by Anthology
The rain thundered down, as loud on the roof and sidewalks as hail and so thick that George White couldn't see the other side of Western Avenue through the ballistic glass panel in his door. He sighed, and wondered whether he should close early: Seattlites were accustomed to rain, of course, but he couldn't imagine anybody venturing out in weather like this to buy army surplus camping gear, or anything else he sold. He yawned, then started channel-hopping on the sports networks in the hope of finding either a good urban brawl game or a swimsuit special, until the door opened and someone hurried in. White looked up, his fat face bland as usual, and glanced at the customer. Unsurprisingly, he was wearing a long raincoat with a waterproof hood that hid most of his face.
A chiphead, thought White, or some other addict, with something to fence. And if he's desperate enough to come out in this weather, he really needs the nuyen fast. "Help you?" he asked cheerfully.
"I hope so," said the man, looking around the shop while he fiddled with the drawstring on his hood. "You sell guns and ammo, right?"
"I sell them, yes," said White warily as he grabbed the taser he kept under the counter. "If you have the right ID."
The man walked towards him. "I need some special stuff," he said quietly. "Mil-spec, hard to get. I heard you might have what I'm after. Didn't you used to be a supply sergeant?"
"Yeah, in the reserves. Do I know you from there? I'm not that good with faces." He looked the man up and down, re-assessing him. He seemed watchful, but not nervous, like someone who was used to guard duty. And he had weird parallel scars just above the top of his collar, as though he'd been clawed by something very nasty. No, not scars, White realized: rents. Open wounds, except that they weren't bleeding.
"No, it was just something I heard around the… traps."
White nodded slightly. "What do you want?"
"Caseless ammo for an M24A3 carbine. 6mm Gyrojet Plus. Any sort of missile launcher that works underwater. And other stuff-ration bars, inflatable boat, that sort of thing."
The merchant blinked. He had a long-standing policy of never asking a client why he wanted a particular item, but something about the man made him uneasy. "Going fishing?" he asked, his voice dry.
"You can't be too careful nowadays," came the reply. "Sea leeches, sea drakes, saltwater serpents, unicorn fish, torpedo sharks, kraken… it pays to be prepared."
The merchant relaxed. "I have a Spike in stock, heat-seeker, dual-purpose high explosive warhead, reduced backblast. I can get others, if you need more, but it'll take a few days. Same with the caseless. The gyrojet… sorry. I've never had one in here."
The man smiled. "Wrong," he said, pulling a revolver out of his coat before White could react. White barely had time to recognize the gun as a Taurus Multi-6 before the man shot him through the eye. • • •
Professor Magnusson stifled a yawn as he read through another freshman paper on magical theory. This one was a comparison of Paracelsus's description of undina in the Philosophia magna and Guazzo's classification of female water demons from the Compendium Maleficarum with the studies of water elementals and sea spirits by 21st century magicians. The writer, a pre-law student, had not the faintest spark of magical ability, but Magnusson suspected that if he didn't learn to summarize more concisely, he would be able to send judges and juries to sleep as effectively as if he'd used a stunball.
He was wondering how to put this politely-or at least, politely enough that he wouldn't be sued-when he heard a knock on the door. "It's open," he said, not at all unhappy at the interruption. He smiled, and closed the computer file as he saw Kenda Reyes walk in. Though her black hair, dark eyes and bronzed complexion revealed her Sioux ancestry, her presence always seemed to brighten any room. Maybe it was her powerful aura leaking through into the normal visual spectrum-or maybe, he admitted to himself, it's just my imagination. No matter. "Hi," he said, leaning back in his chair.
"Hi," she replied, less cheerfully.
"Problems?"
"I was wondering if you had any news on my funding application."
Magnusson's smile faded slightly. "I'm afraid not, but unofficially, I don't think they're going to grant you another extension. The dean says the faculty simply doesn't have the money."
"We don't need much."
"There are also other people who want to use the submarine. But I think the real problem is the liability. Some of the creatures you're looking at can be dangerous, and if anything goes wrong, it's not going to be easy getting someone out there to help you."
"Or cheap."
"True," he admitted. "Are you still trying for corporate sponsorship?"
Reyes shook her head. "Gaeatronics are the only ones who've shown any interest, and they have a backlog of applications. It could take years. If we can't survey the islands all year round, how are we going to find out about migratory species that visit them?"
Her professor shrugged. He hated to disappoint Reyes, a Sea totem shaman of considerable talent-but he also knew that the paranormal ecology of the San Juan Islands, her current obsession, wasn't considered a particularly high priority by either the School of Magic or the College of Ocean and Fishery Sciences. It didn't help that their respective deans loathed each other, and had pet research projects of their own. "Paul's out there now, isn't he?"
"Yes, on Battleship Island. We can do without the sub if we have to, but we'd still need money for food."
"I'll do what I can. Unfortunately, they don't allow influence or truth spells at faculty meetings."
Reyes smiled. "Thanks. I'll call Paul and let him know." • • •
Marcus Shawn looked down at the body behind the counter, hoping to assense some clue that would lead back to the fence's murder. "George White, also known as Picket," intoned the homicide detective. "Small time fence, bought and sold a lot of guns. No great loss: he screwed up a lot of cases for us."
"How?" Shawn asked her, without much interest.
"One gun he bought and sold was used in three murders by three different owners. You can imagine how hard that made getting a conviction for any of them. And, of course, even when we persuaded Picket that it was in his interest to talk, his recordkeeping wasn't what you'd call helpful."
Shawn, one of Knight Errant's most gifted forensic mages, looked around the store. "So not much chance of telling what's been taken?"
"Fuck-all, I think," said the detective. "He probably hasn't done a stocktake since he bought the place, and if there is an inventory on his system, it's going to be cased in enough ice to sink the Titanic. Same with anything from the security cameras. We'll let the hackers have a go at it, but I don't see it as a high priority. Any idea of the time of death?"
"There's no aura, and rigor has well and truly set in, so at least twelve hours. No insect activity, though, so it probably happened after sunset. It looks as though the shop was still open when it happened, so probably before eleven last night…" He opened his case and removed a rectal thermometer. "I can give you a better estimate in a minute, but I won't know for sure until we get him back to the lab."
"It started pissing down sometime after four," she reminded him, "and didn't let up much until sunrise. Visibility less than a meter. If it happened after that, I don't think we can expect much help from witnesses. Not unless they could breathe water." • • •
Magnusson, clad in an old bathrobe, walked into his combined kitchen and alchemy lab and did a double-take when he saw an attractive leather-clad woman and bald black dwarf sitting at the breakfast bar. Mute smiled slightly at his expression. "Sorry," she said. "I knocked, but no one answered, so I let myself in."
The mage bit back a testy reply: Mute, he knew well, was an expert at not making any noise, and at getting into places that were supposed to be off-limits. "What's up?" he asked.
"We have a job," said the dwarf, "and we'd like some magical back-up."
Magnusson sighed as he filled the kettle. "I'm flattered, but I haven't been on a shadowrun in years-decades, even. Get some
one younger." He glanced at Mute. "Where's that leopard shaman girlfriend of yours?"
"Denver. And she's not as good as you-well, not at this kind of thing."
"What kind of thing? Do you want tea? Coffee?"
"Coffee, thanks," said 8-Ball. "The job's… well, it's sort of an extraction, except that we have to find him first, which is why I thought you could help. Problem is, he's cybered to the max and possibly beyond, and he's very good at hiding. One of the top scorers in Survival, Evasion, Resistance and Escape training."
Magnusson leaned back against the kitchen counter. "Who is he?"
"His name is Lucas Fletcher, but his friends call him Thresher," 8-Ball answered. "He's a former Navy SEAL who volunteered to test out new Saeder-Krupp military-grade biotech and cyberware, something called Project Ultramarine. Among other things, they gave him gills, more durable than the old OXSYS implants, and cyberlegs with waterjet engines in the shins."
The professor closed his eyes. "What else?"
"Some new form of specially streamlined orthoskin. Enhanced senses, to cope with the underwater environment-sonar, thermographic vision, that sort of thing. Retractable fins. And a lot of other military grade implants-wired reflexes, adrenaline pump, digestive expansion, synthacardium, muscle mods, boosters, compensators, and possibly some headware as well. Zurich knows more about it than I do, and he's trying to see what else he can dig up."
"What went wrong?"
"What?"
"Why is Fletcher hiding?"
"He killed his wife and his lieutenant, then ran," said the dwarf. "NCIS isn't being all that helpful when it comes to details, but they've confirmed that both victims were found in the bedroom of Fletcher's house. It looks as though the wife and the lieutenant were having an affair, and the lieutenant may even have tricked Fletcher into 'volunteering' for Ultramarine just to get him out of the way for a while. Whether that's true or not, it's pretty clear that it was Fletcher who shot them: their forensics matched the rifling marks to a Multi-6 he owned. The gun safe is empty, and that had a print scanner maglock. Then he disappeared.
"They found his car in the parking lot in Gig Harbor, and they think he stole a boat there, an old Aztech Nightrunner. Disabled the RFIDs, of course, and it hasn't turned up yet.
"The navy wants him back, even though they think he's gone rogue, and so does SK, but he's been missing for nearly a week now and word has gotten out. SK is offering a reward: sixty thou, half in nuyen, half in shares. Are you in?"
"Probably not," Magnusson replied. "Why can't they track him down through his implants? Aren't they online?"
Mute and 8-Ball glanced at each other, and the dwarf grimaced. "All his cyberware has a stealth mode-an override that prevents anyone hacking into any of it and taking control, or even locating it. The Navy won't tell us anything more'n that, neither will SK, but Zurich's heard that he can take himself offline any time he's conscious. That way, no one can find him or send him false data when he's doing anything covert…but if he's wounded and blacks out, the override switches off, and the Navy can find him and bring him back in."
"What if he's asleep?"
"I'm not sure… but if he sleeps somewhere which is well enough insulated, he should be okay. Like in a Faraday cage."
"Or underwater," added Mute.
"And?" asked Magnusson, sensing that there was still more they weren't telling him.
8-Ball hesitated. "The Navy thinks the implants have made him paranoid and given him a hair trigger-a worse one than he had before. And the same Multi-6 he used to kill his wife was used to kill Picket, night before last."
"Picket?"
"The fence," explained Mute. "George White, Western War Surplus. Bought and sold a lot of guns, and other gear. You never dealt with him?"
"No," said the magician, coldly. "I never needed money that badly. Or guns. And I still don't. So unless you can give me a better reason than that, count me out."
"Oh, come on, Maggie," said 8-Ball, lightly. "It's never been just about the nuyen. It'll be fun."
"I helped defend the Crypt because of my oath to the coven," said Magnusson, "and I'd do it again, if necessary. But I won't do wetwork; I'm not a hired assassin." The kettle boiled, and switched itself off. He grabbed three mugs from hooks above the stove, slammed them down on the counter. "Besides, the Navy will be looking for him, so will SK, and Knight Errant… and from the sound of it, so will other shadowrunners. And the first two of those will have material links for him, even if the others don't, and wagemages, and other resources. So what makes you think you can get there first?"
"He's already managed to evade them for five days," Mute replied. "I don't know enough about magic to know exactly how, but as Ball said, he's trained in SERE-and nowadays, that includes evading an astral search as well as an electronic or visual one."
"And he trained alongside at least some of the people who'll be looking for him," said the dwarf, nodding. "He'll be expecting the Navy, and probably the SKs, and maybe even Lone Star… but he won't be expecting us.
"The Navy seems to think he's hiding somewhere away from people, either in the water or close to it-somewhere with enough life to mask his aura.. Saeder-Krupp think he's left the UCAS completely, maybe with the help of some of his old shipmates, which is why they've called in runners. If he did leave, though, he must've stowed away or paid a people smuggler, because he's too easily recognized to have caught a passenger flight. And if he's still in town, well, we know the hiding places here better than anyone in SK or the Navy. But it'd speed things up if someone could summon up a few smart watcher spirits…besides, the Knight Errant forensic mage who's working the case is a former student of yours. Marcus Shawn."
The magician handed Mute her mug of tea, and spooned sugar into his own. "What makes you think Marcus is going to tell me anything that isn't on the record?"
"Because he wants to find Picket's killer," said Mute quietly. "And he knows you can help."
Magnusson sipped at his tea. "Okay," he said. "I'll call him. But that's all. I'm not going to kill, or run a greater than usual risk of being killed, just for money. I have too much other work to do." • • •
The forensic report from Marcus Shawn arrived in Magnusson's commlink's inbox while he was teaching his three o'clock class in basic conjuring. He glanced at it when he returned to his office before forwarding it to Mute and diving into a thesis on the role of different industrial pollutants on the formation of toxic water spirits. He was staring at a table of statistics when Reyes knocked on his door, but his pleasure at being interrupted was short-lived. "What's wrong?"
"I can't reach Paul. He's not answered his commlink all morning. Have you heard from him?"
"No. Could he have forgotten to recharge the battery?" asked Magnusson, who knew all too well how academics could lose track of time when obsessed with their research.
"Maybe. But I sent a watcher out to the island to find him. It couldn't."
"Isn't he in a hide?"
"Yes, but the watcher knows where it is. He said he wasn't there. He might be out in the field, but he should have taken his comm with him."
"The islands are far enough away that a watcher wouldn't have much time to do a search if he wasn't in the hide," the professor pointed out. "Especially if he was looking on one of the other islands. Or he might be in the sub."
"Possibly," she said, uncertainly. "I'll keep trying. Thanks."
It was raining again when Jimmy Kaminsky returned to his tiny apartment after the end of his shift. The sunlight had been almost completely blotted out by storm clouds, and when he switched on the low-watt light and saw the dark-skinned woman sitting on his sofa-bed, his first thought was that he was hallucinating in his eagerness to get to his porn collection. An instant later, he recognized her, and his spirits deflated like a bullet-riddled airship. "What the hell are you doing here?" he asked, wishing he hadn't shut the door behind him.
Mute glanced around the room, and her nose wrinkled. "Just visiting,
fortunately. I need some information."
"Blow me."
She brought her hand out from behind a cushion and pointed a slivergun at his chest. "Would you care to rephrase that?"
Kaminksy closed his eyes. "I don't know anything."
"George White, also known as Picket. Murdered in his shop, Western War Surplus, on Monday night."
"You don't think I had anything to do with that, do you? I hardly knew the guy!"
"How did you know him? Through the Moon Traps?"
The survivalist hesitated, then nodded. "He came along to meetings sometimes. He sold us stuff cheap, that's all."
"What sort of stuff?"
"Survival gear. MREs, camo, weapons, stuff for our shelters…"
"Did he have a shelter of his own?"
"Apart from his shop? I don't think so."
"Did he know about anyone else's?"
Kaminsky bit his lip. "You think we published a guidebook or something? He might have known about a few, though we were only supposed to know the exact locations of three, in case one of us was captured and talked."
Mute managed not to smile. "What about Lucas Fletcher?"
"Doesn't ring any bells," said Kaminsky, uneasily.
"Think. He's a Navy Seal, if that helps." She reached into her pocket and drew out a photographic print of Fletcher pre-surgery, which she threw like a shuriken. Kaminsky ducked, then cautiously bent down to pick it up.
"Nope," he said, after a moment's thought. "But we weren't the only ones who did business with Picket. He had friends in the military, too-that's how he got a lot of his stuff."
"Would they have known he was in the club?"
"Dunno. Maybe. Why?"
"Knight Errant thinks he killed Picket. He may have taken some stuff from the shop-ammo, weapons, survival gear-but they don't know how much. Did Picket have anything of value there?"