For ten minutes I sit in a leather chair staring through a vid screen on the opposite wall. When a biz-suited functionary comes to get me, I can remember precisely squat of what I’ve just been watching. The functionary leads me down a hall to an oak-grained macroplast door, knocks, then flashes me a model’s meaningless smile, turns her back and vanishes. The door opens before me, and I walk in.
Into an Office bigger than the place where I used to doss in Ravenna. One whole wall’s a window, providing a spectacular view southwest toward the massive high-tech ziggurat that is the Renraku Arcology. I give it maybe one second’s worth of attention, then focus on the two figures waiting for me. Neither one’s Schultz.
The slag behind the desk—a glossy exec-type with a face that just screams PR flack—stands and extends a hand to me. “Good afternoon,” he says, “I’m Alphonse Baker.”
I just stare at his hand until he drops it back to his side. “I understood I was to meet with the governor,” I tell him.
His eyebrows rise—I’ve committed a major breech of etiquette, but I honestly don’t give a frag. It takes him only a split-second to compensate, though, and a warm smile— precisely as insincere as the one the other functionary just gave me—spreads across his face. “That’s true, Lieutenant Larson,” he says smoothly, using the official rank I haven’t bothered with since I first went deep-cover. “But you’ll understand, of course, that Governor Schultz is an incredibly busy woman, and various .. . um, exigencies ... arise from time to time that require her immediate attention. I thought that we might be able to achieve the goals of this meeting without her presence, just you, me, and Mr. Loudon here.”
I slowly track my gaze to the second figure in the room, standing to the left of Baker’s desk. I’ve never met him, but I recognize his chiseled face. William Loudon, Division Head of Lone Star Seattle. My putative boss.
Well, frag, that settles that, doesn’t it? Maybe Schultz was serious about investigating the Schrage-Telestrian connection when she first contacted me. Hadn’t Lynne-slitch told me that Schrage had unofficial ties with the unholy trinity of Drummond, Layton, and McMartin, implying that they were playing some kind of game behind Loudon’s back? Everything else the elf-woman told me had turned out to be true. Initially, Schultz might really have wanted to hear what I had to say.
That’s obviously not the case anymore. Loudon must have gotten in first and cut some kind of deal with Schultz and the metroplex government. Maybe Lone Star offered to reduce its rates in return for Schultz keeping the lid on the nasty drek that was going down. Or maybe the governor realized the simple truth that threatening to axe the Star’s contract with the plex wasn’t a viable club to use against Loudon. Cut the contract, and who would police the city? There’s no other corporation out there capable of taking the contract, not immediately, and the Metroplex Guard certainly can’t handle it on their own.
Whatever the specifics, the fix is obviously in. Loudon and Schultz have come to some agreement they could both live with, and anything I might say would now be an embarrassment to both sides. I’m sure Schultz’s failure to show isn’t because of some “exigency” but a way for her to cover her own hoop. If I do decide to make public what I know, Schultz can claim ignorance of anything the “deranged undercover operative” might babble. Yeah, it all makes perfect sense.
It should frag me up to realize this, it should trigger the rage in my gut. But there’s nothing there in my gut anymore—nothing. I’m empty. I feel hollow, like a cold wind’s blowing around inside. Too much has happened, too fast. Maybe I’ve dissociated. Maybe it’ll all come back at some point in the future, a huge fragging tidal wave of emotion that will turn me into a raging mucker, I don’t know. But at the moment I can’t feel anything.
And the absence of emotion gives me a clarity of thought I don’t think I’ve ever experienced before. Which is why I turn to Loudon and say calmly, “What’s it going to be, then?”
He’s nowhere near as smooth as Baker. He blinks, and it takes him a second or two to find his voice. “What do you mean, Lieutenant Larson?”
“What's it going to be?” I repeat simply. “A citation for performance above and beyond the call of day? A commendation? A promotion, maybe? All on the understanding that I’m going to keep quiet about what I know?”
You don’t make it to the top of Lone Star Seattle by being stupid. Loudon is back in control by the time I’m finished. “A citation has been discussed, yes,” he tells me calmly. “As to the rest . . . What exactly do you know? Mr. Schrage is dead, so his motivations are dead too.”
Yeah, this is all playing out according to the script. “And what about Drummond?” I ask. “And Layton? And McMartin? Shot while trying to escape?”
Loudon's totally unfazed by the fact that I’ve just accused him of murder, which tells me how deeply all this drek is really buried. “A tragic car accident, Lieutenant Larson,” he corrects mildly. “These things do happen, you know.”
I know, all right. Everything’s wrapped up in this little morality-play package for the news media, should it ever become necessary to discuss it at all. Like, if I decide to shoot my mouth off. It’s got the formula-story structure of your typical corp-sponsored trid drama. Several corporators stray from the true path and get into shady dealings with “unsavory elements” of society—in this case, an “evil corp” from the Tir and the Cutters gang—which lead them ever further from the path of righteousness. The corporation starts to investigate infractions in procedure, and the wise chief executive—let’s cast Nicky Sato as Loudon, why the frag not?—senses that some trusted members of the flock have gone bad. The investigation puts pressure on the malefactors—who are, as everyone knows, basically unstable, irrational, and dangerous, as befits their attempts to jack with the status quo. Pressure leads to mistakes and to backbiting and infighting. One faction within the bad guys attacks another, killing one of the central figures. The others panic, pile into their waiting getaway car and head for the hills. In their flight from the forces of light and righteousness, they lose control of the car, wrap it around a lamppost at two hundred klicks, and that’s it—fade to null and roll credits. Like I said, perfect plot structure. I wouldn’t be surprised to see NBS running something like it during the next sweeps week.
Loudon’s still looking at me. His expression is mild, but his gaze is hard as steel. “Yeah,” I mutter. “These things do happen.”
Loudon relaxes visibly. “The past is gone,” he says, “and we’ve got the future to be concerned with. As to your career path, Larson—you were right, a citation is in order for your work in breaking the Cutters gang.” He pauses significantly. So that’s the way it’s going to read in my jacket, and he wants confirmation that I’m going to play along. “And of course a promotion,” he goes on magnanimously, “with concomitant rise in pay. Plus your pick of your next assignment. I think that’s only reasonable in return for the stellar police work you’ve performed.” He glances at Baker, and the flak nods in confirmation—a strange show of good-cop-good-cop. “What do you say to that, Larson?” he asks.
What do I say to that? What can I say? This is life in the corporate sector, I know that now. Right and wrong aren’t the issue—it’s deniability and culpability that matter. Lynne Telestrian thought that Schrage was operating without his superiors’ knowledge or consent, but now I can see that things would have played out pretty much the same whether or not they knew. The moment the scam broke open, the Star’s executives—Loudon in the lead—only had to point at the perpetrators, all now conveniently dead, and howl in shocked outrage. Any shadowsnoop interested enough to dig for documentary evidence will find plenty—all manufactured, all bullet-proof, and all pointing to the “fact” that Schrage and the rest were working entirely on their own against the greater good of the corp and of the populace at large. End of story. Justice? Null program, priyatel. Expediency is all.
There’s only one thing I can say and still be true to the beliefs that led me int
o Lone Star in the first place. The beliefs that lead you to do certain things just because they should be done. The beliefs I haven’t found anywhere recently except in the shadowrunner Argent. “Frag you,” I say quietly. “Frag you both.”
I don’t wait for their reaction. I just turn on my heel and walk out of the office, out through the waiting room and into the elevator. I half-expect someone to follow me, to stop me from leaving. But they leave me alone, again creating around me the invisible wall. The elevator takes me down to the lobby and out onto the street, and I’m feeling so empty, my last words to Loudon still echoing around in my gut.
What do I do now? Where do I turn? I'll think about that later.
The barriers and the Electraglides and the spectators are gone. A cold breeze chills the back of my neck, and out over Elliot Bay the rain is beginning to fall. Overhead, the leading edge of a black storm cloud covers the sun as I move into the shadows of early evening.
Copyright
ROC
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