by Jak Koke
The glass table shattered with a crash, spraying shards into the plush carpeting. She watched the tiny cuts on her knuckles heal to closure. "Dorian!" she bellowed, arcing her neck and swinging her huge dragon head from side to side.
A spirit manifested across the room. Dorian took the form of a human male of moderate build, white hair, and crisp blue eyes. "I am here," he said.
"I need to feed soon," she said, feeling the uncontrollable rush of hunger flow through her. She must control herself. "Could you please prepare something?"
"In the kitchen, my dear. A small swine awaits."
"Always the faithful," she said. "Thank you for that." Dorian said nothing as he led her to the kitchen. Cinnamon wormed her way across the floor. And as she entered the kitchen on her blue-scaled belly, the smell of the piglet’s fear drove her to a frenzy. Building and building until she ripped into the soft, red flesh of the tender animal. She ripped out its neck, then swallowed the thrashing body in three delicious bites.
17
Hendrix ran his hand over his shaved skull, wiping the sweat from its smooth surface. Four skillsofts bristled from the softlink behind his right ear. The softlink wired him into the changes of an increasingly bizarre and dangerous world. His activesofts and knowsofts kept him on the cutting edge. At least that was the idea.
Hendrix stepped into the warehouse’s shower to examine his body for abnormalities. In the wake of the Giribaldi run, he needed to be certain he was still in perfect condition, just in case he’d picked up an unwanted eavesdropper or some slow-acting poison. He found nothing more than the usual—a large, cybernetically modified body encased in smooth skin as brown as semi-sweet chocolate. Chiseled musculature, wired reflexes. He was as strong and as fast as nuyen could buy.
Still alive after all these years of killing, he thought. A boast not many shadowrunners lived to make.
After determining that the Giribaldi run had left nothing more than bad memories, Hendrix let himself enjoy the sting of hot, clean water against his skin for a few minutes. Then he dried and dressed in jeans and the armored black synthleather jacket he’d stolen off a Barrens ganger who’d been unlucky enough to wander too close to his hidey-hole here in Wilmington.
The warehouse was a low-slung building made of black corrugated metal. It was part of the ancient oil refinery outside; sludge-covered metal pipes snaked and twisted along the ceiling. Hendrix walked past the old offices and into the central area where Juju Pete sat watching the trid. The offices now served as bedrooms for him and his runners: Layla, who shared his bed, the dwarf decker Mole, and Juju, an ork mage who’d been wounded in the Giribaldi run.
Juju glanced up from the trid as Hendrix entered. A couch and a few chairs had been set up in one corner of the huge central room, which had once been a dock area. Juju was very tall, very black with a mustache and a goatee. His tightly curled hair was woven into long, thin braids, each tipped with a bone fragment. Despite his name and his appearance, Juju practiced hermetic magic and he thought shamans were deluded.
"How’s the leg feel?" Hendrix asked.
"Not wiz. I’ve stabilized it, but I’m not gonna be rolling with the team for at least two or three weeks."
Juju’s leg had been chewed up pretty savagely by a fragmentation grenade. Bone fractured in several places, shrapnel lodged deeply into his flesh. It had taken the street doc five hours to patch him up, but Juju had refused any sort of mechanical implants, so the healing process would be slow indeed.
"Null sheen," Hendrix said. "We pulled down enough nuyen to keep us going for a while."
Suddenly Juju’s mouth went slack and his eyes rolled back. That was how he looked when his spirit left his body to travel in astral space. Hendrix didn’t really understand all the intricacies of magicians and their art, but he did know that the effects of spells and spirits could be as deadly as a bullet through the brain. A second later the ork sat up straight again. "Mole and Layla are back," he said.
As if on cue, the door slid open and in they walked. Layla’s laughter brought a smile to Hendrix’s face. She was as close to a friend as he’d ever let himself have. A little overconfident during runs, but lovely to look at, fun to be around, and great in bed. She flashed him a smile as she removed her Ingram SMG from under her coat.
Mole was already talking. "Okay, okay," he said, rubbing his palms together excitedly. "We got biz if we want it, Hendrix. Cinnamon wants you to call her."
"Can we run without Juju?" Hendrix directed the question to both Mole and Layla.
"Sure," said Layla. "From what Mole tells me, sounds like a stroll on the boardwalk."
"Maybe," said Mole. "But that could change real fast." Juju looked up. "I can ride shotgun in the astral," he said. "As long as someone’s here to watch my body." Mole laughed. "Well, I’ll be right here the whole time."
"You’ll be jacked in to your machine, dead to the world," said Juju.
"I can monitor you on the internal cameras," Mole said. "I’ll jack out if anything happens."
Juju snorted. "All right," he said, though it was obvious he wasn’t convinced. He looked at Hendrix. "I probably won’t be that much help anyhow. I won’t be able to cast spells at physical targets, but I can scout for spirits and watchers and such. I can let you know what’s happening through Layla; she and I can talk when she’s perceiving astrally."
Hendrix nodded. Layla was a physical adept who had the magical ability to see into the astral but lacked the ability to go jandering around in it. "Yeah, better than nothing," he said. "I’ll give the fixer a call." Then he went back into his room and sat down in front of the telecom, activating Mole’s line scrambler to avoid a trace. He punched up Cinnamon’s LTG.
Cinnamon answered, looking as beautiful as ever. Golden blond hair. Deep, bronze tan. Even white teeth. But she seemed too relaxed as she slouched in the couch, almost tired.
"Hello, Hendrix," she said. "I’m glad to hear from you. I’ve got work." She drawled the words as though she were drunk.
"I’m listening," Hendrix said.
"I want you to find a human named Grids Desmond," she said. "Mole has the data on him. I need you to find him and a chip he may have. Bring the chip to me, him you can geek."
"Null perspiration, shadowlady. Except that our image is wounded from the Giribaldi extraction."
"Yes, sorry about that," she drawled, "but this work must be done expediently. Do you wish for me to offer it to another party? Or perhaps I can hire a freelance mage to replace Juju Pete?"
Hendrix frowned. "I’ll conduct a preliminary recon of the terrain," he said. "Layla and I can probably infiltrate without tripping any alarms."
"No doubt you can. If you are discreet and secretive until the time comes for action. Then move quickly, decisively."
"As always."
"Yes, and that’s why I pay you so handsomely." Cinnamon’s expression became serious. "This run may be easy, but it is also crucial. Don’t make me worry."
Hendrix just laughed, deep and full, then disconnected. He was still laughing when he returned to central room. "We’ve got work," he told them. "Let’s get prepped." Layla looked at him. "Do we get to play geek-the-dumb-slag again?"
"Yeah." Hendrix couldn’t help but smile. "And he goes by the name of Grids Desmond."
"Goody, goody," Layla said. "I love that game."
18
Jonathon yawned and rolled onto his side, staring at the ochre print wallpaper of his clinic room. He hated that color now, had hated it for hours. Yearning for sleep to come.
The crackled fray to his nerve endings showed itself as a flash on his retina, a projection of a grainy image of trideo static on a dead channel. A gray-textured ghost overlaid on his normal vision. And in that textured static, Jonathon saw images—Tamara in the final throes of life reaching for the trauma patch.
The twisting blur of the crowd was a kaleidoscope of color in the background, a static radiance of metahumanity. Then up close, the bright white gleam of the
stadium flood lamps reflecting off razor-edged cyberspurs. Suddenly dulled with red blood. Gushing everywhere.
Jonathon closed his eyes, but the rumble in his head worsened. And if that weren’t bad enough, the crowd outside his door barked and panted to gain access like hounds finding the hole of the fox.
Venice Jones stood just outside the wide, metal door. On crowd control. Some of the reporters had given up trying to get inside and were barraging the troll bodyguard with their questions instead. But Venny remained impassive. A wall of stone.
They’ll never get him to talk, Jonathon thought. He smiled for the first time since waking. And it felt good.
A murmur passed through the crowd outside and the door cracked open. Venny pushed his huge, tusked head through. He wore mirrored wrap-around sunglasses. Wavy blond hair floated down around his wide-set jaw, and two horns pushed from his skull, both curving up and out, one painted white, the other black in imitation of a yin-yang symbol. A light brown mustache and goatee pushed from his wart-marred lip and chin.
"Synthia’s here, chummer," he said. "You want to see her?"
Synthia? Yes, he wanted to see her. "Of course," Jonathon said. "Thanks, Venny."
The troll stood aside for a second, and Synthia squeezed through under his arm. Her petite form was garbed in a flowing red summer dress, and she carried a bouquet of yellow roses.
"There’s a load of flowers piling up outside," she said, giving him her delicious half-smile. "But Venny won’t let them in."
Jonathon propped himself up into a sitting position as she put the flowers on the window sill, then came over to kiss him. She smelled of hot summer wind and roses. He was glad she was here.
"I told him I wanted to rest," he said. "No disturbances." She grew serious. "How do you feel?"
"Not up to specs," he said, and he told her about the hiss in his head. About being jacked through to Tamara when she died. And about Doctor Abramson’s remarks concerning Tamara’s lack of blood clotting.
"You think Rose killed her on purpose?"
"That’s what I’m going to find out as soon as I get out of here."
"He was released, you know."
"Dougan?"
"Yeah, you torqued his neck out pretty fierce, according to the newsfax. He’ll be in an exoskeleton for a couple of days, but they say he’ll ride in the final match on Friday." Synthia put her hand into his. Her thin fingers seemed so fragile, yet. . .
She reached over to the window sill and pulled a single rose from the bouquet. "Hold this," she said.
"What are you doing?"
"Giving you a little magical edge."
She focused on him for a few heartbeats, then crushed the rose into his bare chest. A rush of warmth overtook him, emanating out from his solar plexus to fill him with energy.
When it passed, the rose was gone, and much of his pain with it. "Wow, do that again," he said.
"That should be enough. You need rest more than anything."
"I can’t sleep with all the commotion," Jonathon said. "What I need is . . ."
A huge yawn interrupted him. He sank against the pillows and closed his eyes. The last thing he saw was Synthia’s delicate face, framed by her fire-red hair. He heard soft singing from all around, and saw her lips move slightly. Then sleep took him in a wash of relief.
The sun was just coming up when Jonathon finally opened his eyes again. How many hours had passed since the terrible events of last night? It seemed a lifetime. Venny still stood guard outside. I’ve got to get hospital security to relieve him, Jonathon thought.
Synthia slept in the chair next to his bed, looking as innocent as a baby. Of course, appearances could be deceiving. Jonathon smiled to himself. Innocent was one thing Synthia definitely was not.
He propped himself into a sitting position just as the telecom next to the bed beeped. That wasn’t supposed to happen. Unless it was the hospital staff checking on him.
"Yes?" he said.
"Winger?" The face on the screen was an apparition from the past, broad and lined with deep wrinkles. A thick black beard and matching head of curls. Three datajacks adorned his left temple, the hair shaved close over them to provide easy access.
It was Theodore Rica, a dwarf of many talents. He used those datajacks. At least he had before prison, when he was the ground-bound tactical officer for Jonathon and Tamara.
"Theo, my long-lost chummer. How’s biz?"
"It’s good to see you up and awake, Jonathon. I saw the accident on the trid . . ." Theo’s rough voice cracked as he trailed off. "They’re saying Tam is dead. Is it true?" Jonathon felt water rise in his eyes as he tried to hold Theo’s gaze. "I don’t know how it could have happened.
After all these years, after..."
"Don’t blame yourself, Jonathon. That won’t bring her back."
Jonathon felt Synthia stir awake and squeeze his palm. "I don’t," he said. "Not really. I just wish I’d been out there with her. Maybe I could’ve prevented it."
Theo frowned, but said nothing.
"How did you get through to me anyhow?" Jonathon asked after a long silence, trying to change the subject.
"Well," Theo said, the edges of his mouth hinting at a smile, "I am head of proactive security for MCT North America."
"You got the promotion. Congrats."
"Thank you," Theo said. His smile had emerged completely now.
"I can’t believe they’d let a halfer get into such a high position."
"I’m no ordinary halfer."
"Verily," Jonathon said. " ’Tis true."
"I just showed them they had weaknesses I could either exploit or fix, depending on the kind of offer I got." Jonathon laughed, and it hurt. It had been too long since he’d laughed full out, and despite the pain, it felt good.
After a minute, Theo lost his smile and gave Jonathon a serious look. "Gotta go," he said. "Back to work and all that. But listen, my friend, if there’s anything I can do to help, just—"
"Actually, I thought of something."
"Name it."
"Could you get in contact with Anna and the gypsies for me? I think they’ll want a funeral."
"It’s as good as done, chummer. I’ll be in touch." Then Theo’s face was gone, replaced by the DocWagon logo.
Jonathon stared at it for a minute, thinking about the funeral. About seeing all the gypsies again. Seeing Anna. The big motherly elf had always blamed him for stealing Tamara away from the vista, the big family. Now she would blame him for Tamara’s death as well.
And he wasn’t looking forward to that.
Jonathon glanced over at Synthia, who had fallen back asleep, her head resting on the edge of the bed. So Lovely. So strong. What would I do without her?
What if she died too?
He shook his head to clear those thoughts and punched commands into the telecom, instructing it to slave to his unit at home. He had sixty-two messages. Frag! He scanned the headers. Fifty-eight were from people he didn’t know, most likely reporters or snoops or fans. Three were from his agent, and one was from Grids Desmond.
Maybe he knows something.
Jonathon hit a key to play back the message. And chills shook him as he listened to what Grids had to say. And after, Jonathon decided it was time he got out of this fragging clinic. Time he did something about Tamara’s death.
19
In her San Bernardino home, Maria slept. Isolated from the sun by blinds and heavy curtains, her bedroom was a sanctuary, a dark nest where she could catch her daily sleep. Quiet, peaceful, and all hers.
Maria awoke to loud pounding. Thudding that shook the house. "Wake up! Wake up, Maria! It’s important!" The voice was faint, distant as though she dreamt it.
Maria rolled in her bed, in her nest of pillows, patchy quilts, and clothing. She buried her head in the soft fabrics and cushions, trying to get away from the pounding.
Thud. Thud. Thud.
The noise never relented. The pounding continued until finally Maria opened
her eyes, fully awake. She sat up in the bed and removed the blinding mask, feathered to look like an owl’s face. Long black hair fell down to the small of her back, and she squinted against the daggers of sunlight filtering through around the curtain edges. She stood and placed the mask on its mannequin.
She walked toward the bedroom door, debating whether to cover her dark skin with clothes. "Quit pounding or I’ll fry you," she yelled through the door. A fireball itched in the back of her head, just waiting to burn up the annoying culprit. "Who is it?" she asked. She expected Pedro or Angelina, perhaps home sick from school. Maybe even Wallace rumbling in on his bike. But Talon, her ally spirit, would never have let Wallace inside the house. And the kids knew better than to wake her up before dusk.
It must be an emergency, she thought.
The pounding had stopped, but nobody had answered her question. She activated the glass eye in the door to see who it was. Fear shot through her. The form standing in the hall outside her bedroom was out of place, not someone she immediately recognized.
She called for Talon, thoughts that her ally might have been destroyed by this elf racing through her mind. Then as she examined the man’s features—the sharply pointed ears, straight black hair, lean muscular body—she realized who it was.
Dougan Rose.
He was dressed in a long, black synthleather duster over a dark blue suit. Looking very corporate. Except for the bandage over his right ear and the hard segmented polycarb exoskeleton that hugged his neck and covered his Muerte tattoo. The exoskeleton was done in metallic blue with silver sparkles, and it looked like another layer of skin, except thicker and less flexible.
Maria unbolted the door and opened it. "Dougan, what the frag do you want? I nearly fried you with a fireball," she said. "And I still might if your explanation isn’t good enough."
Dougan stood on the threshold and stared at her, an appraising look on his face. His eyes scanned her dark human face, her doe-brown irises. Down her neck, pausing only briefly to look at her matching tattoo, to her clavicle, her breasts. Lower.