Free Steel Rain by Nyx Smith Page A

before the rotorcraft actually touches the pad. A small crowd of people rush to arrange themselves around him. An anxious-looking female steward stands between him and the door.
    "Do it," Gordon says, finally.
    The chopper's rotors are still pounding the air outside, thumping rapidly, but the steward turns and shoves at the door. One of Gordon's exec protection specialists adds a quick thrust and the door jerks open, admitting a cyclone blast of wind.
    Gordon thrusts his hands deep into the pockets of his platinum-hued trench and moves briskly down the steps to the aeropad. People run to move out ahead of him: the chief of his personal security detail, two physical adept protect specs, his confidential assistant. The latter all but shouting into a wristfone to be heard above the gale of wind.
    The aeropad sits atop Tower Five of Fuchi Industrial Electronics' monolithic shrine to economic tyranny, soaring two hundred and fifty stories above the Manhattan streets. The wind always rages up here. Gordon knows that better than most. It howls and rushes chill and ruthless over his cheeks. He feels its bite as a matter of routine.
    Double transparex doors slide open before him and he strides into the aeropad transit lounge. White-gloved Fuchi hostesses bow and intone the usual insipid greetings. The rhythmic thumping of the Plutocrat's rotors resounds against the lounge's floor-to-ceiling windows, pursuing him as far as the elevator.
    By the elevator waits Bucky Freese with an urgent expression and a mouthful of potentially disastrous remarks. Gordon cuts him off with a two-word snarl.
    "Not now."
    Idiot.
    Freese is a freak with a head full of wire, a talent for decking and damn little else. The checked sports jacket he wears over his Stuffer Shack tee and striped cargo jeans provides the only hint that he belongs to one of the most powerful megacorps on the face of the planet. A uniformed security guard starts dressing him down for not displaying his Fuchi badge prominently.
    Gordon snaps his fingers, gestures. The guard desists. Freese joins the small crowd on the elevator.
    "Uh ... Mr. Ito?"
    Gordon's confidential assistant does the honors, turning to Freese, glaring at him, then saying, simply, "Shut up."
    Freese blinks widened eyes, but shuts up.
    The elevator doors slip closed. The elevator hums, descending, descending briefly, and slows to a halt. The doors slip open. The uniformed guards posted to the hallway outside straighten their posture as Gordon and his small crowd move out. At the end of the hallway, Gordon turns right and he and the crowd enter his personal preserve.
    As he steps through the door to his office suite, his platinum blonde senior exec sec and the protect spec who watches over her are both on their feet.
    "Get Donelson," Gordon says.
    No one wastes words. The exec sec turns to her telecom. The techs with the security detail start sweeping for invasive electronics. The security mage goes into astral overwatch mode. Gordon snaps his fingers and his confidential assistant provides a Platinum Select cigarette and a flame.
    "Mr. Xiao called," his exec sec informs. "I'm to tell you he called for you in Boston—"
    Gordon cuts that off with a sharp gesture. He already knows about the call. Just another move in a game that has yet to fully unfold. Gordon had been in Boston early this morning, well over eighteen hours ago, handling a special matter for Xiao, a matter that only makes him wonder why the head of the Fuchi Special Administration had wanted his chief of operations away from the office. Whatever it is, it's sure to be different. Something so far unmentioned, of course. Something Xiao does not want Gordon to know about. At worst, it bears a direct relationship to the reason for Gordon's hasty return to the towers, and that would be very very bad.
    Donelson, Gordon's deputy, comes through the door from the east side of the office suite. "I want status on Chrome Horse. Fifteen minutes."
    "No