From the Street (shadowrun stories)

by Anthology

  The ork burst out laughing into the intercom. "Not unless he Awakened in the past couple of hours. As long as we find him before sunrise, this sky spirit will keep anyone from finding us."

  By now I knew well enough to take magicians for their word, but I still couldn't help having doubts. After we had taken off Phil called up a nature spirit to mask our presence. Ever since then we'd been flying through cloud coverage that hadn't been around at all earlier this evening. We even flew over a ground patrol once by accident, and they didn't even blink.

  I pulled out of full immersion back into minimal simsense. Although the same darkened cabin surrounded my view, it was eerily silent. I partially unbuckled my helmet, and all I could hear was the wind whistling around us as we passed.

  As I buckled up the flight helmet again, I called up the navigational map, which materialized in my simsense-enhanced view as a separate window. The view outside was dimmer, because we were flying on passive sensors, to better improve our odds of sneaking up unnoticed.

  As we got within a few kilometers, I eased back on the throttle and let out the flaps. I didn't so much plan on landing, but more like coasting to a rest. The stall warning came on as we approached the last hill, bleeping that speed was dangerously low. I bent back slightly, and the t-bird's nose rose slightly. We touched ground on a grassy slope and began rolling uphill. As gravity sapped away the last bit of momentum, I swerved the t-bird to one side, to bring it perpendicular to the incline. The t-bird finally came to rest on the reverse slope, just below the crest of the hilltop.

  I unjacked quickly and squirreled up and out the hatchway. Pulling myself out of the hatch, I ripped off my flight helmet and quietly slid down the hull's forward slope, landing softly on the ground. As the ork jumped down, I withdrew my Predator. Phil held up his hand for me to wait, closed his eyes, and softly chanted under his breath. Although I saw nothing, I felt the hair on the back of my neck stand up and sensed a presence around us. Next thing I knew, I found myself behind a large bush that I didn't remember being there before. The ork nodded and hefted his shotgun, indicating me to proceed.

  Phil and I bounded over the top of the hill and descended down into the valley. On the other side was a simple wood cabin next to a dirt trail, possibly an old ranger station abandoned from disuse. Although I couldn't spot Johnny's t-bird, I could see lights on inside the cabin. We quietly made our way down over to one side of the cabin. Thanks to whatever mojo Phil conjured up, we always seemed to find ourselves behind cover, even when we crossed the trail, and the ground was unusually free from noisemaking debris. Circling around the cabin corner, I made my way over to one of the windows and peered inside.

  * * *

  Clio was impatiently pacing back and forth across the cabin floor. She was showing far more emotion than I'd ever seen before. "How much longer do we have to wait here?"

  Johnny's back was to the windows, but his slumped shoulders pretty much indicated his mood. "Not for a couple more hours, at least. There's too much activity for us to be going anywhere right now."

  Clio pounded her fist on the table in frustration. "That's too long! We need to get to San Francisco by dawn."

  Johnny turned his head to look at Clio. My God, he was a wreck. "Then we shouldn't have betrayed Phil like that. If we had him on overwatch we'd be there by now."

  Clio turned to face Johnny. "Get a grip on yourself. I know Phil was your longtime partner, but my people will find a better replacement. We'll help you out, but you must uphold your end of the bargain."

  Clio plopped into a chair in the corner. "At least we got rid of that slitch Cruise. She was starting to figure out too much. Maybe I miscalculated, and she was the mole all along."

  "Just because you're paranoid, Clio, it doesn't ALWAYS mean someone's out to get you." As I stepped into the cabin, I smiled sweetly at Clio while keeping my Predator leveled on her. "For the record, I'm nobody's gal but my own. I don't mind hitching along, but I don't like being taken for a ride."

  If looks could kill, Clio's face would be an atom bomb. Phil stepped into the cabin to back me up. "Just tell me one thing, Johnny: Why? Why did you sell out?"

  Johnny didn't look his partner in the eye. "Time. Let's be honest Phil, I'm not the same t-bird jammer I used to be twelve years ago, and the Northwest's changed over the past few years. So when Clio told me she had contacts in the Karatsa-gumi who could help out, the answer seemed obvious."

  My brow crinkled as I tried to figure out the name. "What do a bunch of San Fran yaks have to do with our little smuggling run to Denver?"

  "I would suspect they are interested in the product you brought from Seattle, Ms. Cruise," said a voice from behind me. Standing in the doorway was another ork, taller than Phil and adorned in native garb garnished with white feathers.

  With Phil and I momentarily distracted by our surprise visitor, Clio attempted to draw her pistol and make a break for it. However, as she struggled with her pistol, an Indian dancer suddenly appeared in the cabin and tackled her to the ground. As he raised a tomahawk to put her down, the ork glanced sharply, sending a sharp look of silent yet stern objection. The spirit paused, bowed, and disappeared in a cloud of smoke.

  Between his garb and this display of power, it was obvious who our new visitor was. "You're a long way from Denver, aren't you, Mr. Whitebird?"

  Nicholas Whitebird, translator for the Great Dragon Ghostwalker, simply nodded acknowledgement. "When Gonzales didn't report in at Smuggler's Valley, my master became concerned. So when your associate started summoning spirits to conceal your aircraft, we took notice. Transport was arranged to bring me here."

  That meant the Denver Zonies weren't too far away. Terrific.

  The ork stood over Clio. "As for you, I have a message for you to deliver. Ghostwalker has no interest in the personal feud between your master and Lung, but he does not appreciate your attempts to steal Lung's gift from T'ai Shan. If you choose to persist in this foolishness, then the consequences will be severe."

  Clio said nothing but tried to meet his gaze in an attempt at defiance. However, after three seconds she dropped her head and shuffled quietly out the door into the night.

  After Clio had left with her tail between her legs, Whitebird turned to us and presented several credsticks. "My associates will take charge of your cargo from here. Consider your services rendered complete. There is also an added bonus for maintaining confidentiality in this matter."

  In other words, keep our mouths shut. As Phil and Johnny took their share, Whitebird spoke to them. "While your best days may be behind you, you still have much to contribute, Johnny. My master would be willing to provide you the assistance that Clio's masters would, if you would be watchful of what's abreast in the smuggling community."

  Johnny shook his head. "Thank you, but no. After tonight I think it's high time to quit the field and retire."

  Whitebird nodded in empathy. "It is wise to understand one's own limitations."

  "Well, I'll bite," said Phil. "I'm not ready to quit yet."

  "I know some associates in the Denver shadows who may be willing to talk to you," said Whitebird. "What about you, Ms. Cruise?"

  I shook my head. "Thanks, but no thanks. I'm strictly freelance, and I prefer staying in Seattle. Besides, I've got too much personal baggage to deal with."

  "We're already aware of your 'personal baggage,'" said Whitebird. I'm not sure if I liked that or not. "Nevertheless, we respect your wishes, so long as you respect ours. I can, however, offer you transportation back to Seattle, if you wish."

  "Do you think it can wait until the morning?" I asked as I stifled a yawn. "It's been a long night, and I could use some shut-eye."

  TEQUILA BLUES

  Jong-Won Kim

  Q: Why did the Azzie chase his wife?

  A: He wanted tequila.*

  – Texan joke

  "I should have been a dentist."

  Dr. Kristine Martin finished her fourth tequila, enjoying the burning sensation as i
t went down her throat and up to her brain. This was the high point of her daily routine – the rest was what fueled her new drinking habit. For the sixth or seventh time in less than one hour, she wondered how had it all ended up like this.

  She should have seen it coming years ago. The constant obsession for profits, the need to stay one step ahead of the competition and the pressure to remain on top of her fellow teammates… She had done her share of questionable experiments – who didn't in this day and age? Dr. Martin had always silenced her concerns about her crumbling ethics by telling herself it was all in the name of progress.

  I'm an idiot. Another shot of tequila found its way to her stomach.

  This drek is so bad that it's going to kill me one of these days, she thought. Hell, why not? I didn't have the guts to pull the trigger when I had a chance. Now he could hurt her daughter. Their daughter.

  "Why did I ever love such a monster?" she whispered to herself.

  "Bad day at home?" The English words had a notorious Aztlaner accent.

  Dr. Martin looked at the cantina's bartender as he prepared her another shot. Manuel was tanned and chubby, with an amicable smile that invited customers to relax and open up. He probably worked for Aztechnology or Universal Omnitech, just like everyone else in this Central American village.

  "You could say so. I have a… rather dysfunctional marriage."

  Manuel pointed at the five empty glasses. "That bad?"

  "Si… My husband is an abusive bastard who doesn't want to let me go."

  "You can always divorce him."

  I'd wish. "The problem is that he's a very important man – a dangerous man. He has more than enough influence to make sure it will never happen… and he made it very clear once. So here we are, a happy little couple working side by side."

  "Ah, you work at the hill?"

  "My husband owns the hill." I bet you didn't see that one coming, Manuel. I'm the Queen of the fraggin' hill and I'm even more of a slave than the lowest corporate employee.

  He looked pensive for a few seconds. "Impressive… If I may ask, why are you here? This isn't a bad place, but most of the people up there wouldn't come here for all the pesos in the world."

  "I think you just answered yourself."

  "If things are so bad, why does he let you come here? Isn't he afraid you could run away?"

  "I tried that not so long ago. He took it as an insult and had me hunted like an animal. His men brought me back so that he could break me down, which he did. I'm in Hell and he makes sure that I know he rules it. Even these moments here are just a reminder of what I lost. Friends, prestige, power, family."

  "Family? You have kids?"

  "A daughter in Tenochtitlan. I'm sure they're feeding her bulldrek about me, molding her into another loyal pawn. When they're done with her, and believe me, they will, she'll worship him just like every other corporate drone here. That is his revenge: He knows I love her so much that I won't do anything as long as he has her secured." And Chavez won't hesitate to kill Gabrielle if ordered to do so… even if he always was Uncle Diego to her as a child. Frag, I hope I'm a nun in my next life.

  "I don't think I've ever met your husband, but judging from your words he must be a monster."

  "Oh he is, trust me, but he's also an ill man. He stays at home and I take care of him like a good wife." Sarcasm wasn't her strength. Manuel would never fully understand it, anyway, being just another cog in the machine. She finished her drink. "More, please."

  "You drink like a man," complimented Manuel.

  Advantages of having some of my own toys. "I know."

  "And I thought I had problems at home with my chica. What do you want?"

  "Just keep on with the tequila," she answered.

  "Very well," he obliged, "but I was asking what did you want."

  This time it was Dr. Martin's turn to look pensive. She stared at Manuel for a while, giving him a clinical eye. He just gave her another smile.

  "You have the right jaw and tan, but you have all your front teeth. Who are you?"

  "Why, I'm Manuel of course. A SIN never lies."

  "No you aren't. What did you do to him?"

  "Are you going to keep asking dumb questions like that? Tempus fugit. Time flies, doctor, I suggest you ask the right questions before your husband requests your assistance once again."

  "I had someone following me to this place, he will know…," Dr. Martin looked unsure, having just been reminded of her situation.

  Manuel pointed at a corner, where a farmer seemingly slept his siesta. "You mean the guy who entered the cantina a minute after you did? That tequila he asked for was extra strong, if you get me. Unless he wants to report he fell asleep while on duty, he'll just say everything went fine."

  "Who are you? Who do you work for?"

  "My name doesn't matter, I don't exist. But my employer is an old friend of yours, someone who has followed your career with interest and is concerned about your current situation."

  She eyed him suspiciously. "That sounds too good to be true, considering my situation. How do I know this isn't another sick little game?"

  "You don't, but I was told to deliver you this." He handed her a small item. "Science without religion is lame…"

  "… religion without science is blind," said Dr. Martin, finishing Einstein's quote. She opened her hand and looked at its content. From a small, aging pin, the genius stuck out his tongue. She almost dropped it in surprise.

  "The Copenhagen Biotech Convention. I was there with UniOmni's negotiation team, nothing more than a young, bright rookie."

  "My employer remembers having some interesting conversations with you and your colleagues at a nightclub. You didn't seem to be interested in mere profits like the others. You had dreams."

  She sighed. "That was a long time ago."

  "Some people have a long memory."

  "Yes."

  "Interested?"

  "No."

  "Excuse me?" It was his turn to be surprised.

  "Not without my daughter. I won't leave without her."

  "That can be arranged. How tough could it be?" Manuel, or whoever was in front of her, flashed a roguish smile.

  "You'll need some serious cojones to do that. Or a death wish – they won't take it lightly."

  "We'll take care of that part, it's our specialty. Besides, I've been in worse situations. Back when I worked with the Colombians, I had to spend some quality time in La Gorgona, courtesy of Aztechnology Corporate Security."

  Dr. Martin's eyes widened in surprise. "You mean Gorgon Island? The maximum security hellhole?"

  "Those words can't even begin to describe it," said Manuel, or whoever it was behind his face. "It is as if there is something evil in there, sucking away your life one day at a time."

  I know how it feels, chummer… "So how did you escape? It's not like Televisa would ever mention something like that."

  Manuel served himself some tequila. He looked at it for a while before answering. "I was rotting away in the Gorgon's belly, hoping for death to come soon. Then, one day, a strange guy came out of nowhere with an offer from an old friend of mine. Sound familiar?"

  "Very."

  "Anyway, it's not me or our mutual friend that we should be talking about now. I'll ask again: interested?"

  "Yes."

  "Good. It will take some time, but I suspect my employer has already set things in motion. She has this habit of making things fall her way, you know."

  "What about you?"

  "I'll be gone tonight. I need to make sure that Manuel has a terrible accident with his gas oven while sleeping his siesta."

  Dr. Martin frowned. "Is that necessary?"

  "What would you do for your daughter? For the future?"

  Touche. "Anything."

  "Then you just answered yourself. Do you have any other questions?"

  "No, I just need another shot of tequila."

  "Sure, it's on the house."

  Manuel watched as Dr. Mart
in stumbled out of the cantina, half drunk with tequila and hope. His mistress had been right: the doctor was a survivor, ripe for extraction and recruitment. Oh, she would require a little guidance and a few adjustments, but that wouldn't be much of a problem – it hadn't been in his case, at least.

  *A phonetic joke; Texans frequently pronounce it "tuh-KILL-ya" or "tuh-KILL-er."

  DOG DAYS

  by Robert Derie

  It's the first real dog day of summer, and the streets of Seattle are baking. Somewhere up above, the sun is a baleful red eye floating above the haze of smog that had descended on Downtown. Puddles of last night's filth evaporate quietly in the gutters outside my destination: Club Penumbra. A few late patrons stumble out, blinking at the glare, and I caught a draft of cool, stale air. I enter, eager to get indoors.

  I haven't visited Club Penumbra in years. The stereotypical place-to-be for shadowrunners had finally become cliche. But it's been too long since my last mission, and cred was running low. This is where the principal wanted to meet. My eyes adjust to the darkness and the scattered lights. I take off my respirator to taste the air: sweat, booze, and the faint tang of ozone. It's colder and cleaner than outside.

  My Mr. Johnson is occupying a booth, drinking what looks like a red martini with a cherry in it. I study him before approaching: Anglo, with silver hair and blue eyes. By the lines in his face and the slightly-prominent veins on his hands, I guess him to be in his forties-though with modern medicine, he could well be twice that. He was corporate, and that meant cred. I walk over to introduce myself.

  "Good morning. They call me Sticks. Our mutual friend said you wished my help in a certain matter, Mr. Johnson."

  I sit down opposite him, hands visible and flat on the table.

  "Mister John…? Oh, yes. He did say you were someone who could help." The man sighs. "I do hope you can help me, Mr. Sticks. I'm in a terrible state about the whole matter."

  Great. A newbie. This close, I note a few more details: a slight Australian accent and a string tie held by a clasp that combined a Celtic knot with a circuit board. Maybe Mr. Johnson worked for NeoNET. Or maybe he'd worn it so I'd think that.