“Your bio signs spiked a minute ago,” Khadija said.
Rashida cursed softly. She wasn’t a novice. She’d been a runner since her university days six years ago. She was a professional. Blowing out her breath, she slowed her heart.
“Got sand in my eyes,” she told the decker. “Null sheen.”
“All good now. Reading five by five. Anything you want to talk about?”
That wasn’t good. Even though Rashida’s pulse rate was down, Khadija wasn’t buying the excuse. They had been friends since university, and had gotten bloody together on their first run that went sideways when the rest of their team betrayed them.
“Not now,” Rashida answered. “Later.”
“I’ll hold you to that.”
For a moment, Rashida stood still as the breeze riffled her hajib, cooling her head beneath the material and her piled mass of black hair. She thought about how close she was to Eberhard Beuys. Her breath puffed against the niqab covering her nose and lower face, but she controlled her heartbeat, dialing back her anticipation along with her anxiety.
At the bottom of the tall dune, in the center of a crossroads marked by ATV treads and camel tracks a hundred meters below, the Rub al Khali Souk shot neon spears into the black, star-studded night from dozens of tents and fabricated buildings, as well as from bright, multi-colored lanterns strung around the marketplace’s perimeter. A trio of buildings jerked erect along the outer fringe of the traveling market as late-arriving proprietors hastily set up shop. The whine of servos juking the ceilings up and popping the walls into place carried over the shifting sand. As soon as the structures locked into place, the interior lighting came on.
The marketplace was named after the Rub al Khali of Bedouin legend, the dream place where djinn, spirits, devils, and monsters roamed. The shapeshifting Ghoul and the Hanash serpent were also the stuff of nightmares. But it could be a place of learning as well; Muqarribun, the Arabic magicians, had gone there seeking knowledge.
In a way, that was where Rashida had found Scorpion, her totem spirit.
The sight of the marketplace took her back to her childhood, to an innocence she could scarcely remember. Her father had carried her on his broad shoulders, putting her up high enough so she could take in all the technological and magical wonders spread out for shoppers to see. She’d always felt like she was watching a fairy tale filled with djinns and spirits taking shape before her eyes, but they were mages and Awakened creatures made more mysterious through cyberware and magic.
Her father and her brother had been drawn to the decks and the software designers. They had loved technology, sharing interests and skills Rashida never had.
Her talents lay in another field, one that was not so innocent. For a moment, she closed her eyes and relived those memories. Her father had been strong and warm, a large man with a big laugh and sparkling eyes. He’d bought sweets for her, telling her they could never let her mother find out. Rashida’s thoughts wandered rebelliously to an image of her father bleeding out on the thirsty sand. Only a short distance away, Qasim was a crumpled knot of pain, torn beyond recognition.
She banished the memories and opened her eyes.
You can’t undo the past, she told herself. But you can avenge it.
Amid the neon beams and 3D holo advertisements for Saeder-Krupp, Evo, Wuxing, a couple dozen local and out-of-country corps hopeful of creating market inroads warred in vain against the true commerce lords. Lofwyr’s stylized dragon head, Saeder-Krupp’s trademark, slowly spun high in the sky, warring for attention against Wuxing’s restless flames and Evo’s helix gears. The small businesses’ holos struggled to gain a toehold against the massive projections of the AAA megacorps, but their efforts were dwarfed by comparison. Sound bites in a dozen different languages and canned music threaded through the noise of the market hawkers.
Holographic yellow and red fires danced in giant rectangular braziers marking the souk’s four entrances at the cardinal points. Men and women wearing white Kevlar with Ifrit Services Security badges on their shoulders, chests, and backs patrolled the gates. ISS was the largest protective arm in the Caliphate.
ISS drones hovered over the souk as well, mixing in with the holo projectors and news gathering craft piloted by local and international journalists. The souk was technically illegal, but no law enforcement agency ever “found” it if the proper bribes were in place, and if found, only the “right” people were arrested. Still, the marketplace was news, and news was free advertisement for biz. Distortionware would make sure no one was identified, of course. The drones’ presence increased the risk Rashida faced, but they also added to the overwhelming sensory onslaught attendees weathered. Ultimately, they provided necessary cover.
“You must kill your enemies…”
The dry voice of Scorpion whispered in the dark recesses of Rashida’s mind, as it had since she’d accepted the totem spirit’s guidance only a few years after the deaths of her father and brother.
“Our enemies must not be suffered to live...”
That was only one of Scorpion’s many lies. The spirit wouldn’t just give her power to defeat her enemies. If it was permitted to, Scorpion would consume her, erase all that was her, and take over her body as a host. Then it would seek to destroy all human and metahuman life, not just the people Rashida hunted tonight. The shaman who had introduced her to the spirit had warned about that, but Scorpion held an affinity for her, and the spirit was the only one from whom she could claim the power to make herself strong enough to exact her vengeance.
Even after years of practice, putting away Scorpion’s lethal hungers required dedicated resolution. Control over the insect spirit balanced on a knife blade, and the fact that Rashida’s current goal touched on that old anger regarding her father’s and brother’s deaths tipped the scales in Scorpion’s favor.
Rashida’s hands darted over her body, finding her weapons under the loose chador she wore over a Kevlar blouse and pants. Imperceptible slits in the gown rendered those weapons instantly available.
“Chummer.” Khadija’s voice was gentle over the commlink. “You’re not moving.”
“I’m putting my mask on.” Tapping into her power, Rashida wove a layer of astral energy over her face. The spell was one she’d used before. It was expertly crafted and familiar, almost a ready-made thing because she knew it so well.
Observers who weren’t cybered or didn’t work in the astral plane wouldn’t notice anything unusual about her face. They would see someone unfamiliar and nonthreatening, someone they wouldn’t be able to describe later. Those who were augmented in some way or were mages would see bits and pieces of her face, but never all of it. Only directed, focused attention could tear the spell away.
“That’s funny.” Khadija laughed. “All anyone can see of you is your eyes.”
“I want anyone who notices me to remember someone else’s eyes.” Rashida had memorable eyes, amber shot through with topaz, like her father’s. She also wanted potential witnesses to remember someone else’s height and size. The market lights wavered for a moment, and she knew the spell had taken effect.
Scorpion chittered in the back of her mind, anxious now, feeding off the volatile mix of emotions whirling through her.
Calmly, Rashida walked down the dune. Her boots sank deep enough into the sand that the calf-high tops threatened to fill. Several groups and stragglers, all Bedouin as she was, dressed in gowns and headwear, rode camels or ATVs or walked toward the souk.
The mechanical clatter of the ATV engines warred against the crescendo of riotous music spilling from PA systems around the marketplace. Middle Eastern zither chords melded with Jamaican drumming and guitars shredding Western metal. The party atmosphere was carefully cultivated. Daytime visitation centered mainly on biz, but the nights specialized in off-grid tech work and mage spells the Caliphate wouldn’t sanction publicly, and only tolerated because if those wants weren’t met, more unrest would run through the Kingdom. For the right
price, tech docs secretly chipped or augmented followers of Islam so that no one in their family or corp would know unless those secrets were shared or revealed by the bearer.
Adult fare became available after dark, too. Several of the tents and RVs specialized in metahuman sex shows. The Caliphate opposed nonhumans as a general rule, reluctantly tolerating them in strictly defined areas. Elves, dwarfs, trolls, and orks were more accepted in Arabian neighborhoods that depended on tourism, but they were never truly welcome everywhere. Allah had designed men to be men, and no one could change that in the eyes of hardcore believers.
At the east gate, Rashida stepped into the line of people waiting to enter the souk. The Ifrit secmen studied screens attached to decks running facial recognition software. The program databases didn’t identify visitors; no one would want that in a black market. But it did serve to keep out known terrorists and corp spies. Getting attendees blown up in an attack or having wares stolen from vendors or their cred accounts hacked while in attendance would be bad for biz.
In spite of her shadowrunning experience, Rashida remained a cipher, invisible. The secwoman who scanned her did a thorough job in short order, then waved her on through.
“Enjoy the bazaar,” the guard said. “Lots of good deals. Plenty of great food.” She handed over a pair of disposable eyewear for visitors who weren’t chipped or didn’t have cybereyes.
Passing into the souk’s main area, Rashida pulled on the black plastic glasses. Powered by solar cells charged earlier, the glasses juiced and sprang to life. Instantly, information opened up when she gazed at a 3D holo in front of a shop. The default language was English, but Arabic, Chinese, and other languages could be selected at the tap of a button on the eyeglasses arm.
“I’ve got eyes on the prize.” Khadija’s voice turned brittle, indicating her tension.
Rashida felt guilty for just a moment. Khadija was her best friend, and she didn’t like risking her on a personal mission like this. But more than anything, she wanted this face-to-face with Eberhard Beuys to balance the scales between them. Someone had to pay for the murders of her father and brother. Even if Mr. Johnson hadn’t been paying for the run, she would have wanted to know about the man.
The real trick would be getting out of here after that meeting without getting caught. Especially if, at the end of Mr. Johnson’s biz, she killed Beuys as she planned.
“Go to the right, around the Lebanese street vendor,” Khadija directed. She sighed wistfully. “You wouldn’t believe how much I’d give for some shawarma and badem tatlisi right now.”
After the decker mentioned the pita sandwich and almond cake, Rashida immediately noticed the spicy and sweet smells. She glanced at the small grill set up with transplas shelving that supported pots, pans, and disposable serving dishes. Rashida stopped in front of the vendor long enough to purchase an order of kebbe.
“You got kebbe?” Khadija made the act sound scandalous.
“For cover.” Rashida bit into one of the stuffed meatballs and took up the trail again. Her stomach recoiled because of the tension she was feeling, but she kept the morsel down.
“I hate you.”
Despite the stress she was under, Rashida smiled at her friend’s mock venom. “Once this is finished, I’ll take you to dinner, anywhere you want.” Mr. Johnson paid well for success.
“Deal, and you’re throwing in dessert.”
“But of course.” Rashida flowed through the crowd, all of the people hunting bargains as they negotiated prices in loud, rapid voices. Barkers standing in foldout kiosks and popup storefronts hailed the steady stream of passersby.
Cyberware replacements for limbs as well as internal organs rotated in holos above a large, ornate Shiawase Biotech shop. Three attendants, two young women and one young man, strutted around out front. Each wore an x-ray overlay suit that showed their various cyberware for anyone who wanted to see. Not much of their flesh was left to the imagination either, so they drew plenty of momentary attention. A neon crawler advertised: DOCTORS ON CALL. GET YOUR UPGRADE TODAY!
Next door to the Shiawase shop was a kiosk featuring Mitsuhama Computer Technologies decks. The gleaming units looked sleek and lethal. In the right hands, with the right software, they would be. Khadija was proof of that.
The decker sniffed in disdain, her dismissal carrying over the commlink. “Showpiece drek. Use-and-lose hardware for the uninitiated. But they probably have some good stuff in the back. Maybe you could take a minute—”
“Not going to happen,” Rashida responded. Behind the niqab, no one could see her lips move.
“Spoilsport. And there you sit eating your kebbe.”
“We take care of the run first, Mr. Johnson’s payment second, and then we party and shop somewhere far from here.”
Closing in on her quarry, Rashida popped the last meatball into her mouth and dropped the serving dish into the nearest bin, which promptly incinerated it. No one wanted fingerprints or DNA collected later. Rashida wore thin gloves to prevent those possibilities as well.
Still pretending to be a gawker, she walked slowly, throttling her impulse to race to Eberhard Beuys. For her and Mr. Johnson, Beuys was only the beginning.
A few minutes later, Khadija said softly, “Heads up. He’s in the kiosk next to the Horizon booth. I verified his DNA with a spyfly.”
Rashida’s pulse quickened, but she knew Khadija would ignore that. Under the circumstances, the change was expected.
The Horizon popup storefront rolled footage from two just-released megahit vids in full-on surround sound that thundered over the market. Across the top, a scene from BattleThumpers broadcast a martial arts spectacle set in Thailand’s jungles, showing mercs in high-tech gear attacking an enclave of giant creatures that resembled hornets. Autofire mingled with hoarse curses and thrumming wings.
In the back of Rashida’s mind, Scorpion stirred, its hunger peaking and demanding release again.
The lower half of the screen showed armored soldiers fighting through floating jellyfish-looking aliens with long tentacles in the bowels of a radiated starship as red warning lights blinked along the steel corridor. A crawler ran at the bottom: Ares Space Marines!
“Wow,” Khadija said. “I gotta check out Marines. Looks totally wiz. Is that a game or a vid?”
“Less focus on pop culture,” Rashida said as she walked past the Horizon kiosk. “More focus on biz.”
“Momentary lapse. I got you. Don’t worry about me.”
Rashida trusted her friend. Khadija had always been there for her, but the woman often tended toward ADHD.
The Gateway of Dreams kiosk advertised simsense rigs and software. Rashida assumed the popup offered illegal sensies as well as the travelogues advertised in digital bursts on the transplas windows. The current selection presented snowscapes and beautiful beaches too generic to place.
“May I help you?” A large ork in his forties stood behind a small counter. Like most of his kind, he was beefy, with heavy jowls and fierce tusks jutting up from his massive jaw. His suit concealed at least one weapon—Rashida knew that from the way he held himself. He wore a headset commlink behind his right ear that glinted as he turned to face her. His right eye sparkled unnaturally in the light, letting her know it wasn’t organic.
“External commlink,” Khadija said. “Old Erika Elite model before Novatech became NeoNET. Means the guy’s piss-poor, or he’s a mage of some kind, maybe.”
Rashida took her friend’s words to heart. Beneath the niqab, she smiled, knowing the sales rep couldn’t see her face, but he’d still notice the way her eyes changed. Even though they weren’t really her eyes.
“I hope so.” Rashida spoke in a demure tone as she stepped over to the counter. “I’m trying to persuade my husband to take me to London on holiday. I love Sherlock Holmes. I thought maybe a sensie showing the city might entice him.”
No one else was in the shop. That meant either the illegal wares were by appointment only, or Beuys was using t
he popup to spy on other vendors here.
The rep smiled around his tusks. “Sherlock Holmes, eh?” His smugness told her he wasn’t impressed with her choice.
“Sherlock Holmes?” Khadija snorted. “Seriously? Why didn’t you just go up to this slot and tell him to shoot you in the face?”
“Not helping.” Rashida hadn’t really thought about her answer. Her father had read Sherlock Holmes stories to her and Qasim when they were small, sharing his love of the Great Detective and Victorian London. He’d spent his time actually reading to them instead of parking them in front of a trid. Trying to hang onto the memories of him was why she’d gone to university at London when she was old enough. He’d attended Oxford, and had paid his own way.
She had paid her way too, but not in a manner her father would have approved of. With effort, she shoved the memories away and remained focused. Her hand hung loosely, but her fingertips were bare centimeters from the karambit at her hip. The crescent-shaped knife, curved like a sabretooth’s fang, was the weapon her father had trained her to use to defend herself.
“I…may have something suitable here.” The rep tapped his monitor. “Got The Wedding of Princess Diana, The Whitechapel Murders—right time period, but probably a little gruesome for romance…ah. How about this? Arthur Conan Doyle’s London. Didn’t even know we had that one.” He tapped the monitor again and a vid of what was probably a busy 19th century London street took shape in front of him.
As it coalesced into holographic reality, Rashida stepped forward and delivered a throat strike to the rep, shutting off his wind, but not killing him. He probably wasn’t an innocent, but she wasn’t supposed to kill unless she had to.
Mr. Johnson would just have to get over Beuys’s death.
The ork stumbled back and shook his head in mingled pain and surprise. He struggled to clear his throat, making more sound than Rashida expected. As a metahuman, he was physically tougher than a human, and she hadn’t adjusted for that.
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