Shadowrun: Shaken: No Job Too Small

by Russell Zimmerman

  “Nice work, Jimmy.” It clapped me on the shoulder like Enzo had, the same hollow gesture, the same faked respect.

  “But you know I won’t just give you a high-five and a ride to the Citadel. You know you’ve got to work to get there. Where do you want me to send you next, buddy? Hmm? The Place of Battle, so we can see how you do in a fight without your precious little Ariana? The Place of Knowledge, so every plane of existence can see how stupid you are without a head full of computers to use as a crutch? Oh, I know, maybe the Place of Magic. Ha! Imagine that, Jimmy, you pathetic cripple. You want me to see if you can pass a magical test? See if you can do more than match wits with some half-stupid teenager from the Order of Merlyn?”

  “Go fuck yourself.”

  The Dweller smiled.

  “The Place of Charisma it is!” It laughed out loud. “Good luck solving a situation through negotiation with that attitude, Jimmy.”

  It blew smoke in my face, and I couldn’t help but blink against the sting; my astral eyes, my magical form, didn’t have cyberoptic covers.

  I knew I’d be elsewhere when the smoke cleared.

  CHAPTER 22

  I had been here before. Not here-here, the Place of Charisma, no, but in the room it had created around me, in the situation it had wrapped me in, in the social briar patch it had wished up for me.

  “Let the accused rise and come forward,” an old man in an old suit said, surrounded by other old men—and a single token woman—all in old suits. Here, in the Place of Charisma, I couldn’t quite see their faces. There, in that room all those years ago, I hadn’t quite been able to, either. They were all backlit, the glare carefully angled to make them all more imposing.

  Like they’d needed the help. The tribunal was intimidating enough without cheap tricks with the lights. They held my career in their hands, and they knew it.

  I stepped forward, chin up, chest out, shoulders back, meticulously shaved, shoes shined, creases sharp, decked out head to toe in my Lone Star dress uniform. It had been about fifteen years ago. Elves being elves, I didn’t look much older now, but these days I sure looked…less young.

  “What do you have to say for yourself, son?”

  A bit of Confederation of American States twang came out with the paternalism. I ignored it, and the fact he called me son. The room was hot. Sweltering. None of them seemed to notice it—CAS natives, one and all—but this Puyallup boy was sweating like an ork at a Humanis rally. A lazy fan ran lazy circles overhead, but there was only so much you could do in Georgia, wearing Lone Star dress blues, to stay comfortable.

  “Sir, I think this whole affair, these accusations, this investigation, has been a waste of corporate resources.”

  I used to say ‘sir’ a lot more than I do now.

  “Sergeant Rucker and I should be the ones leveling accusations, sir, not defending ourselves from them.”

  Rucker—Yesica Rucker, who I called Jessica and the rest of the world called Hard Exit—had done pretty well for herself in the years since this case, by the way. Better’n old Jimmy Kincaid, that’s for sure.

  There was muttering and grumbling from the high table, I saw a few silhouettes shake their heads.

  “It’s not the business of the accused to question the proceedings in toto, Lieutenant Kincaid. It’s the business of the accused to tell their side of the story.”

  Oh well. Might as well get this over with. The room was hot—hotter than anyplace home, in Puyallup or anywhere else in Seattle.

  “Sir, what happened during this cross-training exercise was a shame. I understand that as an officer in the Department of Military Liaison, I’m here to incorporate and synergize with military forces. I’m grateful to the good men and women of Fort Benning for opening their installation to us, and for the opportunity for Lone Star to coordinate and train with the men and women of the CAS armed forces.”

  It had been a clusterfuck of paperwork, I can tell you that. Newly-arrived Lieutenant Kincaid, recently transferred out of the Department of Paranormal Affairs (one set of paperwork) due to his hospitalization and loss of magical power (two more sets of forms) was then immediately sent out of the Seattle metroplex (one more) and into the Confederation of American States (immigration paperwork on top of the mission profile documentation), more specifically to a secure military installation (you guessed it) in order to perform cross-training exercises and advanced certification courses with CAS Marine Corps and CAS Army military police (with progress reports every day of training, as they worked to make us more military, and we worked to make them more police).

  Oh, and all those reports? Those were just the routine parts, filed before the shit hit the fan.

  “Let us ease up on the brown-nosing just a bit, young man, and focus on the events in question.”

  I couldn’t even tell which fat old bastard had shut me up, they were all just shadows and jowls up there.

  “Yes sir. Sorry, sir.”

  I told you I’d said ‘sir’ a lot back then.

  “Because Lieutenant Boyer had so recently backed out of the trip, and due to my own very recent transfer away from the D.P.I. and into Military Liaison—” all of which was the polite way of me saying ‘since you bastards set me up to fail,’ of course, “—I felt it was best to let Sergeant Rucker take point during most of training. She was the ranking NCO in both the CAS Marine and CAS Army units, and had experience both in the field and as a drill serge—”

  “We are quite familiar with Ms. Rucker, thank you,” one of the shadowy Lone Star suits said, this one with an undeniable Texas twang. “And reports from others on-site have already made it clear to us the level of your…fraternization.”

  “Sir, it was nothing like—”

  “Just continue with the sordid tale of woe, Lieutenant Kincaid. On to the night in question?”

  “Sir. We were deep in the training by then. Routine fitness competitions between Lone Star, Marine, and Army trainees, constant shooting competitions and tac-training that was scored, and this heat? Everyone was on edge. We were getting sharper, no doubt. But we were also tired. Frustrated. Wearing one another down with the competitions, amping each other up with some of what I first took for good-natured ribbing. Tempers were running hot, sir.”

  “So, then, Lieutenant, you weren’t able to control your men?”

  Right, because a bunch of Marines and Army soldiers were totally wired up to take orders from a cop, much less a cop that—somehow, through the grapevine!—they’d heard had recently lost most of his magical power and gotten his whole tactical unit killed.

  “Yes, sir.”

  Another murmur, a few jowls twisting in what I thought were satisfied smiles.

  “But then, on the night in question, Lieutenant?”

  “Those hot tempers reached a boil, sir, yes. Sergeant Rucker and I had been running hand-to-hand combat exercises that day, and—”

  “Wrestling, Lieutenant?”

  Another dark chuckle. These pricks.

  “No, sir,” I felt my young face flush, knew I was blushing from the jab, but tried to swallow it down despite the high collar of my uniform. I played it straight.

  “Though some restraint techniques were a part of the training, of course, with the focus being on law enforcement, sir.”

  Truth was, I was lousy at the stuff compared to her and her pair of black belts. I was more of a boxer, myself. Dad’d pushed me into Golden Gloves pretty early, and there was a time I was one of the best in my age bracket in all of Seattle. Jess’d been the one with the joint locks and Aikido and such.

  “Do go on, Lieutenant,” I thought I heard a little disappointment that they hadn’t gotten a rise out of me. Good.

  “The problem wasn’t during the day, sir, it was that night. Some of our officers—their names are in the reports I’ve filed, sir, which I’m sure you’ve all read—were upset at Sergeant Rucker. She’d acquitted herself very well that day, particularly during the scored part of the exercise. Lone Star was lagging
behind a little, after Advanced Unarmed Techniques.”

  We’d trounced everyone, actually, we co-instructors. She’d gotten tapouts from everyone she’d gone up against, I’d gotten knock-downs on more of the Marines and soldiers than not.

  “So, your officers were losing the cross-training exercises, Lieutenant? You were leading them to last place?”

  There was no winning with these pricks. Some of them leaned to whisper together, some to write things down again.

  “Sir, the competition was very stiff, yes. We were there to train with them because they were good, that was the point.”

  “Yes, of course. Continue, Lieutenant.”

  “The problem came that night. The men were, all of them, tired. This experimental cross-training exercise had gone on longer than any prior to it, and everyone was exhausted. After the Advanced Unarmed challenges, they had bruises and bruised egos. Morale was low. Frustration was high. Some of the men tried to take it out on Sergeant Rucker.”

  “Some of your men?”

  “Some of both. Some of all three, I should say. Lone Star and CAS military, but there was just one Marine in there, two Army. Have you not all gotten access to my reports, I sent them out, I know, and—”

  “Don’t worry about your reports, son. You’re having your chance to tell your story right now.”

  “Sir, I understand that, but I…these were filed weeks ago. I was told they’d be read prior to the trial, I don’t see how—”

  “Son. Just continue the story, hmm?”

  “Sir. I…yes, sir. That night, those men attacked Sergeant Rucker. They’d shared around some balaclavas, mixed-up their PT outfits so all anyone saw was black and grey, no insignia, no logos, nothing distinctive. They had batons, and the six of them approached her while she was on her way back toward the bunks from the co-ed shower facility.”

  Someone wrote something down. Someone harrumphed softly.

  “And you just…happened to be there, Lieutenant?”

  “Sir?”

  “After her shower. You just happened to be with her?”

  “No, sir. It was in my report, I was in my officer’s quarters. My ally spirit was outside, she’s the one tha—”

  “The magical naked girl of yours?”

  Someone chuckled, someone wrote. My fists clenched, so I moved to stand at ease where they couldn’t see them.

  “Ariana has a female appearance, yes sir.”

  “So your magical naked girl was showering with Ms. Rucker?”

  “Sergeant Rucker took her showers alone, sir. This particular class of trainees didn’t have other women in it. My ally spirit was on general overwatch, and was drawn to the scene of the attack by the negative astral energies of their intentions.”

  “I see.”

  I bet he didn’t.

  “And then these men approached Ms. Rucker, you say, and your magical naked girl came and got you, and is that when you assaulted them?”

  “They didn’t approach Sergeant Rucker, they rushed her with stun batons, and I didn’t assault them, I ordered them to stop, and she’s not a ‘magical naked girl,’ she is a spirit that happens to take the—”

  “You ‘ordered them’ to the tune of four concussions, seventeen fractures, three of them compound, lacerations requiring a grand total of one hundred and seventy-four stitches, one man passed out from a chokehold, and overall medical costs, lost field time, and liability costs of over a dozen times your annual wage, Lieutenant.”

  “When I ordered them to stop—” My chin lifted just a little, my voice went lower, just a little defiant. “—they didn’t.”

  Truth was, Jess’d had one out cold and another kicking at her ’cause his arm was broken before I even got there. Ariana’d done most of the heavy work, which was why the damage was so high. I’d tried to clobber the lot of ’em with a Stunball spell, a sort of hand-grenade of exhaustion and bruises. The spell just hadn’t worked, though. Nimbus and the damage she’d done had been too recent, my loss of power had been too raw. In the end, the girls’d done most of the ass-kicking. I’d just tackled the last one, the runner, and beaten him stupid with the hilt-end of his own stun-baton.

  In my report, though, and Jessica’s report, and in the formal complaints filed by every stupid son of a bitch there, it had been all me. I did it to cover for Jess. Jess did it because I ordered her to. None of the other six would admit to getting their ass kicked by a woman and a ‘magical naked girl,’ so young Jimmy Kincaid got the credit for hospitalizing a half-dozen cops, soldiers, and Marines, all by his lonesome, without taking a scratch.

  “This tribunal will now convene for final deliberations before returning with our findings,” one of the jowly old men banged a gavel. None of the old men in old suits stood up, and neither did the pinch-faced old woman up there, Lone Star’s reluctant nod to social progress. One of them—the one who’d been writing half the time?—just nodded, and then so did the rest of them, after barely even exchanging glances.

  “The deliberations are finished,” the one with the deepest CAS drawl warbled out, maybe five seconds after deliberation began.

  “The accused, one Lieutenant James Mitchell Kincaid, stands before an impartial tribunal in order to deal with the complaints levied against him by the men under his command, and the good men and women of the Marine Corps and Army of the Confederation of American States.”

  What women?

  “Let the record show that Lieutenant Kincaid’s personnel profile is to receive one official reprimand for a generally catastrophic failure to oversee a constructive and productive cross-training exercise, at tremendous corporate expense to Lone Star, and great taxpayer expense to the good people of the Confederation of American States.”

  Oh. One reprimand? I could take that. My jacket was clean, my files were spotless, my record was pristine. Even the Nimbus clusterfuck hadn’t been pinned on me. Maybe they weren’t going to—

  “And let the Lieutenant’s file also be updated as he receives one official reprimand for being the ranking officer that allowed discipline to so grievously and unfortunately grow lax to the extent that it did. For failing to maintain control of his men from within Lone Star, and the men entrusted to him by the people of the Confederation of American States, surely some punishment is appropriate.”

  What?

  “And let Lieutenant Kincaid’s record also show the addition of one official reprimand for inappropriate fraternization while on the job, being derelict in his duty while lasciviously making unwed relations with one Yesica Rucker, whose Lone Star citizenship record will also be updated and annotated accordingly in case the prodigal daughter should ever return to the corporate fold.”

  “Sir, that didn’t—”

  “And let Lieutenant Kincaid’s record also show the addition of one official reprimand for bringing great shame to Lone Star Security Services in failing to remain a part of the culture of corporate excellence we do deeply strive to maintain here, as the officers of his unit performed shamefully in comparison to their peers, no doubt due to the…carnal distractions…of their officer leading to poorly-run exercises.”

  No. No, no, no. This couldn’t be happening.

  “And finally, let the good Lieutenant’s record show an official reprimand for the cruel and wanton violence and abuse carried out against the helpless men of his command, and—once again—those fine fighting troops placed under his care by the good people of the Confederation of American States.”

  Five. That was five. Five infractions meant termination, loss of citizenship perks, loss of all benefits, loss of…everything.

  “It is with deep regret and tremendous shame we look upon you, Mister Kincaid, a bully, a tyrant, and a rake, so enamored of some floozy that you lost control of your temper and assaulted—beat near to death!—a half-dozen good men. It is only out of respect for your father’s years of meritorious service to this company, and out of the deep and abiding regret held by Lone Star Security Services, Incorporated, over y
our recent hospitalization, that we have refused to press charges in this instance. You will see no prison time for your brutality, Mr. Kincaid, but in exchange for that, we will no longer suffer seeing you behind our badge.”

  Bailiffs moved on my flanks. A gavel rang. One of the jowly old bastards flashed a yellow-toothed smile at me.

  “Someone remove that civilian from this courtroom, if you please, and, in fact, escort him from the building. Let Mr. Kincaid find his own flight home, as quickly as he can, as the Confederation of American States has grown weary of his continued presence here.”

  Shadows moved around me, one of them taking my elbow unnecessarily, one of them just looming into my field of vision. A fat, old man waved in my direction with his gavel and the grip on my elbow tightened.

  “And someone take that son of a bitch’s badge off him before he leaves.”

  I heard fabric tear, felt a little tug at my chest, and saw those harsh lights gleam off my future at Lone Star—my whole life—as one of the faceless bailiffs tore my shield from me.

  That was how the story ended, in the real world. I’d just gone. Just let them drag me out by the arm, let one of them tear my uniform, ripping my badge off, let one of them give me a contemptuous little shove at the door, like he’d been fighting the urge to give me a kick in the ass, too. Weak in the knees, weak in the heart, half in shock, I’d just let it happen.

  But this wasn’t that place. This wasn’t that time. I was in the Place of Charisma, now. I wasn’t in a sweltering Georgia building, I was inside my own head, or way outside it, or somewhere in between. I’d followed the script until that moment—until that very moment—because I knew the rules to this game.

  “I win,” I said, glaring up against the lights, ignoring the bailiffs in my way, trying to give every fat bastard up there a triumphant grin, all at once.

  “Mr. Kincaid?”

  “I won. Just now. This is me winning.” I went to wiggle my arm a little, and couldn’t. The bailiff tightened his grip, the other one shifted his posture, like he was worried I was about to escape. I lifted my free arm—the bailiffs tensed—and just used it to point to the vise-like grip one of them had on my elbow, then to the tear in my uniform.