Shadowrun 46 - A Fistful of Data

by Stephen Dedman (v1. 0) (epub)

  The older man was slender and pale, with long silver hair gathered into a ponytail, and a neatly trimmed beard and mustache. His long coat was open, and he didn’t seem to be wearing a gun—at least, not a large one. He walked up to Wallace, his hands held palm forward, his long fingers fanned. We come in peace; shoot to kill, the mercenary thought sourly, and patted down the outside of the coat. “We’ll need the wristcomp,” he said. “You’ll get it back. What’s this?”

  Moving slowly and carefully, the man pulled out his pocket secretary and handed it to him. Wallace glanced at his hands, then at his hiking boots. “You’re no squatter,” he said neutrally. “What’re you doing here?”

  “Just visiting friends.”

  “Uh-huh. Take off the coat and turn around.” He noticed the man’s neck knife and asked him to remove it. The blade was sharp, but seemed too short to be much use as a weapon, and it wasn’t balanced for throwing. He was about to hand it back when Lori made a sound. “What?” “It’s a weapon focus,” she said, taking it from him. “Dangerous?”

  “Only in astral combat. But beautiful work.” She looked at the mage with even more respect. “I noticed the circles in the garden. And the herbs, and the background count. There’s something magical here, isn’t there? Something about the place itself.”

  “It’s a school, and a hospital, and these people’s home,” came the reply.

  Wallace grimaced, but Lori nodded. “1 know what you mean,” she said. “I was an army brat. Moved from base to base a lot; never really found a home.” She returned the ritual knife to its owner. “You come here to teach?” “When I can. Good students are a treasure.”

  She smiled and glanced at the others. Lily had finished searching the elves, but was rummaging through the huge improvised backpacks. “No computers, nothing medical,” she said after a moment.

  “Likewise,” said Hartz, who was examining the tarot deck and collection of calligraphy pens he’d found in one of Yoko’s pockets.

  “Okay,” said Wallace. “Pick up your gear and get on the bus.”

  “We have our own car,” said the man with the datajacks. The commander turned and stared at him for a moment. “That one in there?” he asked, with a nod toward the Crypt.

  “No. That’s 8-ball’s. Mine’s parked a few blocks away, behind the saloon.”

  “You left a car unguarded in this area?”

  “The saloon’s a gang hangout. Orks and trolls, but we have an understanding. They won’t touch it, and no one else would dare.”

  Wallace shrugged. “Okay, then. Good luck.”

  “Thanks.”

  The four picked up their gear and headed north, past the Step-Van, the Nomad and the rusting van. Lewis was sitting on the steps of the bus with a pile of canvas rucksacks on his right, cartons of clothing and a collection of jungle boots on his left. He looked them up and down before grabbing two of the olive-drab rucksacks. “Your phone, your food and your transit pass are in there,” he said, handing them to the women. “And let’s see—one elf medium, one elf small. . . what size shoes do you take? They’re all in men’s sizes, I’m afraid.”

  One elf blinked, startled, but the other bowed slightly. “It doesn’t matter, as long as they’re not too small,” she said. “I can always wear lots of socks.”

  Lewis smiled, looked at her feet and chose a complete outfit for each woman. “What about you?” he asked the men. “They’re free.”

  The man with the ponytail shook his head. “We don’t need them,” he said.

  The mere smiled crookedly. “No, I suppose not.” He watched as the elves pulled their socks and army boots on, then bundled the rest of the clothing into their rucksacks. “Wait!” he said as they set off. “Where are you going?” The man with the ponytail looked over his shoulder without breaking his stride and repeated the story about the car behind the saloon. None of the four spoke again until they were well out of earshot.

  Mish shrugged her backpack off and lowered it carefully to the sidewalk, laughing awkwardly. “Seems like a nice guy,” she said quietly. “I almost feel bad for not telling him the truth.”

  Yoko snorted. “I think he was hoping he could watch while we changed.”

  “I saw three sentries,” said Crane. “Assume there’s a fourth on the far corner . . . five doing the searches, including their mage . . . one on the bus . . . that’d make ten.

  Including the rigger, that leaves no more than six in the van, and since at least some of them are wounded or stunned . .

  Magnusson nodded. The shaman reached into the pack for the securetech vest, which she put on over her once-black sweatshirt. Yoko dropped her rucksack and removed her boots, and Mish summoned a city spirit. A small pile of garbage appeared and shaped itself into a vaguely human form, with an asthma inhaler for a nose, condom wrappers for eyes, and a Nerps box for a mouth. “Yes?” “We need concealment. All four of us.”

  The spirit nodded, and followed them as they returned to the Step-Van, walking as quietly as possible around the far side of the bus. Crane pressed a button on his wrist-phone, sending a message to Leila. The four of them watched as four squatters walked toward the bus, and waited until they heard a shriek: as Mute had said, it was all in the timing. “No one said anything about a fraggin’ cavity search!” Leila shouted.

  The meres and the bus driver turned to see what was happening, and Yoko dashed forward and opened the door of the Step-Van, with the others following close behind her.

  There were two meres sleeping in the back of the van— a spectacularly ugly ork with pendulous ears, and a young human woman curled into a ball. The ork opened one eye at the sound of the door opening, then the other. He sat up and reached for his rifle, and Yoko ducked, enabling Magnusson to see past her and cast a stunball into the back of the van. The ork fumbled, dropping the gun, and when he bent down to pick it up, Yoko lunged and hit him in the temple. The mere fell to the floor, unconscious, and the adept looked around cautiously. The human woman, lying on the bench seat, continued to snore softly, unaware that anything had happened.

  Magnusson, Crane and Mish dashed into the back of the Step-Van. Mish released the city spirit, and Crane slammed the door shut and locked it. Griffin, in the driver’s seat, turned around to see Yoko standing behind him. She pulled the plug out of his datajack with one hand, and touched a nerve cluster in his neck with the other, and he slumped forward over the steering wheel. “Crane!” she shouted as she hauled the mere out of his seat. “Get your butt in here!” Crane hurried forward, and grabbed Griffin’s control deck, while Magnusson picked up the fallen rifles. “Do you know how to use one of these?” he asked Mish.

  “The bullets come out of that hole, right?”

  “Actually, I think that’s the grenade launcher,” said the mage uneasily. “But which trigger is—” He stopped, hearing someone thumping on the Step-Van’s door. “Yoko?” “For frag’s sake,” said the adept, returning to the cargo compartment. “They’re AK-98s. They’re designed to be used by drunken peasants in a raging blizzard! They’re almost draftee-proof.” She shook her head at their expressions. “You’ve used handguns?”

  “I have,” said Magnusson.

  “Fine. Give me that and take one of the sidearms. You have a spell for locking doors, don’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Get ready to use it.”

  The bus driver looked around, bewildered, as Lewis ran toward the Step-Van, leaving four squatters standing by the heap of rucksacks and clothes. Didge, who had already boarded the bus and was standing next to the driver, grabbed the Roomsweeper from his belt and jammed it into his side. “You, in here!” she barked at the squatters. She waited until they’d scrambled inside, then turned to the driver and pointed the shotgun at his face. “Shut the doors. And no tricks.”

  Trembling, the driver obeyed.

  “How tough is the window glass?”

  “Shatterproof,” he whispered. “It’s a school bus.”

  Didge nodded, t
hen looked down the aisle. “Everyone get down,” she snapped. “Don’t let them see you.” She turned her attention back to the driver. “Who’re you working for?”

  “McAlister High,” he whimpered. “We’re allowed to use the buses after hours for a little extra cash . . .”

  “Who hired you?”

  “I don’t know. My boss took the call and told me where to go. Please don’t kill me!”

  Didge looked at the terrified man. He was on the wrong side of fifty years and ninety kilograms, and his pale face was starting to turn red. She wasn’t sure whether he was about to cry,or go into cardiac arrest. “Doexactly what I tell you, and you’ll be fine. You got kids?”

  He nodded. “Three. And a grandson. He’s two.”

  Didge smiled crookedly. “Get out of that chair, and lie down in the aisle. Facedown. You’ll be a lot safer there than you would be outside.”

  Crane looked through the patrol vehicle’s cameras and activated the flashpak fitted into the firmpoint. He was sure that the meres would have flare compensation built into their helmet visors, if not into their eyes, but it would startle them and provide a harmless demonstration that the drone was no longer under their control. He activated the vehicle’s loudspeaker, and yelled, “Drop your guns! You near the van, step away from that door!”

  The mercs looked around, but none of them put down their weapons. Wallace opened a channel to Griffin and murmured, “Griff, if this is a joke . . .” There was no reply, and he turned to Lori. Before he could speak, Crane’s voice blared out, “You have five seconds to throw down, or I will start shooting. I control all of your drones; I can see all of you!” This was a slight exaggeration, but it was enough to make all the sentries look up anxiously.

  “Can you hear us, too?” Wallace snapped.

  “Loud and clear,” Crane replied, at a more normal volume, then, “Three seconds!”

  Leila slipped a knife out of her sleeve and touched it to Hartz’ belly. “You heard the man,” she said.

  “State your terms.” said Wallace.

  “You can have the land. We leave, take the vehicles and whatever else we want. No more searches. You get to keep your weapons and one of the vehicles, but no ammo,” replied Crane. “Two seconds!” The indicator on the roto-drone’s panel said that its machine gun was loaded with nearly a full belt of gel rounds. He rotated the camera, looking for a suitable target, and decided that the troll standing on the northwest corner would be the best demonstration. Wallace, Hartz, Lori and Lily were too close to Leila and three other squatters for him to be sure of not hitting his own people—and 8-ball had warned him to avoid taking out Wallace, as this would leave the unpredictable Quinn in command.

  Wallace hesitated. As much as he hated the idea of allowing himself to be disarmed, there didn’t seem to be a good alternative. “What’s happened to my rigger?” he asked.

  “He’s stunned, but stable. Same with the other people in here—both of ’em. One fragging second/”

  “Throw down,” Wallace muttered into his throat mic. He couldn’t quite bring himself to say it aloud; even subvo-calizing the command hurt. “That’s an order. Put down your guns. Now.” He popped the clip out of his rifle, squatted, carefully placed the gun on the pavement, then stepped back from it with his hands in the air.

  Crane watched anxiously through half a dozen camera eyes as all but one of the meres obeyed the order . . . the one 8-ball had tagged as Quinn. “Captain,” she subvocalized on a private channel. “Permission to speak freely?” Without waiting for an answer, she burst out, “This isn’t right! We have hostages, too, and if we go underground, the drones can’t—”

  “Mow us down before we reach the ramp? Don’t bet on it. And there are still shadowrunners down there. You have your orders, Lieutenant.” He closed the channel.

  Quinn looked up at the cloudy moonless sky, locating the rotodrone by its heat signature and zooming in. She switched off her radio, then looked at the broken ground between her and the ramp, calculating quickly. She took one long breath, then hurtled toward the entrance at a speed so great that Crane barely had time to turn the drone around and aim at her as she leaped over the trip wires and traps.

  Wallace drew his pistol, but froze for an instant, unable to shoot one of his own squad in the back. Leila had no such issues and threw her knife; it hit the commando between her shoulders, but barely penetrated her armor jacket. Crane fired a burst of gel rounds from the drone, hitting the mere in the arm, side and leg, but Quinn kept running until she reached the eastern edge of the ramp. She paused just long enough to fire a neurostun grenade into the middle of the small crowd: she knew her filter mask wouldn’t protect her from the gas for long, but it might be long enough to even up the score. The squatters scattered, and Quinn somersaulted onto the ramp and rolled down into the Crypt.

  A bullet hit her in the leg while she was regaining her feet, and she looked up to see one of the shadowrunners aiming a pistol at her. The dark-skinned human fired again, and Quinn dodged, then returned fire. Two rounds hit the woman in the torso, and she staggered backward and fell. Quinn waited for a few seconds, then crept forward and looked at her opponent. There were two bullet holes in her abdomen, but Quinn was unable to tell whether the runner was dead or merely paralyzed by the gas. She shrugged, and was about to set off down the corridor when a small, squat, dark figure stepped out of a doorway.

  “Quinn?” said 8-ball politely, raising Beef Patty’s assault cannon to his shoulder and aiming at the commando’s chest. “Good to meet you at last. You’ve earned yourself quite a reputation: 1 hear you’ve never lost a fight.”

  Quinn dropped to the ground, simultaneously spraying the corridor with autofire—but the dwarf fired an explosive shell into the ceiling above her, and falling lumps of concrete and earth thudded onto her helmet and knocked the rifle from her hands. Her ears ringing, she reached for her sidearm. “That’s right. And I’m not going to start now.” 8-ball fired again, hitting Quinn in the right arm and reducing it to a stump. She glanced at the wreckage—a mass of twisted wires and vat-grown skin—and swore viciously.

  The dwarf smiled. “Boanerges told us not to use this baby on people,” he said with mock cheer. “Unfortunately, Boanerges is dead, so I don’t feel too guilty about disobeying his orders. You, on the other hand—what you’re doing is mutiny.”

  “He’s right,” came a voice from halfway up the ramp. The Doberman patrol vehicle rolled down into the basement, followed closely by Wallace and Lori. “On your feet, soldier.”

  Quinn stared at 8-ball with hatred, and hauled herself to her feet, standing to attention and turning to face her captain. “Sir.”

  “Looks like you could use some medical attention,” said Wallace, with a glance at Lori. The mage nodded, and cast a stunbolt spell. Quinn pitched forward, unconscious.

  The three stared at her for a moment; then Wallace shook his head. “What will you do with her?” asked 8-ball.

  “Drop her off at a hospital, I guess,” the ork replied sadly. “Call it a medical discharge. Your friend looks in worse shape than she does.” He looked around at the maze of makeshift walls. “So this is where you grew up?”

  “Yeah.”

  “No place like home, huh?”

  “No,” said the dwarf. “No, there isn’t.” Then, to his embarrassment, he started to cry.

  18

  It was after eleven when they finished loading the last of the gear from the Crypt into the vehicles. Zurich had disabled the tracking device on the Nomad, which had been pressed into service as an ambulance, and made three runs to Good Samaritan. Czarnecki was finally asleep, lying on the stretcher and snoring like a sawmill in a thunderstorm. Haz’s rusting van had become the hearse, on the assumption that it might be able to reach the Salvation Army Fortress without breaking down. “What are you going to tell the Hatter?” 8-ball asked Wallace as he handed him a rucksack full of empty clips and loose ammo.

  “Who?”

  “Mat
her. The Aztechnology suit who hired you.”

  The mere shrugged. “He called himself Fedorov when I talked to him, and I didn’t know which corp he was from. I’ll tell him that we finally secured the premises after one hell of a fight, the drones were destroyed, and the last of the survivors escaped in the Nomad. The fragger probably won’t pay us the rest of the fee, but it could’ve been worse. Want to show you something,” he said, leading the way to she Step-Van.

  Once inside, he opened a tool kit and handed a metal cylinder to the dwarf, who examined it carefully. “Is this what I think it is?”

  “Pipe bomb,” said Wallace. “Griff found it under that piece of drek the troll drove up in. Fedorov didn’t want you getting out of here alive, but after the fight you put up, we figured you all deserved better’n that.”

  “Thanks,” said 8-ball, staring at the explosive. “Now I’d really like to hang around here and ambush the fragger.” “I don’t see him walking into a trap like that,” the mere replied. “He probably pays some other poor frag to take that sort of risk for him. ’Sides, it seems to me that the best way to hurt rich people is to turn ’em into poor people.”

  “You’re probably right,” said the dwarf. “Well, we’ll be seeing you, Wallace.”

  Wallace smiled. “What’re you going to do now?” “We’ve found another place where the squatters can stay for a few weeks, maybe set up the hospital again . . . ’course, the Seoulpa are there now, so that might not be as easy as it sounds.”

  “We’re not flying out until seven thirty hours. Give me a call if you need any help, and I’ll ask for volunteers.”

  Mish cast a catalog spell on the magical gear, making sure that nothing had been left behind. She turned around at the sound of heavy but tentative footsteps approaching, and saw Pinhead Pierce walking toward her with his huge fist clenched. “What—”