Militech Corporate Offices - Rosslyn, Virginia, 2020

 

The elevator doors opened, splitting the room in half with a thin sheet of light, his own shadow expanding within it. Morgan Blackhand wore a grin as he walked to the center of the room.

On the way the lab's pressure equalized, automated valves sealing shut with a hiss, ridding the room of trace amounts of metallic oxides, silicates and fluorides, gases that had ridden up into the penthouse with him from back down in reality.

Antonio had been waiting. This punctuality was characteristic of Militech. Gonna miss that. Surprises were for outside these walls.

Surprise visitors, surprise gases...how particularly unwelcome in this, Antonio Luccessi's own Notre Dame of weapons design.

The elderly gunsmith wore his standard cybernetic hands tonight, and they hovered over a black polymer briefcase like a spirit healer, palms downward, fingers utterly still. "Here you are, my son! Your old Crusher SSG, fresh from the touch of my loving hands."

Morgan's every instinct called for irreverence at the old man's sincerity, but he remained quiet, sitting down across the broad desk after removing his black leather trenchcoat.

"You'll have to forgive me, take a seat, kiddo. Computer! Lights!"

The space filled with an even, natural light. The room was now without shadow.

"They haven't made a chip yet to stop me from feeling so exhausted by this time of the evening. Once I have my coffee we can get to business about your...shotgun."

The solo tilted his head skeptically, the thread to pull was...

"Antonio am I crazy or are your hands not their usual expressive selves?"

Nerve: struck. Antonio seemed to shed twenty years in an instant.

"Cyberlimb designers have no respect for the importance of hands to an Italian! And yes, I told the boys in R&D to smooth out the movements for me. I guess they decided to have some fun, they sent my datapad some crappola about how the Board of Directors doesn't want them working on Fashionware! Ohibò, cosa mi tocca sentire!"

Antonio slowly extended his arms outward, rotating them into clenched fists.

Morgan laughed sharply. "Jesus, settle down, Tony!"

"Well I'm glad it amuses you, Morgan, you still have a human hand left! Ever notice how you subconsciously prefer it when gesturing?"

"How could I notice something I'm doing subconsciously?" said Morgan.

A half-smile from the old man, finally.

"You know what I mean! Allow me that my needs are not so eccentric. The engineers in the Cyberhand department...they are like me, they design too many weapons, they lack finesse. Marketing thinks we need ten ways to equip a street punk with chainsaw hands or a shark mouth or whatever looks good on the scream sheets. I don't understand this world anymore, there is no balance in life. A good engineer must be capable of grace as well as brutality. In time they will see that the two are as one in a successful design..."

The coffee arrived minutes into Antonio's impromptu discourse, carried by none other than Anastasia Luccessi, the old man's granddaughter, the company's new favorite cat's paw, and his sometime subordinate. Just when he was expecting a pithy joke about not being a secretary, she turned and left without a word. Unusual...spying for the Board of Directors in all likelihood, and not very discretely.

"I was trying to impress the Pentagon at the time, so your Crusher has tighter tolerances than we use at the factories now. Thankfully safe Electrothermal Enhancement relies on these tighter tolerances...making it possible on your smoothbore weapon as long as we agree to stay within certain boundaries on the ammunition...but Morgan I need you to know that in the future that these parts will not be transferable to another Crusher. Firing such a configuration would result in breech or barrel failure..."

In his elderly years the gunsmith could be professorial, but it wasn't considered unwelcome. Militech corporates eagerly sought his wisdom on matters of design and in turn he offered it as freely as a pillar-saint. Downside was that if Antonio's design secrets ever leaked to Dynalar or Arasaka it could lead to what could euphemistically be referred to as serious consequences. In 2000 a leaked secret would mean 200 points dropped on the stock market, more likely in 2020 are 200 bodies dropped to room temperature. Indeed there was still much to learn from Antonio Luccessi and Militech was, if only for the next twenty minutes, still Morgan's employer.

"So Tony, I really don't mean to be rude but I'm eager to see what you've done."

Antonio, placing his cup and saucer aside, pushed the black briefcase to Morgan's side of the desk.

Morgan opened the case. Polymer fingers spinning polymer dials. A three digit code seen reflected off an anodized-black cybernetic arm: 2-7-7. Click.

"In prima luogo...I hope you know you have one of my old tooling prototypes from the shop in Laconia, New Hampshire...back when it was Armatech-Luccessi, in fact, when Donald and I hadn't even landed our first Pentagon contract. It's from another era."

The solo picked up the weapon, inspecting Antonio's work. A new steel alloy upper with carbon fiber breech reinforcement, shock mounted graphite electrode firing points. This. This was going to keep her alive.

Antonio had taught Morgan much about the importance of details over the years, as well as the importance of not dismissing the truth. Working as a Solo means seeing the threat where no one else does...but some threats are obvious, such as the one which dawned on him years ago. A simple threat assessment: that an extraction of Antonio would mean the end of Militech, his main employer. Simulations showed that the likelihood of such an attempted extraction or assassination by Arasaka was approaching 100%. He had personally made the request that Antonio start living full-time in this penthouse workshop, guarded by the full depth of Militech's corporate army. It had taken some convincing.

"...and as long as you use high quality ammunition everything should perform within tolerances. Morgan, are you listening?"

He wasn't.

"Morgan I refuse for my epitaph to read: Antonio Luccessi, the man who electrocuted his most famous client."

"I promise not to lick the battery, Tony. Heavy metals and all that."

"I just want you to know that the Electrothermal module's battery is now tied into that atrocious Night City security chipping job you had done. If you want you can now route 100,000 amps directly to the wrist of anyone unauthorized to use the weapon. I thought you wouldn't mind."

Morgan frowned. "I told you not to go fishing around in that chip, Tony. You have to remember that I lost this gun for a year out in the Combat Zone. Some kind of punkers did that security modification, not me. I didn't want to junk the gun and to be honest I kind of like the idea of the security chipping so I took it to that retail place Militech has in Night City. The manager hired a Netrunner to do a diagnostic run on the chip, a full sweep. It turns out that gun's chip has more skeletons in its closet than I do. It's seen things. They told me it was clear of trackers or traps, but not to look into it any further. Regardless, the netrunner took neural damage."

"I cannot help myself sometimes." Antonio leaned over the desk, giving a tug on one of the newly installed power cables where it attached to the bolt. "A weapon's features should be integrated to the highest extent possible. I have to ask you though, why give me an old Crusher to do an ET job? Why not simply purchase something heavier?"

The Solo looked to the windows and grimaced.

"It's always been the case that...there are things I can't plan for. Things I won't see coming. It's just that more and more...what I don't see coming is a full cyborg with a head full of synthetic drugs and cyberpsychosis."

"Morgan you could have just said so, I would have designed something more suited for that, an internal weapon for your cyberlimb, or..."

A change seemed to come over the Solo. Time for it to come out.

"I'm leaving Militech, Antonio."

Reaching into his coat, Morgan produced a envelope and placed it on the desk.

"My resignation letter. I'm putting it on the front desk when I leave. I'm here to say goodbye." He leaned forward,  "The Crusher was just a pretext for me to get up here and talk in private."

The old man was stunned, his voice becoming weak. "Morgan you have been with us for years. You aren't going to..."

"Arasaka? No. I don't think so. I'm going to lay low for a while, talk to my operatives. When I make my move you'll hear about it on Channel 54. I'm sorry for having to blindside you with this but I had to play it close. They'll never let me near you again. Tomorrow the head of security will probably say this meeting was a near-miss extraction or that I got cold feet."

"Morgan what on earth is this about? Militech is your family!"

 "You're not reading the intelligence reports I am. Since you allow yourself to be controlled you imagine further control extends beyond that and let me tell you, you imagine incorrectly! You only see the cams of the motor turning. From the street I see the exhaust, I see what happens once the spark has been lit... I see contracted netrunners risking their lives on targets barely worth their attention...I see chips stripped off of mugging victims and socketed up without even a scan. Lives are worth nothing out there and the problem is..well..it's bleeding into the boardroom, Tony. In fact let me ask you something, how long has it been since you attended a board meeting?"

"About five years ago."

"Well five years ago they felt like board meetings. Now they feel like intelligence summaries and operations briefs from my military days, when the agenda was how to win a war. From the looks of things they're in a war with Arasaka already...they just don't want to admit it to themselves yet. How could they think the profits would continue at this level without pushback from the other big Corps? The first shots in that war will be fired soon and that's a promise. There are too many contracts at play now, too many intertwining allegiances. The whole situation is a powder keg, and I'm going to get clear of it."

"This is disturbing, Morgan. Is Anatasia involved with this?"

"Your granddaughter isn't planning to leave with me, if that's what you're asking, anyway. She doesn't know I'm doing this, but she's perfectly capable of taking care of herself. The board members refer to her by the codename Sphinx. Her subordinates call her...something else less flattering. She's trustworthy, though, and I'll keep her in mind for any teams I form in the future."

"She has a codename now?"

Morgan looked downward. "I shouldn't have told you. The important thing is that you have a heart to heart with her. She is doing a lot more than delivering coffee around here. If the board betrays her during the upcoming dustup you're going to have to step in. She really loves Militech and a lover scorned would be a bitter enemy. Militech would lose an operative but you'd lose a granddaughter."

Antonio's cybernetic eyes were closed now, fists pressed against his pursed lips.

So this was it. Morgan placed the weapon back into the case and slowly closed the latches, leaving it on the table. There was no wasted motion as the Solo walked back into the elevator. He pressed the button for the lobby, turning his head to speak to his old friend.

"It's really been a pleasure...Mr. Luccessi, working with you all these years...I'm leaving the gun for your granddaughter. She's gonna need it."