Shadowrun 45 - Aftershock

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

  Hood was behind her, grabbing the fallen Plantech men that were closest to the house and, therefore, in the most danger. He scooped up two under each arm and tossed them toward the curb, then went back for four more. The sticky nets yielded to his massive strength as he piled the men like raked leaves behind the remaining Plantech Typhoon. He was heading back for another armload when he saw a pillar of flame shoot out the roof and every window of the old house. It was accompanied by a deep rumbling sound that rattled the vans and sent the neighborhood gawkers finally fleeing back into their homes.

  The rumbling gave way to an explosion that sent what was left of the roof a dozen meters into the air, burst out all the bulletproof glass windows and turned the wooden siding into slivers. Shards of the house flew over them as Hood, Max and the elves dove to the ground. Once the flaming maelstrom had subsided, they popped up and ran the last several steps to the once-perfect Bison. It was scratched and dented everywhere, with bits of flaming wood on the roof and windshield. Hood threw open the back door and motioned the elves inside. Then he hurried to the passenger door and opened it.

  “Max?” Hood turned to see the ork sprawled facedown on a buckled section of sidewalk, wood shards still falling out of the sky on her. “Max!”

  “Drive, Hood! I’ll get her. Move, chwaerl” Khase pushed Sindje into the back of the van and rushed to the ork’s side.

  Max wasn’t moving. She outweighed Khase by at least a hundred kilos, but the elf gritted his teeth and pulled her up. “C’mon Max. We gotta move!”

  But Max didn’t budge, just hung off the adept, deadweight, and Khase saw a blossom of red growing against her back and chest. A glance over his shoulder revealed the culprit. One of the Plantech guards lying on the ground had a pistol out and aimed at the two of them. He squeezed the trigger again, but a piece of flaming wood fell off the still-burning house and thudded to the ground right next to him, spoiling his aim and causing the bullet to thunk into the Bison’s side panel.

  Shielding the ork’s body with his own, Khase pulled her to the van and thrust her at Sindje, then jumped in and slammed the doors shut just as the Plantech man reloaded and started firing again.

  “She’s not breathing!” Khase hovered over Max, stretched out in the back of the Bison.

  22

  4:55:34 p.m.

  Jhones felt strangely calm as Simon and he traversed the downtown traffic to where the shadowrunners behind the Plantech heist might be. A small voice in the back of his head was busy chewing him out for selling out his best friend, but the dwarf found it surprisingly easy to tune out the niggling bit of conscience, preferring to focus instead on the bets he planned to make once he had gotten this small matter of the job at hand out of the way. Quit worrying about Roland, he’ll make out. My old chaver always has, always will.

  In contrast, Simon seemed ill at ease, tense in the passenger seat of their patrol car. Jhones’ eyes flicked over to him again, seeing the rookie chew on a ragged fingernail. “Nu, boychik, what’s the matter? You look like someone ran over your cat.”

  Simon started as he turned to look at the dwarf. “Oh, nothing, it’s just—I don’t know, I just thought that working for Lone Star would be more—”

  “Exciting? Glamorous? Worthy? Lucrative?” Jhones took an exit off Highway 5 and began navigating the streets toward Ballard. “Kiddo, I’ve heard just about every ‘should have been’ from rookies for the past ten years. Lone Star is a job, just like any other. It has its good points, one of which is that you get to help people. And its bad points, one of those is that often you will be shot at, or a drunken troll will try to use you as a projectile in one of their silly games.”

  “You don’t mean—”

  “Don’t say it, chummer.” Jhones turned a hard eye on his partner. “Just because those chazerai like to play their games doesn’t mean my kind goes along with it.” At least not usually, he thought. “Anyway, my point is that everyone in this business—and no matter what anyone tells you, it’s a business, mark my words—gets into it for a reason. Me, I like to help people, and Lone Star is the best way for me to do that.” He glanced over again to see Simon regarding him with a strange look on his face. “What?” “You gotta be kidding me! You joined Lone Star, take crap from just about everyone, from the corps to the dregs of society, just so you can help people?”

  “Absolutely. Look, society cannot exist without laws, and those laws must be enforced by someone. Granted, having the police be a private company instead of a public trust is not exactly what a lot of people want, but here it is. And now there’s only the ‘how do we all work best together?’ details that have been worked out.”

  “But what about the rampant corruption in the system?” “And that’s different how from any other corp, or different back when the police was government run?” Jhones snorted. “It’s intertwined with the history of humanity, meta or otherwise. There are always those who seek to better themselves at the expense of others. And those people have to be found and brought to justice, no matter what ideal or system they hide behind.” The dwarf frowned as he considered his partner. “What’s with all the deep philosophical statements today, huh, chaverl

  Simon squirmed in his seat. “I don’t know—I see corruption all around us—the corps taking everything they can, and leaving the pickings for the rest of the have-nots, and I wonder sometimes if it’s all worth it, you know?”

  Jhones shook his head. “Actually, I don’t know. But the one thing I do know in this world is that everyone, no matter how low or how high, is entitled to justice. That elf we saw this morning deserves it, and so does the Jpwest street person. It’s as simple as that.”

  “But what if a person goes outside the law to get their own justice? What then?”

  “Why the twenty questions? What is up with you today? Look, we’re getting close to the address my informant gave me. Now, we’re going to chase down that lead on the Plantech robbery, and we’ll pick up this conversation later, okay?”

  “Okay, Jhones, fine by me.” Simon was more confused than ever. Jhones had sounded like he embraced law and order with as much zeal as he did. Then what is going on with Ators and Plantech? Is he just helping out a friend off the clock? Simon hadn’t even gotten a chance to bring up the potential for illegal activity in Lone Star; he was afraid that the dwarf would take his head off. Surely I couldn’t have been mistaken, could I?

  As they turned down another street, they heard the faint sound of automatic weapons fire just as their commlinks came to life:

  “All units in Ballard vicinity, all units, multiple shots fired at Ballard address. Requesting all units converge on the area immediately. Backup is en route.” The address was the same one that Jhones had mentioned earlier.

  “Drek!” Jhones slammed his hand against the steering wheel. “Some overzealous beat cop probably stumbled across our bust. Frag it!” He hit the sirens and lights and floored the accelerator, sending the Americar shooting forward.

  Simon’s hand went to his pistol as he checked the semiautomatic’s load. That was an odd reaction for what should be just a simple bust. He looked over at his partner, seeing him hunched over the steering wheel, muttering under his breath. His pulse has accelerated again, and he’s certainly not his usual calm self. Maybe I’m not so far off after all. I’ll just keep watching and see what happens.

  Jhones rounded a corner just in time to see the sky several blocks ahead erupt in a huge fireball, with pieces of something raining down onto the rest of the neighborhood. Simon’s eyes widened, and he and his partner both had the exact same thought, and expressed it with the exact same word:

  “Drek!”

  23

  4:57:35 p.m.

  Well, make her breathe!” the troll shot back. “I can’t help you with that! I have to get us out of here!” He stomped on the pedal, the Bison accelerating down the narrow street, minor explosions going off behind it as the old house continued to erupt. He wrenched the wheel hard right, taking
them down an alley and careening into a line of garbage cans as he went, spraying refuse everywhere. Leaning over the front passenger seat, he popped open the glove box and retrieved a spongy package. He tossed it over his shoulder to Khase. “Trauma patches in there. Use as many as you have to.”

  There was a siren—Lone Star by its whining pitch. It sounded like only one vehicle ... at the moment. It had gotten here awfully quick, from the time of the nosey neighbor’s announcement. Hood knew there would be more coming, as the rent-a-cops usually traveled in packs.

  “Make her breathe, I said! Khase, Sindje, use the patches.”

  Khase didn’t reply. His hands were over the hole in Max’s chest, trying to staunch the blood. The Bison hit a pothole, momentarily sending his palms off the wound. Blood gushed out, a miniature fountain.

  “I don’t recall anyone requiring a medical degree for this run. She’s dead.” Sindje looked at the ork’s face, dreads splayed out and coated in blood. “So much blood. It stinks.” The fresh coppery smell was overpowering, and coupled with the stench from their sweat and the odor of the plants that had been in here, Sindje had to concentrate to keep from gagging.

  “Do something.” Khase shot her an angry, desperate look. “Please try to do something. Go ahead, use a patch.” “Dead is dead.” Sindje scowled at the blood, cringed when she knelt next to Max and got her knees in the pool. “She’s not breathing, Khase.” Still, she leaned over the ork. “If this was me laying here, and Max looking down, bet she’d be thinking ‘where are we gonna drop the body,’ and ‘one less share to divvy of the nuyen.’ ”

  “We didn’t get any drekking nuyen on this run to divvy. Just shut up for once and do something now!” Keeping his hands on the ork’s wound, he twisted and picked up the packet with his teeth. “Mmmph pachem.”

  “Shhh, Khase. I don’t need your noise.” Sindje curled her mouth into a grimace as she gingerly touched Max’s chest, near where her brother was continuing to put pressure on the wound. “Let me see if maybe I can breathe for her. Those patches are dangerous. They go right over the heart and mainline the medicine straight in. I don’t like them.”

  Khase opened his mouth and dropped the packet. “I’d say we’re at that last-ditch measure, chwaer.”

  “Shhh!” Sindje closed her eyes and started humming, not because the spell she was casting required the tune, but because it helped shut out the ragged breath of her brother, the muttered curses of the troll and the clanging of garbage cans the Bison continued to bowl over on its frantic course down the alley.

  “Khase, how’s she doing?” The troll risked a glance over his shoulder, frowning to see all the blood.

  “Not now!” Khase drew his lips into a needle-thin line, met Hood’s stare and then turned his attention back to Max and Sindje.

  Sindje somehow found her magical spark, though it was barely an ember after all the stun balls and bolts she'd cast at the Plantech security force. She felt her heartbeat and focused on it, coaxing it to pump strength into her mana force. Her heartbeat sounded loud in her ears.

  “I don’t practice this sort of magic. Been so long since

  I’ve used it. Years.” She was talking to herself as she continued to ply the mana. “Not sure I remember how. Good at hurting people, though. I’m pretty good at that.” She smiled at the thought of taking out more guards than Hood did. Then she frowned. Had she been just a little better at it, or had she used the lethal force she was considering. Max wouldn’t be spilling her smelly, slippery ork blood all over the back of the Bison.

  It was tradition, touching the person you were attempting to heal. Sindje wasn’t sure if it was necessary, but she remembered studying the programs and listening to her teacher from a decade or so back. So she ran her fingers around Max’s chest, then up to the ork’s face, lingering on the craggy forehead. Detox. Now that was a medicinal spell that quick came to mind. She’d used that one on herself and several of her friends numerous times in her school years after their late-night club flings. Accidentally, she started to work the tendrils of the detox spell into Max.

  “Idiot! Sloppy.” It was nerves, she knew. “Concentrate!” Stabilize, that was the name of the magical spell she needed. Never used it, only practiced it once or twice when she was learning to manipulate the mana under a teacher’s petulant gaze. She understood all the principles, though. “Stabilize, Max. Breathe.”

  The ball of mana she’d formed in her mind was orange, like the smoldering remains of a campfire. It warmed her, and as it grew more potent, it sapped more of what little strength she had left. It wasn’t a large ball, and she envisioned cupping it in only one hand. That’s what she did now, held her right hand out, letting the ball manifest itself. The fingers of her left hand walked down from Max’s face, across her neck and up her chest and over Khase’s hands that still applied pressure to the wound.

  The pool of blood had grown beneath Sindje, and this surprised her because Khase seemed to have stopped most of the bleeding.

  “Bullet went all the way through her,” she heard Khase say.

  So she was bleeding out the back, too.

  Great. “I can’t save her.” But she tried anyway. Sindje dropped the orange ball of mana, opened her eyes and watched it fall onto Max, its glow fade into her slippery chest. A moment more, and Sindje closed her eyes again and imagined herself following the ball.

  There were so many wires inside Max! A cyborg, Hood had called the ork on numerous occasions, and the troll was certainly right. Max had so much hardware and bioware laced into her system that she had to have spent weeks recovering from the extensive surgery. All the metal and plastic made it difficult for Sindje to find the ork’s real veins and organs, like sifting through a carton of soycereal to get the holo-toy surprise. Still, she persevered and eventually found her way to Max’s lungs. That’s what the bullet tore through. Sindje hadn’t needed her spell to tell her that; it was obvious from the hole in the ork’s chest. And the hole was why Max wasn’t breathing. The ork’s injured lung was filled with blood.

  “So much blood, Khase. An ocean of it. She’s drowning in it.”

  Sindje thought she heard her brother say the ocean had spilled into the Bison. It felt that way, as wet as her knees were.

  She sent the orange ball of mana into the wounded lung, pushing more and more of her waning energy into it. She gave the ball a greater presence, a palpable thickness and merged it with the tissues of the ork’s lungs and filled the holes left by the bullet. It seemed like she spent hours doing this, and in truth Sindje wasn’t sure how long the spell was actually taking, as she’d drawn herself completely away from her body now and could no longer feel the jostling of the Bison or hear the Lone Star siren. She was amazed at her own ability to work this spell! Exhaustion crept in, and her vision started to cloud and turn gray at the edges, but she bared her teeth and kept going, sending what little mana she could gather into the hacker.

  As she continued the healing, Sindje marveled at the threadlike wires that ran in the lower part of the ork’s lungs and wondered what use they might have. Certainly nothing to aid in Max’s visiting the Matrix. Perhaps she’d ask just what all of this implanted tech did—if both of them got through this. Sindje focused on all the blood in the lung, pushing it out to make room for air and sensing that Max had started to cough. To breathe! The elf was so excited she nearly lost the spell, and it took all her mental prowess to draw herself back to the task. Max might be breathing again, but she was still critically damaged goods that had poured out an ocean of blood.

  “Too much blood.”

  Sindje’s magic couldn’t replace the blood loss, which would be a problem all its own soon, but it could cut the pain Max felt, which she imagined was considerable. So at least she could ease Max’s suffering. She directed the mana to cocoon the damaged lung, then to pull away and to mend the shattered main arteries and start on the holes in the ork’s chest and back. She shivered—those Plantech men had been shooting at her, too, and
she could have easily shared Max’s fate. Then both of them would be dying, as Khase and Hood hadn’t the skills to save them.

  Khase? She thought he was wounded, too, saw blood running down his arm. Should’ve tended to him first. Family, after all. Max will probably die anyway. One fewer share to worry about from that pile of nonexistent nuyen. Should have worried about my brother first.

  “Our debt. Too much debt.”

  That debt wouldn’t be paid off today, that was for certain. If the man they owed the nuyen caught up to them, she and Khase would be as bad off as Max. Or worse.

  The ball of mana grew hotter under her direction and became a magical soldering iron that closed first the hole in the ork’s chest, then the one in the back. It returned to the lungs, cauterizing the twin spots from the bullet, then went on to repair muscles and tissue threaded with wires, moved past something that might have been some kind of internal generator and headed toward the ork’s large heart. The mana cooled now and became soothing, and Sindje’s humming grew louder and less dissonant. She urged the ork’s heart to beat stronger and to pump the blood faster again. At the same time she worked to further cut the pain, taking some of it into herself and feeling a white-hot burning sensation in her chest. She gasped and redoubled her efforts, not having felt this kind of pain in a long time.

  “Oh, for some little white pills right now. That’d set Max and me up.”

  The light from the orange ball faded, diffusing through the ork’s wire-ridden body. Sindje was too weak to keep the magic together anymore. She’d spent her last measure of strength, and she collapsed across the hacker.

  24

  4:59:59 p.m.

  Roland’s eyes fluttered open when he heard the first sound of faint sirens, an alarm clock he couldn’t find the shut-off switch for. His mouth tasted of smoke and plastic, and somewhere during the fight he had lost his helmet. He tried to find his subgun while rising to his feet, but his legs refused to obey the insistent commands from his brain. Clawing for his pistol, he drew the Browning Max-Power and cocked it. It was only then that he noticed the sticky threads attached to his arm as he managed to get to his knees.