“I found three probables and another four possibles,” said Hare, when the Hatter returned a week later. He placed a chip in the middle of the chessboard. “All the right age and height; after forty years, everything else is subject to change, and none of the photos are more than ten years old. I ran searches on these seven to see what else I could find. I haven’t been able to get complete records from before twenty-nine, but all of the probables would have been students at about the right time, doing bio or chem, and they’ve been driving for as far back as the records go, without anything worse than a parking ticket. Two of the probables and three of the possibles are still alive. See what you think.”
The Hatter nodded, and slotted the chip into his datajack without lifting his gaze from the chessboard. A minute later, he nodded. “Peter Nguyen,” he said. “It’s him. I’ll bet on it.”
“How much?”
‘I'm a little short on cash at present, so . . . fifty thou?”
“You’re that confident?”
“Army reservist, degree in pharmacology, worked for DocWagon for a few years in a crisis-response team, volunteered at Bridge Hospital, mainstream politics . . . Out of all of these, he’s the one I’d have hired for a job like that.”
Hare looked at him warily, then shook his head. Recruiting scientists—sometimes at gunpoint—was the Hatter’s specialty. “No bet.”
The Hatter smiled and shrugged. “As you say, it was forty years ago. The records are nowhere near complete: there might have been dozens of possibles who’ve dropped out of sight in that time . . . and I might be bluffing. But make it ten thousand, if you’re nervous.”
“One thousand. I’ve had a run of bad luck on the tables lately.”
“Done. Mr. Nguyen lives in Covington. Shall we pay him a visit?”
Peter Nguyen looked his visitors up and down, making a quick and inadequate estimate of the cost of their suits, shoes and long coats. “Sorry the place is a mess,” he said mildly, with a nod at the ancient sofa. The cats sitting there took a quick look at the guests and skittered off to their favorite hiding places.
Hare had established that Nguyen and his wife had separated barely a year after the last of their children had married, and that the workaholic Nguyen had moved to a smaller apartment and lived alone since then—except for three cats. Hare knew a little about them, too, from hacking into Nguyen’s credstick records and taking a quick glance at his spending habits. Nguyen had extensive security coverage at the drugstore he owned, including an armed guard posted outside, but his home was protected by only door and window alarms and basic maglocks. The Hatter felt fairly sure that Nguyen wouldn’t break the law by keeping any unlicensed guns more lethal than a stun gun or a narcoject—in short, the pharmacist was no threat to them. The apartment was clean and tidy, if somewhat shabby, and a faint scent of incense disguised any cat smells. The Hatter sat down gingerly on the sofa, removed his black silk top hat, and looked at his host.
Nguyen’s appearance made the Hatter think of an Asian monk, maybe a Shaolin. In addition to being nearly bald, he looked much younger than his sixty-one years, and was obviously fit and alert. No cyberware apart from his eyes and a datajack. The Hatter managed to keep a pleasant smile on his pale face as he considered the best approach to getting the information he wanted. “Mr. Nguyen, we’re sorry to intrude on you at home, but we’re looking for people who worked at the ORO biotech labs in 2021. Were you ever employed there?”
Nguyen sat down in an ancient bamboo chair, and the largest of the cats crept into his lap. “The lab down in Puyallup? Yes, I was there for a while, back when I was in college.”
“We’re looking for something sent out of the lab the day it was destroyed. A courier was supposed to take a container to the airport to ship to another lab, but that container was never delivered.”
Nguyen held up his hands as though surrendering. “Not my fault. The airport was sealed off before I even got close. National Guard had taken it over because of the riots. They’d been going on for a while by this time—we’d already lost the landline, nothing but our cell phones and radios, and were on emergency power when I left.”
“You were the courier?”
“Yes, that’s right.”
The Hatter glanced at Hare, smiling broadly, then turned back to Nguyen. “What did you do when you discovered the airport was closed?”
“Drove back to the lab. But by the time I got there, the rioters had already broken through the fence and gotten inside. I wasn’t armed, so I didn’t go in. There was a security guard lying unconscious in the street outside, so I rushed her to the nearest hospital. There were troops guarding the hospital, so I let them know I was with the reserves. They teamed me up with a paramedic and promoted me to ambulance driver.”
The Hatter nodded. “And the container? It was still in your car?”
“Yeah. I probably should have given it to someone at the hospital, but I forgot about it until they sent me down to Hell’s Kitchen and I drove past the warehouse.”
“What warehouse?”
Nguyen blinked, then smiled. “Monolith. They made the hazmat containers we used at the lab. I saw the logo on the sign outside, and I thought, if anyone could look after the stuff, they could. I’d been a hospital courier before I started working at the lab, so I knew they handled cell samples, medical waste, all sorts of risky stuff. I stopped the car for a minute and took it in.”
“Do you remember who you spoke to?”
“The security guard on the gate outside. He wouldn’t let me in, but someone came out from inside and I handed it over to her.” He stroked the cat, his expression slightly sad. “All I remember about her is that she was a cute redhead, and she wore a white coat. Any other day, I might have asked her for a date. At least, that’s what I told myself at the time.”
“Did you ever go back there?”
Nguyen shook his head. “When I went back to the hospital, they found me a uniform that sort of fit, and a gun. For the next few weeks, I alternated between guard duty outside the hospital pharmacy and working as an orderly in the emergency room. Then I went back out on the streets and someone blew up the armored car I was in and I went back to the hospital as a patient.” He grimaced. “That time is sort of a blur, but I don’t think I’ll ever forget the first day of the riots. It was insane, and the worst thing about it is ... I can remember hearing someone say the crowds targeted our lab because we were doing genetics research, and they thought we might be responsible for goblinization. Hell, we were working on a cure for it, decades before anyone managed to sequence the genes. If it hadn’t been for the rioters, we might have found a way to reverse the process.”
The Hatter stiffened slightly. “How close do you think you were to a cure?’ he asked, with forced casualness.
Nguyen shrugged, and began stroking the cat. “I don’t know. I was just an assistant there—data entry, cleaning the glassware, that sort of thing. But the scientist who gave me the stuff to deliver seemed to think he’d made some sort of breakthrough.”
“Dr. Sutter, wasn’t it?”
“I think so. Sorry I can’t be sure of the name. The guy in charge died, didn’t he?”
“Yes. Heart attack, during the riot,” the Hatter replied. “Mr. Nguyen, do you know if there was a data disk in the container with the samples?”
Nguyen shrugged, disturbing the cat, who grumped softly. “You know, it never occurred to me to look inside the container, but it wouldn’t surprise me. We couldn’t send data through to the head office with the landline down. Dr. Sutter might have put the data in the container as a backup.”
“Yes, that would make sense,” said the Hatter. “We’re hoping that if we find Dr. Sutter’s notes, our scientists may be able to pick up where he left off. Maybe even find a cure.”
“For UGE?” replied Nguyen warily.
The Hatter hesitated for an instant, wishing he’d thought to check whether any of Nguyen’s children were metahuman. He noticed framed
photos above the trideo set and zoomed in on a picture of a girl who was either an elf or an elf-poser. “Perhaps eventually,” he said. “But our immediate goal is to build on this existing research to learn how to alleviate some of the . . . allergies . . . that afflict so many metahumans. To sunlight, for example. If we can relieve those . . . well, that would make life much better for many people.”
Nguyen nodded. “Yes, I can see that.”
“But we’re going to need more research before we can put something like that on the market,” said the company man, warming to his theme. “And research is expensive, and if the execs think somebody might beat us to this cure, they might shelve the whole project as not worth the risk. So it’s important for us to know exactly who else knows what was in the container, or where it might be.”
“Someone from Monolith might,” said Nguyen. “If any of them are still alive, of course. I know the warehouse isn’t there anymore. But this was a pretty awful time in my life, and I’ve really never discussed it with anyone else.” “Excellent,” said the Hatter, beaming. He reached into his coat and, with one smooth action, drew his silenced smartlinked Fichetti and shot Nguyen in the forehead. “And you never will.”
3
It took Hare less than an hour to pinpoint the location of I the ruins of the abandoned Monolith warehouse in the Puyallup Barrens, but a week to compile a thoroughly incomplete history of the site. “It may be a dead end,” he admitted as he set up the chessboard. “Shiawase bought Monolith two years after the riots and shut the place down, said it wasn’t worth repairing. There aren’t any staff records after that.”
“So Shiawase has the info?”
“Maybe not. Nguyen knew what he was doing. Among other things, Monolith was licensed to dispose of medical waste and biohazard material, and that included storing stuff pending destruction. So they had a secure storage facility—underground.” He grinned. “In an emergency, such as an angry mob heading their way, it would be sealed off, probably with quick-drying concrete. The warehouse was badly damaged in the riots, but there’s nothing to indicate that a secured part of the facility was ever breached.”
“Would Monolith have admitted it if had been?” the Hatter grunted.
Hare wrinkled his nose as he considered this. “I think they would have. If there was a risk that something nasty had escaped, Monolith would have been better off warning the emergency services and blaming it on the rioters or the volcano rather than keeping it to themselves and getting caught later.”
“So you think the stuff could still be down there.”
Hare tapped his prominent front teeth with a long finger while he stared at the board. “I can think of only two other possibilities. One is that Monolith saw that the hazmat container was addressed to ORO and they sent it on its way after the riots, and any record of the transaction has been lost. The other is that Monolith destroyed it.” He moved his king pawn two spaces. “This whole thing is a long shot, but it shouldn’t cost too much to find out what happened. The warehouse site’s available for six thou; we can probably get it for five if we make the right noises about hiring locals. A little more to dig up the floor and see if the storage facility is still intact . . . security, transport ... we can probably do it for under ten thou, and I’ve seen you drop more than that on a pair of aces.”
The Hatter grunted again, and moved his own king pawn. “Who owns it? Shiawase?”
“Puyallup District Council. They’re not going to ask any questions.”
“Any squatters?”
“Most likely, but we can get rid of them easily enough. Send in a truck, take them somewhere for free food and booze . . . we’ll be finished before any of them get back. No trouble at all.”
The snake was barely visible in the dust. No, not the snake, Boanerges realized, but Snake. Or maybe SNAKE, because despite her apparent size, he was definitely in her realm, not the other way around.
Don’t move, she hissed.
I had no intention of moving, Boanerges replied. I won’t tread on you.
No. The place you are now. Your nest. If you leave, it will be bad for all I protect. You must learn its secrets, and decide what to .. . Boss? Boss?
The street shaman opened one bleary green eye and peered at the curtain of his medicine lodge. It was always dark inside, and Boanerges was only human, with natural eyesight, so he reached for the flashlight beside his lumpy futon mattress and shook it until it emitted a beam. No point in wasting energy on a light spell this early in the . . . He peered at the old clock standing amid his collection of candles. Eleven forty-seven, unless he’d forgotten to wind it again. And he guessed that it was probably morning, because it smelled and sounded more like day than night— not that it was easy to be sure in the Crypt, where many of the denizens were allergic to sunlight, the kitchen was open twenty-four seven, and the only ventilation came from the occasional air elemental summoned by the apprentice mages.
“Boss?” Pierce repeated while thumping on the doorframe—a rather tentative thump for the muscular ork, a wannabe drummer more noted for his energy than his talent. “You awake?”
“Yesss?”
“Some’un here wants to see you,” said Pierce.
“Does he need healing?”
“Not yet, he doesn’t.”
Boanerges opened his other eye, stretched, scratched, brushed his dreadlocks away from his face, and reached for his much-patched jeans. The dream was already beginning to fade, but he could still smell the hot sandy red-pepper smell of the desert, rather than the familiar cold musty odors of the Crypt, and he felt oddly reluctant to put his dirty feet down on the dusty floor. When he did, though, he encountered nothing more dangerous than his ancient moccasins. “What’s he like?” He knew that Pinhead Pierce was nowhere near as stupid as his nickname suggested.
Pierce grinned toothily as the shaman emerged from behind the curtain, still blinking, barefoot and fumbling with the buttons on his jeans. “Human, Anglo, too clean to be living on the streets, not clean enough for corp,” the ork replied. “Wearing a heavy coat, and it’s a warm day upstairs. Kinda pale, like he mostly works nights or indoors. No smartlink, but he’s got a jack an’ his eyes look funny. Sumatra had a look at him in astral, and he’s not wired below the neck.” He shrugged his massive shoulders. “My guess is he’s a hired gun, an’ a cheap one.”
“Did he say what he wanted?”
“He was snoopin’ around, so Sumatra and me cornered him when he started comin’ down the ramp and asked him what he was after. He said he’d been told to look and see if anyone lived here. I asked him why, and he said he was just doin’ what he was paid to do. That bit I believe.” “Where is he now?”
“Sittin’ on the ramp. He asked if anyone was in charge here, and I figured that was you.”
The snake shaman nodded, and grabbed his much-scuffed boots, an ancient military-issue greatcoat with its original colors now obscured by graffiti and grime, and a pair of bulletproof mirrorshades—all gifts from grateful patients. Fully dressed, he followed Pierce through a poorly lit maze of rickety cubicles toward the ramp.
It was eleven minutes before noon, and most of the squatters who lived in the cavernous sublevel of the ruins were nocturnal for one reason or another. The intruder was sitting halfway up the ramp, sweating slightly in the hazy sunlight and peering into the darkness. Sumatra, a beady-eyed ork, lurked in the shadows below him, chatting blandly with the man. Boanerges saw a plastic shopping bag floating like a disembodied head a few meters behind the man; when he peered into the astral, he saw the bright, ephemeral form of a city spirit that Sumatra had summoned. “Hoi,” said Boanerges, squinting as he stepped into the light. “Can we help you, chummer?”
The man stared at Boanerges, taking in his dirty black dreadlocks, sallow complexion and multicolored coat, then held his hands up, palms outward, to show that they were empty. “I’m not looking for any trouble.”
“What are you looking for, then?”
The
man hesitated. “I just needed to see if anybody was living here.”
“Why?”
The man swallowed nervously. “To tell them to move out. The place has been sold.”
Pierce guffawed, Sumatra snickered and Boanerges contented himself with a serene smile. “Now, who would want to buy this dump? And why?”
“I don’t know.”
Boanerges nodded. “Did they pay you in advance?”
The man hesitated, and Boanerges saw Sumatra’s face became briefly ratlike. Confident that Sumatra had cast an influence spell on the visitor, Boanerges waited for his answer. “Half in advance,” said the human automatically. “Certified credstick?”
“Yes, but I left it at the office. Area like this, I—”
“We . . . I’m not after your money,” said Boanerges. “Do you know who you’re working for?”
The man stared nervously at the two orks, wondering why he was unable to stop himself blurting out the truth. “Just a guy. Human, an inch or two taller than me, light brown hair, blue eyes. Didn’t tell me a name, but he looked rich. Good suit, coat, gloves, gold wristcomp, pocket secretary . . . even wore a top hat. Looked like he was on his way to a wedding or a funeral, and talked a bit like a lawyer.”
“Corp lawyer?”
“Maybe, but I can’t guess which corp, or where he’s from. He wasn’t Asian, but he didn’t exactly sound local either. English, maybe . . . though that might’ve been fake or a chip. But he was awfully well dressed for a Mr. Johnson, with an expensive haircut or a makeover spell . . .” He wound down, with a glance askance at Pierce’s jagged and largely self-inflicted Mohawk. “And his money was real enough.”
“You'd never seen him before?”
“I’m pretty sure I’d remember if I had. The clothes, anyway.”
“And your name?”
“Foote.” He swallowed. “Sam Foote.”
Shadowrun 46 - A Fistful of Data Page 2