by Lisa Smedman
He stared out across the ocean, his eyes hard. “The Azzie government was responsible for my father’s death, for me never knowing my relatives, and for Mama G’s death. And for the death of a lot of other innocent people. If I can help to make a difference in this fragging world . . .”
He shrugged and shoved his hands in his pockets. I was going to chide him about entering another “discovering my roots” phase, or else tease him that his passion for the rebels would ebb as his ardor for Teresa cooled, but thought better of it. It wasn’t like my friend to have made such a lengthy speech—he must have thought this out long and hard. I didn’t want to belittle his decision.
Especially since his motivation was so close to my own. Except that I would carry on the fight for justice back home in Seattle. Cleaning up my own back yard, one piece of trash at a time, made more sense to me than traveling thousands of klicks to fight someone else’s fight.
I had come to understand the Azzie rebels and sympathize with the cause they fought for. But their enemy was too big, too amorphous. I needed a tighter focus. A single client to fight for, rather than a whole fragging nation. A single bad guy to face down, a single wrong to put right. The rebels could fight for decades without making any significant gains. I’m the type of person who needs concrete results.
I wrapped my arms around Rafael’s broad shoulders, standing on tiptoe to plant a kiss on his cheek. “Remember what you said in the teocalli?" I said in a whisper. “I love you too. Be careful.”
After a moment of surprise, he hugged me back. My wet-suit made a scrunching sound as his muscular arms squeezed me tight.
“Ouch!” I said, only half-jokingly. “My rib.”
Fede discreetly nudged my arm. “We’d better get going,” he said. “If we don’t move soon, we’ll miss our boat.”
I grinned at that one. Then I let Rafael go.
“Stay frosty,” I told him, punching him on the shoulder. “And kick some Azzie butt for me.”
He grinned fiercely back at me. “I will,” he promised. “I sure as frag will.”
I pulled on my gloves and mask, made sure the plexiglass wasn’t fogging, and then walked out into the gently lapping waves. I towed a surfboard behind me. Supplied by the AFL, it was no ordinary board but one equipped with a high-thrust engine that would push me through the water at close to twenty klicks. A fuel tank served as its keel. If we were picked up by radar, our low profile, lying flat against the ocean’s surface, would fool the Azzies into thinking we were some sort of marine mammal. The thrusters that powered the surfboards wouldn’t leave much of a heat signature, either.
Set into the nose of the board was a palm-sized, waterproof device—a global positioning system that would give my precise longitude and latitude. It would help me to locate the ship that lay in wait for us in international waters, just outside the eighty-kilometer strip of ocean that Aztlan claimed.
Beside me, Fede towed a similar surfboard. Reaching waist-deep water, he jumped onto it and lay prone, shoving his feet through straps that would hold him in place. I was about to do the same, but turned around for one last look at Rafael.
Behind me was nothing but empty beach. The big guy had done a quick fade.
I threw myself forward onto my own surfboard, and together with Fede paddled by hand through the surf.
We had a long, cold journey ahead of us—and only a promise from Soñador that the ship that would carry us back to UCAS would be waiting for us when we arrived.
28
I sat on the sofa in my basement suite, watching the latest tridcasts out of Aztlan. I’d set my telecom’s Sort ’n’ Save program to key in on anything to do with the Yucatán or with the ongoing civil war. But the news bites it had downloaded contained null data—they were just government-whitewashed stories of how the Azzies were dealing harshly and effectively with the “insurgents.”
The only hard data I could get was that the rebels had blown up an oil refinery off the coast near Veracruz—although the Azzies hastened to assure the viewing public that no lives were lost and that the rig would be back on line in three days’ time, at most. I smiled at that one—footage from UCAS newscasts showed the oil rig to be a twisted ruin, blazing fiercely and spreading a stain of oil over the surrounding ocean. I wondered if Rafael had played a part in its destruction.
My cat Pinkerton, out of sorts at having been intermittently fed by a neighbor while I was away, sat with his back to me, retaliating by refusing to let me pet him. Upstairs, the tenants who had moved into the floor previously occupied by Rafael and Mama G were throwing a noisy party. I turned up the volume of the telecom slightly and used my cyberear to filter out the worst of the laughter and music from upstairs. In response to the increased noise, Pinkerton leaped off the couch and disappeared through his cat door.
Outside, the rain pelted down on a cold, wet Seattle night. I’d been back from Aztlan for a week, but I had yet to acclimatize and was still shivering. I had a pile of telecom messages from angry clients, demanding to know what was happening with their cases, but I left then unanswered. I still wasn’t back into work mode. But I’d better be, and soon. The trip to Aztlan had left me virtually penniless.
As Rafael had instructed, I’d pawned anything of his that was of value—not a frag of a lot—and cleared out the rest. I’d kept the sentimental stuff—a holo of Rafael and me from our security guard days, a few of his oversized shirts and one of Mama G’s favorite sweaters, and the sad-eyed holo of Christ that had hung above the kitchen door. And Rafael’s Harley Scorpion, which I couldn’t bear to part with, even though I couldn’t ride the thing.
I’d also kept the fragments of the pottery jar in which Mama G had kept her snake. Glued back together, the jar served as a vase for the feather we’d picked up in the cave near Monterrey, after our first encounter with Soñador. The red, green, and turquoise plume helped to reassure me that the crazy and impossible things I’d experienced in Aztlan had been real.
Despite all that had happened, I felt empty. I figured that we’d been successful in bringing Mama G’s killer to justice—or at least, in bringing payback to the man who’d ordered her death, if not the actual person who’d killed her on his behalf. All four of the bacabs of the Temple of the Sun were dead. But the justice felt incomplete, somehow. Perhaps it would have been more satisfying if I’d put a bullet into the brain of the bacab of Quetzalcóatl, rather than watching as he was crushed by tons of falling masonry. Perhaps . . .
I shook my head. Justice was my goal, I reminded myself sternly. Not vengeance. In my line of work, I’d do well to remember that.
I also wondered if we’d really saved the world. Had the Azzie “prophecy” of the end of the current age been just so much bulldrek, or had the world really been on the verge of a catastrophe of biblical proportions? I’d never know for sure. The earthquakes that hit Aztlan while we were there may have been mere coincidence, rather than preludes to the apocalypse.
I was certain of one thing, however. The iztompan was gone. If the convent and church collapsing on it hadn’t shattered the altar stone, the exploding rockets would have. The secret Mama G had died to keep lay buried forever.
I debated giving Fede a call in Houston, to see how he was recovering from his reconstructive surgery. He’d used Vargas’ gold earplugs and pectoral to pay for it—and to set himself up in business as a scalper. But I decided to wait and see the finished product after it had healed. I wondered what sort of look he’d go for and whether it would be as handsome as . . .
Just then my telecom chimed with a soft ping, alerting me to an incoming message. I nearly ignored it, thinking it would be just one more irate client. But then, out of some urging I could not explain, I brushed a finger against the Receive icon.
Rafael’s voice boomed out at me. The message was voice only, no video.
“Hola, Leni. It’s me, Rafael. Don’t bother trying to send back—I’m routing this through a whole series of LTGs in a single pulse of data so that
it can’t be traced back to me. I just wanted to let you know that I’m fine—Teresa’s fine, too. And the Cristeros are really kicking hoop. Fire and brimstone, and all that jazz. Maybe you saw the results on the evening trids. Well, I’d better go now. Places to go, things to blow . . .”
His voice paused for a heartbeat. Then, “Oh, one last thing, Leni. If you do figure out a way to get a message to me through Angie, there’s something I’d like you to include. I want to know who won the conference finals. Did the Seattle Timber Wolves make it into the nationals? We don’t get the scores down here. The Azzies don’t seem to be interested in the game—silly fraggers. So send me any game highlights you’ve got.”
I laughed out lout at that one. Same old Rafael.
“Oh, and thanks, Leni, for helping me. Mama Grande would have been proud of you. Now, stop moping around and get out there and put some other murdering fragger where he belongs, O.K.?”
As the message ended, I stared out the window at the rain. And smiled. Rafael was down in Aztlan, doing what he did best. Kicking hoop. And here I was, sitting around sulking when I could be out saving my corner of the world from the bad guys.
I sighed, and began listening to the first of my clients’ calls. As the messages played, Pinkerton poked his head in through the cat door, a dead rat hanging limp in his mouth.
I took it for the omen that it was.
My next case, I was certain, would have a successful conclusion.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Lisa Smedman’s first novel was The Lucifer Deck, a Shadowrun® novel published by Roc Books. She has also had a number of short science fiction and fantasy stories published in various magazines and anthologies. Formerly a newspaper reporter, she now works full time as a freelance game designer. She has written a number of adventures for TSR’s Ravenloft® line, as well as adventures for several other game systems. She is one of the founding members of Bootstrap Press, publishers of Adventures Unlimited magazine. When not writing, she spends her time organizing literary conventions, hiking and playing sports with a local women’s outdoors club, and (of course) gaming. She lives in Vancouver, B.C.
Copyright
ROC
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First published by Roc, an imprint of Dutton Signet, a member of Penguin Putnam Inc.
First Printing, January, 1998 109876543 2 1
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Series Editor: Donna Ippoiito
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