2050 — The Meeting

The scent of damp ozone filled the air. Strip lights flickered. Gaudy neons flashed marketing messages from Hitachi, JVC and Nike. The rain collected in puddles that looked like spilled paint. 

John Mason strode up the sidewalk. All six feet eight of him. Built like a brick outhouse. Military-spec augmentations including servos in his knees. He moved fast. A man who knew where he was going. People jumped out of his way. Wise. They'd end up in the gutter if they made contact. 

Whitechapel Road had a mixture of buildings. Broken down stores selling everything from SimStims to Sony electronics. And then, food joints. Synth burgers, noodles and coffee. Not the real stuff. Real coffee was rare. 

He was heading for a building about halfway along the road. Unlike the dirt and grime of the other buildings, this one was pristine. And unmarked. John grinned. Nothing unusual there. The kind of people that worked there were not the kind that struggled like everyone else. He glanced up. The residential towers gleamed against the grey light. Like fingers of granite poking the sky. Those were the air-cleansed towers of the rich and wealthy. 

He arrived at the doors of the building. Pressed the comms button. The doors hissed open after a moment. He stepped into a reception area with spotlights and synth white leather chairs. A sleek desk lined the wall. With a young lady sitting behind it. Her twin Hosaka screens made her face glow. 

She turned to him. 

—John Mason? 

—Yes. 

—They're waiting for you. First floor. 

First floor. He used the lift. The stairs were his preference. But he wanted this meeting out of the way. The lift made no sound. It stopped at the first floor and the doors hissed open. 

He stepped out into a gleaming white-walled corridor. All the office doors were composite black. He walked along the corridor waiting. One door slid open. He stepped into the room. 

I polished black conference room table filled the middle. With artisan conference chairs. The room had state-of-the-art comms and multimedia, all made by Hosaka. Three people dressed like clones waited for him. Dark suits, shiny shoes. They all looked fit and well. Two men. One woman. She sat in the middle. 

—Mason. Thanks for coming. 

He said nothing. The woman continued.

—I'm Madeline Spence, this is Mark Rogers and Steve Marsh. 

She pointed to each. mark on her left, Steve on her right. Both nodded. That was it. 

—We have a problem. 

—Figures. 

—We need you to sort it. 

He said nothing. He'd wait until there was something to say. 

—Arasaka are making moves. They're always making moves. I know. But so are Militech. Meaning there is something up. 

He stayed quiet. 

—We know it's to do with Rivera-Jenson's little step into mass production of comms augs. We don't know what's got two of the biggest corps twitching. 

He remained quiet. 

—You don't say much, Mason, said Mark Rogers. 

He shrugged. —I do when there's things to say. 

—You haven't heard anything worthy of comment yet? Asked Steve Marsh. 

—Nope. 

—What? Madeline stared at him. 

John shrugged again. 

—Arasaka. Japanese. Militech. US sprawl-based. 

He pointed out of the window behind them. 

—The London Sprawl. Different place. Different problems. 

—You think we don't know that? Steve said. 

—I don't give a fuck what you know or don't know. What you've described so far sounds like a you problem. 

—Aya Saito. You know her, right? Asked Madeline. 

—I do. Worked with her once or twice.

—She'll be here soon. Your first job is to meet her at the spaceport. 

—No. 

—What do you mean, no? Mark stared at him. 

—I mean, no. I won't be going to the spaceport. 

—She's your friend, said Steve. 

John said nothing. He watched the three of them. 

—I see. You want to discuss terms. Madeline smiled. It didn't reach her eyes. 

—There's plenty of credits on offer Mason. But you've got to get Saito to us first, said Mark.

—How do you pay for your suits?

—Sorry? 

—Your suits? How do you pay for—

—I get it. 2oK. Alright? 

—It'll do for a start. Aya is a capable woman. Why does she need protection getting here? 

—it's what's she's bringing, said Madeline. —And I can't tell you what it is. Suffice it to say, she's risking her life. 

—Spaceport? So orbital shuttle? 

—Yes, said Madeline. 

—Orbital Air? Or someone else's? 

—No, Orbital Air. 

—When? 

—In an hour from now. 

—I'll take 5K on my cred-shard. Now. 

—Done. Madeline held out a shard. John walked over and took it. 

—Get her here, Mason. Said Mark. 

—Don't let her out of your sight, said Steve. 

John left the office and headed for the lift. Once in reception he strode back out onto the street. Pulled out his handheld and summoned an auto-cab. He'd need to get to Heathrow and quick.