by Nyx Smith
Unfortunately, such beings as familiars and elementals are just as capable of penetrating floors and walls as the average shaman. They follow instantly, streaking down from the ceiling.
“Master! Above you!" the watcher cries.
Bandit darts aside, through a wall, into a room like a dining room. He casts a handful of sand across the astral terrain. The magic discharged with the sand attracts swirling streams of vibrant power that instantly coalesce, rising into five near-perfect images of Bandit’s aura, his own astral form.
His pursuers come through the wall even as the phony auras arise.
“Master!"
“Quiet.”
The watcher falls silent.
Familiar and elemental both hesitate.
Bandit thrusts his flute out before him like a baton, and says, “Go away.”
And suddenly he’s at the center of a swirling maelstrom of power, a power so potent he feels the hairs standing up along the back of his arms and neck. The familiar’s astral form turns blinding with radiant energy. The elemental swells to fill the entire room. The watcher screams with terror. The familiar shrieks. The elemental wails. The magic swirling ever more furiously around Bandit discharges like a fusillade of thunderbolts crashing down from the heavens, and a howling arises that seems likely to rock the house from its foundations.
And, in another moment, all is silent.
The elemental is gone.
Some spells work as they should.
The familiar hovers near one side of the room, no longer looking like a monstrous bird of prey, but rather like an attractive woman garbed in flowing robes. Looking around the room a bit tentatively, as if maybe a little afraid that she is suddenly all alone.
Great power does not always equal skill in magical conflict.
Bandit has brought with him the Mask of Sassacus, which he now lifts in front of his face. As he speaks, the power of the Mask reaches out and wraps around the familiar like a snake, gripping her tightly, permeating her aura with its influence. The familiar resists, but in the end her struggle is useless."You will obey me.”
“Yes ...” the familiar says.
“What is your name?”
“I am ... called Vorteria."
Probably not a true name, but good enough. It doesn’t always pay to be fussy."You will come with me, Vorteria."
"Yes ...”
They rise through the ceiling to the second-floor hallway, to before the double doors that blaze with powerful wards. No doubt the walls around these doors are similarly protected. No doubt the wards were erected by the familiar. Now that Bandit has a moment to scrutinize things, he assenses the kinship between the sorcerous barriers and the familiar’s aura. He raises the Mask of Sassacus."Dispel the wards.”
“It is forbidden ...”
“Do it anyway.”
The familiar lifts a hand. Power swirls and spreads to cover the doors. The wards flicker and wink out.
“Now we go inside.”
“No ...”
“Yes.”
The room beyond the door is quite large. The walls are lined with many large impressive books that gleam with astral power and hint of secret knowledge. The bare floor looks made of wood and is marked with several circles used in the hermetic tradition. Bandit knows little of such circles and is careful to stay clear of them. He is far more interested in the large volume lying atop a wooden stand in one corner of the room. That dark secrets are hidden inside this tome becomes obvious to him long before he is near enough to extend a hand toward the volume’s astral form. He stops just short of touching it.
The words on the tome’s cover are of course illegible. Abstract symbols like letters are impossible to read from the astral plane. That hardly matters. The book is radiant with dark power, so dark that what Bandit assenses inspires him to horror. Images come to mind that twist the fabric of nature, terrifying images, abominations. Rarely has he encountered anything that hinted so clearly of evil, an evil more ancient than humans, and many times more malign than the most vile of metahumans.
He turns to Vorteria."What knowledge does this book contain?”
Vorteria replies, “It is forbidden ...”
“Tell me anyway.”
The words the familiar speaks, the things she describes, are almost beyond comprehension. Bandit’s sense of horror only grows more acute. The watcher is soon clinging to the back of Bandit’s shoulder and whining hideously."We must leave this place, Master!"
“Yes.” It is essential that they leave.
He must speak to They-Who-Watch.
53
The procedure goes quite well. The Weretiger remains suitably unconscious throughout. The blood and tissue samples are preserved so as to remain viable for a full suite of metabiological tests. Ben will oversee the first series of tests. Liron Phalen pauses in the outer room to shed his air mask and surgical garb. He smiles and nods at the pair of elves specially engaged to serve as the Weretiger’s guards.
“All is quiet,” he tells them.
"That’s fortuitous,” says Tang.
The other one softly whistles.
Liron returns to his office. As he steps through the door, a faint shimmering of the air evolves into the manifest physical form of his ally, Vorteria."Forgive me, Master," she says."I have failed."
Her tone is one of great sorrow and dismay. Her aura shows signs of great disturbance. Liron wonders what could be the matter. He has not given Vorteria any special tasks to perform."My dear ... whatever are you talking about?” Vorteria trembles visibly."An intruder has penetrated my master’s inner sanctum. He distracted watchful spirits and banished my master’s elemental guard. He compelled me to open the wards to my master’s library and to describe the contents of my master’s book."
Liron hesitates."Which book?”
“The Roggoth'shoth."
This is a dire occurrence, one that requires a swift, judicious response. Liron steps around to the rear of his desk and sits and thinks."What can you tell me of this intruder?"
"He has been to the other-planes, Master."
By this, Vorteria refers to the planes beyond the etheric, the higher planes of astral space: the metaplanes. Four correspond to the hermetic elements of air, fire, water, and earth; four others relate to shamanic magic, the realms of man, water, sky, and land. For a magician to reach even the most accessible of these planes, he or she must be an initiate, and no mere beginner. Clearly then, the magician who penetrated Liron’s house and subdued his ally must be an initiate of some degree of accomplishment."How did this man work his magic?”
“He used herbs and twigs, Master, ” Vorteria replies."And a flute."
The flute could conceivably be used by a magician of any tradition, but the herbs and twigs speak of a shaman, and that is disturbing. It brings back to mind the alleged “auditor” who assisted Amy Berman in questioning Ben Hill. This auditor’s aura was masked, something only an initiate can do, and Liron caught a glimpse of the truths the masking concealed. What he saw suggested the eccentricity of spirit that generally indicates a shaman. That made him wonder. Though he knows of a rare few shamans able to find a comfortable niche within the corporate bureaucracy, shamans as a breed usually seem too obsessed with their trinkets and totems to pay heed to anything else.
The question that occurs to Liron now is whether it is possible that this supposed auditor is the one who penetrated his sanctum sanctorum? He taps the keys on his desktop comp that will initiate the program to contact the Metascience Group’s senior administrative aide, wherever she happens to be. Germaine’s features appear on his screen a few moments later."Yes, Dr. Phalen?”
“My dear, is it possible that our parent corporation has sent some people to look over our records?”
“Dr. Phalen, I told you,” Germaine says, suddenly seeming rather flustered."I mean, yes. Don’t you remember? I told you that. I mean I thought I did. There’s a whole army of KFK auditors over at headquarters. That’s why Amy Berma
n’s been snooping around—”
“Yes, of course,” Liron says, smiling. He merely wanted confirmation."You’re sure they’re KFK people?”
“Oh, definitely. I have a friend at headquarters.”
“Thank you, dear.”
The problem then is not one of Hurley-Cooper’s senior executives embarking on a personal crusade, but rather KFK people, auditors, shamans, whatever they may be, stirring things up and becoming far too inquisitive. He will have to do something about this, and about the shaman. The work of half a lifetime depends on it.
Ms. Berman should be a good one to start with.
54
The desk is like polished black marble. The chrome nameplate on the front right corner is like a warning sign: Mercedes Feliz, Executive Vice President. The woman to whom that legend applies sits erectly behind the desk, shoulders back, hands folded on the desktop.
She does not look like a woman with heart. Her stark white hair, cut short in a polished Lectrowave style that pitches radically across her brow, only emphasizes the sharp angles of her narrow-featured face. The lenses of her Porsche datashades are always tuned to nebulon black or chrome-silver mirrors. The face beneath those shades rarely displays any but the faintest of reproving emotions. She wears cutting edge Dunhill UltraMana executive fashions: razor-edged collars, reflective lapels. Her fingernails are like ten little mirrors, honed to knife-like points. Her mouth seems forever set in a disapproving pucker.
But all that, Amy knows, is misleading. Mercedes Feliz is a special sort of suit. Unlike Hurley-Cooper’s CEO, Feliz would not demean herself by fawning over the representatives of their parent corporation. She is no one’s bootlick. She believes that, yes, the corp must come first, but her part of the corporate heirarchy must come first of all, and, given the right cause, she will fight for it tooth and nail.
She understands the importance of people. She knows that people work best for organizations that treat their employees like valued resources.
“You’re equivocating,” Feliz says."Unintentionally, I’m sure.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Just say it, whatever you’re trying to tell me.”
Amy draws a deep breath, struggles with her conscience. She feels as if she’s betraying not only herself, but the employees of Hurley-Cooper, only she can’t let herself believe that, not after her visit with Scottie to the Metascience lab. She’s been lied to—that’s definite. Steps must be taken."I’ve discovered evidence,” she says, “suggesting that someone in the Metascience Group may be manipulating the Purchasing and Payables system.”
“Are you talking about embezzlement?”
Another deep breath."It’s possible that we’ve been made part of a scheme to improperly purchase controlled materials, including substances of an arcane nature. It’s also possible that we’ve been defrauded out of a lot of money."
"How much money?”
“Possibly as much as thirteen million nuyen.”
“Whom do you suspect?”
Stop. Another breath."First, I want to make it very clear that I’m not accusing anyone specifically. I have no definite proof.”
Feliz’s disapproving pucker grows more overt."Amy,” she says, “proof is never absolute, and you needn’t remind me that you want to be equitable. I’m well aware. Now, get to the point. This is just you and me. Whom do you suspect?”
None of that makes saying it any easier. Amy struggles with her own reluctance, her uncertainties, and the purely selfish wish that this whole mess would just go away, never to arise again. She struggles with the awareness that once the words are spoken they can never be taken back.
“Dr. Hill is the most likely suspect. By which I mean it seems likely that Dr. Hill must be involved in some way. That’s my guess, and at this point it’s still a guess. As you’re aware, Dr. Hill has full administrative authority to approve purchasing requests for the Metascience Group.”
Feliz nods."How did this begin?”
Amy explains about the items purchased but not accounted for, about the mystery file on the Metascience Group computer network, about the corporations paid but no longer extant. Too soon, she comes to what could be the most incriminating fact she’s unearthed."Also, I’ve learned that an employee of the Metascience Group has a special bank account amounting to about three million nuyen."
"You’re referring to Hill?”
“I’d rather not confirm that at this point.”
“What makes this account so suspicious?”
“It’s a great deal of money, and it’s not located with the First Corporate Trust.”
“That in itself makes it questionable.”
The location of the account would certainly be questionable from the perspective of a KFK auditor."Yes, I know,” Amy says, “and I questioned the person who owns it. The answers I received were less than truthful. Much less."
"That sounds incriminating, too.”
“Perhaps it is. I’m still not convinced, and I won’t make accusations until I’m convinced.”
“Will that be before or after you receive a full confession?”
Amy feels her cheeks flushing with heat. She’s being too soft, too compassionate, too determined to be fair—that’s what Feliz is saying. Maybe she’s right."Scientists are made and broken on their reputations,” Amy says adamantly."I’m not going to risk ruining someone’s career until I’m convinced they’ve committed illicit acts.”
“Proof can never be absolute.”
“Yes, I’m aware of that.”
“Very well.” Feliz lifts a hand to brush briefly at one arched eyebrow, then says, “How do you want to proceed?”
Amy hesitates, a bit anxious to be asked that by the executive VP, but of course obtaining Mercedes Feliz’s approval of her tentative action plan is the main reason she’s here. A half-hearted and in all probability vain attempt at self-preservation. Or so she tells herself. There’s also a small voice in the back of her head that keeps telling her that it’s wrong to keep things to herself, that her suspicions should be reported, just because, well... things should be reported. Because it’s the responsible and even the ethical thing to do. Because she’s an officer of Hurley-Cooper and it’s her duty to keep her superiors informed. That sounds so much like the voice of a straight suit she hates it.
“You must have some plan,” Feliz prompts.
Amy nods, says, “I want to meet with Dr. Phalen, lay it out, everything I’ve found, and ask his opinion.”
“And if he claims ignorance?”
Amy feels a bead of sweat trickling down her side. She feels her heart thumping faster and harder in her chest. If Dr. Phalen can’t provide some acceptable rationale for what she’s discovered, she’s finished. If Phalen’s part of some conspiracy and he lies to her ..."Then I guess I would have no choice but to put it all before Janasova.”
“Who will immediately run to the audit staff.”
“Yes. I know that.”
“Have you considered your own culpability in this?”
Amy nods, then meets Feliz’s gaze directly, or at least the glare of her shades."If I’ve contributed to someone’s effort to defraud Hurley-Cooper, I’ll face the consequences, whatever they may be. I’m not going to try to cover this up. That’s why I’m here, that’s why I’m telling you all this. I want you to know that I made the discovery, and that I’m doing everything I can to get at the truth.”
“Of course, if Tokyo decides you’re to blame, I may not be able to save you.”
“I know that.”
Feliz nods, just slightly."Then let’s concentrate on what must be done. I agree, question Dr. Phalen. His is the responsibility, even if the routine administration of the Metascience Group falls to Dr. Hill. Insist on a meeting at once. Invoke my authority at your discretion. Meanwhile, I’ll consider what I might do to research this matter further."
"Research it how?”
“Have you any suggestions?”
Amy hesitates, feeling a
warm flush rising up the back of her neck. Only one thought comes to mind, the one thought she would never dare say aloud. She could talk to her brother. Scottie probably knows some shadowrunner who would eagerly dig up dirty secrets on anyone she might name."I’m sorry, no,” she says."No suggestions.”
Feliz nods.
Meeting concluded.
55
Once the door slips closed behind Amy Berman, Mercedes Feliz reaches under her desk to touch the print scanner beside her knee. The bottom right drawer to her desk slides open. The Fuchi-Dektron Admonisher set into the drawer informs her that no one is attempting to eavesdrop on her office, and, if they are, they’re listening to the Brandenburg Concerto No. 1 by Bach, that or white noise. The display on her Sony palmtop confirms what it told her first thing this morning, that no one has attempted to compromise the Admonisher.
She has no absolute proof that Enoshi Ken or the KFK auditors have made any attempt to monitor her activities, but as she told Amy Berman just moments ago no proof is ever absolute.
How Amy Berman discovered that some employee is maintaining an account at a bank other than the First Corporate Trust is anyone’s guess. She must have stumbled over it somehow. She’s far too resolute in her own brand of ethics, too much the humanitarian, to ever engage in any flagrantly illicit activity such as might reveal hidden bank accounts. It’s her greatest weakness. It’s also the quality that makes her of special value to Hurley-Cooper Labs.
She’s like glue—set and stubborn—determined to hold things together, to keep people moving in the same direction. She’s a motivator and a negotiator and an efficient executive. She’s too valuable an asset to risk losing because of some fool’s attempt at petty larceny. This discovery indicative of fraud must be costing her.
It might well cost her a career.
Mercedes jacks into her palmtop and brings up her security files. Just as no proof is absolute, no person employed by Hurley-Cooper Labs or any other corporation is absolutely virginal. In the Sixth World, such people do not exist. Everyone has at least one small blemish somewhere in their record, and that includes not only herself but the people, both scientists and administrative staff, who work for the Metascience Group.