Shadowrun: Burning Bright

by Tom Dowd

  Truman nodded. "I'm sure that won't be a problem." He looked around the room. "Where the hell is Facile?"

  "He hasn't come back," said his wife.

  "Well, I want him in here." Truman started to stride to­ward the door, but Hanna interrupted him. - "Excuse me!" she called from across the room. Everyone turned toward her. She'd taken the incoming call on audio— only to avoid distracting the others and was cradling the handset against her head. She was waving at them.

  "It's Eagle Security," she said, wide-eyed. "They've found Mitch!"

  "Are they sure?" asked Mrs. Truman, suddenly breathless.

  Hanna nodded. The retinal ID matches!"

  “Where is he?" asked Truman. "Where's my boy?"

  “Is he all right?" cried Mrs. Truman.

  Hanna paused and spoke quietly into the phone. "He's at Harold Washington University Hospital," she reported. Then her voice caught suddenly and she stared at the Trumans before she could finally get the words out.

  "They've put him in the psychiatric ward."

  9

  The man stuck out his hand as the Tniman entourage entered the hospital lobby. "Lieutenant Breslin," he said, "Eagle Security."

  Daniel Truman took shook his hand, and then held on to it "Lieutenant, I want to see my son." The rest of the group entered quickly behind him, looking very out of place along­side the streeters and squatters already waiting there.

  "Of course," Breslin said and motioned to an older, dark-haired woman approaching them in the distinctive white coat of a doctor. Her hands were in her pockets and they stayed there. "This is Doctor Stansfeld. She's been examining your son."

  "Doctor," said Truman.

  "Mr. Truman, I'm sorry to report that there's very little I can tell you about your son. Eagle brought him in about four hours ago and we've run just about every one of our passive tests on him, with little result."

  "I don't understand," said Mrs. Truman.

  "He's—your son, I presume?—in a unresponsive state. All indications are that he is conscious, possibly aware, but unable or unwilling to respond."

  "How can that be?" Daniel Truman seemed barely able to restrain his anger and pain. "What happened to him?"

  "I don't know for sure. Any number of possible mental or emotional traumas. He's been physically abused, beaten per­haps, but beyond those bruises and scrapes he's relatively uninjured. It may have been something he saw or experi­enced."

  "Can we see him?" asked Mrs. Truman.

  The doctor nodded. "Of course. Come this way." The two Trumans followed Stansfeld out of the lobby, leaving Kyle, Hanna, two staff assistants, and three Knight Errant guards standing there with Lieutenant Breslin. Facile of Knight Errant was off trying to locate Melissa Truman.

  "Lieutenant Breslin," Kyle said, extending his own hand, "I've been part of the investigation on this. Might I ask you a few questions?"

  The police lieutenant laughed. 'That's usually my line." He was a short man, a head less than Kyle, with a mop of brown-red hair and a short mustache. His gaze was clear and direct. "I take it you're with Truman's staff?" He eyed the three obviously armed troopers surrounding the group. "Or is it Knight Errant?"

  "Neither. I was called in to find the boy."

  The lieutenant smirked. "Guess we made your work a lit­tle easier."

  "Up to this point," said Kyle, "but I strongly suspect Mr. Truman is going to want to find out how this happened."

  The officer nodded. "He was picked up on the northside, near Western and Irving Park. Squad car reports he came mad-dashing out of an alley and ran straight into the car. He fought them at first, then just collapsed. A crowd had gath­ered and they checked around to see if anyone knew him, but no one would admit to anything. Not a surprise in that neighborhood."

  "What was he wearing?" asked Kyle.

  “Jeans, shoes, and a shirt," said Breslin. "The hospital's got it all."

  “Was he carrying any IDs or money?"

  Breslin shook his head. "Nope, or we'd have ID'd him faster. Had to run prints and retinals to tag him."

  "And his injuries?"

  “Like the doc said. But I only came on the case after he'd been ID'd. All I saw were cuts and scrapes, which he could have gotten from hitting the squad car. Nearly broke the window, I hear.”

  "Did he say anything to anyone?"

  “No. Nothing. The report said that up until he collapsed he was trying to yell through clenched teeth. But it wasn't words, just yelling. Seems pretty obvious to me."

  "Oh?" said Kyle.

  The lieutenant shrugged. "Sure. Wacko behavior, then cat­atonia. He beetled his brain to Mars."

  Kyle nodded. Mitchell's description did fit the template for someone who'd burned his brains out on BTL chips. Bet­ter Than Life, a high-powered, technological hallucinogenic that was the high of choice for many on the streets. The problem was too much or the wrong kind that could fry the user's mind. Permanently.

  Kyle thanked Breslin for his help, then walked back to Hanna. "Do you know of Mitchell having a chip problem?" he asked her quietly, suddenly, feeling terribly weary.

  She shook her head. "No. The only simsense gear he had in his apartment was stuff the company made. All within le­gal limits. He hated it and rarely used it. Maybe it was be­cause of who his father is."

  "That would be the ultimate irony, wouldn't it?" Kyle said. "His father is the owner of one of the biggest multime­dia conglomerates in the world and his son turns out to be a chiphead."

  "I suppose," she said, but he could tell she didn't believe it.

  "Mr. Teller?"

  Kyle turned to see a nurse standing there in a starched white uniform and cap.

  "Yes?"

  "Mr. Truman would like you to join him."

  "All right." He turned to Hanna. "Check with Facile and see if they've located Melissa yet. If not, see if you can find out whether she knew about any chip habits Mitch might have had."

  Hanna said she would, and then Kyle followed the nurse down the corridor. The room was brightly lit with virtually no shadows. It contained little else besides a bed and the three people clustered around the figure lying on it.

  Mrs. Truman was obviously distraught, but to Kyle she seemed to be holding up better than her husband. Looking as pale and battered as his catatonic son, Daniel Truman was like a man whose life had been torn away from him. Only their eyes differed. Daniel Truman's were full of sadness and fear. Mitchell Truman's eyes were empty. He simply stared.

  "Mr. Teller," the elder Truman said as Kyle entered. "Please tell me that you can do something for him."

  Doctor Stansfeld also turned toward him. "Are you a doc­tor?"

  Kyle shook his head. "No, I'm a mage."

  Her lips tightened slightly. "I see. Are you certified?"

  Kyle stopped. "Certified?"

  "By the UCAS Medical Association," she said, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. 'To use healing magic."

  Kyle almost laughed. "No ma'am," he said. "I wasn't aware that there was such a thing." That was a lie, but Kyle knew that licensing was rarely enforced except as a require­ment for employment in an institution like this. He had al­ways considered it mainly a safeguard against charlatans and quacks.

  "Well, there is." She turned brusquely to Truman. "I'm afraid this man can't use magic on your son while he's a pa­tient here. It's against the rules."

  "Against the rules?" echoed Mrs. Truman, aghast.

  The doctor nodded. "We're not insured for noncertified magicians operating within the hospital."

  Truman was practically shaking. "If you think I'm going to let your damn rules stand in the way of my son getting the treatment he needs—"

  The doctor took an involuntary half-step back, but held her ground. "Mr. Truman, if you wish to take your son else­where, that is your right. But while he is here, he will not be treated by a non-staff mage. And you can rattle the rafters as much as you wish, but when you finally get to the top of the pile you'll
find that Harold Washington University Hospital is ultimately owned by Fuchi Industrial Electronics. And, with all due respect, Mr. Truman, I don't think you'd have much success intimidating them."

  Truman's eyes narrowed and he leaned in toward the doctor. "Very well. We'll move my son to where he can be cared for properly. But I don't think you'd like to know just how much hell I could raise with Fuchi. And regardless of the fact that we're leaving, I am going to rattle the rafters till they fall down on your pretentious head."

  * * * *

  Within an hour, Mitchell Truman had been transferred to a private medical facility known as the Handlemann Insti­tute, located just south of the Core. It was owned by friends of the Trumans, who ordered that every effort be made to accommodate them. Even as Mitchell's own room was being prepared, an adjacent suite was also being set up for Mr. and Mrs. Truman so they could remain near their son.

  By then, though, they'd seen one change of behavior in Mitchell. Shortly after arriving at Handlemann, his body jerked, his eyes seemed to focus, and his gaze darted around the room like he was following the path of something flying. Concerned, Kyle had immediately checked the area with his astral senses, but found nothing. When he looked back at Mitchell, however, what he saw was even more frightening.

  For all intent and purposes, Mitchell Truman had no aura.

  * * * *

  He was speaking with Doctor Anna Douglas, who would handle the Truman boy's case during his stay at Han­dlemann. Kyle learned that in addition to her medical de­gree, she also held a degree in metaphysical research. She was short and frail-looking, with dun, dark hair bundled on top of her head. Her features were small and showed the faintest trace of Asian blood.

  "Were it not for what you've observed about his aura, I'd agree that BTL burnout is the most likely cause," she said with a sigh, "but I've certainly never seen any effect like what you describe."

  Kyle nodded, and sipped from the cup of soykaf cooling in his hands. "I haven't either," he said. The two were seated in a small waiting area just down the hall from where the Truman family, including wayward daughter Melissa, whom Knight Errant had finally found sneaking back into the Truman condo, was waiting. Also present was daughter Madeleine, just flown in from Denver where she managed her father's trideo syndication service. Hanna Uljaken was asleep in a chair across the room. The two Knight Errant guards at either entrance were not.

  Doctor Douglas leaned back in her chair and closed her eyes. "I suggest we look for the signs of an essence-drainer in the aura that remains."

  "Vampire?" he asked.

  "Possibly," she said, "but that doesn't explain the catato­nia, unless the actual act was so terrifying that his mind re­fused it."

  "I think he might be involved with one or more spirits, probably free, but of a type I couldn't determine."

  Her eyes opened and she leaned forward. "Really?" That gave her pause for thought. "An essence-draining spirit of some kind. It certainly makes sense."

  She thought about this and then shook her head. "We don't have enough information." She looked in the direction of Mitchell Truman's room. "I think it's time to look deeper . . . if I can get them to leave him alone for a minute . . ."

  * * * *

  "The D-CAT scan showed nothing abnormal, nor did the encephaphasic or neurochemical batteries," she told him some hours later. "His brain is normal. It's just not work­ing." Dr. Douglas and Kyle were reviewing the results of the medical and magical tests they had run on Mitchell after persuading the Truman family to go home and rest.

  Kyle studied the boy lying listlessly on the bed, the sheets twisted slightly around him. Moments ago his eyes had sprung open as he searched the room for something un­known and then collapsed.

  "Seeks-the-Moon," Kyle said, and the spirit slipped into physical existence alongside him. Doctor Douglas looked up from where she was watching the small monitor screen that displayed the boy's vital signs. She frowned, squinted, and then looked back at the screen.

  The spirit stood regarding Mitchell for a moment, then stepped forward to look at him more closely. Moon's lips were pursed. "Excuse me a moment," he said, then grew translucent and faded away to nothing.

  "Your ally spirit?" the doctor asked.

  "Yes."

  She nodded. "I thought I saw a resemblance."

  "Gee, thanks."

  "You're welcome."

  Seeks-the-Moon returned, fading back in a meter or so from where he'd been standing before. He was facing away from the bed, and when Moon turned, Kyle could see that he had visibly paled. That took him by surprise. He'd never seen his ally spirit react that way before.

  "What's going on?"

  The spirit shook his head. "I've never seen anything like it"

  "We thought maybe a vampire or some other essence draining spirit was involved," the doctor said.

  "No," said Seeks-the-Moon. "This is not the work of one of those."

  Kyle was startled. "When have you seen the result of a vampire attack?"

  "Never," he said, staring at the limp form on the bed.

  "Me neither," Kyle said. "So how could you—"

  The spirit raised its hand. "You formed me from the loose energies of astral space, yes?" When Kyle nodded, he said, "The world remembers."

  "What's that supposed to mean?"

  "It means that sometimes I know things that you do not. And sometimes I know things that I perhaps should not know. This is one of those times."

  "Of course!" said the doctor. "It only makes sense!"

  "I'm sorry?" said Kyle, turning toward her.

  "Where does the collective unconscious reside?" she said, her face bright. "Why, in astral space, of course! He said the 'world remembers', and he's formed of those same energies, the same energy that interfaces with every living thing on the planet. It only makes sense that he can somehow tap into that."

  Kyle turned back to his ally spirit, somewhat disturbed by the discussion. "You've never been able to do that before."

  Seeks-the-Moon nodded. "I've not been allowed to."

  "Not been allowed to!" said Kyle. “This is getting absurd."

  Seeks-the-Moon held up his hand again, and it seemed to be shaking slightly. "Please, I understand this less than you and find it equally disturbing. All I know is that Mitchell Truman was not attacked by a vampire."

  "Then what?"

  "It was a spirit, yes," Seeks-the-Moon said, "but when it tried to devour his soul and failed, the boy went mad."

  "His soul?" asked Doctor Douglas.

  "His primal spirit, his Self, his ka—the names are endless," said the spirit. "But I do not believe the spirit wanted his soul, rather it wanted his body. His soul was simply in the way."

  "A failed possession?" asked the doctor.

  Seeks-the-Moon shrugged. "I don't know. I've told you what I sense."

  "That would explain much about—"

  A ball of deep blue and white exploded into the room, moving at blinding speed, hitting Kyle in the chest and rebounding across the room. Instantly, a gray-green shield sprung up around him as he tried to protect himself from another attack. Seeks-the-Moon moved with the speed of thought across the room and placed himself between the ball of energy and Mitchell Truman.

  "MASTER!" the ball screeched as it careened across the room, finally slowing to a comprehensible speed.

  "Delta?" said Kyle as he lowered his hands.

  "I FOUND YOU! I FOUND YOU!" the watcher spirit squealed as it quickly hovered near him.

  "Great Coyote," muttered Seeks-the-Moon, relaxing.

  "I told Charlotte I could find you!" It darted around him, obviously pleased with itself. "She didn't think I could! But I did!"

  "Yes, you did, Delta," Kyle said sternly. "Now why did you come here?"

  The watcher spirit paused and regarded him wide-eyed. "Um ..."

  "Delta ..."

  "Oh!" it said, bouncing again. "Charlotte said another spirit came!"

  "Another spirit?"
<
br />   "Yes!"

  "Did she fight it?"

  "I don't know." The watcher sounded concerned that it didn't know. "She just told me to find you!"

  Kyle sighed. “That's good. Delta. You did fine."

  It jumped into the air again. "I told her I could! I told her I could!"

  Kyle turned to Seeks-the-Moon. "I'm going to see about the Trumans," he said. "Guard my body and the boy's while I'm gone."

  The spirit nodded. "Of course."

  Kyle sat down in one of the room's chairs and relaxed. He turned his astral senses inward and examined his own body and spirit. His form was tired, running on hyperkaf and adrenaline, but soon that would not be enough. His spirit, however, was alight with energy. He willed himself to be solely spirit, to loosen the connection to his physical body and float free, and he did.

  Kyle's spirit separated, and he stepped clear of his body and into astral space. The room, filled with plants, was bright with life. Both Seeks-the-Moon and Doctor Douglas also glowed warm, strong, and healthy. Mitchell Truman was the only living source not radiating brightly. He was dim, a meat shell barely holding life.

  Seeks-the-Moon, who could sense simultaneously in both the physical and astral realms, regarded Kyle in his astral form. As an expression of Kyle's idealized self-image, his astral shape sparked energy off its lean, muscular form. For a moment he was unmasked and his aura showed all his po­tential as a mage initiated into the higher mysteries of the world. A single throbbing silver cord connected his astral body with his physical one. He knew he could see that connection clearly now, but as he moved away from his body, the cord would dim into insubstantiality.

  “I’ll be back quickly," he told Seeks-the-Moon, and the spirit nodded.

  Kyle turned toward the window, which, along with its frame, was dull and lifeless in astral space. His astral form would be able to pass through it easily. The plants in the room, however, being now or once alive, he'd have to fly over.

  And fly he did with the speed of thought.

  10

  Kyle flew out beyond the medical facility and high into the still-dark morning air. The city was alive beneath him, stretching away in a glowing haze to the north, west, and south. To the east it abutted the vivid glow of Lake Michi­gan, which hummed with life almost as brightly as the city.