Shadowrun 45 - Aftershock

by Jean Rabe, John Helfers (v1. 0) (epub)

  A nod from the pockmarked man.

  She reached into a drawer and retrieved a credstick. After another few moments of silence, she slid it to the far edge of the desk. “Then be about your business. I’ve no time for further pleasantries with you. Today is tight, and no matter what you may think, my time is certainly more valuable than yours.”

  One of the brothers grabbed the credstick and read its side, then passed it to the pockmarked man. “Hope to do work for you again, ma’am.”

  The three tipped their heads and left her office.

  Belver rested her chin on her hands and closed her eyes. One of those damnable sinus headaches was starting, the kind that settled in when there were drastic changes in the temperature. It had been so pleasantly warm until the cold front moved in yesterday. This chill fall day made her worry that Seattle might actually have a winter this year.

  A little pill would make the pain melt away, but it would also numb her senses. A little pain might be helpful, she mused, sharpen my edge. Help get her through the rest of the day. At least until dinner that evening. With her father.

  She opened her eyes and called another number.

  “Yes?” The voice was husky and accompanied by hoarse breathing.

  Belver picked a dead leaf off the spider plant. “Those runners you hired for me . . .”

  “For the Snohomish job?”

  “Set up the meet with them, my dear Mr. Johnson. Make it for . . . four should be good, I think. I’ve some things to take care of this afternoon, then we will conclude our business. Even with traffic, four will work just fine.” Everything should be wrapped up before dinner at seven.

  Then she cleared the call and called yet another number. The individual on the other end was slow to answer.

  “Good afternoon, Ms. . . .”

  “No names.”

  There was a faint crackle of static that made Belver frown. Recording me? she pondered. With cheap equipment, no less? Not that it matters. I’m above the law on this.

  “As you wish.”

  “That—employee—you’re arranging for me. Is he on board?”

  “Reluctantly. Unhappily.”

  “But he is . . . arranged?”

  “Most definitely. He has no choice.”

  “I’m looking forward to making his acquaintance. You’ve made me most happy this afternoon.”

  “The pleasure is mine.”

  Belver pushed back from her desk and gripped the arms of her leather chair. The sinus headache became inconsequential. The last piece of the deal of a lifetime had just fallen into place. And it was ail hers.

  But first, one more call. For insurance.

  10

  11:35:58 a.m.

  Max stared at a bank of never-ending file cabinets—all gun-metal gray, all reaching to the ceiling, which was out of sight, all stretching to her left and right and fading to the horizon. More rows of file cabinets loomed behind her. File cabinet drawers made up the tiles under her feet. She swore she could smell the metal and paint and could hear papers rustling, could taste the fusty folders.

  Frag, frag, frag. Bleah.

  She was jacked in, her body feeling the motion of the massage chair in Hood’s condo, her mind deep, deep in the matrix, trying to find any interesting scrap of information about the troll who invited them on the plant run. So far, after over two hours of searching, she’d found nothing.

  “Flood,” she muttered. “A street name, not a real name. Never asked his real name. Never had cause to ask. Probably would never answer if I did ask.” She’d certainly never give the troll, or the keeblers for that matter, her real name. And none of them had the digital savvy to go digging.

  He can’t be without a SIN, she thought. Not if he owns a condo like this. But I don't have a real name, and I’ve found very little on a troll using a big fraggin’ bow. Linked to a few high-end runs, nothing concrete. Doesn’t mean there isn’t anything substantial on him. Just meant she hadn’t found anything. Neither had her contacts proved useful, and she’d called all of them, plus a few the keeblers provided. Something he said once made her think there were records on him. Why couldn’t she remember that tidbit he mentioned? It might help her pick a file drawer.

  She wasn’t really surrounded by cabinets, they just represented endless data streams she sifted through. Max could go deeper, but she suspected she’d already spent enough time on Hood, and there was the Johnson to consider. He’d be the one exchanging nuyen for plants, and so he was the one she should be devoting her time to.

  Vut, vut, vut! Max cursed herself for trying to find out about the troll when she should have looked to the Johnson first. Always follow the nuyen, they say on those police trivids.

  But the troll . . . what was he up to? One last quick look before the Johnson dive, she decided.

  Max stayed connected, feeling the electrons dancing just inside her skull, sensing the power that pumped through the commlink. But a part of her returned to Hood’s condo. The heat of the place hit her like a wall, and she sniffed the air. The scent of the plants was strong, as was the scent of her. The heat—the impromptu greenhouse he’d created—made her sweat and stuck her clothes to her body.

  Be good to hand these plants over to the Johnson and get our nuyen. Get more nuyen if I can find out something juicy about Hood and the Johnson. Was it fifteen percent she’d negotiated? No. Twelve. But that was pretty good from the elves; she knew they owed someone and so nuyen was precious. Precious to me, too. Get me that pug puppy with that twelve percent. Something beyond metal and wires to come home to.

  Max stuck out her considerable lower lip and blew upward, her breath cooling her face. She shifted in the chair slightly, so she could see a corner of the kitchen where the troll was hovering over the island, still studying the plants.

  Not all of the plants. Max noticed. Two of them. One all green and purple, looking unnatural in the color combination. The other something for the house you could pick up in a grocery store—right next to the balloons and birthday grams.

  Something special about those plants, Max decided. Hood knows there’s something special or he wouldn’t be obsessed with them, especially with two of them. So they’re not run-o-the-mill houseplants like they appear, at least not those two. So they’re valuable.

  Real valuable, she guessed.

  She let out another breath to cool her face, then put her connection on hold. Edging out of the chair, she went into the bathroom, certain the troll was either oblivious to her movements or didn’t care.

  Closing the door, she made a call. Max faced the far corner, talking softly and into a towel.

  “Johnson?”

  She wiped the sweat off her chin with a white hand towel edged in lacy trim—something else that didn’t fit Hood.

  “Yeah, I drekkin’ know you didn’t want me to call. But I don’t drekkin’ want to wait. Got something to discuss with you.”

  Max let him blather on for a while, thinking he was scolding her, then she continued: “The nuyen we’re ’sposed to get for these plants. Ain’t enough, ujnort. Not near enough.”

  She listened to his tirade, which was not as bad as she expected—but then they held the plants, and therefore all the proverbial cards.

  “Lost my van. Totaled, totaled, totaled in this milk run of yours. Lots of security for a greenhouse. Lots of bullets flying around. Totaled, totaled, totaled my Roadmaster is.” A pause. “Yeah, I want my van replaced. No, that’s not what this is all about. Listen, I figure these plants are a whole lot more valuable than we were led to believe. We didn’t hose nothing, not me, the troll or the two dandelion eaters. We did just what you asked, and if you’d handled the exchange a few hours ago like we had originally agreed on, then the price wouldn’t be rising with every minute ticking, ticking, ticking by. Got me?”

  Max squared her shoulders, pleased with how she was conducting this. Good time to take a chance.

  “We’ve been babysitting these plants, Mr. Johnson, keep-in’ the
m all nice and toasty warm. Feedin’ them their special plant food. And we’ve also been giving them a close looksee. We know all about these plants, Mr. Johnson. And we know they’re worth far more than you said you’d pay. Yeah, I’ll wait.”

  She tapped the earpiece to disconnect, then reached for a larger towel and dabbed it all over her face, neck and arms. “It’s a drekkin’ greenhouse in here.” She glanced around the bathroom ... a troll-sized toilet, sink, a shower that looked like a spa she’d once seen an ad for when she was perusing notices in the matrix.

  Shower’d feel pretty good right now. Lookit that fancy soap, like something you’d snatch from the Hotel Nikko or the Lucas Palace. Smells like oatmeal. Quick shower. Hood won't mind and . . .

  The earpiece vibrated in her ear. “Yeah? That was pretty fast, Mr. Johnson. We must have moved to the top of your inbox. You got an answer for me?”

  Max rummaged in the linen closet while she talked and spotted two new bars of the oatmeal soap. These she thrust in a pocket, followed by a vial of designer shampoo.

  “Yeah. I want double the original fee. Won’t take a nuyen less. You heard me, double.”

  There were small packets of bath salts, one with purple crystals that caught her eye. This, too, she pocketed.

  “Good. The run’s easily worth double.” She was angry she didn’t ask for more. The Johnson agreeing so fast meant she could have got it. “Now, you got us a meet set up yet? I bet you want these very special plants as soon as possible. Good, good, good. We’ll see you there.” The ork tugged the earpiece out, glanced in the mirror above the sink and straightened her untamed mass of dreads, then returned to the living room.

  Hood was waiting for her, hands on his hips, looming above the low table covered with plants. At first Max thought he’d overheard her conversation, but he was looking at the plants, not her.

  “Find anything interesting about any of those?” Max well knew that he’d found something; she was just making conversation to distract him from her bathroom trip. Without waiting for Hood’s reply, she touched her comm and called the elves. “You wanna jander your skinny hoops down here? Got some news.”

  It wasn’t the news they were expecting—no tidbits about Hood or the Johnson. No twelve percent, Max mused. But she’d be making more than that, now that her share had been doubled. All of them would be making more.

  Max delivered the news as soon as Sindje and Khase came through the door.

  “Double?” Sindje’s smile reached her eyes. The ork had never seen her so happy.

  “Well done,” Khase pronounced.

  “Fragging idiot.” Hood’s reaction was not what Max had expected. His entire face darkened with anger, and spittle flecked at the edges of his lips. He was breathing faster and deeper, the exertion fluttering the hem of his gaudy shirt. “The Johnson contacted me. I set up this run. I called you in to share the work and the pay.”

  “We’re a team. What’s the old saying, no T in team?” Khase’s flippant remark went ignored.

  “And you go around my back. Max. Fragging idiot ork! Go around my back and negotiate with the Johnson. It wasn’t your deal to negotiate. Max. It wasn’t your Johnson to play with.”

  The ork didn’t wither, just clenched her fists and puffed out her chest. “No pay, no play,” she growled.

  “You want to negotiate, Max, you can find your own Johnson. You can broker your own deal. You can do that all by yourself. But not when I’m calling the shots.”

  “Wait a minute.” Sindje glided to Flood’s side, her delicate fingers fluttering up the troll’s arm. “Max didn’t mean anything wrong. In fact, doubling our nuyen . . . you should be praising her, not ripping her up one side and down the other. Shame, Hood.”

  The troll’s eyes continued to glow, but his breathing slowed. He shrugged off the elf’s arm like it was a bug. He saw Khase tense on the other side of the room, just the slightest bit. “You working magic on me, Sindje?”

  “Wouldn’t think of it.” Her fingers continued to flutter. “You try this again, Max, you go around my back, and I’ll find me another hacker.”

  Max raised her upper lip, displaying her tusks. “Double the nuyen. Hood. I didn’t hear you upping the payment any.”

  “That doesn’t matter. My deal, my Johnson,”

  “If the nuyen doesn’t matter to you, tad . . .” It was Khase, somehow he’d ghosted around his sister to stand at Max’s side. “Why not just throw in your share of the take?”

  He gestured to the opulent condo. “You’re doing well for yourself, neh? Very, I’d say.”

  “My deal, my rules,” Hood repeated, somehow looking even larger and more menacing than he had a few seconds ago. The other three runners exchanged glances, all of them thinking the same thing. None of them had ever seen him this angry before.

  The four metas stood staring at each other, nobody willing to give a millimeter. The tension in the troll’s living room was so thick Khase doubted he could cut it with his monofilament whip. I wonder if Max has finally bitten off more than she can chew? he mused. And if it comes down to it, can the three of us take down big and warty here without getting geeked ourselves?

  11

  11:38:38 a.m.

  Hoi Jagyar?, it’s Roland. Listen up . . . have you got wind of anyone trying to sell some kind of plants? No, not the recreational kind . . . just—plants. You know, decorative plant-type plants . . . sort of like ferns, I guess. Stop laughing! Look, all I need to know is whether you’ve heard of anyone on the street looking to unload some green . . . no? All right, fine. If you do hear in the next dozen hours or so, get in touch with me rapido, understand? Yeah, the usual fee applies, with a twenty percent bonus if you get me something in the next six hours. Thanks, Jag.”

  Roland disconnected the cell and clenched his hand, resisting slamming his fist into the roof of the Honda sedan.

  Drek idea in the first place, he thought, but I had to try.

  There was almost no chance that the runners who broke into Plantech wrere trying to fence the lifted flora on the street. But during the past few hours he had called all of his contacts in downtown, and even visited several anyway, hoping against hope that someone with their ears to the ground might have heard a whisper about the runners or the plants.

  Nope. Whoever’s got our cargo already has a buyer lined up, I’ll bet. Could be that the plants are already gone, that the runners made the drop and have melted into the city-scape. He slammed his fist into the roof. Can’t think like that, there’s got to be something I can do. Even if they got rid of all the greenery, I’ll bet we can convince them to give up the name of their buyer. If we can find them. The proper persuasion—like avoiding prison—should work nicely.

  Most corp employees accepted shadowrunners as a way of life in the Sixth World, but Roland’s view of them was Lexan-clear; they were the enemy. Oh, occasionally he’d seen newsvids with runners prattling on about their so-called “noble” aims; trying to stick it to the man by undercutting the corp arcologies. But to him, they were criminals, plain and simple. Not only criminals, but hypocrites as well, since they would accept jobs from the very people they claimed to be working against—if the nuyen was right. Nothing but a low-rent army of paid mercenaries, many of whom would no doubt turn on their employers if offered better deals. Nobody he wanted to do business with, that was for sure. Send the whole lot of them to prison. Forever.

  Finally, to add insult to injury, a group of them had the nerve to hit his corp, an agri that wasn’t doing anything bad to anyone, much less destroying the planet in its wake. His corp was even trying to do some good in the world! And now, because some drekhead thought they just had to have what Plantech was working on, three hundred and fifty people could be out of work in the next day or so— including himself. As he drove, Roland realized that although he wanted those runners, he was just as interested in the suit that had hired them in the first place. Who wanted the plants? And why?

  Maybe Jhones will let me look at
their interrogation vids once they’re nabbed. Or even better, perhaps he’ll give me a little alone time with one of them. I’m sure I can shake the info loose, one way or another.

  In the corner of his vision, a chronometer steadily ticked off the seconds down to the deadline. Right now he had about twenty-one hours and twenty minutes left until the end of Plantech.

  By tomorrow afternoon everything Siskind and his people have worked toward for the past three decades will be destroyed.

  Although his boss had absolved Roland and his team, the sec chief still felt responsible. Roland’s people had failed to stop the intruders, and therefore, by extension, he had failed to stop them.

  He floored the accelerator and sped up the on-ramp to the interstate. His commlink chimed with two separate tones, indicating that both a text message and a call were coming through. “Download text and file to both car screen and office and answer call. Ators.”

  Morgan’s voice filled his head. “Roland, can you get back to HQ right away? 1 think there’s something here you’re going to want to see. ”

  “Only thing I want to see right now is the plants.”

  “I’d hurry.’’

  “I’ll be there ASAP. Discon. Play text file.”

  The small screen built into the dashboard of the Honda lit up, displaying a message on the heads-up windshield so Roland could still drive:

  Hoi, Roland, got the vidfiles of that chase this morning for yon—pretty wild stuff. These ganefs look like they might know what they’re doing. Real pros.

  So watch your step, and remember—don't forget to cut your old chaver in on the bust, neh?

  “Jhones, if you can give me any clue as to who these guys are or where they went, I’ll give you what’s left of my pension,” Roland muttered as he brought the file up, watching the chase as he drove. He saw the light poles break as if by, well, magic, his lip curling as one of his men went down on the street. He watched the elven adept rock and roll on the van roof, graceful as a zerodancer as he took out the cyclists.