That’s part of the reason. The other is that I’m heartily sick of public phones.
So who am I calling? Like I said, priyatel, we all knew I'd do it eventually. Place the call to the LTG number the elf gave me last night, I mean. The one to the blind relay that should get me in touch with the shadowrunner who calls himself Argent.
I chewed on it for most of the night, the advice I got from both Finnigan—a friend—and the elf biff—most definitely not a friend, but maybe not an enemy either. On reflection, I can see that the idea makes sense. Shadowrunners have resources that I don’t—not anymore, not now that I’m cut off from the Star. They’ve got freedom of action, and they’ve got no love or loyalty for any established organization— Lone Star, the Cutters, or Telestrian Industries Corporation. They’re used to navigating the nooks and crannies of society, staying out of the light, and keeping one step ahead of all the factions that’d like to see their guts ripped out. Sort of like me at the moment. But—
But shadowrunners are the bad guys, that’s what’s bothering me. And no one whose gone through any kind of police training can escape that line of thought. To a cop’s mind all people can be lumped into three simple categories: cops, civilians, and scumbags. A simple breakdown, with no exceptions. Oh sure, the “civilian” classification tends to drift a bit. When a cadet first leaves the Academy, all fired up and eager, naive and green, he might tend to rate civilians as right up there, almost as admirable and worthy of attention as cops. That doesn’t last long, though, and soon civilians drop way down the scale to rest only a few notches above scumbags. Some cops—the real hard-bitten and cynical ones—don’t even bother making the distinction. If you ain’t a cop, you ain’t drek, and that’s all she wrote.
And there’s never any doubt where shadowrunners fit into the grand scheme. Scumbags, all of them. In fact, they represent what I most hate about the scumbag category—amorality. Not immorality—that I can live with. Frag, who hasn’t gone through one or two immoral phases in his own life?
No, it’s the amoral route I can’t handle. The amoral just opt out of (meta)human society, totally refuse to play by any rules. Opt out of all laws, all standards, all conventions of conduct. Refuse to accept that there’s anything more important than individual wants, desires, and impulses. Refuse to accept that some conventions—some laws, some standards, some social mores—are valuable to the development and advancement of society as a whole. Sure, there are some laws I don't agree with, even some I choose not to obey and not to enforce. But laws in general are important. I’ve always believed that, and I always will. It’s the same belief that led me to the Lone Star Academy.
And it’s because shadowrunners don’t share that belief that they’re scumbags in my book. End of story.
Yet here I am riding along Highway 5 trying to get hold of one by phone. It’s a weird fragging world, priyatel, let me tell you.
The pocket secretary warbles on the seat next to me, telling me it’s registered with the cel network and is now dialing LTG number 1206 (03-0409), the blind relay. (I’m not sure what the frag that is, but it’s probably something like the scam I pulled with the pay phone when I called Finnigan—though a lot more sophisticated.) As if to confirm that, the ringing tone from the secretary is interrupted three times by clicks and faint electronic beeps—almost certainly transfers to different lines. Finally comes one click louder than the others, then silence excepl for the ghost voices of channel cross-talk. Disconnected? Frag, typical. Probably one of the clicks represented some kind of notification to the elf biff that I was calling the fake number she gave me, so she could start laughing her hoop off at me.
I reach out angrily to shut off the phone, but freeze with my finger a millimeter from the End key. There’s another ring tone, this one half an octave higher than the standard cellular net tone. A private phone system? A PBX at “Shadowrunners R Us”? Who the frag knows?
With an almost musical click, the final connection is made, and a voice says, “Yes?” Male, well-modulated, not harsh. Not particularly welcoming, either. Not that I expected it would be.
I key the phone’s microphone on. “I want to speak to Argent,” I say flatly.
“Oh?” There’s a hint of dry amusement in the voice now. “Do you, now?”
I figure there must be some kind of recognition code— password and answer, cloak-and-dagger kind of drek— which I don’t know, and that slots me off even more than I was a moment ago. “Yeah,” I growl. “Are you him?”
“Who wants to know?”
“I do,” I bark back. “The fact I know this number means something, doesn’t it?”
“Not as much as you seem to think, chummer,” the voice comes back immediately.
I let that pass. “Are you Argent?” I demand again.
A moment’s pause, then. “I can relay a message,” he says.
“You want him to call you, or what?”
“Tell me when he’ll be back, and I’ll phone him.” There’s a low-pitched laugh. “You don’t do this often, do you, omae? Thanks for an amusing conversation ..."
"Don’t hang up!” I snap, my mind racing desperately. I'm risking my hoop enough by placing this call. Giving this slag the number for a call-back can’t increase the danger much more than it already is. “Okay, okay,” I say at last. “Get Argent to call me.” I recite the pocket secretary’s cel phone number. “Right fragging quick, priyatel. Got it?"
"And who the hell are you, anyway?”
“Somebody who wants to talk to Argent, that’s all you need to know.”
Another laugh, but this time with no humor in it. “Like frag it’s all I need to know. Lots of people want to talk to Argent Not many people Argent wants to talk to, if you get my drift.”
I grind my teeth. “I’ll make it worth his while,” I grate.
“Give me a name, friend.” The voice on the other end of the circuit is cold and hard. For a moment the tone reminds me of Blake, back with the Cutters. Another hard man, this, just like the gang boss.
“Why?”
“No name, no message. Let Argent figure if it’s going to be worth his while.”
The rage is back in my gut, squirming like a cold metal snake. I want to scream, I want to kill. Not doing either one is probably the hardest thing I’ve ever done, but I manage it. “You want a name,” I almost whisper.
“That’s right, chummer. And make it a real one, okay? You know Argent’s going to check.”
Yeah, I know it all right. Well, what the frag have I got to lose? Anybody who’s tapping into my line already knows who I am. And if it’s possible to accurately locate a particular mobile phone during Seattle’s morning rush hour, it’s not Argent and his scroffy runner friends I’m most worried about. “You want a name?” I spit out. “Tell him Rick Larson called, browncone, and tell him I’m waiting.” And with that I hit the End key almost hard enough to crack the secretary’s composite enclosure.
* * *
So what the frag did that gain me, tell me that? Argent the motherfragging shadowrunner isn’t going to call me back. Why should he? There’s no fragging credit in it for him, and shadowrunners don’t do anything—anything—that doesn’t pay. That’s what “shadowrunner” means—amoral, sociopathic mercenary. All I did was increase my exposure—make a call that could be traced and then give out my fragging phone number! Drek, what was I thinking? If I don’t get my head out of my fragging hoop, I don’t deserve to live . . .
What I really should do is get rid of the fragging pocket secretary. I glance out the car window. And now’s probably the best time. I’m right in the middle of the Evergreen Point floating bridge, heading east toward Bellevue. Just open the window, heave it out into Lake Washington, and more fragging power to anyone who wants to trace it.
Holding the wheel steady with my left hand, I power down the passenger-side window. I’ve cut out the autopilot, needing to do something physical to keep myself from kicking my own hoop too long and hard. I grab the s
ecretary and wind up to chuck it out of the car.
At that moment the fragging thing lets out a ring, startling me so much I almost drive into the guardrail. I hit the button on the dash to re-enable the autopilot, then I glare at the secretary. Do I even want to answer it now?
Do I dare not answer it? I punch the Stand-By/Talk key. “What?”
“You’ve got jam, Larson. I’ll give you that.” It's the same voice as before, with a strange undertone of ironic amusement.
“You're Argent, aren't you?”
There’s a moment’s silence on the other end. Then, “I’m Argent,” the voice confirms. “And you’re Richard Norman Larson, Lone Star employee number 714-80-795, highly trained and experienced deep-cover operative, Milkwaukee Organized Crime (Gang) task force, indefinitely seconded to Seattle in 2052.” Another pause, then Argent goes on, “Like I say, chummer, you’ve got real jam.” (Is that a hint of admiration in his voice?)
“No fragging brains, but real jam. It’s been a pleasure talking to you, omae.”
I can imagine Argent’s finger reaching out to break the circuit. “Wait!” I snap.
“Why?” The amusement’s back in the runner’s voice. “So you can trace my location? Don’t waste your time.”
“No.” My mind’s racing again. There’s something here I’m not getting, something important. My subconscious is sounding all my mental alarms. It’s also telling me not to lose contact with Argent. I just need time to figure out what to say to him. Time...
I look at my watch. Time! How long since I called the blind relay, since I left the message for Argent? Not more than about ten minutes. A horrible suspicion starts to dawn in my mind. Ten minutes .. . “You’re a quick worker, Argent,” I say, trying to keep my voice light. “It took you—what?—about ten minutes to crack my personnel file out of Milwaukee? Fast work, priyatel ... Or maybe you didn’t have to check Milwaukee. Maybe you’ve already got your datahooks deep into the Seattle data fortress, huh?”
Argent snorts. “You’re a paranoid frag, Larson,” he says flatly. “It didn’t take any deep penetration at all. Lone Star Seattle doesn’t protect its personnel files worth drek."
"Huh?” To my own ears, my voice sounds like I’ve been kicked in the gut. Something cold tightens under my heart, like a fist. “What are you saying, Argent?”
He’s surprised, and—no drek, Sherlock—suspicious. “What do you mean?”
“You’re saying you just cracked into Lone Star Seattle’s standard personnel files, and there I was?”
“Yeah, that’s just what I’m . . .” The runner’s voice trails off, and I know he’s picked up on the same anomaly I have. There’s silence for a good couple of seconds, then he comes back, “What kind of half-fragged game are you trying to play here, Larson?”
“Game? Yeah, right. Like urban brawl, and I’m the flag."
"What the frag are you trying to say?”
“I don’t have to say it, do I?” I snarl back. “I’m this drek-hot undercover op from Milwaukee, right? Trained and experienced, like my personnel jacket says. And you find that jacket in the standard employee files along with the secretaries and word-processing pool drones? Yeah, right. Come on, Argent, grab a fragging brain here. How many other deep-cover ops did you find in the files, huh? Tell me that? No, on second thought, I’ll tell you. Exactly fragging none, right?”
Another silence, and I know I’m right. “If this is some kind of reverse cover, it’s not going to work,” Argent growls, but the anger’s at least partially feigned now, I can hear it.
“Yeah, right, brilliant cover,” I sneer. “Maybe it gets me closer to you, but meanwhile I’m getting chopped by the Cutters. My file did say I was doing deep-cover on the Cutters, right? You think maybe, just fragging maybe, the Cutters might occasionally glance at the Lone Star standard employment files, huh?”
“So . . .”
“So I’m out of fragging sanction,” I cut him off harshly. “Beyond fragging salvage. You know what I’m talking about?”
“I’ve heard the phrases,” he says dryly. “Prove it.”
“You want proof? You're so hot with a fragging ’puter, check into a missile attack on a private vehicle, about thirty hours ago in Montlake. One fatality, a Catherine Ashburton—you’ll find her in the Lone Star files if you dig deep enough.”
“Another covert op?” Argent wants to know.
“Data processing manager,” I shoot back.
“What’s she got to do with . .. ?”
Again I cut him off. The rage feels like something huge within me, pressing on my lungs and squeezing off my throat so I can hardly force the words out. “I was in the fragging car.” My voice is cold, like death. “Sheer luck I didn’t croak too.”
I try to stop myself—this Argent motherfragger doesn’t need to know—but I can’t. “She burned. Cat Ashburton burned alive. It was a Star FRT squad pulled the ambush. They were after me. Check it out.”
There’s a long, heavy silence—ten seconds, maybe more— then Argent comes back. The hostility’s gone from his voice, replaced now by a cool professionalism. “I’ll check, Larson,” he says. “Now, what do you want from me?”
“A meet.” The words are out of my mouth before I know what I’m going to say. But, as I say them, I know they’re the truth.
“If this is a setup . . .”
“No setup,” I almost shout. “You pick the place, you pick the time. Bring friends, saturate the fragging area, I don’t care. I’ll come alone. If you don’t like the way it comes down—if you don’t like the way I’m fragging dressed—cack me, I need the peace and fragging quiet!”
He doesn’t respond immediately. Then he chuckles quietly. “You’ve got your meet, Lone Star,” he concedes. “Hold the line for details.”
* * *
Why the frag did I agree to this? Yeah, sure, my brain knows it’s the only logical next step—I’m dead-ended without more resources. But it’s not my brain that’s knotting my guts up so hard I want to spew. Fear? Who wouldn’t be afraid walking into an unknown situation with someone who's always viewed your kind as an enemy? The other feeling is disgust, all that “to think I’ve sunk so low” bulldrek. Just the thought of dealing with shadowrunners leaves me feeling soiled somehow.
I force those thoughts deep, deep into the back of my mind. This meet’s going to be edgy enough without Argent seeing in my eyes that I despise him and every other runner.
One thing I’ve got to give him, though. He does choose good places for meets. (He didn’t give me the details over the cel phone, of course. That would have been little more than an open invitation for IrreleCorp and anyone else tapping the line to put in an appearance. I got the scoop via another call to another blind relay through yet another fragging public phone.) When Argent agreed to the meet, I expected he would wait for nightfall and pick a spot near the docks. That would have meant me spending the rest of the day trying to kill time, somehow, somewhere.
Instead he surprised me. An early-afternoon meet, at a place I’d only heard about in street rumors—the Hole in the Wall, a tavern out in Renton near the intersection of Maple Valley Road and Jones Road. Buzz on the street claims the Hole’s a hangout for shadowrunners—mainly burn-outs and wannabes, according to some, but with a few of the “A-list” names putting in an appearance from time to time. (But if that’s the case, you say, why the frag hasn’t Lone Star closed the place down? Because street buzz isn’t proof, chummerino. Apparently the Hole’s one of the grottiest places you’d ever go a long way to avoid, but the owner—one Jean Trudei, according to the streets—keeps it just inside the limits of the health codes. Other than that? Well, frag, say the Star’s after some shadow scum perp, and she ducks into the Hole. In come the boys in blue .. . and everyone and their fragging dog swears up and down that the perp hasn’t been here in months. Meanwhile she’s bugging out the back way or maybe hiding out in the basement. Sure, you could probably put surveillance on the place, but that means diver
ting resources from other work. So the Hole—and other places like it throughout the sprawl—stay in business. That’s life in the big city, priyatel.)
So that’s why I’m jandering into the Hole in the Wall on a gray and rainy afternoon, feeling like I’d rather be just about anywhere else in the fragging universe at the moment.
The Hole’s well-named, let me tell you. A small tavern fronting onto Maple Valley Road, with a wood-fagade metal door and a single small window so grimed up it might as well be frosted transplast. I stand in the doorway for a few moments, holding the door partially open behind me while I let my eyes adapt to the darkness. The air’s thick with smoke—tobacco and other more exotic substances—and the reek of stale beer, old sweat, and the unmistakable tang of fear. Great place, excellent ambiance. Why the frag am I here?
“Come in if you’re coming,” a voice growls from the shadows, “or get the frag out, but shut the drek-eating door.”
Obediently I take a step forward, let the door swing shut behind me.
It takes a few more seconds before I can see worth drek. When I can, I scope the place out. The Hole’s a “shotgun” arrangement, not much more than six meters wide, but stretching almost three times that in length. To the right of the door’s the bar, a scarred macroplast thing with uncomfortable-looking stools in front of it. Directly to the left is what’s left of a laser jukebox—you’d call it an antique if its electronic guts weren’t trailing on the floor. Down the left wall are half a dozen round tables covered with terry cloth to soak up spilled beer and other fluids. Two of them are occupied, one by the hulking figure of a troll, the other by a couple of dwarfs. All three customers are giving me the evil eye, probably watching to see if I’ll back down. So I give them a killer grin, jander over to the bar and settle myself down on a stool.
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