Shadowrun: Borrowed Time

by R. L. King

  Winterhawk took a few deep breaths. It was tiring to talk; even the minimal effort left him feeling like he’d just run a kilometer alongside the Bison. It’s the spirit, he realized; it was constantly testing his defenses, sapping his strength, especially now that most of the compound keeping it at bay had been exhausted.

  “His name is Richard Ortega,” he said wearily. “He’s with Aztechnology. He heads up some sort of highly experimental magical R&D lab. One of those ‘ends justify the means’ types with very little regard for anything but his own ambitions. He’s tried to hire me in the past, but I turned him down. Wasn’t too tactful about it, either.” He closed his eyes as a tide of grayness rose and threatened to engulf him. The shadow inside him shifted, and he groaned.

  “I—” Scuzzy began, but broke off. Then, with more certainty: “But if it’s a spirit that’s doing this to you, can’t we just find somebody to get rid of it? Can’t you get rid of it, now that you know what it is? Or that cat-thing of yours?”

  Winterhawk rolled his head back and forth without opening his eyes. “No. I don’t think it’s that sort of spirit. It’s not a possession. It’s more…insidious than that. Subtle. I might be able to work something out if I could go over the entire ritual in that file you have, but I don’t think we’ve got time for that. And without the exact knowledge of what it is, trying to remove it would probably kill me instantly.”

  “So—what’s that mean?” he asked. “There’s nothing you can do? It’s just gonna—”

  “—kill me. Yes, it appears so.” He bowed his head, closing his eyes. He felt tired, numb, disassociated, as if this were all happening to someone else. After everything that had happened, all they had been through, it had come to this. If he was honest with himself, he would be forced to admit that some part of his subconscious had suspected something like this was going to happen all along. He’d been pushing the thought back, avoiding it, but there had never been any logical reason for the Johnson to concern himself with things like antidotes, or keeping his word, once he had what he wanted. Especially now that Winterhawk knew who the man behind the puppet Johnson was and who he worked for—Aztechnology had no great love for him in the first place, and Richard Ortega was the worst kind of enemy: one who had been nursing a long-term vendetta. It wasn’t business for him—it was personal. A way to get something he wanted and get rid of an old enemy at the same time.

  He opened his eyes again, reaching out to touch the box containing the artifact. He imagined he could feel it thrumming under his hand, even though that wasn’t possible with the precautions he’d taken before they left the Gypsies. The Bison rumbled and jounced beneath him, moving as quickly as Bodge dared to push it on the uncertain Outback roads.

  Moving quickly so they could get back to Perth, where they would catch a plane back to Seattle and deliver the artifact to Johnson.

  Like hell they would.

  Suddenly, Winterhawk felt a rage growing inside him that had nothing to do with the spirit, or poison, or whatever the hell it was that was slowly destroying him. He sat up straight, snatching up the box.

  Scuzzy jerked in his seat, startled. “What—?”

  He paid no attention to the decker. Standing wasn’t easy, especially with the Bison bouncing around like a boat on a choppy sea. Bracing himself against the wall with one hand and holding the box with the other, he moved with steady determination toward the front where the others sat.

  Ocelot and Dreja, who’d been slouched in their seats, looked up as he came in. “’Hawk?” Ocelot asked. “What’s going on?”

  “Tell Bodge to stop,” Winterhawk said through gritted teeth. He gripped the back of one of the seats, but didn’t let go of the box.

  “What?” Dreja demanded. Both of them twisted in their seats. “We can’t stop. We need to get you and that thing back to—”

  “No,” he said. “We don’t. Tell him to stop.” He let the anger, the frustration, the rage at the Johnson’s actions course through him, because for now it seemed to be shoring up his fading strength. Maybe it was just psychological, and in any case he knew it wouldn’t last long, but right now he’d take whatever he could get.

  Dreja fiddled with her commlink, and after a moment the big vehicle slowed and pulled off the road. Bodge appeared in the doorway to the driver’s compartment. “What’s goin’ on?” he asked. “Why we stoppin’? I thought ya were in a big hurry ta get back.”

  Winterhawk set the box down on the seat, still using the back to hold himself up. “I need to find a koradji. The more powerful, the better. Do you know of any Aborigine groups based near here who might know of someone?”

  Ocelot and Dreja were both looking at him like he’d gone crazy. “What the hell—?” Ocelot began.

  Winterhawk ignored him, fixing his burning, fever-bright gaze on Bodge. “Well? Do you?”

  Bodge looked confused. “Uh—maybe, yeah. I think so. Thuma’s group’s not far.”

  “How far?”

  He shrugged. “I dunno. Maybe a hundred, hundred-fifty klicks or so? They move around, but I think I remember some mates doin’ a supply run out ta them a couple of weeks ago. They might be stayin’ put for a little while. Why, though?”

  “Can you take us to them?”

  Everybody stared at Winterhawk. “’Hawk,” Ocelot said, getting up, “Come on. I know you’re feelin’ like drek right now, but we gotta go. You said yourself, there’s not much time.”

  “The situation’s changed,” Winterhawk said. He sagged a little over the back of the seat. “We’re not taking this to the Johnson.”

  “What?” Ocelot crossed the space and got into the mage’s face. “’Maybe you better explain what’s going on. Now.”

  Winterhawk looked past him to the rigger. “My show, remember? Take us to them, Bodge.”

  The rigger shrugged. “Whatever,” he said. “Yer the boss.” He disappeared back into the cab, and after a moment the Bison rumbled back onto the road, turned around, and began heading back the way it had come.

  Winterhawk picked up the box and dropped into the seat, holding it in his lap. Ocelot, Dreja, and Scuzzy clustered around him. “We’re taking this back to someone who can make sure it ends up where it belongs,” he said. He didn’t look at them. He didn’t want to think about it, or about what was inevitably going to happen. At this point, if there was nothing he could do to stop it, he just wanted to get it over with.

  “Why?” Dreja asked.

  “Something’s changed,” Ocelot said, his eyes narrowing. He glanced at Scuzzy, then back at Winterhawk. “He told you something, didn’t he? When he was back there with you.”

  Wearily, the mage nodded.

  “What’d you tell him?” Ocelot turned on Scuzzy, his voice a low growl.

  “Leave him alone. All he did was track down the truth I should have realized a long time ago,” Winterhawk said. “And if it’s the last thing I do—and it might well be—I’m going to make sure that bastard Ortega doesn’t get what he wants.” He still wasn’t looking at them, but he made a vague gesture in Scuzzy’s direction. “Show them the files. I’d rather not explain.”

  It got quiet in the passenger compartment as Dreja and Ocelot both skimmed Scuzzy’s data. Ocelot slammed his fist down onto the arm of his seat, denting it. “Frag!” he snapped. “’Hawk, I—”

  Winterhawk shook his head. “None of that,” he said. “We don’t have time. Let’s just do this, and then—”

  “Hey, guys.” Tiny angled his bulky frame out of the cab. “What’s goin’ on? I was takin’ a nap, and Bodge says we turned around. How come? Don’t we have to get that thing back to Seattle pronto?”

  “Plan’s changed,” Dreja said in a monotone.

  “Huh?”

  “Look,” Winterhawk said, getting up with care, “I’m not feeling much like talking right now, if you don’t mind. I’m going back to lie down for a bit. Wake me when we get where we’re going, all right?”

  Ocelot nodded numbly. “Yeah…oka
y.”

  Tiny’s confused gaze followed Winterhawk as he disappeared into the rear compartment and closed the door. “What’s up with him? Why’d the plan change?”

  Ocelot and Dreja didn’t answer. Finally, Scuzzy updated him with the short version of the latest developments.

  Tiny dropped into a seat across from them. He thought for a moment, then pointed back toward where Winterhawk had gone. “You mean—there’s nothing we can do to get him outta this alive?”

  “Doesn’t look like it,” Ocelot said without looking at him. He gripped the arms of his seat to keep from launching himself up out of it and pacing around like a caged tiger. He’d never been good with confinement, and the Bison, with its minimal windows and armored walls, was becoming oppressive. It wasn’t the vehicle, though, and he knew it: it was the situation. He wanted to hit something, put his fist through it and release the pent-up energy rising inside that made him want to start yelling at the world. Fragging corps never changed, and this time, after all the runs they’d pulled, the bullet had finally found its mark in one of his oldest friends. And there wasn’t a fragging thing he could do about it.

  Tiny was silent for a long time, staring out the small window. Then he said, “Why are we doing this, then?”

  “Huh?” Scuzzy asked. He looked up from where he’d been fiddling idly with his deck.

  “Why are we takin’ this thing to some Aborigine magic-man?”

  Ocelot shrugged. “Because that’s what ’Hawk wants to do. What, you want to give it to the Johnson? You need cred that bad?” His voice took on a dangerous edge.

  “Nah, not Johnson,” Tiny said, unperturbed. “Frag, if somebody screwed me over that bad, I wouldn’t want to give him what he wanted either. But…”

  “But?” Dreja asked, leaning forward. Her tone was the same as Ocelot’s. Even the normally oblivious Scuzzy flinched back a little.

  “Look,” the samurai said, his own voice taking on a tinge of stubbornness. “I know the guy’s your chummer. This whole thing sucks, and I’m sorry about that. But drek happens. People get fragged on runs sometimes.” He glanced back toward the rear compartment. “But that thing he’s got—it’s worth a fraggin’ fortune. You heard what he said about it: it’s ancient and magic, which means a lot of people would pay a lot of cred for it.” He glared at them. “If takin’ it back to his Johnson isn’t gonna do a damn thing to help him—if he’s gonna die anyway, why can’t we just take it and—”

  He didn’t get to finish because Ocelot was right there in his face, one hand grabbing the front of his shirt, the other balled into a fist and poised a centimeter from his face. “You’re gonna want to shut up,” Ocelot snarled. “You don’t know how much I want to put my fist through something right now, and you’re lookin’ like a real good candidate.”

  Tiny roared, moving every bit as fast as Ocelot, flinging him back into the wall on the other side of the compartment. He erupted out of his chair, fists raised. “Don’t you frag with me, man!” he yelled. “You ain’t in charge of this job, and your friend ain’t gonna care what happens to that thing. I say we get what we can out of it, not just hand it over to a bunch of—”

  There was a click. “Try it,” Dreja said. Her tone was even, controlled, but her own rage came through nonetheless. “Just try it, and see how far you get.”

  Ocelot scrambled out of Tiny’s grip and got upright again to see Dreja holding her SMG pointed at Tiny’s head, only a few centimeters away.

  “Hey, back there!” came Bodge’s voice over the PA. “No fightin’ in my rig!”

  “We got this,” Dreja called back. She fixed a level gaze on Tiny. The gun barrel didn’t waver. “Right?”

  He glared at her. “Yeah, I got it.” His mouth twisted into a sneer. “You’re all for this too, I see. Nothin’ but a fraggin’ hypocrite, aren’t you?”

  “What the hell’s that supposed to mean?” she demanded.

  He shook his head as if dismissing her. “You think I don’t listen. You think I’m just dumb muscle. But I know the only reason you’re on this job in the first place is ’cuz you owe some mob boss big cred. I heard of you—I know you usually only take jobs helpin’ metas, or fraggin’ over corps. You got standards. You make a big deal outta that, like you’re somethin’ special. Until you owe somebody, then all your high ideals just go right in the crapper, don’t they?”

  He reached up and shoved her gun barrel away from him. “Don’t talk to me about ideals, sister. You need the cred too, and you know it. So what’s it gonna be? We sell the thing and get a big payoff, or we give it to a bunch of natives who’ll probably stick it in a cave and dance around it or somethin’, at least till somebody else with some balls takes it from ’em?”

  Ocelot watched both of them, his muscles quivering with the desire to get his hands around the ork bastard’s neck and squeeze. He looked back and forth between Tiny and Dreja, watching the interplay of emotions on her face as she digested what the samurai had said. He didn’t look at Scuzzy; the decker didn’t count in this. If Dreja decided to side with Tiny, though, Ocelot wasn’t sure he could take them both. But he was sure he’d try, if it came to that.

  Finally, Dreja lowered her gun and returned it to its holster with a loud sigh.

  “What’s it gonna be?” Tiny asked again. “Pay off the monkey on your back, or live up to some code you’ve already broken?”

  She glanced toward Ocelot, then back toward the closed door to the rear compartment. She shrugged. “Maybe I did break it,” she said. “But that doesn’t mean I gotta keep breakin’ it.”

  Ocelot let his breath out; he hadn’t even realized he’d been holding it.

  Tiny snorted. “Fine,” he said. “We do it your way.” He looked over at Scuzzy, who had skittered over into a corner when the fighting had started. “What about you, twerp? You goin’ along with this?”

  “Yeah,” he said, as if there were no question about it. “You gotta be a pretty fraggin’ crappy person to sell out a teammate for cred.”

  Tiny glared at him, poised for a moment as if he might lunge at the skinny decker. Ocelot and Dreja both stiffened, preparing to intercept him if he did. The tension held for a few beats, and then Tiny let out a loud, contemptuous snort. He stalked across the compartment and threw himself into the seat farthest from the rest of them.

  “You people are all morons.”

  CHAPTER 33

  WESTERN AUSTRALIA

  TUESDAY MORNING

  Nobody spoke much as the Bison motored across the unceasing red dust of the Outback. Tiny remained sullenly slouched in his seat, occasionally muttering to himself until he finally nodded off. Ocelot noticed Dreja was keeping as close a watch on the ork samurai as he was; he didn’t trust Tiny not to try something. Scuzzy had taken over the shotgun seat up front. The door to the rear compartment remained closed.

  Ocelot glanced over at Dreja. , he sent, nodding at the dozing Tiny. Then he got up and opened the rear door.

  It was dark inside; all the lights in the small compartment were turned off. Ocelot’s low-light cybereyes adjusted, quickly picking out the form stretched out on one of the two tiny bunks. Maya was curled up on top of the box next to the bunk. “’Hawk?”

  He half-expected the mage not to answer, but he did. “Yes?” He sounded ragged and tired.

  “We’re almost there. Few more klicks. You doing all right?”

  “Not really.” He sat up and switched on the light next to him. His face was pale, his eyes sunken deep into shadowy hollows. He indicated the box, idly letting his hand trail over Maya’s back. “That thing wants something,” he said. His voice was soft, contemplative, almost like he was talking to himself.

  Ocelot sat down across from him. “What do you mean, it wants something?”

  “I felt it when we first got it. There’s a sort of—pull to it. I can’t explain it better than that. I think it’s connected to something else.”

  “Uh…
okay. So what does that mean for us?”

  Winterhawk shook his head. “Nothing, probably. Perhaps the koradji will know what it means.”

  Ocelot said nothing, watching him for a long moment. “Is it dangerous to have it?” he asked at last. “Is whatever it’s connected to gonna come after it?”

  “No idea.” His voice held none of the usual animated curiosity he displayed when talking about any sort of magical subject. “Probably best to just hand it off to someone who can deal with it and get the hell away from it.”

  “Do you think Johnson knew about this—connection?”

  “Now, that’s the odd bit.” Winterhawk straightened a little, his expression troubled. “I was examining some more of those files that Scuzzy retrieved. It looks like Ortega and Boyd were old University friends. As nearly as I can determine, Boyd was fairly ignorant about extractions and whatnot. I think he just contacted Ortega because he was the only person he knew who might have the means and the desire to get him out.”

  “I’m not following. Did Boyd know about the connection?”

  Winterhawk shook his head impatiently. “I don’t know. My guess is that he didn’t. But here’s my question, which becomes a lot more important now, with this new knowledge: who was Kivuli working for?”

  Ocelot started to say something, then stared. “Holy drek, you’re right. It doesn’t make sense that she’d be working for the Johnson. Why would he sabotage his own op? All this time we’ve been thinking that Kivuli was just after Boyd, but…”

  “Exactly,” Winterhawk agreed. “If Ortega’s two aims were to get hold of this thing and get rid of me, the easiest way to achieve both was just to let us succeed. Sending someone after us would just increase the chance that the item would be lost or destroyed.” He shifted in his seat, wincing. “Even if Kivuli was trying to get Boyd away from us long enough to retrieve the location from his headware, why hire a backup group?”

  “Maybe Ortega thought you’d catch on and try to screw him over? I mean, it’s not like Aztechnology’s hurting for funds to hire runners.”