Just Compensation

by Robert N. Charrette

  WASHINGTON IS BURNING!

  Andy is happy as a shadowrunner wannabe, but when he accidentally gets involved with real runners, the game of Let’s Pretend is over. So is his safe corporate life. Andy’s half brother, UCAS Army Major Tom Rocquette, has some doubts about what he’s involved with too. Why, for example, is he being ordered to mercilessly massacre the Compensation Army, a group that, like him, only seeks justice?

  Andy and Tom, along with runners Markowitz and Kit, are finding out things that could put many lives in danger and point to a sinister web of dirty politicians, dishonorable officers, and misused tech and magic—a conspiracy that could dismantle the UCAS government! Can Andy and Tom find enough evidence to prove it—and stop it—before the nation’s capital is buried under a heap of bloody corpses...?

  HE FELT AS IF HE WERE AMONG WILD ANIMALS. . . .

  Someone reached out and ran a hand along his back, tugging at his jacket. “Nice suit.”

  Andy practically jumped down the next three stairs.

  “Hey, suit.” a hoarse female voice drawled.

  “Aren’t you afraid of being out here all by yourself?”

  Andy concentrated on reaching the bottom of the frozen escalator. A gray-bearded man dressed in a worn U.S. Army uniform stepped into Andy’s way as he neared the bottom. “Where you going, suit?” the soldier asked.

  “Home.” Andy heard his voice quaver.

  “You sure? You think you’re safe? Let me tell you, suit. Nobody’s safe.”

  Andy took a deep breath and brushed past the soldier.

  “Run away, little suit.” someone called out from behind him. “Run home to your safe corp sellout. . . .”

  SHADOWRUN: 19

  JUST COMPENSATION

  Robert N. Charrette

  For the cast and crew of one of the strangest road shows it’s ever been my pleasure to know, the Fredonian Air and Space Administration. Long may you fly.

  >NEWSNET DOWNLINK

  -[04:04:31/8-13-55]

  THE COMPENSATION ARMY

  The occupation of the Federal District of Columbia by the so-called Compensation Expedition Force, or Compensation Army, begins its third month today. These homeless and forgotten “soldiers in the army of justice” have come to the Federal District to dramatize their long-ignored demands. The Army has come not to fight, but to lobby, to march, to form picket lines, and to insist that the compensation owed them be paid—and paid immediately.

  Most of these soldiers are not warriors; they are just ordinary people who believe they have been taken advantage of. The first to arrive in FDC were folk who had actually endured displacement from what are now the Native American Nations. These unfortunates were ousted from their homes and lands nearly forty years ago, when the old United States ceded most of its western states to the emerging and magically triumphant Native American Nations. Following the Treaty of Denver in 2018, the federal government promised compensation to the refugees. With the end of the old U.S.A. in 2035, the government of the new United Canadian and American States restricted those promises to all persons who originally resided in old U.S. lands north of the 38th parallel, leaving the Confederated American States to care for the rest. Both U.S. successor governments have denied restitution to any persons displaced from the now Free State of California.

  Today’s Comp Army is more than a few old men and women. Every day new “soldiers” arrive in the District—friends, relatives, dependents, and sympathizers of those already here. The scattered tents and shanties have become a low-tech sprawl coating the FDC like a mold. Conditions in these makeshift communities are bad and growing worse. The federal government issues promises, claiming that it is addressing the issue. Yet no real relief appears under way, and the mood among the Comp Army grows bleaker and more desperate.<<<<<

  1

  Andy was a shadowrunner.

  All his friends knew. He liked the way they looked impressed when he told them about his adventures. Except for Biddy Blackwell. Nothing much impressed Biddy.

  This run was going to be one of the good ones; he could tell already from the way the meet was going. Mr. Johnson—not his real name, of course—was laying it out with just enough vagueness that Andy knew the story was pretty straight. When the details got real specific, it meant the scam was on. Andy took in everything the Johnson gave them, filing it on his headware.

  The Johnson said he represented a consortium of small businessmen trying to make it in the Anacostia Barrens, the worst turf in the DeeCee sprawl. Brave souls—if they existed. Problem was, the Barrens were hotter than usual. The Halfies, top go-gang in the area, were rampaging. The go-gangers were thumping places up and down the Anacostia Barrens, everything from chop shops to clinics. The police were looking the other way—standard—and the locals were terrified—also standard. Word was that somebody had stirred up the Halfies. Mr. Johnson wanted protection. He also wanted to know who was really responsible—and why they were doing it.

  Johnsons were never what they said they were, but Andy took the run anyway. Being used to duplicity from employers, he retreated to his Appaloosa and set the autopilot to drive so that he could do other things.

  The fixer from whom he’d gotten the Ferrari Appaloosa had said it was “surplus.” which for such a high-demand vehicle meant it was hot. It was hot all right, and not just because it had been liberated from some military somewhere. Sheena the Appaloosa was the fastest armored vehicle on wheels. Street word said that wiz rigger Willie Williams swore by Appaloosas for high-threat runs, and now Andy understood why. The Appaloosa, with the custom shell that made Sheena look like a workhorse delivery truck rather than the thoroughbred predator she was, had cost him just about all the cred he’d racked up from his last three runs. But she was worth it. Jacked into Sheena’s board, Andy could fight a small war or outrace just about any corp or FedPol pursuit car. Sheena was meltdown hot.

  But he didn’t need the Appaloosa’s combat capabilities just now. No amount of real-world firepower meant drek in the Matrix; cyberspace had its own rules. But Andy was hot there, too. He started with turtle stuff, priming a herd of gophers and unleashing them on the media and public records. While they were hunting, Andy jacked and did a little direct prospecting in the FedPol database. He slipped past the outer IC shell with an ease and sleaze that would have impressed even FastJack. Not that cracking it was hard; the police department computers handled too much data to put it all behind serious IC, and the Intrusion Countermeasures protecting the incoming reports and complaints were light, little more than speed bumps for deckers of Andy’s or FastJack’s skills. Andy collected copies of every file on Halfie activities, dumped them into his bag, and flew back to his couch aboard Sheena to do a sort where he’d be safe from prying eyes or inadvertent discovery. Andy didn’t like chance encounters in the Matrix; too much trouble and no reasonable expectation of gain.

  Secure in the womb of the Appaloosa, he dumped his loot into a sorter. As the gophers came back, he added their finds. Monitoring the returns, he tweaked the search parameters as likely threads starting shaping up. The Johnson came back as a cipher—like that was a surprise?—so Andy looked for connections among the Halfies’ targets. Mr. Johnson’s interests should show up there. All Andy had to do was recognize them.

  There were chopshops on the target list, and that didn’t fit with the Halfies’ interests. Street word said that they controlled most of the shops in the Barrens. Why hit your own income sources? As a cover, maybe. There was no doubt the Halfies were spreading their good cheer around, but they seemed to be thumping some targets harder than others. How bad were the chopshops hit? Not bad at all. The cover theory was starting to look good.

  So who was taking it on the chin the harde
st? A quick sort by level of damage turned up a list that had a lot of free clinics and doc-in-a-boxes on it. Real nest-fouling stuff to trash the local medical care, and not like the territorial Halfies at all. A closer look showed that the go-gangers’ choice of clinics wasn’t random; for example, not a single DocWagon operation had been thumped. Andy scented a clue and popped into the Matrix to run down a few leads. He came back with the connection he was looking for: all the wrecked clinics were either sponsored by or ran programs funded by Biotechnics, the genengineering and pharmaceutical multinational. A quick check of media databases showed no similar rash of attacks on Biotechnics clinics in any other cities.

  What made the Anacostia clinics different? Andy bet that Mr. Johnson, or his bosses, knew. A direct Matrix run against Biotechnics was contraindicated just yet, so Andy picked a thumped clinic at random and went after its files, looking for anything unusual. He found records for three test programs. A second clinic’s records only held one match: a drug treatment pilot program for something called Azadone, trademark still pending. It was a conclusion-jump, but Andy felt sure that Azadone was at the heart of Mr. Johnson’s concerns. He’d check it out later.

  Right now, Sheena was beeping that they’d nearly reached their destination. That was fine by Andy. He switched jacks and took over Sheena’s control. This run wasn’t going to be solved with just a little Matrix decking. They never were. That also was fine by him; he liked a good mix of action. It was time to move on to the next step. He nosed the Appaloosa into the first available parking spot after crossing Maple Avenue.

  “Take care of yourself, Sheena.” he told the Appaloosa as he dismounted, activating her anti-theft routines. Fairfax wasn’t the worst of the districts that made up the DeeCee sprawl, but this wasn’t the best part of Fairfax. Even if you didn’t know that from previous experience the way Andy did, you could see it in the broken streetlights, graffiti-covered walls, and boarded-over storefronts.

  The night outside the Appaloosa held no secrets from him, because his eyes were Telestrian Cyberdyne 48’s, built under license from Zeiss. Not the latest model, but then cybereye technology hadn’t advanced much in the past ten years. The 48’s weren’t fully featured either; they didn’t have the full thermal imaging package, just ambient light amplification.

  But that was more than enough to pierce the gloom of Old Courthouse Road and note each and every one of the derelicts and streetrats huddling in the doorways and skulking in the alleys. All locals he’d seen before; they would know his rep and wouldn’t bother him.

  His team was waiting for him at Eskimo Nell’s, their usual watering hole and gathering place. There were just two today, Buckhead and Feather; he didn’t figure he’d need more. Buckhead was muscle, simple but not cheap. The ork was very, very good at what he did, but all of his personality was in his cyberware and his guns. Feather was an elf and a mage, and her style of dress was more suited to Runner Babes than to real shadowrunning, but what she wore—or rather, didn’t wear—didn’t affect her performance, so what was there to say? Besides, Andy enjoyed looking at her.

  “Hoi, Boss. Whuzzappening?” It was Buckhead’s standard opening line.

  Andy dove right in and told them about the job he’d gotten them, and about his theory that the clinics were the focus of the violence. “We’re reactive protection, but we’re also supposed to find out who’s behind it.”

  “What makes Johnson think dat all the thumpin’ ain’t just boys ’n girls out ta have fun?”

  “You can’t think that the patients and staff at the clinics are having fun.” Feather said.

  “We need to make a move.” Andy said. He wasn’t in the mood for sitting around and hashing out the possibilities. He and his runners needed a connection, and their best bet lay with the Halfies. Who would know better than the go-gangers why they were thumping their way through the Barrens? “I think we should go have a chat with some Halfies.”

  “I know one of their squats.” Feather said, surprising Andy.

  He knew she had a lot of street connections, but he hadn’t figured on her knowing much about go-gangs. He was quite happy to be wrong. “Let’s roll, then.”

  Following Feather’s directions, Andy piloted the Appaloosa across the river and out into the fringes of the Anacostia Barrens. He drove slowly, as much because of the road conditions as the need to recon. They scouted the old poured-concrete building that Feather led them to, and determined that some of the go-gangers were home; it was still early for them to be out raising hell. The place was solidly built, probably why the gangers laired there. Whatever it had once been, it sported a pair of vehicle doors on one side. The only human door was on that side, too. Andy decided on the direct approach, and put Sheena’s nose through the flimsy corrugated plastic of the left garage door. The building wall would cover their left flank.

  Once they’d crashed through the door, Buckhead exploded from the Appaloosa with a whoop. Feather was quieter, but no less eager. Arcane energy raised her hair in a crackly static halo that would be a fright to see coming at you. Andy almost felt sorry for the scrambling Halfies—at least one of whom had been caught literally with his pants down.

  Having used Sheena to crack open the Halfies’ squat, Andy was willing to let Buckhead and Feather take care of the gangers. Combat just wasn’t his thing. He got no jolt from it like some people did. He’d step in if he had to, but he didn’t think that would be necessary. He had a good team and the opposition this early in the run wasn’t likely to be anything they couldn’t handle.

  “We need a talker.” Andy reminded his team over the commlink. There was no acknowledgment, but when the ruckus died down, Buckhead and Feather returned with one of the gangers.

  “We could turn him over to the badges.” Feather suggested. She had a tendency to offer the law-abiding solution. Andy figured it was just so he’d know there was one. “The FedPols will be happy to see him. Of course, if he tells us what we want to know ...”

  “I ain’t talking.” the Halfie said. The black pigmentation on the upper half of his face almost hid his frown of determination.

  “I can make him talk.” Buckhead said. The ork slid his paired chrome spurs in and out of their wrist sheaths to demonstrate the method he intended to employ. It was nasty, but it might get them fast results. Life in the shadows wasn’t nice.

  “Do it,” Andy said, “but try and keep him quiet.”

  The Halfie had known he was living dangerous when he took money to go thumping innocents.

  Buckhead grinned and led the Halfie away. In an elapsed time of twenty minutes, exactly, he came back with an address. The address supposedly belonged to a middleman.

  Andy and the team paid the guy a visit, and he proved to be surprisingly reasonable. For a fee—that Andy would list as an expense when he billed Mr. Johnson—the fixer confirmed the Halfie’s story about a simple violence-for-hire gig. The fixer couldn’t confirm the power behind the job in spite of Andy’s offer to double the fee, which lent credibility to the man’s claim. Yet for another fee, the fixer offered them a cryptic clue. “Wanna see who’s casting shadow? Drive up Wisconsin and drop anchor six south of the cathedral.”

  They followed the directions.

  Andy remembered the building as being the offices of Micronetics, a Saeder-Krupp subsidiary, but a throbbing neon sign proclaimed it the property of Vilanni Corp. Whenever he hit a switch like this, he reminded himself of just how fast things changed in the corp world. More often than not, today’s hot comer was tomorrow’s washed-up loser.

  The Vilanni name wasn’t new to him. He’d crossed paths with them before, and he knew the corp was about as slimy as they came. Andy didn’t think them above trashing clinics just to ruin a competitor’s market test. The thought of ruining test markets reminded him of Vinton and the Hanging File run. The sort of thing going down in the Barrens was just Vinton’s style.

  But Andy’s hunch and a fixer’s hint that Vilanni was behind everything wouldn’t be en
ough for his employer. Andy needed to come up with a convincing connection. There was also the little matter of determining why Vilanni was involved. No Johnson was ever satisfied without knowing why he’d been targeted.

  Word about their hit against the Halfies would be filtering up the food chain. There would be no better time for a fast run against the Vilanni mainframe. Andy went a dozen blocks down Wisconsin and onto one of the quiet, narrow side streets of Georgetown before parking the Appaloosa and jacking in.

  The Vilanni mainframe showed as a black monolith in the Matrix. It was a tough nut, but Andy knew better than to come at it head on. He tried something new, running a side program to jigger things a bit. With effortless precision he focused in on a small section of the monolith, narrowing his perception until pits on the black surface grew to pocks, then holes, and finally tunnels. He’d used one of those tunnels before, a back door set by a renegade Vilanni programmer.

  Since he’d used it in the Hanging File run, the entry should have been locked and sealed, but he was pleased to see that the tinkering he’d done had worked. The door remained operable. Inside, he zoomed to Vinton’s private space and started nosing around the Vilanni exec’s files. It wasn’t long before he struck paydata: a list of clinics, Biotechnics clinics.

  While he was nosing through the list, a time-date stamp clicked next to one of the names. That was the cue for the file to activate a slave routine. Andy scoped the program. Somewhere in Vilanni HQ, a call was being made. Andy slapped a tag on it just before the connection broke. He kept digging while waiting for the tag to come back. He still hadn’t managed to find anything juicy by the time it returned, trailing a string of connections that were more than enough to cut out a tag that lacked the advantage of getting on board at the start. The final destination of the call was in the Anacostia Barrens, and all the tag’s message-backfeed feature held was the address of the clinic and a time-date stamp—the same as the one on the list. Andy had discovered the time and place of the next thump.