a grid of New Chicago’s power. The rich used them to improve the resolution on tele sets.
Just for a second, Iridium allowed herself to think what it would be like to pocket the money from fencing the chips—get herself a real stronghold, with security and a soft bed she could sleep through the night in. Hell, even a new unikilt would be nice.
“Hot damn,” said Boxer, quashing Iridium’s train of thought. “I’m a product of my misspent youth, Iri. Being the idiot brother of a big damn hero will do that to a man.”
She dug under the workbench for a box of plastic post sleeves and, wrapping the chips individually, began to slip them in. The hackers of Wreck City would get what Iridium had promised them, because the last thing she needed was pissed-off geeks on her ass.
“Your youth called,” said Iridium. “It wants its purple cummerbund back.”
“At least I’m not monochromatic, doll.”
“When the chips are ready,” she said, “drop them in the PS box on 170th that doesn’t have a camera attached to it. The terminals will get the upgrades in the next day or so.”
“You know, doll … Just throwing out a hypothetical here. If we sold these chips, we’d make a nice chunk of E’s and could maybe quit this petty criminal racket for a little bit.”
Iridium’s hands stopped moving.
Boxer didn’t drop his genial smile, but he backed up a step out of habit.
She took a deep breath, so Boxer wouldn’t know how close he’d come to the truth. He was a lot smarter than he looked, in his tie clip and fedora and thinning slicked-back hair. “After this, we’re taking the show on the road,” she said. “I’ve spent five years being a thorn in Corp’s boot, and I’m tired of it.” She slammed her fist down on the workbench. Her neural inhibitor, purchased from the estate of Baron Nightmare, fell off it and rolled away into a corner.
“What are you talking about, Iri?” said Boxer cautiously. “You know how I feel about getting too visible on Corp’s radar. If my brothers or my nephew ever found me, it’d be seriously down times for ol’ Boxer.”
“I’m saying I’m tired of being a thorn,” said Iridium. “I want to be a f*cking nail.” A red halo blossomed around her hands, her hair, in the corners of her eyes. “We’re going after Corp and its army of badly costumed minions, effective now. If you have a problem with that, motor before it gets rough. Got it?”
Boxer swallowed. “Got it.”
“Good. Now go out and get me a sandwich, will you? I’m half-starved. Jet caught up with me and got in a lucky hit.”
“That low-down dirty hero,” Boxer commiserated. “Oh, boss, before I forget … you got a message from the leader of the Undergoths.”
“Wonderful.” She wrinkled her nose. The Undergoths lived in the abandoned subway tunnels, not to mention any other holes in the ground … most of which were seeping with raw sewage.
Boxer jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “You want me to tell ’em to get lost?”
“Not until you find out what they want,” said Iridium. “Wouldn’t be the first time some junkfreak gang leader tried to bribe his way into my neighborhood. If he’s going to make trouble, let’s get rid of him now.”
“He wants to meet with you,” said Boxer, lighting an old-fashioned cigarette.
“Well, that’s new.” She wondered exactly how crazy the leader of the Undergoths had to be. “What’s his deal?”
Boxer grinned at her through a cloud of blue smoke. “I know you’re done with the do-gooder stuff and all, but you might like this: He says he’s got a vigilante problem.”