Lone Wolf

by Nigel Findley

  Great. A squat situated over a bar frequented by shadow-scum. Yes, sir, that’ll certainly make me feel fragging secure. Yeah, right.

  * * *

  “Wolf.” The voice is quiet, close by.

  I surge up out of sleep—disoriented as all frag, but too busy rolling over to snatch my H & K from beside the bed to worry about it. The wire and the smartgun are synching up even before I've got my eyes open. Then my eyes do open, and I see who spoke.

  Drek, drek, drek ... I let my gun hand fall and slump back onto the bed. My heart’s racing at fifty-seven to the bar, and I feel like I came this close to having a foolish accident. “You slot,” I gasp.

  Argent the shadowrunner’s sitting comfortably in a chair against the far wall of the one-room-and-drekker doss upstairs from the Hole in the Wall. I’d locked all the windows, none of which were big enough for anything more than a rat to squeeze through anyway. Which means Argent must have come in through the single door, somehow moving the wooden chair I'd lodged under the door knob. All without waking me up.

  “Deep sleeper,” the chromed runner remarks.

  “Actually, I’m not,” I counter, still staring at the ceiling and trying to control my heart rate before I have a seizure. “You fragging slot, I could have cut you down.”

  Argent’s grinning like a fragging bandit. “Actually,” he says, in what he apparently thinks is an imitation of my voice, “you couldn’t.”

  I lift the H & K again, and this time I pay attention to what the wire’s telling me about the gun’s status. With a tired sigh, I drop the weapon back onto the floor and hold out my hand toward Argent. He flips something across the room to me. I catch it, turn it over and over idly in my hand. The clip from the H & K. Not only did he crack my defenses—admittedly rudimentary—to get into my room, but he also stole the ammunition out of my fragging weapon, all without waking me. I shake my head slowly. I’m getting too old for this drek.

  I roll over and fix him with what I hope is a steely glare. “Okay, slot,” I tell him in a cold, hard voice. “Point taken. You could have cacked me. I get the message.”

  His smile fades a little. “But I didn’t,” he points out. “And that’s the message.”

  “Yeah, well, if you’re trying to set me at my fragging ease, pick another way,” I growl. What I don’t say is that he’s made his point. If he’d wanted me dead, or bagged, or whatever, I wouldn’t be awake now—or if I was, it wouldn’t be here.

  Without looking, I slap the clip into the butt of the H & K, and let the wire confirm that everything’s peachy. Then I let my gaze drift around the dingy room. Judging by the light coming through the tiny windows, I guess it’s midday. To confirm, I pick up my watch from the bedside table. It reads 1235, which means I’ve been sleeping for fragging near twenty hours. I rub at gritty eyes as I swing up to sit on the edge of the bed.

  Argent’s watching me appraisingly. “Feeling better?” he asks.

  I run a quick mental inventory and the wetware equivalent of a Power-On Self-Test. My brain’s nowhere near as slagged-down as it was yesterday, but my body still needs even more rest to overcome the protracted strain of the last couple of days. Memory fragments of a dream—a nightmare, really—drift through my mind. I died and went to hell, but hell wasn’t the stereotypical pit of flames and torture. It was a fragging parking lot—a world-sized parking lot— where everyone lived in their cars while they waited for . .. well, I don’t know what they—we—were waiting for, and I don’t think I want to know. All I remember was that Cat was living in the next car to me. and she was a mite bent that I got her scragged. Understandable, and I’d probably have felt much the same.

  Wool-gathering. With a snort, I shake my head and force the memories away. I fix Argent with another hard stare. “So, got anything to tell me?” I demand. “Or is this just a social call?”

  “I’ve got something,” he says slowly. “Peg’s been busy. But I think you’re going to have to help me make sense of it.”

  “I’ll give it a shot.” As I swing off the bed, Argent’s already on his feet, and I join him by the large desk that dominates the room.

  In contrast to the room, the sophisticated telecom that sits on the desk is in pristine condition. This year’s tech, it’s right out on the cutting edge. Argent sits down in front of it and powers the unit on while I drag up another chair and settle myself astride it, resting my forearms across the top of the chair’s back.

  Argent slots a chip into the telecom port, and rattles a string of commands on the keyboard. I watch him with interest. He’s got two cyberarms and mods to his eyes—and, who knows, maybe wired reflexes and other toys—but no datajack. Why, I wonder? Interesting contradictions.

  “It took Peg a little longer than she thought,” Argent explains, almost apologetically. “She’s in San Francisco, and the Tir’s got extra-heavy security on the datalines from Cal Free. That’s understandable, considering their situation, but still a pain in the butt. She had to relay through Seattle.” He grins wryly. “Not that the security’s much less on those lines, but every little bit helps in this kind of thing.”

  I nod wordlessly. I guess it shouldn’t surprise me that Argent’s decker isn’t even in the sprawl—a decker can work anywhere as long as she’s got datalines—but it does. I’d have thought Argent—or any shadowrunner, for that matter—would trust only people he had some physical control over. Maybe he has some serious dirt on this Peg and that’s why he can trust her “remotely.” I’ll have to think about that when I’ve got some time.

  The telecom screen fills with text—every second word or so highlighted, indicating a hypermedia link to other data files. I shake my head. Fast fragging work. This Peg must be one burner, I figure. I don’t bother trying to read what’s on the screen. Argent’s scrolling and flipping around through the file. I decide to just wait until he’s done.

  After maybe a minute of scanning the files, the chromed runner turns to me. “This is everything Peg could dredge up on Timothy Telestrian.” He shrugs. “Lots of background drek, more than you probably need.”

  “Summarize,” I suggest.

  For a moment it looks like he’s about to refuse, then he shrugs. “Timothy Telestrian,” he says. “Elf metatype, age thirty.” A digitized image—flat not holo, the telecom’s not that good—flashes up on the screen. Thin face, straight blond hair fine as a baby’s, cool blue eyes, arrogant expression. Typical elf. I nod, and Argent goes on, “Son of James Telestrian III, also elf metatype . . .”

  “Wait a tick,” I cut him off. “That doesn’t scan. Elves are born, right? They don’t goblinize. And the Awakening happened in 2011. So that means . ..”

  He grins. “That means James Telestrian would have been thirteen when he fathered Timothy?” He chuckles. “Yeah, that caught me, too, but I dug deeper. James Telestrian was a ‘spike baby,’ born before the Awakening. Rare, but it happens. James is fifty-five, born in 1999, according to Peg’s research. Makes him probably the oldest elf in the world.”

  I sigh. “Okay, okay, forget I mentioned it.”

  Argent nods, but his drek-eating grin doesn’t fade. “James Telestrian III founded Telestrian Industries Corporation, one of the biggest and most aggressive conglomerates in the Tir. He’s still president and CEO. Timothy’s his only son . .."

  "Which probably means Timothy’s Senior Executive Vice President of Things Beginning with H, or some drek,” I say sarcastically.

  “Would have been my guess too,” Argent says with a shrug. “But that’s not the way it works. Surprisingly little nepotism in TIC.”

  I raise an eyebrow at that. “Oh?”

  “Not to say Timothy’s totally on his own,” Argent continues. “He’s a part of the TIC . . . empire, I guess you could call it, just not among the more rarefied ranks. Chummer Timothy is president of BioLogic Technologies, a subsidiary of TIC, but not a particularly large or successful one."

  "And that’s not nepotism?”

  “Not compare
d to the big prize,” Argent says flatly. “Bio-Logic is extremely small potatoes.”

  I shrug, and gesture for him to go on.

  He does. “Peg doesn’t think things were ever really close between James and Timothy, but they got even more distant about a year ago, maybe more. The senior suit in charge of a major TIC subsidiary called”—he leans closer to the screen—“Novalis Optical Technologies jumped ship to join a competitor, leaving the top spot open. Seems Timothy figured the corner office should be his.”

  “But daddy surprised him?”

  “Big-time,” Argent confirms. “Maybe you could call it nepotism because the slot went to family. But the slag he picked was a real hot prospect, really competent, with a solid track record. One Lynne Telestrian, Timothy’s cousin."

  "And Timothy didn’t approve of daddy’s choice?”

  Argent chuckles. “You might say he was . . . critical ... of James’ business acumen. Loudly and publicly critical. Which, of course, didn’t give James much incentive to change his mind.” He sits back in his chair and smiles. “So Lynne got the corner officer and the stock options and the major perks, and Timothy got slotted off. So he declared war.”

  That makes me sit up straight. “Huh?”

  “Probably not the way you’re thinking of it,” the runner amends quickly. “No drive-bys or geeked suits or blown-up facilities. No, this was corp warfare—stock manipulation, industrial espionage, and one of the nastiest proxy battles you’ve ever seen.

  “Seems young Timothy wasn’t quite the frag-up daddy imagined,” Argent goes on, seeming to warm to the role of storyteller. “As soon as the drek hit the pot, James tried to can Timothy from his position as prez of BioLogic.”

  “Tried?” I blurt. “James is head honcho of the whole fragging Teleslrian empire, isn’t he?”

  Argent nods. “True, but the various subsidiaries have some degree of autonomy. That’s the way he set them up. They’re under the TIC umbrella, but they’ve got their own boards of directors, their own shareholders, and all that drek. What happened was that James went to the BioLogic board of directors and told them to turf Timothy. The board told James to go frag himself.”

  I nod slowly. “Timothy’s got some kind of lock on the BioLogic board.”

  “At the very least. It seems that James got a little twitchy at this point, and checked out the . . . the political reliability, I guess you could call it... of other parts of his empire ..."

  "Only to find Timothy had the fix in with them, too,” I finish.

  “Bingo. Not enough to give Timothy control—not as such—but enough so that daddy didn’t have complete control himself. I understand he was a tad slotted off.”

  “Wonder why.” I ponder for a moment, then nod again. “Okay, proxy fight between father and son. Where does cousin Lynne stand?”

  “Firmly in James’ camp. In fact, she’s his expediter and honorable hatchet-man. James either has other fish to fry, or he judges Lynne is better than he is at this kind of drek. She’s his Saint Michael, fighting off Timothy’s incursions."

  "What kind of incursions?”

  Argent shrugs again. “Proxy fights, like I said. Intimidating shareholders, undercutting contracts . ..” He refers to the screen, pointing to a particular paragraph with a metallic finger. “Yeah, here it is. As one of the oldest elves around, James Telestrian has a megahuge rep in the Tir, which he’s managed to parlay into a partial lock on the business community. That means if Timothy wants to increase his market share—and trust me, he does—he’s got to do it outside the Tir.” He looks at me expectantly.

  I nod. Yeah, it makes sense, doesn’t it? “And since all's fair in love and war, he’d have no qualms about dealing with the Cutters if it suited him.” Then something eise strikes me. “Got a picture of Lynne?”

  He blinks, then rattles in a command on the keyboard. Another image appears in a secondary window. Long blonde hair pulled back behind her ears. Cold green eyes. Aloof, almost arrogant expression. “Pleased to make your acquaintance, Lynne Telestrian,” I say quietly. “Again.”

  “The elf biff?”

  “That’s her.” I pause. “Unless it’s someone magically impersonating her ...” Then I shake my head with a snort. “Nah, that’s just getting too complicated, too paranoid.” Argent is scrutinizing the image on the display. “Lynne Telestrian. Interesting.” Now he glances my way again. “So what does that tell us?” he asks.

  I don’t answer immediately. It tells me a few things, but I’m not sure why the frag I should share them with a fragging shadowrunner. Then I shake off that thought. He’s treated fairly with me—so far, I amend—and there’s no reason—again, so far—why I shouldn’t level with him. His eyes are steady on my face, and it’s not the first time I get the feeling he’s making much too fragging good a guess about what’s going on in my mind. I break eye contact, studiously examining the image of the elf woman. “It tells us we can put more faith in the Timothy Telestrian tie-in,” I muse. “What would Lynne gain from sending us after a Timothy-Seattle connection that doesn’t exist?”

  Argent nods brusque agreement. “Anything else?"

  "Maybe.” What was it Argent called her? “If she’s James Telestrian’s Saint Michael, it means that the Seattle connection is important—to both sides—otherwise she wouldn’t be wasting her time dancing me around.” I shrug. “That’s about it.”

  “There’s something more,” the shadowrunner says quietly.

  “You’re important, Wolf.”

  I snap my head around so fast I almost sprain my neck. “Huh? Bulldrek.” The word’s out of my mouth before I realize it isn’t bulldrek after all.

  “It’s the same logic,” Argent says firmly, reinforcing what I just realized myself. “You must be important, or else she wouldn’t be wasting her time dancing you around. She’d ignore you or geek you. But she hasn’t done either.”

  “Yeah,” I agree unwillingly. “All right. But why?”

  “My guess is you should be putting some serious skull-sweat into figuring that one out,” the runner says. “She must figure you know something—or can do something—that could frag up whatever Timothy’s got happening in the plex. Any ideas?”

  What fragging danger could I be to some ambitious elf suit? Unless Timothy were to get caught in the crossfire when the Star and the Cutters try to geek me, I can’t see I’m of any significance to Timothy fragging Telestrian. “Not right at the moment,” I say mildly.

  Argent chuckles. “Well, give it some thought, omae. For your own sake, if for no other reason.”

  “No drek, Sherlock.” I rub at my eyes. Frag of a thing to have to deal with when you first wake up—trying to figure out how you fit into some elf-corp infighting. “Did Peg dig up anything on Mr. Nemo?”

  “Nothing under that name,” Argent says, face twisting wryly. “No fragging surprise. And it’s not as if your description was worth much.”

  “It’s not as if there was much to fragging describe,” I snap back, feeling suddenly defensive. “Brown and brown, olive complexion, medium height, medium build, no distinguishing features, age twenty-eight to forty. Not a frag of a lot to go on, you know what I mean?” Translation: I’d like to see you do any better, hotshot . . .

  For an instant, Argent’s modified optics narrow and take on a frosty glint. I know he scanned the last message just fine, and I think maybe this time I’ve pushed him too far. But the tension lasts only an instant, then the hard lines of his body relax and he nods. “No kick against you, Wolf."

  "None taken,” I lie back, and honor’s satisfied. Frag this Alpha-male, iQuien es mas macho? drek. It just gets in the way. “Too bad.”

  “Shoganai,” the runner says. “Jap for ‘drek all we can do about it.’”

  I’m silent for a moment, then, “You know, sometimes no distinguishing features can be distinguishing enough. Like, neither of us qualify. I’m too tall, you’re ...” I don’t finish the thought.

  Argent gives a feral grin,
and there’s a metallic snick as he clenches both fists. “Point taken.”

  “So assume Nemo’s in the TIC empire somewhere,” I go on. The runner nods in acceptance. “Personnel jackets have photos. Could Peg puil up shots of everyone who’s male and plain vanilla, no distinguishing features? I’ll do the mug-shot route and see if I can spot him.”

  Argent’s not convinced. “You know how big the TIC empire is, ornae?"

  “Then limit it to Timothy’s bloc,” I say impatiently. “Maybe.”

  “Can you think of a better way?”

  Eventually the shadowrunner shakes his head. “No,” he admits. But he’s not giving up totally. “You figure Nemo’s worth the effort ?”

  “Fragged if I know, but he could be. We marked each other, remember?”

  “I also remember you don’t know from where or when."

  "Frag, I know that, okay?” I bite back on my impatience the best I can. “I don’t know if it’s important. I only know it might be important. Got any better ideas” . . . butthead?

  Argent doesn’t say a word, but his steady gaze gets the message across just fine: Yeah, kick your sorry hoop out of here back onto the street, and go back to hoopfragging the corps for major nuyen like a good little shadowrunner.

  For maybe fifteen seconds we sit like that, giving each other the old stare-down, and the wire starts really wanting to scrag Argent. But it’s the shadowrunner who looks away first, with a minuscule nod. “Okay, it’s another possible lead,” he says quietly. “I’ll pass it on to Peg.”

  And I realize I’ve just won an argument with a shadowrunner.

  20

  Which leaves me with the question, just what the frag am I supposed to do next? I’m a nullhead, so I can’t do squat to help the datasearch. And with a death-mark on me—courtesy of the Cutters and the Star and who knows who else (Timothy fragging Telestrian, maybe?), going out to work the streets is an invitation to get myself geeked. And where would I go and what streets would I work anyway? I feel about as useless as tits on a fragging bull, and I don’t like it.