SHADOWRUN: Spells and Chrome (shadowrun)

by Anthology

  Bypassing the failsafes, Kaine popped his wires into full overload. The burn that raged through his nerve endings was agonizing, and he smelled the sizzle of flesh as the wires went into meltdown. Kaine launched himself from behind the van. The troll was ready, and Kaine watched as in slow motion the huge metahuman squeezed the trigger on the minigun. The bullets streamed toward him like a glittering ribbon of mercury.

  Kaine brought up the Deputy. At this speed, even his smartlink wasn't keeping up. He ignored it and lined up the shot along the gun's iron sights. He pulled the trigger, and the big pistol bucked in his hand. The cybernetic muscles in his arm locked down and compensated for the recoil. The stream of lead from the minigun sliced through his shoulder. Pain dampers shut down all sensation, and Kaine squinted through the mist of blood that sprayed off the wound.

  Kaine squeezed again. A second silver bullet roared out of the pistol, riding the wake of the first.

  Without warning, Kaine's AR went solid red, and the world exploded back into real time. He slammed into the ground on the stump of his left arm and skidded across the pavement. A shower of mortar and concrete rained down on him. Through the dust, he caught sight of the troll reeling backwards, still clutching the minigun's trigger and spraying the building behind them with bullets as he tumbled over like an oak tree in a windstorm.

  As the troll's lifeless body slammed into the ground, the minigun finally stopped screaming. Kaine rested on the ground for a second, catching his breath and listening to the slowing whine as the minigun barrels came to a stop. He clicked on his comm, one of the only systems he had that was still functioning.

  "ALL AROUND US…"

  "…get back to the…"

  "…GEEAAAAH…"

  "…Hilda won't come with us…"

  "Run! Run!"

  Kaine let his head drop to the concrete. He couldn't let it end like this.

  He struggled to get to his feet but slipped in something warm and wet and fell back to the ground. His head spun and black spots were forming before his eyes. Looking down, he saw a pool of blood under him. At first he thought it was from one of the gangers he'd taken out, or maybe the troll. As an afterthought he looked at his own body.

  A jagged saw line cut from his shoulder down a few inches into his chest.

  "Fuck," he gasped, and collapsed. • • •

  Kaine was surprised when he woke up, more by the fact that he woke up at all than the events going on around him. Not that what he woke up to wasn't surprising. He was still lying on the street it seemed, soaked in blood, but he felt a strange sense of calm. It took him a minute to realize that it wasn't a natural calm but rather the result of a shit load of drugs pouring through his system.

  Looking around he saw two medics in white coveralls leaning over him, wielding strange instruments and shouting things like "lung is collapsed" and "I need blood over here, now." Kaine tried to sit up, but one of the medics pushed him gently back.

  "It's alright, sir. We're from DocWagon. You're going to be O.K."

  DocWagon? he thought. Then he remembered the DocWagon contract he signed up for all those years ago. He smiled, remembering when Spindle told him he should pay better attention to his bank accounts. Apparently he'd still been paying for the damn service all this time.

  The scent of antiseptic was heavy in the air, but there was another, stronger odor; the chemical stench of a burning building. He turned his head and spotted his apartment building between the gangers' ruined cars. It was wrapped in flames, and black smoke billowed into the night sky.

  Off to the side, he spotted a small knot of people gathered, watching. There was Elise, and the young couple from 4C, the big trucker, and a few other folks he'd never really gotten to know. And Darius.

  Shadowpanther, he thought and smiled.

  Maybe it was the drugs, but the strangest thing struck him. As he looked at them, he didn't see looks of defeat on their faces. It wasn't even pain, or loss.

  It was pride.

  The sort of pride a person feels when they aren't anyone's slave. When they no longer have to bend over and take it from any asshole that wants to keep them down.

  The sort of pride that keeps a person human.

  Darius still punched at the air in front of him. Suddenly Kaine heard a screech, and an avatar that looked like a panther-man version of Darius popped up in the air in front of him.

  "Found you," Shadowpanther said, grinning like a kid who just beat his dad at Virtuaball for the first time.

  "Nice work, kid," Kaine whispered, smiling back at him.

  "We just wanted to say thank you, Kaine. From all of us."

  "No, kid," Kaine whispered. "Thank you."

  "He's delirious," one of the medics shouted. "Vitals are weak-let's get him on the chopper."

  "Good-bye, Kaine," Shadowpanther said, and faded away.

  "See ya kid."

  The DocWagon med techs lifted Kaine onto a stretcher, and a moment later they wheeled him into the stark white interior of some sort of medevac chopper. As the chopper lifted off, and one of the med techs slid the side door shut, Kaine caught one last glimpse of the inferno that used to be his home.

  And he could just make out a small group of silhouettes, standing tall before the flames. Snake in the City By Jennifer Harding

  Jennifer Harding has contributed to many of the SR4 sourcebooks, including her favorite sourcebook so far, Feral Cities (featuring Lagos). She has a degree in Creative Writing from Linfield College. A long time fan, she began shadowrunning in 1995 and still manages to fit in a weekly game-although these days, her gaming group all have mortgages, careers, and children who occasionally eat her lucky D6.

  "I said no," Mamba said to the four orks surrounding her, each radiating swaggering machismo. The Igbo gangers ruled the streets of Lagos, but she'd already paid out all the naira she had buying information. She had nothing left for the gangers' bribe-at least, nothing she was willing to barter with. Stupid, stupid, stupid.

  Two of the orks moved to flank her, kicking her instincts into high gear. She didn't like feeling crowded. She didn't like loud, ham-fisted men. And she really didn't like being seen as helpless.

  "No naira, no problem," said the biggest ork, the one Mamba already had pegged as the head of the group. "We make other deal, eh, boys?" The other three laughed. The street was crowded, but the people, always wary of the gangers, had left a clear space around the four burly orks and the one petite woman. Mamba coldly figured the odds; they had AK-97s, but they weren't bringing them up. Either they were confident they had their prey outgunned and intimidated, or they hoped not to kill her before they'd had their fun. They had the advantage in reach and muscle mass, but she had invested a lot in bioware; what she lacked in size, she made up for in quickness and agility-not to mention her forearm blades. If they continued to press her, she'd show them just how stupid-

  The Igbo to her left reached out one huge hand and slapped her on the ass. In an instant, her cold calculation disappeared. Mamba didn't even blink as she sprung for the leader. She punched him in the throat with a fist made stronger than any normal human's, the dense bones of her hand crushing his windpipe before any of the four could react. He dropped his AK-97 to reach for his throat; already dead, but too stupid to realize it. Mamba spun and dropped, kicking out to shatter the knee of the ganger to her left. As she completed the movement, she tensed her forearms in a carefully-trained reflex, flicking out her forearm blades, and swiping out both arms to slice the third ganger, who was finally bringing his AK up. One cut went directly through his wrist, his hand flying off, still holding the assault rifle, blood spraying the air in a steaming arc. The other cut sliced him open across his gut, intestines spilling out into the filthy, red dirt of the road.

  With a howl, the fourth ganger fired, forcing Mamba to dodge, augmented reflexes screaming into overdrive as she dove between his legs and leapt back to her feet. As he spun to track her, his gun sprayed bullets on the crowded street and screams eru
pted as men and women dropped. The ganger was still roaring, and Mamba stabbed at him. The ork was quick and her strike missed his vitals, but the blade sliced through his hand-taking a few fingers with it-and locked behind the trigger, forcing the gun to go silent. With one of her hands trapped, the ork gave a feral grin, and he pulled out a large machete with his left hand, arcing it towards her.

  Parrying the machete with her own slim, left-handed blade, Black Mamba's 'link buzzed an incoming call. She didn't answer, but it didn't matter; her 'link opened the connection anyway.

  "Mamba, you're late," a women's voice said into her ear.

  The ork swung at her again, making her arch into a back-bend to avoid him, dragging the gun they both stubbornly held onto down to put him off balance. Two more Igbo ran through the crowd, AKs ready. They couldn't fire at her without risking hitting the other ganger, so they slung back their guns and pulled out wicked-looking knives. Damn Igbo. They were like vermin out here, coming out of the woodwork.

  "Mamba, did you hear me?" the woman continued.

  "Shit, Pharisee, kinda busy here," Mamba sent through her 'link, panting, dancing over a dead ork. While the other two entered the fray, the ork she was entangled with came at her again. She retracted the forearm blade stuck in his AK and sidestepped his latest attack. He half-fell, unbalanced by her action, and she used the distraction to face the new orks, parrying with her remaining blade as one struck at her. The other ork swung at her, and she dropped back, barely avoiding having her guts spilled into the filthy street. Her right forearm blade flicked out again and she brought it up.

  "What's going on? Damn it, why'd you take off your AR glasses?" Pharisee demanded. "I knew I should have gotten you the AR contacts."

  Mamba parried another blow, using the man's own strike to slide her blades up his own and spear him through the hand. Blood welled up, and as she pulled out her blade with a wet, sucking sound, it began to fountain. She twisted around him and followed through by slicing his throat so deeply she almost cut his head off. His body toppled. The two gangers still standing looked at her, blood splattered, dual blades running red from their companions' blood. Mamba flicked them at the ground to get rid of the worst of the gore. At that, one ganger turned and ran through the screaming crowds. After a second's hesitation, the other followed. Mamba stood, gasping, the acrid Lagos air burning her throat and bringing tears to her eyes. She hated this city sometimes. She stepped over the bodies and to the man who'd dared to touch her. He was holding his shattered leg, white bone showing through the ripped black flesh and flowing red blood. He whimpered as he looked up at her.

  "I said no," she said, then slit his throat.

  She took a second to look around. People were screaming; some, no doubt, injured or killed by the Igbo's indiscriminant aim.

  "Mamba," Pharisee shouted into her ear. "What the hell are you doing?"

  "Sorry, Pharisee," Mamba panted, suddenly breathless. "Ran out of money. Be right there." She quickly flipped through the dead ork's pockets, sparing just a second to grab a handful of naira tokens. The crowd around her was still in chaos, wounded people still screaming, not realizing the danger had passed. Mamba slipped into the crowd and began running.

  The slums of Lagos were crowded with pedestrians, dark faces showing the stamp of a dozen different tribes, most dressed in colorful fabrics, men peddling their wares in the crowd, women clustered together for safety. Modified motorbikes wove through the people, while dozens of cars crept along, children and grown men alike attempting to sell the passengers anything from bags of water to electronics. Hemming everything in, squat cinderblock buildings stood two stories over the dirt streets, covered with a grimy coating of red dust from the harsh December winds that plagued the city. Everything stunk of rot, garbage, and the acrid smoke belched out from the factories.

  The hovel she'd secured was just a few streets over. Frustrated with the crowded streets, Mamba cut through tight alleys, balancing on narrow boards that lay over the thick muck of the alleys. Part swamp mud, part garbage, and part human waste, the stench from the black muck was overpowering. Mamba had left her breather with Pharisee, not wanting to look too much like an oyibos, a foreigner. Unfortunately, the disguise she'd taken for this job had been enough to peg her as one anyway, and a target for every opportunistic ganger on the streets. Her normal ebony skin wouldn't have drawn attention, but the exotic Native American face and chestnut-colored skin of her stolen identity stuck out in the Lagosian slums.

  "Pharisee, you better be packed and ready," Mamba said into her 'link.

  "What have you done now?" the technomancer asked.

  "Cut down a few Igbo," Mamba sent as she worked on managing her breathing. Even her bioware enhanced muscles needed clean air to function properly. A tracheal filter would be useful, if I ever manage to salvage my rep from this fucked-up job.

  The guards at the front of the squat "hotel" looked at her askance, but she brushed past them without a word. No doubt, the Igbo would start looking for the oyibos woman who'd hurt their gangers. The way the Area Boy gang had their network of informants, it wouldn't take long. She had to get Pharisee and move out… fast.

  "We're leaving," Mamba announced, when she got to Pharisee's room. "I just need to change."

  The Egyptian woman looked over at Mamba, then shook her head.

  "I thought you were going shopping," she said, but Mamba had already brushed past her, into her own tiny room. Calculating the time, she stripped out of the bloody clothing, then used a ratty cloth and lukewarm water from a bottle to wipe away the blood on her face and hands. With more care, she cleaned her forearm blades. Luckily, Mamba had a few more outfits in the luggage she'd stolen, despite her general distaste for the clothing. Armor would've been nice, but not with the ID she'd stolen. God, she hated playing this part.

  Once she was mostly clean and dressed, Mamba felt the wave of nausea coming. Sweating, she fought it down. A flashback hit her; a crowd of men, the smell of sun-baked clay, the pain of her cheek shattering under a huge fist. Mamba closed her eyes, forced herself to visualize the four Igbo today, bleeding, dead, helpless. Forced the flashback away with the image of today's fight, the feeling of their blood spilling over her hands. I'm not helpless anymore.

  "Mamba?" Pharisee was standing in the doorway, a backpack slung over one shoulder, her fingers gripping the blue hand amulet at her throat. "You okay?"

  Mamba took a deep gulp of air, felt it scour her throat. "Yeah." • • •

  The trip to Lagos Island involved getting an okada, one of the narrow, modified motorbikes common to the feral city. Mamba dealt with this with cool practicality; she stole one, leaving the driver lying in the street with a broken nose. Pharisee sat behind her, arms clenched around Mamba's waist, eyes closed as she skillfully wove through the thick traffic, cutting through pedestrians and zipping down the narrow, stinking alleys when the vehicle traffic grew too slow for her taste.

  "Our employer wants to talk to you," Pharisee said after Mamba had come to a stop on the Eko bridge. The Eko was one of two ways onto the secured enclave of Lagos Island, and even the modified motorbikes couldn't get through the packed traffic clogging it. The heavily guarded gates on the island side of the bridge were clogged by the jam of Lagosians who wanted on the island enclave. "He's been calling for the last hour."

  Mamba jerked her head. "You talk to him." She'd replaced her AR glasses and breather, part of her oyibos disguise that would prove valuable on the island enclave. For once, the damn disguise would come in useful: as a foreigner, she'd be able to get past the guards with few questions. Unfortunately, the Eko bridge was a heavy spam site. Clusters of garish ads-everything from bridgeside vendors selling palm wine to whores advertising their services-cluttering her view.

  Pharisee made a rude noise. "What am I supposed to tell him?"

  "Tell him the job's screwed six ways to hell, that asshole Nubian stole the artifacts, and there's no fucking way we can rob Lekan's mansion with just the
two of us. And I want my face back."

  Mamba heard Pharisee swear in Arabic, then suddenly a connection was opened in Mamba's AR view, the Johnson's very annoyed icon staring at her in the AR window. Behind the translucent man, Mamba saw the packed bridge and the crowds of Lagosians. Pharisee had done some techno thing to get all the spam to drop out of sight.

  "Damn it, Pharisee," Mamba muttered, as the AR image sprung to life in her view. "Stop hacking my 'link."

  "Buy a better firewall," Pharisee replied. Mamba snorted. "Sweet goddess, was that a laugh?" Pharisee asked.

  "Black Mamba," Mr. Johnson's icon said. "I've been waiting for your report."

  "Well, fu-" Mamba felt Pharisee jab her in the ribs. She cleared her throat. "We've continued onto Lagos to finish the job, sir. I should have more to report later."

  "And the artifacts? My gift to the Yoruba king, to gain me admittance to his auction next month? You have them?"

  "Ah," Mamba stared straight through the translucent icon, to the gleaming highrises of Lagos Island. The land of promise for much of West Africa. "Unfortunately, we lost the trail on the artifacts. We're exploring other options."

  "In other words, after you'd stolen them, someone else knocked you out, took the artifacts, and left you high-and-dry in the middle of the desert," Pharisee interjected. "You want to tell him how I came to the rescue when those Apep goons realized you weren't Dr. Madeira?"

  Mamba gritted her teeth.

  "Black Mamba, your reputation is excellent. I'd hate to find my trust in your abilities unwarranted," Mr. Johnson replied. The warning was clear. In the shadows, you lived and died by your reputation.

  "Understood," Mamba replied. Mr. Johnson cut the connection. Mamba's AR view was once again flooded with spam.

  As they moved slowly through the traffic, Pharisee asked, "So, do you have a plan? Or are we really screwed?"

  "Six ways to hell," Mamba muttered. • • •

  She left Pharisee at a tiny park on the exclusive Victoria Island. The Egyptian woman would be safe enough there. Polite and well-armed guards patrolled the island enclave, and anyone bothering an oyibos woman would find themselves facing a squad of security goons. No one would bother her as she did her techno thing and hacked into the mansion of the Yoruba "ambassador" to Lagos. The very foreignness which made the women so vulnerable in the feral slums of mainland Lagos was a magic charm here. Even the air was cleaner, the streets made of well maintained pavement, the buildings sparkling with thousands of reinforced-glass windows.