Shadowrun 43 - Fallen Angels

by Stephen Kenson

  Icarus Ascending sustained its reputation as one of Seattle's trendiest restaurants because it served what it classified as elven cuisine: a northwestern fusion of traditional Asian, vegan and Irish/Celtic dishes with some creative reinterpretation. Most of Icarus' patrons chose not to question how a traditional cuisine could exist for a people who'd only been around for fifty years or so. If they thought about it, they usually chose to ignore the question and just enjoy the illusion Icarus created—an opportunity to step out of the mundane world for an hour or two and indulge in something exotic and magical. Naturally, a great many of the restaurant's patrons were humans.

  Midnight hated the place. It was designed to appeal to faerieland wannabes and tradfant elves and dwarfs who wished they came from someplace magical and special. It was a childish fantasy of dashing and beautiful elves playing Celtic harps and living in tree houses, dwarfs in their stout stone halls drinking hearty ales and singing rousing songs. Given the choice, she wouldn't be caught dead in the place, but it didn't surprise her in the slightest that her contact wanted to meet there. And if that was what she needed to do to get the biz, then she could stand it.

  She waited at the bar. It would have been easy to pick him out when he arrived even if she hadn't memorized recent holos of him. He was escorted to his table as if he were visiting royalty, the staff's deference so sickeningly overdone that you'd think they'd never seen an actual elf before—despite the fact that they themselves were elves. Midnight allowed him to settle into his seat and acknowledge the liveried waiter before she picked up her drink, slipped from the bar stool and strolled over.

  She'd chosen her outfit for maximum effect. Rather than her usual close-fitting synthleathers and vest with numerous pockets, she wore a dark Ultrasuede skirt, slit up the side to show a generous amount of leg clad in dark, sheer stockings, and black suede boots with silver toe caps and heel accents. She had left her smooth raven hair down, so that it flowed freely over the shoulders of the deep blue blouse, which was unbuttoned to show some decolletage. A silver necklace with a Celtic knot-work pendant completed the outfit and sent a subtle message of their common heritage. The black synthleather handbag she carried concealed just enough of her usual equipment to make her feel not entirely naked. She didn't expect to need any of it, but she believed in being prepared, especially when walking into an unfamiliar situation.

  "May the shadows fall lightly across your path," she said in greeting. The translation wasn't exact. She spoke in Sperethiel, the elven language, and every word carried multiple layers of meaning. A more traditional greeting would have been to wish the man a bright and joyous day; Midnight's implied a measure of daring and risk, and his answer made it clear he understood her perfectly.

  "May you carry your light with you," he replied in the same language, suggesting the importance of honesty and cooperation among those who walked the dark path together. Midnight nodded her understanding.

  "Won't you please sit?" he asked, switching to slightly accented English, and gesturing to the empty chair across the table from him. Midnight slid into it gracefully, setting her drink on the edge of the table. The man opposite her gave her a long, appraising look.

  "Your facility with our language is quite good for someone who has been away from the Land of Promise for so long," he said. Midnight inclined her head gracefully, refusing to rise to the bait of his implication. She was not interested in playing his little games.

  "Thank you," she said. "I do not have as many opportunities to exercise it as I would like."

  "I can imagine."

  She doubted that. "I'm pleased you agreed to this meeting, Mr. Telestrian. It wasn't necessary for you to come to Seattle."

  "It seemed the most efficient approach," Telestrian said. "How could I refuse such an opportunity? Especially since the invitation came from someone I've heard so much about."

  "Have you? I'm surprised. I would suspect it is forbidden to speak my name."

  "It is," he replied, "but just because something isn't supposed to be done ..." "Doesn't mean that it isn't done," Midnight concluded, and he smiled faintly.

  "Exactly."

  "Which is precisely why we are here," Midnight said, and the man's attitude immediately became more serious.

  "I found your offer . . . intriguing," he said, leaning forward slightly.

  "I thought you might."

  The exceptionally discreet waiter reappeared, and they put their conversation on hold while they ordered. If the waiter took any special notice of the woman dining with the wealthy and influential Timothy Telestrian, he didn't show it. After he withdrew, Telestrian returned his attention to Midnight.

  "I'd like more details on the information you're offering," he said. "I need to know if it will be worth my while."

  "I'll leave that for you to judge," she replied, "once I've placed it in your hands."

  "I would be willing to provide you with a finder's fee," he began, "and have someone else retrieve the information. . . ." Midnight shook her head.

  "I'd rather do this job myself," she said. "And if you want the information, then you need to go through me."

  "A chance to visit home?" he inquired.

  "To take care of some unfinished business," Midnight replied, and Telestrian arched a delicate eyebrow in response.

  "I need to at least know the general nature of this information," he countered.

  "Notes on a research project that was supposed to have been terminated by order of the Council of

  Princes, and evidence that it was not, in direct violation of their edict."

  A slow smile spread across Telestrian's handsome face. "Clear proof of defiance of a Council edict?"

  Midnight nodded. "Plus possible links to similar instances. Certainly enough to start a comprehensive investigation."

  "Possibly implicating others . . . ?"

  Midnight smiled widely. "Possibly."

  "And you're certain you can acquire the information?"

  "I'm sure I can, with your help," Midnight assured him.

  "I cannot be connected with this in any way."

  "Naturally. There will be no reason for your involvement to be revealed."

  "How will you—?" he began, but Midnight gently covered his hand with hers.

  "It's better you don't know," she replied, and he nodded in understanding. "I'll only need a few things that shouldn't be a problem for you to provide, assuming that we have a deal."

  Telestrian looked from Midnight's hand over his to her smiling face, and smiled in return. "I believe that we do," he said. "Shall we toast to the enterprise?"

  "By all means," Midnight said, lifting her glass. "Here's to the resolution of old business . . ."

  ". . . and the creation of new opportunities," Telestrian concluded.

  "I couldn't have put it better myself."

  Glasses clinked, and Midnight threw Timothy Telestrian a smoldering glance over the rim of hers as she sipped her drink. If things went well, the new opportunities would be considerable; far more than just settling some family infighting—but there was no reason he needed to know that.

  Now only one element remained to be put into place.

  8

  The gleaming sword slashed through the air, keeping a steady beat: one, two, three, turn, one, two, three, spin. Tamlin O'Ryan, dressed only in a loose-fitting pair of jeans, performed a deadly dance of flashing steel as he moved up and down the floor of his converted loft, in a warehouse in the district of Seattle called Tarislar, elven for "remembrance." The gleaming sword slashed through the air, keeping a steady beat: one, two, three, turn, one, two, three, spin. Tamlin O'Ryan, dressed only in a loose-fitting pair of jeans, performed a deadly dance of flashing steel as he moved up and down the floor of his converted loft, in a warehouse in the district of Seattle called Tarislar, elven for "remembrance."

  The dying rays of the sun gleamed on the sword's razor-sharp edge as it twisted and turned, as Tamlin hacked at imaginary foes on all sides, movi
ng through the steps of the set with the ease of constant practice and the power of the magic flowing through his body.

  Not all of the Awakened cast spells and summoned spirits. Some, adepts like Tamlin, focused their magical talents inward, on the improvement of body and mind. They gained preternatural strength and speed, sharper senses, amazingly quick reaction times. What other street warriors accomplished using cybernetic implants, adepts achieved with magical power, dedication to their art and training. Some said it made them something other than human, but Tamlin, an elf, had little concern for his "humanity" and little love for humans.

  After all, Tarislar earned its name in memorial of events that took place many years ago, when the "human" government of Seattle rounded up metahumans in the dead of night and forced them into "relocation centers," intending to deport them elsewhere, claiming they were diseased, a threat to public health and safety.

  Tamlin's father was among the first elves born in the world, right around the time of the Awakening. His son knew very little about him. Tom O'Ryan had been a student of history at the University of California-Berkeley, which was where he developed his great love of swords. When he learned he was going to have a son, he bought the unborn baby a toy sword. Tamlin remembered playing with that sword, but the Night of Rage took his father before he was born.

  His mother was human. He remembered in vivid detail what she told him about the armed men coming to their door late at night. He remembered how she and her husband were led away to join the stream of displaced metahumans being herded down to the docks—the crude jokes about her being a "faerie frag-ger," unclean because she was carrying a metahuman's child. He remembered what she told him about the big warehouse, stinking from so many bodies packed together in one place, the sudden explosions, the screaming—

  Tamlin's blade slashed down when the door buzzer sounded. He grabbed the sword's scabbard, sliding the blade back into place with a click, and grabbing the small green towel from the back of the beat-up chair to mop his forehead and neck as he headed for the door. The buzzer sounded again.

  "Yeah, yeah," he muttered, "I'm coming." He draped the towel around his neck and peered through the peephole to see who was there, hand near the hilt of his sword, just in case. After a quick glance, he rolled the door open.

  "Hey, Kellan," he said with a note of surprise.

  "Hey," she said, standing in the doorway. "Can I come in?"

  "Sure," Orion stepped aside. The loft space wasn't very big, but it was almost palatial compared to the standard living space in the run-down elven neighborhood. The high ceilings and skylights made it look bigger, and the space was open enough for Orion to work out. Most of the furniture was secondhand, but a few personal items gave it character here and there: a Celtic-style wall hanging, the place where a spare sword hung from a peg, the blend of neo-Celtic elven and Japanese furniture and decorations.

  Closing the door, Orion asked, "You want anything? Water or something?"

  "Yeah, thanks," she said, and Orion walked the few steps over to the small kitchen, pulling two bottles of water from the fridge. He passed one to Kellan before opening the other one and taking a long gulp.

  "So what's going on?" he asked. He set down the water, threw the towel back over the chair and picked up the tee-shirt draped over the back of his ancient sofa, pulling it on and tugging his ponytail out of the collar.

  "Came to see if you were interested in a job."

  "Yeah? What's cooking?"

  "Data extraction ... in Portland."

  Orion nearly spit out a mouthful of water. He paused and forced himself to swallow, taking a gasping breath.

  "You serious?"

  "Yup," Kellan said. "Midnight has—"

  "Wait a minute, this is Midnight's run?"

  "She's setting it up. Look, I know you're not Midnight's biggest fan . . ." That earned her an incredulous look.

  "You could say that," Orion snorted.

  "But this is business. It's not personal."

  "Does Midnight know you're talking to me?"

  "Yes, of course she does," Kellan said,

  "But she didn't want you to, did she?" There was enough of a pause before Kellan could formulate a response for Orion to pounce. "No, I didn't think so," he concluded.

  "That doesn't matter," Kellan replied, shaking her head. It had taken some convincing to get Midnight to agree to include Orion in the run, but ultimately Kellan had won out.

  "I only go where I'm wanted, Kellan."

  "And I want you on this job. I convinced Midnight you had to come with us."

  "Because I'll blend in?"

  "Because you're the best one for the job," she said firmly. "And because I trust you to have my back."

  Orion regarded her steadily for a moment before his expression softened.

  "Okay," he said, "what's the job?"

  "We go to Portland, do a datasteal, turn over the goods and get out. It'll be for a few days, maybe longer."

  "Midnight tell you who it was for?"

  Kellan shook her head. "Of course not. I'm not even sure she knows."

  "Oh, I'll bet she does. I don't think she would be leaving town for a trip into the Tir without knowing."

  Kellan shrugged. "Hey, it's a good opportunity and—"

  "And I need the work," Orion concluded.

  "Actually, I was going to say, 'And I've always wanted to see Tir Tairngire,' " Kellan replied, "but, yeah, that, too."

  "You might find out Tir Tairngire isn't all it's cracked up to be," Orion said.

  "Have you ever been there?"

  Orion shook his head. "No."

  "Have you ever wanted to go?"

  "I could have lived there if I wanted to. My mom applied for citizenship for me as soon as I was born, and they granted it for me, but they wouldn't grant it for her."

  "Because she was human?" Kellan guessed.

  "Yeah."

  "But there are humans living in Tir Tairngire, aren't there?"

  "Sure, as second-class citizens so the elven nobility have 'peasants' to push around, but they make sure to give priority to their own kind."

  "Okay, so I guess I won't be retiring there," Kellan said. "But it's still a good opportunity and . . ." She shrugged and looked away.

  "And what?"

  "And it's a chance to get out of town for a few days."

  "Because of what happened last night?"

  "Yeah. I think I need to let things cool off for a while."

  "Who is this Akimura slag the Halloweeners were talking about? He must have some pull if he got them to jump." "I guess he does," Kellan said. "Jackie says he used to work for a dragon."

  "A dra—are you fragging serious?"

  Kellan nodded.

  "Wait, 'worked' for a dragon?" Orion asked. "What happened?"

  "It was Dunkelzahn."

  "Damn," the elf said. "So after the dragon got killed?"

  "I dunno. I guess he was still in the game, but who knows?"

  "And you really don't know how you might have crossed him, why he's after you?" Kellan just shrugged, and Orion arched his eyebrows.

  "It was just a job," she said defensively. "We erased some data about him at a cyberclinic."

  "We? As in Midnight?"

  Kellan nodded.

  "Great," Orion muttered.

  "It was a job," Kellan repeated, and he sighed.

  "Okay, you're right, it's probably a good idea for you to get out of town for a while. And if you're going to go to Tir Tairngire with Midnight, you are going to need somebody watching your back. So I'm in."

  Kellan called Midnight to let her know Orion was in, and they agreed to meet early the next morning. Midnight needed to make some arrangements, and Kellan needed to get more of her gear and some rest before they headed out on another run.

  Orion insisted on going home with her, and they rode in close formation down the highway.

  "Akimura might be having your place watched,"

  he cautioned. "It's
the first place anyone would look for you."

  "Assuming they know where I live."

  "Kel, this Akimura slag knew you were at Dante's last night. He gathered intel for a dragon. If he's as hot a fixer as you say, there's probably not a whole lot he doesn't know about you."

  Kellan wondered if Orion was right. How much did Akimura know about her? Was it even safe to go back to her place? She carried most of her essential running gear with her at all times, but she wanted to get more clothes, a spare sidearm, and a few other essentials. That's what she said to Orion, but secretly, she also wanted to find out if her home was still there. She'd worked hard to carve out her own small piece of success, to make a home for herself in Seattle, and the idea of it being violated made her angry.

  Why was this drekhead making this into a vendetta anyway? Anyone working the shadows knew you didn't make business personal. She didn't have anything against him. Hell, she didn't even know who he was, even after the run, until G-Dogg told her. She would have been just as happy working for him protecting that data, if he'd been willing to pay. It wasn't personal until someone made it that way.

  They pulled up outside Kellan's place in Puyallup. It was getting dark, so the streets were rapidly emptying, the daytime inhabitants of the area retreating behind locked doors as the nighttime populace of the Barrens stirred. Soon there would be fires burning on street corners to illuminate the night, and shouts, laughter and gunfire interrupting the residents' sleep. Even the edge of the Barrens, where Kellan lived, was mostly lawless. The police weren't paid to patrol or respond to calls in the area, so nothing short of a full-scale riot would get any official response.

  They stowed and locked up their bikes before heading upstairs. Orion wore his sword and pistol openly, and Kellan found her hand straying close to her own gun as they entered the lobby of the run-down building and she keyed open the cheap maglock with her credstick. Her apartment was a third-floor walk-up, as (he elevator in the building had long since broken down and nobody bothered to fix it.

  The ork couple on the second floor was having dinner, or arguing, or both. One of their several children was wailing loudly, and Kellan winced at the deep voice yelling for the kid to shut up. She wondered for a moment if it was the mother or the father. Probably the mother, but she had a hard time telling the deep, accented voices apart.