Shadowrun

by Russell Zimmerman

  Shadowrun: Sprawl Stories

  Volume One

  Russell Zimmerman

  Jennifer Brozek

  R. L. King

  Dylan Birtolo

  Edited by

  John Helfers

  Contents

  Introduction

  Neat by Russell Zimmerman

  DocWagon 19 by Jennifer Brozek

  Big Dreams by R. L. King

  Blind Magic by Dylan Birtolo

  About the Authors

  Shadowrun Preview: Tower of the Scorpion by Mel Odom

  Looking for More Shadowrun Fiction?

  Catalyst Game Labs Shadowrun Series

  Introduction

  Back in 2010, after Catalyst Game Labs had released the award- winning anthology Spells & Chrome (edited by yours truly) we were at a bit of a loss on how to follow up that well-received volume. It was obvious there was an eager market for new Shadowrun fiction, however, we weren’t in a position to launch something as ambitious as a novel line at that time.

  That’s when I first learned of the SR Enhanced Fiction line, a short fiction series set in the Sixth World that not only told terrific stories, but also gave game stats for the characters and scenarios that a reader/player might encounter if they chose to use elements of one or more of these stories in their game.

  Now me, I’m firmly on the fiction side of all things Shadowrun, but I’m not above borrowing a good idea when I see one. And publishing novella-length SR stories before, during, and after our launch of the novel line seemed like a no-brainer to me.

  All of which leads us to the anthology you’re now holding. Before now, these novellas existed only in the ephemeral bits and bytes of the internet. But a lot of folks (myself included, to be honest) like something a bit more tangible to have and to hold. Hence the print version of these four stories, representing a broad swath of the people, places, and dangers in Shadowrun’s signature city, Seattle.

  The four novellas within this first volume were written by both long-time and new SR fans/writers/game designers. And when placed next to each other, they give you a down-and-dirty look at the true workings of the Emerald City:

  In “Neat” by Russell Zimmerman, everybody’s favorite rumpled, acerbic P.I. mage Jimmy Kincaid takes what appears to be a simple missing person case. But in the Sixth World, things are rarely what they first seem to be, and the leads he finds only raise a lot more questions…and before its all over, Kincaid might learn that the answers he’s looking for could lead him straight to his own death.

  “DocWagon 19” by Jennifer Brozek, takes an in-depth look at an often-neglected aspect of the Sixth World, the news media (remember the “snoops” detailed in Shadowbeat?). Simone Hart is an augmented reporter about to embark on the ride-along of her life with a hard-charging DocWagon team. But along the way, they stumble into a conspiracy that’s bigger than just a simple “DocWagon making the rounds” story, which leads to a shocking reveal on Simone’s live show at the end of the evening.

  “Big Dreams” by R. L. King could have been subtitled “Birth of a Shadowrunner.” Newly-unemployed wageslave Cody thought losing his job was bad enough, but when he finds his talismonger uncle dead in his shop, Cody is thrust into a dangerous world filled with forces he’s barely even aware of, much less can stand against. But he isn’t alone in his quest to find out who killed his uncle—he’s got friends in some very shadowy places, and they’re about to risk their necks—Cody most of all—to get some justice, or at least what passes for it in the Sixth World.

  Finally, we have “Blind Magic” by Dylan Birtolo, which features Lucas, a gifted shaman blinded during a shadowrun. But when he receives cybereyes to replace his vision, his own tribe banishes him, saying they makes him unfit to be a shaman. Wanting revenge against the megacorp that hurt him, he teams up with a group of shadowrunners to take runs against it. But when his team member double-crosses Lucas and the others on a run to recover a precious artifact, he must discover who the true mastermind is behind this shadowrun, and stop the thief before they escape with both the artifact and Lucas’s last chance for redemption…

  Four stories, four very different looks at the sprawling, glittering, shadowy megacity that is Seattle in all its breathtaking wonder…and life-threatening danger. I hope you enjoy the variety of tales in this volume of Sprawl Stories.

  Neat

  Russell Zimmerman

  One

  One day, when I was nine years old, my dad had absolutely no idea what to fix for dinner. He ended up hauling me to a waffle joint down the block, and as we both sat there and stared at each other across that table, I realized he also had no idea at all what to say to me. I was in a little black suit, he was in his Lone Star dress uniform, and earlier that afternoon we had stood in the rain and buried my mother in the family plot uptown. The silence dragged on between us until it filled the whole little diner and he couldn’t take it any longer.

  “Well,” he said as I sopped up a syrupy bite. “I’m not sure you’re ready, but here it goes anyways, Jimmy. This is all I know to tell you.”

  His eyes bored into mine as he started talking, all craggy features, lantern jaw, and salt-and-pepper buzz-cut. Even when he pulled the occasional twenty-four hour shift down at McMillin, I’d never seen him look so tired, never seen those strong workman’s shoulders sag under some weight I couldn’t yet understand, never seen him as weary-to-the-bone as I’d seen him for this last week.

  “Never punch a man who doesn’t deserve it. Always give the other guy a chance to quit if you can, but if he doesn’t, you hit him so hard he’ll never forget it. Do the right thing every chance you get. You don’t like girls yet, but someday you will and when that happens, you treat them like queens, you hear me? It’s what your mother would’ve wanted. And a couple years after that, when you get a car, you drive like everyone’s out to kill you, ’cause half of ’em will be.”

  I listened as intently as a boy can. I etched every word he said into my memory like carving letters onto stone tablets.

  “Be hard but fair. Shoot straight. Never cheat, in sports or at work. Show up to your job early and do the best you can at it. Kill anyone that tries to blackmail you, ever. Refuse anyone who gives you an ultimatum, they’re never worth it. Leave a fair tip when you eat somewhere, and take your hat off in someone’s home. And always, always, keep your word.”

  And then he just stopped talking and went back to his black coffee, messy eggs, and strips of soybacon. He was done. He’d parented. It was out of his system.

  After that day, I barely saw him except for at games and matches. He started picking up extra shifts at the prison the next week and said it was to make up for mom’s lost salary. Even young as I was, I knew it was to keep out of our empty apartment.

  “Hey!” someone called out with a snicker. “Nice shirt!”

  I blinked awake and glanced around. It wasn’t like me to nod off at a bar. But then, the Nikko wasn’t my usual bar, and I wasn’t in my usual corner of the metroplex. It took me a second—maybe two, thanks to the empty shot glasses in front of me—to pin down who was talking to me.

  A nearby table of loudmouths, a handful of guys with a couple of gals, all grinned in my direction. Sararimen. Business casual, the lot of them, enjoying their happy hour because the other twenty-three every day were a miserable grind. Turning to give them my full attention, I ran a hand through my hair and blinked away cobwebs and exhaustion.

  “Ohhh, look,” the loud one crowed, nudging his lady friend. “He’s an elf! That explains it! Who else would wear a shirt like that?”

  I was in no mood for this tonight. The only reason I was in Downtown instead of back
home in Puyallup was that a friend was staying at the Nikko and wanted to meet here. I’d gotten her call sixteen hours into tailing a wandering husband—a depressingly common case for an investigator like me—and recording his every move, and the tedium and tiredness made me irritable.

  Truth be told, I wasn’t crazy about the shirt myself. My ally spirit, Ariana, had made me wear it. She whined about wanting to practice her Fashion, so I let her cast it. The end result was that my usual suit was a gaudy topaz yellow and sapphire blue. This crew pokin’ fun at it made me feel like they were pokin’ fun at her. I didn’t much like that.

  But I was in Downtown. I had to behave myself.

  “Whiskey,” I spun pointedly away from them on my stool and waved at the barkeep. “Neat.”

  I’d initially ducked into the hotel bar instead of the restaurant because smoking was allowed, so I might as well indulge. The nicotine would help me stay awake anyhow. I missed the joke, but heard ugly laughter from the table behind me, even as I snaked a hand into my coat and plucked out my crumpled pack of Targets. If it wasn’t for the company, this’d be a nice joint. Faux-rice walls, a sterile sort of corporate Japanese zen motif, soft music in the background. I didn’t want to cause a scene, so I just lit up and kept waiting while I glanced at the chrono display of my headware commlink. My—friend? date?—was almost an hour late. That wasn’t like her.

  “So, hey! You are an elf, right?” Another slurred call from behind me.

  “Not much of one,” I growled over my shoulder, giving him my best stink-eye. It was true. Dad had seen to it that my metaspecies didn’t let me grow up soft. He’d pushed me into football, corp scouts, boxing, whatever he could to keep me from being “too elfy.”

  “So that makes you a full-on faerie, right? And not just a fag!” This time he was closer. My cyberaudio suite pinpointed him easily, just a meter and a half behind me. Standing.

  I drank down my whiskey, slowly turning to give him a look. It was just my luck, I guess. I couldn’t just find a metaracist boozer, no, I had to find one of the last couple homophobes in Seattle to boot.

  “Those aren’t nice words,” I said. That they weren’t true didn’t matter. “Why don’t you sit down before I make you eat ’em?”

  He was drunk enough to be brave, but that also meant drunk enough to be slow. Thanks to a little Sideways gene-twist and a lifetime spent brawling, I swayed to one side just enough to let his big haymaker past. I gave him a sharp left uppercut right into his liver as I slid off my stool. He folded and went down.

  His two buddies untangled themselves from their dates and stood up. I tracked the sounds they made with my headware, dropping into a crouch next to the loudmouth. Tilting my head a little to one side, I looked him square in the eye as he writhed and tried to get the world rightside up.

  “You gonna quit this,” I sighed at him through a mouthful of smoke, “Before you really get hurt, kid?”

  The bottle jockey at the bar waved his arms and screeched, “No trouble, no trouble.”

  Between that, the scuff of their feet, and a flash of movement in the chrome-shining bar, I knew his friends were coming in behind me. I spun and flicked my Target at the first face I saw, a miniature comet that distracted the jackass in the lead and bought me a quarter-second.

  I sprang up from my three-point stance like the football player I’d been fifteen years ago, planted my palms on his chest, and gave him a terrific shove into the guy right behind him. It bowled them both over in a heap, and I sidestepped a few meters from all three of them, giving them one last chance to rethink it.

  They didn’t. They came in, instead, and I rushed to meet them, fists leading the way.

  For most people, punching can hurt almost as bad as taking a punch. Skulls are thick, hands are full of fragile, little, delicate bones, wrists can break, knuckles get skinned, and basically the whole damned thing hurts.

  Me? Something in my genes said otherwise. Something Sideways, a temporary high that had decided to hang on and rewrite my whole code. Ever since that genetic infusion had decided to stick around, I loved fighting. My knuckles were split and bloody, but I was laughing because endorphins told me it felt great, and there wasn’t a second in the next half-a-minute when one of those three clowns wasn’t on the ground, trying to climb back to his feet. I was too fast, too used to this, too damned mean, and I knew what I was doing.

  The day three sararimen got the best of me in a good, old, roll-up-your-sleeves bar brawl would be the day I closed my office and gave up my badge for good.

  Unfortunately, maybe they knew that, ’cause it turned out they’d brought four.

  The brushed-steel barstool slammed into me from behind, but the idiot didn’t really know what he was doing because he hadn’t gone for the clean headshot while he had the chance. Coming back from a piss break, he’d just grabbed and swung. He did catch me between the shoulderblades, however, taking the wind out of me and staggering me long enough for his buddies to get their licks in.

  Tough or not, a fella’s still got to get a decent breath to throw a decent punch. There were enough of them I didn’t get that chance. When I felt their hands grabbing my arms and legs, I started to really let them have it. I cussed up a storm and let loose with fists, knees, elbows, you name it.

  They managed to haul me out back, though, and I knew my night was turning from fun to bad. My ally spirit howled in outrage from the astral plane and my wand and Colt were just dead weight on my hip; I wouldn’t let myself use them, any more than I’d let Ariana loose.

  “Don’t,” I said, waving one arm away after they pitched me against a dumpster.

  They all laughed, and a pair of them snatched my arms again. “Stay away!” I growled after a solid face-shot turned my head

  halfway around on my neck.

  “Aww, listen to him now! Beggin’ us to stop!” With a buddy holding each of my arms, the original jackass had found himself a two-by-four lying in the trash. Apparently it made him feel a whole lot better. He swung it like a bat, but I was able to hunch and dip and take the swing mostly on my shoulder.

  I spat blood from my split lip at him, and grinned with red teeth. “I wasn’t talkin’ to you, pal.”

  Ariana tugged at my mind, pleading with me through our psychic link. I’d ordered her away, though, and away she had to stay until I said otherwise. It was in her nature to obey. It was in mine to not ask for her help. I couldn’t risk her killing these guys. Not in Downtown.

  The board came in again. I felt hot blood slither through my hair and down the side of my face, but just the usual tingling sensation, not pain. I can take a hit, but no matter how tough you are, a concussion’s a concussion. My headware flashed red-tinted warning messages into my field of vision as my biomonitor let me know I’d sprung a leak. It was doing its job, just trying to help.

  “Thanks a lot, buddy,” I muttered to the dutiful Corpsman model mini-computer, snorting as a mental command sent the pop-up window away.

  I turned my anger into power, and started to muster up a ball of sorcery to send at them. Fuck it. I hadn’t lost all my magic to that vampire years ago. I could still take care of myself if I had to. Probably. He reared back with the club again as I spat blood and got ready to bowl them all over with a blast of concussive power.

  “Freeze!”

  The voice was feminine, but not for lack of trying. During training, that tone had been called the command voice, and she’d been a master of it. I turned my head to sneak a peek and grinned at her around bloody teeth.

  Jess was here. My friend from out of town, and her huge Savalette Guardian heavy pistol. She had the underbarrel light on its brightest setting, and they all squinted at her like deer in headlights. Her voice shot right through the good citizens’ booze and anger, and they all locked up and waited for another order, just like obedient little corp-cattle should.

  “Put your hands where I can see them!”

  I mouthed along with her, the commands coming straight from
the proverbial—and literal—book. The chuckleheads on each of my arms let me go, and I staggered back against a wall to steady myself. I didn’t feel much pain, but the world was still spinning from those head shots, and the wall helped me keep from embarrassing myself.

  “Back away, slowly!”

  I reached into my jacket pocket, hoping my box of Targets hadn’t gotten crushed in the scuffle. Her hand-cannon swept back and forth from me to the suits, the big muzzle swaying from one side of the alley to the other.

  “Well, look who finally showed up.” I grinned and spat a little blood toward the punks, then turned a smile toward Jessica Rucker, known in the shadows as Hard Exit. My dinner date. “Thanks for the help, offic—”

  And then she shot me.

  Two

  I came to somewhere I’d only rarely been before, in the passenger seat of my own car. I should have hurt all over—my insipid little biomonitor kept pinging in my ear and telling me so—but mostly I just felt stiff.

  Scratch that, I mostly felt angry.

  I looked down at the small burn mark her stick-and-shock round had left on my jacket and cussed. Shifting in my seat, I glared over at the woman sitting behind the wheel. The shadowrunner. The ex-soldier, the street samurai, my rescuer in the dark alley, Hard Exit.

  “What’d you shoot me for?!” It’s hard to say somethin’ like that without sounding like a whiner, but I gave it my best shot.

  “They looked like the sort to press charges.” She, meanwhile, gave me a carefree shrug, dashboard lights gleaming off her cyberarm. “You aren’t.”

  “And you wouldn’t let me help!” Ariana leaned halfway into the front of the Americar, wedging her shining, gleaming self almost between our seat backs. Her skin shone like bronze, her hair like spun silver. Her eyes were an impossible blue, gleaming like sapphires. If she could have, I think she would have been crying. “I asked you and asked you, and you wouldn’t let me!”