The “others.” There were three of them, all big, all Amerindian, all with the same air of competence as Nightwalker and Knife-Edge. They were squatting under cover of a small copse of trees in one of the park’s upper terraces. As Falcon followed Nightwalker into the tiny clearing, he felt their hard eyes appraising him. One of the tough-looking men flexed his right hand, and three wickedly sharp spurs snicked out from the back of his hand.
“Chill,” Knife-Edge ordered quietly. “He's with Walker.”
The cybered runner shrugged, and the spurs retracted into their sheath of flesh.
Nightwalker looked around at the faces. “This is it?” he asked quietly. “What about the others?”
“Gone,” Knife-Edge answered simply. “When the run crashed, we all split up. Nobody from team one made it out. I saw Marci buy it, which means you were the only survivor of team two, Walker. Teams three and four . . . well, there’s Slick, Benbo and Van”—he gestured to the other three runners—“and me, and that’s it. I think Cat-Dancing made it out, but we lost track of him.”
Nightwalker briefly filled the group in on the events of the previous night.
Knife-Edge nodded slowly when he was finished. “Yeah, that hangs together. We heard rumblings the meet was razzed, but of course we couldn’t warn you. Or Cat.”
“What about the Cowgirl?” Nightwalker asked. Falcon assumed he was talking about the decker.
“Never made it,” Knife-Edge stated. “After we shook the opposition we checked out her doss. Found her still jacked in, dead as fragging meat.”
Nightwalker seemed to collapse in on himself, the brittle, transitory energy lent him by the turbo ebbing away. “So it’s over,” he said quietly.
“Maybe not,” Knife-Edge corrected him. “There’s a strange buzz on the street—like, somebody else got hold of the pay data.”
“Our paydata?”
“That’s what the buzz says, Walker. Don’t know how.
Maybe Cowgirl contracted herself some Matrix cover on the quiet.”
"Who?” Nightwalker demanded. “Who has it?””Don’t got a name,” one of the other Amerinds spoke up for the first time. “Some local slag. Some runner.”
“Is that true?” Falcon could hear the desperation in Nightwalker’s voice, the urgent need to believe.
“That’s what the buzz says,” Knife-Edge confirmed. “So what are we doing about it?”
“Chill, friend.” Knife-Edge laid a reassuring hand on the other runner’s shoulder. “We got feelers out all over the plex, trying to get a line on the local. We can’t do much till we get an identity, can we?”
“But you don't know the channels. . .
Knife-Edge cut Nightwalker off. “We may not be locals, but we know how to work the streets. We’ve got the angles covered. It’s just a matter of time.” He checked his watch. “Look, chummer, let’s blow. We got us a safe place to hunker down.” He glared at Falcon. “What about . . . ?”
“He comes with me,” Nightwalker said harshly. “I said we’re tight. I vouch for him.”
For a moment Falcon thought Knife-Edge was going to object. But then the Amerindian just shrugged. “Your call, Walker.” He looked the runner over again. “You want to sleep in the van? You look drek-kicked.” Nightwalker shook his head slowly.
“Later,” he said, and only Falcon understood the meaning of his words. “I’ll sleep later.”
9
0055 hours, November 14, 2053
Is it starting? Sly sipped at her glass of scotch, staring out the window at the lights of downtown. Corporate war. Is it starting already?
It had been a strange day. A difficult one, a nerve-wracking one. She needed information on what was shaking on the street, what the corps were up to, and who was involved in the plex-wide search for her. But, of course, she was limited by the very existence of that search. How could she know which of her contacts, her erstwhile allies and comrades, had taken the megacorps’ credit and had joined the hunt? She couldn’t. Sure, there were ways of putting out feelers without identifying yourself, but that was nowhere near as efficient as personal contact with people who knew and trusted you. Within an hour of leaving Agarwal’s place, she realized how isolated she really was.
That was when she’d remembered Argent. A heavily chromed street monster and the leader of a shadow team that called itself the Wrecking Crew, he’d worked with Sly on a major run a few years back. Since then she’d kept in intermittent contact with the big man. Though they never got close enough to consider each other chummers, they did share a healthy respect for each other’s competence. It came as a disturbing shock to Sly to realize that Argent was the only runner in the entire sprawl she could trust, even marginally.
It had taken her a half-hour of hard thinking before deciding to risk a call to him. What finally decided her was the fact that Argent had a strong—Sly thought obsessive—hatred of Yamatetsu, for some reason he never discussed with anyone. That personal quirk should be enough to stop him from ever getting involved in anything that might benefit the megacorp, she figured. Not the best basis for trust, but better than nothing.
Argent turned out to be a good choice. He answered her preliminary questions immediately, without having to go to his contacts, as though he’d already picked up on the changes happening on the streets. “Things are getting dicey,” he told her, “in and out of the shadows. Lone Star’s out in force. More patrols, better armed. Where there’d normally be a patrol of two Stars, there are six; and when they’d normally be riding in a light patrol car, they’re packed into Citymasters. They’re acting weird, too, like they know something’s going down but they’re not sure what.
“Corp forces are also out,” he went on. “Up-gunned patrols, too, doing this strange kind of dance. Lots of rumbles all over the plex. The media says they’re gang-related, but that’s drek. They’re not happening along turf borders. My reading is that it’s the corp soldiers scrapping it out.” His face on her telecom screen took on a worried expression. “Something real bad’s going down. Sly. I don’t know what it is, and that scares me.” That comment had hit Sly hard. If his street rep was any proof, it would take a frag of a lot to put a scare into Argent.
He’d also confirmed some of Agarwal’s comments—as if Sly had really needed confirmation. All the major megacorps were in on it—whatever it was—but Yamatetsu seemed to be the key player.
“And they’re all looking for you, Sly,” he added without her having to ask. “Maybe not by name. I don’t think all the players have ID’d you yet. But they’re all asking the right questions on the street, and they’re covering all your usual haunts.” He’d chuckled grimly. “I take it you’re not at home, or we wouldn’t be having this conversation.
“I’ll keep my eyes open and my ear to the ground,” he said, “but until you hear from me you’d better find someplace real secure to hunker down.” He’d paused. “Got a good spot, or do you want a suggestion?”
She took him up on the offer, and the suggestion had been surprising. Innovative, and possibly the best idea she’d heard in a long time.
Which was how she’d ended up at her present location.
The Sheraton, for frag’s sake. One of Seattle’s best, and most expensive, hotels, across the street from the exclusive Washington Athletic Club.
Sly would never have thought of it herself, but Argent’s reasoning made immediate sense. First, who the hell would look for a shadowrunner—particularly one being hunted by the corps—in a high-tone hotel that catered largely to corporate suits? The hunters would be searching the shadows, the squats and grimy flops in the rougher parts of town where the locals’ hatred for the corps would interfere with the search. And second, once she’d checked into the Sheraton, the hotel’s own highly touted computer and physical and magical security would help shield her. The only difficulty would be actually checking in.
Which, it turned out, wasn’t hard at all, thanks to Modal. Over the last few years, he’d collected a
wide variety of fake identities—including names, histories, and even SINs—for both males and females of almost all the major metahuman races. Presumably he’d had a thriving business selling these to runners and others who found their real identities something of a liability. As soon as she mentioned the problem, the black elf had produced a credstick for each of them, carrying all the data necessary for an almost watertight cover. He didn’t say where he got them, and she didn’t ask.
Then it had been only a matter of marching into the Sheraton lobby, bold as brass, and taking two adjoining rooms in the names of Wesley Aimes and Samantha Bouvier. Even though Sly was sure the clerk would hear her heart pounding, the bored dwarf had merely slipped the credsticks into the registration computer’s slot. When they read out as good, he issued them the magnetic cards that served as keys, mumbling, “WelcometotheSheraton, hopeyouenjoyyourstay.”
While riding up in the elevator, they learned that a convention was booked into the hotel tonight. A convention of representatives of private law-enforcement agencies. Execs from Lone Star and that corp’s equivalent from around the world filled the rooms on the fifteenth and part of the tenth floor. At first that had scared the drek out of her. But then, on deeper thought, Sly realized it increased the level of their security. What corp hunter would expect his quarry to hole up in the midst of a bunch of cops? And even if somebody did track her to the Sheraton, they’d think twice about pulling anything shadowy when a significant percentage of the hotel guests were armed to the fragging teeth.
Once the initial fear was gone, she found the whole concept funnier than hell. What do cops do for fun at a convention? she wondered. Arrest each other? Beat each other up? Sly relaxed so much that she had difficulty not bursting out laughing when a British Aide Firm exec—a dwarf wearing a bright scarlet jacket, a sash, and a kilt— boarded the elevator on the tenth floor on his way up to a hospitality suite on the fifteenth.
So here she was, in room 1205, looking out the window and enjoying a glass of single malt from the minibar. She looked over at Modal, who was sprawled on the bed, looking indecently comfortable as he idly zapped through the channels on the trideo.
She didn’t like having him here. It didn’t matter that she was confident—as confident as she could reasonably be—that any attempt to sell her out to the corps would just get him whacked. But his involvement made her seriously uncomfortable.
Why? she asked herself. He was a skilled street op, a good, steady gun to have at your back. He’d be an asset no matter what she finally decided was the best course.
Was it just that they used to be lovers? She chewed on that for a few minutes, taking another swallow of scotch to turbocharge her brain.
No, not really. It was just . . . just that he reminded her of a zombie. Modal had always been so passionate about things. Not just about her, or about sex. But he’d always seemed personally involved, deeply involved, in everything he did, even though he didn’t let emotions interfere with a run. And now?
No emotion at all, courtesy of the violet pills he was popping every couple of hours. And that was it. He looked like Modal, he talked like Modal. But it was like he wasn’t Modal. He reminded her of the horror trids that had scared her so as a kid, the ones where the walking dead came to hunt the living. It was almost as though Modal were one of those animated corpses, brought back to only a semblance of life. She shuddered.
Sly looked at her watch, saw it was oh-one hundred. Time to call Agarwal for an update. She wished there was some way to relay incoming calls to room 1205, but she couldn't think of one. Cellular phones had locator circuits in them—otherwise how could they register with the cel network?—so she’d ditched hers hours ago. Some electronic genius might have been able to kluge together some untraceable relay, but she knew it was way beyond her capabilities. She walked through into the adjoining room, closing the connecting door behind her. Settled herself down on the edge of the bed and placed the call.
Agarwal answered immediately. His face on the telecom screen looked tired, his soft brown eyes bloodshot behind his glasses, as though he’d been staring at a computer screen for hours without a break. Which he probably had. The background was out of focus, but she could recognize the decor of his study.
“Sharon.” He gave her a tense, worried smile. “Are you all right, Sharon?”
She nodded with a smile, tried to make her voice reassuring. “I’m still kicking, chummer. No hassle. Did you get anything?”
“Several things. But it may not be anything you want to hear.”
Her mouth went dry, but she kept her smile in place. “Did you break the encryption?”
He bobbed his head nervously. “Some of it. As I suspected, there were multiple levels, with differing degrees of security on different portions of the file. I broke enough to understand the importance of what it is you have . . . and enough to scare the fragging drek out of me.”
Sly had never heard Agarwal curse, had thought the ex-decker didn’t have it in him. Perhaps more than anything else that was what bothered her now. Unable to keep her feigned smile in place, she let it fade. “What is it?”
“I think this is lost technology, Sharon. Do you know what that means?”
She paused, marshaling her thoughts. “The crash of twenty-nine,” she said. “The virus took down the network, and some data got trashed. Is that what you mean?”
He nodded again. “In essence, yes. There’s still much we don’t understand about the virus that caused the crash.
Was it self-originating? Was it released into the network accidentally? Or was it a case of core wars?”
“Hold the phone,” she said, raising a hand. “Core wars?”
“Computer warfare, Sharon. Warfare between corporations, waged by releasing tailored virus codes into a competitor’s system. Some technohistorians suggest that the crash virus might have been designed for such a task, judging by its preference for highly encrypted files.” He paused. “In any case, it seems undeniable that your file contains research into technology lost in the crash. And that, of course, might explain the megacorps’ sudden activity. If one zaibatsu has recovered important lost technology, it might represent a sufficiently great competitive advantage that other megacorporations would risk corporate war to get it for themselves.”
Sly nodded slowly. This latest bit of news tied in well— too well—with Argent’s comments.
“I set up a second computer to monitor the datafaxes and corporate databoards,” Agarwal continued. “My watchdog program found some highly disturbing news.”
“What?”
“The Corporate Court in Zurich-Orbital has noticed the goings-on in Seattle, and seems to have come to the same conclusion about the possibility of a corp war,” Agarwal said. “The court ordered an official cooling-down period, a temporary cessation of all unusual corporate activity in the metroplex.”
“The court’s got the clout to do that?”
“Not directly,” Agarwal explained. “The court has no enforcement arm. The megacorporations follow its decrees because the alternatives are unthinkable.” He paused, and his expression sent a chill up Sly’s spine.
“Were unthinkable,” he amended. “To my knowledge, at least three of the major megacorps have totally disregarded the court’s edict.” He took off his glasses, rubbed at his red eyes. “This is unheard of,” he said softly, “and immensely frightening. It implies that full corporate war is closer than ever.”
Fear clenched Sly’s stomach. Her mouth was so dry she had to swallow before she could speak. “You’re saying all the corps are after me?"
“After this,” Agarwal corrected, “after this file. And there might be more. There’s some evidence that the UCAS government is involved too. Hints that federal teams are also operating in the sprawl.”
“The feds? Why?”
The ex-decker shrugged. “To gain an advantage over the corporations perhaps? The government has definitely been seeking an edge in the past few years. Or perhaps
to gain an advantage over its own competitors—the Confederate American States, the Native American Nations, California Free State, maybe even Aztlan and Tir Tairngire.”
Sly shook her head slowly. This was getting too big, too fast. “And they all want the file? They're all after me?” Suddenly she felt very alone, very small. “What the frag am I supposed to do, Agarwal?”
Her friend's face was expressionless. “Yes,” he said finally. “That is the question, isn’t it?”
10
0145 hours, November 14, 2053
Falcon wandered around the old building, a condemned bowling alley in the Barrens, that Knife-Edge called his safe house. With the electricity cut off, the only light came from portable lamps that the runners had set up around what used to be the restaurant. All the furniture was gone—either moved out when the place closed or else “acquired” by neighbors afterward— and the far ends of the lanes were gaping holes, showing that the automatic pinsetters had been stripped out as well. Though the lanes themselves were the worse for wear, their woodgrained plastic scratched and stained here and there, they were still generally intact.
Knife-Edge and his “boys” were sprawled around the restaurant, eating some rations they'd brought with them. Falcon’s belly growled at the smell—How long since I’ve eaten? he wondered. Twenty-four hours?—but his pride wouldn’t let him ask for handouts. Nightwalker lay propped up against a wall. He was starting to fade. The other runners seemed to assume it was just exhaustion, but Falcon knew better.
Knife-Edge had vanished for almost an hour after they’d first arrived at the safe house, presumably working the shadows for information. Now he was back again, talking through his options with the other runners. The tough-looking Amerindians kept shooting Falcon hard looks, making it plain they thought he didn’t belong. But so far Nightwalker’s voucher had kept them from kicking him out ... or worse. But what happens when Nightwalker’s dead? he thought grimly.
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