“But none in us.” Khase offered the ork a wry smile. The spare secure, Hood and he let the Roadmaster down, and the elf helped her tighten the bolts. He glanced at what was left of the original tire. “Rim’s crooked. It’s still not going to ride right.”
“Never ride right again. Totaled, totaled, totaled.”
Khase spotted a gleam in Max’s eye, and for a second thought she might be crying. The stocky ork rose to her feet and stomped back to the driver’s door.
“Get in, or get left behind.”
The crippled Roadmaster limped down another alley, across two blocks, then down another. The sirens were louder, five or six of them screaming together from the sounds of it. Lone Star definitely, a DocWagon or two in the mix from the pitch of them, no doubt for the injured sec guards.
Hood put a hand to his temple, rubbing at the persistent ache there. He remembered a few gawkers ... a dwarf had poked his head out of the bar, anyone in the cars they’d passed, certainly others they hadn’t spotted because they were preoccupied with saving their necks and the plants. Some of the gawkers would describe the van; the elf like a circus performer riding on top of it, cracking his whip and bringing down light poles; the angry ork driving like a demon; bumpers and motorcycles flying every which way. Probably some security cameras caught them for good measure. Anything but a simple job, he thought with a frown.
“Have to ditch your van,” Khase said, as Max pointed the Roadmaster toward a section of short blocks and alleys.
“Totaled, totaled, totaled. Totaled for a fraggin’ milk run.”
4
3:51:50 a.m.
The occupants of the Roadmaster were wisely silent, the troll breathing as quietly as possible, and the elves sitting side by side against a tray of plants, Khase meditating and Sindje staring into the darkness.
One hand clenched so tight around the steering wheel that her knuckles were white, Max tapped a free finger against a tusk, glancing over at what remained of her side mirrors. She left Everett and headed back into Seattle, drove down a long alley, relying on a memory of a few years ago, since the navconsole had shorted out during the chase. The Alki suburb, sandwiched between Elliot Bay and the rest of downtown Seattle, wasn’t a place she frequented. In fact, she’d been there only once before, and that was for a true milk run. They were going to the plush neighborhood now because Hood said he had a place there where they could hide the battered van; because the Johnson hadn’t called yet with a drop spot; and because Lone Star would never look for a van like this in Alki.
Johnson should’ve called by now, Max fumed. Should’ve. Should’ve called. Told him we’d be in and out of Plantech in twenty, thirty tops. Should’ve called by now to name the drop.
The Roadmaster was on its last wheels. Smoke continuously puffed out a crack in the hood and in through the vent by the glove box. She waved .a meaty hand to disperse the cloud out the open window. The engine rattled, belched and bucked, wheezing like an eighty-year-old narcostick addict. She held her breath for a moment until it smoothed out again.
Max dropped the finger from her tusk and twitched it, ticking in the numbers the Johnson had given them on her AR glove.
No answer.
She hit redial, then dialed from scratch in case she’d keyed a wrong number. No answer. No tone. Maybe the reception was lousy here, or maybe her commlink had been damaged, too. It better not be, she thought, or I’ll take my payment out of Hood’s buunda hide, troll or no. Vut, vut, vut!
No streetlights here, the alley was blessedly thick with shadows, and she relied on her low-light vision to avoid garbage cans, restaurant food crates and sleeping bums. Rats? Even though the downtown was clean, even the alleys, there were plenty of rats here, drawn by the restaurants—in one place so thick they looked like an oil spill oozing across her path. Lights would’ve frightened them, maybe. But she couldn’t have used the headlights even if she’d wanted to; they’d died several blocks ago. The right turn signal worked, though, not that it would bother the rats. The vermin could decorate what was left of her tire treads as far as she was concerned.
Only occasional flashes of light intruded, these coming from third and fourth floor windows, home to young corporate go-getters, prepping to hit the office and get a start on their fourteen- or fifteen-hour day slaving for their corp. Max’s lip curled in contempt.
The rain had stopped, though there were puddles everywhere, and water was still beaded up on her front windshield. It was the only window not shattered, but a spiderweb crack snaked through it from the upper right corner to the middle above the dash. She figured the entire window would smash to proverbial smithereens if she so much as huffed on it.
Smoke puffed steadily through the vent near the glove box by the time the van lurched into a cavernous parking garage beneath an apartment building in Alki.
“Pray to Ceres our cargo pulls through.” Sindje slid out the back, tugging one of the trays with her. “Some of these twigs are already wilting.”
“The smoke from the engine, the chemicals in it.” Hood helped her, then off-loaded the rest himself while Khase and Sindje watched Max sadly inspect the van. “They’ll be better inside.”
The ork gingerly touched one of the bullet holes above a wheel well. The gesture was almost reverent. It was no secret that vehicles were her passion. “Can’t afford one this nice for a while, not even a down payment with my share in this run. Buunda on the Johnson who hired us.”
“Buunda happens.” Khase borrowed the ork slur with a nod. “But you’ll get another van. And a better run will come along and you can upgrade it.”
Max took a step back and gave the van one last look. “I already had plans for this run’s nuyen, and it wasn’t to replace my wheels.”
Khase arched an elegant eyebrow.
“I had me a dog reserved.”
The eyebrow went higher.
“A designer dog, one of Tobias Vierheller’s. You’ve heard of him, right? He’s a genetic artist. Advertised these pug puppies that would never shed and that came already housebroken. Got a deposit with Vierheller’s Renton breeder. Probably not refundable, just my fraggin’ luck. Had a name picked out, too. Bought a dog bed two days ago, bowls, food, chew toys, a retractable leash.”
The ork ground the ball of her foot against the garage floor and continued to mutter, switching to an odd language of snarls, grunts and clicks. Sindje joined Hood, making sure the last of the plants were out.
Khase glided away from the ork and from an acridsmelling pool of dark fluid that was growing beneath the van. He took a good look at the garage around them. There were only a dozen luxury cars here, though he was certain there were more tenants, given the size and levels of the building above them. Maybe they were vacationing; if they could afford this neighborhood, they could afford multiple homes. Or perhaps the place was too pricey and some of it hadn’t been rented yet. The cars—two of them vans— were either new or so well maintained that they looked fresh off the lot, all softly gleaming in the subdued ceiling lights. And had the ork’s van not been producing the odor of burnt soybacon, the garage would have smelled like fresh-minted nuyen.
“Max’s van . . .”
The troll growled. “Not to worry, Khase. I’ll make a call upstairs and have it towed and compacted. Never be found. Let’s move. Elevator’s over there.”
Hood popped the whisper-silent apartment door and ushered the rest of the team into a spacious, quiet living room with a chocolate-colored ceiling and a matching thick, soft carpet.
“Never pictured you in a place like this.” Khase waved his hand at the opulence. “Too rich for my blood. Makes me itchy.”
“Didn’t hear you volunteer your place.”
The elf drew his lips into a tight line. “We’re mobile— more or less—at the moment.” He shrugged, a thin smile on his lips.
Hood’s eyes narrowed.
The high-ceilinged apartment was simply furnished. A low long table made of some no doubt expensive bl
ack wood was the centerpiece of the living room. It sat in front of a deep-cushioned couch and a matching high-backed chair, both troll-sized. Leather, Khase guessed, or something that imitated leather so closely he couldn’t tell the difference. No other furniture in this room, though the elf spotted a huge bed through an open door to the right. It was covered with pillows and fake furs, and could have held Khase and three of his very best female friends all at once.
“So that’s where all of your nuyen goes. Hood. On this place.” Khase whistled as he watched the troll arrange the plants in the center of the room near the table. Sindje helped, although her eyes flitted about to take everything in. Max paced back and forth, still tapping a tusk with her finger and muttering under her breath.
Large fish tanks lined the walls, the water in all of them a brilliant, unnatural blue because of the lights and the backdrops. Ten tanks, Khase counted, each filled with what looked like goldfish and live plants. Simple fish, he thought at first. Then he looked closer.
In one tank, the fish were pearly white with orange head growths that looked like bubbles—or brains. Their tails were long and translucent, and their eyes were wide and blue. In another were dusky black ones—moors, he knew, from an article he’d read in a streetdoc’s office a few months ago. The largest tank held an assortment: bulbous ones with scales that protruded from their sides; thin ones with globe-shaped eyes, one on either side of their heads; elegant ones that looked like pieces of lace floating in the water; disturbing ones because of the large ephemera! sacks that hung on both sides of their ever-moving mouths. For some reason the elf suspected that these were not products of a genetic artist, they were expensive originals.
“Celestials,” Hood supplied, following Khase’s gaze. “Those ones with the sacks. Have to be careful what I mix with them. They’re slow eaters, can’t see too well, can’t compete for food.”
“And on the fish,” Khase added absently. “All your nuyen goes on this place and on the fish. No wonder you don’t have a single chip in your head, no laced bones, no wires, no nothing. You can’t afford it. And no magic, either, just what your genes gave you in the first place.”
The elf moved to another tank, this one higher up on a stand. Smaller fish swam listlessly, larger ones nuzzled the loose gravel on the bottom in an effort to stir up something tasty that the filter hadn’t sucked up.
“Those are ryukin. Just got them two weeks ago. One of them had ich, and I didn’t notice it in time. Spread through the whole tank. Managed to get it knocked back, though. They’re all healthy now.” Hood was staring at the tanks with pride, and if Khase hadn’t known better, he’d thought that the troll was talking about his children instead of a bunch of fish.
“Ich, indeed.” Khase figured it was some fancy fish disease, but decided not to ask, as he wasn’t particularly interested in an explanation.
In the gaps between tanks, and above some of the tanks, the elf saw holographic pictures of rainforests and deserts, and one lone picture of an icy shore where penguins moved in and out of the water and where the shadow of something big, perhaps a walrus, appeared and disappeared along the face of an icy ridge. There were a few large plants in the living room, one with leaves shaped like elephant ears, another with waxy-looking leaves outlined in yellow and maroon and with feathery spires that stretched to the ceiling high overhead. A spiky-looking plant was in the bedroom.
“Ick? Ick, ick, ick.” Max dropped into the armchair. She wasn’t small by a long shot, but the massive chair dwarfed her, almost swallowing her like she was a child. Her feet, which dangled off the edge of the chair, bounced up and down as if it was impossible for her to be still.
Hood settled himself cross-legged on the floor in front of the low table. He’d taken one of the plants off the tray and with surprisingly nimble fingers was tenderly brushing dirt off its leaves and making sure the roots were covered.
Khase hovered nearby. The elf considered Hood’s gentleness incongruous to his monstrous form . . . but then this place didn’t seem to suit the huge troll, either.
The plant the troll concentrated on looked like some kind of ivy, twisting vines spilling over the pot, the leaves a dark, dark green but covered with a fine, hairlike purple fuzz. The troll held the plant close to his wide face and inhaled, closing his eyes and not moving for several moments.
The elves and the ork observed him, the latter still swinging her feet, and now drumming two fingers against a tusk. Max snorted after a moment to get Hood’s attention, but the troll’s head didn’t move.
Khase made a show of clearing his throat. “If you’re so well off, chummer, and you obviously are, given all of this, why the low-end shadowruns? Like our little tour of Snohomish and Everett tonight?”
That caught the troll’s attention. His eyes flashed wide, and his upper lip curled back, showing a row of glistening white, pointed teeth. “You going to help with these plants, Khase?” Hood used his thick fingernails to prune a broken leaf. “They need to be as close to perfect as possible, or we won’t get paid.”
“And you definitely need that, don’t you? This place must set you back some.”
“Like you said, Khase, I don’t spend my take on wires and chips. I don’t pay a soul to put me under the knife. Got better uses for nuyen.”
“Fish.”
“Yeah, Khase. Fish. I like fish. Now, are you going to help or keep flapping your lips?”
Behind Hood, Sindje was already working on the plant in the oval container, the first one to tip over in the van. It was not in good shape.
Khase rolled his head on his shoulders, working a kink out of his neck, and strolled to the other end of the table, sitting down opposite the troll.
Nearby, Max continued to tap and drum, pausing to twitch a finger to call the Johnson again.
“Nothing,” she announced. “Doesn’t work.” Her fingers curled into a fist. “Vut, vut, vut. I can’t get a line out of here. She paused for a moment, then her eyes widened. “That’s some kind of jamming system you got online here. You folks must like your privacy at the top end of the money pool.”
“Yes, we do. Try this.” The troll pulled a compact earpiece from a front pocket and tossed it to Max.
Max inserted it into her ear. “That works.” She spoke the Johnson’s number. “Hoi, this is Max. We got everything, all the plants on your list. Nothing missed, nothing else taken. Just like you instructed. Where do we drop ’em?” She pursed her lips, and the wrinkles on her forehead deepened as she thought about her useless van, and about how they were going to get the plants to the drop now that they had nothing to cart them in.
As the Johnson kept yakking, she drummed her tusk harder. “What do you mean we can’t drop them this morning? You have a meeting? Yeah, you have a meeting—with us. Another meeting?” Max cupped her hand over the tiny mouth mike and leaned forward. “Johnson says he’s got an ‘urgent crisis’ to deal with.” She leaned back and spoke again. “Well, we got a plant crisis to deal with. Plants all over the place. Dirt on the carpet. That means you’ve got a crisis too—late when? This afternoon? Fine, I suppose. Where? We are not happy about this—all right, we’ll wait to hear from you.”
Max wrenched out the earbud and slipped it in her pocket; noting Hood’s eyes on her, she curled her lips back from her tusks, daring him to say a word. When he didn’t, she addressed all of them. “Johnson says he’ll call us on this line with a time and place for exchanging the plants for the nuyen. Says it’ll be late this afternoon, probably.” She snarled and tipped her head back against the chair. “Lovely, lovely, lovely.” The chair hummed, and rolling servos kneaded Max’s tight back muscles.
Sindje frowned, looking up at the rest of them. “I don’t like it, either. Holding this merchandise for any longer than absolutely necessary is risky. Greater chance of attracting heat from Plantech security, maybe Lone Star, certainly something none of us can afford. I don’t like it one infinitesimal bit.”
Beside a fish tank set on a lo
w pedestal, Khase’s frown mirrored his sister’s. He stared at a lone calico-colored goldfish the size of his fist as it swam through a stream of bubbles. No idea you’re on display, living sushi platter, stared at by everyone who comes to call. I know just how you feel, since I also have no idea how many slags’re gonna be looking for us yet.
Hood, however, had a serene expression on his warty visage. “I don’t mind it. Babysitting these plants for a dozen hours or so won’t be so bad.” He returned his attention to something that resembled a philodendron, a smile lighting up his craggy features.
Around him, the other three runners exchanged worried glances. Frag, frag, frag, Max mouthed, Sindje and Khase nodding in agreement.
5
5:30:02 a.m.
I do not fraggin’ believe this.” Roland Ators ran a hand over his bristly crew cut as he surveyed the greenhouse in the rising golden dawn. Although he spoke quietly, his tone made everyone within five meters look up with nervous expressions before returning to their assigned tasks with increased vigor.
“I want initial reports on everything here in the next thirty minutes, with follow-up every hour.” He stalked to a window on the far side of the room and examined the epoxied bulletproof glass while activating his commlink,
‘Morgan, report,” he subvocalized.
His lieutenant’s voice answered in his head. “I’m in the garage, overseeing the CS techs at the vehicle's parking space. Look, boss, I—”
Roland cut him off. “Save your apology for the sarari-men. Let’s run through what happened again.”
“Yes sir, I’m connecting you to Control’s vidlink now. They hacked the exterior elevator cameras to play back an empty greenhouse entry on the sec feeds, but when the system reset at oh three hundred it started recording again. No audio or visual monitors in the greenhouse proper, so we couldn’t get a look at the actual break-in.”
Shadowrun 45 - Aftershock Page 4