Powell had learned the art of psychometry from his teacher while very young, and when he’d moved to Aztlan, he learned how to use his own blood, his life force, to increase and magnify that spell by ten. Most people didn’t understand blood magic. They couldn’t see beyond what was perceived as a barbaric practice.
But he did. He understood the importance of blood. Its power. Its elegance. Blood contained the record of a being’s life. The DNA—a sort of Akashic Record of a person’s life. Combine that with his ability to sense emotions by touching objects that had come in direct contact with that person—
And what better vehicle than the blood of the woman and the floor where it spilled? A window into her very soul.
With a quick “sense” of his surroundings, sure that the surveillance cameras and guards were either off or at their posts, Powell drew the small, silver knife he kept handy at his belt, knelt in the center of the dried bloodstain, and pulled his left sleeve back.
Holding the knife over the correct vein, at the right angle and applying the precise pressure—as not to sever his vein and cause exsanguination, he closed his eyes, took in three deep breaths and half whispered the words of power, the spell that would allow him to see what she saw, and to feel what she felt.
At the precise moment, he cut and let his blood join hers on the floor. Opening his eyes, he looked down at the mingling, his astral vision taking in the brilliant reds of anger and fear, the purple of magic, and the yellow of flight. He plunged both of his hands into his spilled blood, moving it around on the floor like a child with a finger painting, his blood interacting with and releasing the dried remains of hers.
The reaction was almost immediate, and his vision kicked backward. He breathed heavily and blinked several times, dizzy from the movement of contact. He was looking through her eyes, seeing what she’d seen before her death.
They were moving slowly down the darkened hall. There was a big man in front of her, dressed in black. Very few details presented themselves. He could tell the man’s head was shaved, and there were scars, some chrome, evidence of enhancements. But the man kept his face averted from her as he led her to a door.
“Is this it?” she asked, and Powell could feel the vibration of her voice inside of his own chest.
“Yeah,” the man answered. “Now you just stay here and keep that shield active, okay? Keep those guards blind to what I’m doing.”
Powell felt her nod, and then she was alone in the hallway. He lost his own balance as she whipped her head from the left to the right. His heart rate increased, and he knew she was frightened. It felt like an eternity before her companion stumbled back out of the room.
She put her hand on him, and he pulled away. “Cole? What’s wrong? What happened? Did you get it?”
“That bastard…” the man said, and Powell saw his face for an instant. Wide, vein-lined, pockmarked skin, and the telltale gleam of cybereyes. He committed the image to his memory.
“Call Jack,” the woman said. “Something’s gone wrong, hasn’t it? Cole…what were you doing? Who were you talking to? Oh my god, you’re—”
And then Powell saw the gun, the black muzzle opening wide in front of his eyes. He yelled as he pulled back, retrieving his astral being from the emotion before it pulled him in.
He opened his eyes, panting heavily. He lay on his back, his bloodied hands in the air. Had he seen that right? Her own companion had killed her? His name was Cole…and he’d shot her.
It was obvious they were shadowrunners. And one had turned on the other.
So, how did the fake Morimoto fit into this?
Powell sat up, the spell’s magic lingering around him like soft, errant fireflies. His magic, combined with the woman’s, refused to disperse immediately. He pushed himself to his feet, a bit unsteady, and started to retrieve a handkerchief from his back pocket when his now magically enhanced sight caught wavering images a foot away from him.
Powell moved forward carefully as blood sensed blood. He could smell it, taste it, see it, feel it. He knew there was blood there, he had seen it marked off before starting the ritual, but here was something only forensics and magic could tell him.
This blood did not belong to the woman.
Powell looked around, his eyes red-rimmed as the magic pulled him closer. This blood bore something he’d not seen in a long time.
Markings.
Blood always contained the genetic marker of its maker, that of the parent. But this blood held something else. Something Powell couldn’t identify immediately. His heart raced as he knelt at the small, dried area closest to the wall.
With a deep breath he pushed his bloodied hands into this blood—the connection was instantaneous. The magic rushing through his body revealed the evidence of something…of someone wounded, and abruptly he was behind that person’s eyes.
Powell yelled out as a huge white wolf jumped at him, but he turned and moved away. The wolf vanished, and he was running up a flight of steps. Pain seared his side, and he grabbed at it, the hurt nearly taking his breath away—
He was shot!
Stumbling to the left, and then the right, Powell grew more confused as the person’s direction continued to shift, as if he wasn’t sure where to go. And then he was on the floor, looking into the dead girl’s face, the bullet hole visible between her eyes, the blood pooling on the tile below her.
And then Powell was out, inside of himself, lying on his back again. His breathing ragged, the dwarf muttered calming spells as he blinked rapidly, trying to clear his vision. And as he pushed himself up into a sitting position, he saw something swirling in the blood on the floor, on his hands, on the wall—
A face he didn’t recognize spoke to him, a woman with hair the color of fire.
“The Soldier will come with weapons of truth, and Dark Resonance shall fall beneath the love of knowledge.”
He had no idea how long he sat on that floor, only that it took some time before he could sit up without wanting to vomit. He pushed himself against the wall and took in several deep breaths as he thought about all he’d seen.
But now Powell had a story—a ribbon of events.
The girl had a partner who had left her alone for a time. And then he’d killed her. At some point the third person, whose blood he’d just tasted, was wounded, shot in the side, and he touched his right side, where the pain still echoed. Then he’d stumbled and seen the girl’s body before escaping the Annex.
Standing, Powell found the handkerchief by the door and rubbed what blood he could off. He was going to need a cleansing shower as soon as possible. He pulled his commlink from his pocket and slipped the monocle on. Booting up, he found a halfway decent signal and logged into his AR.
He typed up what he saw as it was fresh in his mind, including the prophecy. He already knew those words—they were the bane of his employer’s existence. Caliban feared only one thing—the prophecy of his shaman. The foretelling of his death. Powell had heard those words again—spoken by the passing spirit of a shaman, within the mingled blood of one who he believed was a technomancer.
Was it possible this one, this technomancer, was the Soldier? And what would Powell be rewarded if he brought him to the feet of Caliban, wounded, or even dead?
He smiled as he encrypted the missive and sent it off.
The reward would be exactly what Powell wanted.
To see the Resonance Realms—and become a god.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
GiTm0
Welcome back to GiTm0, omae; your last connection was 6 hours, 8 minutes, 4 seconds ago
BOLOs
Just a reminder—this board’s got less than six hours before it terminates in your comms. Send your sprites out twenty-four hours after that for the new link.
New names received in conjunction with missing technomancers: LexieXXX, Xomar, and Gimmenuyen. Full list available [Link][Guest] but don’t read the list online. And don’t forget, these runners are out for the nuyen, and they don�
��t give a damn about us.
IMPORTANT: ALERT!
Everyone, listen up! EasterBunnyun tried to expose this board—but luckily Shyammo thought he might try something like that. Because the piece of drek is still out there and angry, we’re going to be mixing up our online presence a bit. We’ve been contacted by someone who wants to sponsor us on an incredibly secure host—one the corps can’t hack. Neither can people like Easter. We’re still going over the contracts, crossing our Ts and dotting our Is. But if this works out, we should be able to deliver more information to our cause.
So those who have given Easter any real world information—hide now. He’s apparently in league with Renraku. He’s not your friend; he is your enemy. And if you can, change your handle and then contact Shyammo. She’ll go through the re-approval process.
Remember, GOD is always watching.
NeW oNLiNE
* About two hours ago we were given a series of pictures and a short vid clip of what happened to HipOldMan. If you click on this link and watch, please download and feed to every outlet you can think of. Add the following information:
The images you see are real. This is not a joke. Contagion Games is riddled with dissonance. We believe this is a condition created on purpose by the host administrator, Bellex. If you are a technomancer, stay away from the Contagion host. So far we’ve lost over fifty to this host. This isn’t in the media, and it never will be if we don’t put it there.
To be clear, this is a trap. Stay away from the Contagion host.
DISSONANCE
>>>>Open Thread/Subhost561.768.1
>>>>Thread Access Restrictions:
>>>>Format:
>>>>File Attachment:
>>>>Thread Descriptor: STAY AWAY
>>>>Thread Posted By User: Shyammo
> Again guys. As soon as you view it, if you can, feed it out with that paragraph. It’s got code worked into the vid that’ll allow any technomancer with only a single submersion under them to see the coordinates for the host.
> RoxJohn
> What. The. Hell? Did the game eat him? What about his body? That was just his persona, wasn’t it?
> 404Flames
> He’s also physically missing. Now you see why we’re cautious. Evidently whatever that ichor is, and Shyammo is certain it’s dissonance, it’s got the same kind of software working for it that GOD has when they pinpoint your location. Keep all IPs spoofed and rotate them.
> RoxJohn
> Rox, you got any more on this deal you’re working on?
> MoonShine
> Oh dear god. That was horrible. I’ve encrypted it, tagged it and sent it, Rox. I’m also working on a protocol to follow a loop if the tag isn’t opened. It’ll just kick the vid to them again from a different IP.
> LongTong
> Can’t right now, Moon. And it’s good to see you!
> RoxJohn
> Good to see you too. Can I contact you or Shyammo offline?
> MoonShine
> Mine’s sent, too.
> Silk
> Ditto.
> 404Flames
> Anyone got anything else on that Horizon murder? They’re really not running that in the media, not like I thought they would.
> LongTong
> Yeah. Send to Shy first. She’s online a lot more than I am.
> RoxJohn
> Sent. I copied Long’s idea.
> Venerator
> I’m not changing my handle just for that piece of drek. Anyone in the mood to look for Easter, send me a PM.
> 404Flames
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Hitori Tetsu’s Apartment
Los Angeles
Early Saturday Morning
Hitori Tetsu’s apartment was just outside of Ares’ home office buildings near the Mega-Tri. Even with the late—or early—hour, depending on one’s lifestyle, denizens were out and about. A few troll and human groups. An ork and two dwarves standing on the corner, each in their own Augmented Reality.
Mack, Shayla, Slamm-0!, and Preacher stood on opposing sides of the street, watching the quaint, two-story building where Hitori Tetsu lived. For the past half hour, they’d seen no movement inside or outside. Slamm-0! was busy hacking into the apartment, so they were all waiting for him.
Preacher was stationed around the rear in the alley near a convenience store and reported in his fifteen-minute interval of all clear.
No Stuffer Shacks in this neighborhood. No, this was the classier stuff. Packaged foods here were made of the real thing—nothing synthetic. Or man made. All natural. Organic.
Snorting, Mack blinked once to call up his AR and focused through his night vision. Still nothing.
The code was simple really. David—that was himself. Goliath—well that was Preacher without saying. Spike was Slamm-0!. Shayla’s code was Goldilocks. And since her name wasn’t called, she would stay in place.
Slamm-0! was already in place near the entrance, and Mack just told Preacher to move and meet him there.
A chilled breeze brushed the sweat beading on Mack’s upper lip. October in Los Angeles.
Mack checked both sides of the street and stayed close to the shadows. Shrubbery, neatly trimmed and watered, surrounded the ground floor, preventing any easy window access, but it did allow for deeper shadows.
Once Mack was in place, he took up a position outside the side door and waited for Spike to use his key. Within a few seconds, the door clicked, and Mack yanked it open and stepped inside. Luckily, the interior lighting didn’t come on as was typically programmed into these luxury buildings. The AR systems usually activated to the tenant’s RFID tag, or saved preference files, and changed its surroundings to virtually meet its clients’ visual needs. Of course, they had to log into AR to get the system’s full impact—but who wasn’t always logged in nowadays?
There was enough subdued lighting along the baseboards to show him the carpet was a soft, plush beige. His boots sunk into it, muffling any sound he would have made. The apartment was on the second floor. Pausing at the stairs, he tapped the button on his AR again.
“Yeah,” a soft, purring voice said behind him. “I did. Spike’s right behind me.”
Mack stifled a yelp as he spun around to see the large combat mage standing beside him. “God….” he hissed. “Don’t do that.”
“Sorry, boss,” Preacher said as he pointed at the floor. “But this carpet makes it real easy to be quiet.” He smiled around his tusks. “I like it. Might put it in my lake house.”
The side door opened again, and Slamm-0! stepped in to join them, weapon ready. Wires trailed from his temple to the bag strapped to his hip—he was still in the building’s host.
Mack motioned them to follow as he ascended the steps.
On the second floor, it was easy to find Hitori Tetsu’s apartment just two doors down. Mack looked at Slamm-0!, and after a few seconds the apartment door popped open. Pulling out one of his Predators, Mack pushed the door ajar with the barrel and waited a few seconds before stepping inside.
Once he, Slamm-0! and Preacher were in the front door, Mack closed it. That triggered the domestic reality.
The lights came on and a pleasant sounding voice spoke in Japanese, then re-spoke again in English.
“Welcome, Hitori—it has been five hours, twelve minutes, and eight seconds since your last visit. Your preferences file is corrupted. Please restate preferred temperature, ambiance, and aroma.”
Mack turned and looked back at Preacher, who shrugged. These systems usually came equipped with different kinds of alarms that could trigger by either responding—or not responding.
So…which to do?
Slamm-0! spoke first. “Temp at seventy-six Fahrenheit, ambiance,
daytime mid-afternoon, and aroma, vanilla cinnamon.” He paused. “Light on the cinnamon.”
Preacher turned slowly and looked back at him. “Vanilla cinnamon?”
“Girls typically like the smell,” the hacker said as he moved past Preacher and into the living room. “Better than stale.”
Mack didn’t go any further in. “Did that voice say Hitori’s last visit was five hours ago?”
“Yeah, it did,” Slamm-0! replied. “You think she’s been here and not missing?”
“Or her brother was here earlier.” Preacher pointed at the ceiling. “Someone’s paying to keep this place open.”
The apartment expanded before them as the doorway emptied out onto a large living area. The carpet here, like that in the hall, was deep and plush. Mack resisted the sudden urge to remove his boots and sink his bare feet into it. The apartment’s general coloring was light pink, with soft whites and pastel blues and greens. He checked his AR, and realized he was receiving the present environment. Two clicks, and the coloring changed to deep maroon and forest green. The carpet kept its tactile feel of thick, but the appearance went from white to gold.
“This environment app is state-of-the art,” Mack said. “I could use this in my club.”
“Well,” Preacher said softly. “From my perspective, it’s all sort of generic.” He lowered his weapon as he walked into the kitchen. “And unused.”
That made sense, since Preacher wasn’t using his commlink to receive the apartment environment controls. Preacher used as little technology as possible while on a run, or a simple B&E. That way he wasn’t hindered if he needed to use a bit of magic.
At first, Mack was blinded by the beauty of the place. The floor to ceiling windows looked out over a complex garden and pond. The U-shaped couch faced a soft, crackling gas fire set inside a wide fireplace of smooth cream and caramel-colored slate. It wasn’t until Preacher commented about a tea cup on the low oak coffee table that Mack shut off his AR.
Shadowrun: Dark Resonance Page 12