SHADOWRUN: Spells and Chrome (shadowrun)

by Anthology

  Somehow, the megalodon knew to slow at the bail-out tank, and she wondered if maybe it was simply attuned to her needs, or could there be something else…?

  She'd think about that later. First things first: She purged the regulator of the bail-out tank and simply breathed. Beneath her, supporting her, the megalodon moved in small, slow circles, waiting until she was ready, until there was need for its services.

  Oh Daniel… She fixed her eyes upon the light of the world above, and her resolve firmed.

  No. All this would not stand.

  Not if she had a say.

  VI

  Halfway around the world, an old man inhaled a sudden breath and came back to himself, and muttered a prayer: "Modim anah l'fanehcha, melech chai v'kahyam… I gratefully thank You, O Living and Eternal King, for You have returned my soul within me with compassion."

  "Rebbe?" An acolyte glided to his side. "Is Daniel…?"

  "Daniel's gone," the old man quailed. The projection left him weak and feeble as a baby. In the next few hours, he would be fed, bathed. He would sleep-but not before he gave one more order.

  "Find her," he whispered. "Find her." Better to Reign By Michael A. Stackpole

  Michael A. Stackpole is a New York Times-bestselling author, an award-winning novelist, editor, game designer, computer game designer, comics writer, an podcaster, and screenwriter. As always, he spends his spare time playing indoor soccer and now has a new hobby, podcasting, as well as working on ideas for a half-dozen other novels. To learn more about Mike's podcasting, please visit www.tsfpn.com (the website of The SciFi Podcast Network).

  They stared at me as their bikes came to a halt, furtively assessing what level of threat I might represent. Then, starting with one Ancient who quickly infected the rest of the bikers, they snickered, cackled, and roared at some hilarious private joke.

  I felt my cheeks flush with shame, though I fought for control. At first, I could not understand their scorn. Like them, I was an Elf and looked no different. Besides, I had gone to great pains to outfit myself appropriately. Silver chains dangled from my black leather jacket and razored spurs gleamed in the half-light on the toes of my boots. My fingerless gloves bristled with gleaming metal studs, and I'd even gone to the ridiculous length of affecting a purple and green mohawk hairstyle so I would fit in. Even the antique Harley I rode matched their chosen steeds of steel.

  As the group continued to clutch their sides and whoop out new peals of laughter every time one of them looked at me, the truth finally dawned. Everything about me was perfect-too perfect. In this noble gathering of Elves, my clothes were just too new. My studs and spurs showed no tarnish of blood residue and my fingernails lacked the telltale oily grit from working on a bike. These details and many more revealed my true nature.

  For these denizens of Seattle's Sprawl, the only thing funnier than an Elf up from the preserves of Tir Tairngire is an Elf from the wilds who attempts to disguise his origins. My precautions, my plans, had been worse than for naught, they had betrayed me.

  If my face was red before, it burned now with shame.

  One Elf, distinctive for the black flesh and pink scar slashed over a milky eye, approached and wiped his hands on my jacket. "Geez, chummer, real wiz rags, 'kay?" Like a court jester, the jackanapes turned to his compatriots and bellowed, "His Majesty has sent his Minister of Fashion to us, chummers. Show some respect."

  As the clown bent to drop his pants in derision, I twisted my wrist and raced the Harley's engine. Its bass roar exploded like gunshots off interior walls of this warehouse where the Ancients had gathered. The cycle's thunder shocked the Elf into a twisting leap backward. His pants slipped down around his knees, entangling his flailing limbs and bringing him down unceremoniously on his buttocks.

  My effort at bravado earned me a momentary respite as the Ancients turned their scorn against the fallen Elf, but it was more than transparent to several other Ancients. One of them, lean even for an Elf, sliced through the crowd. Though she was not as voluptuous as I tend to prefer, her aggressive bearing and spirit were seductive enough. Yellow light flashed like a beacon in her mechanical eyes, and highlights shot from her long, coppery hair. Her gaze raked over me once, then again, more slowly. "You jacked, chummer?"

  I shook my head.

  "Magicker?"

  I shrugged carelessly, hoping to give the impression of possessing more abilities than I, in fact, did have.

  She shrugged wearily, then smiled, flashing long canine implants. "So yer a fern-witch come to the Sprawl to run with the Ancients, eh? Why don't the High Lord just shoot you misfits instead of sending you to us to die?"

  I sensed the probe in her question, but I killed the smile it almost brought to my lips. Could it be they had been told I was on my way to Seattle, but not why I had been exiled? Did the High Lord think me so useless that he would consign my fate to hands such as these? If so, that would not be the first gross blunder he had made.

  Before I could answer, the roar of another bike approaching caught everyone's attention. The syncopating rhythm of the bike's engine must have been familiar, for it thundered new life into the lethargic gang. The jester scrambled to his feet, tugging his pants into place. Grins broke over the faces of the rest, and my last inquisitor bared her teeth.

  Blond hair flowing back from his shoulders, the leader of the Ancients pulled his bike alongside, slightly ahead of mine. He gave me a quick look, his corpse-white face showing no emotion, then killed his engine and parked the bike. Leaving his mirrored sunglasses in place despite the dimness, he swung off the Harley and stood there, stretching the muscles of his slender form like a cat rising from a sun-warmed nap.

  "In from the Tir, eh, chummer?" He planted his fists on his narrow hips. "By the gods, you're a sight. Got your lunch in that backpack?"

  "I was told that being armed would be a good idea if I wanted to survive here in the Sprawl."

  He pulled off his glasses and hung them from his handlebars by a cord. "I hope you're better acquainted with whatever you have in there than you are with your fancy clothes." He looked at me again, his black eyes searching and evaluating. "I'm Wasp, and I run the Ancients. We usually enjoy welcoming the High Lord's special pals, but that'll have to wait until later. Pearl, did you reach everyone?"

  The jester nodded solemnly. "Everyone's itching for a fight after sitting out the night of fire. Keno and Johnny Dark are pulling together the Eastsiders. They'll meet us at the border on Westlake."

  "Good." Wasp wandered across the floor to a billiards table. Pearl swept the balls into the pockets as Wasp drew a map from inside his vest, unfolding it and laying it out on the green felt. I killed my Harley's engine and followed, taking up a position at the far end of the table. Pearl stood at Wasp's right hand, and the female leaned on the table directly opposite the Ancients' leader.

  "Look, chummers, here's the score. we're going to consolidate our territory. We're going to take the streets from Dexter to Aurora, starting at Harrison and going on down to Denny."

  The whipcord samurai narrowed her Fujikon eyes. "That's Meat Junkie turf. They ain't gonna like that."

  "That. Sting, is their problem. We're looking at an all-out battle." Wasp looked up at his assembled soldiers. "Kid gloves are off, chummers."

  Sting still looked uneasy, and I sensed a tension between her and Wasp that ran deeper than a just disagreement over this little outing. I could not help but wonder if these two apparent rivals had once been lovers. "The kid gloves might be off, Wasp, but the Meat Junkies are tight with the Emerald Dogs. They can easily bring in more firepower than we can. Keno and Dark might be bringing in the Eastsiders, but will that be enough? Besides, the area you want covers Bob's Cartage and Freight, and we know the yakuza have designs on them…"

  Her voice trailed off as Wasp's nostrils flared. "The yaks ain't in on this play. The Dogs got tore up By Raven's people on the Night of Fire. Doing this is going to be good for us."

  "What about Raven?"


  "What about him?" Sting's eyes snapped open and shut like the shutter on a camera. "We offered to help him on the Night of Fire. Maybe he'd help us against the Meat Junkies."

  "He didn't want our help, and we don't want his. Besides, this isn't a gig Raven would buy into. It's just us."

  In Wasp's words and Sting's reaction to them, I sensed another point of contention between them. It looked as though Sting wanted to depose Wasp, and judging by Wasp's anger, the battle for succession would intensify relatively soon. More important, I also gained the impression that someone or some corp was yanking Wasp's chain and Sting did not like it.

  "Just us, huh? Just our blood, you mean." Sting spat on the ground. "Are they paying us by the pint this time? When are you going to learn that those corporators see pitting one gang against another gang as a real economical means of metahuman birth control!"

  The remark slashed him, but before Wasp could reply, I broke in. "I was never given to believe the Ancients danced to a corporator's tune."

  Wasp wheeled on me, giving full vent to his fury. "Who the hell cares what you believe? You're not even part of this gang, so you don't stand for shit, got it?"

  Sting stabbed a finger razor down through the map. "Well, I am a member of this gang, and I think this deal sucks. You better have a good plan for this 'consolidation,' Wasp, because I'm sick and tired of shedding blood so a new Stutter Shack can spring up on some new corner."

  "I do have a plan, Sting, one that should make even you happy." He pointed at the intersection of Republican and Dexter. "We link up here with the Eastsiders and just sweep down through the neighborhood. We take out pockets of resistance and move on. We just roll them up."

  Despite the nods of assent from the gathered Elves, Sting remained unconvinced. "And what happens after we clear one block and move on to the next? The Meat Junkies will pour back in and occupy our building from the rear. Stupid plan, Wasp."

  "You have a better one?"

  "Yeah. We start at the north end of Aurora and the Eastsiders start at Denny Way. We work toward the middle and squeeze the Meat Junkies out."

  Wasp shook his head. "Now that we've heard from the Custer Military Academy…"

  "Pig!" Sting's hand convulsed, shredding the map. "You know your plan leaves us open to an attack by the Emerald Dogs!"

  "The Emerald Dogs are not a factor!" Wasp bared his teeth in a feral snarl. "With our firepower," he growled as magical energy arced from left hand to right, "the Meat Junkies will die quick. This is not a protracted war, it's a lightning assault. In quick and force them out. Bang, done!"

  "That's what you said the last time we tangled with the Tigers, but your corporator's intelligence bit, and we got gnawed real good." She swept her hair back from the side of her face and I saw the ragged scar from her left eye to her pointed ear. "I remember that fuck-up every day. With this plan of yours, the only thing that's going to get done is the Ancients!"

  "That was different and you know it, Sting!"

  "Do I? Have the corpgeeks cut your puppet strings?"

  As Sting drew in a breath to continue her tirade, I sampled the gang's mood and knew my time had come. I coughed lightly and placed both hands palm-down on the table. "If you will forgive an uninitiated outsider making a suggestion…"

  Surprised by my action, Wasp and Sting both glared at me, then nodded their assent.

  "I would point out that caution against dividing your strength is well grounded when considering a battle, quick or long. On the other hand, having mobile flanking elements able to react to threats is also indisputably wise."

  "Thanks for the flash from the front," Wasp sneered, evoking new laughter from his compatriots. "Now that we've heard from the Moronic Majority…"

  "Wait!" The edge in my voice calmed the laughter, but not the tension that spawned it. "I have an idea. As you will recall Virgil admonishing the Romans, all that is necessary to win this conflict is to 'subdue the arrogant.'" I started to explain that with the sniper rifle in my pack, I could easily eliminate the leader of the Meat junkies with a single, through-and-through gunshot wound to the head. I knew that the Meat Junkies would be disorganized and powerless without a leader. They would be impotent until another strong leader arose among them, and that would be a painful process. Before I could unfold my plan, Wasp cut me off.

  "Dandelion talk and chip-dreams!" Wasp's anger gathered like a thunderhead. "I don't know this Virgil fellow-didn't catch his simsense show-but he don't know squat about battles in the Sprawl. Neither do you. We've got a battle to fight tonight, and we ain't got time to nursemaid some greenie from the forests. All I can do is give you your first lesson: I run the Ancients. I do the thinking! I do the planning!"

  "And we do the bleeding." Sting's comment sank in to the hilt and brought Wasp up short. She glanced at me. "I don't know what this Sears biker has in mind, and I don't care, but I do want some flexibility in this plan of yours. We have to be able to cover our backs in case the Emerald Dogs or Meat Junkies show us more than you guesstimate they have."

  Wasp stared from Sting to me and back. "Fine, you want a reactionary force? Great. You, Pearl, Tiny, and the greenie. Pick out another half-dozen people, and you're it. We hit a hard point, you take it out. You happy?"

  Sting took the minor concession, and with a sly grin, turned it into a major victory. " I'll be happy if we don't have to save your ass too many times. Fresh perspectives and other plans will keep us alive, Wasp."

  "Then let's hope that if you are needed, you do succeed." Wasp turned from the table and pointed back to where our bikes waited. "Mount up, my brothers. Tonight we remind the city we do not tolerate encroachment on our turf."

  A general war-whoop filled the warehouse, but I did not allow it to distract me. I saw Wasp watching me out of the corner of his eye, and I knew he had quickly assessed my role in settling the dispute between him and Sting. Whether by accident or design, I had mediated between them for the briefest of moments, assuming a position of power. Draping an arm around Pearl's shoulder, he whispered into his ear.

  I smiled slightly, but knew I'd have to be careful. Who would detect malice in an accidental shooting during a rumble? A quick push from cover and I would make a perfect target for some Meat Junkie. If that was the game and those were the rules, I was more than willing to play.

  VII

  Knowing my Ranger Arms sniper rifle would not be of much use in the close combat I anticipated, I drew an Ingram from the Ancients' armory as well as enough magazines to last me well into the next century. As the roar of countless motorcycles filled the warehouse, I joined up with Sting, Pearl, and the rest of our taskforce. Tiny, the other Elf designated to join us, looked large enough-and ugly enough-to have been the result of an unholy union between Elf and Troll.

  As I rode up and swung in beside him, he folded his arms across his chest. "You gotta name, chummer?"

  I shrugged in an easy, almost friendly manner. "In the Tir, I was known as Alejandro Kylisearn, but among you, having a colorful nom de guerre is the way things are done." I stopped there, my voice betraying a dilettante's enthusiasm for a sinfully sinister adventure.

  Tiny's face screwed up in confusion. "You need a street name."

  "My thought precisely. I was thinking I would call myself…"

  My voice faded to nothing as Tiny vehemently shook his head. "You can't name yourself. Only the leader can give you a name."

  Pearl pulled up on my right, sandwiching me between him and Tiny. "I think, for now, we'll call you Greenie."

  I graced him with a plastic smile. "You have no idea how that makes me feel, Pearl."

  Further discourse with him was cut off as the lead elements headed out of the warehouse. We brought up the rear and I let Pearl's bike slide in ahead of mine. Tiny, for reasons only he could fathom, had obviously decided he would be my "pal." He joined me at the back of the pack. As we rode from the warehouse, a huge door slowly descended, shutting up the building.

  Seattle's st
reets, laid out in a motley confusion of grids blanketing countless hills, glowed pink-neon beneath sodium lights. The day's earlier misting of rain and wisps of fog drifting in from the Sound, gave the Sprawl a sweaty, steamy feel. The tall, dark buildings closed in tighter than the redwoods of the Tir and I felt much the alien in this stone landscape.

  As we headed down a hill, I saw the whole leather and steel line of Ancients writhing through the streets like a snake. Pedestrians froze like frightened deer in the glare of our headlights, or scrambled off into the haven offered by dark alleys. Normal citizens looked out from upper-story windows, exposing only their eyes and the tops of their heads. They believed themselves safe this time, but I could taste the fear on the wind.

  In Seattle, the Ancients are regarded not so much as a biker gang, but a force of nature.

  Wasp swung us east to pick up the Eastsiders, then headed us off west down Republican. The addition of the Eastsiders increased our forces by roughly half. From the hardware bristling on the Ancients' bikes and bodies, I judged we were as well-equipped as most private armies, yet I doubted we had the discipline and tactical training to be quite as effective.

  Yet, depending on Wasp's performance as a battle-leader, I might revise my assessment of the Ancients. Many a leader is not fully adept at politics but is more than capable in a firefight. Though Sting had raised objections to past plans and assaults, the very fact of Wasp's continued leadership of the group suggested abilities I had yet to see.

  As we reached the northern perimeter of the area we were to conquer, Wasp issued orders in a commanding voice. He had half his people dismount to act as shock troops, while the rest split into two groups. One group shot over to Aurora, and the other set off down Dexter. The mobile pincers would isolate the first block, from Republican to Harrison, while the others would clean it out.