Shadowplay

by Nigel Findley

  “I think I got a line on the local who’s got our pay-data,” Knife-Edge was saying to his comrades. “Still no name, but I think I got a communication channel.”

  “What channel?” It was the one called Slick who spoke. He’d finished his rations, and was casually stropping a throwing knife against a leather strap. In the lamplight, the knife’s edge looked already razor-sharp.

  “Another local runner,” Knife-Edge explained. “Used to work with a chummer of my brother’s, before he got geeked.”

  “So’s this local got a location?” This from Benbo. He was the largest of the team. A human, but with enough mass and bulging muscles to be mistaken in poor light for a troll.

  Knife-Edge shook his head.”No, or if he does he isn’t telling. But he’ll pass a message if I ask him.”

  The last runner, the one called Van, nodded. He was the smallest, but even so he had to mass a good fifteen kilos more than Falcon. His gray-blue eyes were always steady, seeming to glint with an understanding that he was disinclined to share with anyone else.”You’re thinking of setting up a meet, aren’t you?” Van said in his quiet voice.

  “Yeah, seems like the best way to go.” Knife-Edge turned to Nightwalker. “Hey, Walker, give us a good location fora shadow meet.” He paused. “Walker?”

  Falcon snapped his head around. Nightwalker had slumped down further, his head hanging limply. His eyes were still open, but Falcon knew they weren’t focusing on anything. “Oh frag . . .”He ran over to the big Amerindian, crouched beside him.

  He’s dead. But no, he wasn’t. He was still breathing— shallow, fast-paced breaths, almost like panting. Falcon grabbed his shoulder, squeezed. Nightwalker jerked his head up, looked at the young ganger, tried to focus. But Falcon knew that whatever the runner was seeing, it wasn't him. He looked closer into his chummer’s eyes. By the yellow light of the lamp, he could see that one pupil was contracted almost to the size of a pinprick while the other was dilated so much there didn’t seem to be any iris around it. What the frag did it mean? Whatever it was, it wasn’t good.

  “What’s wrong with Walker?” Knife-Edge asked sharply.

  “He’s hurt,” Falcon answered quickly, “hurt bad. I tried to get him patched, but he’s starting to go.” He stood up, facing Knife-Edge, pulling himself up to his full height. He swallowed hard, tried to force a tone of confidence, of command, into his voice. “Look, I’ve got to get him to a clinic.”

  “Huh?” Benbo grunted.

  “He’ll die if I don’t.”

  Knife-Edge thought about that for a few moments. Finally he shook his head. “No clinic.”

  “He’ll die!” Falcon almost shouted.

  The eyes of the four Amerindians were cold, predators studying their prey. Slick held his knife by the blade in a loose, three-fingered grip. The grip of a knife-thrower, Falcon knew.

  “No clinic,” Knife-Edge said again, his voice like cold steel.

  “He’s your comrade," Falcon grated. “What about the shadowrunners’ code of honor?”

  Benbo barked with laughter, a harsh sound that echoed back from the lanes. Falcon saw Knife-Edge glance over at Slick, saw the knife-man slightly shift his grip on his weapon.

  I'm going to die, Falcon thought, but the idea didn’t bring the fear he might have expected. All he felt was anger. “By the fragging totems, he’s your comrade!” he yelled. He searched his brain for anything Nightwalker had told him, anything he could use to save both their lives. “He’s your fragging tactician!”

  Slick shifted his weight, readying for the throw.

  But Knife-Edge raised a hand, made a quick gesture. Slick shot his leader a disbelieving look, but lowered his knife.

  “Yeah,” Knife-Edge said quietly. “Yeah. Get him patched, kid.”

  Benbo growled something under his breath, too low for Falcon to hear.

  "He’s an asset, Ben,” Knife-Edge pointed out. “You don’t waste assets if you don’t have to. Maybe once you’ve learned that, you’ll be able to lead a team.” The leader fixed Falcon with his cold eyes.”Get him patched and then bring him back.”

  Falcon felt his knees weaken, had to force himself to remain standing. Now the fear hit him, twisting his guts. “I’ll need the van.” He struggled to keep his voice emotionless, knew from the runners’ expressions that he’d failed.

  “Take it,” Knife-Edge said after a moment’s thought. “We’ve got other wheels.”

  Falcon nodded, turning back to Nightwalker.

  “We’re expecting you back, kid,” Knife-Edge said quietly, “with Walker and with the van. Otherwise you and Slick here will have a real long talk about it.”

  Slick chuckled quietly.

  * * *

  Falcon drove the van carefully through the streets of the Redmond Barrens. He’d learned to drive after joining the First Nation, had been trained by the gang’s best, had even worked as wheelman on a couple of small operations. But even so he had to concentrate intensely to keep from getting into trouble. Despite the van’s apparently trashed exterior, it was in excellent condition where it counted. The engine was perfectly tuned, and cranked out more horsepower than anything Falcon had ever driven. Too heavy a touch on the gas pedal and the thing had the tendency to get away from him, spinning its tires and laying rubber. Not the best way to avoid attention, and attention was the last thing the ganger wanted at the moment.

  Nightwalker was slumped in the bucket seat beside him. He looks like death. Falcon thought, catching occasional glimpses of his friend in the illumination of the few streetlights that still worked. Eyes open but not really seeing anything, breathing shallow and fast. The Amerindian’s broad forehead glistened with a sheen of sweat. When Falcon touched his chummer’s hand, the flesh felt cool. Not yet the chill of death, but too close.

  Falcon almost thought Nightwalker was going to kick off in the bowling alley when he’d tried to wrestle the big man to his feet. The runner had gasped, the breath rattling in his throat, then stopped breathing altogether. Just for an instant, but it was the longest moment Falcon had ever lived through. Knife-Edge and his men merely sat back and watched him struggle, both Slick and Benbo with nasty smiles. But then Van had taken pity on him, coming over to sling the much-bigger Nightwalker over his shoulder like he would a child, and carried him to the vehicle. Falcon wanted to thank him, but the runner had turned away and vanished back inside before he could get the words out.

  Now Falcon was wracking his brains for a place to take his comrade. The regular hospitals were out. They might take Nightwalker in and treat him, expecting to squeeze their fees out of him after putting him back together. But they’d ask some hard questions of whoever brought in somebody in his condition. Falcon couldn’t afford that.

  So that left the free clinics. Of those, the ones run by the Universal Brotherhood were the best bet. From what he'd heard, they had a “no questions asked” policy, at least with regard to the people dropping off patients. For all he knew, they might be required, by law, to report gunshot wounds to Lone Star, but that wouldn’t affect him. Nightwalker might have to face some uncomfortable scrutiny, but that was better than being dead, wasn’t it?

  For a moment he felt pangs of guilt. He told me not to take him to a clinic, Falcon remembered, and I promised I wouldn’t.

  But did that promise still count? No, Falcon told himself, it ended as soon as Nightwalker’s condition got this bad.

  Now the only question was, where was the fragging UB clinic? Falcon knew there was one in Redmond, but where? He cruised aimlessly for a few minutes, hoping to spot something that would either jar his memory or give him some clue. First Nation turf had more than a dozen billboards advertising the Brotherhood, all of them showing the address of the local chapterhouse. But here in the Barrens, it seemed that billboards doubled as target flats for heavy ordnance. If the Brotherhood had ever put one up here, people had long ago shot it to bits.

  Then a thought struck him. This van had some heavy mods. Maybe ... H
e pulled over, examined the complex dashboard.

  Yes, the spirits were with him tonight. The van’s electronics suite included a Navstar satellite uplink and a nav computer. Shouldn’t the computer’s database contain useful information such as the location of medical clinics?

  It took him a few long moments to make sense of the computer’s interface, which wasn’t too complex because it was designed for use by a driver while on the road. He punched in his request, and the computer had the answer in an instant: Universal Brotherhood Redmond Chapter, corner of Belmont and Waveland.

  He hit another button to bring up a map of Redmond. Frag, it was further away than he thought. When you were used to the downtown core, it was easy to forget just how big the suburbs were. He traced out the best route, then pulled away from the curb. Fortunately there was almost no traffic at this time of night, and seemed to be no Lone Star presence at all. He let the van’s speed creep a little higher.

  Nightwalker shifted next to him, groaned something.

  Falcon reached over, laid a comforting hand on his shoulder. The Amerindian mumbled again, rolled his eyes as though he couldn’t quite control them. But then he seemed to focus on the ganger’s face.

  “That you, Falcon?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Whuzzapnin’?” His voice was slurred, like that of a drunk about to pass out in the gutter.

  “Taking you to a clinic,” Falcon said firmly. “Knife-Edge ordered it.” He figured that was the best way to avoid argument. “He said you don’t waste assets.”

  “Yeah.” His voice trailed off, his eyes half-closed. But then, a few seconds later he roused himself again. “I feel like drek, chummer.” In the flash of a streetlight. Falcon could see his friend’s mouth twist into a tired smile.

  “You’ll be okay.” Falcon gave the van more gas, felt it leap forward.

  Nightwalker was silent for a few minutes. Although that worried Falcon deeply, he took advantage of the silence to concentrate on his navigating. Okay, here’s Belmont. So hang a left and boot it for Waveland.

  The Amerindian runner stirred again. “I’m Salish,” he whispered.

  “Huh?”

  “I’m Salish,” he said louder. “I told you I had no tribe. But I'm Salish.”

  “Called by a chief?” Falcon asked.

  Nightwalker shook his head. “Nah. But I’m Salish, just the same. Like you’re Sioux.” He paused, head bowing down toward his chest. “Never made a vision quest,” he murmured. “Or maybe this is it.”

  “Yeah,” Falcon growled. “Just hang on, okay?” He stomped the gas pedal to the floor, fought with the wheel as the van accelerated like a race car.

  He screeched to a stop at the corner of Belmont and Waveland, the van’s front wheel bumping up onto the curb. The Universal Brotherhood chapterhouse looked like it had once been a four-plex movie theater, with two floors of offices above the main level. The marquee was still in place. “The Universal Brotherhood,” it declared, “Come in and find the power of Belonging.” (Yeah, right. Falcon thought.) The front doors were closed, and most of the lights were off. But what else could you expect at two in the fragging morning?

  So where the hell was the clinic entrance? If it wasn’t at the front, it had to be back in the alley. He booted the van again, bumping off the curb, throwing the vehicle into a screaming bootlegger turn. Pointed it down the dark alley behind Belmont.

  He flicked on the high-beams as he slowed the van back to a crawl. Where was the clinic entrance? The quartz-halogen headlights made the alley noonday-bright, showing him the rear of the Brotherhood chapterhouse. Above the single door was a sign reading, “Universal Brotherhood Soup Kitchen.”

  Soup kitchen? Where was the fragging clinic?

  He cruised slowly down the alley. The entrance to the soup kitchen was locked, secured with a gate of heavy metal bars. No way in there. Frantically, he kicked the van forward. There was another door at the other end of the building. No sign above that one. But again the door was shut, another gate locking it tight. Oh, spirits and totems . . .

  Doesn’t this chapterhouse have a clinic? Falcon thought desperately. I thought they all did.

  He stopped the van, punched another query into the nav computer’s database. This time he requested not just the location of the Brotherhood chapterhouses, but whatever information the computer had on their facilities.

  He felt his body chill as the data scrolled across the small display screen. There were four chapterhouses in the plex, as he'd thought. But according to the computer, only two of them had free clinics: the Octagon, in central Seattle, and the smaller chapterhouse, in Puyallup. The Brotherhood ran two other clinics, one in Everett and one down by the Tacoma docks. That brought the number up to four, which was why Falcon had assumed all were connected with chapterhouses. Frag it to hell! He punched more queries into the nav computer. The nearest clinic was the one downtown, at Eighth and Westlake, two fragging blocks from fragging Denny Park. At least a half-hour drive, even with the van’s powerful engine and the light traffic. Could Nightwalker hang on that long?

  He looked over at his friend. (Friend? Yes!)

  In a sudden panic Falcon reached out to grab the man’s shoulder, then pulled his hand back at the deadly chill of the flesh under the Amerindian’s jacket.

  Nightwalker’s eyes were still open, but Falcon knew they saw nothing. His face was slack, pale as bone. His posture, his body, looked no different. But Falcon knew— knew— that the man’s spirit had fled.

  He killed the van’s engine, rested his forehead on the steering wheel. What do I do now?

  Nightwalker was dead. He could do no more for him. Or could he?

  Falcon remembered what the Amerindian had said about the lost technology, the ability to tap into fiberoptic communications. He hadn't understood everything—hadn't understood much of it, to be honest—but he remembered how serious the runner had sounded. Nightwalker knew so much more about the way the plex worked, how the megacorps interrelated, and he’d thought the search for the lost tech was significant. Maybe the most important thing he’d ever been involved in.

  Could Falcon just turn his back on that? Could he just walk away, leaving Nightwalker’s task uncompleted?

  Could he leave it up to Knife-Edge and his men? And could he trust the other Amerindians to do the right thing with the prize if they ever did get their hands on it?

  What the frag am I doing? he berated himself. I’m nobody, just a punk ganger. I’m not a shadowrunner. Didn’t Nightwalker tell me I’m not in his league?

  But he also said I was his comrade. He said we were bound by the shadowrunners’ code of honor—even if Benbo laughed at that. Didn’t that mean that Falcon had an obligation to see his friend’s task through?

  This is a chance to make a difference, he told himself, to do something important. Not just scrabble through the sprawl for my own benefit. I could never make a difference with the First Nation. I never thought I’d ever have the chance. How can I turn away now?

  He sighed, rubbed at his eyes. He'd been thinking so hard that they’d started to water. That had to be the reason. He looked over at his friend.

  “I’m in,” he said to the lifeless Nightwalker. “It scares the drek out of me, but I’m in.”

  * * *

  Falcon had just dumped Nightwalker’s body in the alley behind the Universal Brotherhood chapterhouse. It bothered him, on some deep level, but what the frag else could he do? He wished he knew more about the traditions of Nightwalker’s tribe. How would the Salish handle the body of a friend? From Langland’s book, Falcon knew that burial traditions varied. Some tribes interred the bodies with great ceremony and reverence, singing songs to guide the spirits of the dead to the land of the totems. Others seemed to have no such traditions, just dumping the bodies without any ceremony. The spirit was gone, these tribes seemed to believe, leaving the dead body only an empty shell. Why treat it specially when the person was not there anymore? He didn't know to which gr
oup the Salish belonged, but he told himself that Nightwalker’s spirit—wherever it was now—would understand.

  He drove back to the safe house slowly. Meeting with Knife-Edge and the others without Nightwalker to protect him scared him drekless, but his decision left him no choice. At least he thought he had a way of handling it.

  There were new faces in the restaurant when he walked in. Five of them, all orks, wearing gang colors that identified them as members of the Scuzboys. He knew the gang by their rep, a real hard group that hired themselves out as muscle to various shadow teams.

  The biggest of the five orks, probably the leader, bared yellowing tusks in a snarl as he spotted Falcon. “Who’s dis fragger?” he demanded.

  Knife-Edge didn’t answer him, just regarded Falcon levelly. “Where’s Nightwalker?” he asked, his voice cold.

  “At the clinic, where else?” he replied, trying to keep his fear under control. “He’s too trashed to move. The docs say he’ll be down a couple of days. He sent me back here. Said he’ll keep in touch through me.”

  Falcon held his breath as Knife-Edge thought about that for a moment. He relaxed as the runner nodded.

  “Which clinic did you take him to?” Van asked.

  “The Universal Brotherhood free clinic,” he answered smoothly. “Nightwalker told me he didn’t have the credit for anything else.”

  That seemed to satisfy Van, who turned his attention back to field-stripping and cleaning the large rifle that rested in his lap.

  Falcon decided that now was the time to say what he had to say. “Nightwalker says he wants me along on the meet. That way I can report back to him what went down.”

  One of the orks hawked and spat on the floor. “Don’t need no breeder kid,” he snarled.

  From their expressions, Falcon could see that Knife-Edge and the other Amerinds thought the same way. “Nightwalker’s the tactician,” he said, struggling to keep his voice calm. “He said I’d be an asset" —he stressed the word—“to scope out the meet.”

  Again he watched Knife-Edge’s face as the runner gave it some thought.

  “I know the sprawl,” Falcon added.