“I don’t like the way she looks at you…”
That was a whole other can of worms, right there. “Was it really wise to spend so much on a suit?”
“If you’re going to make a few meetings in high-class places, yes,” she called back through the booth wall, with just a hint of bitterness.
“I didn’t think the warren had so much to spare.”
“We’re okay, but we have to buy everything carefully. No one can trace what we do out here back to the warren. That always costs extra.”
“What about starting dummy corporations, or getting control of one of the city necroplexes?”
“Starting a cover costs even more money we don’t have, and it wouldn’t mean much in the Zone or the Corridor, anyway. Other ghouls have that territory, and in this town, there’s a major competition between the packs.”
“Are there many of them?”
“There’s Long Pig Farm out by the old golf courses, and a few packs wear 162 colors and tag wherever they can. They just make trouble for the rest of us, but they also keep hunters distracted.”
That confused me. “Why don’t you all just pack up and make for greener pastures, then?”
The booth door slammed open with sudden ferocity. She stood on the other side, cigarette hanging from her painted lips as she shouted at me. “You think it’s that easy? What do you know about having roots? You’ve never made something in a place you could call your own. You just walked away and started somewhere else! You’ve never had a home! You left!”
My eyes were wide with surprise, and it took her a moment before hers adopted a similar shocked expression. Even so, she glanced over my form once before slamming the booth shut. The last sight of her face was furious blushing and the dropped mask of her shyness.
I finished my shower in silence.
The general club scene hadn’t changed significantly in the past decade, or hundred years, as far as I could tell. On a fundamental level, it was the same as it must have been for its town square pub equivalent in the 1700s, if just a bit more exclusive.
A bouncer stood outside the door with a list of names. Past him, the bar served various forms of delectable toxins, people under their effects moved in and out of rhythm with the music, and everyone did their best to have a good time. The place had been cleaned thoroughly for the event, but it was impossible to get rid of the vague, yeasty stink of spilled beer and dance sweat, sometimes mixed with the sticky sweet of mixed drinks.
On a visual level, however, the clubs were a whole new beast. Same breed, but evolved. Club Raid seemed happy to fly in the face, as it were, of the Chicago fear of bug spirits. Caution tape, bio-hazard signs, plastic sheeting with nano-morphing graphics, slow, throbbing music by a Japanese dwarven DJ, and waiters in various forms of exterminator gear. I was a little dubious of the sex appeal a waitress in a bikini and gas mask had to offer, but some of the sararimen really seemed to dig it.
Almost every drink I spotted was wine, served in test tubes, proper goblets, and fluted glasses that must have been worth a fortune in their own right. A long table was lined with bottles, spitting buckets accumulating expensive cargo as sommeliers made their way along the selection, nodding appreciatively and noting hints of this or that to one another while I scanned the crowd for Ms. Jones. I finally spotted her standing by a bank of trideos showing footage of LS security fighting bugs on the walls back in the late ‘50s.
She was basically the same as she’d been depicted in the Matrix. A little shorter, perhaps. Strangely enough, she seemed a touch younger than I’d expected. I guess that was good business: who wanted to trust their money to a kid? By the time they found out her real age, they were sold by virtue of the quality of her product.
Her gaze turned to me as I approached, casually taking me in. Maybe it was my own apparent youth, but she must have decided I was no threat. She extended a hand and I took it, bowing over it, but not kissing. I decided to slip into a role at the last minute. I felt ill at ease about her, and I didn’t want her to have the straight idea about me, not just yet.
With a plainly Irish Tír na nÓg brogue, I started in. “Ms. Jones. You’re more radiant in person than I could have imagined.”
She smiled, relaxed and in control, and eyed me like a well-fed cat regards a mouse. “Clearly I’m not paying those site-designers enough, Mr…?”
“Donovan, Ms. Jones, Christian P. Donovan, at your service.”
She seemed to like the formality of it, and did a little curtsey. I couldn’t smell if she had been drinking in this room, and the heat in the club made it hard to catch the details of her thermals. I’d have to play it carefully.
“Have you had the pleasure of tasting my wines, Mr. Donovan?”
My stomach reeled at the thought of alcohol. Vampires can’t hold their liquor for more than a moment, and it’s never pleasant. I had to bluff.
“I’m afraid not, Ms. Jones. I’ve got something of an intolerance to spirits.”
“Oh?”
“Oh, yes, I never drink…wine.”
Her eyes flared for a moment, and I could have slapped myself. I almost bit my tongue for uttering something so cliché, especially for my kind. I had to change the topic quickly.
“All the same, Ms. Jones—”
“Call me Konoko.” She smiled mysteriously. I guess she had a thing for guys who weren’t interested in her drink.
I smiled. “Konoko. All the same, I do represent a concern interested in your business.”
“Oh? Strange that they would send someone who can’t handle his wine to deal with me.”
“To be sure, to be sure. But I understand the science of wine quite well. In fact, it’s the hope of my company that you might collaborate with us for a new extraction technique.”
“Oh?”
“Indeed. Without giving too much away, we think we’ve got a handle on a way to extract the juices from the grapes while they are still on the vine. It provides for much better soil fertilization and production turnaround.”
She smiled knowingly, tilting her head back to consider me. After a moment, she nodded at a set of stairs winding up to a private room above the monitors. “Perhaps you’ll join me alone, so we might discuss this further?”
I smiled and followed in her wake.
The room was luxurious, set up like a cozy drinking room where any manner of debauchery could take place and yet still seem opulent. Simple, hard lines offset by warm fabrics. None of the insect wasteland theme was to be found. A window facing the dance floor was transparent until Konoko hit a switch, making it as solid as the rest of the walls. She shut the door, which locked with a series of buzzes. I watched as she took a seat in the drinking pit, hitting a series of switches near the center of the table. My ears popped as a white noise generator activated and the lights dimmed.
“Come sit down, Christian.”
I sat across from her, stretching my legs out, but keeping my hands free. She just kept smiling at me. The mystery was still there, but it was outshone by something else. A kind of hunger. It was worrying me.
She got up and strode over to the minibar. I could see it was laid out with a number of bottles of wine, each bearing the Vino Sanguis label. She pulled one from behind the bar and poured two glasses.
“Oh, Ms. Jones, I really can’t—”
“I told you to call me Konoko.”
She walked back to sit beside me, holding out a glass for me. “And I’m sure you will enjoy this vintage.”
She smiled a little too knowingly as I accepted the glass. The rich coppery scent made my fangs extend a little as I realized what she had poured. It was even warm.
“Why all the runaround to contact me?” she asked.
I was still reeling. “Excuse me?”
“Is Ryu watching that closely?”
I decided telling the truth was going to get me kicked out very quickly, but claiming yes or no to questions I knew nothing about would get me in deeper than I could bluff. Instead I
let my face calm to impassiveness. I contemplated the glass, swirling the contents about and smelling it as she stared at me. No hint of tampering, as far as I could tell. Not even a glimpse into the astral revealed anything but what this was: human blood. I drained the glass in a long, slow pull.
It was the guiltiest pleasure for me. Nothing tasted so good, but there was always the question of where it came from.
I set the glass down, her eyes still on me. I had to say something. I remained confident. Something told me she held me in awe. Probably because of what I was. But it was clear there was nothing disturbing about me to her. After all, she’d poured herself a glass of blood as well. But she was in no way a vampire. I could tell if she was, if only in the astral, unless she was very talented at Masking. But she registered as a plain human. I opted to play the arrogant undead act, maintaining my accent.
“What do you want me to say? I’m not in a position to answer questions like that. They put me in more risk than it’s worth.” I loved an evasion cloaked in truth. They fool most people, and even a few spells.
“All you had to do was drop the code phrase, and I’d know you were Tamanous. Why all that cloak-and-dagger nonsense trying to get my attention?”
Well, now it was clear this was a case of mistaken identity. If I went any further with this, I would never be able to do business with her. But at least I knew what she had to offer.
“Ms. Jones, please, relax. I’m afraid you’ve mistaken me for someone else.” Her eyes flew wide open, and I could almost hear her thoughts racing.
“We did schedule a meeting,” I continued, “though I think there must have been some confusion. I represent a concern interested in your under-the-counter services, but I am not a member of Tamanous, myself.”
Now was the gamble. Would she hear me out, or would she decide I was a threat, and try to have me silenced?
“I see… Very well. May I assume you are familiar with my wares?”
I smiled. “If I asked you to give me a rundown of what you offer, you’d assume I was a cop. No, Ms. Jones, I am sadly not very well acquainted with your vintages, though I could hazard a guess.”
She still wasn’t smiling. She held her own flute of blood, not drinking, but not setting it down, either. “What business do we have then?”
“I represent a cadre of individuals with access to rare spell ingredients. Flora and fauna, as well as an appreciation of such…limited vintages as this.” I indicated my glass.
“A coven of vampires, then?” She looked hopeful.
“No, not quite…”
“Ah. Ghouls, then.” Her disappointment was obvious.
“Indeed. But well organized and quite industrious.”
“And in need of employment, no doubt?”
It’s no secret that plenty of ghouls find work with Tamanous. I wondered how Needles felt about the organization. I wasn’t even sure how I felt about them. As a person who could use what they were selling, I could appreciate an organization that offered organlegging. On the other hand, there were all kinds of rumors about where they got their organs, few of them pleasant. I like to think I don’t have to hurt innocents to get my fill. Tamanous made no such promises.
“I would have to discuss that with the party in question. Primarily, I am here to open a dialogue, and hopefully create the beginning of a relationship that will prove mutually profitable to both parties.”
She considered this for a while, tapping a red fingernail against her glass. After a few moments, she got up and poured another glass. Walking back, she set it before me.
“Am I to assume I would be doing business with a local warren?”
“I’m not at liberty to say. Contact could easily be maintained online, as it has until now.”
“I would work out details with them?”
“Yes.”
I glanced at the glass on the table. The blood within sat as still as wine, not a hint of coagulation. She grinned as she intuited my curiosity. “A proprietary alchemical blend, and one I am not inclined to share, keeps the blood from coagulating for at least several days after exposure to air. I assure you, it doesn’t impact its taste or nutrition.”
I could already attest to the latter. Another moment passed before she raised her glass to me. I took up my fresh one, glancing astral to see that she hadn’t added wood particles or something equally toxic to me, and drained it as she drained hers. As I set my glass down, her hand covered mine.
“Now that our business is concluded, perhaps you would be willing to meet with me in the future to discuss some other business possibilities?”
I had no idea what she had in mind, but figured there were always possibilities to be had in unlikely places. I smiled, caught up her hand in my own, and squeezed it. “You can contact me via the same channels.”
She smiled. It chilled me.
“You gonna meet with her?”
“I don’t know. I’m still waiting to see what you do.”
Needles reclined in his chair, fingers steepled and sighing noisily.
“I don’t know, man, I just don’t know. I mean, Tamanous gainfully employs—not to mention feeds—lots of ghouls. But their methods, their reputation…I’m trying to get us some legitimate recognition, here. Having connections to them just makes us a new kind of monster.”
I suddenly had a pang of guilt. My ruthless ghoul friend felt edgy about getting into bed with organleggers, but I had no problem doing business with them? My own moral flexibility frightened me. Would I have considered such a deal before I was a vampire? How much had I changed over the years?
“Well, if you want to get some support for that cause, why not start fostering some contacts with the Ghoul Liberation League?”
“All they ever do is ask for money. Most charities are like that. They spend ninety-nine cents out of every UCAS dollar they get paying to stay in existence, while barely any of it goes toward the cause they supposedly exist for.”
“Then write some damn memoirs or something! Tell the story, get people sympathetic to your cause.”
Needles turned his milky eyes on me. “I wish it was that simple. You remember The Diaries of Tamir Gray, back in ’57? Before that was Special Order 162 in ’53. We got, what, six months of legitimacy in the eyes of the public? Oh, and the Cabrini Refuge, which ended up being a slaughterhouse. Then enough people showed up with bites taken out of them to get it repealed.
“That was six months of citizenship. Six months of real, honest-to-goodness lawful standing in the community. And, if memory serves, it put government-sanctioned ghoul bounties out of business.
“It’s not that easy, Rick. It’s not like every motion will be the one to make progress. Hell, those memoirs were written from an extremely sympathetic viewpoint. Everything we do has the potential to set us back as much as it might put us ahead, if not more. You think a bunch of guerilla fighters in parts of Chicago that are supposedly safe will make for especially romantic protagonists?”
I looked him right in the eye. “Yes.”
The long pause was pregnant with thought. I could imagine his: why should I bother? We need attention paid to things like survival and education and improved living conditions, not releasing PR on an unforgiving public.
My own ran more like: why can’t he see that every blow struck is in the right direction?
We didn’t talk about it for the rest of the week.
Chapter 5
Stars
I could see myself. But I was not me.
I watched the pale figure with red eyes and hair calmly walk up to my sister. Our old family home. In her room. I talked to her about her boyfriend, about school…then ripped her throat out. I drank her eagerly, consuming every last wisp of her soul, beyond what I needed. I hid the body and called to my mother. She was next. With malicious, precise brutality, I slowly worked my way through the house, slaying my two brothers, my other sister, and my stepfather. As their corpses started attracting their first flies, I headed to the la
st bedroom. There, I stared face to face at myself. My sleeping, unsuspecting form barely shifted as my vampire self came closer. The fangs lowered to my pale neck…
The blast was sudden, rousing me from another nightmare-laced dream into an equally horrid reality.
Bits of rock fell from the ceiling as another explosion rocked the tunnels. I could hear the screams and snarls of ghouls from the same direction as machine-gun fire. I shot to my feet as Menerytheria swooped out of the floor before me.
“What’s happening?”
“Lone Star patrol! Only a moment ago!”
I ran toward the sounds. The Stars would be equipped for combating ghouls and bugs. They probably had no idea what to do with one of my kind.
It was two floors up and several unsteady strides before I came to a junction leading to one of the surface entrances. I jumped back as a hail of gunfire ripped the corner I stood by. Looking around at the others assembled, I figured I had about eight sentient ghouls behind various barricades. Each was armed with some gun or another, several of them bleeding, but all determined. The entrance was littered with corpses, one armor-clad LS officer, maybe four ghouls. I knew three of them had been the feral ones. I couldn’t tell who the last one was.
My eyes slipped into the astral for an instant to see what foes might be near. I shifted out of my body and around the corner. The three remaining LS officers by the entrance had cyberware. Maybe we had geeked the mage first. No way to know for sure, now.
Shifting my sight back to the norm, I wove my hands in their familiar patterns for combat, shaping my own personal interpretation of the spell most people called “manabolt.” Raw magical force found barest containment in my fingertips, tainted black and violent violet by my ministrations, crackling with unforgiving power.
Needing only direction, I leaned my head around the corner and extended my fingers at the lead officer. The shard of black light flew toward him, striking him square in the chest. I leaped back before I could see the results, but his scream was unmistakable, even over the machine gun fire of his compatriots.
Shadowrun: Crimson Page 7