Free Hammerjack by Marc D. Giller Page B

step forward before her instincts made her stop.
    Yin smiled coldly.
    Stimulus and response.
    “You want these,” he said to the girl. “You know what to do.”
    She did. The girl had been a guest of Yin’s many times, and never refused what was required of her. Shedding her rags, she walked over to the couch and performed on the young male hustler—all the things Yin liked to see, all the things Yin could never do. Entangled in one another, they went through the motions like automatons operating in a physical plane, flesh connecting while minds disconnected. Yin had a vague sensation of the passage of time, and when it was over he was on his feet, standing above the two of them.
    The girl looked up at him and twisted her lips into a smile. She reached without looking for what Yin handed her, familiar with this ritual and his habits. It was a small blade—only a few centimeters long, a dagger from Yin’s collection of antiques. It glinted in the soft light as she raised it above the boy’s chest.
    “Send him on his way,” Yin commanded.

The suborbital jump from Kuala Lumpur took less than twenty minutes, but speed came with a price. The instant shift across seven time zones played like a meat grinder with Cray’s frayed senses, tossing him into a spin that bit like a hangover. His condition was obvious enough to alarm a flight attendant, who offered him a soother before landing, but Cray refused. The stuff reminded him too much of the drugs some hammerjacks used to keep their logical orientation in the Axis, and that was one trip he didn’t need.
    Instead, he dragged his disorientation with him as he hopped the SOT, making his first stop a place that served the only stimulant Cray had ever fully trusted—caffeine. He greedily assimilated a triple shot of steaming black espresso and watched the world around him regain a remote sense of clarity. With life now pumping through his veins, Cray left a generous tip for the waiter and proceeded back into the distinct vibe that was central Europe.
    It didn’t take him long to realize he no longer fit in.
    That was a conceit he had learned from too many years in the Asian Sphere—his perceived ability to blend in anywhere, anytime. Back there the rules were few and savage, making it easy for any player with reasonable street smarts to become part of the culture. But here in the core of civilization, they could smell it on you. Cray saw it in the way people looked at him, their stares brief but riddled with intent. Cray might have taken offense, had it not been so true. What made you slick in Malaysia branded you in Europe, and there was nothing you could do to hide it.
    For Cray, it was like walking through a sterile curtain. The last few years, he had become accustomed to the closeness of bodies—air thick with the chatter of a thousand dialects, the persistent subtext of pheromones. Now, there was a distinct
lack
of sensory input, as if someone had turned down the volume of his life and dropped him into the middle of a neutral void.
    Quickly, mercifully, the sensation dissipated as he followed the signs that pointed the way to the transit station. There, Cray ran into the long lines of tourists trying to hash out the complex regulations that governed civilian traffic in and out of the city. Bypassing all the others, he flashed his corporate credentials at the first-class line and was allowed to join the other Collective types who were headed into Oldtown Vienna. It was nice getting the star treatment, but being around them still made Cray feel uneasy. He wasn’t used to seeing anyone in a suit who wasn’t Japanese.
    “You must have some serious jack.”
    It was a woman’s voice, from behind. Cray sensed her distance at about two meters, his right hand reaching for a weapon that wasn’t there. He caught himself, remembering that he was now in the civilized world. Coming about slowly, he tried to put a casual spin on the hasty move he had started.
    “Jumpy,