Ghosts in the Shell

She’d walked in the main door of the building. Just like any other person could, even checked with the rent-a-bozos at the desk that she was in the right place. The mapstick had come with a trial of Babel’s language pack for tourists. The handful of phrases ran like sludge through her sandbox, but that worked to her advantage; too fluent and she’d stand out.

Her mark worked on the sixth floor, they said, take the elevator around the corner. She’d already known that. Before the shuttle left, she’d already pushed out tracer programs. On the train, she’d cut, spliced and reviewed the raw data, so that she knew which office the woman had, her parking space assignment and even which bathroom she narc’d in before big client meetings.

She amused herself, while she waited, by compiling a report on the flaws in building security. Yeager would make a bundle out of that, as would she.

“Konnichiwa. You found me,” said the woman she’d come to kill, behind her in the dark. “I can show you what you’ve been looking for.”

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