by R. L. King
“You never had to watch anybody you loved die. Kids. Old people. You never had to watch your friends’ families getting driven out of their crappy, roach-infested dosses because Humanis or some group of asshole human rich kids decided it’d be fun to frag with the tuskers.” Bitterness tinged her tone, but her expression was hard.
He shook his head. “No. I haven’t had to do that. But I’ve also never been the cause of anything like that.”
“Not directly,” she agreed. “I’ll give you that: I’ve never heard anything about you being anti-meta. That’s something, I guess.”
Winterhawk sat down on the bed. “Dreja, I’ll be straight with you. I have neither the time nor the desire to get into some sort of class-war debate with you right now. None of that matters a damned bit to me at the moment. I need to finish this job, I need to do it fast, and I need good people to help me. You’ve been a valuable member of this team, and I think we’d have a better chance of success if you came along. But—” He got up. “I suspected that ever since we found out what sort of item we were set to retrieve, I wouldn’t be able to count on you going forward.”
He crossed the room to the doorway. “I can’t blame you for that. You were never anything but up-front about what you would and wouldn’t do. So I’ll see to the rest of your pay, and—”
“I’m going along,” she said.
He stopped. “What?”
“Tell Scuzzy to get another seat on whatever we’re going to Australia in,” she said, her tone flat and dispassionate.
He turned back. “Why?” he asked.
She shrugged. “I dunno. Maybe I’m an idiot. Maybe I need the money, or else some bad people are gonna track me down and rearrange my face. Maybe I just don’t like to leave a job unfinished. Bad for the professional pride.”
He continued to watch her, waiting.
She picked up her bag. “Maybe it’s all that. Or maybe this is the first time I’ve ever heard Mr. High-and-Mighty Mage admit that he’s anything less than in control of a situation.” She shrugged. “I still don’t like you. But maybe I understand you a little better now.”
He raised an eyebrow. “I’m not one of your lost causes, Dreja.”
“Maybe not,” she said, one corner of her mouth quirking up a bit. “But having somebody like you admit you need me, when I know you’d rather eat ground glass than do it, feels damn good on the ego.” She slung the bag over her shoulder. “Now come on. Time’s wasting, and I ain’t draggin’ your fancy ass all over the Outback if you get too fragged up to move under your own power.”
Out front, Scuzzy put the finishing touches on the travel arrangements. He still sat at the kitchen table, with his deck in front of him. He’d shoved Boyd’s increasingly malodorous, towel-covered head as far away as it would go, and turned his chair so he could surreptitiously watch the others as he continued perusing the files he’d gotten from the dwarf’s headware. He hadn’t been lying: he was convinced that he’d retrieved everything that could be retrieved, and he’d sent everything he’d found to the others.
This feeling of having everyone pleased with him—of feeling like a valued member of the team—was something he wasn’t used to, and he allowed himself a little time to bask in it now. Usually, the jobs he did were on a virtual-only basis, at his insistence. While he had a rep for doing a good and thorough job, being remote meant he never felt fully like a member of any of the teams he’d run with. Even though he preferred interacting with the world through his Matrix avatar, he was finding lately that it was hard to be part of a team when you never let anybody see what you really looked like. That was what had led him to accept this job; well, that and being hopped up on too much caffeine and too little sleep when he’d said yes. By the time he’d panicked and come to his senses, it was too late to back out.
This Winterhawk guy, even though he could be more than a bit full of himself, had played straight with him. He’d treated him like a competent and useful part of the overall team. Not too many people had done that. And this whole business with Mr. Johnson and the poison was pretty fragged up. Nobody deserved that.
Scuzzy decided that maybe he should try to do something for the mage in return. Glancing up to make sure nobody was watching him, he slouched down in his chair and, with great care, began setting a few things into motion.
CHAPTER 24
PERTH, AUSTRALIA
SUNDAY NIGHT
Scuzzy hadn’t been able to get them all on the same plane to Perth: on such short notice, it was safer to split the group. Winterhawk and Ocelot went together on one flight that left Los Angeles early Sunday morning; they now sat in a small tourist bar near the airport that rocked the whole kangaroos-and-boomerangs aesthetic, waiting for the others to arrive. It was a little before midnight, local time.
They hadn’t gotten much chance to talk on the plane. Ocelot was clearly nervous; even though his fake SIN was in order, he’d left all of his toys except his monowhip at home, planning to pick up replacements locally. He spent the entire flight keeping watch from his window seat as if expecting someone to jump them in midflight. Winterhawk had taken the opportunity to grab a catnap and ended up sleeping for most of their time in the air. Unlike Ocelot, he wasn’t concerned about security issues: his SIN was legitimate these days, and he neither needed nor carried any weapons.
“So,” Ocelot said, lowering his voice as he finished his first beer and waved toward the cute blonde waitress for another one. “You holdin’ up okay?”
Winterhawk nodded. “Fine,” he said. It was a lie: his headache had increased beyond his basic-level painkillers’ ability to mitigate it, but he was reluctant to take anything stronger that might affect his mental edge. His extended nap on board the plane had been plagued by uneasy nightmares featuring the same sort of horrific creatures he’d seen during Mr. Johnson’s “demonstration” back at their original meet, which meant he didn’t feel any more rested now than he had before.
“So, what are you doing about this?” Ocelot asked.
“What do you mean?”
He snorted. “You heard me. You doin’ anything to try to figure out who’s behind it? Any idea who it might be?”
“Not really.” Winterhawk shook his head. “I sent out a few discreet inquiries to some trusted people after the meet, but so far no one’s come up with anything definitive. Whoever it was who did this, they were very careful. Almost as if they knew I’d check up on them, and the sort of resources I could call on.”
“What about this poison? You know anything about it?”
“No. I had Maya check me over, but I haven’t time to go find someone to do a full scan. If I’ve really got less than a week to get this done, even a brief side trip to visit someone I trust is more than I’m willing to risk. Especially since I’ve no way to know if they’ll even be able to figure out what it is.” He sighed. “I’m sure whoever this Johnson is, he’s got my blood. He certainly had me long enough to take it. I thought for a while that they might be bluffing, that they did something at the meet to make me think they’d poisoned me when they really didn’t.”
“How do you know that’s not what happened?” Ocelot asked. “It’d be a hell of a lot easier to just make you think they did something than to actually do it.”
“It would,” he agreed. “Except you’ve no idea how ghastly I feel right now. This isn’t psychosomatic. There’s something going on, and it’s getting worse.”
Ocelot took another pull of his beer, looking troubled. “I assume you’ve tried to figure out who you pissed off enough to do something like this to you.”
“I stopped when I reached two dozen,” he said with a raised eyebrow. “We made a lot of enemies in our day, and I made a lot more after we went our separate ways. I also did a bit of checking around the people who were at the auction, but once again, if they were behind it, they’re hiding it well. And as far as I can determine, they don’t have the background to be able to do something like this.”
“So you
got nothin’, is what you’re saying.”
He nodded soberly. “I’m afraid my best hope right now is to finish this up as quickly as I can and hope that either the Johnson keeps his bargain, or one of my feelers comes back with something definitive before he has to.”
“What about this Lydia chick? The one who hired you. Is she connected with anybody?”
“Possibly. I don’t know. She’s been flitting around the black-market magical artifact circles for years, though—she’s from old money, and doesn’t have any issue with me as far as I know. As I said, I was reluctant to probe too deeply, since the Johnson implied they might be watching.”
Ocelot stared down into his glass. “Well, let’s get it done, then, I guess, if we got no other choice. When are the others getting here?”
As one of the major gateways to the Outback, Perth teemed with both established businesses and entrepreneurial individuals willing and eager to assist the would-be traveler. As Winterhawk and the rest of the team soon found, you could procure anything from simple guidance and advice to a full-service tourist extravaganza including all supplies, vehicles, and a planned itinerary that promised to provide the “full Outback experience.”
Naturally, they ignored all of this and headed straight for the shadowy end of town.
No matter where you were in the world, there was a certain commonality among bars that catered to the shadowrunning crowd, and Boomer’s was no exception. Tucked away down a narrow side street lined with trash, disreputable-looking characters, and vehicles that looked like crap but probably didn’t run like it, Boomer’s was, according to a response Winterhawk had received to an inquiry he’d sent to JackPointer Traveler Jones, the place to go if you were looking for fast, discreet, and competent assistance with Outback excursions of the less-than-legal variety. A weathered, hole-in-the-wall place sandwiched between a dodgy-looking electronics store and a strip joint, Boomer’s had little to announce it to the world aside from a pair of flickering beer signs and a couple of orks whose auras barely moved the meter on the astral plane out front having a smoke. They eyed the newcomers with squinty apathy.
Dreja and Tiny went in first, presenting a confidence that slipped just far enough into swagger that it was unlikely anyone in the bar would mess with them without a good reason. Ocelot, as usual, brought up the rear, keeping a watchful eye to make sure nobody got any ideas about jumping them from behind. Winterhawk and Scuzzy were in between, the former watchful but unfazed by the rough crowd, the latter slinking nervously along and trying to keep everything in sight at once without outright staring. The air hung heavy with beer, peanuts, and body odor. Around them, conversation buzzed in English, Afrikaans, and various Aboriginal tongues, and discreet but suspicious glances were cast their way. There was no way for Winterhawk and the others to hide their status as outsiders to the local shadow community, so they didn’t even try.
The man they were here to see sat near the back, lounging behind a little round table littered with empty beer glasses and peanut shells. He was a small, wiry human with dark skin, corkscrewing black-brown hair shaved at the temples to reveal numerous datajacks, and a lazy grin. His sleeveless T-shirt, which might at one point have been black but was now faded to a dusty gray, depicted Harley-Davidson’s bar-and-shield logo. He appeared to be splitting his attention between several AR screens, but when he spotted the group approaching him he shoved them all aside and flashed bright white teeth.
“Well, look what the dingoes dragged in,” he said amiably. “Somebody’s a long way from home.”
“You Bodge?” Dreja asked.
“Maybe.” He looked her up and down. “Depends who’s askin’ and what they want. If my ex sent ya, then my name’s Henry.” He laughed and waved randomly in the air; after a moment a dwarf woman came by with a pitcher of beer and a tray full of glasses. “If not, pull up a brew and take a load off.”
All of them pulled up chairs around the small table, arranging themselves according to who had the most issues with facing away from the door. Winterhawk leaned back, watching the room’s shifting auras and listening to his head pound, content to let Dreja take point for this negotiation. He’d been to Australia before, and had even taken part in a couple of expeditions to the Outback, but they had been in association with the DIMR and had embarked out of Darwin far to the north, so he hadn’t had to handle any of the logistics of anything beyond the magical end. Maya perched on his shoulder on the astral plane, scanning the area for potential threats.
“So,” Bodge was saying. “Yer wantin’ to go out to the Big Red. What for?”
“That’s our business,” Dreja said. “But we need to do it fast. You might have guessed we’re new around here, so we’re lookin’ for somebody who can do the job without fraggin’ us over. Your name came up.”
Bodge shrugged. “Yeah, sure, I can do it,” he said. “If Traveler Jones vouches for ya, I’m satisfied. But I gotta know what I’m in for. If somebody gonna be shootin’ at my rig, I wanna know about it.”
“That gonna stop you from taking the job?” Ocelot asked.
“Nah—that just makes it more fun,” he said with a grin. “But it’s gonna cost ya extra. And if ya tell me there’s no shootin’ and then there ends up bein’ shootin’, it’s gonna cost ya even more extra. So it pays to be up-front about it, y’know?”
“With this lot, it’s never safe to say there won’t be shooting,” Winterhawk said. “But odds are good there won’t be, unless the people we’re going to talk to have issues with us.”
“Who ya goin’ to talk to?” the rigger asked. “Maybe I might know ’em. The Outback’s a big place, but not that many folks out there, y’know?”
“Dwarf woman who goes by Bluey,” Dreja said. “She runs with a biker gang called the Gypsies.”
Bodge nodded knowingly. “Don’t know her,” he said. “But I know of the Gypsies. Nice buncha blokes and sheilas, from what I hear. They ride with the Crows sometimes, but they got their own little base out by Kookynie. That’s a ghost town.”
“Would they be there now?” Ocelot asked. “We gotta find her fast.”
Bodge’s eyes narrowed. “What for?”
“We mean her no harm,” Winterhawk said quickly. “She has something we’re supposed to pick up. Her brother sent us.” That was, of course, not the full truth, but if you stretched things a bit it wasn’t a lie, either.
“How far is it?” Dreja asked. “How fast can you get us there?”
Bodge considered. “That’s close to 800 klicks northeast o’ here. If we don’t run into trouble an’ I drive straight through, nine-ten hours. That’s best case, mind. Best case never happens in the Big Red, so figure maybe twelve. Longer if we have any mechanical trouble or run into nasties.”
“We can handle nasties,” Ocelot said, holding up his right hand to show the tip of his cyberspur peeking up past his closed fist.
“Your rig ready to go?” Dreja asked. “Mechanical trouble could be a problem.”
“Mechanical trouble’s always a problem,” Bodge said with a philosophical shrug. “One thing ya learn around here: the Big Red does what it’s gonna do. Ya make the best preparations ya can, but the spirits got their own ideas, y’know? Can’t predict the manastorms, f’rinstance. And I’m bettin’ those are some nasties you and yer mates aren’t prepared for.”
“I’m familiar with manastorms,” Winterhawk said. “I’ve dealt with them before. No promises for the big ones, but I should be able to protect us from a smaller one if it comes up unexpectedly.”
Bodge eyed him. “Well, that makes things a little better,” he admitted. He leaned back and took another long pull on his beer. “Okay, then. So ya want me to take ya out to see this Bluey sheila and then bring ya back. That it?”
Winterhawk nodded. “Theoretically, yes. We need speed and reliability.”
“Reliability I got, and as much speed as anybody gets out here.” He set his glass down and eyed each of them in turn. “Okay, ya got yerself a d
river. Two t’ousand up front, two more when I get ya back. We run into trouble, we talk extra. Yeah?”
Winterhawk nodded. “That’s fine.” He sent the initial payment to the rigger. He probably should have tried to bargain and likely could have secured Bodge’s services for less, but at this point he had neither the desire nor the energy to haggle with the rigger.
“We’ll leave at dawn tomorrow morning.”
Winterhawk’s commlink buzzed; he pulled up the message and found an address, which he sent around to the others. “Why tomorrow?” he asked, frowning. “I’d like to leave now if possible.”
“You are in a hurry, aren’t ya, mate? I’m kinda wonderin’ why yer in such a rush to talk to this Bluey, but none o’ my business long as yer straight with me. ’Sides,” he added, looking them over again, “None o’ you’re ready for the Big Red. Ya gonna need supplies. Here.” He sent Winterhawk another file. “That’s a list of what ya gonna need. I’ll take care of food, water, and fuel, but I ain’t a tour guide—I don’t keep the rest of it on hand. Ya can pick it up between now and then. Tell Morrie I sent ya, and he’ll give ya a discount.”
Dreja leaned forward. “We’ll need another recommendation too, if you got it.”
“Yeah?”
“We had to leave most of our weapons behind—flying commercial, neh? Need to pick up some replacements and ammo.”
Bodge’s blinding teeth flashed in the bar’s dim light as he laughed. “Ah, yeah. The important stuff. Thought ya said no shootin’. But yeah, I get it. Like I said: be prepared. No worries, I got ya covered there, too. No discount this time, though.”
CHAPTER 25
PERTH
MONDAY MORNING
Part of why Kivuli had accepted the job of embedding herself with the shadowrunner team extracting Toby Boyd was that she was promised she could remain local. She had told her employer as a condition of accepting that she had no intention of going anywhere, let alone Australia. The mysterious employer had assured her that if she performed as instructed, she could collect her pay upon delivery of the information and their association would come to a mutually profitable end.