Shadowrun 45 - Aftershock

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

  “So if we don’t get them back and consummate the deal, Shiawase will either absorb us, or we’ll go belly-up and the sharks will start biting off chunks.” Roland looked down to see the dwarf gritting his teeth, his fists clenched at his side. “Hey, you all right?”

  Jhones poked him in the stomach with a thick finger, his face flushed with anger. “Oy, Roland, you’re killing me here. Why didn’t you tell me this in the first place? You know I would have made it a top priority.”

  “Whoa, I’m sorry, omae, I didn’t think it was that big a deal, at least not for you. Besides, we were—and still are— worried about the brass at Lone Star or UCAS getting wind about rogue biotech loose on the street. You know they’re a lot more paranoid about this stuff nowadays. I was trying to minimize your involvement.”

  “But still hoping I might find a tip to help you out, eh, boychik? Well, now I don’t know if we can keep this off the official report. The best thing to do will be to find these runners and locate the plants ASAP, then we get them back to you and write up the report as a fait accompli after the fact. All right, all right, let me think a bit. I’ll go calm down Mr. Excitable over there, and you guys head back home while I call in a Crime Scene team to police the Bison. Do me a favor—make sure none of your boys left any trace of themselves in there, willya? Meanwhile, let me poke around and see what I can uncover. This whole thing is smelling fishier than Elliot Bay in July, you know?” “Don’t worry, we were just about to move on the vehicle when you arrived. We’ll get out of your hair, but call me the instant you’ve got something, okay?”

  “Okay, keep a channel clear. As soon as I have something solid, you’ll know it. Now get out of here already.” Roland and Jhones separated, and the sec chief walked back to his crew. “All right boys—and Doctor—we’re done here. The Bison is in Lone Star’s custody now.”

  “We’re not just going back to the corp, are we, boss?” K-Tog asked.

  “Yeah, for now that’s exactly what we’re doing. We’ve bent and broken enough laws for one day, and I’ve pushed our luck as far as possible. I will not risk getting any of you in any more trouble today. My friend over there is going to see what he can find out, and he’ll be in touch. You guys have all done a great job, and if anyone wants to clock out now, you can head out with my blessing.” Everyone looked at each other, but no one said a word. Morgan piped up on one side. “If it’s all the same to you, boss, we’d rather know how this turns out instead of sitting at home waiting for a call.”

  Despite his weariness and frustration, Roland felt a swell of pride at their determination to see this entire mess through. “All right, then, let’s head back to the corp.”

  He turned to the shaman, who was conversing with Lilith off to one side, and bowed deeply. “Hiyakawa-san, I thank you again for your invaluable assistance in this matter.” The shaman returned Roland’s bow with one of his own. “Your courtesy is appreciated, Ators-san, however, we still have not accomplished your objectives.”

  “Nevertheless, that is out of our hands at the moment. I would be happy to take you wherever you wish to be dropped off, and the rest of your agreed-upon payment will be forwarded to your account immediately.”

  Hiyakawa and Lilith exchanged glances, and the shaman

  bowed again. As he did so, Roland noticed that the Plantech biogenetist was also clean as a whistle, her gray coat spotless, and her hair looking freshly-brushed. His eyebrows rose, but he didn’t say a word.

  “Domo arigato, Ators-san. However, I think I will also accompany you back to your headquarters. I agree with your lieutenant in that I would like to see how this turns out. Besides, Chalmers-san and I have been having a most interesting conversation about flora and mana combinations, and I would hate to cut it short.”

  Roland rubbed his cheek and regarded the short woman for a moment, who was busy watching the men filing into the Typhoons. Am I hallucinating, or is she blushing? “Very well, please come with me.”

  Roland walked to the RV and glanced over at the Lone Star patrol car as he stepped up into the front passenger seat. The dwarf and his partner appeared to be deep in conversation. Jhones, I hope you can pull something out of your hat this time, otherwise I might be applying for a job with your corp soon.

  Jhones trudged back to the Honda and got in the passenger seat, feeling Simon’s burning gaze on him the entire way. The human got in the driver’s side, but didn’t start the car.

  “All right, sergeant, what the frag is going on here? It’s obvious you know the head of security at Plantech, one Roland Ators. Now, faced with blatant evidence of a crime in progress, as well as our own eyewitness account from other Lone Star officers about Plantech vehicles being involved in a high speed chase earlier this evening, it seems we’re not going to arrest them. We’re letting them go on their merry way.”

  Jhones watched the Typhoons pull away from the Bison and head off. Simon sounded like he was chewing on a mouthful of red-hot nails, he was so angry. “What kind of drek does this guy have on you, Jhones?”

  The dwarf looked at Simon, his eyes wide. “What kind of—you think Roland’s been blackmailing me?”

  “What other conclusion am I supposed to draw? You meet him this morning at the diner, and immediately afterward you start sniffing around the Plantech break-in, which the corp itself said wasn’t an issue. Now why would you do that? Only if someone asked you to.”

  Simon stared out the windshield at the now deserted Bison. “Look, I haven’t known you long, but the one thing I do know is that you’re a damn good cop. Now tell me what’s going on, and let me help you, or so help me I’ll haul you in right now and throw you to the chief.”

  “You—a still-wet-behind-the-ears rookie—are going to help me?” Jhones asked.

  “Hey, I was the one who got us here, wasn’t I?” Simon waved at the silent RV.

  “Yeah, yeah, maybe I haven’t been giving you enough credit lately. Okay, the first thing you need to know is that Roland isn’t blackmailing me—we’ve been friends for the past twenty years. He did ask for my help with this incident. It seems that these runners got away with a bit more than the corp is willing to admit publicly. In fact, the corp’s entire bottom line—its soul—is riding on getting these plants back.”

  “Okay, that may be, but your interest in this is way more personal than helping out an old friend. My guess is that it has something to do with that call you got after our meeting in the diner this morning.”

  Jhones looked up at the human, surprise again flitting across his features. “Nu, you bucking for my job already, boychik?” He took a deep breath while he gathered his thoughts, trying to decide whether or not to tell the kid. With a deep sigh, he realized that all of this had been weighing on him like a lead suit ever since the Johnson’s call that morning. “All right, here goes. . .

  He told Simon everything: the gambling, the marker, and what he was supposed to do about it. “But when Roland told me exactly what was riding on this, I saw red. I may have my own problems, but it burns me up that some corp suit wants to use me to burn my best friend, destroy his company, and advance their fraggin’ career while they enjoy the sushi sampler platter at Oghi Ya’s tonight without a care in the world for the lives they’ve just destroyed. That 1 cannot stand. So, there it is, chavcr, any ideas?”

  Simon let out a gusty sigh of relief. “Well, first of all, I’m very glad you haven’t actually broken any laws. As for this problem you have, the best advice I can give you is to do what you know is the right thing—recover the plants and get them back to Roland’s corp. Maybe sign up for Gamblers Anonymous or something.”

  “But what about my marker, and the suit?”

  “Like I said, Jhones, I know you’re a good cop. This gambling bug is the only monkey on your back that I know of, but it’s a huge one. The best way for you to get it off once and for all is to make sure you can never bet again.” Simon leaned back in his seat, letting the dwarf figure out the rest.

  “
Are you saying welsh on the marker on purpose? But no one would ever take a bet from me on the street . . .” Jhones trailed off as the implications of the solution sank in.

  “Why view that as a negative thing? Instead, turn it around, use that to your advantage. It’s the only way you’re going to be truly free of this thing, and I think you know that. Lone Star needs every good officer it can get, and I don’t want to see your career terminated before its time.” “Oy, I’m not sure if I’m sitting here with my partner, the police shrink, my rabbi or a combination of all three.” Jhones stared out the window for a moment, gathering his thoughts. At last, he nodded. “All right, let’s do this. Besides, if I let Roland down, every bet I ever made from now on would be like I was stabbing him in the back all over again.”

  “Good point.” Simon started the Honda and pulled away from the curb. “So, where do we begin?”

  “Well, we’ve got a ton of vid and stuff on the Bison and the team inside. I would suggest that we review that and try to get a fix on them—hold on, I’m getting a call on my private line. Go.”

  Jhones’ eyes widened as he heard the voice in his head. “Yes, this is Officer Redrock. He looked over at Simon and mouthed It’s the guy that has my marker. “How can I help you?”

  32

  7:19:51 p.m.

  The elf in the black leather pants and jacket was singing about a wiz convertible that glowed an electric cherry red. He had a good voice, clear and deep, and it was coming at the sparse audience from all directions. The voice had elven nuances, but Khase wondered if it was really the performer’s or if it had been augmented or entirely replaced. Perhaps it wasn’t really a living man’s voice at all. So much of the entertainment industry was digital smoke and mirrors, they could create practically anything they wanted, and often did.

  “Ah, Khase-san, that is the actor.” Pan looked out the window in the projection room, too, and spoke as if he could read the elf’s mind. “I heard him on stage some years back, and we have other musicals in our library that feature him. Some things in this world are still real, and we prefer to show pictures that are for the most part . . .” The old man paused, scratched his head and searched for the right word. “Authentic. The old movies, even the remastered tridee ones, remain as true to the original as possible.”

  We, Khase mouthed. And just who is “we?” He had a sneaking suspicion that this wizened human had been around movies for so long, he might have lost a bit of his grip on reality.

  Pan continued to talk, Khase having missed some of it. “. . . like William Shakespeare’s Hamlet and The Dirty Dozen. Kenneth Branagh and Aristotle Savalas, now' they could act. I study the notes on each film before I order it. Nothing that was produced in the past decade . . . unless it is a remake of an old, old film.”

  “So why not just show the original? Not remastered. Not redone.” Khase watched the singing elf seem to come out of the screen, dancing over the heads of the people in the first few rows. After the chorus, he leapt back to the hood of the car on the screen.

  “Sometimes we do. Often, in fact.”

  “Flat movies? Flat actors? No special effects? No orbital sound?”

  The old man smiled. “The Everett tries to cater to the ‘Bs and Cs’ as we call them. We fill a niche.”

  Again and again the “we.” Khase pursed his lips and raised both eyebrows. That question was an itch that needed scratching, and the elf knew if he just let the old man talk, it would be.

  Pan was quick to answer one of his unspoken questions. “Bs and Cs. For the film buffs and connoisseurs. There are a good number of people in this city, and down in Portland, who want to see unaltered films and will pay good nuyen for that privilege—especially to see them in such a fine theater as this. We don’t have the actual celluloid, but we’ve recorded chips that are almost as good as the original. We even have more than a few silent films. Wings is my favorite, about two pilots from World War I. We are only one of three theaters in the northern hemisphere to possess that movie . .. and the Smithsonian, of course. We show a double-feature of Wings and Dawn Patrol with Errol Flynn every year at the first of December. The latter is a ‘talkie,’ but it is black and white.” Khase was watching the elf on the screen again. He’d been joined by two humans and a dwarf—all of them in black leather jackets, and they were all still singing about the ridiculous car. The dwarf floated above the center of the auditorium, waving an oversized spark plug in his hand. One of the humans pulled him back to the screen. “No sound in a movie? I find that hard to comprehend. It would be . . . boring. Utterly boring. I couldn’t sit through it. I do not mean insult to you or your theater, but I would have far better things to do.”

  Pan sadly shook his head. “These films are a part of our history.”

  “Not a part of mine.” Khase watched the singing elf leap into the car, his three fellows cramming themselves into the backseat. The elf ended the musical number and revved the engine, as the car zoomed across the audience and disappeared in sparkling motes of gray-white lights.

  The image on the screen shifted to a bedroom decorated in pink ribbons and lace. The female elf lead was the target of a pillow fight. Another song started, this one syrupy and with nonsensical lyrics.

  Khase stepped back, losing interest. “It appears that not many in this neighborhood enjoy this sort of entertainment, either. There are more empty seats than full ones.”

  “It is a slow night,” Pan admitted. “We’ve shown this picture too often, I think, in the past few years. But we will have quite the crowd tomorrow night for our Rodgers and Hammerstein revival.”

  Khase didn’t pretend to know whom he was talking about. “I like movies well enough, Pan-san, but I have little time to see them. My sister now, she likes the ones with lots of pyrotechnics and exceptional effects. She likes action movies that speed by so quickly you feel like time has melted and you have been cheated of the ticket price.” “And what kind of films do you like, Khase-san?”

  The elf regarded the old man for a moment. “Yojimbo. The Seven Samurai. Ran. Kagemusha. Even that old pulp show Throne of Blood. Stories where people actually made a difference in the world.”

  “Ah, you should be here next March, when we run our annual Kurosawa film festival. Then you find the theater packed with attendees. Twenty-four hours of the master’s films. You come back, I get you in.”

  Pan’s eyes twinkled. “The old movies, they have action, too. But you feel the action better because the actors ran under their own power, and they sweated under the lights of the cameras. The old movies, they are art, and they are more intense than the ones of today that merely overload your senses.”

  Khase shrugged, not feeling the need to continue the discussion. When it came down to it, movies, whether old or new, flatfilm or tridee, were just that—movies. Something to escape reality for a little while. Reality is much different—stark, dark and painful, he thought as his injured arm twinged again. He wanted Hood to hurry up with whatever he was doing upstairs with the plants. He wanted to be out of here and back with Sindje and Max. He stared at a shelf full of chips. There was a musty smell, and Khase realized it was coming from the wall behind the shelf. There was a mildewed strip that ran from floor to ceiling.

  “Old building.”

  “Very,” Pan said. “We are quite proud of it.”

  “We? You and your wife.”

  “Yes.”

  “And your sister, too, of course.”

  “Yes, of course. My sister loves this theater.”

  Khase pretended to study the chips on the shelf directly in front of him. “And Hood. I’ll bet Hood is proud of this place, too.” He turned to see Pan nod.

  “Hood-san is most proud of this building.”

  “And loves the flat movies, neh?”

  “It took a while for him to appreciate them. But now he prefers them to new releases.”

  “The Robin Hood movies . .

  “Are his favorites.”

  “Of course the
y are.”

  Pan moved to the end of the shelf and picked up a large chip made for an old computer-projector. “This film is of the saving of the Everett, a documentary We had made when the theater was purchased and the renovations started.”

  “And that would have been when?”

  The old man’s face was relaxed and his pupils wide. It was clear he enjoyed talking about the building. “Well more than a hundred and fifty years ago the Everett was a theater for stage plays and vaudeville and sometimes children’s magic shows. It was converted into a movie house when live performances became too expensive and were not so popular anymore. It started showing silent films. There were relatively few Asians in the neighborhood back then.” He carefully placed the chip back in the rack. “I could show you the documentary. We have a small screening room upstairs.”

  “I’d rather hear all about it from you.”

  This seemed to please Pan even more. “The theater was closed in the mid-2010s, and reopened years later when a local industrialist thought it might help revive the neighborhood. But it didn’t last long. The theater closed again, and the influx of Koreans brought in new businesses, including a new tridee theater two blocks west. The Everett opened again twice more, with varying degrees of success. But it could not compete with the new and bigger theaters.” “Until Hood bought it.” Khase took the shot, figuring he had to be close. “And until he decided not to compete but to create his own . . . niche.”

  “Yes! Eight years ago Hood-san bought the theater and began making repairs. I had managed the Everett the last time it was opened. I was young, then. But when I saw the work crews, I came to watch and admire. And I met Hood-san.”

  “And Hood hired you.”

  “That very day.” Pan’s smile reached his eyes. “He wanted to learn about how this place was supposed to look and what it used to show. And so I taught him about all the old, wonderful movies.”

  “And about Robin Hood.”