Shadowrun 46 - A Fistful of Data

by Stephen Dedman (v1. 0) (epub)

  The other possibility was that there was something else in the ruin that he knew nothing about. Something else that Monolith had stored, perhaps? Or maybe something magical. The Hatter glanced at the list of names again, wondering why the name Magnusson seemed vaguely familiar. He was prepared to admit that he didn’t know much about magic, except for its monetary cost . . . but he was well aware of the resale value of items such as foci, or raw materials such as orichalcum or radical gold.

  He thought for a moment. Negotiating seemed to be his best option, and he had contact details for several of the shadowrunners in the squat, but how to contact them without letting them know that he had an informant on the inside? He stared at the dossiers on the screen before him, then called Wallace. “You’ve been negotiating with somebody inside that squat, haven’t you?” he asked.

  “Yes.”

  “I’d like to talk to him myself. How do I contact him?”

  8-ball scooped a handful of grit out of the hole in the concrete, and looked down. “Definitely another hinge,” he told the squatters. “I think we’re—hold on.” He flipped up the vidscreen of his wristphone and said, “Yeah?”

  “Am I speaking to 8-ball?”

  He glanced at the screen, which was blank except for a line of text saying that the caller’s phone number was unlisted. “Yes,” 8-ball replied, sliding an opaque cap over the camera lens. “And who am I talking to?”

  “You may call me Fedorov.”

  8-ball blinked, then turned to Mute, who ran out of the room. “Thank you,” the dwarf replied, as he walked slowly toward Boanerges’ medicine lodge. “What do you want?” “I’d like us to be able to resolve the current situation and stop wasting each other’s time and resources.”

  “Can you be more specific?” asked 8-ball dryly, reflecting that even a lawyer might find it difficult to be less specific.

  “You’ve agreed to evacuate that ruin by seven fifteen, is that correct?”

  “It may not be that simple. Three of our people have been killed since I said that—two of them teenagers. And two young children who left here are still being held by your gunmen, last I heard. Not everyone here is feeling cooperative.” He kept his voice calm with an effort. “Can you give us any reason why we should?”

  “What do you want?”

  “What’re you offering? I’m guessing you don’t have the power to raise the dead.”

  “Unfortunately, no. But if you’d left when I first asked, those people would still be alive.”

  “Maybe,” said 8-ball, picking up his pace slightly. “But there are some history buffs here who remember what happened to people who gave up their homes because some fragger says he bought the land. Common law says we own this place—and you didn’t buy it from us.”

  “That was a mistake,” said the Hatter smoothly. “One that I’m now attempting to correct. The van that you asked for is outside; consider that a first installment. I repeat, what do you want?”

  8-ball hurried toward the medicine lodge, where he found Lankin reclining on Boanerges’ bed. Lankin looked up, and 8-ball removed his wristphone and handed it to him. “It’s the Hatter,” he said quietly. “He wants to negotiate.” Lankin snatched up the phone as Mute burst into the room, with Zurich a few steps behind her. “First, we’d need to know your plans for this site,” Lankin purred. “Could the squatters return here at some time? Or perhaps work here? Considering the location, I gather you’re not planning to build luxury condominiums.”

  “Not exactly, but I can't go into details.”

  “Can you provide some alternative accommodation, then? Or maybe we should put this on a percentage basis. Say, ten thousand nuyen down against a twenty percent share of the net profits?”

  The Hatter laughed. “I suppose you want to audit the books every year, too? Let’s say I thrown in another van, and . . . How many of you are down there?”

  “Why do you need to know?”

  “So I can be sure we provide you with enough transportation. And rather than a certified credstick for a lump sum, I can provide everybody there with things they’ll find useful immediately. Food and drink. New, clean, warm, dry clothing. Backpacks or duffels. Other survival equipment. Maybe even some boots. But for that, I’ll need to know numbers.”

  “I’ll have to do a head count, and call for a vote. I can’t guarantee that everybody will be satisfied with those terms. Can you hold on for a moment?”

  “No. I’ll call you back in . . . about thirty minutes.” “Wait, please. What are you asking?”

  “No more dead soldiers, no more damaged equipment and you evacuate peacefully at the agreed time. You can keep any weapons you may be carrying, but not ammunition. If everybody leaves as arranged, and agrees to a search, they’ll be compensated. If not, nobody gets anything.” He hung up.

  “Frag,” muttered Zurich. “I nearly had him. I’ll go see if Ratatosk did any better.”

  “He’ll call back,” said Lankin. “And I’ve recorded his voice. We can play it to people, see if any of them recognize it.”

  “He’s clever,” said 8-ball. “A lot of people are going to want to take that offer, especially if the alternative’s a body bag. I’d like to make the fraggers pay for the people here they’ve killed and wounded, but when you’re a squatter, justice looks like a luxury you can’t afford. Frag, ten years ago, I probably would’ve accepted myself.”

  “This place is worth much more than that,” said Lankin. “To somebody, anyway. If we don’t blink, we can drive the price higher. Maybe much higher.”

  “Then you’re going to need to offer them something a little more concrete,” said the dwarf. “And I don’t mean the stuff we’ve got to hack through before we find whatever it is we’re looking for . . . if it’s down there at all, if we can recognize it when we see it, and if we can move it when we do.”

  “We can,” said Lankin confidently. “At least, the Hatter is sure we can move vital parts of it—given time, of course.”

  “What makes you so sure?”

  “It’s why he’s gone to the local fences, asking them to let him know if anybody from the Crypt tries to sell any scientific or medical gear—and why he’s started asking for people who’re leaving to be searched.”

  8-ball did a double take, then whistled admiringly.

  “He knows we’re looking for it now,” Lankin continued, “because Chen told him we were, and he’s worried we’ll find it before the deadline, which means that it’s possible. I was hoping he’d say something that would give me some other hint as to exactly what it was, but he’s too careful for that.” He nodded at 8-ball. “I’ll need you to keep telling me how the people here think, but I’ve cut deals with enough people like the Hatter to know how he thinks.”

  Ratatosk pushed the curtain aside and walked in. “The call came from the same cell phone that Chen called,” he announced. “I couldn’t get a fix on it, because it was moving too fast—so fast he was either on the Intercity, or flying. He was moving south, but whether that’s because he’s coming here or whether he’s just trying not to be traced back to the Pyramid . . .” He shrugged. “I’ve got a subroutine running to try to trace any more calls he makes from that phone—maybe even let me tap it. What’ve I missed?” 8-ball recounted the conversation. “I’ll have to call a meeting before this Hatter calls back. A full meeting, not just the war council.”

  “What?” Lankin spluttered. “What if they decide we all have to go?”

  “Then we go. If you want to stay, you’d better have a pretty good counter offer.”

  Lankin stared at him, then looked entreatingly at Zurich and Mute. “Are we just going to give up that easily?”.

  Neither replied. “If we’re going to have a meeting,” said Ratatosk, “I think it’s important that the Hatter doesn’t get to listen in. What’s happening with the drone?”

  “Crane’s still working on overriding it,” said Zurich, looking even more uncomfortable. “It’s the same frequency as the Co
ndor that Magnusson brought in, not the one 8-ball remembers them using, but there’s some pretty good real-time encryption that we haven’t cracked yet. We can jam it, and we’ve kept it away from the dig and the clinic by setting up little tank traps, but at present, that’s it. Leila’s following it to make sure it doesn’t go anywhere we don’t want it to.”

  “Can we jam the audio without being too obvious about it?”

  The dwarf nodded. “The farther it gets from the ramp, the worse the interference will be anyway. There’s plenty of devices in a kitchen that could mess up the signal without making them too suspicious.”

  “And the digging?” asked Lankin.

  “The container seems to have a number of compartments with separate lids,” said 8-ball, glancing at Boanerges’ clock. “Six or eight, at a guess. Should have the first of them open in a few minutes; I’ll tell you what we find at the meeting. Seventeen hundred hours. Spread the word.”

  Sumatra looked at the sturdiest of the tables in the dining hall, hoping to find a relatively clean spot large enough to sit on, and decided to stand. It was difficult to tell the food crumbs from the concrete dust, and there was something off-putting about the red splodge—Tabasco sauce or ketchup—with the small boot prints in it. Normally, the kitchen and dining hall were two of the tidiest rooms in the Crypt, because everyone who ate there was required to clean up after themselves: the mess suggested that at least some of the denizens were preparing to abandon the place, and might already have abandoned hope. Sumatra looked at the worried faces amid the crowd, and listened as 8-ball addressed the assembled residents.

  “The person who bought our land is offering to compensate us if we get out of here soon after sunset,” said the dwarf. “He also wants us to submit to a search, and give up any ammunition we may be carrying. In exchange, he’s talking about giving us clothing, food and another van for transport, but the details haven’t been worked out yet. He could be fragging with us, but he might be on the level. He’s calling back in about twelve minutes, so there isn’t much time to debate this before we need to vote.”

  “What have the diggers found?” asked Mish, standing at the edge of the crowd, only a few steps from the clinic.

  “We’ve opened one locker, or bin, or whatever it is,” said the dwarf, without much enthusiasm. “There’s some sealed containers inside with biohazard labels. All the same make—Monolith. The labels say they came from hospitals more’n thirty years ago, and that the stuff inside couldn’t be sterilized or destroyed on site . .. but beyond that, we’ve got no way of knowing what’s in them, much less what they might be worth. Doc Czarnecki is looking at them to see if he can identify anything valuable, and Ratatosk and Zurich are continuing to search the Matrix for any clues to what might be hidden here, but we don’t have anything yet. We’re hoping to have another two lockers open within an hour.” He shrugged, and turned to Lankin.

  “Even if we do find something in the lockers,” said Lankin, “I don’t think anything will enable you to keep this place indefinitely. The new owner is going to want it searched thoroughly, and he won’t want any of you around while he does it. Maybe in a week, or a month, he’ll pull out and you can return, if there’s anything left standing.

  “That leaves you with two options. One is to get the best offer out of him that I can, and for everybody to accept it. The other is to stall for time in the hope that we find something before he sends the meres in to drive us out—dead or alive.” He looked around at the crowd and the squalid, crumbling building. “If we stall and find whatever the owner is looking for, I may be able to find another buyer who’ll give us more, maybe even enough for you to start a new Crypt, and who’ll protect us from the meres as well. . . but I can’t promise that.”

  “How much do you think this thing is worth?” asked one squatter.

  “The new owner must have spent at least thirty thousand already, so he must think there’s a good chance of finding something worth more than that. Now, maybe he should have come to you in the beginning with thirty thousand, that’s about a thousand each . . . but he didn’t, and I don’t know how much he has left. But I’m going to ask for two thousand each, for all of us, draw out the negotiations if possible, and see if I can get him to agree to at least half that much ... if that suits everybody here?”

  “Boanerges wouldn’t have sold!” an ork said, her voice shrill. “And if he dies, it’ll be their fault! Their meres shot at our kids, their toxics attacked our people in their sickbeds . . . and you expect us to cut a deal with these fraggers?”

  “Is there a third possibility that I haven’t considered?” “We fight!”

  Lankin shrugged eloquently, then turned to 8-ball. “I’ve watched you try to shoot, Ulla,” said the dwarf dryly, addressing the ork who had spoken up. “You flinch before you pull the trigger, and you can barely see past the end of the gun. Why do you think you weren’t put on sentry duty? Any soldier in that squad could kill you before you knew they were there.”

  “We can’t just give up!” said Ulla. “They’ve killed two of our people. We should—”

  “Kill two of theirs?” 8-ball finished the sentence for her. “Or more? Do you think that’s what Boanerges would want?”

  “Whose side are you on? I know they’re friends of yours out there! Who’s fragging side are you on, shorty?”

  There was some muttering at this, and 8-ball shook his head, unable to think of an answer that would prevent an argument. Sumatra looked at him anxiously, then cleared his throat. “Okay,” the shaman said, “maybe there is a third possibility. Winner takes all. We get killed. The meres get killed. And the fragger who set this up gets the place and whatever’s in it for the cost of a few body bags.”

  The muttering died down to a faint murmur. “I say we give Lankin until sunset to see what he can get out of this fragger,” Sumatra continued, sensing that he was on a winner, “and w'e don’t go anywhere until he’s delivered. And we keep digging until then. And even if we find frag-all, at least we’ll get something.”

  He noticed many heads nodding, though Ulla’s wasn’t among them. “So, what’re we going to ask for? Certified credsticks work for me.” He listened to the hubbub as people volunteered ideas, then slipped away to the toilet.

  The Hatter looked at the text message on his pocket secretary, and smiled. Lankin 2 ask 4 60K, it read. R U serious ABOUT SEARCH?

  “Yes, of course.”

  I HV MAGIC STUFF I WANT 2 KEEP. NOT AMMO, & NOT FROM HERE.

  “If it isn’t what I’m looking for, I’ll tell the meres that you can keep it.”

  & MY FEE?

  “You’ll be paid your percentage. But the more I have to spend getting the others out of there, the longer you’ll have to wait. Understood?”

  Cutter Czarneeki hadn’t meant to doze off, but it had been twenty-two hours since he’d last slept, and he hadn’t worked a shift that long since his student days. He’d sat down on the floor, leaning up against the wall, and closed his eyes for a moment . . . and by the time Mish returned from the meeting, he’d begun to snore. Magnusson placed a finger over his lips as the mouse shaman entered. “Don’t disturb him,” he murmured. “How was the meeting?”

  “Lankin’s haggling over terms now.” She shrugged. “I guess I should start taking down my lodge and packing it away. Maybe I’ll find somewhere else to set up.”

  “If you’re willing to teach magic, I might be able to find you some students who’ll pay to learn some of the spells you know.”

  “Pay? Money?” She shook her head. “Boanerges always told me our totems meant magic to be free.”

  “Do they mean you to starve—” He looked around as he heard a moan, and dashed over to Yoko’s bed, Mish close behind him. The adept’s eyes were still closed, but her aura suggested she was starting to revive.

  “You did it!” Mish squeaked. “You healed her!” Magnusson shook his head. “I can’t take the credit,” he said. “Boanerges—” He looked up as Ratatosk wa
lked in. “Yes?”

  “Can I talk to you for a moment? In private?”

  The magician raised an eyebrow, then shrugged. “One minute,” he said. “Mish, if anything happens, I’ll be in the library.” He followed Ratatosk into the next room and asked, “Well?”

  “You have a mind-reading spell, don’t you?”

  “Mind probe, yes. Sumatra knows one that compels truth, and Jinx knows one that detects lies. Why?”

  “I think we have a leak.”

  “What?”

  “A traitor. I’ve been tracing the Hatter’s calls. Someone from here called him before he spoke to Lankin.”

  Magnusson raised both eyebrows at that. “You’re sure it was someone in here? Not one of the meres?”

  “Not absolutely sure,” Ratatosk admitted. “It was only a short conversation, a few text messages either way, and I didn’t get the complete number—but I got most of it, and it doesn’t match either Wallace’s phone or Griffin’s. Or 8-ball’s—and he was in the meeting the whole time—or mine. Of course, anyone can have more than one phone . . . but I’m going to try to keep tracing it, and see if I can recover any of the messages. They might be enough to tell me who it is.”

  “Do you suspect anyone?”

  “No . . . but I don’t know any of the squatters. The only people here I’ve run with are 8-ball and Yoko. But if we catch anyone acting suspicious, we’re not going to have time for much in the way of due process.”

  “Do you want to collect everyone’s phones?”

  “No, that’d tell whoever it was that we’re onto him or her. And I wouldn’t want to stop people getting information from their contacts—or even taking calls from their fixers. I was hoping there might be some simple magical way of finding a traitor.”

  “A mind probe is exhausting,” said the magician. “I can’t do one and be sure of having enough energy to keep healing people.”