Lone Wolf

by Nigel Findley

  The moment Argent leaves to go relay the Nemo lead to Peg the decker, I feel like a caged fragging animal. I have to do something—anything. I jander on down the stairs that lead into one of the back rooms of the Hole in the Wall and I look around for something to occupy my time and my mind. I’m still looking for it in the office where I first met Argent, when I hear the door open behind me.

  Pull the H & K, spin and drop into a crouch . . .

  And wind up looking over the sights at the crabby old cow of an ork-woman who was tending bar yesterday. Jean Trudel, the owner of this place, according to Argent.

  If staring down the muzzle of an SMG fazes Trudel in the slightest, she’s too hard-bitten to show it. She just glares at me out of her mismatched eyes, and snorts. I don’t know whether the sound is one of disgust, amusement, or both, and don’t really want to know.

  Trying not to show my chagrin, I make a production of safing and returning the weapon to its holster and standing back up. “You startled me,” I say mildly.

  She makes a disgusting phlegmy noise I tentatively identify as a laugh. “Big man with his little gun,” she chortles. “Lone Wolf, hah?”

  I don’t need to put up with this drek. I head right past her for the door without giving her so much as a glance. I’m just about out of the office when she says, “You want a car?”

  That stops me, just like she knew it would. I turn slowly. She’s smiling, giving me a better look at her chipped tusks than I really want at the moment.

  “Argent said you’d want a car,” she says again, as unfazed by my hard-eyed appraisal as she was by the H & K. Tough old bat—either that or too dumb to know when it’s smart to be scared.

  “He did. huh?”

  “Surprised it took you so fragging long.”

  I decide to leave that the frag alone, and go along with the game. “Where?” I ask.

  She’s got one hand deep in a pocket of her baggy jumpsuit, and now it comes out. I have to overrule the wire to keep from dragging out my weapon. I look down at her hand. Hanging from a stained and callused forefinger is a keyring with an electronic codekey hanging from it. “Parked out front,” she says.

  I snag the key as I brush past her. She chuckles, and my stomach twists at the sound. “It’s red,” she says helpfully to my retreating back.

  “To match your fragging eyes,” I mutter under my breath. Her hearing’s better than it has any right to be, because she barks with laughter. Frag her and the hog she rode in on. And frag Argent too for knowing I’d want to hit the streets and for letting Trudel in on it. Serve them both fragging right if I took their car, slipped the border heading north— I’ve always liked north—and sold the pecker for a starting stake in, say, Vancouver. Let Lone Star, Timothy Telestrian, cousin Lynne, the Cutters, and the shadowrunners of Seattle frag each other’s hoops till they bleed, and good riddance say I. Pleasant daydream, but everyone knows I’m not going to put it into practice.

  Trudel-hag spoke truly: the car is red, and it’s parked out front. Right out front, in a taxi-only zone. Either somebody’s got a much better handle on predicting my actions than i’d really like—all odds say it’s Argent—or I’m under surveillance, electronic, meat, magical—or all three. Can’t say I like either option worth drek. The car, however, is enough to make me feel marginally better. It's a Eurocar Westwind 2000, the 2054 model. A rag-top, which means it’s got the turbo engine and performance suspension package. Just short of 150-K nuyen worth of high speed and high performance—and somehow I get the feeling Argent bought the fragging thing instead of boosting it. Once again I find my image of shadowrunners isn’t exactly on the money.

  I trigger the codekey, hear the doors unlock and the engine—smooth as silk, like music to my fragging ears— light up instantly. I slide into the driver’s seat, which is low to the road and contoured like something from a fighter plane, and run my hands and eyes over the instrument suite. I blip the gas pedal, and watch the low-intensity orange symbology of the analog instruments respond instantly. Yes, even though I’m not exactly sure where I’m going, I get the feeling I’m going to enjoy getting there. I close the door—a whoosh-click, not the clunk you get from your typical Americar—drop the transmission into gear, and pull out.

  * * *

  The Westwind’s got a sophisticated entertainment system installed, and I put it to good use as I head north on 405 through Bellevue. At first I scan the bands for some music hot enough to blow the cobwebs out of my brains. Classic Mercurial, maybe, or the latest by Marli Bremerton and the Shadows. Anything but Darwin’s Bastards. The music is fine but it gets old pretty fast, and I start feeling the need for a serious data fix.

  I’ve always been a news junkie, a tendency repressed but not extinguished when I got into undercover work. How long since I checked in with what’s happening outside the tiny little sphere that’s my own existence? Too fragging long—three days at least. I wander the bands again looking for a newsbreak, then I’m in heaven when I hit something I recognize as the NewsNet feed—audio only, of course—out of Atlanta. The Westwind’s pilot and handling package are so smooth the thing feels like it wants to drive itself, so I give it free rein while I concentrate on Ted Turner’s spiritual descendants.

  Nothing much new or earthshaking, at least not at first. Among the NAN states, Salish-Shidhe and Tsimshian are still slagging each other off in council meetings, and threatening war over some new resource-allocation scheme.

  Pueblo doesn’t like Ute now, while Sioux—the old enemy— seems to be the flavor of the week. In Europe, the Serbs and the Croats are at it again, and everybody still hates the Israelis. Three universities are holding celebrations of the one-hundredth anniversary of some slag named Tolkien publishing the first book in some trilogy or other, and an Atlanta Neo-Anarchist group wants to declare a “Day of Shame” about the activities of someone called McCarthy, also from a fragging century ago. (Get with the present, will you?) The biz news boils down to the megacorps still giving it to the consumer up the hoop. No mention of TIC, Bio-Logic. Lightbringer, or Novalis Optical Technologies, but that’s no big surprise.

  The local news—from some sprawl-based NN affiliate, I assume—jars me, makes me realize how out of touch I am. NewsNet has a better rep for sticking to the facts than any competing organization, including the Catholic Church. According to this report there’s some kind of nasty viral infection cutting a swath through the underclass of the Seattle metroplex. Sure, this is NN, but the network’s still concerned with ratings, so cut back the level of hype and hysteria by a factor of ten. If the announcer’s on the money, then this is something a little more disturbing than the latest outbreak of Shanghai P super-flu. I slow down and punch up the volume.

  “City health officer Dr. Ken Blatherman describes the mini-epidemic as a novel species of retrovirus, showing limited infectivity, and spread by an unknown vector,” the talking head announces, hardly stumbling over the big words at all. (This is NN . . .) “The fact that, so far, the viral infection seems limited to the city’s underclass indicates more that the conditions faced by the under-housed and underemployed”— translation: squatters—“lead to increased expression of the disease than that the source of the infection is somewhere on the streets of Seattle, Dr. Blatherman states. The doctor also takes pain to contradict the reports from irresponsible media sources”—translation: NN’s competitors—“that fatalities have, so far, been limited to the metroplex gang subculture. He also states—even more vehemently—that this is not similar in any way, shape, or form to Virally Induced Toxic Allergy Syndrome. This is not, as has been previously—and irresponsibly—reported by others, an outbreak of some mythical strain of VITAS 4.

  “In other local news . . .”

  I reach out a finger and hit the Scan key, and the talking head’s voice is replaced by the assembly-line blast of some neoindustrial hit. Christ knows, I’m not one of those drekheads who look back on some mythically ideal “good old days,” some Camelot golden age
when everything was fragging peachy and everybody loved everybody else, but sometimes I can’t shake the feeling that some evil drek’s started going down recently. Maybe it’s just my Lone Star background, but whenever someone officially and vehemently denies the truth of any rumor, I start taking fragging precautions. VITAS 4? Just fragging wonderful. How many people did VITAS 3 take down forty-some years ago? One-plus percent of the world’s population. Something like fifty million deaders—if I haven’t slipped a decimal point somewhere.

  Then again, maybe something like this putative VITAS 4 is just what Seattle needs. A super-bug that takes down only gangers, and maybe add the shadowrunners into the mix while we’re at it. Some of my old Star colleagues would just love that, and I surely wouldn’t shed any tears along the way.

  Ah, it’s just hysterical drek anyway. How many outbreaks of “VITAS 4” have the news media ragged on about over the last decade? Three or four that I can remember, and none of them turned out to be the great apocalyptic pandemic. One round was unpleasant—that new strain of meningitis that cacked a dozen school-kids in Chicago back in 2045—but the rest were just non-starters like nuevomycin-resistant strains of herpes and syphilis. No scare as long as you took basic fragging precautions. It only makes sense; throw enough antibiotics and wonder drugs at bugs and all you’re doing is selecting for tougher and more resistant bugs. Isn’t that how evolution and natural selection work in the first place?

  Forget about it. I don’t have the bug, nobody I know has the bug, and it wouldn’t make much difference anyway. I’m still out here cruising the highways and byways of the sprawl, without the slightest fragging clue about what to do next, a fact not changed an iota by news of a killer bug that happens to be going after the local gangs.

  I take the next exit off 405, cut over onto 520. I kick the throttle as I hit the floating bridge, and the Westwind howls with feral joy all the way across Lake Washington. I hang a right into Montlake and' rocket onto Montlake Bridge, the car fragging near painted onto the road, even taking the exit at almost twice the posted speed. I keep my eyes fixed straight ahead, trying to blot out all glimpses of the area. It’s no good, though, and I know I’m going to relive the ambush in my nightmares again tonight. Onto the U-Dub campus past the cantilevered nightmare of the new stadium, through University Village and into Ravenna. And that’s when I cut way back on my speed and start to wrestle with whether I might actually have thought of a way to handle this whole thing or whether I just want to call it a bust and blast on back to my hidey-hole in Renton.

  Like, it’s just the most unformed idea possible, nothing concrete enough to merit the name of a plan. It was the “super-bug” report that got me thinking about the Cutters, you see. The gang is the one angle I haven’t been paying much attention to lately. Instead, I’ve been wracking my fragging brains about the way the Star’s been acting, while Argent and Peg are presumably digging up the dirt on Timothy Telestrian. But we seem to have forgotten all about the Cutters, the other end of the Tir-Seattle connection. (Well, “forgotten” might not be the right word. It’s kind of hard to totally forget about people who’ve put a death-mark on you, but maybe I could say something like “failed to give adequate attention.”) The connection’s there, though. Nemo and the elf contingent, who I’m assuming are linked with Timothy Telestrian, did meet with Blake, and it only makes sense to follow up on that angle. But how?

  And that’s the question. The Cutters did try to geek me, and there’s no good reason to believe they’ve changed their opinion of my continued existence. That means I can’t very well just march into one or another of their safe houses and ask, “Hey, chummers, what’s down?” Not if I don’t want to suck hot lead, at least.

  But maybe I could learn something important by observing the activity around one of the safe houses. Frag knows what that might be. If I had the answer to that question, I probably wouldn’t be looking in the first place. Who knows? Maybe I’d spot Nemo again or another member of the contingent—spot, follow, bag, and interrogate. Now what you’d call a likely outcome, but remotely possible.

  Sure, it’s a risk to go anywhere near Cutters activity, but I figure it’s a calculated one. Even if the gang’s still looking for me with intent to scrag, the last place they’d be expecting to see me is the street right outside one of their safe houses. Also, the Westwind represents excellent cover and concealment. The car’s windows are nicely tinted, letting me see out clearly, but making it a cast-iron bitch to see in. Besides, nobody who knows Rick Larson, ganger, will expect him to come cruising by in one hundred-fifty-K worth of Eurocar Westwind 2000 high-performance automotive technology. Or, that’s the line I keep trying to feed myself, with limited success.

  Well, if I’m going to do it, let’s fragging do it. I cruise east on Northeast Fifty-fifth Street, then hang a right onto Thirty-sixth Avenue Northeast. The safe house is in the middle of the block, on the east side of the street. I figure a pass right in front to scope out the overall situation, then from there I’ll decide what to do next. I punch up the Westwind’s autopilot so I don’t have to split my attention between surveillance and trying not to hit parked cars. I lock in the speed at forty-five klicks—slow enough to give me a reasonable view but not so slow it’ll attract unwanted attention— and we’re off.

  But something’s wrong. I see that at once. The safe house is just that—a safe place for Cutters gang-bangers to hang, a place for them to doss when they need to, that kind of drek. It’s not going to remain safe if it’s got a lot of activity around it. particularly such obvious gang action as knife-duels and such drek. Predictably, then, all Cutters safe houses are more or less quiet places—unobtrusive, not memorable.

  But there’s a difference between quiet or unobtrusive and totally fragging dead—which is how the Ravenna house looks as I cruise by. Front door open—that door’s never left open—with not the slightest sign of movement inside or outside. Yeah, sure, everybody could be out doing biz or maybe attending some major gang meeting in the basement. But they wouldn't leave the front door open while doing it. And that doesn’t explain my unshakable gut sense that the place is dead as the Calvary Cemetery a block away. (Deader, maybe, considering the rumors of ghouls in Calvary.)

  Before I can have any second thoughts about the wisdom of my actions, I’ve disabled the Westwind’s autopilot and pulled over to the curb. I open the door and get out, sliding my hand under my jacket to grip the butt of my H & K to let tech and gun handshake. Still no movement in or around the safe house. I cross the road to stand in the partial cover of a drek-kicked van that’s up on blocks. (This is Ravenna, after all . . .) And I stare at the building until it feels like I’m getting segs on my eyeballs.

  Nothing, priyatel, not a fragging thing.

  So what now? Something’s gone down with the Cutters, something significant. I think. But am I certain enough of my conclusion to put my hoop on the line? Think about it—even if Blake hasn’t actively sent out any more hit teams after me, I'm still known among the gangers as a Star mole. Chances are that if I should happen to jander across somebody’s gunsight, that somebody would cack me for sure. Strolling into a Cutters safe house is just an invitation to trouble, right?

  But it’s too late to turn my back and play things safe now. No fragging way. Who knows, maybe this is some kind of clue to the Teiestrian-Cutters link I was babbling about on the way to Ravenna. Curiosity may have killed the cat, and maybe it’li kill the Wolf as well, but right now I can’t seem to turn it off like some fragging light switch.

  Okay, I’ve been standing and watching long enough. If I’m ever gonna move, now’s the time. For the benefit of any neighbors or pedestrians who’d probably be all too glad to hit the PANICBUTTON and report the presence of an armed man in their street, I keep both empty hands at my sides as I jander frostily up the front steps and in through the open door.

  The minute I’m into the hallway, out comes the H & K and jander turns into combat crouch. My back against the wall i
n the corner, I hold my breath and listen. Again, nothing—no running water, no muffled trideo, no footsteps. Nothing. The place is empty, the feeling hits me again even stronger than before. It’s a chill, creepy sensation. Scanning with the H & K muzzle, I move deeper into the house. At the back, looking out over the optical-chip-sized yard, is a lounge where gangers hang, watch the trid, and generally blow the drek. Usually the place looks like a grenade hit it, with pizza boxes, beer cans, and similar drek thrown and scattered everywhich where. There’s a phone, too, next to a patch of the wall scrawled over with notes, LTG numbers, and such. If I’m going to get a quick indication of what’s gone down, and when, the garbage lying around might be where I find it.

  I pass the staircase, then the kitchen—check both of them out quickly, finding sweet frag all. I reach for the door to the lounge . . .

  Then instantly freeze in my tracks. I can hear something now. Breathing—a steady, bubbling, phlegmy noise that reminds me of Jean Trudel’s laugh. Like the sound of somebody snoring—an old man, maybe—but not quite that.

  I study the situation. The door to the lounge is closed almost all the way but it’s not latched, which means I don’t have to slot around with doorknobs. It opens away from me, into the room—the perfect deal for kicking the door open, going in low, and hosing down anything that moves.

  Which in real life is rarely the best tactic in a tight situation, no matter how many times you see it on the trideo. The snoring—or whatever—is steady and deep. There’s a kind of hitching sound—more like a bubbling click, actually—after the exhalation and before the inhalation, and from way out of left field the thought suddenly strikes me that that’s exactly where the breathing’s going to eventually stop. Breathe out, click . . . and nothing at all, ever again. I shove that thought away violently, and slowly open the door with my left hand. The H & K’s ready and the wire’s humming, ready to pop anything that threatens me.