by Jak Koke
Layla missed the driver and hit someone in the rear. Hendrix could see now through the chewed hole that had been the rear window. Layla had hit a wiry norm with black hair and white skin. Grids. Fragging great, just what we need.
Blood poured from the man’s shoulder, and he was screaming as though electrodes had been clamped to his testicles. But Hendrix could tell he would live for at least an hour more. Good.
Hendrix thumbed the minigun to remote rigging via his smartlink. Another burst would kill everyone inside, and he didn’t want that. At least not until he pulled Grids out of there. Hendrix reached for his Ares Alpha Combatgun, a bit more precise than the Vengeance.
Mole spoke in his ear. "Knight Errant security’s on its way," he said. "ETA: four minutes. Sorry, I can’t—"
"Null sheen," Hendrix said, hefting his rifle. "This is almost over." Then he pushed open the car door and stepped out into the bright light and noise.
25
Andreas Michaelson stepped from his private helicopter onto the roof of the Venice Beach Hilton. He’d spent the whole day and much of the evening at Magenics, going over the details of the Magus File. Numbers and scientific theories about genetics, magical aptitude, and artificial intelligence spun around in his mind as he crossed the helipad to his suite. Giving him a headache.
Ruger and the security team flanked out around him as he entered the cool of the hotel corridor. He breathed deeply—clean, filtered air—then activated the palm scanner and stepped inside.
Why can’t the labcoats simply give me a time frame? he wondered. He hated dealing with science types, because they would never commit to anything. Engineers could promise to have a bridge built in a specific amount of time with a predetermined amount of nuyen. But not researchers.
No, they always spoke in theoreticals. Talking about proving this hypothesis and that theory. Never about practical applications.
Inside the suite stood the white-haired Claudio, dressed in a dwarf-sized tuxedo and cummerbund. "Ah, my executiveness," Claudio said, greeting him with a low bow. "How are the trials and tribulations of the upper echelon?"
Michaelson smiled, setting his briefcase on the floor and prying off his leather Armante shoes one foot at a time, then wiggling his silk sock-covered toes into the plush carpeting as he walked to the couch. He plopped down in a slumped position and activated the huge trid. "The trials outweigh the tribulations today, Claudio," he said.
"I’m so very sorry to hear that," said the dwarf. "Maybe you’d like some dinner?"
"Yes, please." Michaelson waved a tired hand. "Just bring me whatever you have."
"How about foie gras, followed by poulet cordon blue and a rice pilaf?"
"Fine, whatever."
"Very well." Claudio turned to leave. "Oh, one other thing."
"Yes?"
"Check your messages right away. The new secretary, Johan, called from Essen. He said something about Mr. Brackhaus arriving tomorrow."
Michaelson bolted upright in his seat and turned to look at Claudio. "Brackhaus is coming here? Why?"
"I don’t know." Claudio suddenly became serious, losing all hint of affectation. Then he smiled. "I just work here," he said.
Michaelson stood. "Just what I need, a fragging spy from the head office breathing fire down my neck." Then he noticed that Claudio still stood there. "You can go get my dinner," he said. "Thank you."
Claudio nodded, then walked out.
Why the frag would Brackhaus be coming ? Unless he suspects something . . .
Hans Brackhaus was a mysterious figure around Saeder-Krupp. He seemed to have his hand in a number of operations, though even Michaelson wasn’t sure exactly what his title or position were. All he knew for sure was that Brackhaus seemed to get around a lot. It was said that his speciality was covert ops and that he reported directly to the dragon, Lofwyr. There were even rumors spinning around that Brackhaus was Lofwyr, though who could ever be sure of anything like that? Michaelson had dealt with both the human and the dragon, but had never discerned any similarities.
Michaelson walked into the bedroom and sat at his desk to play back his messages. The face of the new secretary came on—a typically skinny elf with short dark hair, a narrow black mustache, and a haughty disposition. Michaelson listened to what the elf had to say about this unexpected visit by Hans Brackhaus. On the surface it seemed to be a routine check on the Magus Project, but Michaelson saw through it. Things were coming apart. Ever since that slitch elf had gotten too curious for her own good. And now this. Brackhaus on his way here.
It could only be because he suspected something. And that meant Lofwyr might have gotten wind that somebody had stolen his secrets. The dragon’s fury could come to strike him down any minute. From any direction, from anyone.
When the message winked off, Michaelson punched up Cinnamon’s number on a secure line. He put on his best face for the beautiful blonde, but she didn’t smile at him.
He took a deep breath and said, "We’ve got a problem."
26
The crash of shattered glass and the staccato spray of heavy gunfire rang in Jonathon’s ears until he could hear no more. He was crouched on the floor of the Nightsky, his shoulder pressed against the panel separating the driver’s seat and the limo’s rear compartment. He shook the shards of glass from his hair and watched, stunned, as Grids’s shoulder exploded.
Blood erupted like crimson lava through the black denim on Grids’s back, spraying the door and upholstery. In slow motion, the man’s body lifted up from the bullet’s impact, then slammed into the electronic console. He slid to the floor, leaving a trail of blood all the way down, and lay there.
Dead?
Jonathon’s heart beat once. Then twice, pounding like a bass drum.
Grids looked up then and screamed, wailing like a stuck pig as the color drained out of him. "I’m gonna die," he yelled. "They fragging killed me!"
Jonathon reached across and clapped his hand against the wound to stop the bleeding. Hot sticky liquid gushed over his knuckles and down the underside of his arm as Grids screamed.
Synthia swallowed hard next to Jonathon, then reached over and touched the wound. Warmth rushed over the area, growing in heat until Jonathon had to pull his hand away.
Grids moaned, then stared at Synthia with a look of exhaustion, before gritting his teeth and bowing his head. Synthia nodded to him, then turned away and concentrated. She began to chant something and gestured once or twice in the air.
"Jonathon," bellowed Venny. "Don’t move!"
Jonathon didn’t have to be told twice, but reached into the wide pocket of his duster and pulled out the Predator II just in case. Their attackers hadn’t fired again. Why?
Venny crouched low in the front seat, trying to sight through the ragged hole that had been the rear window of the Nightsky. In one hand, the troll held his laser-sighted Uzi III, in the other was some sort of black ball.
The Uzi’s laser flashed in and out of the car as Venny leaned for position. "The driver’s getting out," Venny yelled. The Uzi sputtered as the troll fired.
Jonathon risked a look up the street, and for an instant he saw a dark blur near the door of the other car, moving faster than he thought possible. Coming straight for them.
The man was black-skinned and bald with multiple skill-softs bristling just above one ear. His eyes were chromed, and his motions were blindingly fast, but jerky, not like the smooth movements of Venice Jones. In armored synth-leather he came like a robot, first firing a blast from the grenade port of his rifle. Then, as the grenade flew toward the hole where the rear window had been, the man’s eyes locked with Jonathon’s and he fired a pulse of his rifle directly at Jonathon’s head.
"Get down!" A heavy hand shoved Jonathon to the floor.
But it wasn’t Venny’s push that saved him. As he fell, Jonathon saw the bullets ricochet off something invisible. A transparent barrier less than a meter from his head. Bullets that would have hit him between the eyes.
I should be dead, he thought.
Venny gave Synthia a quick glance. "Thanks," he said. Then he, too, was moving, out the driver’s door and into the street.
Jonathon felt adrenaline and anger rising inside him. They nearly killed me. But as he breathed, seeing an image of the bullets in his head, time slowed. He found himself focusing, searching for that feeling of unreality that gave him the edge in biker matches.
The grenade had bounced off Synthia’s shield and landed on the pavement behind the limo. But it never exploded; instead a white hazy gas billowed from it. Smoke? Tear gas ?
Venny disappeared out the side door, throwing his black ball in a lightning-quick motion, almost too fast to register. But as the zen came over Jonathon, as he focused his mind, he found himself able to follow the accelerated movements.
The black ball split into two weighted spools that gradually grew farther and farther apart as the nearly invisible fiber of a monofilament thread unwound between them. They revolved around an imaginary point as they spun toward the black man with the combat rifle.
The man glanced at the oncoming weapon for a second, then fired a burst at Venny, before diving to the left at the last possible second. The rotating monowire weapon missed by a hair, flying past.
Venny grunted in pain as one of the rounds hit him. "Jonathon," he said, "you’re gonna have to rig this boneshaker out of here. I’ll stay and handle this."
"But—"
"Just do it, the tires will hold."
Jonathon pulled a datacord from the console in the panel separating the front and back compartment of the limo. The Nightsky came equipped for rear-seat and remote rigging in emergencies. Like now. Jonathon slotted the jack into his temple.
"Wait!" Synthia yelled at the same instant a huge fireball exploded near the other car. Red glow and heat flashed against the black interior of the limousine as bits and pieces of the Americar rained down on the street around them.
Jonathon became the vehicle, activating the cameras and road sensors. The car’s dog brain was intact, and the forward inputs worked perfectly. He could see, feel, and hear the road in front. But the signals from the rear were nothing but static and dull ache. The internal microphones picked up the gunfire and the sound of Grids moaning in pain, but nothing Jonathon could use to get a clearer idea of what was behind the limo.
The wheel sensors and the dog brain told Jonathon that the runflat tires had been brutalized, but they might hold for a few kilometers. He revved the big engine and mentally slammed the limousine into gear. The internal sensors let him feel the presence of the passengers. He could feel Grids and Synthia, plus his own weight, sitting on the floor of the rear.
Venny was still outside.
Another blast shook the street behind them as Jonathon urged the car forward. Synthia. Then gunfire thrummed from the burned hull of the Americar, and in the silence that followed came the rocking weight of a troll’s body thrown into the front seat.
There was no time to glance with his meat eyes to see if Venny was still alive. And the internal camera was offline. Jonathon accelerated, peeling down a side street. If anyone followed, he had no way of knowing.
Then the troll weight in the driver’s seat shifted and sat upright. The door closed and Jonathon felt Venny’s hands on the steering wheel. "I’m all right," he said. "Just a few scratches."
"Just tell me if they’re following," Jonathon said.
"Nope, Synthia’s blast fragged up their car."
"Good."
Jonathon eased the limousine back up onto the freeway. Once they were out of danger, he shut down the transponder and the auto-distress call. He didn’t want anyone knowing where they were going, including Knight Errant. Or DocWagon. If Grids needed surgery, they’d find a street doc to do it.
Jonathon’s zen lasted several minutes longer, and in that time he decided what to do. Obviously, their attackers were professionals. Mercenaries or shadowrunners since they didn’t seem to have corporate affiliation.
Shadowrunners hired by Michaelson, no doubt.
Jonathon knew they needed a place to hide out. To rest and decide what to do next. And he had just the spot. One of his old riding buddies, Chico Rodriguez, had a house up in the hills off Laurel Canyon Boulevard. A secluded place where he used to stamp BTL chips.
At the moment Chico was sitting in an Aztlani prison awaiting trial for smuggling charges. It wasn’t likely he’d be coming home or needing his hideout for a while. Not for a long, long while.
They could use the place to hide out and recover. They needed time. Time for Grids to heal. To learn more about the file that seemed to have everybody trying to frag their hoops. Time to think about how Dougan Rose was connected to Michaelson.
Time to make a plan.
A plan to take down Michaelson.
27
The sky stretched forever in all directions around Maria. In the west the deep red sunset glowed; in the east, the first stars showed as tiny diamonds, twinkling in a midnight blue firmament. And below, the colors of the city sparkled beneath the smog layer like hazy fireflies. Red, yellow, green fuzzy dots.
Maria breathed in the clean air, filling her lungs with it. Owl loved flying at night, searching the air and the ground for hapless prey. Searching with the parabolically focused night vision, seeking out prey with sound. Owl had shown Maria how to track with her ears, and once she’d mastered the technique, she no longer relied so much on sight.
Owl could hear the movement of a mouse from sixty meters. Could pinpoint its location, its direction, speed. Could see it from the skittering, scratching noises it made as it moved.
Two flights in two nights. Maybe there was something good about this run after all.
They had spent yesterday at Dougan’s summer condo in Laguna Beach. After the flight from El Infierno, cloaked in invisibility. Dougan had spent the day jacked into a deck, gathering data on Grids Desmond and Tamara Ny.
Maria had slept through all that, waking earlier this evening when they unfolded the Nightgliders again. Dougan had taken them back up, wind singing beneath the thinly stretched poly-carb weave of the wings. Maria had never been so anxious for a run. It had almost been enough to take her mind off Angelina and Pedro, home alone with only Talon to care for them.
Dougan had piloted them out over the ocean so they wouldn’t risk colliding with any sky-scratching arcologies. Then he’d banked them inland over the Santa Monica Mountains, settling down on a narrow beach next to Stone Canyon Dam. An incredible feat of flying.
"We leave the Nightgliders here," Dougan said.
Maria nodded in the darkness. She stretched and flexed inside her tight bodysuit, then walked back and forth, feeling the solid ground beneath her boots. Disappointed to be on the ground again. Above, the stars were now blocked by a covering of smog, underlit by the city lights.
Maurice and Bob Henry came up behind them. "Where’s the hit?"
"Grids lives in one of those condos," Dougan said. He pointed at a building of glass and dark wood. The condoplex was built into the hills, with many balconies overlooking the reservoir, but the entrance must be on the opposite side, by the road.
"Number seven," Dougan said. "It’s the one where the explosion and fire happened last night."
"What kind of security we facin’?" Maurice said.
"Unsure," Dougan said. "Maybe Maria can help us scan it."
"I’ll project," she said, "and search the building. Watch my body."
Maurice grunted. "I been watching it all day," he said. "Why stop now?"
Bob Henry chuckled.
Maria ignored them and sat down on the dry grass. Then she lifted her awareness up and out of her flesh, shifting from the physical to the glowing plane of the astral. And she was there, flying over the others.
She saw their auras from above, their bodies a swirl of red, green, and blue except for the dead areas' where cybernetics had violated the flesh. Gray and black dimmed the auras of all three of them in places, but in
Dougan the effect was disturbing. Only a flicker of life remained.
Dougan, what have you done to yourself? she thought.
But she didn’t have the luxury of time. She flew up and across the street. The dull landscape of the buildings and concrete blurred slightly as she moved. Only the trees seemed vibrant from the astral plane.
She saw the results of the explosion right away—massive trauma to the structure. Destruction surrounded her; support beams had been demolished, windows shattered. Much of the natural wood was severely burned. And the aura of the place echoed the trauma, tiny splotches of red and orange glowed where the wood had been severed.
It looked like one or two people had died in the explosion. Maria had assensed death enough times to know what its astral afterimage looked like.
Suddenly, a watcher spirit in the form of a basketballsized eye floated by on her right. When it saw her, its eye grew larger, unblinking. But in the time it took the watcher to decide whether she was a threat, Maria had banished it. The eye winked out of existence without a sound.
Then she moved through the decimated apartment toward the front of the building. There were two guards near the entrance to the condoplex, speaking in low voices. They carried pistols and shock batons. Parts of their head and arms were cyberware. These boys won’t be a problem, she thought.
Suddenly, a large spirit raced toward her. "Who are you," it asked in a voice like the whooshing of wind.
Maria spun to face it, recognizing the creature as an air elemental—a moderately intelligent spirit. Sometimes it was possible to confuse them. "I’m part of a security team investigating the explosion."
The elemental blustered. It did not understand. "Who are you?" it repeated. "I must report you to my master."
"Never mind," Maria said. Then she called for Stoney. A fraction of a second later, the spirit called Stoney appeared beside Maria. It was a concrete and riebar city spirit hulking with weight. "Would you be so generous as to destroy that?" Maria pointed at the air elemental.