by Jean Rabe
“I want to learn more, Barega. All of it.”
“I have a great deal to teach you, Nininiru.” He pointed to the northwest. “I live there, a hundred or so klicks from Whoop Whoop. You’ll be able to find me when you are ready. The galah will show you.”
“I’ve a few things I need to do first.”
“I understand.” Barega nodded. “Bring some coffee when you come, the real stuff.”
Thirty
Snip Snip
It took her two weeks to make it back to the Cross. On the way, she stopped at the outskirts of Sydney at a sheep farm owned by a RighteousRight family who was not militant about her tech. There was a Help wanted sign posted outside.
The Sydney Zoo vet was correct, she decided, not all the Double-Rs were bad. She traded some manual labor for a place to sleep, a pocketful of nuyen, and a change of clothes…coveralls that somehow fit her fine, topped with a floppy hat, both an effective disguise. The spirit dog nearly stayed behind, apparently relishing nipping the heels of his temporary charges. But in the end, he followed her.
Now they strolled along Darlinghurst late at night, the sidewalk slick from a recent rain, puddles reflecting the swirling colors of the signs of restaurants, pubs, and sex parlors. The cloud looked heavy, promising another downpour to make the puddles bigger.
“Going Home,” Mordred pronounced. “1971. Jan-Michael Vincent was nominated for a Golden Globe for Best Supporting Actor for his portrayal of Jimmy. He lost to Ben Johnson.”
“Not my home anymore,” she said. “Not for long anyway.”
Cadigal’s Corner had a closed banner spread across the entrance, and the colorful advertisements that had been on the building exterior—including the poster of the beautiful Ella Gance—had been removed. Ninn wondered if Hurdy Gertie and the others had found work elsewhere. She hoped so. Maybe in the next few evenings, she’d poke her nose into some of the tawdry houses along the strip to see if they had. Wouldn’t be a bad way to spend a little of the nuyen from her sheep-herding.
The back door to Cadigal’s was shuttered, wood planks nailed across it, along with a simple maglock she had no trouble defeating. She slipped inside, picking up the scents of perfume and floor cleaner and memories, and wondering if Cadi’s spirit was tied to this place. Ninn stopped herself from trying to find out.
She popped the next lock and took the stairs up. If Siland wasn’t home, she’d wait for him; he’d show eventually. Deciding to make an entrance either way, Ninn kicked the door at the top open.
“You again!” It was the familiar thug, recognizing her in spite of the coveralls. She figured he must have tech or had memorized her face. He reached for his gun, but she and Mordred were faster.
He fell, a hole dead center in his forehead.
She moved quickly now, like the lightning that had flickered beyond the windows lining the long hall. In a heartbeat she was at the office door, which was opening for her.
Siland.
“Convenient,” she said, smiling, glad she didn’t have to wait for him. She waved Mordred at him.
Siland didn’t budge for a moment, seemingly nonplussed at the threat of the weapon. “My guard—”
“Don’t worry about him,” Ninn said. “Just worry—”
“—about myself?” His voice was smooth, like perfectly aged whiskey. “No worries,” Siland said, adding a feigned Aussie accent to it. “No worries, mate. Come in, please, Miss Tossinn. I wondered whatever had been keeping you.”
“Sheep,” Mordred said. “And sheep poop had been keeping her.”
He turned his back to her, and Ninn watched his hands; they hung loose at his sides, not reaching for a weapon. Siland settled into his high-backed chair, rested his elbows on the desk, and appeared to study her.
She didn’t detect a trace of concern on his ageless face, not a single drop of sweat on his forehead. How could a man be so smug? Could enough nuyen make him that way? Power? The drugs coursing through his system, eradicating old age, eliminating the specter of death?
“Impressive what you managed at my facility,” he said. “I could use someone like you in my employ.” He nodded to the chair opposite. “Sit, please. Would you like some brandy?”
Yes. “I’m not thirsty.”
“Let me shoot him.” From Mordred. “Several times.”
“I’ve read up on you, Miss Tossinn. About your sister, your AISE record. The force shouldn’t have dropped you, a fine officer, really. And a good private investigator. Too good.”
Ninn sat. She’d been on her feet a lot today; it felt good to be off them. She listened closely; the floorboards in the hallway outside had creaked when she’d come in, and she wanted to make sure no backup was coming.
“Does death frighten you that much?” Ninn began after a few moments of silence. “That you had to create Renaixement? Experiment on people, animals. Does death—”
Siland laughed. The first time she’d heard the laugh, she thought it rich and pleasant-sounding. Now it sent a shiver down her spine. “It’s what leads up to death, Miss Tossinn. Age. Infirmity. Unable to control your bowels. Your mind slipping away. Your joints aching because all the treatments and nanotech in this advanced world can only postpone the misery. But Renaixement? It gets rid of what leads up to death. It gives you forever.”
“He’s mad,” Mordred judged. “It’s a Mad, Mad, Mad, Mad World. 1963, Spencer Tracy.”
“Everything dies,” Ninn said softly. “Everyone.”
“Maybe not.” Siland fixed her with an unblinking stare. “I can offer you immortality, Miss Tossinn. I’ll rebuild the laboratory. Maybe in the Cross this time. I’ve refined things, don’t need as much space, as many tanks. You could have it too, if you wanted. All you’ve got to do is say yes. I’ve even got the serum here. You could start your first treatment right—”
She pulled Mordred’s trigger several times, although the first shot had been sufficient.
“That felt good, Keebs,” Mordred said. “But it was a nice offer he’d made.”
“I don’t want to live forever,” she returned.
Mordred made a sound that passed for a sigh. “Forever Young, 1992, Mel Gibson. He was an Aussie, ya ken.”
Ninn ignored him as she searched the office, quickly finding what had to be the cache of serum in his desk. She trashed the rest of office to make it look like a burglary, then left.
Outside, she smashed the vials on the ground, grinding them into the dirt until the last of the immortality serum was nothing but a dark stain on the ground.
Sirens coming from the opposite direction made her look up, then start walking away. As she did, the sky opened up, and the rain fell again, cleansing everything, washing the Cross clean, at least for a little while.
Ninn lifted her head and let the rain fall on her face for a few moments, then quickened her pace as she rounded the corner and vanished out of sight.
It turned out Ninn didn’t have to worry about the arson charge. Someone in the RighteousRight ratted out a few of the brothers who had set the blaze. Dr. Aidan Kappa had survived after all.
She kept her cybereye and Mordred’s smartlink. The rest of her tech…she went under the knife at a reputable street doc and had it ripped out, selling it all as payment for the operation.
The spirit voices came easier to her now. She could see creatures in a swirl of dust stirred up by a breeze and in the puff of moisture preceding a storm. The spirits were everywhere…now that she knew how to look for them. She kept Benzo, too; Ninn had always wanted a dog.
A few more months, that’s what she intended to give the Cross. It would be hard to leave the earthy neighborhood; she loved its rhythm and colors and humans and metahumans and everyone and everything in between. Just a few more months. Something she had to do during that time. Then she’d be worthy of Barega.
Across the park from the restored El Alamein Fountain and above a chemist’s was a small meeting room. She went there every third night. A few more months of it, a
nd she’d be good to go…to go a hundred klicks from Whoop Whoop.
Follow the galah.
“My name is Nininiru Tossinn,” she said as she stood. “Ninn for short. I am an addict.”
“G’day, Ninn,” the rest of the room returned.
“G’day, Keebs,” Mordred echoed.
THE END
Did you love Shadowrun: Shadows Down Under? Then you should read Shadowrun: Hong Kong by Mel Odom!
THE SHADOWS ARE EVEN DARKER ON THE OTHER SIDE OF THE SIXTH WORLD…
Based on Harebrained Schemes latest installment for their Shadowrun Returns game and written by long-time Shadowrun author Mel Odom, Shadowrun: Hong Kong is a wild ride into the seamy underbelly of on of the Sixth World’s most legendary cities.
On a mission to find the mentor who saved you from the streets of Seattle years ago, this epic quest leads to a world of criminal syndicates, corporate machinations, darkest magic, and a plot set in motion decades ago that is about to be completed—and if it isn’t stopped in time, it could spell the destruction of Hong Kong itself…and the rest of the Sixth World soon after…
Also by Jean Rabe
Shadowrun
Shadowrun: Shadows Down Under
Shadowrun Anthology
Shadowrun: Spells & Chrome
Shadowrun: World of Shadows
Shadowrun Legends
Shadowrun Legends: Aftershocks