Shadowrun: Burning Bright

by Tom Dowd

  "Of course, why present the truth when you can make money selling it as fiction?" she said, standing up slowly, gracefully unfolding herself. "Not that anyone would have believed it"

  "Please don't come any closer," Kyle said.

  "I don't intend to. I was simply tired of crouching there."

  Kyle clenched the pistol tighter and risked slipping his perception into astral space. Her aura was powerful, and odd. Its shape didn't seem to match that of the body she wore. She smiled again, and he willed his foci to life, men­tally triggering the final mystical connections that empow­ered them. He felt the energy, the potential, arise within him as each activated in turn.

  Linda Hayward stopped smiling, tensing slightly as she eyed the additions to his now unmasked aura.

  He stood up carefully too, but with none of her otherworldly grace. He holstered his pistol, freeing up his hand. The knife remained drawn, but held loosely at his side.

  "There," he said, as casually as he could, "thought I'd balance things out a bit."

  "You are an initiate," she said.

  Kyle nodded. "For some time now."

  "I'm impressed." She smiled a little. "Preening for me?"

  "Hardly," he told her, "since I know what you really look like."

  "No," she said gravely, "you don't."

  "Really?"

  "I'm not at all like those things you fought at the hospi­tal."

  "No?”

  She laughed, almost sadly. "I didn't take you for a monosyl­labic mutterer, Mr. Teller. But your kind frequently disap­point." She looked directly at him. "Would you like me to show you what I truly am?"

  "Not particularly," he said. "There, I said two words. Happy?"

  "Rarely," she said. "But I think you need to be shown."

  Kyle raised his blade and held it across his chest.

  "Don't worry," she told him. "I'll stay over here." And she changed. Gone was her human form, in its place a giant glistening green and black insect, taller than Kyle, but lighter of build with a long, thin body and delicate legs that were almost as long. She'd become a powerful and majestic praying mantis. When she smiled, Kyle felt an almost over­powering wave of desire rush over him. He braced his body and spirit against her as she resumed her human form.

  "Sorry," she said. "An instinctive reaction."

  "So, you're a different kind of bug."

  She winced and seemed sad again. "Mantid, if you must, Mr. Teller. And though you won't believe me, we're actually on the same side."

  "Tell Mitch Truman that."

  Her eyes hardened, and Kyle felt another emotion wash over him, this one far different from the last. He took an in­voluntary step backward and choked back the little food in his stomach as it rose.

  "I did, and he believed me," she told him.

  "That," Kyle said, "I find hard to believe."

  "I and my sisters are not responsible for what happened to Mitchell Truman. We are enemies of the ones you seek, the ones who have him."

  "Then tell me what happened."

  "I'll tell you enough to send you on your way and leave all this to us."

  "People keep telling me that, and I haven't listened yet."

  She laughed. "You should."

  "Go on."

  "Generally, I and my kind find yours to be shallow, weak, ill-mannered, fearful, and devoid of worth," she told him. "We come here when the level of magic is right so that we can breed. We come here because there is more space. There are too many of us back home."

  "So, don't breed."

  "Ah, but Mr. Teller, it's what we do best." She winked, and Kyle began to feel a strange sensation of warmth.

  "Those that you saw in the hospital, and perhaps later, use humanity as cattle. They see the possibility of using human flesh as humanity's only redeeming feature."

  "Don't tell me you're different," Kyle said. "Mantids of­ten eat their mates, if I remember my biology right."

  "From consumption comes new life," she told him.

  "Did Mitch know about that part?"

  "He did," she told him, "but he was safe."

  "Oh?"

  She nodded. "I discovered, much to my own dismay, that when it came time to invest him with a male spirit I did not want to. I had grown too fond of him."

  When Kyle said nothing, it seemed to make her angry. "I really don't care what you think. I'm here to tell you to stop interfering. The queens took Mitch from us so that they could learn what forms we took and what our plans were. The queens destroyed Mitchell Truman, and I intend to de­stroy them for it."

  "The queens?"

  "Think about it," she said.

  "If they, whoever they are, and not you, did that to him in the first place, why would they want to grab him back? His mind was gone. There was nothing they could learn from him."

  "I don't think they knew that," she told him. "I think he refused to talk. I think he wouldn't tell them about us or where we could be found." Her voice became sad and quiet for a moment.

  "That was stupid. He should have told them." He watched her, surprised in some ways at how human she seemed. "When he wouldn't betray us, they tried to pos­sess him. They tried to invest him with one of their own lar­vae spiritis, hoping the merge would be good and his memories would be relatively intact. Then he would be theirs and they'd know everything they needed to know."

  "He tried to meet with his sister the night he was found with his mind gone."

  Her head tilted oddly. "Really? I didn't know that. Per­haps he broke free and they tried to invest him as punish­ment."

  "But why grab him again?"

  "They may not have known the final outcome," she said. "In fact, they probably assumed he'd retained his mind. How else could he have run away again?”

  "Indeed," Kyle said.

  "I saw him after the police found him, at the first hospital. There were fragments of his mind still there. Tiny twisted flames sputtering in the darkness. He actually seemed to rec­ognize me. I doused the fragments so that he might rest."

  "How kind of you."

  She grew angry again. "Yes, actually. Uncommonly kind of me. I think he resisted the investiture and fled, his mind unraveling and disintegrating as he did. I gave him release." Again Kyle said nothing.

  She paused, seeming to be gathering up her composure. "I've told you why I came here. You have no need to pursue Mitch's flesh body. They probably ate it once they found his mind was gone. Perhaps they even tried another investiture into the empty host. I don't know. The point is, your concerns and the Truman family's concerns are at an end. I will avenge Mitchell Truman."

  "I'll pass on your message."

  "You do that," she said. "And remember, Mr. Teller, you and your kind are mine whenever I want you. And want you I will if you get in my way again." With that she turned and passed through the door without opening it.

  Kyle stood there blankly for a few moments and then sat down slowly in the chair that had been positioned between him and Linda Hayward. He knew he had to center himself and calm his body. It took a long time.

  15

  As Kyle and the two cars escorting his pulled into the super­market parking lot at Western and North, an Eagle Security helicopter was dropping into the area that had been cordoned off by a phalanx of police and security vehicles. Enough Truman guards were mixed in with the Eagle troopers that Kyle's motorcade was waved directly into the center of the area, alongside a huge armored police command van.

  Kyle jumped out even before the vehicle had stopped, protecting his eyes against the bits of flying debris kicked up by the landing helicopter. Beyond it, Eagle officers were at­tempting to clear away the small crowd of gawkers that had begun to gather. Kyle wondered if any of them were secretly from Knight Errant.

  The side door of the command van slid open sideways, and Hanna Uljaken waved from inside. Kyle hurried over and climbed into the red-lit interior.

  Cramped together within were a small technical staff and four Eagle officers.
One bore the clear insignia and simple uniform of a chief, but Kyle's untrained eyes could not decipher the ranks of the other three, who were decked out in dark, close-fitting body armor and associated weaponry and gear.

  The chief stepped forward and extended his hand. "Mr. Teller, I'm Chief Lekas of Eagle Special Operations." He gestured at the other three. "This is Commander Joshua Malley, leader of the Special Ops team," he said, working his way from left to right, "and Sergeants Peter Woodhouse and Kennera Walsh, also of Special Ops." Each nodded in turn.

  Kyle shook all of their hands. 'Thank you for responding so quickly."

  "It's quite a tale your Ms. Uljaken has been telling us," Malley said. "You don't mind if we ask a few clarifying questions, do you?"

  Kyle shook his head. "No, not at all, but I'm concerned about time. They may have already moved on."

  Malley turned to the other two men. "Go ahead," he said.

  Walsh spoke first. "We haven't had time to verify any of the story. Can you tell us your qualifications to assess the situation?" Walsh gestured vaguely to Hanna Uljaken. "Ms. Uljaken has told us some of your background, but we'd like to know more."

  Kyle frowned slightly, wondering whether they were go­ing to start playing "who's the boss" games with him. Aloud, he said, "Of course. I have a degree in comparative metaphysics from Columbia-Manhattan with a minor in be­havioral psychology. My practical experience includes seven years as a field agent and special investigator with the UCAS Federal Bureau of Investigation, Department of Par­anormal Affairs. If you're so stuck on my cred, I can give—"

  Woodhouse held up his hand in a halt gesture. 'That won't be necessary," he said. "You're the one found Wilhemina Keene, aren't you?"

  Kyle paused. "Yes." Keene had been a registered nurse and adept mage performing ritual sacrifices with newborn babies stolen from hospitals throughout New England. She killed twelve before the FBI finally caught up with her on the verge of murdering her thirteenth, the final element in whatever bizarre ritual she'd been performing. Her ultimate goal had never been determined. That was five years ago. "Maybe I should say I led the team."

  "We saw the locked file last year as part of a special train­ing program," Woodhouse said. "Can you tell me what her primary ritual instrument was?"

  "Now what the frag does this have to do—"

  Chief Lekas cut him off. "Mr. Teller, Truman Technolo­gies is asking quite a bit from Eagle on this. And most of it has to be taken on faith, if you will. We'd like to confirm that you are who you say you are. If so, we're ready to roll. If not, well ..." Lekas let his voice trail off. "The boys tell me that the Keene woman's actual methods were never dis­closed to the public, but you, of course, would know."

  Kyle sighed and glanced at Hanna.

  She smiled weakly. "Please, don't spare any details on my account."

  Kyle drew in a breath. "All right, you win. She used a surgical scalpel to drain some of her own blood and the child's into a tub of water. Just before the baby got too weak, she drowned him in it and then burned the body."

  The four men looked at each other and nodded. Hanna had gone pale and seemed to be struggling to hang on to her composure.

  "Happy now?" Kyle asked.

  "Look," Walsh said, "you seem to be forgetting that—"

  Kyle cut him off angrily. "No, you've forgotten that every second we stand here playing games might be the one by which we miss them."

  The two junior officers looked like they wanted to con­tinue the argument, but Commander Malley silenced them with a glare. "You're right, Mr. Teller," he said. "Sergeants Walsh and Woodhouse are the magicians on the team. Some­times we all get a little territorial. Why don't you give us the tactical situation as you see it?"

  Kyle nodded. "No offense taken," he said, though no one had offered an apology. "A force of unknown number, con­sisting of powerful spirits, has kidnapped the son of my cli­ent. From everything that I've seen and heard, these spirits resemble insects and they breed using human hosts. I've specifically seen one in the form of a cockroach."

  Walsh blanched slightly, as did Malley, who said, "We've had the occasional unexplained contact with insect-like spir­its before, but nothing we could categorize or build any in­formation from. They seemed to be anomalies rather than something we needed to be concerned about."

  "Aberrations," Kyle said, "Well, I'm afraid we might be dealing with entire nests or hives, or however they group themselves, including queen spirits and Coyote knows what else. There might even be more man one type of insect spirit present"

  "So we're facing significant opposition?" asked Malley.

  "You'd better believe it. And most normal tactics won't work against them because they're spirits. How experienced are your people in fighting spirits?"

  Malley frowned. "Trained against them, but not experi­enced."

  "The one I fought was pretty powerful, but if your people keep their heads, I think they'll manage."

  "But we don't even know where they are," said Chief Lekas.

  "I know where they are," said Kyle. "I just haven't found it yet."

  "Ritual?" asked Walsh.

  Kyle nodded, pointing north and west. "That way, not too far. Can your people take me up in a helicopter? I can find it faster that way than trying to reconnoiter on the ground."

  "Makes sense," said Malley. "I'll head my team in that di­rection, and once you find the location, we can go straight there instead of blindly driving around."

  "Excuse me, sir," said Woodhouse. "I've got a suggestion."

  Malley raised an eyebrow. "Of course. Sergeant. Speak up."

  "Mr. Teller could recon astrally. It would be a lot faster than the helicopter."

  Kyle shook his head. "Thought of that, but I don't know Chicago well enough to recognize where I am by positions of roads and buildings." He turned to explain to Hanna. "You can't read signs from astral space, only sense emotions associated with the information on them. If they're anything, road signs are unemotional."

  Hanna nodded, giving him a wan smile. She seemed lost, out of her element with tactical and mystical matters she barely understood. But he could see that she was taking it all in, absorbing it, and most likely learning from it.

  "One of us will go with you," said Walsh.

  Kyle paused to think. "That would work."

  "If you stay in view, I shouldn't have any trouble follow­ing you," the sergeant said. "We can leave our bodies in the truck and then start north along Western."

  Malley nodded. "Sounds good to me, if you agree, Mr. Teller."

  "Yes. It'll speed things up."

  The commander gestured to two observation chairs near the truck's telecommunications suite. As Kyle and Walsh settled into them, Malley jacked into the tactical system and began issuing orders.

  "If you need me while I'm out, slap me as hard as you can," Kyle told Hanna. "I ..." she said, obviously surprised. "If you say so."

  "If you hit me hard enough, it'll jerk my spirit back into I my body. Otherwise, there's no way to get in touch with me."

  "I should warn you, I'm pretty strong," Hanna said.

  Kyle smiled. "Great." He looked at Walsh, but the mage had already lapsed into unconsciousness, his astral form probably floating free. "Gotta go," said Kyle, and he leaned back, relaxing his body, shifting his focus, and finally slipped free of his body as the tone and texture of the com­mand van shifted.

  Walsh was waiting there, standing next to his body, sur­rounded by a nimbus of blue and gold energy. Otherwise, except for Woodhouse and the mundane auras of the others present, the command van interior was cold and sterile, and reeked faintly of hard emotions like anger and fear.

  "Lead on, Mr. Teller," Walsh said. "Though you might want to dampen yourself somewhat."

  Kyle nodded, realizing that his foci were radiating consid­erable magical energy, energy that would serve as a flare to anyone or anything looking for them. With a quick thought, he subsumed the radiating power into his own aura, maski
ng the overflow. It was uncomfortable, but bearable. Walsh nodded approval.

  Kyle turned toward what he knew to be the direction in which Mitch Truman's body had been just over an hour ago.

  He slipped through the walls of the command van, Walsh drifting after him, and then shot off, as quickly as he could, toward the lake.

  Walsh followed on his tail along the dim, life-accented, careening track of North Avenue and then finally out over the bright lake itself. "I thought you said the site was to the northwest," the sergeant said, drawing abreast of Kyle's floating astral form.

  "It is. I'm concerned about pursuit or surveillance."

  The two hung there for several heartbeats, but saw no sign of any other astral presences.

  Kyle signaled, and they dropped down to the surface of the lake and skirted its edge, skimming over the various sun-bathers, bike-riders, strutters, dog-walkers, and other denizens of Chicago out to enjoy the afternoon sun. As the coastline changed at where Kyle believed Fullerton to be, he soared inland, Walsh close behind.

  The effects of the earlier ritual pulled at Kyle, guiding him ever farther north and west. He pushed on, passing across the breadth of Chicago's northside in a few blinks of an eye. Then, sensing he was near, he slowed and dropped closer to the ground. Walsh drew up alongside him.

  "Any idea where we are?" Kyle asked him. "I sure as drek don't."

  Walsh nodded. "Near Harlem and Irving Park."

  "I'm going to go low and coast. I don't want to suddenly be on top of this place."

  Kyle drifted down to just above the level of the cars passing on the major road beneath them. He tried to judge the distance carefully to keep from being brushed aside or sent spinning by the physical mass of the people in those cars. At the approach to a major intersection, he could sense a surge of emotion as the light changed and a slight gridlock developed. When Kyle finally came down to the ground, he chose to land in a trash barrel so no one would bump into him. Walsh dropped down a short distance behind him, pressed half into a storefront. They both hoped the auras of the mundanes passing by would conceal them from anything that happened to look their way.