DEDICATION

For every chummer who’s read, role-played, or shook a really big handful of six-siders in the Sixth World—this one (like all the rest) is for you.

Thanks for keeping Shadowrun going, and coming back for more.

Introduction

By John Helfers

Welcome to World of Shadows, the latest volume of Shadowrun short fiction.

A lot has changed since the publication of Spells & Chrome, back in 2010. A new edition of the Shadowrun RPG (the fifth!) was released to widespread acclaim last year, with new classes (the technomancer) finalized, rules changes (for better or worse, that’s always for the fans/players to decide), and of course, lots and lots of six-sided dice-rolling.

But the one thing that’s stayed the same is the dark, gritty, dystopian setting. For me, Shadowrun’s atmosphere and environment has always been a huge attraction, both for role-playing and writing. SR5’s setting is no different, of course, featuring the danger and thrills of street-smart outsiders fighting the system that has made the setting a hallmark of gaming for more than 20 years.

One of the pleasures of running the fiction program for Catalyst Game Labs is guiding projects in interesting directions they might not have originally gone. After the success of Spells & Chrome, I wanted to the next anthology to be a bit more targeted, and explore the Shadowrun world in more detail. There are dozens, more likely hundreds of out-of-the-way locations that would make prime settings for shadowruns. What better way to highlight some of these than to assemble a volume of stories set all around the squalid, hazardous Sixth World, with each tale taking place in a different setting?

And when I sent out the invitations to contribute, the authors assembled in these pages did not disappoint. These tales truly span the globe, covering every continent from Africa to South America, nations from England to Russia, and far-flung locales such as Casablanca, Kowloon City, and the outskirts of Rio de Janeiro, to more American stomping grounds of Austin, Texas; Miami, Florida; New Orleans, Louisiana; Las Vegas, Nevada; Grand Rapids, Michigan (that is a real story location); and of course, the granddaddy of them all; Seattle, Washington. The plots of these stories vary as widely as where they’re set, and feature shadowrunners, Johnsons, and sometimes more ordinary folks caught in the middle.

The contributing authors also run the gamut, from bestselling authors to long-time Shadowrun freelancers and authors to fans making their Shadowrun fiction debuts in the following pages. We’ve got heavy hitters such as Michael A. Stackpole, Mel Odom, Jean Rabe, Chris A. Jackson, Aaron Rosenberg, and Steven S. Long alongside long-time Shadowrun game and fiction writers such as Russell Zimmerman, Malik Toms, Stephen Dedman, Robyn King, Patrick Goodman, and Jason Hardy. Last, but certainly not least, are multi-talented authors and fans such as Annie Bellet, Dylan Birtolo, Jennifer Brozek, Phaedra Weldon, Maxwell Alexander Drake, and Thomas Gofton, who bridge the gap by writing professionally, whether through original work, tie-in, or both; or self-publishing; or doing both.

And the stories? Well, I could regale you with teasing glimpses of each one, just to further whet your appetite, but why do that, when all you have to do is turn the page and jump into the first one—a Wolf and Raven tale by Michael A. Stackpole, the first in more than fifteen years—and find out for yourself just how deep the darkness goes in a world of shadows…

Images: A Wolf and Raven Story

By Michael A. Stackpole

I’d been set up.

I know, that’s quite a conclusion to jump to.

Let’s review.

I received a message from a woman I once knew—by which I mean I’d met her and briefly let thoughts of a lustful nature bang around inside my brain. After her boss died, I lost track of her. Even though I never saw her again, I thought of her from time to time. The one that got away. Catch a flash of blonde hair through a crowd, or hear a laugh and see sparkling blue eyes in a gorgeous face, the mind flicks back. The lure of what-if that promises an escape from today’s pressures.

The message wasn’t much. >You alone can help me, Mr. Kies. TC. Didn’t really matter that I couldn’t place a TC—the message was enough. It triggered the White Knight Syndrome, which has sent many a man to his doom. The Old One had howled bloody murder, especially when I interpreted the “alone” to mean that I shouldn’t tell anyone what was going on. But that’s part of WKS—it’s a solo quest. If you can’t do it alone, you’re really not worthy of being a Knight and rescuing a damsel in distress.

Strictly speaking, I didn’t work alone. The message gave me almost nothing to go on, but Valerie Valkyrie was happy to pull up what info she could. Sure, I asked while she was watching a Seadogs game heading into extra innings, just to keep her distracted. I’m pretty sure she didn’t remember what she’d given me, but it was enough to get me on the right track. She traced the message back to some tiny private ISP in the middle of nowhere Arizona.

Took me longer to figure out who TC was. The “Mr. Kies” suggested we’d not become casually acquainted. Asking for help suggested she’d been involved in an operation I’d performed for Doctor Richard Raven. I didn’t need to be a decker on par with Val to cross-correlate cases with connections to Arizona. By the time Jimmy Mackelroy had blasted a walk-off homer to end the suspense for Valerie, I learned that Doctor Lawrence Roberts—deceased—had counted among his Ministry’s holdings a doomsday compound out on the Navajo reservation, in red rock country. He’d called it Fortress Christianis. He’d built it into a haunted canyon, but only after he’d exorcised the demons and consecrated the ground. It had all but vanished from mention in any news feeds, save that a splinter of his ministry had claimed it. They called themselves Warriors for Christ.

No points for originality, but that wasn’t unexpected. The Old One boiled up out of the dark pit where I keep him tucked away. They have ever stolen other traditions, Longtooth, and used their Book to justify their thefts.

The Old One isn’t one for theological nuances, but he does know how to hold a grudge.

Once I’d tagged Roberts’ ministry as a connection, I figured out TC immediately. Miss Crandall had been a vision of loveliness in his office. Until I sifted more files I didn’t learn her Christian name was Theodora. She wouldn’t have been any less lovely had I know that all these years, but somehow fantasizing about her as Miss Crandall made those naughty librarian dreams simply that much more fulfilling.

And guaranteed that I was off on a rescue mission.

I asked for a week’s vacation, then caught a commercial flight down to the desert. I came in at night. A metastasized field of lights marked Phoenix, save for the east side, where the Salt River-Pima reservation remained dark. The contrast made me think of the split in society: tech lighting things up on one side, and a far more traditional and older way lurking in the shadows. 

The Old One wanted me to head east and lose myself there, but I resisted. The moon wasn’t more than half full, so resisting his pleas didn’t tax me much. His interference did make it almost impossible to work the rental car kiosk, but I found my ride and headed into the depths of South Phoenix. After a little searching, I found someone more than willing to sell me a couple of automatics. Neither was a Beretta Viper 14, but I was flexible. I gave voice to the Old One’s growl, and even got a good price on the deal.

I found a hotel and worked on refining my plan to rescue Miss Crandall. I’d figured I’d drive up, do a quick recon, maybe even set up a parley, then resort to violence if necessary. I separated the violence part from the rest of things to annoy the Old One, since he frontloads his plans with a lot of indiscriminate killing. I also figured if the recon indicated I’d bitten off more than I could chew, I had the option to phone a friend for back up.

I’d grown up in the Sprawl, which is dark, green and wet. The desert isn’t wet. Not in the least. Hotter than the Hell the Warriors For Christ feared, in fact; and a lot of bright. There’s a bit of green, but it’s a pale green, and the rocks are blood red. The highway up toward Flagstaff featured plenty of red rocks, a few lonely pine trees, lots of tall saguaro cacti, and deep canyons ready to swallow the car if I missed one of the switchbacks.

More remarkable than the landscape was the absence of human beings. Seattle had canyons, all man-made, chrome and neon. Arizona had rough, natural canyons, with walls of layered rock. In Seattle I couldn’t move for the people, and was never more than spitting distance from a coffee shop. Out here, I could imagine that the Rapture had taken everyone else easily enough; and the only hot liquid anywhere near me circulated in the radiator.

Best of all, the Old One relaxed.

This is how the world unspoiled feels, Longtooth. His mouth opened in a lupine grin betraying joy.

I couldn’t fault him. I turned off the highway and onto a cattle track that snaked between tall walls of red rock. Even though I found the landscape utterly alien, the simplicity and quiet smothered any uneasiness. It wasn’t so much that I felt a desire to live there, but I could understand why some would find the peaceful solitude attractive.

It is everything, Longtooth. It is as life was meant—

That’s when the first round hit the car. Fifty cal, if I had to guess, cored through the engine block. It missed me, but shrapnel peppered my thighs and stomach. More shots, closer, lighter, spiderwebbed the windscreen. One bullet caught my right shoulder. Then the airbag exploded because the car slammed into one of those red rock walls. It blasted me back, shattering my nose and breaking my right forearm.

I remember thinking the insurance rider wasn’t going to cover the damage as I yanked the door open and hauled myself out. I drew one pistol, shifted it to my left hand, and snapped off a shot. I wasn’t really shooting at anyone, since steam and smoke blinded me. I stumbled back toward the trunk, firing twice more.

Then the gun jammed.

Ever have that feeling, when time slows down, and you know you’re in deeper than you’ve ever been before? Maybe it’s telling your boss off. Maybe asking that supermodel out. Maybe it’s meeting the old in-laws for the first time.

This was all that, but with gunfire.

Accurate gunfire.

As I hit the ground, it occurred to me that I’d been expected. Which meant Miss Crandall was in serious need of rescuing. Whoever was doing this to me clearly had tortured her for the information. And that meant I had to redouble my efforts to figure out who that was, and then implement the whole violence part of the program.

Which is when Brother Boniface emerged from the smoke, stood over me and shot me in the face.

The cold made me shiver. It could have been coming up from the rock, but I figured warm blood draining out made more sense. Took a moment for me to realize my eyes were open, and that the pinpoints of light had to be stars. I didn’t remember ever seeing a night any blacker.

Or finding one more quiet.

I hurt everywhere, but not as much as I expected. The cold and numbness worked together to deal with the pain. They’d kill me as fast as the bullets, but they were more about slipping softly into that good night. Not that the bullets hadn’t done their best to off me.

I could feel six wounds—entry, I think, and most had exits to match—and that was on the left side of my body. I could probably have tallied the rest if I counted on my fingers and toes, but it felt as if a couple of each had been shot clean off in the ambush. I couldn’t see them, both because of the dark, and because of the silver wolf’s-head pendant at my throat. It weighed too much for me to lift my upper body and look.

I whispered. Maybe only in my head. “Now’s your chance, Old One. Time to say you told me so.”

Nothing.

Not just his keeping his own counsel. Nothing.

I looked inside, digging down into his lair.

Empty. Black as the night. As cold as I felt. He’d fled.

I know I gasped. I heard that. The Old One had been my companion—no, really, tenant—for an age. I’d not known he was there until Richard Raven introduced us, back during the Full Moon Slashings in the Sprawl. The Old One had been a shard of the Wolf Spirit living in me, provoking me, saving me, trying to conquer me. He’d never succeeded, but right now I would have let him do anything he wanted.

But he was gone. I couldn’t remember a time when I’d been alone in my head, not really. Now, when I really needed someone, something, to be with me, I’d been abandoned.

I think that’s when I realized I was going to die; and knew I’d not died so many times before just to spite him.

So, alone, I’d die.

Then I heard a snort.

Not from within, but from the side. My head lolled to the right. There, on the other side of the small campfire which I was pretty sure hadn’t been there previously, a big beast sat. It didn’t quite look wolfish—had the coloring of a coyote, but the bulk of a big dog or wolf. Definitely wasn’t the Old One. It seemed at once far more ancient, and yet much younger and vibrant.

“Come to watch me die?”

The beast cocked his head. “Why would you choose to die, when you can save yourself?”

I shivered again. He sounded far more Country Club than Nature Spirit. “I can’t save myself. The Old One could save me, but he’s gone.”

“The Old One?”

“He lived inside me.”

The Wolf’s head came up. “Oh, your imaginary friend.”

“He’s not imaginary.”

“I have no doubt he seemed very real to you. The simple fact is that he was the construct you shaped in concert with your friend to absolve you of the responsibility for your power.” The Wolf raised a paw to his mouth and nibbled on an unseen annoyance. “Your friend realized it would have taken many years to train you to use the magickal abilities you possess, so he constructed a simple shortcut. Instead of teaching you spells, he created a dynamic where you accessed power through an adversarial relationship with an arbiter.”

I wished I could have shaken my head. “No, it’s not that.”

“But it is, Mr. Kies. You were so afraid of being out of control, of hurting others, that you were complicit in creating a choke-collar for your magick. You lacked the will, or perhaps the cognitive ability to manage accountability for power, so you made yourself responsible for curbing the Old One, who would use your power irresponsibly if you did not intervene.”

“I have no power, no power without the Old One.”

“Really?” The Wolf cocked his head again. “What is the last thing you remember?”

“Brother Boniface.” The man, tall, bald, powerfully built and terminally stupid, had straddled my torso, aimed, and shot. “Point blank range.”

“Yet, we converse now. His somehow missing you, or your somehow surviving that shot would be described as…?”

My mouth soured. “Miraculous.”

“I prefer magickal. Your magick.” The Wolf lay down, paws crossed. “Heal yourself. We’ll wait.”

Beyond him, in the shadows, what I had taken as stars resolved themselves into many pairs of yellow eyes.

“I don’t know how.”

One of his shadowed followers yipped derisively. The Wolf growled, and silence returned. “You have used your magick to transform yourself in the past. Do it again. Transform yourself back to healthy.”

I lay there, getting colder, considering his words. I’d always asked the Old One to lend me his senses and his strength and speed. Most times I’d have to demand it or extort it. I listened for his growl somewhere, and when I heard nothing, I thought back to how it felt when his energy coursed through me. It always sent a thrill, like that flutter in the guts when someone looks at you with love.

Or lust.

Lust, that was it. More primal than love. Lust predated words and spells the same as magick predated them. I sought that tingle, growing up from the loins. Lust, the thing that secured life, the creation of energy, the creation of a new being which was probably as close to magick as there was before the Awakening.

There. I found it. Like a spark struck into tinder, I nursed it along. It grew, less a fire than a conduit opening into magick. The energy began to trickle. Tiny spurts. In them I found echoes of a more recent use—the unconscious, emergency use that fitted my head back together after a bullet had shattered it. And that echoed even greater magicks used to save me back on Seattle’s Night of Fire, when bullet had blown a quarter of my brain into the street.

Once I found the magick, all silver and sparkling, I forced it into familiar channels. When I’d ask the Old One to lend me his strength, he’d remake me over in his image. Bones would crack and shorten. Muscle tissue would tear, then repair itself. Now the magick found tears that bullets had caused and stitched them back together. Shattered bones snapped back into place. Hunks of my liver, which had taken on the consistency of watery pate, firmed up and sealed. Bits of shrapnel and spent bullets got squeezed out the way they got in, or pushed all the way through, the flesh sealing itself in their wake.

Though it hurt, I sat up. I turned toward the fire, hoping to warm myself, but it had vanished. The constellation of eyes had evaporated, too. The Wolf remained, black outlined with black—a wraith quickly fading. I looked around. No car. No guns. I’d been moved far from the ambush site.

I even half-remembered the magick healing some bite marks on my wrists, and my pant cuffs were worse for the chewing.

“Gonna be a long walk home.”

The Wolf moved to the side, revealing a distant glow lighting up the heart of a canyon. “If you sought home, you would not be here.”

I looked up at the moon. Being a Sprawler, I’d never been much for astronomy, but the Old One’s power had waxed and waned with the moon. I learned to pay attention, and quickly determined the moon was setting. Given that I’d gotten shot in the afternoon, I figured I’d been out for at least twelve hours. But since more of the moon was showing than had on the flight in, I added a couple days to that calculation.

I turned to the Wolf to confirm my guess, but he’d vanished.

My clothes looked as if I’d gone four rounds with a lawn mower. Their being more hole than cloth didn’t do much for keeping me warm. Movement was key. I wanted to make sure my body remembered how to work, and exercise would banish the cold.

I headed toward the distant glow, not really sure how long it would take to get there. I worked my way down from the heights, counting the moon as a friend on that part of the trip. At my pace, into which factored exhaustion and a niggling assortment of nicks, scratches, and dents I’d not magicked into perfection, I estimated I wouldn’t make the canyon until past dawn.

At the base of the mesa, I found a seep that allowed me a mouthful of water now and again. I kept to the shadows when I could find them, and made myself as small a target as I possible in sunlight. I took the time to learn far more about a rattlesnake than I ever thought I’d want to know, and to study the land between me and the canyon in which I’d find Fortress Christianis.

The land looked pretty flat, all red rock that appeared to have been slopped out of some divine bucket as thick mud, then solidified under the hellish sun. Saguaro cacti, running as much as ten meters tall and festooned with thick arms, somehow clung to life. Other cactus, from small barrels to gangling cholla and its inch-long needles, dotted the landscape. Rabbits and gophers darted from cover to cover, while red-tailed hawks lazily rode thermals above them.

The canyon ran roughly northwest to southeast, widening in the middle sufficiently to swallow six square Seattle blocks. A couple side channels shot out at odd angles, but showed no sign of traffic. I spotted a footpath at the nearer, southeastern end of the canyon. Tracks at the far end showed signs of use by cars and heavier equipment. A small blockhouse and tall antenna sat on the northern lip, complete with an array of solar panels. I figured that was their link to civilization, and the source of much of their power.

It didn’t surprise me that they didn’t post guards above the canyon. The heat would have made that duty unbearable in summer. I could imagine the winters being less than chummy as well. Since I’d only seen a couple of planes flying at cruising altitude throughout the day, I suspected they weren’t worried about being discovered.

As the sun began to set, I mapped out my approach. I worked through lengthening shadows, moving much as the rabbits had from point to point. I generally managed to keep cover between me and the blockhouse, then scouted out the next run to make sure folks hadn’t emerged.

I got to an overlook position and realized just how badly Miss Crandall needed rescuing. Fortress Christianis had the same vibe as the set for Mad Max and the Temple of Rust, but clearly lacked the trivid’s budget. The blockhouse was solid 20th century architecture, but the mud huts gathered in a circle at the heart of the canyon would have been rejected by Dark Age peasants. The only thing Fortress Christianis had going for it was a spring, bubbling water up into a pond there in the middle. Subsistence gardens filled most of the floor with plant growth, and chickens roamed freely, pecking here and there. Electric lights strung between poles provided the glow I’d seen from the mesa the previous night.

The most impressive thing in the settlement stood on a stone altar between the pond and the canyon’s southern edge. Welded together from rusty metal scraps and illuminated by two small spotlights from below, it stood a good six meters tall and half that wide. The sculpture depicted a man bristling with muscles, carrying a shepherd’s staff in one hand and a Roman sword in the other. The sword still had chrome on it, as did the crown of thorns on the figure’s head. The brooding aspect and carefully welded scars made me think of it as “Gladiator Jesus.”

And made me wish the Old One was there to share his impression. As irascible as he’d been, his scorn for hypocrites always warmed my heart.

The huts didn’t look very hospitable, but they weren’t exactly tiny. I guessed the settlement might be home to as many as sixty individuals. Since more in the way of old dresses hung on clotheslines than men’s clothes, plural marriage seemed order of the day. Plenty of kid-sized clothes were drying as well.

I reached inside, as I would have done to arouse the Old One, and grasped the magick myself. Instead of asking him to lend his senses, I fed energy into mine. Night sight sharpened, as did my senses of smell and hearing. I caught faint hints of many voices. They rose and fell rhythmically, suggesting a fun evening reciting from some Good Book or other. I didn’t care, really, save that it served as a focus for folks who might otherwise be watching for trouble.

I worked my way over to one of the side channels and down. It brought me out to the east of the statue. I crouched by the altar, then lifted my face and breathed in through my nose. Lots of folks will tell you that the sense of smell is tied into memories, and one of my favorites lit up in neon.

Miss Crandall. Her smile. I caught enough of her scent to fugue into a fantasy for a heartbeat. Down, Wolf. You rescue the damsel first, then collect your reward.

The only thing that marked her hovel as different was that I could hear only one voice coming from it. She was chanting like the others, but a note of pain threaded through her words. That started me working my way around to the other side of the altar, then past two huts to hers. The door, made of well-weathered scrub wood, had been secured from the outside, but only by a stick in the latch. I worked it free, opened the door, and entered quickly.

Miss Crandall looked up, surprise and horror and relief all mixing on her face. “Is that you, Mr. Kies? They said you were dead. I thought I’d killed you.”

I dropped to a knee and took her hands in mine. I gave them a squeeze, but that did nothing to quell the trembling. “Are you okay?”

“Yes, but you…you can’t….”

“It’s okay. I know a good tailor.” I gave her a patented smile to raise her spirits. “Ready to get out of here?”

“Praise the Lord. I never thought I’d see you again.” She reached out and hugged me, holding on tight. “You don’t know how important it is that you came for me.”

“You can tell me later.” I freed myself from her embrace, then pulled her after me as I made for the door. “We work around to the altar, then up the little canyon. Can you do that?”

“And you have people who will get us out after that?”

“I’m working on that part of the plan.” I gave her a reassuring nod. “Key thing right now is to get you free and clear.”

“Okay.” She smiled, and I couldn’t help but return it. “Lead on.”

The door opened onto an empty clearing, and the continued murmurs gave me heart that we could pass unnoticed. Leading her by the hand, I ran directly toward the altar. Halfway there I began to feel some relief, then I felt a tug on my hand.

A hard tug, then her hand slipped from mine.

Miss Crandall stumbled and went down heavily. She landed on a knee and screamed. “Mr. Kies! I think I broke it.”

I didn’t know if she had broken her knee or not, but her scream broke the prayer cadence. Doors opened and people poured out. Strong men, though a bit dirtier and more gaunt than I’d expected. Women, haggard, hung back. Children peeked out from between legs.

Brother Boniface emerged from the hut nearest the altar. He’d changed a bit since I’d last seen him in Seattle. For one, he wasn’t flying out a window on his way to a rough landing three stories down. Back home he’d also dressed better. The cutoff jeans suited him, but the sleeveless blue shirt, untucked and unbuttoned, seemed out of place. They did show off enough flesh that I could pick out a bunch of scars that might have been mementos of our last meeting.

In Seattle, that is. Our most recent meeting involved him being quite rude.

“It can’t be.” He shook his bullet-shaped head. “Get thee behind me, Satan.”

“You shoot me in the face, and you want me behind you? What kind of warrior are you?” I spread my arms wide. “You saw me dead in the desert. That was what, three days ago? Now here I am. Does that remind you of anyone?”

Brother Boniface, being a bit bovine through the eyes, and just generally simple, didn’t catch my implication. Others did, and the murmuring arose anew—but not rhythmic and rather chaotic. Men snapped orders for wives to be quiet, but then the men exchanged worried glances with other men.

Boniface’s brown eyes narrowed. “You are demonspawn.” He quickly crossed himself. “I bind you in the name of Jesus.”

Though he said it with sincerity, I didn’t feel at all bound. “That’s not it at all, and you know it.” I looked around at all of them. “Three days ago you murdered me. You ambushed me. You attacked from hiding, not honorably, as a true Warrior For Christ would. Your God saw the injustice of your attack upon me. He restored me, to life, to his favor, and made me a prophet. I was sent to you to allow you to repent, and to bring this woman from captivity. Would you call your God a liar?”

Were Brother Boniface and the other Christianisians not wrapped up in their own psychoses, they’d have just turned their guns on me and shot me to pieces again. But that hadn’t worked the first time, and evidence of my miraculous healing was pretty easy to see through the gaping holes in my clothes. Since, for them, miracles came as the answers to prayers, my living and breathing caused a serious crisis of faith.

“Satan has healed you, not God.”

“We can test that theory.” I pointed a hand at Gladiator Jesus. “You are a Warrior For Christ. I demand Trial By Combat. May God reveal who is right through victory.”

“Mr. Kies, no.”

I took Miss Crandall’s hand and pulled her to her feet. Her knee bled a little, but I didn’t see any swelling. “Don’t worry. I have a policy against letting anyone kill me twice in the same week.”

She limped to the altar and leaned against it. “God be with you.”

Something like that.

Brother Boniface handed his shotgun to a compatriot, then raised his face and stared at the statue. He crossed himself and murmured a prayer. I didn’t catch what he said, but I wasn’t really listening. I’d hurt him before. He’d killed me. This was the rubber game in our match, and I wanted to end it quickly.

Again I turned inward and sought magick. Instead of the energy warping my body to shift muscular insertions, it just poured into tissue. It suffused my flesh, toughening it. It filled my muscles. It sizzled through my nervous system, sharpening reflexes and granting me speed.

Brother Boniface balled his fists and came for me. I danced back, my hands still low. He threw a punch at my face. I dodged, letting his fist graze my right ear. I circled to my left, slipping his punches. Even though he towered above me and packed on at least twenty-five more pounds, he moved like a skinny six-year-old wearing oversized trunks and pillowy boxing gloves.

At least that’s the way he looked to me. From the gasps, cheers and encouraging shouts, the others saw him as every centimeter God’s Champion. They hadn’t figure out I was taunting him, frustrating him. His flesh began to glow with perspiration. Quick punches failed to land, but sprayed me with sweat. Spittle collected foamy and white at the corners of his mouth. He darted closer, dangerously closer, eyes narrowing as he tossed that next punch he knew would land.

I ducked beneath a roundhouse right that should have taken my head clean off, then dropped a sharp jab into his ribs. He coughed loudly, bouncing backward. He kept his feet, but dropped his right elbow to cover where I’d hit him. Grim determination still locked his features into a scowl.

He came at me again.

The jab sailed over my right shoulder. My right hand pounded him in the stomach, lifting him from the ground. He landed stiffly on his heels. A second right caught him in his right shoulder, spinning him around. The moment his back came into view, I smashed my left fist into him, right over a kidney. He pitched forward, landing on his knees, then pitching on his face, before he gathered his hands beneath him.

A curiously savage note entered Miss Crandall’s voice. “Kill him.”

I started to say, “I don’t think that’s necessary,” but Boniface’s pained response cut me off.

“I can’t.”

I spun, realization slowly dawning. She had been speaking to him. Her tight eyes and the way she bared her teeth confirmed that fact and suggested how much she hated me. I had been sold out—by her, no torture required—though exactly why she wanted me dead remained a puzzle.

Miss Crandall shook her head. “You have failed, Boniface. You have disappointed us too many times.” Her voice took on a buzz full of reverb, and dropped deeply enough to make Darth Vader sound like a soprano. “I will deal with him, so you can know the Truth.”

Her skin split and hung in ribbons, revealing reddish, pebbled flesh swelling from within. She blinked once as the skin on her head flowed back into a hood. A milky lens nictitated down. Her blue eyes became bloody amber, complete with the lozenge pupil of a viper. Horny ridges rose along her spine, spiked her shoulders and elbows. Long claws grew from her fingertips.

She appeared to be all old-school demon married with a Gila monster, without any of the cuddly aspects of either. And she came at me fast.

Her first raking slash shredded my shirt and carved furrows in my flesh. The magick that armored me prevented fatal damage, but I felt the sting, and then growing fire. The talons glistened with more than my blood. Her venom gnawed in the wounds.

I cut to the left, again circling. She came at me, all claws and fury. Her leathery skin armored her as well. Not for the first time I regretted the decision to come alone. Whatever she was, I felt certain that Kid Stealth could have dropped a heavy round into her think box and ended this fight before she ended me. Damn WKS.

Part of me wanted to panic. I imagined hearing the Old One growl, as he would have, to focus me. I clung to that. Even though she slashed me again, on the left shoulder this time, and then stabbed her claws at my throat, I realized one key thing, one difference between Miss Crandall and Brother Boniface.

He knew how to fight. She did not.

It really didn’t matter what had gotten into her. All that fury without discipline didn’t mean a thing. That wasn’t to say she couldn’t kill me. Fact was, I wasn’t going to let her.

I pulled more magick into myself. My skin radiated heat. The magick burned the venom from the wounds, then flowed back down into nerves and muscles. I sideslipped a slash, then hit her. I drove my fist into her breastbone. Something snapped.

She staggered back, looking down. Clawed hands rose to cover the dent in her chest. Air hissed as she tried to breathe in. Miss Crandall’s gaze flicked up at me, her eyes full of furious betrayal.

That’s when I snapped a foot out, hit her again dead center, and pounded her clawed hands back through her rib cage.

Black blood bubbled and steamed from her wounds. It dribbled from her mouth. She wavered, then dropped to her knees. She looked up at Gladiator Jesus, then fell face forward on the ground. Her lizard-flesh melted, taking muscles and organs with it. Her skeleton lay at the heart of a black stain, and what was left of her skin sagged nearby. Whatever had possessed her retreated back into the earth, returning to its ancient realm.

The citizens of Fortress Christianis stared at her remains, then up at me. I crossed my arms over my chest, aping the statue’s posture. Women and children sank to their knees. Some of the men did as well.

Brother Boniface, by contrast, rose from his. “He is a false prophet. Kill him!”

Men, shocked by his vehemence, racked shells into shotgun chambers and drew pistols. They took aim, but before they could fire a single shot, growls emerged from the darkness. Wolves, tens and dozens, came at full run. White fangs flashed. Animals leaped. Guns roared. Some of the beasts spun away, leaking blood, trailing guts, but more came in waves. Men went down screaming, carpeted in snarling fur.

Guns fell silent.

Finished with their primary mission, the surviving wolves herded the women and children into the middle of the settlement.

The Wolf trotted to my side. “You have performed in a most satisfactory manner, Mr. Kies. We will finish things here.”

My eyes, silvery in the moonlight, narrowed. “Leave them alone.”

“They were part of this. They have earned their fate.”

“No, they weren’t.” I shook my head. “If they were, they’d not be cowering, they’d all be things like she was, and your wolves would be dead.”

“Possibly.”

“It’s a certainty.” Facts ordered themselves in my mind and I smiled. “Let me see if I can piece together how this all came to be. The Warriors arrived here years ago, and set up their village. You didn’t care—at least, not enough to wipe them out then. You probably saw them as an ant farm, just something to watch for amusement.

“But then something happened.” I pointed toward the black stain. “Something dwelled here. Something nasty and ancient. Something like you, but somehow trapped in this place. You might have even thought it would destroy them. The settlement endured, but never prospered. That suited you just fine.

“Unfortunately, that reality runs counter to the prosperity Gospel these people grew up believing. For them, the lack of prosperity meant they had to pray harder, to prove themselves worthy. Their God wouldn’t abandon them without reason, and they searched for the reason.”

I stared at the skeleton and tried to reconcile it with my memories of Miss Crandall. “She was a true believer. She probably thought some sin she’d committed was the source of the settlement’s misfortune. Maybe she’d diddled the books for Reverend Roberts. Maybe she had lustful thoughts. So she prayed real hard, and the spirit dwelling here spoke to her, made a bargain with her. Since she knew I’d been part of what destroyed Roberts’ ministry—and maybe her lustful thoughts were of me—her first task was to destroy me. The spirit promised it would deliver me into her hands, and that’s how I became involved.”

“Would your speculation have a point?”

“Getting there. Your problem was that the spirit she’d accepted was gaining power. It protected the settlement, so you couldn’t wipe it out. I appear on the scene, you bring me to this point, and have me destroy your enemy. Now you want to kill these people because you fear they might empower your enemy again.”

The Wolf looked at the cowering villagers. “Now you understand why they will die.”

“That’s not going to happen.” I pointed to the block house. “I’m going up there, I’m calling my people, and we’ll pull them out. After what they lived through, they’re never coming back.”

“We cannot take that chance.”

“You have no choice.”

The Wolf flashed fang. “You dare not challenge us.”

I laughed. “Just as this was a problem of your making, so am I. You needed me to accept magick so I could defeat the spirit of this place. That bell can’t be unrung. See, you and the monster that possessed Miss Crandall, you’re just as much of a construct as any saint or godling or spell. Even though you’re far more ancient, you’re every bit as much of a construct as the Old One. Magick pre-existed you. You didn’t take shape until animals and men needed you and defined you. And you convinced me I didn’t need anyone to tap into magick. I go right to the source. If we have to go to war, it will be bloody and bad, but I like my chances.”

The Wolf stared at me with eyes that opened onto infinity, then lifted his muzzle and howled.

The wolves scattered back into the night. The women and children collapsed into each other, softly sobbing. By the time the echoes of the howl had died and I turned to look back at the Wolf, he had evaporated.

I picked up one of the shotguns and did a quick search of the huts. Rudimentary is a good word. Livable, too. And spartan. Most places had only a handful of books—well-thumbed Bibles and copies of Reverend Roberts’ old work.

Miss Crandall’s home yielded one more book, a journal, which pretty much confirmed what I’d guessed. Not that she recorded any lustful thoughts about me. She’d certainly seen my intervention as the cause of the ministry’s collapse, and the ministry’s failure to exact an eye for an eye as the reason it hadn’t risen again. If I wanted to read between the lines, I could see she’d loved Roberts, and never really came to grips with his death. Her prayers for forgiveness earned answers from what she first thought was a demon, but came to believe was God.

I told the women to gather their dead and prepare them for burial. They set about washing the corpses and sewing them into shrouds. The children returned to their homes, fear and sorrow initiating tears that carved tracks down dirty faces. No one made any moves to gather up guns, and they all left the dead wolves alone.

I went to call for help. I trudged up the footpath to the block house, watching the villagers doing their best to pretend that life was somehow normal. It wouldn’t be, ever again, but I suspected most would be glad to exchange a new normal for the existence they knew now.

Your people adapt well, Longtooth.

I smiled. “Welcome back, Old One.”

Why am I back, Longtooth? His voice rose from the dark den deep within me. You created me. You know you do not need me. I am only a brake on your power.

“That’s why I need you. You are part of me. You’re aggressive, savage, angry and homicidal.”

Your flattery is wasted upon me. I deny you power.

“Which is exactly what I want.” Down below, the black stain stood out. “I don’t want to trust myself with power which comes so easily. I may hate fighting you for it, and stingy you are in giving it to me, but better that than laying waste to a village in a momentary fit of pique.”

I will never make it easy on you, Longtooth.

I brushed fingers over the pendant at my throat. “Wouldn’t have it any other way.”

Rune’s Avatar Café

By Jennifer Brozek

Rune remotely watched the beautiful blonde dwarf down shot after shot of her best saké. She shook her head, knowing Eva was just waiting for her.

She threw a silent message over the Café’s internal comm channel to Saladin. He was the ‘Sasha’ on duty at the bar tonight. His AR form looked exactly like Sasha from the classic 2-D movie Casablanca. She didn’t want to ask, but she did anyway: >How long has she been here?

Saladin glanced from Eva towards Rune’s back office. >About two hours. Looks like you hooked another one, Red.

She didn’t respond to the implied leer. Rune sighed, then smoothed her white jacket and lifted her chin. “Better get this over with.” Strolling out of her office towards the far end of the bar, Rune knew she cut an impressive figure; spotless white linen against black skin, high cheekbones, and short, curly hair the color of fresh blood offset by tawny gold eyes. She came by her name—and her reputation—honestly.

Halfway down, Rune stopped and picked up the stack of papers and envelopes—an affectation to go along with the Café’s theme. As she leafed through the various notes, invitations, and requests, she felt Eva glaring daggers into her back, then sensed the lovely dwarf abandon her drink to stalk toward her. 

Saladin followed at a discreet distance; far enough away to pretend privacy, but close enough to be on hand as needed.

Eva stopped within touching distance behind her. “Where were you last night?”

“That was so long ago, I don’t remember.” Rune paused at a note informing her that LongJack, one of the local mercs, would be in this evening to see her.

“Will I see you tonight?”

She ignored the note of desperation in Eva’s voice. “I never make plans that far ahead.”

“Slot it, Rune. Why do I even bother?”

“I don’t know.” Rune paused at a reservation for one Renart Sud and frowned. Suddenly, she didn’t have time to let her latest paramour down easy. “Sasha, call Eva a cab. It’s time for her to go home.”

“But…no!” The dwarf’s startled denial was cut off by Saladin gripping her the arm.

“You know I love you, Eva, but Miss Red pays me. Time to go.” Despite his slender frame, Saladin was far stronger than he looked, and Eva could do nothing but move along with the bartender.

Rune stared at the reservation: Renart Sud and guest for the penthouse suite. No end date mentioned. She wondered why such an infamous trid personality would be in Rabat, and if he was the reason LongJack wanted a word with her. She grimaced. Sometimes, Rune’s Avatar Café was a little too much like its thematic twin. But what else could you expect in Morocco, a country in the middle of a tug of war between the Federation of Islamic States and the Alliance For Allah?

Shrugging, Rune returned to her office and made preparations for the evening that included a heightened awareness and the looming presence of security.

The warm evening called for an elegant gown of antique white. Rune knew wearing the armored Amina was overkill. A lady can never be too careful, she thought as she selected a thin strand of pearls. Besides, I look divine in this dress. She took the time to make sure every part of her appearance was perfectly arranged. Between LongJack and Renart, it was going to be an interesting evening. Best to have all her weapons in place.

The Café was abuzz with activity as she entered the main room. Rune paused to survey her domain. In meat space, it was a pleasant, old-fashioned dinner club. She smiled at the almost full tables. Shifting her vision to AR showed the same room in black and white. Everyone who hadn’t been wearing era appropriate clothing in the real world now wore something that wouldn’t clash with the image she’d built her establishment on. 

A splash of color and light briefly appeared as guests entered the “Members Only” gambling section through heavy velvet curtains. Gambling needed the luxury of color. It wetted the appetite for all of the pleasures available to those who could afford it.

Fatima’s sotto voice came over the comm link. “Miss Red? Captain Belali is here to see you.” 

Rune glanced at the main floor again. Fatima was on ‘Sam’ duty tonight, playing piano to the guests at their whim. There, next to her, was a short, balding, Arabic man with a round face and a benign smile. That smile told Rune all she needed to know. “Seat him at my table.” 

She watched Fatima escort Rabat’s Chief of Police to her table, but didn’t hurry over. Instead, she sauntered through the diners, stopping at each table for a quick pleasantry. Paying customers trumped whatever Belali wanted.

The captain stood as she approached, and held out his hands to her. “Rune, you look splendid as always. Have a drink with me?”

She took his hands briefly, then sat. “You know I don’t drink on the job. But, please, don’t let that stop you. My treat, of course.” 

“Taéngelé, then.” Belali sat back and continued to smile at her. 

Rune quirked a half-smile at him. “What do you want, Captain?”

“Please, call me Hamza. I’ve told you a thousand times.” He tilted his head towards her. “We could have a much less formal arrangement, lovely lady.” Lifting up the glass of Taéngelé as it arrived, he toasted her. “Something far more…intimate.”

“You know I like my women blonde and my men lanky. You, dear Hamza, are neither.” Her smile was gone. “And this is a conversation we’ve had before. It’s unlike you to revisit such matters.”

Belali drank deep of the Tir Tairngire mead. “Well, speaking of lanky and blonde, I hear that you will have a special guest tonight and his lady friend. I believe that he is lanky and she is blonde…” He let the implications hang in the air between them.

“I’m not sure what you’re talking about.” Rune mentally swore in a silent burst of English, Arabic, and Sperethiel.

“Oh, come now. You don’t think I know that Renart is here in Rabat, and has a reservation to stay in your lovely establishment? It is said he is traveling with a lovely blonde elf. She’s been at his side from Nigeria to Turkey to France and, most recently, Spain.” 

Rune watched him watch her as he took another long gulp of his drink. She shrugged. “I’m aware that I have a VIP coming in who has rented the penthouse indefinitely. If it’s, as you say, Renart, then I will treat him like every single one of my VIP guests. This place is safe.” She paused before adding, “I am up-to-date on my payments.”

“Yes, yes. Of course you are, and I’d expect nothing less for such a well connected woman as yourself.” He tapped his fingers on the table in a light pattern that matched Fatima’s playing. “But you would, in deference to our longstanding relationship, let me know as soon as he leaves?”

Forcing herself to relax into a less guarded position, Rune nodded and plastered a polite smile on her face. “Of course. If that is your wish.” She held up her finger. “But, remember, his reservation is ongoing.” She started to say more, but her comm link chimed that Renart had arrived. “And you must forgive me, but my VIP guests are here. I must greet them.” Rune stood. “Please, enjoy your time here. The baccarat tables are open tonight.”

She turned her back on him as he toasted her again. Rune glided through the now crowded room with the smooth ease of long practice. Pausing by a pillar, she took in Renart Sud and his lady friend.

He was a tall, dusky-skinned elf, handsome in an arresting way. His mixed blood heritage gave him the complexion of his Arabic father with the light blue eyes of his French mother. Rune could see why he was the bad boy of the trid reporting world. Impeccably dressed, he spoke with a casual charm that caught everyone at the front desk. Lanky, indeed.

The woman traveling with him was covered from head to toe in an elaborately embroidered abaya and niqab of teal linen and gold thread. It covered every part of her except for her eyes. From this distance, all Rune could see was the heavy makeup that made the woman’s light-colored eyes pop. There was no way to tell if she was blonde, but if she was as attractive as the elf next to her, it was safer for her to travel covered. Morocco did a brisk business in the slave trade. An exotic blonde would garner far more attention than she wanted. 

Rune strode up to the front counter, breaking Walid out of his trance at whatever Renart had been saying. “Excuse me, Mr. Sud. May I introduce you to Miss Rune Red, the owner of this Rune’s Avatar Café and so much more?”

Renart turned his charm on as he smiled, holding out a hand. “So pleased to finally meet you. I’ve heard so much about you, Miss Red.”

“All lies, I assure you,” she said with a laugh.

He sobered. “I sincerely hope not.” Then the charm was back. He gestured to the veiled woman. “This is Elodie, my wife. We’ve had a very long trip.”

Now that Rune could see her more clearly, she knew those eyes—knew them to the bottom of her soul. Shaken, Rune nodded with automatic politeness in the other woman’s direction. She turned her attention back to Renart. “Well, a long trip requires a comfortable room, and you’ve booked the penthouse. Let me see you there personally.” She nodded to the valet, already carrying two bags. “Shall I send for the rest of your things?”

“We’re traveling light. That’s it.” Renart’s voice was sober again. 

“Ah. Then if you will follow me, please.” Rune led the way to the lift as she spoke. “Rune’s Avatar Café has all that you need. The penthouse is on the 6th floor. It has every amenity available. If there’s something you need that we don’t have, we will go get it for you. The main floor is a dinner club, with a gambling establishment in the back. The second floor has the spa. The basement floors are for those who are less enamored of the historical feel of the Café. Below us is Avatars, our underground dance club and bar. As a VIP guest, you have access to all parts of the Café, of course.”

Rune knew she was rambling as they rode the elevator, specifically not looking at Renart’s wife. It was the only way to get her shocked nerves under control. 

As the elevator doors opened, she gestured to the double doors across the hallway. “Here we are. If you wish, I will show you how to set the security for the room so that only authorized people may enter.”

The valet entered the suite’s parlor after Renart and his wife. The parlor was adorned in rich brocades and silks of red and yellow, and accented in a deep blue. Three leather chairs sat around a low table of real mahogany wood. A matching leather couch sat opposite them. The accompanying end tables were made of filigreed wood depicting veiled dancing women. Every vase and painting was an antique. The far sitting room wall was a floor-to-ceiling window with a balcony overlooking Rabat. Even the Persian accent rugs that led down the small hallway were of the highest quality. Through short hallway, open doors revealed the opulence of the other two rooms. One doorway opened to the washroom, gleaming with gold, green, and blue. The other doorway revealed the large bedroom in blue and gold with small red accents. 

Renart glanced down the small hallway and into the two open doors. He nodded to his wife before walking over to look out the windows. Elodie disappeared into the washroom. Rune frowned as Renart’s posture took on the stiffness of an act. Smoothing her face into an expressionless mask, she tilted her head at the valet.

One look at Rune’s face and the valet set the luggage down, then disappeared without waiting for his tip. Renart glanced at the security features around the suite and the security panel in the main sitting area before turning to Rune and giving her his full attention. “I’m familiar with this setup. I think I can manage.” 

Rune noticed his smiled seemed strained now that they were out of the public eye. “If there is anything you need, please don’t hesitate to call.” She stepped back towards the exit, thinking Renart was more tired than he let on, while trying to convince herself that Elodie couldn’t be who she thought she was.

He shifted from one foot to the other. “Yes, well. Elodie told me much about you. Perhaps, the two of you could catch up with one another?”

Rune frowned and cocked her head to one side, not understanding. Movement at the bathroom door caught her eye. There, standing with the light haloing her blonde hair, stood the most beautiful elven woman she’d ever seen—and a lost piece of Rune’s past.

“Zarya,” Rune whispered in a prayer of hope and disbelief.

“Hello, Makeda.”

Rune sat behind her desk, glaring at nothing. “You stupid slitch. How could you run like that?” She put her head in her hands. She knew exactly how and why Zarya had done what she did. The shock had been designed to knock her off her game, and to make her at least listen to what she and her husband had to say.

Her husband! That woman could always get to her. Rune’s cheeks flushed hot as the brief conversation looped itself through her memory.

“We need your help.”

“I’m sure the kitchen will have everything you need.”

“Makeda…”

“I have an appointment. Excuse me.”

Then she’d run for the back hallway stairs, not bothering to wait for the lift. To wait would’ve been a mistake. It would’ve meant more talk, more embarrassment, more of everything she didn’t want. At least she’d found her composure by the time she’d had to walk through the main floor with a smile chiseled into her face.

Saladin knew something was wrong, though. He’d waited five minutes before knocking on her office door and offering her a glass of real whiskey. He paused long enough for her to tell him she was unavailable tonight except for her established meeting with LongJack. 

The whiskey sat untouched in front of her. Just the smell of it was enough to bring back the memories of Belgium, and a run gone wrong…

…Makeda set the injured elf mage on the ground. The culvert wasn’t a very good hiding place, but it was large enough and dry. It would have to do.

She touched Zarya’s face. “Zar, wake up. You’ve got to heal yourself. Please…”

It had taken hours for Zarya to wake from her fatigue and injuries. That was the first time she’d kissed Makeda. An unwilling smile graced Rune’s lips as she touched them in memory. From there, it had been weeks of running, hiding, loving. Rune closed her eyes, letting the memories cascade over her. 

…Mingled hands and glances in the shadows of the Norbertine Abbey…

…Bodies entwined in the hayloft of an abandoned barn…

…A fleeting kiss before the two of them ran for their lives…

…The first night spent in a bed together in the Chateau de Mons…

Her comm link came to life. Saladin sounded frustrated.“I’m sorry, Red. I’ve got an elf here who insists she needs to see you now. That you know her.”

Rune growled at him. “Send her away. I don’t want to talk to her.”

“I’ve tried. She’s sworn she will sit where she is until you see her.”

“Dare I ask?”

“On the floor, outside your office.”

She rubbed her temples as she stood. “We’ll talk later about how she got that far in the first place. I’ll get her.” Opening her office door, Elodie was already standing.

Rune swallowed her heart and emotions as she gestured the lithe elf in. “Still as stubborn as ever I see.”

“It’s the only way I know how to be.” Elodie entered and sat in the chair across from Rune’s desk. “Makeda—”

“No.” Rune shook her head. “You don’t get to call me that. Makeda is long gone. She left when she thought you died in that explosion. I’m Rune. Miss Red to you. And you are Miss Sud to me.”

“I’m sorry—”

“Sorry’s not good enough. I looked for your body, for any sign of you for months. I couldn’t find anything. I had no choice but to think you were dead. Makeda died when I left Belgium.”

Elodie grimaced, then nodded. She bit her lip. “Well then, Miss Red, I need to do business with you.”

Rune took her seat behind her desk again. “What may I do for you?”

“Renart and I need to leave Morocco as soon as possible. There’s a price on our heads.” Elodie clasped her hands together. “It’s bad this time.”

“I’m sorry for you, but why come to me?” Rune shook her head. “I run a hotel and entertainment complex. Nothing more. Nothing less.”

Elodie’s gaze narrowed. “I’m not some slot off the street. Everyone who knows anything knows if you need something in a hurry, Rune’s Avatar Café is where you go.”

Rune shook her head again. “Don’t know who you’ve been talking to, but—”

“I can pay.” Elodie dropped an ebony credstick on the desk. “Please.”

The color of the credstick stopped Rune’s rejection in her throat. “Hoi, chummer… Maybe you need to tell me who or what you’re running from.” Now her eyes narrowed. “What did you bring down on my place?”

“Short version? Every merc unit from here to the border, the police, and every loyal Alliance and Federation member. It’s in your best interest to help us.” Elodie raised a slender hand. “Renart has some information on—” 

Rune shook her head. “No. Don’t tell me. The less I know, the better. He’s got paydata that’s enough to kill for, I’m sure.” She pressed her lips together in a thin line, considering the amount of nuyen that could be on the ebony credstick.

Elodie nodded. “We need to get to either Denver or Seattle as soon as possible.”

“Not Tir Na nÓg? It’s closer.”

“No. There are problems there. Tir Tairngire would be better, but Denver or Seattle would be easier. I’m not kidding, there’s multiple black market bounties on our heads.”

Rune stood and paced around the room for several silent rotations. If nothing else, Elodie was right. She needed the Suds out of her establishment, or it was going to become a smoking crater. But probably not in the way Elodie wanted. “Why isn’t he hiding? Why did you come here?”

“He was. Then he wasn’t because…because I told him you would be able to fix things.”

“You were wrong.” Rune put her hand on the doorknob. “I can’t help you. Things have changed. I’m not the woman you remember.”

Elodie picked up the ebony credstick, but didn’t put it away. “Yes, you are. I know you still are.”

There was a knock on the door.

Rune signaled Elodie to stay silent. “What?”

“It’s Fatima. LongJack is waiting for you at your table.”

Rune closed her eyes briefly. “Dammit.” She opened the door and pulled a startled Fatima into the room. She gestured at Elodie. “Take her through the back way to the penthouse. Don’t let anyone see you. Double security. Who’s on shoot duty?”

Fatima’s surprise shifted into the non-expression of all business. “Schism’s in the nest and Bishop’s on lead. I’ll get it done. Do we need to lock it down?”

Rune shook her head. “Just the penthouse. Things are going to be hot for a while.”

Elodie stepped up to Rune and pushed the ebony credstick in her hands. “You can help us. Please. We’re dead without you. Fix this.” Then she stepped out of the office and into the hallway, waiting for Fatima there.

Rune nodded at Fatima’s quizzical look. “You’ve got your orders. Also, have beef soycakes and a bottle of Hurlg sent to my table.”

After the two of them left, Rune looked down at the credstick in her hands. I can’t do this. I can’t give up everything I’ve made here. I’m going to have to tell the Mister himself that they came to the wrong girl. Shoving the credstick into a hidden pocket, she took a quick look in the mirror, deemed herself presentable, and put on her usual saunter. 

LongJack already had a mug of the dark, thick ale in hand. He looked like the typical bruiser ork, but Rune knew better. Behind the tusks and skin the color of dying moss lay a keen mind. LongJack was the best decker she knew—white hat, black hat, and merc alike. He was also in charge of the Afzalat, the most powerful merc unit in Rabat. Rumor had it that while he and his people could be bought by the highest bidder, they preferred to be hired by the Alliance.

Rune put on a wide smile as she approached the table. LongJack stood and nodded. “Rune. A pleasure. Thank you for seeing me on such short notice.” 

“You are always welcome here.” She watched him sit after she’d taken her seat. No smile. Stiff posture. This was business, and it wasn’t going to be pleasant. 

The ork nodded. “I know. But…” He pulled himself together and gazed at her. “You have people here that cannot be here. I’ve come in person to ask that you remove them from your place.”

She shook her head, frowning. “I’m not sure what you mean.” They were silent for the moment it took for the beef soycakes, a house specialty, to arrive. “I’m afraid I need a little bit more information.”

“We know that Renart Sud is here. There’s a bounty on his head. I’m sure you are aware.” He pushed on as she watched him. “I am getting much pressure from my superiors to acquire this man. He has crossed lines he should not have crossed.”

“Rune’s Avatar Café is a safe place for everyone. I pay a lot of money to make sure this is so.”

“I know. It’s why I’m asking you to tell Renart he is no longer welcome. I don’t care about the woman. But Renart needs to go. What happens to him afterwards is my business.”

“Someone’s trying to hack our system.” Walid’s voice chirped over her comm link. “They’re good, but we’re better.”’

“Acknowledged,” Rune said sotto voce. Her smile turned brittle. “If you want your hacker to survive, tell them to withdraw now. We will kill to protect our own.”

LongJack gave her a half-smile and a nod. “We had to try.”

“No. You didn’t. Not in my place. Don’t ever mess with me again.” Rune stood. “This place is safe for everyone—remember that.”

LongJack stood and gripped her arm to keep her from leaving. “Don’t be so sure of that.” He nodded to the main entryway, where Captain Belali and two uniformed police officers stood. 

“What are you doing?” Rune’s stomach dropped in fear as she jerked her arm out of LongJack’s grasp.

“Showing you just how important this is.”

As Rune watched, the two officers walked to a table indicated by the Captain. They leaned over, speaking quietly to the man eating alone there, then picked him up bodily, slapped cuffs on him as he started struggle, and tazed him when he wouldn’t calm down. The officers carried the unconscious man out of the Café.

Captain Belali walked over to her and removed his hat. “My most sincere apologies, Miss Red. That man was a wanted criminal. Very dangerous. You know how much I dislike interrupting the course of your business, but when duty calls, what can you do?” He gave her an apologetic smile and half bow before following his men out.

LongJack kept his voice low. “You have twenty-four hours to turn Renart out. After that, we will come in and get him. No one will stop us.”

“We will stop you.” Rune felt the rush of rage flush her cheeks. “With deadly force.”

He nodded. “I know. I am sorry for the damage we will do to the Café. I really do like this place.” He straightened. “Twenty-four hours.”

Rune watched him leave, her stomach in knots. If she wanted to protect what was hers, she was going to have to do something she did not want to do. She hated being pushed, and she was getting it from all sides. There was only one thing to do now.

“Please! You can’t do this to us. Rune, please.” 

Rune ignored Elodie’s plea as she escorted Renart and Elodie to the front desk. She gestured to the valet to take their bags. “I’m sorry it has come to this, Mr. Sud. Your credstick was found to be a forgery. I understand this isn’t your fault but as you cannot pay, you and your wife cannot stay. You understand.”

Elodie, once again dressed in her teal and gold abaya and niqab, whirled on Rune, stepping between her and Renart. “We trusted you.”

“You should’ve found a better banker.” Rune kept her voice mild. She shot out a hand and caught Elodie’s wrist before the furious woman slapped her. “Don’t press your luck.”

Walid coughed into his fist. “Pardon me. Your car has arrived.”

Renart gently removed Rune’s hand from Elodie’s wrist and pulled his wife to his side. “She’s doing what she needs to do, Elodie. I understand it all too well. We will make do.” He escorted his wife outside to the car without looking back. 

Rune shook her head and walked to the bar. “Whiskey, Sasha. Make it a double.” She took the glass of amber liquor and warmed it between her palms. 

“That was faster than I expected you to move. I expected them to still be here in the morning.”

She scowled into her drink before tossing it back in two long swallows. Then she turned to face Belali. “I wasn’t given a choice. I didn’t want another example or a firefight in my place.”

The police captain had his hat in his hand, and glanced at the floor for a moment before looking up again. “I wasn’t given much of a choice either. My orders came from above.” He leaned forward to take one of her hands in his and press a credstick into it. “I’ve been asked to give you this from LongJack. Since you did what he asked, he thought you should be paid for your effort.”

She glanced down at the silver credstick before making it disappear. “The Café is safe, but my reputation is in ruins, I’m sure. This might cover what I’m going to lose in business.”

Belali straightened. “Business is business, and that is all this was. People will forget in time.” He shrugged. “Such is the price of doing business in Rabat.”

“What will happen now?” Rune gazed over the emptier than usual main dining hall. 

“Oh, well. My people will keep watch on Mr. Sud and his lovely bride. We will know where they are at all times. LongJack will call me. I will tell him what I know. I will be paid. And then…” He shrugged again, looking away. “I suspect that Renart Sud and his wife will no longer be wanted by the powers that be.”

 She shook her head. “You’re a piece of work.”

“We all do what we need to do to survive.” He bowed his head to her. “And now, duty calls.”

Rune returned to her office, keeping her gait steady and her face neutral. When she was safely behind closed doors, she paused long enough to take a steadying breath but didn’t stop. Walking to the back part of her office, she opened a hidden door and stepped inside a very small elevator. 

Waiting for her at the bottom was Fatima. “All is well?”

Rune nodded. “As well as can be. At least Belali took the bait. You?”

“No problem. Oded owed me a favor. He got me two stage kits in short order. They’re being coached now.” 

The two of them walked through the hidden passageways underneath Avatars and the Café until they reached one of the safe havens. There, two human men—both redheads—were being coached how to speak, hold themselves, and walk by Saladin. Rune watched for a long couple of minutes before she nodded. “Renart. Elodie.”

Only one of the men twitched in her direction, then stopped and made an attempt to cover his mistake by studying his nails.

“Not bad. Which one are you?”

The man who had twitched hung his head. “Renart.”

Rune nodded. “You’ll need to do better if you want to survive.”

“I know.”

“What happens now?” Elodie, the shorter of the two men, asked. 

“Now, we hand you over to the team I’ve hired who will get you to where you’re going. I’ll pay them half upfront, and half after one of you contacts me. Then the two of you will be on your own. Remember, those nanopoly masks will only last twenty-four hours. That’s all your money gets you.”

“What do you get out of this?”

Rune gazed at her, looking for the woman behind the mask. She couldn’t see Elodie’s delicate elven features at all. “Besides my nuyen? The knowledge that both of you owe me. I suspect favors from you two will come in handy in the future. Also, I know where you are and how you got there. That’s enough for me this time around.”

“Thank you for doing this for me.”

Rune shook her head. “I’m not doing it for you. This isn’t some old-time romantic movie. I’m doing it for me.”

Elodie looked away, then returned to Saladin and Renart.

“We’ll always have Belgium.” Rune murmured, smiling a soft, sad smile as she turned to Fatima. “Is the team here?”

“Yes. Waiting in the garage.” Fatima glanced at Saladin. “He got them fake SINs that match their masks.”

“What about their regular gear?”

“Silent mode or stored.”

Saladin lifted his head and called. “We’re ready here.”

Rune straightened her shoulders. “Time to fix things for everyone.”

Rune sat at the bar of the closed dining hall. Avatars, below them, was still going strong, but the Café always shut down at 0200, and all diners were out of the hall by 0300. She stared at the empty place.

“Can I get you anything?” 

Saladin and Fatima had returned with her to the dining hall to make sure everything was set for tomorrow. Rune knew it was because they thought she needed babysitting. Maybe she did. “Double whiskey. Real. Not colored water.”

“You want me to play something for you?” Fatima brought her music deck over to the bar.

Rune smiled. “Yeah. Something sad and sweet. But not The Song.”

“I can manage that.” Fatima let her fingers dance over the keyboard in a modern ballad.

“What are we going to do when they discover the fake Renart and Elodie?” Saladin slid a glass of real alcohol to her.

“Nothing. The runners I hired know nothing of the other team. They thought Renart and Elodie hired them to cover for the ‘forged credstick,’ but were too young, dumb, or desperate to check the credsticks they received during the deal.”

“It wasn’t forged, was it?”

Rune shook her head. “Of course not. So, either they’ll escape or they won’t. If they do, they do—and a job well done. I might use them in the future. If they don’t, they’ll tell the truth or die.”

“And we’re still in the clear, either way.” Saladin nodded. 

“Speaking of which, everyone involved gets a bonus. LongJack paid for my acquiescence. I figured I should share the bounty.”

Fatima and Saladin grinned at each other. “I hope he never finds out.”

“Such is the price of doing business in Morocco.” Rune raised her glass to her employees and friends. “Here’s looking at you, kid.”

Sweating Bullets

By Chris A. Jackson

Act I

Caribbean Heat

I snapped awake, stopping my reflexive strike an inch before my fingertips pierced the flight attendant’s eyes. He blinked, the color draining from his face.

I brushed his hand off my shoulder. “Don’t do that.”

“L-Landing in ten minutes, ma’am. Please put your seat upright.” The attendant hurried forward.

“I think you scared a little pee out of him, Tiya.” Hennesy chuckled as his plush leather seat inclined to the upright position.

I brought my seat up. “I’ll apologize later.” I didn’t mean to scare the poor guy. He was cute in a clueless, lost puppy sort of way.

I don’t generally sleep when I’m on the job, even when I know my mark is safe, but the seats of a first-class Learjet 95 are more comfortable than a gutter, and I’ve slept in a few of those, even when I wasn’t safe.

Out the window, Grand Cayman’s Seven Mile Beach swept past, hundred-story luxury hotels lined up like dominoes waiting for a cat-five to knock them down. Unfortunately, we weren’t here for the beach. Grand Cayman is one of the offshore banking capitals of the world. The Draco Foundation runs the island, and they greet corporate investors with open arms.

Hennesy shifted in his seat, rattling the chain linking his wrist to his briefcase. I had one exactly like it. His carried an encrypted credstick loaded with a month’s worth of NeoNET’s off-the-books profits. Mine carried something else entirely. He was the courier, and I was the muscle, but nobody looking at us could tell that. We were both dressed in class-A suits, tailored and spotless, and we both had jacks in our temples, though his was a datajack, while mine was a skillwire.

It was a simple shell game: send two couriers, and you halve the chance the real one will get hit if there’s a snatch and run. Flashy chrome only makes you a target in this game. Whenever I ran with chromed-up razorguys, they were always shot at before me. Go figure.

The jet touched down, and I stood up to retrieve my carry on. Sitting for two hours with a gun holstered in the small of your back isn’t comfortable, so when I’m safe, I don’t. Now the job trumped comfort.

The Ruger Thunderbolt nestled in place like a hand into a glove. Beneath that, my Couger Fineblade slipped into its sheath against my spine. As the plane came to rest, I tugged my Armorani jacket into place. It was cut with padding to hide my armaments, and could stop anything short of an assault rifle round.

“Ready, Mr. Tyler?”

“Of course, Ms. Jhareka.” He smiled and put on his sunglasses. “Relax. You look tense.”

“I’ll relax when the money’s in the bank.” And I intended to do just that. I glanced at the flight attendant. I really should apologize.

“Working on your tan some more?” Hennesy chuckled at my old joke.

Our first run, he’d asked me what I did for fun. I thought it was a come on, and told him I work on my tan. My skin is very dark—part of being Haitian—and he’d burst out laughing. When I realized that it wasn’t a come on, my opinion of him went up a notch. We’ve made a dozen of these runs now, and he hasn’t hit on me once. I guess he’s one of those guys who thinks a wife and kids mean something. I met her once. She’s nice, too. Go figure.

I remember all the times my runner friends and I laughed at suits like Hennesy, but I don’t laugh anymore. Most corporate suits have no clue how truly fucked up the world is, but that doesn’t make them evil. The Voudoun Wars showed me evil up close. Some shit you just can’t unsee, unsmell, unfeel…

I escaped Haiti when I was thirteen, and never looked back. Ten years in the shadows earned me enough nuyen to buy a softer life. Fuck all those anarchist assholes for calling me traitor or sell-out. I eat three good meals a day, sleep on clean sheets, and most days nobody’s even shooting at me.

I put on my sunglasses to hide the glint of my cybereyes, and stopped at the open door, Hennesy right beside me.

I kicked my attention coprocessors into high gear as we stepped out, and the world slipped into slow-motion. I scanned for threats: fifteen people, four vehicles, two planes in the air, eight birds, two security drones over the terminal, and a fat cockroach skittering across the tarmac. The Caribbean heat prickled my skin, and I started sweating, despite my suit’s climate control. I grew up in the heat, and my body knew how to compensate. You sweat, it evaporates, and you cool; a miracle of evolution. Anyone who thinks they can out-engineer Mother Nature has never looked a real predator in the eyes.

“Ladies first.” Hennesy gestured and smiled.

Nice guy, like I said.

There’s a skill to walking like a norm when you’re wired so tight you can count raindrops in a hurricane. I’m good at it, which is why I have this job.

I reached the tarmac without having to kill anyone, Hennesy a step behind. A glance and a shared smile was all the communication we needed. Everything was clear. Two hundred eighty-three steps to the customs and immigration desk, scanning for targets all the way. This was the easy part. It was the road that was the gauntlet.

We passed through customs with a quick scan of our SIN chips and corporate IDs. The Draco Foundation knows we bring in billions of nuyen every year, and doesn’t quibble about duty. We walked out of the airport among a throng of tourists, just another couple of corporate suits headed for the bank.

The same Toyota Elite we’d taken the last six times stood waiting with our driver, an afro-ork named Tofi. As I scanned the street, he grinned and opened the door for us. I spotted a guy on a brightly painted scooter paying us too much attention. He looked local, but wore a bulky jacket despite the heat.

“Know him, Tofi?” I nodded to the green and yellow scooter.

“Just a ganger.” Tofi patted the bulge under his jacket. “No worries, mon.”

“Right.” I got in the car and tried to keep my eyes on the scooter, but it vanished into the packed throng of vehicles as Tofi pulled out into the nightmare of Caribbean traffic.

This was the part I hated.

There were hundreds of threats to scan, and no room to maneuver. We turned onto a narrow two-lane and passed the rental car outfits crowded with tourists, then the market, and more tourists loading up on rum and food for their vacations. I glimpsed a flash of green and yellow among the parked cars, but couldn’t tell if it was the scooter.

Traffic bogged down as we approached the intersection to North Sound Road. You can count the stoplights on the island on one hand, and this intersection didn’t even have a roundabout. Merging into traffic was like threading a needle with a sledgehammer, but Tofi was an islander.

I caught a glimpse of yellow in Tofi’s rear-view.

“Problem, Tofi.” I saw him glance into his mirror.

“Same ganger. Think they’ve got a—drek!” Tofi slammed on the brakes as a van jerked from the oncoming lane in front of us. The side door slid open, and I knew we were hosed.

I kicked into high gear like a freight train.

“Down!” Grabbing Hennesy by the jacket, I flung him down while thumbing open the print-lock of my case with my other hand. The case and my cuff clicked open, Hennesy yelped in surprise, and a troll stepped out of the van, leveling a small artillery piece at us.

I pulled the HK Urban Combat SMG from my case just as the troll fired. The bulletproof windshield took some juice out of the round, and Tofi took the rest right in the chest. Blood, meat, and bone sprayed out the back of the seat, painting my cream silk jacket crimson. Some shrapnel came with it, but none got through my Armorani.

My cleaning bill was going to be a bitch.

I hefted the HK in my left hand, opened the door, and drew my Thunderbolt with my right. Before the troll could paste me with another salvo, I centered the smartlink crosshairs on his left eye and snapped off a burst, then put another in his right. I fired blind with my Thunderbolt to keep scooter-boy occupied, but as I turned, I saw that he’d swerved up alongside the car. He pulled something out of his jacket, not a weapon, but like a huge can opener.

Not good.

I fired over the top of the car, but the burst careened off the roof and only grazed his scalp. He ducked as he screeched to a stop. I could shoot him through the passenger door when he opened it, but Hennesy was in the line of fire.

No problem, mon.

I put a foot on the door’s armrest, intending to go over the top for a shot, but the roar of a diesel engine grabbed my attention. I glimpsed the grill of a Mercedes panel truck an instant before it hit me.

Bone lacing and dermal sheathing kept me in one piece, but the impact slammed me through the car door, and I was airborne. I knew I was hurt, but the pain and shock wouldn’t hit for a few seconds. The moment of weightlessness gave me time to take aim.

I emptied the HK through the windshield of the truck, painting the back of the cab with the driver’s brains. Pain lanced through my leg as I rolled to my feet. My trauma symbiotes would keep me from bleeding to death, but it hurt like hell. My HK was empty, and the spare clips were still in the car, but I had eight rounds left in my Thunderbolt, and two mags in my rig. I wasn’t going to break any sprinting records back to the car, but at least I could dissuade the snatchers.

Unfortunately, they could dissuade me, too.

An SMG muzzle rounded the corner of the van that had cut us off, its laser sight sweeping toward me. The muzzle flashes told me where the bullets were going and I turned sideways. One round creased my jacket, but the other passed without touching me. I unloaded my Thunderbolt through the van’s back window. The tires smoked in reverse, blocking my view of the car, so I dumped the empty mag and jacked in a fresh one. Six armor-piercing rounds in the engine block killed the vehicle, and the rest of the clip did the same for the driver.

I planted my back against the side of the van, slapped in my last mag, and drew my Fineblade. I’m no street samurai, so I jacked in a sword program and rounded the van. An ork with an SMG and a bloody arm was climbing into the driver’s seat of the truck, but there was no sign of Hennesy or the biker.

I aimed at the ork, but he ducked below the dash and gunned the big diesel engine. My last clip was hollow-points, not armor-piercers, so two bursts in the engine did nothing but hole the radiator. I rolled out of the way and slashed the rear tire with my Fineblade. One of the dual tires blew, but the truck rolled on, smashing the van aside. I raised my pistol, but only caught a glimpse of Hennesy’s shiny shoes inside before the door slammed down.

I needed wheels.

The van was dead, and our car was full of holes and pieces of Tofi. The ganger’s bike, however, was right there. It wasn’t much, but with traffic, maneuverability was better than speed. I grabbed four more clips for my HK, sheathed my blade, and gunned the bike to life, trading my sword skillsoft for a bike program.

We raced up North Sound Road, the truck knocking smaller vehicles aside and me dodging the wreckage. The first roundabout nearly murdered me, as I forgot to go counterclockwise—Damn Brits! My shoe met the fender of one vehicle, and I snaked around another. As I closed on my target, I put a burst into another of the truck’s tires. One more and they’d be on rims. The truck swerved, and before I could get another burst off the back door rolled up two feet. An ork lay prone as he leveled an assault rifle at me.

I swerved into the gravel shoulder and laid the bike on its side as the ork opened up. Sparks and pieces of shrapnel flew up in the cloud of dust and rocks. I rolled, tucking my arms to keep them from being torn off, and came up with my HK leveled. The door was back down and the truck was hauling ass up the road.

I was going to need a new suit.

Surprisingly, the bike still ran. I kicked it in gear and tore off after them again. Two roundabouts later, I’d gained ground, but not enough. The truck turned right onto a side road, and I had a sinking suspicion where they were headed. I skidded around the turn and raced up the dirt road past the astonished golfers lining up their drives on an exclusive course.

Who comes to the Caribbean to golf, anyway?

I was still too far back when the truck skidded to a stop at the marina. The throaty roar of boat engines caught my ear as four snatchers hauled Hennesy toward a long, black hull. The cred case still dangled from the chain cuffed to his wrist. They must have known they needed him alive to decrypt the credstick. If they got him aboard, I’d never get him or the money back.

I had two options: kill Hennesy, or deprive the snatchers of the case. As they stepped across to the boat, I skidded to a stop, leveled my HK, and snapped off a burst. The handle of the case disintegrated. The aluminum case clattered across the deck of the boat and splashed into the water.

The four all leveled guns at me and opened up, but I dove behind a parked car. Shattered glass rained down, but I kept firing to keep them from fishing the case out of the water. For once in my life, the howl of sirens was a welcome sound. The boat gunned its engines and blasted out of the marina.

I limped to the dock and fished the case out just as two Draco security cruisers pulled up. Laser sights winked onto my damaged suit. I dropped my HK and raised my hands.

“I’m NeoNET security!”

“Don’t fucking move!”

“Not moving! But if you don’t let me call this in, my bosses are gonna have your dicks on hotdog buns for lunch! Come check my ID, but hurry the frag up!”

When they had, I keyed the emergency code on my comm.

I heard a click, and a voice commanded, “Report.”

“Jhareka reporting, Tyler was nabbed. They took him off island by boat, a black Zemlya-Poltava Crest. Sending visual data.” I sent my cybereye’s recording of the boat tearing out of the marina. “You should be able to pick them up on satellite.”

“Did they get the package?”

“Negative. I have the package, but they have Tyler.”

“Stand by.”

“Stand by for what?”

“Instructions.”

I waited. My leg hurt. My suit was shredded, and my nerves matched it perfectly. Damn it, Hennesy…

“Go to your hotel and check in. Guard the package. We’ll send another courier with the encryption codes, and you’ll accompany him for the deposit. Meet him at the airport tomorrow morning.”

“What about Tyler?”

“Not your problem. Confirm your orders.”

“Confirmed.” I gritted my teeth and disconnected. Hennesy was disposable. “Fuck!”

Act II

The Deal

I was in the shower when my comm rang. I took it through my earlink. “Jhareka.”

“You got somethin’ we want, and we got somethin’ you want.”

I didn’t recognize the voice, but it didn’t take much imagination to figure out what he was talking about. My mind raced faster than my wired reflexes. The only reason they would call me is if they wanted to deal.

“What makes you think I want what you took?”

“He said you would. If you don’t, he’s shark bait.”

I knew better than to think he was bluffing. Decision time. If I made a deal with the snatchers, I’d have to walk away from my corporate life. No warm bed, no three meals, no SIN. Hennesy…wife, kids, nice guy… Shit. I’d watched my family get murdered when I was six. Hennesy had a life.

“What’d you have in mind?”

“We’re willin’ to share. You geeked three of our people. You bring the case, you get your boyfriend and their shares.”

It really was a good deal. Too good, of course.

“My corp will come after me.” I had to make them think I was nothing but a corporate bodyguard. If they dug deep, they might discover I had a shadowy past. With no links to the shadows, I was no threat.

“With three shares of this haul, you and your boyfriend can disappear.”

That was twice he’d said ‘boyfriend.’ What had Hennesy told them? “Okay. Where and when?”

He rattled off coordinates. “Midnight tomorrow.”

I stepped out of the shower and grabbed my phone, punching up the coordinates. Jamaica, right in the middle of Cockpit Country. Deep jungle. I stepped back into the shower to mask my voice from the bugs I suspected NeoNET had in my room. “Daylight, or no deal, and I’ll need time to figure out how to get there without the corp following me.”

“Fine, noon the day after.”

The agreement came too fast. They would kill me the moment I touched down.

“Deal.”

The connection went dead.

My mind raced. I needed some things. I pulled on a robe, went out on the balcony, and closed the hurricane-proof glass door. I encrypted my phone and punched a number I hadn’t used in five years.

“What?” Skeeve sounded irritable, but he always did.

“Ice Cream.”

“Who the fuck—no way!” There was a pause while he confirmed the call ID. “Creamy girl, whachu up to?”

“Working. I need some stuff.”

“Workin’ in the sun or in the shade?”

“In the shade.”

“Okay, you trip my usual fee, and we can do business.”

“Done.” I transferred five-K to his account.

“Sweet! Whachu need?”

“An off-grid flight from Grand Cayman to Montego Bay, and a local team on the other end. Someone who does jungle work.”

“Can do. Details in an hour.”

“Good. One more thing. I also need an extraction team in Manhattan. I’ll send you the details later, but line it up.”

“That’s another fee.”

“Done.” I hung up and sent him the cash. Now all I had to do was escape my corporate life. I stepped back into my room and made a call to the concierge on the hotel line.

“Yes?”

“I need a new suit. Armorani. Cream white. You should have my specs on file.”

“Let me check.” Pause. “Yes. I can have that for you tomorrow morning.”

“Make it this afternoon. I have a date.”

“There will be an additional charge for—”

“Charge my room account.” Let NeoNET pay for my clothes. “And send up a steak, medium rare, with all the sides.” My symbiotes were devouring calories like a jet engine to heal my leg. It still hurt like hell, but the swelling was already down.

I hung up and glared at the case on my bed. “You better be worth this.”

Act III

Jamaica Me Crazy

I stepped out of the Montego Bay airport into fading heat and a dazzling sunset. I didn’t have time to enjoy the view. Skeeve had given me an address and a name.

I wondered if NeoNET had flagged me yet. I’d transferred my entire net worth onto a certified credstick twenty minutes before boarding my chartered plane under an assumed identity. If they were watching me closely I was hosed, but my plane didn’t get shot down, so maybe I’d dodged them.

I grabbed a cab. “Sand and Sea Resort, up the A1.”

The driver grinned in the rearview. “T’ing’s place? No problem.”

It didn’t surprise me that the cabbie knew my contact. Runners in the Carib-league live on their flashy reputations, and frag one another as often as they do corporations.

Thirty minutes later, we pulled up in front of a dilapidated beach resort with two beat-up trucks in the drive, a small herd of goats staked in the yard, and a surly-looking ork with an AK on his hip standing guard. Muffled reggae filled the sultry air. I shouldered my bag and walked up to the door guard.

“I’m here to see Ting.”

“You?” He eyed me from head to toe, his lip curling back from his tusks. “Buzz, chummer.”

My Fineblade was at his throat before he could blink.

“Call me shark bait again, chummer, and you will be.” To an islander, chum isn’t a friend, but fish bait. “Now call Ting. I’ve got work for him.”

The ork swallowed and keyed the mic at his throat. “Some ti fi in an ice cream suit here to see T’ing.”

Ti fi… My creole accent must have been showing. I amped up my hearing and picked out the voice squawking in the ork’s ear. “Let her in. She’s expected.”

So nice to be expected.

“You’re in. No need for the blade.”

I put it away. “Thanks.”

Inside, two more enforcers met me. One was sheer muscle and chrome. The other looked like a teenybopper on spring break, string bikini and all. She could probably fry me like bacon in a skillet with a wave of her hand.

Damned mages…

“Follow me.” The muscle strode toward a wide doorway at the back of the lobby.

Outside, reggae music blared. There was a lot of laughter, and a lot of people. I’d stepped right into the middle of a party. There were maybe fifty in and around the pool, and another fifty spilling onto the beach. There, a huge troll in flowered shorts stood over a grill, flipping racks of charred meat. The smell set my mouth watering.

Jerk goat, my favorite.

To my surprise, I was escorted right up to the grill master. The troll turned to me with wide brush in one hand and a trident-sized fork in the other, looking at me like he was sizing me up for his grill. Sweat rolled down his massive belly in rivulets, and dreads hung down his back. He grinned with teeth not the usual square slabs of a troll, but pointed like a crocodile’s. He sported no chrome, so I pegged him for a shaman.

“So.” The troll flipped a side of goat and dipped his brush in a five-gallon bucket of jerk sauce. The grill hissed as he painted it on, the spicy smell heavenly. “You got business for T’ing?”

“You’re T’ing?”

“From my pretty head down to my dainty little toes, ti fi.” He grinned again and picked up a haunch of sizzling meat from the grill with his bare hand. “My momma always said I was the prettiest little t’ing she ever seen, and the name stuck.” He stripped the meat from the haunch with his tusks.

“Then you’re the person I need to talk to. I’ve got work for you.”

“You hungry?” He tossed the bone aside.

“Ravenous.”

“Good. We eat while we talk.” He loaded down two plates from a nearby table and called out. “O.C.! Take over here. I got business.”

“Sure, T’ing!” A female orc with a bottle of rum in her hand and an AK slung over one metal shoulder came over. She looked at me and grinned. “Nice suit. You must be our Ms. Johnson.”

I smiled back. “Yes and no.”

I followed T’ing to a log and sat down with my plate. The beach was just as crowded as the pool, groups sitting around fires, or splashing in the surf.

The jerk goat set my mouth on fire. I chewed in utter bliss. T’ing pulled a joint the size of a Havana Montecristo out of a pouch at his hip and lit up.

“So, who you want geeked?”

“It’s more of an extraction than a hit.” I filled him in on the details, and my interest in keeping Hennesy alive. I pointed to the aluminum case. “That’s the take. You get a third of it.”

“I don’t work on spec, ti fi.” He puffed and ate. “Takes more than a maybe to get my fat ass off the beach.”

“I can give you a deposit.”

“How much?”

I handed over my credstick. “That’s all I’ve got.”

T’ing checked the balance and frowned. “How much in the case?”

“I don’t know. It’s encrypted.”

“Guess.”

“NeoNET doesn’t fart smaller than ten million nuyen.”

One thick brow arched. “I get fifty percent.”

“Thirty-five.”

“Forty-five.”

“Forty.”

“Done.” He took another drag of his stogie-sized joint. “When?”

“My meet’s noon day after tomorrow. We either run it in daylight, with me as a decoy and your team backing me up, or find where they’re holding Hennesy and go in tomorrow night.”

“Dark’s better. And whachu you mean we?”

“I’m going with you.”

T’ing squinted at me. “You know your way around the jungle?”

“Yes.” I didn’t elaborate.

“Not wearin’ that ice cream suit, you ain’t.”

“No.” I didn’t elaborate on that, either.

“Okay, where’s the drop?”

I gave him the coordinates, and his thick brow furrowed. “Not good. That’s Kofo territory. Bad juju.”

“Kofo?” I felt a chill. The Kofo were one of the lesser Voudoun cults. Voudou can be good or bad. The Kofo were bad. “I heard they never left Haiti.”

“They been movin’ in, takin’ land, turnin’ some into zombies.” T’ing hawked and spat. “We go in, there’s gonna be blood.”

“There’s always blood.” I stripped spicy meat off a goat rib and chewed. “We just make sure it’s theirs.”

T’ing smiled. “I like you, ti fi. What’s your name?”

“Ice Cream.”

“Excellent! We plan tomorrow. Tonight we party.” He held out the joint and raised an eyebrow. “You Rasta?”

“I am tonight.” I took a hit and passed it back, blowing a smoke ring into the sultry Caribbean night.

Act IV

Smash and Grab

It took all day for T’ing’s hacker to find where they were keeping Hennesy. The coordinates for the drop turned out to be an empty clearing in the jungle. Tracing sea, air, radio traffic logs, and satellite data for the previous day, he traced Hennesy to another spot twenty klicks east, a clearing sporting three temporary buildings, one TR-55 VTOL, and a concrete bunker in the side of a hill. There were no fences or guard towers, but we knew they’d have security. We would approach, recon by stealth and magic—I was right about T’ing: crocodile shaman—locate Hennesy, and grab him. T’ing’s rigger would pilot their VTOL, and we’d vacate the premises.

Seven of us: one rigger, three gunners, T’ing, a physical adept named Pak who hadn’t said a word since I met him, and me.

The truck that had been pounding my ass to jelly for the last hour finally stopped, and the rigger, Jingo, unplugged. “This is it, omaes.”

We grabbed our gear and got out. Bats flicked through the dusky light, scooping up insects, predators and prey in a never-ending dance. Time to become a predator.

I stripped out of my borrowed camos.

I drew some stares from the team, but only professional ones. Four mags and my skillsoft case clipped to my thong, my Fineblade sheathed on my back. I switched my dermal sheath to chameleon mode, and my sensor suite shifted the thin layer of polymer to mimic my surroundings. I vanished. The only parts of me that didn’t match the jungle were the metallic glint of my eyes, and my weapons.

“Trick rig,” O.C. said, slapping a clip into her sniper rifle. “Hope it stops bullets.”

“I’d rather be invisible than bulletproof.”

“Enough chat. We’re on the job.” T’ing wore a thick flak vest over his torso, camo pants, and carried a combat shotgun with an under-barrel grenade launcher. “Ice Cream and Pak on point. Talk on comm only, and keep it quiet.”

We moved out.

Pak, who wore only camo paint and a skintight pair of shorts, looked at me and nodded. He moved, and for a moment I thought my cybereyes had glitched. He melted into the jungle without a sound.

The jungle swallowed us whole.

Some things you never forget. A twelve-year-old girl surviving in the jungle learns fear. Fear is your friend. Fear will keep you alive. It hones your edge, sharpens your senses. Anyone who tells you they’re not afraid of an awakened jungle is lying, stupid, or crazy.

It was a long hump in. Sweat rolled down my body with the exertion and humidity. I could hear the rest of the team behind us. Pak, I could only see intermittently on thermal. The guy was a ghost.

“Close now,” my ear bud chirped. I didn’t recognize the voice.

“Going stealth.” T’ing muttered something, and the soft crackle of his massive boots crunching through the foliage went quiet. I glanced back and saw nothing.

Magic…

“Anything astral watching?” O.C. whispered over the comm.

“Not yet. My Loa’s watchin’. Forward slow.”

It was nice to know that T’ing’s astral companion was covering our asses, but the thought of a lurking crocodile spirit gave me shivers. As we moved forward, I caught a whiff of rotting meat and rusting metal or blood.

“Smell something,” I sub-vocalized over the com.

“Death.” The same voice I couldn’t identify, maybe Pak. “Your left. Ten meters. It smells us.”

It? Great…

I holstered my Thunderbolt. We were still in stealth mode, and only my HK had a silencer. I drew my Fineblade and jacked in my sword skillsoft.

To my left, something moved. A shadow in the dark, the glint of metal, the glow of a cybereye low to the ground, and the smell of rotting meat. All the pieces clicked together, and I had an answer I didn’t like.

“Biodrone.” That meant a rigger controlling it. My senses strained, trying to pick out movement, the faintest sound.

“Your left, four meters!” T’ing must have cast some kind of detection spell, because I still couldn’t see shit, even on thermal.

I froze, blending into my surroundings. A huge snake slithered out of the undergrowth, its body as big around as my thigh, cybered up and linked to its rigger via the tiny antenna in the back of its skull.

I hate snakes.

Its tongue flicked out, tasting the air, tasting me, though its cybereyes swept back and forth without pausing. It could smell me, but couldn’t pierce my camo.

I stayed utterly motionless, Fineblade hidden behind my arm, and my Thunderbolt and HK blocked by my body. If I struck fast enough, and severed the link between its brain and the rigger, it might pass as a system failure long enough for us to get in and get Hennesy.

The cyber-snake reared up, its coils curling. It knew something was there. Me.

I don’t know if it heard my hammering heart, or if it struck blindly, but the next instant, a mouth that could swallow a troll was coming at me, wide open and lined with teeth. I brought my blade up, edge facing the onrushing horror.

A hundred kilos of snake knocked me flat, teeth clamping on my shoulders, blood drenching my face and chest. My blade had split it right between its cybereyes, but momentum and reflex snapped those jaws down. As its body thrashed, I twisted the Fineblade and slashed, separating body from head, but the two halves of its jaws still held on, needle teeth grating on my dermal sheath.

I clenched my jaw through the pain, and tried to pull one of the halves of the snake’s head off, but the teeth just dug in deeper.

“Shhh.” Right next to my ear, Pak’s voice came like a phantom in the dark. “Hold still.”

Fingers pried the snake’s clamped jaws apart, with a sound like Velcro parting. I almost puked. He freed the other half from my right shoulder.

“Okay?”

“Fine,” I lied, regaining my feet and picking up my dropped HK. “Thanks.”

He nodded and vanished into the jungle.

“Threat neutralized. Watch out for biodrones.” I kept my voice steady, trying to ignore the sticky blood all over me. “We may be hosed, but I don’t hear any alarms.”

“Roger. Proceed. Eyes up, everyone. Showtime.”

I stepped forward. There might have been more biodrones out there, but I didn’t encounter any. Five meters from the edge of the clearing we stopped. I scanned and reported.

“Sentries walking perimeter. Two human, one ork, one elf. All chromed. Three shacks, antennas on the middle one, so that’s probably the rigger and com shack. There’s a camera on the entrance to the bunker, but no guards there. Any location on Hennesy?”

“He’s in the center shack,” T’ing replied. Nice to know his magic was working. “Plan A.”

Plan A was to neutralize the guards, scoop up Hennesy, and grab the transport.

“Confirmed.”

I was on point, so it was my call. “Pak, you take the elf when he passes, I’ve got the ork. O.C., the other two are yours.”

Everyone confirmed. We waited. Pak would make the first move, so the ball was his.

When Pak exploded from the foliage, I fired a burst into the ork’s head and he went down. I turned to support Pak, but he was already past his target. The elf fell with his head on backward, his SMG firing blindly. I moved.

A pop over my shoulder, and another sentry’s head exploded, thanks to a round from O.C.’s sniper rifle. The final sentry brought her weapon up, and I threw a burst at her. I don’t know if my rounds or O.C.’s killed her, but she went down coughing blood. Pak and I were at the middle shack door in six seconds. He kicked the door hard enough to knock it off its hinges, and T’ing put a flash bang through it.

I opened my mouth, suppressed my hearing, and filtered my cybereyes, but the shock of the explosion still rattled my teeth. We went in, Pak moving like camo lightning, hands and feet dealing death, and me with HK and Thunderbolt picking targets. A rigger lay in a couch, cables like tentacles trailing from his jacks. I put a burst into the rig, and shot him in both knees. He jerked and screamed. An ork swung an Uzi toward Hennesy, who was cuffed to a chair. I unloaded on him with both weapons before he could pull the trigger. Hennesy looked dazed, but alive. When I looked for more targets, I found Pak standing over four dead bodies. He nodded at me, and we went to work.

My Fineblade parted the chain of Hennesy’s handcuffs, and Pak slung him over his shoulder.

“Package acquired. Evac!” I led the way out the door, just in time to discover all Hell breaking loose outside.

Jingo writhed in the clutches of a fifteen-foot cyber-snake, and Dondy, one of our gunners, stood over the embattled pair, trying to shoot the snake without riddling our rigger. O.C. stood at the edge of the jungle, popping off single rounds with her sniper rifle, while our other gunner hosed down the two huts as mercs poured out the doors. T’ing stood with his shotgun aimed at the bunker, a huge crocodilian form before him entangled with an equally huge serpent. The two manifested spirits fought each other like beasts from a Kaiju flick, while Kofo mages flung magic and lead from the bunker mouth.

An AK’s rattle heralded a grim announcement from Dondy. “Jingo’s down! We need a pilot!”

“I’ll fly! Cover and evac!” I jacked in a pilot skillsoft and sprinted for the VTOL, laying down suppressive fire with Pak on my heels. I fragged the door latch and raced to the cockpit, hitting the ramp release as I fired up the turbines. The ramp dropped, and my team retreated to the gate, emptying mags as they went. T’ing threw down his weapon and flung a manaball down the mouth of the bunker.

“T’ing! Come on! Engines are hot! Shut the door behind you!” A bullet spiderwebbed my canopy. I poked the muzzle of my HK through the hole and hosed down the mouth of the bunker to cover the troll’s retreat.

“All aboard!” T’ing’s bellow rattled my ears.

We didn’t have time for a textbook takeoff. I grabbed the yoke and slammed the blade pitch to full with turbines spinning at maximum. The VTOL lurched off the ground. Rounds pinged against the hull, but my gauges showed green. Nothing critical had been hit. I banked and headed north at treetop level.

“All okay?” T’ing’s massive head poked up into the cockpit.

“Okay here.” I glanced at him. “Jingo?”

“Gone, but we took payment with interest.” He had a bullet wound across one cheek and a number of hits to his body armor, but sounded elated. “Wish we could’a stayed to finish the bastards.”

“How’s Hennesy?”

“Lookin’ like he’s not sure he hasn’t just been dumped from one fry pan into another.”

I took a deep breath. “Send him up.”

“Sure.” He grinned. “Good run, ti fi.”

“No problem, mon.”

The next face I saw was Hennesy’s, looking a little pale. “Tiya? Who are these…people?”

“Have a seat.” I nodded to the copilot’s couch.

He did, and stared as he noticed that I wore less than I did when I went to the beach. “You’re…uh…”

“Yeah…so, here’s the thing…” I explained who my friends were, and that we were no longer working for NeoNET.

“I thought you’d just call in corporate security, not a bunch of criminals!” He seemed angry.

“NeoNET had the cash. They didn’t care about you anymore.”

“What about my family?”

“I had them extracted. They’re safe.”

“Where?”

“Havana. In a safe house until we arrive.”

“But…how will we live?” He still hadn’t gotten all the implications.

“Once you decrypt the credstick and we split the cash, I imagine you’ll be living very well.”

“You don’t understand!” He was even whiter now. “I can’t decrypt the stick without…”

“Without what?” Now he had me worried. “You’re free, Hennesy! You can take your family anywhere in the world!”

“No, I can’t.” He swallowed, eyes darting around the control panel. “NeoNET…made sure of that.”

“What?”

He pulled a jack from the panel and plugged it into his datajack. “Promise me, Tiya.” He punched up the display, and ‘Commence download’ flashed on the screen. “Take care of my family.”

“Why? You can—”

“No I can’t!” He looked at me with tears in his eyes. “Transferring the decryption code without the bank’s disarm codes won’t let me live.”

“Shit!” NeoNET had installed insurance to make sure their couriers didn’t double-cross them. “Hennesy, don’t—!”

“Take care of them.” He closed his eyes, and the panel blinked: Commencing download…

The cranial bomb inside Hennesy’s skull blasted the back of his head all over the copilot seat. He died instantly, twitching in a bloody heap, but the decryption code was in the VTOL’s computer.

His family was safe.

Nice guy.

Go figure.

Queen for a Minute

By Annie Bellet

If there’s anything worse in life than being betrayed by someone who says they love you, I’ve yet to experience it in all my sixteen years of living.

The ride to meet my cousin Lynne’s friend gave me too much time to think. Tears of rage stung my eyes. This was all because of my father, James Telestrian the third. How dare he try to decide who was and wasn’t okay for me to hang with? It was just like him—his high-handedness. This time, someone had gotten hurt, real hurt. Hakeem was my friend. Now he had a criminal record, couldn’t come back to school, and the fragging cake was he’d never walk again. He was on scholarship. No way he could afford the kind of bio or cyber recon it would take to get out of that wheelchair.

Lynne was right. My father was so not who I thought he was. 2054 would go down in my mind as the year I learned my dad was evil. That he would do things in the name of protecting the Telestrian name and legacy that nobody should do—including hurting an innocent boy.

“Marie Louise? We’re here,” Lynne said. She patted my hand in the way people do who see tears and have no idea how to respond.

Wiping my eyes on my sleeves—glad for anti-smear make-up—I followed her into the huge Universal Brotherhood complex. Smiling human men and women, many of whom seemed to recognize my cousin, greeted us.

“We’ll have to give up our phones here, but we can get them back later,” Lynne said.

Not sure how I felt about that, but who knew what the coverage was like in this place, anyway, so I handed mine over without arguing.

As we walked further into the complex, I studied my cousin’s slender shoulders. She was okay, for an adult. She was an elf, the only one on that side of the Telestrian family, and pretty cool for being like thirty years old. A bit woo-woo when it came to the whole “we’re all connected” thing, though. She’d said there was someone here I had to meet, so here I was, ready to find out what else about my father and family had been lies.

Whoever we were meeting wasn’t there yet, so one of the smiley folk showed us to a nice room, the kind my father would probably entertain executives in. Everyone wore loose-fitting clothing with the yellow and orange UB logo on it, and the furniture and walls were colored in the same warm tones. I expected the place to smell like patchouli or frankincense, but the air had a clean, faintly floral scent. Soft music played through hidden speakers.

Lynne accepted an offer of tea for both of us and then stood up with a huge smile on her narrow face as another human woman entered the room. I stopped trying to trace a faint, swirling pattern in the wallpaper and sat up straight.

“Jessica!” Lynne said. “Marie Louise, I want you to meet your aunt.”

“My what?” Not the most polite response, maybe, but it was all I could manage at the moment.

“I am your aunt Jessica,” the new woman said with a smile. “I’m sorry for the surprise. I’ll explain everything in a few moments.”

“Of—of course,” I stammered. “I’m sorry—today has been a lot of shocks.”

This “aunt” Jessica was certainly pretty, though she was human, so it was hard to tell if there really was any family resemblance. She looked to be about the same age as Lynne, with darker brown eyes and stylishly short brown hair. She had a fun, sweet look to her that I liked immediately.

“So, Marie Louise,” she said as she took my hand, “let me tell you about our grandfather while we tour the complex, and then, if you like, I have some…hard things to tell you about your father, my half-brother.”

I stiffened at the mention of my father. Whatever hard things she had to say, I was more than ready to listen. All I had to do to remind myself why I was here was think about Hakeem being dragged out of school. Hakeem in a wheelchair. All because my father thought he wasn’t aces enough for me.

My father hadn’t even told me he had a half-sister; that I had an aunt. Telestrians are apparently great at keeping secrets. I glanced at Lynne, who smiled at me and nodded.

“Okay,” I said. I squeezed Jessica’s fingers back and let her lead me out of the room. “I’m ready to listen. I want the truth now so I can decide what’s good for me.” No more so-called adult intervention. No more secrets.

The Universal Brotherhood complex was aces. They had dormitories, meditation rooms complete with sand you could rake into shapes and pretty rocks and fountains, exercise facilities, classrooms—which were kind of lame, ’cause who wants to grow up and go to school—multiple dining rooms, all serving some delicious-smelling stuff, and basically anything someone could want. Everyone we passed was all smiles and nods. I guessed my aunt Jessica was pretty top shelf around here, and Lynne, too. People certainly seemed to recognize both of them. No one made any comments about us being elves, either, despite pretty much everyone else I saw being a human.

Eventually, however, the fun tour ended. We were back in a different room that was just as warm and comfortable as the first one, sipping tea. It was official; my father was a jerk. A tiny part of me felt it was unfair to only listen to one side of things, but he’d blown his chance when he’d lied to me about Hakeem, when his orders had caused so much pain. It seemed like everything had been said, but somehow I sensed that Jessica wanted to tell me more.

“We’d like you to join us, Marie Louise,” Jessica said after the silence had stretched a bit past comfortable.

“Um, you mean, live here?” I thought about my room at home and my friends at school and how I’d miss them. Even my annoying brother, though he was off doing some project for our family that, of course, I wasn’t a part of. “I…don’t know.”

“We need people like you to spread our mission, to help bring truth and justice to this world. To show that we can all be connected, and part of a greater whole,” Lynne said. She’d been really quiet this whole time, letting Jessica do all the talking. Now she looked at me with an almost crazy passion burning in her eyes.

“Lynne, could you give us a moment alone, please?” Jessica asked.

“I won’t be far,” Lynne said to me. She left the room without protesting being excluded. Her total adoration of my new aunt was kind of weird.

“How would you like to help your friend Hakeem?” Jessica asked as the door closed behind my cousin.

Her question wiped my brain. I had told her all about Hakeem; about him getting kicked out of school and then beaten half to death on my father’s orders. I got the feeling, just that little pinch of doubt in the back of my mind; she had known all this already. Still, help him? Lame question.

“Of course I want to help him,” I said, smoothing my hands over my jeans. “Why do you think I wanted to know the truth? He’s still my friend.”

“Join us, Marie Louise. Be our queen, and you can.” Jessica’s eyes had a little of the same fire in them now.

“Queen?” I asked, then shut my mouth before I said anything stupider.

“Yes,” Jessica said in the same tone of voice she had used to ask me if I wanted more tea. “We would like you to help usher in this new era, be at the center of things here at UB, for you to take your rightful place at my side as my kin as we show Seattle and beyond how different and beautiful the world really can become.”

I blushed, leaning back into the super soft couch. Queen of the Universal Brotherhood. Had a nice ring to it. Probably was a lot more respect and responsibility than anyone else in my family was offering me. With the UB’s resources, I could totally help Hakeem, and maybe even prevent people like my father from abusing their wealth and power again.

“I think I want to know more about it. And about you, Aunt Jessica,” I said. It seemed to please her when I called her aunt. “I mean, I’ve had a lot dropped on me today.”

This place could be really cool. I wanted to come back here, maybe talk to Lynne some more, learn what I could about the Universal Brotherhood, get to know my aunt better. Hey, and be queen of whatever. I refrained from asking if this meant I got minions. Having lots of minions would be aces, but probably that wasn’t the first thing a queen should think about.

“Of course, dear. You must be tired. I will show you to your rooms.” Jessica rose with the same sweet smile that had been on her face since she’d first met us.

“Rooms?” I asked like a total biff. “I thought…I should probably go back home soon.” I had snuck out to see Lynne. People would be missing me eventually.

“Home…to your father? After what he’s done? You know he won’t let you see us again,” Jessica said.

“He didn’t stop me this time. I can manage,” I replied. “I really should get home before someone notices I’m gone.” I could only imagine the crazy-fest that would happen at home when I was discovered missing. Better to come back later, after I’d had a chance to think about things more, and talked to Lynne.

Jessica’s expression didn’t change one bit. “I’m afraid I can’t allow that, Marie Louise. You will be our queen. We must protect you here.”

“Allow it? I’m not asking. I am going home.” I started edging toward the door, wondering how far was the “not far” Lynne had meant. I didn’t like her trying to tell me what to do, just like every other adult in my life. Besides, this was getting too weird.

“This has been a pleasant afternoon. Do not make it otherwise,” Jessica said, moving across the carpet toward me with more speed than I would have thought a short human capable of.

“Lynne!” I yelled, reaching for the door.

The door opened, but Lynne wasn’t on the other side. Two corp badges came in, looking at Jessica with questions on their faces. I backed away from them. Though they hadn’t drawn weapons yet, the two human men were a lot bigger than me. Then my aunt was behind me, her arm sliding up around my neck as something pinched my arm.

“Shh, Marie Louise,” Jessica said softly.

As a weird, greenish darkness swam up to claim me, the last thing I heard was her telling the security guys to move me quietly to private rooms.

Unfortunately for my aunt—and for my poor head—whatever drek she’d drugged me with apparently wore off elves faster than she’d estimated. I came to while the badges were still carrying me to whatever dungeon I was doomed for.

My brain felt like it was coated in snot and being used as a snare drum in a punk rock solo. I kept my eyes closed for a moment, hoping the rolling sensation would pass. I was draped over one of the big human’s shoulders like a sack of meat, and half the rolling feeling was him walking. The guard’s uniform smelled like bleach. Not helping.

I opened my eyes to find that I wasn’t exactly in Kansas anymore. The comfortable woo-woo environment of the UB complex, with its golds, oranges, and earthy tones, was gone. The hallway the two guards walked down was constructed of flat, gray cinderblock. I saw into one room as we passed it, some kind of militaristic dormitory with bunks.

I seriously needed to get out of here. The badge carrying me hadn’t woke to the fact that I was conscious, but I figured I could change that quick enough. Nice thing about being an elf? I’m tall, even for my age, with long, slender limbs. Long, slender limbs that come with bony as frag knees and elbows.

I introduced one elbow to the nape of his neck and then my knee to his groin as he bent over with a yell. Lucky for me these corp guys weren’t wearing real body armor. Tricks like that wouldn’t have worked on Telestrian elites.

The guy dropped me and I ducked between him and his partner, running back down the hall. My thinking was that the way out had to be the way they had come. My thinking was stupid, again.

The hallway opened into another hallway, and I chose a direction that didn’t have shouting coming from it. The whole place was like a fragging warren of military-industrial sameness. It was more confusing than the hallways at school, which is saying a lot. It had taken me almost a year to stop getting lost on the way to classes.

The first three doors I tried were locked. I wish I’d had the brains to grab one of the guard’s key-cards during my daring escape, but that hadn’t been my focus. I was never great at multitasking. The scent of soy sauce and the faint ring of metal on metal drew me onward down a right fork in the next gray cinderblock hallway.

A kitchen. That was a good thing. Kitchens needed supplies. Supplies came from outside. That meant a door to the outside.

With that beautiful logic train whistling through my head over the sound of my heart pounding in my ears, I raced down the corridor. I bowled over a short, fat human male wearing a stained apron as he opened a door at the far end. I tucked and rolled like we’d been told to do a million times in gym, and came up to my feet. I almost face-planted into a large steel bowl of noodles, regretting the choice of heeled boots. They had looked good with my jeans, though.

“You shouldn’t be in here,” another man said, coming around a steaming industrial stove. He had a large knife in one hand and a sour expression on his ugly, sweaty face. 

I didn’t argue. Shoving the bowl of noodles at him, I ducked past him, eyes desperately searching for the nearest door. To my left, past the bank of ranges and gawking cooks, I spotted a door that looked like it led somewhere other than a pantry. ’Cause that would have been mega embarrassing.

I flailed my arms, screaming like a crazy person to keep the surprised humans away from me. No one made a move for me, not even knife-guy, as I dove for the door, yanked on the handle, and charged through it, slamming it behind me.

I had prayed for salty, polluted Seattle air. Instead I got another hallway, this one more dimly lit but just as dull and cinderblocky as all the others.

“She went through there!” someone shouted behind me.

Well, she certainly wasn’t going back through there. I took off running again, because there wasn’t much else to do other than wait for recapture, and I really didn’t feel like making it that easy. I’d read somewhere that if you are in a maze, you should only turn left, so I did that. I took every left turn I could while avoiding any sounds of pursuit, trying the doors I could find, though each looked exactly the same. After about five turns, I was pretty sure from the soy sauce scent of the air that I had just gone in a crazy circle.

One of the doors opened in front of me and I shoved on the man coming out, pushing us both inside, which turned out to be an almost empty room with only a single metal chair in the middle. Just when I thought it couldn’t get any creepier—

“Hey, hi, sorry,” I said to the guy I’d shoved half on his face. I reached to help him up and then recoiled.

He looked up at me with insect eyes, faceted and ruby-red, like fresh blood. His mouth opened too wide for his thin, almost still human face, and shiny black mandibles protruded, clicking and chittering. This guy was no exotic, he was super bugged-out. Nothing remotely human looked at me through those eyes.

I pretty much screamed like a little girl.

The bug man lurched to his feet and grabbed at me with human hands, but each finger was tipped with a hard, chitinous claw. I kicked at him. My boot connected with his abdomen, but met what felt like a metal plate. The blow shoved me off balance, and I stumbled back into the door.

And then out through the door as it was yanked open. A woman’s hand closed on my arm and steadied me.

“Enough,” my aunt Jessica said. I never thought I’d be happy to hear her voice again.

“What is that thing?!” I gasped, jerking out of her grasp and backing up until the cold stone wall chilled my spine.

“This is one of my children,” Jessica said. “You will understand everything in time. Now please stop this childish running around and go with Val.”

One of the UB badges stood by, not one of the original two that I’d escaped. This guy was at least as big as those two put together, and twice as ugly. He had a scar over his right eye, thinning, black hair cut military high and tight, and a crooked mouth that gave him a permanent sneer.

“Come, Ms. Telestrian,” he muttered, stepping forward to grab my arm. His huge hand could have wrapped my bicep twice.

“Isn’t Val a girl’s name?” I asked as I tried to pull away.

“She is my niece,” Jessica said with a warning tone in her voice. “I don’t want her damaged.”

Big and Ugly grunted something that sounded like “yes, high priest,” and hauled me along the hallway. I tried to call to Jessica over my shoulder, but my new jailer tightened his grip and yanked upward so that I was more dragging than walking. Pain lanced up my arm, and I blinked back hot tears, my bravado dying a weak death.

I stumbled along in a haze of misery, trying to count the turns and the doors we went through and having no luck at all. Ugly Val used his badge and a code to enter a door I hadn’t even noticed, pinning me to the wall with one hand wrapped around my neck in a way that made it clear he was willing to explain an “accident” to Jessica.

Beyond that door, the whole place changed. The walls were still stone, but no longer cinderblock. Instead, they were natural stone that had been bored out or maybe carved by some kind of industrial acid. The air carried an odd, metallic tang that had the tiny hairs on my neck and arms standing at attention. Pretty sure that my situation had not improved, I jammed my heels into the stone floor.

“Look, pixie, I don’t wanna hurt you,” Val said in the same grunting tone he’d used before.

Pixie? Really? As a racial slur went, it was pretty tame. I guessed “Dandelion Eater” would be too much of a mouthful for him. I managed not to say that aloud. Go me.

Footsteps killed whatever equally biffy thing I might have said. A thin human male in gold robes approached, with another buggy man at his side. This bug guy had wings poking up over his shoulders, and his arms didn’t quite fit into the loose robe he wore, with weird double-joints poking out. It looked like someone had stuffed a grasshopper into a bathrobe.

“We shall take the future queen from here, Val,” the human man said.

“Suits me,” Val muttered and turned around, punching in the code for the door.

I, being brilliant, tried to duck under Val’s monster arm and get through the door in front of him. He swatted me to the weirdly smooth stone floor and left without even looking back. 

“Please, Ms. Telestrian,” the human guy said, offering me his hand. “There is no need for this.”

He was probably a decade older than Lynne, but his face had a smooth, ageless quality that some people get, and his blond hair was pulled back into a ponytail. It was his even, white smile that disturbed me. I kept expecting the whole façade of normal humanness to crack apart at any moment. I was sure if I looked too closely at his body under the loose robe, I’d see something more like what his silent, buggy companion had going on.

“Okay. You win. Let’s go.” I wasn’t giving up. Just using the better part of valor. I refused to take his hand, worried I’d peel his skin off like a glove and reveal something icky, and shoved myself to my feet.

If the last place had been confusing, this place was actually a maze. Fortunately, we passed no more of the weird bug men. Unfortunately, I started to understand where they might have come from. Rooms like little pods opened off the main corridor. Ripped clothing and piles of what smelled and looked like shit crowded some of these rooms. The stench of rotting flesh and old blood grew stronger the deeper we traveled, and I started to hate my elven senses. I fixed my eyes on the gold robe of the human and kept my hand over my nose. Te’ch.

I had to remember how to get out of here, but keeping track of where we were going was impossible. Frag that drek. Bile burned my throat. I was going to be bug food if I couldn’t figure something out. Some of the rooms had weird devices, technology like I’d never seen before. Nothing that looked even remotely like a comm or a display. I debated grabbing a thingamabob or two, but threw that thought out quick as it came. What was the point? I didn’t know how to use it, and there was no way I could overpower both these guys, even if the more human-looking one was actually just a human. He was still bigger than me. My thoughts spiraled around in despair as I warred with my stomach to keep down what little I’d eaten today.

The robed human led me to another stone-walled room that had a single bench with a folded blanket on it and an electric lantern on the floor. This room actually had a door, which he locked behind him, leaving me alone.

I poked and prodded at the keypad, but it stayed a dumb chunk of tech with an evil red light shining at me. The door was solidly fixed into the stone, no hinges on this side and no good edges to grip. Kicking it just made my feet hurt more. I gave up, and the noise boomed for another long moment, then the echoes died away.

Shivering, I sank down onto the bench and wrapped my arms around my knees. Bug food. My short life had come to this. Maybe someone would rescue me. It could happen. Somebody had probably noticed I was gone by now. Or Lynne, traitor that she sorta was, might have asked Jessica where I was. I thought about the look in my cousin’s eyes whenever she had looked at Jessica, and despaired a little more. She would believe whatever my so-called aunt told her.

I thought about the myriad corridors and passages and locked doors that I had been taken down. If I couldn’t even find me, how was anyone else supposed to? The cavalry was not coming. I was bug food.

An hour or a year might have gone by before I stopped feeling sorry for myself long enough to notice that relatively fresh air was flowing down over me. I looked up and saw a metal vent crudely attached to the wall with an overabundance of rubbery cement material.

The cover pried free easily enough, leaving a hole in the wall a little wider than my head. Lucky for me, I’m also not much wider than my head. Standing on tiptoes, I reached into the duct, feeling for a bend. Nothing as far as my arms could reach to either side. Shoving away visions of razor-sharp, elf-slicing fan blades, I pulled back out and got the lamp.

To the left, from what my keen eyes and the badly angled lamp light could discern, the vent passage went up. If it had been carved by normal means, I might have never been able to tell, but the passage sloped more than turned at a less than ninety-degree angle. I didn’t know if I’d be able to fit inside, or if I could get up that passage.

One thing was certain, though: staying here made me bug food. Suffocating or being crushed to death by killer fan blades wasn’t exactly my second choice of ways to die, but doing something—anything—felt better than waiting for a sure thing. All I had to do was close my eyes, and my fragging brain fed me the images of popped and exploded bodies I’d seen on the way to my prison cell. No thanks. Anything was better than that.

I set the lamp down on the bench and pulled my belt out of my jeans. I didn’t want to have anything on that could get caught on stuff. I tossed the belt into the narrow ventilation shaft. It could still come in handy, after all.

Outside, I heard loud footfalls and the sound of someone, or maybe multiple someones yelling. I hesitated. Rescue? I could wish.

Probably more bug food. Good luck to those poor guys. With one last prayer to whatever might be listening, I reached up and gripped the sides of the ductwork. Time to see if this kitten could get herself out of the tree.

The vent shaft was slightly warm to my touch, almost disturbingly so. I shoved away the thought that I might be climbing toward a furnace or something, and just focused on pulling myself along. It was too small to crawl, so I did an inchworm thing, scraping my knees, hips, and elbows. Made a bit of a racket, but I couldn’t help it. I crawled away from the room and away from all light, humping along that fragging metal tunnel while trying real hard not to think about the skittering noises I heard in between my own thumps and slides.

Hunching myself forward again, I almost fell out of the shaft on my face as I met a chill blast of air rising out of a dark hole. I clutched at my belt. I’d almost pushed it off the edge, but managed to keep a grip. Blind as a human, I reached out with my hand and tried to figure out what the open space was. I felt along the wall above me and my fingers hit a bar that felt like plasticrete. Like a rung of a ladder.

Dragging myself half out over that cold gap, I felt around for another rung. Found it. Definitely seemed like a ladder. Not like I had a choice, since I couldn’t see across the gap or feel another side, and I for sure wasn’t going back to the drek behind me.

I hauled myself onto those rungs and began climbing, my tired, cramped legs barely supporting me as I clung to the wall over the abyss, or at least what I imagined was an abyss, below. I went up and up and up, the rungs spiraling around the tunnel I was in. Occasionally I felt other gaps, like the vent I’d climbed out of, and as I rose, I heard a heavy whirling, rushy noise, like a giant fan. No idea how long I climbed, only that I figured up wasn’t down, because down was the bugs and my crazy aunt.

’Course, up was probably being chewed to bits by terrible fan blades, but just the exhausting act of moving was good enough to distract me from that thought. Most of the time.

Then there was light. Not a lot of it, but enough. My fingers hit a ledge instead of a rung. I pulled myself up onto the ledge and found myself on a platform big enough to stand on. The light was from a crack around the hinges of a narrow metal door a couple meters in front of me.

I stumbled to it, sucking in fresh air that didn’t have the weird, sweet metallic taste of the UB complex to it. The door was old fashioned, with a lock sort of lock on it, a deadbolt that took a key. The fan was too loud here for me to make out anything as I pressed my ear to the door, and I couldn’t hear anything from the other side.

I tried to kick it open. Punched it with my fists until they split. I wanted to scream, but was afraid of who or what might hear me, even with the noise from the fan. The door didn’t budge.

Defeated, so close to freedom and now doomed to die like a total loser in a ventilation shaft, I sat down and glared at the stupid door. I wanted to blow the dumb thing off its hinges, disintegrate it, something. If anger, fear, frustration could have done those things, I would have succeeded, for sure.

Then I stopped feeling sorry for myself for a moment and really looked at the door. It had hinges. Three big bolts put through loops. On the inside, of course, cause what idiot would put them on the outside. Too easy to pop out.

Wiping my nose on my sleeve, I went to work on the hinges. The top bolt slid out pretty easy, but then the door listed a little, its weight dropping harder onto the other two and the second pin was evil incarnate. I broke two nails working it out, and finally resorted to my belt buckle. I knew that thing would come in handy.

For the third, I had to press my whole body as hard as I could against the door to keep it sort of stable and properly aligned. Then I wedged the buckle under the edge of the last bolt and pried and pried. It slipped about ten times before popping free and clattering off the wall. The door nearly flattened me as it leaned over and twisted once my weight came away from it.

I dragged it as open as I could get it before the deadbolt refused to let the door come out any further and looked out. A dank, urine-stained alley in Seattle had never looked so amazing. The outdoors. The city. Almost free. I didn’t want to die or get caught just when I was nearly there, so I crept out of the alley very carefully, watching for anyone in yellow or orange clothing or goons or whatever. Glancing around, I saw the UB building over a block away, a big complex of shops with offices overhead, and a bar separating me from the crazy people.

Nobody noticed me as I slid sideways down the building and out onto a street where normals were just walking around like there wasn’t a crazy cult right under their feet. Giddy, I grabbed a woman’s phone right out of her hand.

“It’s an emergency, please,” I told her. I must have looked a super fright because she just asked me if I was okay and helped me work her phone. She even waited with me in a nearby coffee shop for my father to send a car.

Daddy didn’t come himself, of course, but I was okay with that. He sent two of his security guys, Donnie and Jim Tucker. I liked both them and they liked me, so it was kind of nice to see familiar faces after what I’d been through.

I sank into the back seat of the car, my limbs a million kilos heavier than usual.

“You need anything, Ms. Telestrian?” Jim Tucker asked.

“No, thanks,” I said. “Just take me home.”

Home. Where Daddy and I were going to have a really long talk. Because I knew things now, all kinds of things. About him. About Aunt Lynne. It was like the child-me had been locked up by the Universal Brotherhood, and whoever had crawled out was different.

Things had to change, and I was quickly learning that the only way to change them was to do it myself.

The Breach

By Stephen Dedman

You rarely saw trolls on the Tube: the ceilings are too low for them to stand upright, and the seats too narrow for them to sit comfortably, and this guy—big even by troll standards—was scrunched up like a failed origami assignment. I remember thinking that this wouldn’t be improving his temper, which is rather disturbing when you’re talking about someone the approximate size of an old-fashioned phone booth, who also happens to be wearing a hoodie advertising the Glasgow Redcaps. Glasgow is best known for the ‘Glasgow kiss’ (a head butt), the Glasgow coma scale (for diagnosing the aftereffects), and for a tradition of random, drunken violence that makes its streets just as dangerous for men as for women. So when a Glaswegian troll who was also an avid urban brawl fan disembarked at the same station I did, I briefly regretted never learning any combat spells, especially when he seemed intent on following me to the exit. He didn’t seem drunk or angry, just slightly unsure of his bearings, so I screwed up my courage and said, in my broadest Aussie accent, “Can I help you, mate?”

He looked me up and down, which rarely takes very long (I’m rather scrawny and slightly below average height, but I’d be considered very tall if I were a dwarf), and nodded slightly. “Looking for Lampert’s.”

I hope my relief wasn’t instantly obvious. Of course my penny-pinching bosses would hire another troll now that Moose had quit — someone who’d fit the oversized uniform and stab vest. “Graveyard shift? Me, too.”

“You work security?” He sounded faintly skeptical.

“Magical security, yeah. Name’s Jason. Come on, I’ll introduce you to the others.” And that’s how I met Ben. We didn’t have much in common except working the same shitty shift for the same shitty corp, but I soon came to trust him—and a few months later, that became very important.

Lampert’s isn’t as prestigious as Sotheby’s or Christie’s, but their rates are lower and they tend to move stuff pretty quickly, so they get a lot of business when people leave behind some antiques the executors want to liquidate in a hurry. Coin collections, stamp albums, militaria, old books and magazines…much of it’s junk, of course, but occasionally they get something that justifies having security staff, from valuable bottles of Scotch to a near-mint first issue of Playelf.

So, one night, Ben and I came in to find one table almost covered with twentieth century handguns and assault weapons, and another with Japanese antiques. Keef, who’s a sergeant in the RAF reserve and nominally in charge of the graveyard shift, was almost drooling over an old Kalashnikov with a folding bayonet, and barely looked up as we passed. I was more interested in the table nearest the stairs, with its collection of inro and netsuke—small containers worn on the sash in lieu of pockets, and the often elaborately carved toggles attached to them. I was about to pick up one inro, with an ivory netsuke in the form of a tiger, then blinked and assensed it. The inro, while centuries old and beautifully decorated, was otherwise unremarkable, but the netsuke glowed in the astral. I whistled softly, and asked Keef, “Have these been appraised?”

“I guess so, unless they came in late. You thinking of bidding on one?”

“On what they pay me here?” I snorted, then walked over to the computer read-out at the other end of the table. “Vijay hasn’t seen them yet?”

“Didn’t come in. Sick leave.” 

It’s remarkable how many normally healthy people need sick leave during the World Cup. “He’ll want to see this one.”

“Worth something?”

“I don’t know, but it’s…interesting.”

“Define ‘interesting’.”

“Enchanted. I think it’s a fetish—and not the sort we usually cater to.”

“What does it do?”

I shrugged, and cast a magic analysis spell. It’s one I only started learning after taking this job, at my own expense: I’d found some good courses in magical theory through the Open University, but it’s much easier (and safer) to learn spellcasting from a good teacher, which was why I’d moved to London (well, that and the fact that I couldn’t get a place at Oxford or Cambridge, which have even better instructors in hermetic magic). “It’s both a spell fetish and something like a sustaining focus,” I said, a moment later, “but I don’t recognize the spell—I don’t know enough about Japanese magic. I think it’s triggered by a spoken command, but I don’t know what the command is, either, unless it’s the same as the inscription on the inro.”

“Is it safe to touch?”

“I think so.”

“Hmm. Well, better leave it alone, anyway. Vijay can look at it when he gets in, or call an expert.”

We looked up as the door opened again and Ben walked in, then the three of us went upstairs to relieve the evening shift. Christensen, the decker, was already jacked in and didn’t give any indication of having noticed us. We quickly settled into our well-worn routine: I checked the wards, sent watcher spirits out to guard the doors and patrol the perimeter, and then studied my grimoires while Ben watched a sports channel and Keef, who wants to be a rigger when he grows up, mucked around on flight simulators. Occasionally, one of us would get up to make a cup of tea or soykaf, but otherwise nothing much happened until a little after half past two, when one of my watchers manifested on my desktop to say that someone had just opened the ‘Staff Only’ door downstairs in the warehouse, and people were coming in.

“How many people?”

“Three,” the watcher replied. 

On a good day they can count to six, so he was probably correct. I looked over my shoulder at Keef. “Are we expecting anyone?”

“Huh? No, I don’t—” He reluctantly paused the simulator, and called up the view from the CCTV cameras. “Nothing there,” he said, a few seconds later. “Door is locked, and has been since the last shift left. Is your spirit—”

I slipped into astral without waiting for him to finish the sentence, and projected downstairs in time to see two orcs and the fast-moving shadowy astral form of a human with serious cyberware. Returning to my body, I snapped out, “We must’ve been hacked. There are three guys downstairs heading straight for the shitload of guns. Please tell me none of ’em are loaded.”

“Hacked?” said Christensen, opening his eyes. “Why would somebody—oh.”

Christensen is from somewhere in the CAS, so he tends to forget that the UK has had very tough gun laws for a long time, and you’re not just going to find a loaded pistol in the baby toys in Marks and Spencer. Even British cops don’t routinely carry firearms or wear ballistic armor, and neither do we: Keef and Ben carried tasers and extendable batons, and Christensen and I weren’t even given stab vests, and had never needed them before. That looked as though it was about to change. 

“They wouldn’t have brought them here if they were,” Keef reassured me. “I don’t even know if any of them still work—the firearms branch is coming in tomorrow to check them out, tell us what we can legally sell, what’ll need to be modified, and what has to be scrapped.”

If the stuff is still here when they arrive, I thought, but I didn’t say it.

“These scafs, they’re tooled up?” asked Ben.

I don’t speak Glaswegian, but his meaning was clear. “Yes—two of ’em have something big, but that’s all I know.”

It didn’t seem like a good time to explain the limits of astral perception, but Ben nodded, drew his taser and his baton, and headed for the door without waiting for Keef to give the order. 

“Call the screws,” he growled at Christensen without looking back. Keef grabbed his own weapons and followed him while the decker fumbled for his commlink.

“He means the cops,” I said as I followed Keef out of the room. I wasn’t sure how much I could help—the only spells I knew that weren’t detection-based were magic fingers and healing—but at least Ben and Keef wouldn’t be outnumbered, and maybe that would help deter the thieves from attacking. Not that I wasn’t planning on hiding behind Ben if I was wrong…

The warehouse was large enough that we reached one end of the table stacked with guns just before the vatjob reached the other. All three intruders wore long, waterproof ponchos with the hoods up—not overly conspicuous in a London summer—but I would have bet a week’s pay they had gang colors underneath them as well as weapons. The weapons became obvious about a second after Keef yelled “Freeze!”: the human had a shotgun, the taller of the two orks had a large axe, and the slowest of the three had a hold-out pistol, probably a Streetline Special. 

“Drop the guns!” Keef continued. “Cops are already on their way. If you turn around and run right now, you might get away. I know you’ve knocked out the security cameras, and we haven’t seen your faces—”

“Why don’t you turn around?” the vatjob countered. He had an accent that I couldn’t place, though it sounded vaguely Eastern European. “Walk back to your office or wherever, get a cup of coffee, and nobody has to get hurt. Your bosses are insured, and if we have to shoot you, that’s bad for them, bad for you, bad for us if we get caught. Just say we took out the alarms, and you didn’t hear anything until we’d already buggered off.”

“We can’t do that,” said Keef sadly.

The ork with the axe snorted. “They payin’ you enough ta be a hero?”

“No, I guess not.”

“So be smart,” said the vatjob. “What’s the worst that can happen if you walk away?”

“The worst is that you have a shitload of guns,” Keef replied. “There’s no ammo in any of ’em, we made sure of that, but maybe you can get some. I don’t know what you’re planning to do with ’em, but I don’t want those deaths on my conscience.”

The vatjob seemed to consider this, then nodded. “Fair enough,” he said, and fired twice. I think he shot Keef first, but he moved too quickly for me to be sure. Keef staggered backwards, swore, tried to aim his taser, fired, missed, and fell over backwards. The stab vest absorbed some of the impact, but unless they were firing flechettes or birdshot, he was probably a goner.

Ben was still standing, though, and rather than fire his taser, he hurled himself at the vatjob, covering the distance before the man could fire again, wired reflexes or no. He jabbed with the taser, using it like a stun-gun, but that may have been a feint; the vatjob dodged to one side, and received the full force of Ben’s elbow in the side of the head. 

Ben didn’t give him time to recover; he grabbed the bastard by the shoulder with his free hand, and smacked his forehead down onto the vatjob’s buzz-cut scalp. The orc with the pistol aimed at Ben’s face, and I shouted a warning. Ben dropped his taser and hoisted the vatjob up like a riot shield, then charged at the ork. The man with the shotgun fired once more, the blast muffled by the contact; Ben staggered, muttered “Bollocks,” then toppled forward like a great tree—with both the vatjob and the ork’s gun arm pinned beneath him.

The last ork standing looked at his fallen comrades, then at me. “Looks like two-all. Wanna run while ya still can?”

“Funny; I was just about to ask you the same thing,” I countered, hoping my voice wasn’t quavering too much. “The cops should be here any minute.” As I said it, I wondered whether it was a lie: I’d forgotten to remind Christensen that the emergency number in the UK is triple nine, not 911.

The orc looked at me, then at the weapons on the table. I followed his gaze, and noticed that Keef hadn’t folded the bayonet on the Kalashnikov back under the barrel. The orc transferred his axe to his left hand, but he seemed undecided whether to grab the rifle or the Steyr TMP, so I helped him make up his mind by picking up the Kalashnikov with a magic fingers spell and stabbing the bayonet into his right forearm. His scream of “SHIIIIIT!” was nearly as gratifying as the thin but regular spurt of blood that indicated that I’d hit an artery as well as a nerve.

“Wagemage, huh?” he said, a moment later. “Okay, wiseguy, I was gonna let ya live, but now—”

“—now you’re the one who’s going to bleed to death if either of us pulls that bayonet out,” I said softly.

“Then I guess we’ll all go together,” he growled. He returned the axe to his right hand, pulled the bayonet out of his arm with his left, and threw the Kalashnikov under the table so I couldn’t see it. I reached for the axe with my magic fingers spell, hoping to pull it from his grasp, but without the advantage of surprise, I was no match for his strength.

 Glancing at the table to see whether any of the swords or knives were in reach, I noticed the inro and netsuke I’d been admiring earlier. I snatched them from the table, and yelled, “Don’t make me use this!”

He hesitated, then snarled. “You’re bluffing,” he said, then raised the axe and charged. I looked at the inscription on the inro and, hoping I remembered the Japanese alphabet correctly, shouted “Tora no ugoki o manesuru!” and threw the netsuke in his general direction.

I don’t know what I expected to happen—maybe that it would distract him for a moment—and I’m still not sure what did happen. The decker had turned the cameras off, so there was no way of checking later. Maybe it was only a phantasm, albeit a bloody good one, or maybe the ivory carving actually did turn into two hundred kilos of tiger. Whatever it was, it acted as though it had been hibernating since the 17th century, and had woken up pissed off and hungry. 

The orc stopped in his tracks, but was smart enough not to turn and run; instead, he used the axe to try to keep the tiger at bay while cautiously backing toward the door.

I don’t know how long I considered using my magic fingers spell to throw something at him, distract him, maybe tripping him, but decided that that was a little too much like murder. Besides, while the tiger was keeping him busy, he was keeping the tiger busy—though not quite busy enough that I was willing to risk taking my eyes off it for long. I did, however, switch to astral vision; the tiger remained just as visible, though it glowed even more vividly than the netsuke had. Tiger, tiger, burning bright… 

I glanced at Keef and Ben, both of whom still had auras, though they were fading. The two intruders under Keef were also still alive, though not conscious. I turned my attention back to the ork with the axe, and saw that the tiger had vanished. Fuck.

The ork was breathing heavily, and much of his right side was drenched with blood, though that might all have been from the bayonet wound. He stared at me for a moment, then with obvious effort, raised the axe and started lumbering at me. I heard movement to my right, but didn’t dare turn my head until I realized it was Christensen running down the stairs toward me.

I cast another magic fingers spell and threw an Uzi from the table at the ork’s groin, hoping to trip him; he ducked to one side, but almost overbalanced, losing much of his momentum.

Christensen sized up the situation, dived towards Keef, and grabbed his taser. Without getting up again, he fired between the legs of the table—and unlike Keef, he didn’t miss. The first dart hit the ork in the thigh; the next two hit him in the side as he fell. The ork twitched spasmodically, but showed no signs of getting up any time soon.

I rushed over to Keef and cast a healing spell. “Did you contact the cops?” I asked.

“They’re on their way.”

“We’re going to need some ambulances too. You know the number.”

The cops arrived in time to catch the gang’s decker—the pistol-packing ork’s thirteen-year-old sister. The ambos hauled Keef and Ben off to hospital while I rested up from casting healing spells and Christensen gave his statement. He didn’t mention the tiger, and I’ve never asked him whether he saw it. I just told them I’d used spells to try to keep the fucker with the axe at a safe distance. I don’t know what the ork told them, and we were never called as witnesses.

I did tell Vijay all the gory details the next day, though, and he called in some experts. The netsuke and inro—still enchanted—sold for six figures, much more than the rest of the collection. The guns were shipped off to the UCAS to be auctioned there. Lampert’s showed their gratitude by paying for a semi-private hospital room for Keef and Ben, then reassigned Keef and Christensen to day shifts, and promoted Ben to supervisor.

My bonus? They gave me two weeks leave on full pay, and sent me to Oxford to learn stunbolt.

Holiday

By Russell Zimmerman

Now.

“I,” the elf said with profound deliberation, “am going on holiday.”

“You’re doing no such thing,” his supervisor, also an elf, replied, barely looking up from her desk.

“Sorry, I forgot where we are,” he waved to nowhere in particular. “I meant I’m taking a vacation.”

“You are not.”

“Am too.”

Instead of falling into that ancient trap, she gave him The Look. He faltered beneath it for just a heartbeat, decades of bluster and confidence peeled away by the expert sharpness of her faint disapproval.

“We are entirely too busy for that,” she said, eyes back onto the virtua-touch surface of her desk, scanning a dozen headlines and stock tickers at once, fingertips dancing through augmented reality, composing emails, buying, selling, and maybe ordering lunch.

“Nonsense, it’s been weeks since you had me shoot anyone. And besides, I read over my benefits package, and it clearly states my allotted annual vacation days. I’m overdue.” 

He had long ago convinced himself she found it charming, so he let some of his natural Irish accent slip out, though both of them knew full well he could mask it effortlessly.

“You’ve been employed here for three years, and you’re just now reading your new hire paperwork?”

It did not entirely seem to be working.

“I’m owed vacation time! Overdue, especially with the holidays coming and the end of the calendar year and all that,” he said, reaching into a pocket. “And I’m not busy, anyhow.”

“You know the nature of the business.” She shot him a disapproving glance as he plucked a packet of cigarettes out, narrowing her eyes. “And since you just acquainted yourself with your contract and job description, you’ll no doubt recall that you’re here for reactive, not only proactive, assignments. Corporate security waits for no man.”

“So, bring someone else to this office to cover for me.” He tossed an unlit cigarette into the corner of his mouth, then gestured airily with a lighter. “WWT can come up.”

“Mr. Terminus is on his honeymoon.”

“Jace, then.”

“Still on assignment.”

“He ain’t blown it yet?”

She didn’t answer.

“Fine, then get Blue up here.”

“She’s working the border, outside Austin. Death squads. Too delicate to reassign her recklessly.”

“Blue?” he snorted. “Delicate?”

Another glare, making it clear that she knew full well that he knew full well what she’d meant. “Are you just naming every killer you know, now?”

“Sure and we’d be here all day, if so! Don’t be silly. Transfer over Italy, then.”

“Long term contract with Connor.”

“Fine, call up Connor, too.”

“You know full well where Connor is, and that he can’t leave that post,” she sighed as he started to work his thumb on the lighter. “And, much like you can’t go on vacation whenever you feel like it, you can’t smoke in here.”

He inhaled deeply, held it in as he held her eyes, then blew smoke — not at her, no, nothing quite so crass and challenging as that, but in the right general direction.

“And yet,” he said, waving his lit cigarette, “Here we are.”

Then.

“Merry fraggin’ Christmas,” the burly man said with a glower as he handed the elf a suitcase.

He’d been prepared for that, just a bit. The glower, more than the suitcase, that is. He knew who they were, knew why they were here, knew how they’d feel about his pointed ears and sharp features. The Knights of the Red Branch didn’t much care for elves.

Truth was, the elf didn’t much care for elves, either.

“Wren Day,” he said, forcing a smile and ignoring their rudeness, just as surely as they’d ignored his proffered handshake and thrust baggage into it instead. “Christmas was yesterday. Sure’n jet lags a pain, aye?”

“Whatever, faerie,” the redhead said, older than the other two. Burly, Redhead, and Dark, that was the trio. Accompanied by the elf, they made their way through the crowds at Dublin International, fresh off their Aer Lingus flight, nonstop from New York. Where would it stop, really, along the way?

“It’s great to see you lads here,” the elf pressed on, smile sharp as ever, a flick of his head tossing his hair out of his eyes as he grunted along ahead of them, wheeling one suitcase, another tucked under his arm, carrying a third by the handle.

None of them replied—same as when he’d introduced himself, truth be told—so he just hummed a holiday tune and continued leading the way.

“We’re just up here,” he said with a sunny grin over his shoulder. “Lucked out, you did, and caught us in between rain drops. Been miserable all week with it, y’know. Wet and cold, worst sort of muck.”

He chattered on as they clambered into the Land Rover, as he loaded their luggage, as Burly and Redhead and their thick Boston accents grated on his nerves, as they parried his every friendly word with an anti-elven slur, as they drove and drove and drove. Round-about a hundred and fifty kilometers, all told, with him nattering away all friendly-like, Redhead and Burly talking about him like he wasn’t there, Dark just sitting quietly, glaring at the whole green island like he hated it.

“We’re gonna do big things, ye’ll see,” the young elf said. “We get you Boston lads on board, we start trading guns and money back and forth, the INLA will show those bastards what’s what. We’ll take back Éire in no time!”

He said it like they were planning a football game. Like the Knights of the Red Branch weren’t a violent UCAS policlub that was just as likely to cut his ears off as talk to him, like the Irish National Liberation Army wasn’t a band of freedom fighters turned gangsters. He said it like they had a snowball’s chance in Hell of ever listening to him or respecting him, like he wasn’t Rory Caolain, the bloody right hand of the INLA, who knew better than most just what sort of devilry they got up to, and just how overwhelming their opposition was.

He said it like it made the slightest bit of sense. Like they could really, somehow, ever, overthrow the powers that ran Tír na nÓg, the little emerald island that no one but him called Éire or Ireland any more with a straight face. He said it like if he just kept killing, it would someday all be worth it.

Redhead ignored him. Burly grunted. Dark brooded.

So Rory just kept driving, and told himself over and over again not to murder them, every one.

Now.

Belfast Harbour’s always been a terrible way to get a person on or off the island. Great for general cargo. Wonderful for the underpaid lads handling that cargo. Reasonable for weapons and other illicit gear, because it’s got to land bloody somewhere, right? But passengers? Never fantastic.

So there he was, giving every appearance of being one of those underpaid lads. At his age. Wrong side of sixty but looking less than half of it, peacoat, turtleneck, and watch cap like all the rest, aching and should-be-exhausted from working his way across choppy waters. Altogether too old for such nonsense, at an age and level of corporate respectability he should be able to fly wherever he’d like, and struggling under layers of wet wool and a fake SIN, he should have been tired as could be.

Instead, as he stepped off that gangplank, bounced in line at customs, nattered away with the other lads while collecting his pittance of pay…it was all he could do not to dance.

Home again, home again. It had been entirely too long since he’d set foot here. Sure, it was just the docks; all moody lighting and whirring autolifts, terrible chill in the air and a perpetual drizzle, a dozen different accents in a half-dozen languages, nary a one the lilt he’d grown up around, but it was Éire. Home. He, more than most, felt something magical about the place.

So there was a spring in his step long after the crowds of workers had frittered away, despite the dodgy lights flickering overhead and the heavy knapsack he had slung over one shoulder—at least it was his luggage, not someone else’s, right?—and the weight of decades atop decades of murder for hire. He was home again, and to Hell with that old saying. You could go back. Or, at least, close enough. He didn’t have much of a plan, but didn’t want one. He was just after a few weeks off to soak up the place, some long walks and tall drinks, proper pub food, a few huge, greasy breakfasts. Being home was what mattered.

The long-term parking lot was empty and cold, covered in soft rain and a sharp wind, just a few abandoned vehicles parked here and there. There was a not-abandoned one closer, with a couple long shadows near it.

Three of them were waiting for him. It shouldn’t have been a tremendous surprise, really, and he didn’t treat it as such. Someone was going to bloody well notice him showing up, no matter how he juggled fake names and faces, how he used his adept powers to tweak his features and posture here and there, no matter how he dampened down his aura and tried to look like who he wasn’t, be who he wasn’t. Someone would know. He’d been in the game long enough to be great at it, but he’d been in the game long enough to rack up enemies who were, too.

“Merry Christmas,” he said with a smile, setting his rucksack on the ground next to him. “And God bless us, every one.”

“Wren Day,” a lean elf said, sharp little beard making his face pointed and faintly devilish, his accent far from home. He was from the other Tir, unless Rory missed his guess, and with that sort of thing Rory didn’t. A kilt rustled around the lad’s knees, all the fashion around Portland for the last few years.

“Christmas was yesterday,” the dwarf next to him nodded, burly even for his metaspecies, almost as wide as he was tall. He hardly glanced up at Rory, busy as he was with a bit of hardware strapped to his wrist—a cyberdeck, Rory knew, but not much else at a glance—and the lights nearby dimmed, a security camera’s steady red light blinked off.

The third one, the fomori, didn’t talk. She loomed over the other two, and Rory himself if he was going to be honest, all out of scale with the rest of the world. A special breed of troll, and a sort you saw far more often near here than half a world away, they looked less monstrous than their cousins, but were every bit as strong, every bit as tough. She wasn’t hard to look at, he gave her that much, but her scowl at the moment was all professional, and, given her size, a bit more threatening than the business faces on the other two.

“My mistake,” Rory said, a half-smile tugging at his lips. Only three. Either they were very good, or everyone here thought he was getting old. “I don’t suppose I could persuade you three to take this inside somewhere, can I? Give us all a few minutes out of the cold, maybe share a pint and a bit of grub, get acquainted?”

“Cateran,” the younger elf said with a nod, like Rory should recognize the name. Beneath his suit coat, collar flipped up against the rain just like Rory’s, he had some sort of double-gun rig.

“Kern,” said the dwarf, satisfied with his hacking because all of a sudden he’d tugged a collapsible baton from a cargo pants pocket.

“Gallowglass,” said the fomori in a husky, but not altogether unpleasant voice. “And you’re Rory Caolain, before you try to sell us otherwise.”

Of the three, only the dwarf had a proper local accent. One was from the wrong elf country, the other closer to home, but Rory recognized the troll’s Glasgow patter when he heard it.

“So an elf wandered halfway ’round the world from Tir Tairngire, a Belfast dwarf, and a Glaswegian lass walk into a bar, and the barkeep says—”

“Stow it,” the dwarf rumbled, all business. “Ye’ve a bounty, we’ve a job. Let’s not make it rude t’boot.”

“Ah.” No wonder they’d thought maybe their name would get his attention. Bounty hunters. In territory like this, times being what they are, that covered a lot of ground. Army folks down on their luck, shadowrunners moonlighting, mercs trying to stay halfway legit and a pinch less bloody?

“Well,” Rory said matter-of-factly as the three started to fan out. The other elf was quick, and moving smooth as silk. The fomori’d had some work done, she wasn’t nearly lumbering like a girl her size should. The dwarf didn’t sport any obvious combat augmentation, but Rory didn’t like the look of those shoulders and how comfortably he twirled that baton.

“Ye can’t say I didn’t try to be nice first.” He sighed, then tossed his rucksack at the fomori, just to buy himself a split second and lunge the other way.

Then.

“No kiddin’? The faerie’s the one killed McManus?” Redhead’s bushy eyebrows shot up, talking to Rory’s boss—Jeremy O’Neil, a stone cold sonovabitch—like Rory wasn’t sitting right there. Still.

“I talked with Stevie-boy,” Redhead kept going, his harsh Boston accent grating at Rory, scratching at his ears, getting louder the more the man drank. “You know that, right? McManus was the one first reached out to us.”

“Aye, well, Rory did what we told Rory to do. They’d pinched Stephen, the TRC bastards, and we didn’t have a way to get him out. It was the right thing to do,” O’Neil’s voice was calm, almost placating, but Rory was pretty sure he hated him, too.

He was tired of listening to it. The same voice that had ordered him to kill one of his friends was explaining why and how he’d ordered it to these bastards?

They were in the basement of Shivers’ Place, a corner pub that everyone knew was INLA turf and everyone pretended wasn’t. Topside was comfortable, sociable, so long as you were human, and local, and said the right things to the right people. Still cold, mind, Shivers had earned the nickname for being a penny-pinching bastard who never turned the heat on. Down here, where they kept Rory because his elven ears would embarrass the lot of ’em upstairs? Down here was crowded, with Redhead and Burly and Dark. Crowded and claustrophobic and echoing with their stupid accents and ugly sentiments, a half dozen other INLA boys hanging around, treating these Yanks like bloody royalty. They’d muttered half the night away, shooting him ugly looks, talking like any minute Rory’d find a gun to the back of his head.

“Well,” Redhead glared at Rory across the room like he’d just killed Stephen McManus, like Redhead had grown up with him and Rory hadn’t, like Rory’d done it because he’d wanted to, like Rory owed Redhead a blood debt for it, in the old way. He downed another shot, glaring the whole time, right at Rory. “I guess he ain’t the first elf to kill a good man, huh?”

Rory’s hand tightened around his own glass, expression carefully, perfectly neutral. He’d gotten good at that, lately. Neutrality.

“Fraggin’ A,” Burly said, raising his glass.

Dark didn’t say anything, just kept looking around the place—‘the place’ being Ireland—like he’d bitten into something sour, or like he wanted to burn the whole world down, or maybe a bit of both. There was something about him that Rory might’ve almost said he was afraid of, if ever he’d admitted to feeling much by way of fear. Something dangerous and…and…what’s the word? Malevolent. 

“Sláinte!”

Rory’s friends, Rory’s mates, the lads Rory’d trained with and fought with, all called out a toast and lifted their glasses, toasting poor Stevie McManus and throwing his blood right in Rory’s face. Every lad there had bought him a drink and patted him on the back, those months ago, told him how he was a hard man, and had done the hard thing, the right thing. And now here they were, with these three Red Branch twats, looking at him like he was just another murderous elf.

He was. He knew that. But damn it all, he was their murderous elf.

O’Neil raised his glass, too, and threw back a warm slug of Bushmill’s. His eyes weren’t hateful on Rory like the rest, but Rory hated them. Watery blue things, bloodshot ’round the edges, whites turning yellow from whatever new junk O’Neil had found to push into himself. Plus, of course, O’Neil was the one that had killed little Stevie, really. It had been his plan that had fucked up and gotten Stevie caught, and then his plan for Rory to silence him.

“Hey,” Redhead tossed his head Rory’s way, following O’Neil’s lead and reaching for a shot now that he’d drained his beer. “Hey. Fill us up over here, faerie. Make yourself useful while y’can.”

A half-hearted flick of his wrist sent the dry Bushmill’s bottle sailing Rory’s way, and he didn’t bother to flinch or duck, just let it fly wide and bust against a wall. They laughed. Burly, first, and Redhead behind his sneer, then the handful of Rory’s friends — his mates, his lads—all standing around, and then O’Neil, too. Dark didn’t laugh, but Dark didn’t seem to know how.

Shit on this.

Rory heaved out a sigh, arms moving slowly, heavily, like he was tired. Methodically, unhurriedly, he reached for a fresh bottle, came out from behind the bar, twisted the cap off. Redhead’s lip was curled in disdain, O’Neil’s weak eyes looked full of pity, Dark and Burly glowered and smirked, Rory’s mates all snickered. He’d turned into a house elf. Him. Him. Their best, worst, killer. Their only adept. Their best hope. They all hated elves enough to hate him, too, and then bluster and brag and show him off to their new friends, these “Knights” from Boston who just looked like more thugs and junkies to him.

He filled their glasses, then lifted his own.

“Sláinte,” he said, almost like a prayer, almost like a goodbye, and gulped it down, hot and rough on his throat, all in one go.

His adept powers kicked in, and as everyone in the room—everyone in the world—slowed down but him, he raised the heel of his left hand and smashed Redhead’s shot glass into his face, his mouth, his teeth. Shards of glass and a spray of blood shot out, and he fell back, coughing and sputtering. The half-full bottle swung, in slow motion, almost lazily, at O’Neil’s head, and clipped him on the temple just so with the corner. He dropped like he’d been poleaxed.

Everyone else, almost about that time, stopped drinking and noticed something was wrong.

Rory sprang over the bar, where he’d long since stashed a good Browning pistol.

Now.

The younger elf was the quickest, which was hardly a surprise. The lad moved faster than boosted reflexes, smoother than wired. Move-by-wire, then. A little herker-jerkier than he should be, though, which made Rory think there might be combat drugs involved, too. He was quick, though. Almost as quick as Rory.

There was the slightest twitch of movement, and he had a big Savalette Guardian in each hand—presto!—leveled square at Rory, mental commands as much as trigger squeezes starting them firing, silencers big and dark and always less welcome when you’re on the wrong end.

Rory twisted just a hair, leaned a smidge, reached out flicker-quick himself, and brushed at one wrist to knock a shot just barely off-line. Rounds plucked at the edges of his peacoat, one tugged at a dangling string from one cuff, Rory felt one whisper to him as it flew just barely past his ear. They were close. Closer than most. But Rory was very, very, good at this.

He swatted at the younger elf’s—Cateran’s—arm again, threw more power into it than the first parry, and this time the whole limb flew wide. Cateran backpedaled, creating distance almost as fast as Rory could keep closing it, kept firing, muted gun spitting round after round, but never quite connecting. The older elf spun and ducked, twisted, always, but always just barely, getting his torso out of the way, leaning so that he was not quite where the barrel was pointed at that split-second.

It was impossible.

It was magic.

Rory had a lot of it.

He snapped up a front kick that knocked Cateran back two steps until his heel caught on something, and he almost-gracefully had to pinwheel his arms to stay standing. A rib or two might’ve cracked from it, too. Before Rory could follow up, though, the dwarf slammed into him pretty much like a forklift.

No shift of his shoulders could get out of the way of that, no dancing footwork, no twist of his hips. He went down like a rugby player, twisting and wriggling, catlike, stronger than he looked and mad at being tackled in the first place. Kern still ended up on top, the little bastard just had weight on him, mass and muscle and a born wrestler’s physique, and Rory was half-pinned and spitting nails about it.

The baton lifted and fell, blasted a chip out of the pavement as the elf twisted just barely enough to one side so that it missed his face and threw up a few bits of parking lot in his ear, instead of getting his head caved right in. Kern’s strong right arm lifted again, and this time Rory couldn’t quite dodge, caught the butt of the baton on his face, but then lunged up against the smothering, pinning, weight of the dwarf, and looped an arm just so, other hand snaking up, and—like magic—the dwarf’s wrist was broken and the baton clattered to the pavement. Kern’s other arm came down, an elbow hammering into Rory’s head, Rory’s head hammering into Belfast.

Fucker.

Rory groped and grabbed for the dwarf’s cyberdeck next.

Kern lurched up and scrambled away like a startled cat, ridiculously quick for his bulk, protectively cradling that arm; not for the shattered wrist, mind, but for the hardware strapped there, and for the ability and investment it represented. Rory snickered as he started to clamber to his feet. Deckers. They all had the same soft spo—

A fomori-sized boot slammed into him and sent him flying like she was a world-class forward and he was a football, right past Cateran, who’d just gotten lined up to shoot at him again. Rory didn’t let the blasted ribs slow him down, though, just twisted with the kick, righted himself in mid-air, came down on his feet, rolled once, and then back to his feet. She was stronger than she looked, which was too bad for him ‘cause she already looked pretty damned strong.

He surged right at her, the last place in the world they’d expect him to go, but he had to get in close so the other elf didn’t start unloading again. Ducking Gallowglass’ big overhand swing, he planted one foot on her oversized thigh and launched himself airborne, leading with his rising knee. It clipped her jaw just so, snapped her head up, made her stagger back a step in a spray of blood. He knew she’d be seeing stars for a tick, and couldn’t waste the time to finish her off by doing something terrible to her neck. No, he had to move.

Rory hurled himself away from her and straight at Cateran’s leveled Guardians, a fresh pair of rounds whipping past him and into the Belfast dark, then flowed in close and the pair of them started dancing again. All knees and elbows, chops and sharp little punches. The younger elf’s nose got smeared about halfway across his face and Rory grinned around a split lip and broke an arm for it. He kicked Cateran’s knee sideways and made him flow with it to keep the thing from shattering, then got a solid punch in. The elf crumpled, and Rory had made it a two-on-one fight.

Kern was all over him again with that fucking baton, next thing he knew, and even in the dwarf’s off-hand it was a real pain. Spinning and twirling, coming in harder, faster, while Rory wondered how many days or weeks of his sixty-one years he’d spent fighting people for no good reason. He fended the dwarf off with a few good kicks, using his legs for reach, trying to make up for the extra half-meter the baton gave Kern, when suddenly the dwarf’s eyes widened and he dove sideways.

Deep down inside, Rory knew he should’ve done the same…but he couldn’t help spinning around, just to see what it was.

Gallowglass hit him with a long-abandoned scooter, swung sidearm, light as a hurley stick or a cricket bat.

He rolled with it, of course. A lifetime of violence had given him that instinct, and his magical prowess—honed sharper than sharp—lent him impossible speed, impossible dexterity. He had other powers, too, an unwavering durability, magically enhanced, a toughness that rivaled any sort of dermal plating on the market, mystical reinforcements that made his bones tougher to break than most.

So, yeah.

He managed not to die, but that was about it.

Then.

They’d all missed. Rory’d danced through the hail of bullets somehow, like he was cursed to always do, it seemed. Bottles had exploded behind him in waves of spirits and glass, the wood paneling of Shivers’ basement bar had splintered, walls were pockmarked, lights were busted out. But Rory was still in one piece. Eight, maybe ten guys blasting at him with cheap pistols and Shivers’ own side-by-side scattergun, and not a scratch on him except for falling glass and the like. 

The devil’s own luck, he had. Able to kill the only friends he had left in the world, and not take a bullet in the doing of it.

Redhead had crawled across the floor and died slow, still crying, still dribbling blood and spitting teeth and glass until he’d caught a round in the neck. Burly was dead—Rory’d clubbed him in the face with his big Browning semi-auto, then wedged the barrel right into his eye and pulled the trigger. O’Neil was plenty dead, three shots in his belly from Rory, and then torn wide open by a wayward blast from Shivers and that shotgun of his as Rory’d ducked just in time. Shivers, too, mind. Rory’s Browning had been empty by the time those last couple from upstairs had come running down, so he’d had to wrestle the gun from Shivers, whack him with it, reload it, then give him a taste, point-blank.

No bullets had hit him, maybe, but Rory was something of a blood-covered mess, all the same.

The basement bar was mostly full of corpses, now. Redhead and Burly were soundly dead, Jeremy O’Neil and Shivers with ’em, and a half-dozen—and more—hard INLA boys. Rory’s best mates, Rory’s best lads.

Rory’s only friends.

They’d used him and used him and used him up, lying and smiling and laughing at him for years, sent him off to kill and learn more killing, then snickered at him and insulted him square to his face. They’d used him to kill cops, then little Stephen McManus, then bank tellers, then rival drug dealers and pimps. 

Irish National Liberation Army, Hell. They were just thugs. They’d started out thugs with a cause, maybe, but how long had it been since they’d pointed Rory at the occupying Tir na nOg military? How long since it had been soldier’s blood on his hands, besides their own?

Dark was all that was left. The only other one in the basement, maybe the bar, maybe Belfast for all Rory knew, for all Rory felt. Dark was left, and he was some sort of wizard. Rory hated wizards. He’d seen Dark start casting, so he’d vaulted away, chop-chop.

The elf was behind the bar again, knowing — better than most — that Dark’s sort needed line of sight to murder you. He popped open Shivers’ shotgun and had just the one shot left in it, his own Browning who-knows-where and empty to boot. Between the madness of slaughtering his own, Rory’d lost his knack for keeping track of who had how many bullets left in what gun. Who, how many, what, all gone. Damn it. He lifted a broken piece of mirror, peeked over the bar as if his life depended on it. In fairness, it did.

Dark was gone. An earth elemental rumbled to life, pouring itself upward, impossibly fluid, impossibly real, making itself out of the concrete of Shivers’ basement floor.

“Oh well,” Rory flipped the mirror away with a careless flick of his wrist, picked up a startlingly-whole half-bottle. He gave it a twirl and a peek, didn’t see any glass glittering in the whiskey, and tossed it down. One last toast, maybe? Or a bit of liquid courage to go back out there?

“Y’only die once.”

He vaulted up and over the bar, blasting pellets at the spirit, which seemed hardly put out. Then he wrapped up both his fists in all his young anger—at them for taking her, at her for recruiting him in the first place, at the INLA, at the elves, at the Fucking Knights of the Fucking Red Branch, at Jeremy O’Neil and the other bastards who used this sickness to make themselves rich, at Stephen McManus who’d gotten caught, and at himself, who’d killed the boy for it. There was a lot of anger there. Enough for an adept to turn his own hands into something dangerous, as it turned out. Something downright lethal.

The spirit lumbered and swung, implacable but clumsy, unstoppable but slow. It missed. Rory didn’t. With all his hatred, his hopelessness, fear and guilt wrapped tight around his murderous hands and knees and elbows, he hit it. Kicked and stomped, clawed and punched, bit and headbutted, shouted and lashed out like a child in a tantrum.

It was impossible.

It was magic.

The spirit crumbled under the onslaught, chipped away, broken, then lying there as shattered as the leadership of the INLA and the Knights in one fell swoop.

Rory snorted and spat, gasped, panting, and just fell onto his butt like an exhausted puppy for he-didn’t-know-how-long. 

After catching his breath, he got up, and grabbed a few credsticks and a half-loaded gun, and left. At the time, he hadn’t known he wouldn’t be back for two and a half decades.

To be honest, he’d fully expected not to last that long.

Now.

“I can’t help but feel like we got off on the wrong foot,” the elf with the tied hands and the bag over his head said, trussed up in the back of a car with broken ribs and most likely a concussion.

“Nonsense,” said the other elf, younger but sour-faced, one hand holding a bloody handkerchief to his bloody nose, one arm wrapped in a plastic-and-gel cast. “We all introduced ourselves.”

The dwarf snickered, driving one-handed. The fomori shook her head and smiled, not talking much because she’d recently chomped off the tip of her tongue.

Rory had been in worse spots, in fairness. Many of them had, matter of fact, also included black bags over heads. This was the worst one with a scooter, though.

“Fine, fine. Proper introductions were made, I’ll grant you that.” He grunted and tried to right himself, felt one of the fomori’s big hands just give him a little downward shove, like a building reaching out to hold you down. “But what I’m saying is we’ve hardly been civil.”

“Cat was just shooting stick-and-shocks,” Kern piped up, wincing a bit as they trundled over a bump that must’ve jarred his wrist uncomfortably.

“I gueth maybe I thouldn’t have hit you tho hard,” Gal admitted, almost sheepish.

“Not that you did us any favors back,” Cateran said, sounding a little hurt. In fairness, he was.

“Not true,” Rory sang out, “I could’ve killed you and didn’t!”

“Sure you could’ve,” Cat shot back, scowling.

“Actually…” Kern started. Or tried to.

“Oh, thove it. I’m tho over that ‘local leghend’ thtory.” The fomori reached up to thump the back of the driver’s seat.

“We kept him from any pistols,” Cateran said, glowering sidelong at the Belfast-raised dwarf. “That’s what you said he was hot shit with.”

“Oh, aye. Wouldn’t’ve wanted two of us shooting up the parking lot, would ye?”

“Huth.” The command came with another big hand giving him a nudge.

It worked and kept him quiet for a few more turns, a little more driving, a couple more bumps. Rory wasn’t sure where they were taking him, but it wasn’t close and that wasn’t good.

“Which of you got into my pants?” he asked a little while later, just to break the silence.

Cat sputtered, Gal snorted, Kern shot a look into the rearview mirror.

“And took my commlink, I mean,” Rory said, black bag hiding a grin. “Those Fairlight Calibans aren’t cheap, are they, Kern?”

He’d guessed it right in one. The dwarven decker blinked, then scowled. “Shush.”

“What, you holding onto my ’link so I can’t call Nadja Daviar?”

In the front cupholder, there was a little rattle as the Caliban commlink buzzed to life, responded to the verbal command, made an outward call, blinked and buzzed obediently. The elf in the passenger seat grabbed for it with his one good hand, but everyone else started chattering at once.

“You didn’t thut it oth?!”

“Fuck me, I forgot!”

“Kern, dammit!”

“Relax, there’s no way it’s gonna be Nadja Davi—are you fraggin’ kidding me?!”

Cateran dropped the commlink like it was red hot, or a snake, or maybe a red hot snake. It clattered back into the cup holder, jostled around a bit, screen crystal sharp, her disapproving glare clear even from halfway around the world. Those Fairlights had great sensors, and she seemed to take in the picture pretty quickly. One slender arm reached just off screen, adjusted something on her end, maybe rewinding the last few seconds and playing them back, slow-motion. Maybe bringing up world-class facial recognition subroutines. Maybe calling someone else. Maybe a bit of all three.

“The Draco Foundation,” she said very methodically, very calmly, after the slightest pause, “Does not negotiate with terrorists.”

And the call ended.

“Terrorists?” Kern sniffed.

“That’th hardly fair,” Gal muttered.

“We’re freelancers,” Cateran said, sounding aggrieved. “Not terrorists.”

“She’s all bluster any way, don’t you worry. The Dee Eff negotiates with terrorists all the time.” Rory piped up helpfully, “It’s honestly about half of my job, I’d say.”

Kern didn’t seem very comforted by that. Gal leaned a little to try and peer skyward, like she was expecting a Thor shot. Cateran puffed on an inhaler, giving himself a reassuring hit of Novacoke. Rory gave them a few seconds to gather their thoughts—and gave Nadja the same, not that she needed it—before clearing his throat.

“Redial,” he said, feeling very pleased with himself under his hood.

“Is this your employer?” She wasn’t big on manners, Ms. Daviar, when she didn’t have to be. None of the three could help but look at the screen, curious, though. A dark face, human male, lean, with a bit of a wolfish look, glared at them.

They exchanged glances, and Kern pulled the Land Rover to the curb, idling. Half a world away, Nadja Daviar sighed at the waste of her time.

“Street name Kern,” she said simply, nodding a bit. “Osye Dempsey. Gutter hacker and shadowrunner, rap sheet as long as you are tall.”

The dwarf wasn’t surprised at the details, but wasn’t crazy about his friends knowing his real name, truth be told.

“Street name Gallowglass. Cadha McMillian. Do your little friends know about your brother, I wonder?” The fomori’s furrowed brow told them that they didn’t. Or rather, hadn’t.

“And that leaves Cateran,” she said, eyes a little more narrow this time. “Portland brat. Convict. Strangely enough, despite my clearance levels, I can’t find your real name anywhere at all in this Ares undercover operative file…”

And she drifted off just enough to draw startled glares from the other two.

“But enough about you,” she said, ruder than normal. “Is. This. Your. Employer?”

She sounded more impatient than normal. In fairness, she was. The scandal! One of the world’s most powerful people, and having to ask a question twice.

“I’m fine, thanks,” Rory sang out from his hood. “No worries here, totally fine.”

“Hush,” three people said at once, along with Gal’s fourth, a “Huth.”

There was a pregnant pause, then a few curt nods. 

“Aye,” Cateran said, still warily eyeing his friends, not at all sure how they’d take his corporate status. “That was him.”

Daviar didn’t miss a beat.

“And how much is he paying you for Agent Thorn?”

“Thirty-thixth,” Gallowglass mumbled.

“Total?” Nadja confirmed. “Thirty six thousand, for him?”

“Yeah,” Kern said, like twelve thousand nuyen had sounded like a pretty good price at the time.

“Fine. Three-hundred sixty thousand.” Flipping on a contract was a big shadow no-no, mind you, but the Rule of Ten was pretty inviolate. Betraying an employer for double was a movie cliché, but doing so for tenfold the starting pay was almost respectable; someone making that sort of offer made it clear who held the power in any rivalry, and there was no shame in jumping ship in the face of that sort of disparity.

“Bring Agent Thorn to the planned drop-off point, arm him, release him, and help him kill Melehan.”

“Melewho?” The black bag barely muffled him any more.

“A mid-ranked Black Lodge operative, Thorn. A combat magus of no small power, and we believe he owns several…trinkets…we’ve been after for quite some time.”

She frowned.

“Sit him up, please, and take that ridiculous bag off.”

Gallowglass hauled him upright effortlessly, almost carefully. Rory blinked, then peered down at the screen. It was Dark. Dark, from that that day, Dark, from decades ago. A few gray hairs at the temples, a natty little beard shot through with a touch of silver, hints of crow’s eyes…but him. The wizard. Still hating him and fearing him, still running the INLA, still in Belfast after all this time. Small world.

“Oh. Him. Yeah, I hate that guy.”

“Excellent. So take one of Mr. Cateran’s guns and kill him, would you?”

“We’re a wee light on mojo for that sort of thing.” It wasn’t quite a no.

“But heavy on surprise.” It wasn’t quite an order.

“I’m on vacation,” It wasn’t quite a whine.

“Are you really?” It wasn’t quite a smirk.

Rory glowered at his commlink. Vacation. Harrumph. No wonder she’d said yes.

Kern, Cateran, and Gallowglass fidgeted a bit, like they were listening to their parents argue, but were also still maybe expecting a Thor shot, but were also each thinking about ten times the payment they’d expected. In fairness, it was a lot to fidget about.

“You’re a terrible, canny hag, Ms. Daviar,” Rory Caolain said, shaking his head and sighing, but fighting a smile. “And you should feel bad.”

“Bring your new friends back to the office when you’re done playing. I’ll contact you shortly with extraction details, but things will be…unpleasant…near there, for some time.”

And then the screen went dark, and the inside of the Land Rover with it. Kern wasn’t sure what else to do, so he reached out and flicked on the overhead light. 

The other commlinks in the car buzzed, chirped, and beeped about incoming payments.

“Merry Christmas, everyone!” Rory smiled at them, holding out the handcuffs and zip-ties they’d secured his wrists with, as though they were things he’d borrowed and was politely returning. 

“Wren’s Day,” Cateran said as he gawked at his account balance. “But who’s counting?”

Revenge is a Dish Best Served by Proxy

By Maxwell Alexander Drake

One: Memories

It always irritated Davi to hear someone say how much better the world was now, after the Awakening. Anyone who said that had never been to Apetina.

Below him, the sprawling farming village stretched off into the night. A collection of grass-thatched huts on stilts and unpainted one- and two-story wooden buildings carved out chunks of the ever-encroaching tangle that was the Amazonian jungle. Rut-filled orange-tinted dirt roads cut between the buildings like drunken rivers under a blanket of dark, angry clouds. The rain fell in a steady downpour, adding a sodden cloak of misery that matched the agony slicing through Davi’s soul.

Ten years…

That’s how long it’d been since he left home. Looking upon his birthplace now brought no comfort.

Did I really think it would?

No, he knew there’d be no joy in this homecoming. Which was fine—he was not here for a happy reunion. This place held nothing for him now except ghosts and nightmares. The storm only made it that much harder to keep the demons at bay.

It was raining the night I left.

Letting his gaze rove over the hovels below, Davi found his childhood home easy enough; it was, after all, where he had laid his head for his first sixteen years. It hadn’t changed by a hair—whoever lived there now as downtrodden and uninspired as his mother had been.

As is everyone in this God-forgotten village.

Looking upon his old home, he could almost hear the screams of his mother spilling out into the darkness.

Isabella’s silky voice caressed his mind over their secured comm. “You going to stand there all night? I thought you said we were on a tight schedule, mi hijo.”

He didn’t answer, instead clenching his jaw as a hot tear streamed down his cheek, cooling as it mixed with the rain splashing his face. Even after all this time, the wounds he bore from that night lay open, throbbing, filling him with a nearly uncontrollable rage. He wanted to shriek at the heavens, to unleash a torrent of fire and destruction upon the silent homes below, burning away the pain and misery they held within their walls.

But he knew erasing this place from the world would not erase it from his memory.

Besides, the anger he carried had served him well over the past decade, fueling an inner drive that had not only kept him alive in the shadows of Metrópole, it had also made him one of the most sought after runners in all of Amazonia.

Not that any of it matters now.

All the pain he had endured, all the sacrifices he had made, all the humanity he had traded to ensure his survival—it had all been for this one moment.

This one night.

Rising from his crouched position, Davi stepped away from the road leading into town and let the jungle embrace him like a long-lost lover.

Two: Confessions

In contrast to the deprived village of Apitina, Villa de Oliveiras stood as a constant reminder of what wealth and power could bring. All pristine stone columns and imported blue-tiled roofs, the building was a sprawl of wings and offshoots with an Old World Spanish flair. Situated on the bottom slope of a mountain, it covered nearly half of the ten-hectare plot it dominated—a plot so well manicured that even the tenacious jungle had long since given up trying to reclaim it as its own. Despite the heavy downpour, the place looked majestic.

Positioned about three hundred meters up the mountain, Davi had a good view of the entire residence. He blinked as his cybereyes magnified the image, bringing into focus the armed mercenarios walking the balconies and the flat areas of the roof. He counted nine, all armed, a mix of orks and humans. No way to tell how many lurked inside, not that it mattered. The guards were just for show, their bored stances a testament to the obvious truth that nothing and no one would dare threaten the Oliveiras family.

“Is that the target?” Isabella asked inside his skull. “What’s the plan? I hate that you’ve kept me in the dark on this one.”

Davi held his tongue, instead continuing his survey of the villa grounds. He disliked not telling her his plans probably more than she hated not knowing—after all the time they’d been together, he owed her more than that. Still, he doubted she would have come on this mission had she known the truth.

“Hey!” Anger flared in her melodious tone. “I get keeping things close to the vest—a secret is only secret if it’s never told. But this… this is idiota. If that’s the target, what does Señor Garcia want us to do?”

“There is no Señor Garcia.” The words slipped from him before he realized he’d spoken. The hairs on the back of his neck stood on end as his heart raced. Why couldn’t he have kept his mouth shut? He only needed her skills for the next few minutes, then it wouldn’t matter how much she hated him for what he was doing.

“Isabella?”

It was his turn to listen to silence over their secured comm.

“Isabella, I—”

“So, what is this?” The lack of passion in her voice hit him harder than if she had screamed. “If there’s no Señor Garcia, I assume there’s no pay for this job. And if there’s no pay, why the hell are we here?”

“This is personal.”

Silence filled his head once more.

He waved a hand west, toward where Apitina lay dark and sleeping some three kilometers away. “I was born in that village. Life there has always been hard. For all I know, we’ve lived under the shadow of people like the Oliveiras since time began. Families who have their fingers in nearly every illicit pie imaginable—drugs, guns, tech, bio—you name it. All street-level crap, nothing that would catch the ire of the government.”

He had never spoken to anyone of his past. Doing so now while standing over the cause of all his grief made it ten times harder. “Apitina grows soybeans, and serves as a wonderful front for the Oliveiras family business. It was bearable, and we did the best we could. As mi madre used to say, “Nos las apañaremos.”

Davi’s eyes fell back upon the villa below. “Back then, Fernando Oliveiras headed the family, and while nobody ever called him a kind man, at least he had a policy of not shitting in his backyard. The people of Apitina may have lived off scraps, but they survived.”

“What changed?”

“Fernando died about twenty years ago. Not sure how, I was only six at the time, but I doubt it was from natural causes.” Davi’s chest began to tighten. “His eldest son, Felipe, took over the family business. Felipe was not his father, he did not hold to any of the codes his papá did. He expanded into new, more profitable areas of business, higher-grade military weapons, zen, BTLs… human trafficking.”

“Thanks for the history lesson, but none of that answers my question; why are we here?”

“Felipe had one secret he kept hidden from his father: his taste for young girls.” A numbness fell over Davi as the words tumbled from his lips. “And by young, I mean real young. I think that may have been why he got into the slave trade, so he could have access and use his own product.”

A tear sat full in the corner of Davi’s eye and his breath came in short, quick rasps as he stared off into the angry sky. “My baby sister, Nina, was only eight when she disappeared.” He swallowed, taking a moment to regain his composure. “Today would be her eighteenth birthday.”

“I don’t think I want to know the rest.” The bland anger had disappeared from Isabella’s voice.

Taking another calming breath, Davi released it slowly. “She wasn’t the first, of course—over the years many niñas went missing from the villages near here. But mi madre could not bear the loss. The night after she had been turned away from Oliveiras, bloody and bruised for asking questions about her daughter’s whereabouts, men came to our casa. I…I tried to…”

He’d gone down this path before, reliving that night over and again at least a thousand times. He knew now there was nothing he could have done. Had he not panicked and ran into the jungle, he would be just as dead as his mother.

But he was no longer that scared little boy. Ten years of running the shadows had tempered him into the perfect killing machine. The time for feeling sorry for himself was long gone.

He wiped the rain and tears from his eyes. “Look, I’m sorry I didn’t tell you all this before. I’m sorry for many things. But this is something I have to do.” He blinked again to clear his vision and refocused on the villa. “All I need you to do is disable the security systems and cut the power. That’s why I had you stay back at the hotel.”

“Yeah, about that…”

Davi jumped at the words spoken behind him. He spun, dropping to one knee, his Raiden coming up in the blink of an eye.

Isabella’s thin elven form slipped gracefully around a kapok tree. Even bundled in a heavy black poncho, she made Davi’s pulse quicken. Though that was probably due more to the fact that he knew all too well what she looked like under that poncho.

A coy smile played across her lips as she glided over to him. “You know how much I hate not having room service.” She enveloped him in her embrace. “I’m really sorry for your loss, but don’t do this. Revenge never pays you what you think it will.” She gazed up into his eyes. “Let’s leave. Right now. You said you always wanted to see Rome. We can be on a flight with the rising sun. My treat.” She ran her strong fingers through his thick brown hair. “We are due some alone time, anyway.”

As much as it pained him, he pushed her back “No. This must be done.” He stabbed a thumb over his shoulder. “I need your help with this.”

“And you have it.” Brushing aside his hand, she kissed his cheek, though a strange sadness filled her almond-shaped eyes. “I can access the Matrix from here, mi hijo. But please, come away with me now.”

He could guess why she was so resistant. She had always been in this business for the money. A personal vendetta was something she just would never understand. This was his fight, not hers, and his plans had included her never coming near this villa. He already lost every woman he’d ever loved to this monster. The thought of losing her as well…

“Look, you can’t be here.” He grabbed her by the elbow and pushed her toward the small game trail he had used to reach this vantage point. “Just do your job. The rest is mine.”

A dangerous glint sprang to her eye and she jerked her arm from his grasp. “Fine!” She snapped her fingers. “But you better get down there fast. It won’t take long for seventeen guys to get those backup generators running.”

Glancing over his shoulder, he cursed. The villa sat dark.

Three: Wrath

With a speed and agility enhanced by the best technology money could buy, Davi slid more than ran down the muddy mountainside. The jungle reached out, threatening to ensnare him with every step. How he made it to the villa grounds without breaking his neck, he didn’t know.

Even with his low-light vision cranked to the highest setting, he had difficulty making out more than vague shapes through the downpour. Flipping on his thermographic, he layered it overtop his normal vision. Ghostly red silhouettes ran about in confused chaos.

His first target needed to be those generators Isabella had so cleverly warned him about. He considered asking her for directions, but rejected the idea, knowing his deception and manhandling of her had set the elf’s back stiff. Besides, the generators should be behind the house, and the small building set off from the pool was as likely a candidate as any.

Staying near the jungle’s edge, Davi skirted around the villa’s outer perimeter to the backyard. He knew he’d guessed correctly when he spied three forms heading from the main house to the building he assumed held the backup equipment.

That’s three of the seventeen, if Isabella spoke true.

He doubted she would have lied about that, no matter how pissed she was.

Breaking from cover, he slunk up behind the men. As he approached, he noted the two in the rear had new-looking assault rifles slung over their shoulders. None seemed concerned; and why should they? Power outages were not unheard of in the jungles of Amazonia, even in 2075. All three were young, barely of an age to shave. Still, he could not allow them to get the lights back on. And if they worked for the Oliveiras, their lot had already been cast for the wrong side.

Davi opened the first man’s throat before the other two even noticed death had fallen among them. The second died a heartbeat later, though Davi cursed as the man’s rifle clattered to the ground.

Uno y dos.

The third mercenario, one even younger than the two he had just killed, spun, a squeak slipping from his lips. The shock in the boy’s eyes did nothing to slow his hand, however, and he drew the pistol from his side in one fluid motion.

The burst of gunshots tore through the night like a pack of banshees escaping the abyss. Davi was vaguely aware of vibrations rippling through his body as a few rounds slammed into his chest armor. He doubted the bullets penetrated his protective clothing, much less the dermal plates on his chest. Of course, he’d have to turn off his pain editor to be sure, but there would be time to lick whatever wounds he gathered after this night’s deeds were done—assuming he survived.

Leaping forward, he grabbed the mercenario’s wrist and squeezed, his cyber-hand crushing the bones he gripped. Davi slammed his other fisted hand into the screaming boy’s mouth. Teeth and blood rained on the soaked path, followed by an unconscious body. Davi leaned down and quickly ensured the kid would never rise again.

Tres.

He hurried the last dozen meters to the small building. A quick look inside found two large gas-powered generators and several plasteel drums of fuel. A tug at his belt, a flick of his thumb, and a frag grenade bounced off the drums to land next to the first generator.

Turning, he sprinted toward the main house as a spray of bullets tore up the ground around him. The attack followed him as he weaved defensively, spurring him to press his enhanced body to move faster.

Someone on the roof has thermal.

He would deal with that later. For now, he needed to get inside, where their numbers wouldn’t be such a great advantage.

The shed exploded with a roar just as Davi leaped through a set of French doors. He landed in a shower of glass, tucking into a roll that brought him to a kneeling crouch. Three controlled bursts from his Raiden and three more red ghosts dropped. He hadn’t taken the time to check if they were armed. Hell, if he was honest, he hadn’t even known if they were male or female. He didn’t care.

Cuatro, cinco y seis. Nada survives this night.

“¡ALARMA! ¡HAY UN INTRUSO!”

The wall behind him erupted as a spray of rounds from the next room punched holes through it, forcing Davi to the ground. Lightning fast, he rolled, putting couches and tables between him and the steady stream of bullets that seemed to always know where he was.

Damn thermographic! Is everyone using it now?

Snagging a flash-bang from his hip, he tossed it, his cyber-eyes and ears automatically compensating as he did. The concussion from the blast washed over him and he was up a fraction of a second later, his Raiden barking at the ork staggering some ten meters away.

Siete.

With all immediate threats neutralized, he scanned the area for any more targets. All was quiet.

Like an apparition from hell, Davi stalked through the villa, eliminating anyone he came in contact with. By the time he reached the master wing, he had counted to catorce in his mind.

An ork and a human crouched behind two separate makeshift barricades made from stacked furniture. One barricade sat on either side of the main doors to Felipe’s chambers. The AK-97 the puto on the left held didn’t worry Davi much. The Krime Cannon in the trog’s hands was an entirely different matter. He wasn’t sure he could survive a direct blast from that. It was obvious neither could see him. If they had, both would have already opened fire.

His smartlink showed only four bullets remaining in the last magazine for his Raiden, so he slipped its strap from his shoulder and set the weapon on the carpeted floor. Drawing his two Ares Predators, he switched his smartlink over to them.

“Somebody tell me what the hell is going on out there!”

Davi hadn’t heard Felipe’s voice in a decade, but even laced with fear, it was unmistakable. As the trog turned to answer, Davi launched himself down the four-meter hallway separating him from his target.

The human’s AK-97 roared to life at the sound of approaching footsteps, the strobe of its distinctive muzzle-flash pulsing in the dark room. Davi dove, slamming into the overturned table the ork crouched behind and sending the entire pile of furniture toppling down on the trog. Bringing both pistols up, he fired them simultaneously into the mercenario still shooting blindly down the hall. If the man wore any armor, Davi’s APDS rounds paid it no mind, ripping through the human’s body and dropping him like a ragdoll.

The Cannon boomed behind Davi, punching through the pile of furniture on top the ork and shredding most of it to rubble.

Spinning, Davi tried to bring his pistols to bear when the ork slammed into him, driving them both to the floor.

The ork came up on top.

Pinning one pistol down by the barrel with a vice-like grip, the brute batted the other Ares away before smashing a meaty elbow across Davi’s jaw. Stars exploded through his vision as his head bounced off the floor. Had it not been for the lacing on his jawbone, and the fact that his pain editor was fully engaged, he probably would have been knocked out cold from the blow.

By the look on the trog’s scarred face, he was just as shocked that Davi was still conscious. The ork’s surprise vanished in a flash, and he cocked his fist back to finish the job.

Instead of smashing into cheek and nose, breaking everything with devastating intent, the thug’s fist smacked into Davi’s open palm.

When Davi squeezed, the mercenario just smiled, revealing yellowed, rotting teeth. “Breeders!” Driving his torso forward, he slammed his forehead into the bridge of Davi’s nose.

A loud crack reverberated through Davi’s skull as his nose broke, and for a split second, he lost sight of the world.

That second was all the ork needed. Wrenching his own cyber-fist free, the brute punched again. Through primal reflexes alone, Davi shifted his head to the side, saving himself from a direct blow that would have ended the fight permanently.

 As the trog threw another punch, Davi untangled his free hand and blocked the swing, deflecting much of the damage into the floor. Knowing it was stupid, but out of options, Davi released the pistol the thug gripped by the barrel and launched his own attack. He landed a stunning blow that forced the mercenario up for a moment.

Davi whipped his feet around the ork’s shoulders. With all the strength he could muster from his cybernetics, Davi sat up, slamming his opponent onto his back.

The thug tried to spin the Predator he held, but ended up fumbling it when Davi wirelessly commanded the gun to fire. The round buried itself in the carpet next to the trog, but the recoil sent the Ares flipping away.

With both arms now free, and in a more dominant position, Davi wrapped one hand around the ork’s throat; the other drew his combat knife from its sheath. The mercenario’s eyes went wide when Davi drove the blade into the flesh below his chin.

Davi remained on top of the ork for a few moments, breathing hard. Blood poured from his broken nose, and his left eye was already swelling shut. He glanced up at the master suite’s door, the only thing left separating him from Felipe Oliveiras.

Untangling himself from the corpse, he struggled to his feet, picked up the nearest Predator, and staggered for the door. It was locked, but that was the least of his concerns. With a vicious kick, he sent it—and a squealing Felipe, who had been leaning against it—crashing into the room.

Before the skinny crime lord could regain his feet, Davi grabbed him by the back of the neck. He jerked the man to his feet before slamming him down to a kneeling position at the foot of the massive, ornate bed dominating the room. The barrel of the Ares Predator pressed to his temple persuaded the man to remain still.

“¡Joder!”

Davi’s backhanded slap silenced any further foul language from spilling out of Felipe’s lips, but did start him whimpering like a beaten puppy.

“Wait! Wait!” Felipe forced words out between his sobs. “What do you want, bato? I’ll give you whatever you want! Just name it!”

What did Davi want? This man had taken everything from him. His mother without question, and there was little doubt he was responsible for Nina’s disappearance. Now that the object of ten years of his hatred knelt at his feet, would Davi be satisfied by a simple, quick pull of the trigger? Could he stomach doing more? Taking the time to dole out the equivalent of a decade worth of pain and grief?

No. I’m no animal.

“Why are you doing this? Did someone send you? Fuentes? Rebollo? I’ll pay you double. Triple!”

Both men flinched as the lights popped on, Davi rotating in the breath of a heartbeat to train his pistol on the doorway.

Isabella gave a derisive sniff and shook her head. She held Davi’s other Ares Predator, and waved it back and forth as she approached. “Unfortunately for you, Felipe, no one is paying him to do anything today.” She stepped around what remained of the door, stopping next to Davi.

The terrified crime lord looked up, his eyes going wide. “Isabella…?” He glanced up at Davi. “What…what the hell is this?”

Felipe knowing Isabella’s name was like a bucket of ice water thrown into Davi’s face. Before he could question her, she ran her hands through the back of his hair and pivoted to face him head on. “You look like shit.”

“Got into an argument with an oaahh—!” Agony crashed down upon Davi and he collapsed to the floor next to a startled Felipe. His chest radiated with the pain of several broken ribs, and his face felt like someone had taken a baseball bat to it. He tried to stand, but his cyberlimbs refused to comply. Ice-cold fear lanced through him with the realization he could no longer access his smartlink—his pain editor, enhanced reflexes, cybernetics, vision…all beyond his mental control.

Shifting his head, he was just able to stare up into Isabella’s almond-shaped, deep-brown eyes. His heart sank.

Guilt tinged with remorse filled her gaze.

Four: Betrayal 

Felipe stayed on his knees for a moment longer, glancing from Isabella to Davi who was lying helpless on the floor. Finally his face twisted from fear and confusion to stark anger. He pointed down at Davi. “I know you!”

The crime lord leapt to his feet. “Puto, I know you!” He let out a laugh, loud and tinged with hysteria. He placed both his hands on top his head and began pacing the room. “You used to live…” He blinked, then let out a breath and shrugged. “Like I give a shit who you were or where you lived.”

He rushed forward, slamming his foot into Davi’s ribs. “¡Vete a la chingada, bato!” Leaning over, he spit in Davi’s face.

Davi didn’t care. Even though he was barely clinging to consciousness before the kick sent a wave of agony rippling through his broken body. Through it all, he never took his eyes off Isabella.

Why…?

“You came here to kill me? Me!” Felipe kicked him again, this time with more effort. “¡Vete a la chingada!”

The skinny man knelt down, moving his face close to Davi’s and blocking Isabella from sight. He began studying Davi closer, as if seeing him for the first time. “People like you can’t kill people like me, puto. It’s not in your breeding.” He spoke calmly, as if explaining something complex to a child. “You were born weak, to a family whose sole purpose is to serve people like me. That’s the way it’s always been. The way it’ll always be. The strong controlling the weak.”

He sighed and a sad look passed over his features. “Besides, even if you killed me, what would it have changed, huh? Would life become better for the rest of your people? Would they dance in their muddy streets and sing songs in their drekholes to praise you?” He shook his head. “No, esé. Nada cambia. Things would stay exactly the same. Your people would still be weak, and someone strong like me would be there to make sure they stayed that way.”

Isabella’s enigmatic laugh echoed through the room. “I think you misunderstand, Felipe. He’s not on some noble quest to rid the world of one more piece of shit. He’s on a personal quest to kill the piece of shit that is you.”

“Easy, now.” Felipe rose and faced her. “While I appreciate you saving my life, I would like to remind you that you are in my home.”

“Yeah, about that…” Isabella’s arm came up, Davi’s Predator taking center stage. “Hualpa sends his regards.”

The Ares exploded, snapping Felipe’s head back. When the body hit the floor, Davi found himself staring into the crime lord’s wide-open eyes, blood and gray matter oozing from a third hole between them.

“Why is it the more power they get, the more powerful they believe they are?” Isabella knelt next to Davi. With a small cloth rag she pulled from a pocket, she wiped the pistol clean and forced it into Davi’s limp hand. Reaching out, she ran her fingers through his hair again. His body convulsed as he felt a pinch at the base of his skull. “I really am sorry about this, mi hijo. Had you just listened to me, we’d be on our way to Rome right now.”

Her hand came away holding a small, spent auto-injector. A heartbeat later, the pain fell from Davi’s body like rain, and along with it the terror and anger that had filled him since Isabella entered the room.

She leaned over and kissed his cheek. “I hated you when I was first assigned to you. But the more time we spent together, the deeper I fell in love. Over the past few years, I prayed that the dragon was wrong, and that you had no plans of ever coming back here.” Had Davi not known better, he would have sworn a fat tear sat in the corner of her eye. “But I can’t go against a dragon. Not even for you, mi hijo.” She glanced at Felipe’s body, then shook her head. “But the old worm was right—you came back as he predicted. And just like that, he wins, and no one will ever be able to connect him to this.”

She let out a sigh. “You got your revenge, even if the es un perro was right. Nothing will change for the people of your village. The only difference is Felipe’s replacement will be someone whose ambitions align more with Hualpa’s.” She turned back and caressed Davi’s cheek. “But at least you won’t suffer any more.”

Rising to her feet, the elf disappeared from his field of vision.

Her words echoed inside Davi’s head even as the poison she’d injected snaked through his veins. A small part of him felt he should be comforted by what she said. The rest of him just wanted to sleep…

Keeping Up With Mr. Johnson

By Steven S. Long

“It’s 6:00 AM, Mr. Hardwick. Please get up,” the housecomp said in its pleasantly neutral, precisely modulated, feminine voice.

“All right, all right, I’m up,” he said as he sat up and swung his legs off the edge of the bed. Helen rolled over and put a hand on his back; he leaned over, caressed her blonde hair, kissed her on the forehead. It didn’t seem like so long ago when their morning contact would have been far more intimate, full of fire and urgency, but two decades of marriage and two kids had replaced that early passion with a calmer, more profound connection.

No more time to linger, though—another busy day ahead. He jumped in the shower, where the housecomp chased away his morning bleariness with precisely-warmed water and a review of his schedule. Helen was working on her makeup when he emerged. He stood next to her at the sink and shaved. Occasionally they exchanged a comment about the kids, the apartment, some upcoming social event.

He paused in mid-shave to look at Helen as she carefully applied lipstick. Watching her do everyday things was one of the simple pleasures of his life. Any fool could see she was beautiful, but it was more than that. Unlike most of his colleagues he hadn’t ditched his “starter wife” for some surgically-enhanced would-be trideo star of a trophy wife. He couldn’t even imagine doing that; he loved Helen, heart and soul, in a way few of his fellow SK execs would understand. He’d only ever cheated on her with one woman, and there was a damn good reason for that. They’d never talked about it, but she knew and understood. He was sure of it.

“What?” she said with that little smile of hers, the one he liked to think she reserved only for him.

“Nothing,” he said, matching her smile as he returned to his shaving.

Breakfast was the usual controlled chaos: him trying to read the overnight datafeed while eating; the kids unable to sit still for long; Matilda, their housekeeper/cook, attempting to corral them with limited success; Helen chattering on about this and that. Nothing requiring his immediate attention had happened overnight, so he enjoyed the comfortable familiarity of it all without distraction.

He dressed, luxuriating in the feel of the 500-nuyen silk shirt, the 3,000-nuyen suit jacket, the gold cufflinks in the shape of the Saeder-Krupp logo. He’d done some things for the corp that he didn’t like to think about, but he couldn’t deny that the salary they paid him made his life a lot more pleasant than it was before he met Helen. It let him provide her and the kids with anything they needed, and that was well worth giving up the freedom of his old life to join the corporate ranks.

He slipped on one of his few souvenirs of his previous life—an orichalcum ring in the shape of an ouroboros. Snakeman had made it for him years ago to mark the end of his apprenticeship, and he’d held onto it even when he’d had to let things with far greater objective value go. He felt the little tingle of power from it, a sensation as familiar and comforting as his family’s voices around the breakfast table. Then he fetched his Caliban from his home office and headed for the door. “Take good care of them, Matilda,” he said on his way out.

“Always, Mr. Hardwick.” She looked like your typical Third World immigrant working a typical immigrant job, but she was part of his benefits package. A bodyguard for Helen and the kids, Matilda had enough cyber and bio enhancements to outdo most elite soldiers. There were no guarantees in the Sixth World, but having her around made him feel better about his family’s safety.

His own bodyguards waited for him just outside the apartment door: Rapier, an elf as swift and deadly as her namesake, with looks that let her pass as arm candy right up to the point where she put two rounds in some unsuspecting fool’s head; and Brutus, a huge ork with more muscle augmentation and dermal plating than anyone Hardwick had ever met. Rapier favored him with the intimate nod of her chin they used to communicate a world of meaning in a simple gesture. He didn’t return it; Helen was too close by.

“G’morning, boss,” Brutus said, his voice slightly slurred by his tusks.

“Good morning. Let’s go.” The helicopter ride took them past Aztechnology’s garish, pyramid-shaped local headquarters, then over the still-visible scar Hurricane Penelope had left on Miami a dozen years ago. City leaders now euphemistically referred to it as “Vizcaya Free Park,” but the citizens called it the Vizcaya Free-Fire Zone. It was just the sort of place he used to live and work in. Flying effortlessly over it always gave him a touch of the thrill an escaped convict feels as the prison walls shrink in the distance behind him. But he paid no more attention than that, focusing on his Caliban instead; Rapier and Brutus were more than wary enough to notice any possible threat.

Soon they arrived at SK Tower. Perched atop the highest point on Lofwyr Key, the artificial island the corp built a decade ago, the Tower offered an unequaled view of Bayside Park, the Atlantic Ocean, and the Atlantis Autonomous District offshore/undersea habitat where only the really rich people could afford to live.

With Rapier leading and Brutus bringing up the rear, they headed inside. His assistant Ashleigh waited just inside the door marked UNCONVENTIONAL ASSETS DIVISION, same as always. “Good morning, Mr. Hardwick,” she said, handing him a mug of coffee brewed the way he liked it.

“Good morning. Updates?” She filled him in on calls, calendar changes, and other details, but he only half-paid attention. The truly important meeting, the one after lunch, already occupied most of his thoughts. After all, none of the day’s other activities required him to risk his life.

The morning’s meetings went without a hitch. Now for the main event: as head of SK Miami’s Unconventional Assets Division, he had to go talk with the unconventional assets—or “shadowrunners,” as the street called them. Powerful, deniable, illegal “soldiers” the corps used in their covert wars against each other, he could hire them to do just about anything; from theft, sabotage, and personnel extraction to outright murder.

There was a problem, though—and that was why he had a job. Mega-corporations, the most conventional of entities, clashed with the unconventional assets they so desperately needed. His years in both worlds made him the ideal interface between them.

The best shadowrunners were smooth as silk to work with. They’d survived on the streets, in the Matrix, among the Awakened for years; life on the edge had burned most of the stupid out of them. Professional and reliable, they lived by a code nearly as binding as a corp’s bylaws. But the best never came cheap, and prime runners weren’t always available on his timetable. That meant having to dig deeper into the barrel, and the end result was often as smooth as burlap.

Most of the stress of his job came from having to deal with that sort of shadowrunner: the know-it-alls, the jandering bastards, the chip-on-their-shoulders, the psychotics, the chrome-junkies, the weirdos. In his experience, the average shadowrunner was so unreliable and unprofessional that working with them was like playing roulette. But he’d keep working with them no matter how often the little white ball landed on the wrong number, because they were the only ones who could do work vital to the bottom line. As disreputable as they might be, shadowrunners filled a niche in the megacorporate ecosystem. That guaranteed him a job—as long as he got results.

Unfortunately, one of the unconventional things about unconventional assets was their refusal to come onto corp property for a meeting. The idea of being scanned, identified, recorded, watched, giving up their weapons—they’d rather stick their heads in a hell hound’s mouth. He had to go to them, which meant stepping outside the safe, comfortable confines of SK turf.

Rapier and Brutus led him to a black, unmarked SK Bentley Concordat, where a corp rigger and another pair of armed guards waited. He settled into his seat and the others arranged themselves protectively around him. He’d have preferred some sort of combat van like an SK Rhino, but he had to maintain the image of Mr. Johnson. At least the car had plenty of armor and power.

The Bentley headed out the gates of SK’s corporate park and into the urban jungle of Miami. As they kept driving, that jungle turned to wasteland: ruined buildings taken over by squatters; competing scrawls of graffiti everywhere; ads for the cheapest possible products and services garishly assaulting the eye. The human misery was almost palpable. Spirits of Fire and Air be praised that he didn’t have to live in places like this anymore.

They drove to an old cinderblock building in a half-deserted part of the ’plex. No one had lived there for years except devil rats. In other words, just the sort of place runners liked to hold meetings.

The guards got out, weapons ready, and entered the building while Hardwick and his bodyguards waited in the Bentley. A few minutes later, they signaled all-secure and he walked in.

The interior of the building wasn’t much more than an empty shell; scavengers had stripped out anything of any possible value, right down to the wiring. Rapier picked the spot she liked best for defensive purposes, near a sturdy-looking brick wall in the back. The guards set up the portable furniture they’d brought along. Not only would “the office” make things more comfortable, it gave him a bit of a psychological edge by making this place as much his turf as the runners’.

Finally he added his own magical touch: a detect enemies spell to alert him if any of the runners posed a threat. He knew some Johnsons who went further, adding a mask spell to hide their identities or an armor spell in case a runner’s trigger finger got too itchy. He’d rarely found the former to be of much use, and he knew from personal experience that a lot of runners considered the latter insulting. The detect was enough for him—that, and his ouroboros ring, if necessary.

The agreed-upon signal knock on the east door came at 1230 hours precisely: chalk one up for their professionalism. The detect spell remained silent. He nodded at Rapier, who passed it on to a guard. He opened the door left-handed, his right hand near his weapon.

“Year of the dragon,” said a loud voice similar to, but not quite the same as, Brutus’. That was the second signal.

“Let them in,” he said, his voice firm and confident, his posture and attitude radiating competence and control. That was the only way to deal with runners: from a position of strength, whether real or illusory.

An ork—obviously a samurai from his ’ware, his weapons, his swagger—entered, followed by four others: a human, his talismans marking him as a Hermetic mage; a red-bearded dwarf with a small robot perched on his shoulder; a human decker; and another Awakened, an attractive human woman with the tattoos and accouterments of a Raccoon shaman. Pretty standard runner team, just what Operation Altitude needed.

The runners moved as a group, with a smooth wariness that showed they were skilled professionals. They took care not to do anything the sararimen would perceive as threatening—and that showed they were smart. He was well aware that on the street you didn’t survive to become the former if you weren’t the latter.

They reached the half-circle of chairs in front of the desk, stopped, fanned out cautiously. “I’m Tuskarora, leader of the Five Aces,” the ork said. “These are Trismegistus, Teamster, Ryder, and Atsa,” he continued, pointing at each of the others in turn.

“Good afternoon. You can call me Mr. Johnson,” Hardwick said, speaking the words of the old ritual. “Please be seated.” He sat down; Rapier, Brutus, and his other guards remained standing.

“Thank you for meeting me today. Ephraim Fivestars tells me you’re pros, and he’s never steered me wrong before.”

“He says the same about you.”

Hardwick smiled thinly. “Good. Down to business, then.”

“Let’s make sure we’re clear up front, chummer,” Tuskarora said. “I’ve done way too many runs where a suit didn’t tell me everything I needed to know, and I’m sick of that drek. The more, and more accurate intel you provide us with, the better our chances of success. If you lie to us, if you hide useful data from us, if you make our job harder than it needs to be because of some secret agenda—I’ll burn you. We clear?”

Hardwick didn’t speak, just stared straight at the big ork. Brutus didn’t move, but Rapier edged closer to him.

Tuskarora grinned, his gaze flicking between elf and human. “You two, huh? Nice going, Johnson. Never got to visit a dandelion patch myself—what’s it like? They as cold in bed as they are on the street?”

Rapier flushed, but did nothing. Hardwick could sense the tension in her. He felt his own anger rising, damped it down, shoved it aside. It wouldn’t help him here. “That’s none of your concern.”

“Bulldrek.” Tuskarora leaned forward to emphasize his words. “No written contracts in this biz. It’s all trust between you and me—” He pointed at Hardwick’s wedding ring. “—and I’m not so sure I can trust a man who betrays the strongest bond of faith in his life.”

Hardwick could almost feel the ork wanting to pop a handrazor blade out from under his fingernail, but the detect spell still hadn’t sounded.

Sensing Rapier was about to lose it, he reached out, gently took her arm, calmed her down a little. “The one thing has nothing to do with the other. You and I don’t trust each other, and we never will. But we’ve got a stronger connection: mutual interest: I want something badly enough to pay major nuyen for it, and you’re the people I think can get it for me. You want the money—and the adrenaline rush of the job.”

Hardwick released Rapier’s arm and folded his hands together on his desk. “My odds of getting what I want decrease if I’m not straight with you or I dangle you—not to mention that I end up with an enemy instead of a valuable business contact. Let’s cut the drek, assume we’re both professionals, and proceed accordingly. Agreed?”

“So ka,” Tuskarora said, nodding with satisfaction as he sat back. Rapier calmed down another couple notches; he figured the odds of someone dying had dropped back to no more than ten percent.

“Now that we’re done dancing, what’s the job?” Trismegistus asked.

“Basically it’s a techjacking, maybe with a snatch job or elimination attached. Pays two hundred thousand nuyen, plus reasonable expenses.”

That caught the runners’ attention. “Lotta money for a B&E,” Tuskarora said. “What’s the catch?”

Hardwick reached into a desk drawer, pulled out a small plastic container, slid it across the desk toward Tuskarora. “All the data I have is on this chip.”

“Bullet point it for us,” Teamster said.

Hardwick tapped his Caliban; it projected an image on the wall behind him. “This is a prototype developed by Aztechnology for a ‘genomic exchange enhancer.’ I don’t know all the engineering, but from what I understand it significantly speeds up the rate of information exchange between biocomputers and silicon computers.

“We want the GEE, any specs or other data related to it, and if you can grab her Dr. Lydia Gonzalez-Wu, its inventor. If you can’t get her, kill her. If it’s a choice between bringing us the GEE and extracting her, make your escape and forget about her.”

“Where’s Aztech keeping this thing?” Tuskarora asked.

“At a secret research facility in the Everglades.”

None of the runners looked happy when he mentioned the Glades: fifteen hundred square miles of swamp, shallow river, sawgrass, trees, mud, insects, and animals both normal and paranormal. Once only half that size and a fraction as dangerous, it had Awakened when the Sixth World dawned. No one dared to try to clear large patches of the Glades for farming or tract housing anymore, but it was a good place for Aztechnology to hide a research lab close to the Miami ’plex.

“What’s our out?” Teamster said.

“An extraction point on an isolated part of the coast near the Ten Thousand Islands. Once you’ve got the goods, proceed there overland. We’ll exfil you immediately in a Nissan Wolf helicopter.”

“‘We,’ kemo sabe?” Tuskarora asked.

“Yes, we. This job is too important for me to trust to my lieutenants. I’ll oversee things personally.”

“Price just went up twenty percent.”

“No, it didn’t. I’m not going along to interfere with you or look over your shoulders. I’m there to make sure we all get what we want and get out safely. If you have a problem with that, I’ll find another team.”

Tuskarora said nothing this time.

“Good,” Hardwick said. “Take a look at the data, make some plans, and get back to me with your outline, timetable, and requested supplies. I expect to hear from you within twelve hours at the same number we used before.”

“You got it, Johnson.” At the samurai’s nod, the Five Aces stood up and left without further discussion. Two minutes later Hardwick and his team did the same.

“What did you think of them?” Hardwick asked when they were back in the Bentley.

“That ork’s an asshole,” Rapier said, her anger at being insulted still plain on her face. “But the team seems smart and efficient.” It was about the highest praise she could offer.

“Let’s hope so—or we’re all in trouble.”

The insertion had gone off almost perfectly. It was only later that things went to hell.

Hardwick woke up a few seconds after the explosion. Something had gone wrong on the run; the runners had fled to the exfil point in a stolen helicopter—pursued by one that wasn’t. A lot of machine gun fire and one Aztechnology Striker shot later, both choppers had crashed. He was lucky to be alive. No, not luck; Rapier had done her job and pushed him out of the path of danger, spirits bless her.

He stumbled to his feet, head aching, and looked around. The beach was on fire. Puddles of burning fuel and scraps of shrapnel that had once been two helicopters littered the sand. Make that three helicopters—the runners’ chopper had pinwheeled across the sand after crashing and smashed into the getaway helicopter. Now he was well and truly fucked.

Worse than the wreckage were the bodies. He’d seen plenty of death in his day, but this was his entire sec-team, his men, blown to bits. This was different.

He couldn’t take it anymore and looked away—only to see Rapier. A flying chunk of rotor had cut her nearly in half. Some piece of her chrome sparked a little, fitfully, as if protesting its demise. Unable to stop himself, he scanned the beach until he found what remained of Brutus. Spattered jet fuel ignited by the blast had already burned away most of his flesh and was still working on his dermal armor and laced bones.

“God fucking damn it,” he whispered to himself, squeezing his eyes to hold back tears. They’d protected him for over five years. They couldn’t have done their jobs any better. He’d genuinely liked them.

And now they’d left him in the Glades with no one to watch his back.

Hearing a deep groan from the swamp side of the beach, he hurried across the sand, avoiding anything burning or sharp, until he found the source: Tuskarora. Next to him lay Atsa. They must have bailed out at the last moment.

Stuck in hostile territory with two runners, one of them a temperamental ork. He wasn’t sure if his chances of survival had just gone up or down.

Had they completed the op? Tuskarora had a pack on, but it was torn open, nearly empty. Hardwick examined the ground between the ork and the trees, looking for anything that might have fallen out. Spare knife... multitool...tube of tusk polish.... A document pouch!—right in the middle of a puddle of burning fuel.

Casting magic fingers, he tried to lift the pouch out, but it was too far gone and crumbled into ashes. Well, if he didn’t have it, at least Aztechnology didn’t either.

He saw the firelight glint off something on the other side of the pool. He walked closer. A dura-plas chip box! He opened it with the same sort of eagerness his kids had on Christmas morning.

Inside was the GEE, its plastic and silicon more precious to him than gold and diamonds. He took it out, wrapped it carefully in a piece of clean cloth, and stashed it in one of the secret pouches sewn into his body armor. Then he tossed the box into the fire alongside the remains of the documents pouch.

Tuskarora groaned again. The big ork only had some minor cuts and abrasions, but Atsa was out cold. Hardwick didn’t like the look of her pupils or the lump on her head, but he had no idea whether she’d gotten the latter by jumping from the helicopter or earlier in the run. She probably had a concussion, but he couldn’t afford to let her keep sleeping. “Wake up, Atsa,” he said, patting her cheek.

She moaned and stirred, batting his hand away like a child who didn’t want to wake up for school. But at last her eyes flickered open. She started to lever herself up on one elbow, then shrieked with pain. “Leg!” she said through gritted teeth.

He lifted her deerskin skirt up a little and looked. He was no medic, but he’d seen enough combat injuries to know she’d broken her left leg. “Damn it,” he said.

“That bad?”

“Not sure, but it’s bad for us. Going to slow us down. Gotta rouse Tuskarora.”

Getting close enough to wake up a street samurai full of adrenaline wasn’t exactly his idea of a smart survival tactic, so he kicked sand at the ork. “Rise and shine, Tuskarora! No time for sleep.”

Tuskarora jerked awake and flowed to his feet with augmented speed and grace. He reached for a smartgun that wasn’t there, then focused on Hardwick with laser intensity. “You!” he said. In two strides he reached Hardwick. Effortlessly the ork lifted him off the ground with his left hand while drawing his right hand back into a fist. As he did, razor-sharp blades extended from his knuckles. “You got my team killed, Johnson! When you get to Hell, tell ’em I said hello.”

“I got your team killed?” Hardwick said, struggling to speak clearly with the ork’s hand around his throat. “You had all the intel I did. You’re the one who led the Aztechs to us. You’re the one who blew up their helicopter with a rocket. You’re the one who got my entire sec-team killed, you stupid son of a bitch!”

Tuskarora snarled and thrust his right fist forward. Before he could connect, the ouroboros ring gleamed and an Armor spell shimmered into existence around Hardwick, deflecting the deadly spurs.

“You’re Awakened?” Tuskarora said.

“You think I have this job just because of my winning personality?” Hardwick replied. “I used to be one of you. I was pulling runs like this when you were pissing your diapers. That’s how I can relate to runners—and that’s why I deal fairly with them.” His conscience nagged at him for a second because of what he’d done with the GEE, but loyalty to SK and his family meant more than a little white lie to a runner. He was sure of it.

“Why didn’t you tell me he was Awakened?” Tuskarora asked Atsa.

“You didn’t ask.”

“Damn treehuggers,” the ork muttered. Most of the tension went out of his muscles; veins that had dilated from rage or the effects of his cyberware began to shrink. He let Hardwick go. “Okay, Johnson, what now?”

“First things first. Did you complete the op?”

“Yeah, we geeked the scientist and got the GEE and all her...drek!” he finished as he discovered his backpack was torn open and empty. “Gotta be here somewhere, let’s look!”

The two of them searched; Hardwick let the ork go toward where he’d located the chip. Tuskarora found his Predator, brushed the sand off it, kissed it, and holstered it. A few seconds later he came to the now burned-out puddle of fuel. “Motherfucker!” he said, recognizing the ugly lump of ash at its center as the remains of his documents pouch. He crouched down for a closer look, shoulders slumping, face fallen. “The others died for nothing...nothing.”

“What happened? We had to maintain blackout so the Aztechs wouldn’t find us.”

“It went great at first,” Tuskarora replied. “Took awhile for us to find the right lab, but we were quick enough to geek anyone who might’ve raised the alarm.” He grinned in that particularly nasty way only orks could. “When we found the lab, we got lucky—Gonzalez-Wu was working late. She gave up the goods but refused to come along, so we iced her.”

“Go on.”

“That’s when our luck ran out. I guess some Aztechnology decker found Ryder in the system. We walked out of that lab and right into a fully-armed security squad.

“Ryder bought it when one of the Azzies shot him in the head, but Tris and Atsa laid down some mojo that gave us the chance to run for it. No way we could escape through the swamp as planned, so we headed for the compound’s hangar. They had two choppers there; we took the one Teamster thought was faster.

“He took three rounds during the chase, so he couldn’t fly steady. Even if they hadn’t shot us up, I doubt he could’ve landed safely; he’d lost too much blood and was too messed up, even after the healing Tris and Atsa slapped on him.”

“You’re probably right. For what it’s worth—I’m sorry about your team.”

“Yeah...” Tuskarora looked skeptical. “I think it’s time we got the hell out of here. Atsa, can you heal that leg?”

“No!” Hardwick said. “She’s probably got a concussion. Don’t even try to cast or Assense, Atsa. At best it’ll make your head hurt even more. But you’ll probably miscast and take serious Drain. Maybe even fatal.”

“He’s right,” she said. “Between the way my head feels and the pain from my leg, I couldn’t even magically light a candle.”

“Okay, you’re a mage, Johnson—you heal her.”

“Ehhh, that might not be such a great idea, either. I’ve never had much of a knack for most mana spells. I could ease her pain a little, probably, but if I try to heal her, the odds are I end up in a lot of pain, nothing happens to her, and you have two people to carry.”

“Then cover us with an invisibility spell so no one can find us.”

Hardwick shook his head. “Can’t do that, either.”

“Elvis Christ! You can’t do anything, can you, Johnson? What the fuck good are you?”

Before Hardwick could respond, an Aztechnology Plumed Serpent stealth drone flew into view over the treetops. Sensing targets, it angled toward the three of them and opened fire. Bullets kicked up gouts of sand around them.

“Damn it!” Tuskarora shouted. Moving with wired speed, he grabbed Atsa and dove behind some wreckage. She screamed as he jostled her leg.

Hardwick didn’t move. He stared at the Plumed Serpent, focusing his willpower to draw mana into and through his self. He pointed at the drone and a spark shot forth from his hand. Traveling almost faster than the eye could follow, it grew larger, blossoming into a fireball. It engulfed the drone with a sound like a bonfire going up all at once. The drone’s ammo added a second blast as a crescendo.

Tuskarora peeked over his cover. “Elvis Christ!” he said. “Nice going, Johnson.”

Hardwick nodded. “That’s what the fuck good I am.”

“No drek.”

“The Azzies saw everything that drone saw,” Hardwick continued. “We need to move out of here now, or we’ll spend the rest of our short lives being prepped for the sacrifice stone.”

“Right. Let’s get one of the inflatable boats and hightail it.”

“Negative,” Hardwick said. “We go overland through the swamp.”

Tuskarora stared at him. “Did you hit your head too, Johnson? She can’t walk through the swamp! Plus it’s full of giant snakes and drek.”

“And the ocean and river aren’t full of man-eating monsters? On the water we’re sitting ducks; anyone can see us. The swamp provides some cover from the air and from astral searchers, and drones have a harder time maneuvering among the trees and underbrush. If we go by sea, we’re all dead. If we go overland—some of us might survive.”

“Oh, wait—wait. Let me guess. This is the part where you suggest that we abandon Atsa to improve our own chances of survival.” From the look on the shaman’s face, she expected the same.

“Fuck that. No one on any team I run gets left behind. We’ll make a splint and help her walk. We—well, you—carry her if necessary.”

Hardwick couldn’t read Tuskarora’s expression—surprise? Bafflement? Maybe a touch of respect? “Okay, let’s do it then,” was all the samurai said.

They made a sturdy splint for Atsa with carbon fiber poles from the electronics tent; she already had her staff for a crutch. “Anything here you want to take?” Hardwick asked as he grabbed a field pack and some rations.

Tuskarora glanced around. “Nah. Let’s get outta here.”

Hours of miserable walking through the swamp followed. The heat, tension, and exertion made sweat pour off Hardwick and Tuskarora, but despite the effort of walking with her injuries Atsa seemed oddly at peace.

“Wotko provides,” she said, using Raccoon’s name in Creek. They hadn’t run into anything truly dangerous so far, so Hardwick figured she might be right.

Tuskarora signaled for a rest and sat down on the trunk of a fallen tree. “This is never going to work,” he said. “Any time now the Azzies will find us, and then—whhshkkt!” He made a slicing motion across his throat.

“You’re overlooking something,” Hardwick said, sitting upwind to avoid the full impact of orkish BO.

“Yeah, Johnson? What’s that?”

“The mindset of the typical corporate administrator.”

“I’ve never understood how you assholes think in the first place, so why don’t you enlighten me?”

“That lab’s important, but not big. So it only has a couple of small choppers, maybe one rigger. This is Aztechnology, so they probably have at least one mage.”

“Had,” Atsa said. “Teamster’s Firetalon killed him.”

“Good. But there’s got to be someone in charge. Unless I miss my guess, it’s a ‘promising’ junior executive on his way up the Aztech ladder. If it gets back to his bosses that he lost the GEE and its inventor, his career comes to a screeching halt—maybe his life, too, the way things work in Aztlan. He’ll do everything he can to get it back using only what he’s got on hand so he doesn’t have to notify the higher-ups or call in too many favors. If we can reach the secondary extraction point before he unleashes the full Aztechnology arsenal, we have a good shot at getting out of this alive.”

“Hope you’re right,” Tuskarora said. “That would explain why we haven’t seen any signs of pursuit yet.”

“Nothing in the astral either, that I can tell—but I’m a little out of practice,” Hardwick said. “Come on, let’s stay ahead of them as long as we can.”

The swamp attacked them a few minutes later as they waded across a calf-deep channel between two patches of more or less solid ground. Tuskarora had just reached the far side when a monster exploded out of the deep water to their left. Twice the ork’s size, it had scaly, green-brown skin, a heavy rectangular head, and a mouth full of large, sharp fangs.

It lunged for Hardwick, but a few years behind a desk hadn’t destroyed his runner’s reflexes. He jerked to the side and the beast’s jaws clamped onto his field pack instead of his chest. The straps pulled painfully against his shoulders, and then snapped under the strain of the creature’s strength as he stumbled and fell into the murky water.

Tuskarora yelled and leaped. Grabbing one of the creature’s horns with his left hand, he thrust the cyber-spurs from his right deep into its eye. The monster bellowed in pain. With an agonized jerk of its head, it threw the ork into the deep water.

It turned back to Hardwick, but Tuskarora’s attack had given him enough time to prepare one of his own. Obeying his will, mana flowed and coalesced, becoming a blue-white bolt of destructive energy. The creature roared in pain again, its scales offering little protection against magic.

Tuskarora returned to the fight, this time coming in low to rake his spurs across the creature’s softer underbelly. The wounds he left were shallow, but they convinced the beast to seek easier prey. It whirled and dove into the deep water.

“Elvis Christ!” Tuskarora said as they waited cautiously to make sure it didn’t intend to return. “What the fuck was that, a combat hippo?”

“A behemoth,” Atsa said. “An Awakened alligator—a young one. An adult would’ve been twice as big.”

“Why didn’t you shoot it?” Hardwick said.

“Even if a round from a Predator could get through that thing’s skin, you think it would make a difference? More important, a gunshot’s not natural—if there are any Azzies nearby, they wouldn’t care about swamp animal sounds, but gunfire’d bring ’em running.”

“Good point,” Hardwick said, recovering his composure. “Let’s get out of here in case there are more of those things around.”

Half an hour later, they heard the sound they’d been dreading: an approaching helicopter. “Cover!” Tuskarora said. They dove into a thicket and scrambled into it as deep as they could. Hardwick was soon covered in muck and face-to-face with several disturbingly large insects.

The chopper drew closer, passed overhead to the south. The noise of the rotors faded—then increased again.

“Drek and dog piss!” Tuskarora said. “Either they picked up something, or they’re focusing on this area.”

They waited, unmoving, as the helicopter noise came and went, came and went. Then another sound joined the mix: a buzzing whine, like some strange insect....

“Spy drone!” Atsa whispered.

Tuskarora drew his pistol. “No!” Hardwick said. “The chopper will pick up a gunshot for sure.”

“Better than letting that drone eyeball us.”

“Let me try something else first,” Hardwick said. “Both of you remain absolutely still, got it?” They nodded.

Hardwick concentrated. He thought about the look of the leaves, right down to vein and stem; the twisting of the vines; the feel of mud and branch and heat; the sounds made by swamp creatures.

They saw the drone: a red and black dragonfly-like thing, sleek and swift. It came closer. The runners held their breath; Hardwick kept concentrating.

The drone hovered in place only a meter away. Then with a flick of a titanium and plastic appendage it darted off to the north and soon disappeared among the foliage.

The runners exhaled. A wave of fatigue washed over Hardwick; he collapsed to one elbow.

“Johnson, you okay?” Tuskarora said. “What the hell happened?”

“Just... a little Drain. Be all right in a sec.”

“Drain?”

“I hid us with a Trid Phantasm—fools tech as well as natural senses. Drone thought we were just a thicket.”

“You’re smarter’n you look, Johnson. But c’mon, we gotta follow that chopper.”

“Follow it? Are you insane? We should go some other direction.”

“You’re not the only bright boy here, chummer. That was a Northrup Hornet.”

“And you know that how? We couldn’t see it.”

“From the sound,” Tuskarora said in the tone usually used to address idiots and the mentally infirm.

“Okay, okay, good for you. So what? Why follow a Hornet?”

“’Cause it doesn’t exactly get great KPL. It’s a short-range, two-man attack chopper that’s been out on recon patrol all day. It wasn’t flying toward the lab, so the pilot must know someplace nearby to refuel. If we can get there, maybe we can grab the Hornet and fly to the extraction point. Or would you rather keep humping it down here with the mud and bugs?”

“Wow, an ork with some brains. Where’d you get your degree, Harvard?”

“No, Overtown University.”

Luck, or perhaps Raccoon, was with them. Another half hour of hard slogging later, they peered through the brush at a clearing containing a big concrete slab supporting a shack, several fuel tanks, and a Northrup Hornet. The place looked like it used to be a ranger station or Park Service depot back in the days when the government owned most things. The green lion logos everywhere proclaimed that it now belonged to Aztechnology. Two pilots worked on the Hornet while three well-armed dwarf guards stood watch.

“I didn’t think a Hornet could carry that many,” Tuskarora said. “Smart to use dwarves.”

“How are we going to get it now?” Hardwick asked.

“I’ve got a plan,” Tuskarora said.

“Hey, I think I know this one: “kill all of them,” right?” Hardwick said, remembering the usual “plan” favored by his old samurai friend War-Eye.

Tuskarora gave him the stink-eye as only an ork could. “Look, I may have big, pointy teeth, but I’m not a monster. Let’s not kill them unless we absolutely have to.”

“A nonviolent samurai? This is a first.”

“Look, odds are the Azzies’ll learn who pulled this job, sooner or later. If I get a rep for casually geeking their guys, that moves me to the top of their hit list, and no one stays on there for long. If I act like a professional and not a butcher, they’ll extend me the same respect. It’s just good biz.”

“You’re right,” Hardwick said. “I followed the same sort of code. I’m sorry I didn’t think you would, too. Working with so many drekhead runners has kind of made me cynical.”

Tuskarora grinned. “That’s one of the job qualifications for a Johnson, though, ain’t it?”

Hardwick stifled a laugh. “Okay, then, how do we take care of the guards and get the Hornet?”

“Simple: we lure them away.”

“You can fly the Hornet?”

“I can,” Atsa said.

“You up to it?”

She nodded. “The splint lets me move my leg enough to do what I need to do, though it probably won’t be the gentlest flight. Raccoon will provide.”

“You do realize raccoons are ground-based animals, right?”

“Cut the clowning, Johnson—we got work to do,” Tuskarora said.

“All right, so what’s this big plan of yours, Tusk?”

“It’s that Trid spell of yours—use it to create an illusion of some runners on the other side of that depot firing at the Azzies, then retreating when the Azzies shoot back. Once they’ve left, we sneak up, grab the Hornet and maybe a pilot, and away we go.”

Hardwick considered carefully. “You’re smarter than you look, Tusk,” he said. “But once I lose line of sight to the Phantasm, the spell ends. With luck, the guards will assume we’re still fleeing and continue to chase what they think is us. Without luck....”

“Just have to take the chance, unless you got a better idea.” Hardwick shook his head. “You ready?” This time he nodded, wishing the sweat dripping down his face came only from the Florida heat.

“Okay. Once the guards leave the platform, I’ll run up there. If it looks safe, Atsa, you follow as fast as you can; otherwise wait and come with Johnson.”

“Got it,” she said.

“Johnson, keep the spell going until those guards are as far away as you can lure them, then get to the platform ASAP. Clear?”

“Clear,” Hardwick said, enjoying the feel of working with a good team. Risking his life on a run wasn’t his idea of fun anymore, but it created a camaraderie no corp job ever could. He took a deep breath and centered himself, visualizing three prime runners. He focused on the target zone, a patch of trees and brush on the opposite side of the platform.

He drew upon his mana and cast the spell. Moments later the sounds and sights of gunfire and wizardry emanated from the target zone. The Aztechnology guards responded with practiced skill, leaping off the platform and taking cover. Soon they returned fire with coordinated precision.

Tuskarora took off, running faster than any non-augmented man ever could. He reached the platform and darted in among the fuel tanks, looking for hostiles. Atsa followed at the fastest limp-run she could manage.

Hardwick kept the Phantasm going. Once Atsa reached the platform, he manipulated it so the runners seemed to retreat. The guards followed, moving in short, tactically intelligent maneuvers. He maintained the Phantasm as long as he could see the target zone, then stopped concentrating and ran for the platform.

The shots he expected never came. He reached the concrete and jump-heaved himself onto it behind one of the fuel tanks. He moved around the tank with as much stealth as he could muster, his eyes peeled for Tusk or Atsa—or Azzies.

He reached the Hornet just as Tuskarora shot one of the Aztech pilots in the head with a silenced Ares Light Fire. With blinding speed, he headed toward the nearby shack, saying, “Hey, you, stop!” as he moved. He flattened himself against the shack’s wall next to the door, drew his Predator, and waited.

Seconds later the other pilot came out of the shack, a Beretta in his hand and a fresh soykaf stain on the front of his flight suit. Before he could take another step Tuskarora grabbed the pilot’s arm and shoved the muzzle of his Predator against the man’s head. “Afternoon, chummer. How’d you like to come work for Saeder-Krupp?”

“Uhhh...viva Lofwyr?”

“Good choice, son, you’ve got a bright future with this company. Your first assignment is to fly us the hell outta here.”

“Hornet’s not refueled yet.”

“It’s got enough juice to get where we’re going. Move!”

Thirty minutes later, they were in comfortable chairs in an SK helicopter, drinking bottles of chilled water. Hardwick had rarely tasted anything so good.

“Don’t worry, Johnson,” Tuskarora said. “You’ll be back in the nine-to-five soon.”

“Hope so. I...look, I know this probably means nothing to you, but...I’m truly sorry about your friends.”

The big ork slumped a little, as if the memory weighed him down. “Thanks. I ran with them for a long time; we made it through a lotta drek together. Hard to believe I won’t see ’em again.”

“Regardless of the op’s results, I wish they’d lived. Losing a friend, it... leaves a hole in your soul, sort of. The hole gets smaller with time, but it never completely closes up. Maybe that’s for the best.”

Tuskarora crooked a smile around his tusks. “What’s this, Johnson? Getting sentimental and chummy with the ‘disposable assets’? What would your bosses say?”

Hardwick shook his head. “Not disposable. Never that. The corps treated me like that too often back in my runner days; it’s counterproductive and stupid. I prefer the term ‘unconventional’ instead.”

“How about ‘renegade’? Or ‘crazed’?”

“Those work too,” Hardwick said, now smiling himself.

“Better watch out, Johnson. If your corporate masters learn you have a heart, they won’t let you be a Johnson anymore. They’ll make you do something that requires more ethics and honesty, like supervising the Unauthorized Human Testing Division.”

Hardwick’s smile didn’t fade. “I hear there are some real opportunities there. But you better watch out yourself. If word hits the street that you saved a Johnson’s life and treated him like a decent human being instead of a dick in a suit, your rep’ll be barghest chow.”

“Well, I won’t tell if neither of you will,” Atsa said.

“Too bad about the swag,” Tuskarora said, leaning back in his seat and shutting his eyes. “All that work and death for nothing.”

A different smile teased at Hardwick’s face, but he suppressed it before either of the runners saw. Feeling the GEE against his skin through the secret pouch in his body armor, he thought about telling Tuskarora he had it. After all, the samurai had saved his life in the Glades, maybe more than once. They were practically friends now.

Well, not good friends. Hardwick leaned back in his seat to get some sleep.

The Art of the Steal

By Phaedra Weldon

1

Someone pounded on the front door as I finished brushing my teeth. I didn’t need this kind of interruption, or any kind, really—not while I was running late for the fourth morning in a row, and on probation because of it. One more tardy and I was gonna get canned.

The house belonged to my dad, and he’d never upgraded it. Anywhere. There wasn’t a Personal Home Assistant to greet anyone, tell them to wait, or show me who was trying to beat the door down. It wasn’t so much the nuyen needed for those kinds of upgrades, but the havoc my magic would wreak on anything electronic.

For instance, the last time dad tried to upgrade the kitchen fridge to one of those automated ones? You know, the kind that keeps your basic foods stocked? Ours started ordering ten and twenty of something, then shutting off so the perishables would…well, you get the picture.

I’m not the best magician in training in Grand Rapids, Michigan, but I wasn’t the worst either. Not a lot of call for spells here. Not much for technology, for that matter.

In fact, not a lot happened out here on the butt-end of the UCAS, which is why I wanted out. In fact, me wanting out of Grand Rapids was the reason I was running late.

Or it was more the cause of it.

My girlfriend of two years didn’t want me to leave. She and her family were heavily invested here. Tiffany Allen is the daughter of the city’s largest mogul, Alexandria Allen, who owns a wildly successful data security firm. They were big into Matrix storage, as opposed to physical hard device storage.

Everything was going digital, and Allen Securities wanted Grand Rapids to be right up there at the forefront. Forget the fact that the rest of the world had already done this.

Tiff had been groomed to take over the company from her mom, so leaving Grand Rapids meant leaving the comfort of lots of nuyen. Lots of power. And a fair amount of celebrity.

The fist beat harder on the door, and I thought I heard a voice as I spit in the sink and rinsed my mouth. “Just a minute!” I called out and wiped my hands.

I grabbed my commlink from my dresser and checked it. No messages from Tiff. We’d had a big, big argument the night before. Walked the streets in front of her high rise for hours. She wanted me to stay. I wanted to go and learn more about law enforcement. Like big time law enforcement, not the small time Lone Star prescient we had in town.

I wanted to join Knight Errant. Now that was where I figured I could really sell my skills at detection spells. But Tiffany wanted me to stay here. It wasn’t like we had plans to marry tomorrow or anything. Let’s face it—she was rich and I wasn’t.

She wanted the finer things in life.

I wanted to help people find the truth.

I loved her. I really did. I just didn’t want to spend the rest of my life in her family’s shadow.

Fastening the commlink to my wrist, I grabbed my coat and headed to the door. We left in mid-conversation last night, me calling a halt to the whole thing. We were both tired and angry, and nothing ever gets done when you combine those two.

But I was calmer now. And thinking maybe I could shoot her a text later and maybe she and I could meet for drinks, and dinner, and we could sort this out in a much better way.

I felt better as I unlocked the door and opened it.

What I didn’t expect to see were two Lone Star officers standing there, hands on their weapons. “Mitch Donavan?”

I looked between the two of them, wondering if I had a parking ticket or some unpaid bill somewhere. I mean, why else would they be at my house? “Yeah?”

“We need you to come with us.”

“Come with you? Why?” Why are you arguing? Stop that! 

“You don’t need to know right now.”

I stood my ground. I certainly did. If there’s one thing I knew, it was the law. My father was a retired lawyer, and I’d heard about it for decades. “I don’t have to go anywhere with you unless you’re here to arrest me.”

One looked at the other before he held up his commlink. He was using shades to see his desktop and touched a few things in mid-air.

My commlink beeped and I checked my own messages. It was a warrant for my detention.

Detention?

“Mitchell Donavan, you’re being detained under suspicion of kidnapping.” He held out a pair of cuffs and I recognized the kind. They nullified magic. The two of them knew I was a magician. I was registered.

“Wait…kidnapping? Who was kidnapped?”

The one with the handcuffs gestured for me to turn around, and I did. There wasn’t much point in resisting.

The moment the cuffs touched my skin I felt a pressure in my head like my ears had been stuffed full of cotton. I turned back around and was escorted from the house as neighbors started heading out for work and stopped to see me being carted away.

When I was in the vehicle I finally said, “Can you please tell me who I’m suspected of kidnapping?”

The one not driving turned to me and said, “Tiffany Allen.”

Oh.

Damn.

2

“Where did you take her?”

I looked at the detective with wide eyes. I didn’t answer. I couldn’t answer because I had no idea where Tiffany was. And I sure as hell didn’t know anything about a kidnapping.

“You’re gonna answer me, you little piece of drek!”

The interrogator shoved the table that separated us to the side and got up close and personal in my face. I still wore the cuffs, which proved to be a detriment because I couldn’t use magic, and a boon because the side effects made it hard to hear. I knew he was shouting in my face because I could see him, and I could feel his spittle on my checks.

But I couldn’t hear him that well.

There was another thing I noticed with the cuffs—they slowed things down. Not around me, but for me. I just knew I was blinking like a drunk person, and I was also sitting sort of slumped sideways in the chair. And of course, this detective thought I was giving him attitude when in truth, I was just trying to maintain.

I had a lot going on in my muffled head. Most of it was questions. Where was Tiffany? Did she leave the apartment after I left? Why did they think I had anything to do with this? 

“Why won’t you tell me anything?” I finally forced out.

The detective backed up and grinned. “Really. You want me to tell you what you already know?”

“I don’t know anything.” I sounded like I was far away, and much louder in my own head. I hoped I was shouting, but honestly, I couldn’t really tell.

The door opened behind him and a plain clothes woman with brown hair, a thin face and a strange tattoo on the left side of her neck stepped in. She waved the detective over to her, didn’t speak, just looked at him, and then he left without another look at me.

I sat sideways, staring at her, focusing on the tattoo. It looked like a snake at first, and then it morphed into a fox, and then a ghost with a wide mouth.

“You’ve got pretty strong mana if you can see the tattoo’s magic through those cuffs.” She left the table where it was and pulled a chair up to sit in front of me. “You’re asking what happened.”

I nodded, still fascinated with the movement of the tattoo. I heard myself answering. “Yes.”

“You honestly don’t know what happened to Tiffany Allen?”

I shook my head. I felt like I wasn’t really in control of my body or my lips anymore.

“Tell me what happened last night.”

I cleared my throat as the tattoo changed color. “Tiff and I were arguing. I wanted to see if I could join Knight Errant, and she didn’t want me to leave Grand Rapids.”

That declaration brought a strange, sour expression on the woman’s face. “You want a career in law enforcement?”

“Yes. I’m good at detection spells, but I need to work on my deductive skills. We argued about it for a while, until I called it quits. I didn’t want to be late for work again.” I told her how Tiffany and I had said goodbye, and how I left her building and went home.

The funny thing was, she never interrupted me. She just…stared at me.

And continued staring at me as I watched her tattoo.

Then she snapped her fingers.

I blinked a few times, and her tattoo looked normal again. I felt as if I’d just woken up from a light doze.

The door opened, and the other detective brought in a small box. I recognized it as one of those older models for playing trideos. After he left, she touched a few of its buttons, and an image appeared in the air between us.

I was looking at the front of Tiff’s building, the front door actually. And it was an odd angle, as if I were a bird. When the angle moved, I realized I was looking at a surveillance drone recording.

I saw us arguing, then she ran up into the house and I followed her. A movement at the bottom of the screen showed some girl sitting on the bench at the bus stop. The door closed. She sped the time index up, and about twenty minutes later, what looked like me and some other guy left the home carrying a large, rolling piece of luggage.

She paused the image. 

My brows knitted together. “That…that never happened.”

“Are you saying the drone’s recording is false, Mr. Donavan?”

“I’m saying someone messed with your feed. Or they tampered with your drone, because that never happened.” I wanted to point at the frozen image, but my hands were still cuffed behind me. That’s when I noticed the ache in my shoulders and my wrists, but no matter how hard I tried to sit up in the chair, I kept leaning sideways.

I wasn’t crazy. I remembered last night just fine. And I never went in her house.

The door opened again and a man in an expensive suite stepped in. “Detective Crow, I believe my client should have been uncuffed and released by now.”

Client?

Detective Crow stood and shut the small machine off. She tucked it under her arm before she moved around behind me. The cuffs came off, and my ears popped. It was like having something removed from inside them after months, and everything became very loud.

I put my hands to my head as the tall man offered me his hand. “Come with me, Mr. Donavan. I’ll make sure you’re compensated for your time and cleared medically. Lone Star—especially this division—isn’t known for their kindness.”

I stood, and would have fallen if he hadn’t put his arm on my shoulder. I was still a bit wobbly and very off balance.

I turned to look at Detective Crow and saw a tall, Native American woman standing beside her. I knew immediately it was a spirit of some kind. And it was her spirit. I assumed it had something to do with my talkativeness, but I had no idea how it was bound to the detective. I didn’t have much experience with them.

This was my first time seeing one.

“Come with me,” the suit said again, and I followed him out of the room with a backwards glance. The woman was no longer there, but I saw a crow on the Detective’s shoulder.

“I…I didn’t hire a lawyer.” My voice sounded weird now.

“I know,” he said as he led us down the hallway to the front door. He opened it for me and pointed to an expensive luxury car parked in the handicapped spot. “My name is Xavier Chablis. I work for Alexandria Allen. She hired me to defend you.”

Tiffany’s mother hired a lawyer for me?

3

I had never been inside the private residence of any public official in my life, much less that of the most influential person in Grand Rapids.

Not that this was saying much. Alexandria Allen had money. And wealth could buy anyone anything they wanted.

And apparently, that’s why Miss Allen wanted to talk to me, and paid one of the most successful lawyers in the city to defend me.

Alexandria lived at the top of the Allen Securities Tower downtown. The view took my breath away. Literally. I became acrophobic on the way up in the outside elevator.

Chablis wasn’t helping. He was watching me with a more than smarmy smirk on his face as the doors opened and Alexandria greeted us herself.

I could see where Tiffany got her looks from. For a woman in her late fifties, Alexandria Allen looked closer to her late thirties. Tall, thin, blonde, with pointed ears and the tell-tale eyes of the elven race.

Tiffany’s father had been human—she’d inherited none of her mother’s race. Except the beauty.

Alexandria’s movements were graceful as she shook my hand, her fingers thin and warm and her arms elegant as she gestured for me to sit in one of the snow-white sofas in the center of the room. The walls were made of glass, or something strong and equally as transparent, and gave a full 360 view of the city. I’d seen the wall of pictures in City Hall when I was a kid. The kind that showed the town from the ground breaking up to the present day. And to be honest, there wasn’t much difference in my opinion, between the pictures of Grand Rapid Fifty years ago to what I saw today. I knew the changes weren’t on the inside, but buried deep, very deep within the city’s roots. Corruption rooted low and spread unseen beneath the pretty lights. 

A cloud passed by, and I made sure I sat down.

Alexandria didn’t mince words either, and sat on the sofa facing me. Chablis set another one of those trideo devices on the coffee table between us, though it was sleeker, more modern, and pressed a button.

The same recording I’d seen earlier, though sharper, played out in front of me. Only with this version, Tiffany and I argued. I put my hands on her shoulders, kissed her forehead, and left. Tiffany went inside.

“That’s what really happened,” I said as I pointed to the machine.

Chablis flicked a manicured finger at the image and fast-forwarded to a familiar time mark. I could see the girl on the bench, then saw me and another guy walk out of the building pulling a rolling suitcase.

I blinked as he shut off the machine. “But…I never went back in there. And I don’t know who that guy is.”

“I know,” Alexandria said.

“Where did you get this?”

“I obtained it,” Chablis said. “Through legal channels, I might add, if not immoral ones. This is the unretouched recording off the drone.”

“Then it shows I’m innocent.”

“Yes it does,” Alexandria said. “But the tampered one was done so skillfully, down to the time-stamp, that we now can’t prove which is the real sequence of events. Even though—” She held up a long finger when I opened my mouth to protest. “—it’s obvious to us theirs has been tampered with. Their copy was handed over to them by the security company.” Her expression turned serious. “Allen Securities.”

That made my jaw drop. “Your own company fabricated the evidence that framed me?”

“Not my company. Certain individuals inside it. Those individuals are being dealt with, but the investigation is still ongoing and therefore I can’t trust anyone in the company until the internal investigation in complete.”

I rubbed at my chin and noticed the sun was setting. I’d been in interrogation all day in those cuffs. Not only had I missed work entirely, I was probably fired already and my skin was itching. “So someone in your company was paid to manipulate the trid and show me leaving with that guy.”

“They claim they didn’t tamper with that part of it, only with eliminating yours and my daughter’s tender embrace and you leaving.”

“But I never went in. So I couldn’t come out.”

Chablis spoke up. “It’s suspected the image of you was magically made. But we can’t prove it.”

I looked from him to Alexandria. “That’s why you brought me here. You know it wasn’t me, but you want me to find out who.”

“You have nothing to lose except your freedom, which I’m sure you’ll fight to win. Besides, Tiffany often bragged about your ability to find things. I want you to find her. Lone Star will wait and fuss and glare at you and convince themselves you did something with her without actually going out and doing what they’re paid to do.” Alexandria pursed her lips. “Tiffany and I don’t often get along, but she’s still the only family I have left.”

Chablis sat forward. “What do you need?”

I needed to get out of there and stretch my legs. I needed to find Tiffany. I needed…

To understand how this happened to me.

I pointed to the girl on the bench. “What about her? She was there, and can act as a witness to me leaving.”

“Can’t find her.” Chablis said. “There’s no other surveillance footage of her, and no record of her ever getting on a bus or entering a terminal.”

“Then I’ll need to go back to that spot and see if I can pick up her trail. If she’s still in the city, I can find her.”

“We’re counting on that.” Alexandria stood. So did I. “Mr. Chablis will get you everything you need. Just find her, Mr. Donavan. Find her alive.”

I watched her leave at an unhurried pace and disappear behind a door.

I turned to Chablis. “Can I get a copy of that vid?”

“Yes.” He left the room for a few seconds and came back with a new commlink and handed it to me. It was way newer than mine.

“Oh I can’t take that.”

“Lone Star has yours. This one is surveillance bug-free. And I’ve already loaded in the vid. Shall we?” Chablis gestured toward the door.

Chablis let me out of his car in front of Tiffany’s place. The front was blocked off with drones projecting a Lone Star barrier of blue and red with the big letters CRIME SCENE DO NOT CROSS repeated over and over.

People walked around it and the bench where the girl had been sitting. It was getting dark, the first rays of the evening sun dipping down behind the buildings. I approached the bench and put my hand on the back of it.

I chose a spell to search and analyze magic—something that would tell me if any magic had been used within a twenty-meter radius in the past twenty four hours. If there was magic used to create that image of me, I should be able to pick up the signature.

There was a faint, distant trace of it, no more than finding a specific grain of sand in a sandbox. But it was fading fast. I pulled a bit more mana, more than I really should have exerted, since I hadn’t eaten all day and was starting to feel light headed.

The impressions changed from magic to simple sixth sense.

I was being watched.

With my eyes still closed and turned in the direction I felt the presence watching me and opened my eyes. I faced the alley across the street, a dark hole sandwiched between two boutiques.

Going in there probably wasn’t a smart thing to do, but if someone was there, they might have been here the night before and seen something. I looked both ways and jay-ran across the street to the alley’s entrance.

Very little light came from the narrow corridor, and I figured that came from people’s window lights as the night blossomed. “Hello?” I called out as I put a foot down on the edge the darkness.

A spark went up through my sole to the top of my head with that simple step, like a very light jolt of electricity. There was magic here. I was on the right track.

Until I took another step into that darkness and was abruptly yanked further in by strong, cold hands around my neck.

4

I had a spell ready—something I’d been practicing recently for just this occasion—when I heard a melodic voice say, “Relax. He just wanted to see you.”

The accent was odd, and not one I’d ever heard before. The hands around my neck released me just as the glowing, blue image of a young man in very stylish shirt and pants appeared to my left. He was sitting on a recycling can, and was…cleaning his nails with a knife? 

Another spirit—the draw of the mana around it alone said as much. It didn’t have the overall dark feeling Detective Crow’s spirit had. That one felt more base in its creation. This one felt…human.

“Mitch! You’re safe!”

That voice I recognized as several glowing orbs sizzled to light.

I opened my arms wide and took in my old friend in a tight hug. “Kevac Truman? Is it really you?”

He stepped back and nodded. Kevac had been the first person in school to show me magic, to tell me I had magic, and to teach me magic. He was good, even when we were kids.

But something happened during high school, and he’d dropped out. I hadn’t seen him since. That was six years ago.

There wasn’t a lot of light in the alley, but from what I could see he looked pretty bad. He was filthy, smelled like stale corn chips, and his long hair had grown into a natural rat’s nest. Kevac had been living on the street. How was that possible? Someone as talented as him living like this?

“Yeah the princess, she keeps me warm and fed and lets me make her things.”

I narrowed my eyes at her and glanced at the spirit on the can. “You with him?”

The spirit nodded. “Yes. He’s amusing. Formed a bond with me several years ago. It’s been fulfilled, but I liked him. Still do.” Somehow he bowed elegantly from his perch on the can. “I am Tybalt.”

“Mitch Donavan.” I stuck my hands in my pants pockets and looked at Kevac. He stared at me like a wide-eyed kid. “So, you’ve been making the…princess…things?”

He bobbed his head several times. “She’s good to me, Mitchy. Real good. And I love her.”

I looked past him to Tybalt. The spirit spun his finger around his temple to indicate Kevac was crazy. It was obvious he wasn’t playing with a full deck…of anything. “So, who’s the princess?”

“Tiffany,” Kevac said and there were little twinkles in his eyes.

Yeah…he was without a doubt, out there. It looked like he’d even set up house here with a half rotted, stained mattress, a battery operated lamp with a dent in the stalk, and what looks and smelled like a portable toilet. “I see. And you do what for Tiffany?”

“I make her things. Very special things.” He nodded. “Want to see?”

I shrugged. When Kevac retreated further into the alley, my attention turned to Tybalt, who was watching me as well. “Kevac was always a bit eccentric in school…but I don’t remember him being…”

“Crazy? That happened when he came face to face with a bug.”

“A bug?”

“You really don’t want to know. Let’s just say the experience didn’t sit well with him. That’s where I came in. But—” He straightened up and crossed his legs Indian style. “—I’d like to know why you’re in the alley. Why you were poking around near Tiffany’s place.”

I gave him the short version of what had happened, all the way up to the vid and what was on the uncut version. “I was trying to locate that girl.”

Tybalt watched Kevac shuffling boxes around and talk to himself. “The last thing Tiffany asked Kevac to make for her was dice.”

“You mean like game dice?”

“Yes. But just one. She wanted it imbued with a Masking spell.” I wasn’t familiar with that spell, and apparently Tybalt realized that from the frown on my face. “A Mask can make the user look like someone else. If you’re a good magic user, which Kevac is, you can set the mask to look like anyone you want it to.”

“Kevac made an enchanted object?”

“Yes I did!” Kevac came back to us with a small, orange dice in his palm. “This is the other one, but I haven’t finished it yet. I can’t get the likeness right, for what the princess wants.”

I glanced at Tybalt. “Likeness of who?”

“Of the great evil queen.” Kevac’s expression darkened. “She’s mean to Tiffany. So she wants me to make the dice look like her.”

Why would Tiffany want an enchanted object that would make her look like her mother? It would take a hard spell to fool cameras with the appearance. But given Kevac’s talent, it could be done. “Did the princess tell you why she wanted it?”

“Oh yes she did. She’s going to take over the evil queen’s empire.”

I wasn’t sure I heard that right. “You mean, she’s going to use the Mask spell to take over the Allen Securities?”

“It’s a bit more melodramatic than that,” Tybalt spoke up. “From what I could gather, whatever Tiffany had planned with the first dice, she was going to use it to remove her mother from their family’s company.”

“How?”

The spirit shook his head. “I don’t know. I got bored.”

Several key things caught my attention. Kevac had said the other dice, and now Tybalt just made reference to the first one. An enchanted dice was already in play...

“Kevac,” I put my hand over his, and over the dice in his palm. “Did you make the mask on the other dice look like anyone?”

He nodded and gave him a bright smile. “Yes, I did! She wanted it to look like you!”

5

Tybalt and I stood outside a dark warehouse several kilometers from the worst side of town. I’d had Chablis drop us off, and asked Tybalt to send a message to someone for me before we set out.

I had the other dice in my back pocket, and I could feel Kevac’s enchantment working. I wouldn’t see what anyone else would see, but I saw and sensed a strange, ghostly steam rising off my skin.

 “You sure about this?” 

“No. But I have to do it.”

“You all right?”

“No again.” I looked at him. “You really want this?”

“I do.”

“Okay then…let’s go rescue Tiffany.”

I could sense them before I saw them. I counted five strangers. I knew about shadowrunning teams in the big cities, and there may or may not be shadowrunners here. So, I could only guess the elf, the orc, a hobgoblin, the human, and the little girl I’d seen on the bench, who was actually a dwarf when seen clearly and up close, were some kind of a group like that.

I had to take a few deep breaths in awe—this was the first time I’d seen four of these races. Or even been this close. Grand Rapids really wasn’t a town kind to things different than most of its citizens, even though there was a healthy elf population.

They were nice to look at, though.

Orcs, trolls, hobgoblins, dwarfs?

Not so much.

The place was semi-well lit with crates for furniture. Used food wrappers and trash littered a table as well as the floor. It smelled awful.

And sitting at the table, playing some kind of holo-game on a machine similar to the one Chablis used, was Tiffany. Not looking anything like a helpless prisoner.

Tybalt nodded and disappeared. He reappeared close to Tiffany, who made a loud, rude noise. The others were on their feet instantly, all manner of weapons drawn.

“You bastard! You scared me half to death!” Tiffany screamed, her voice echoing inside the structure. “What are you doing here? Kev got the dice ready?”

“Yes he does. But he’s a little shy to come in here with all these…” Tybalt looked at the others with disdain. “Hooligans.”

“Fine.” Tiffany signaled for the others to step out.

They did in a group and walked right past me in my hiding space. Wow, they did what the little rich girl told them, too. Runners really were nothing more than armed scum for hire. All this did was want me to go into law enforcement even more.

When Tybalt went in, I’d started preparation for a large environmental attack, but I had to make sure I triggered it at the right time. Tybalt had given me the mana to build it, and he was also helping me hold it.

The holding it was the hard part. My entire body was vibrating, which made it easy to play crazy.

I came out of hiding, and they jumped back. Once they saw what I wanted them to see, they kept moving away and stopped a few feet from the warehouse door.

Feigning Kevac’s half-Quasimodo walk, I entered the warehouse.

“Finally!” Tiffany turned off the machine and came around the table. She walked right through Tybalt. I felt his irritation and her lack of respect for him as he vanished and then he reappeared in front of me.

“Move it, glow stick,” Tiffany said as she stopped marching toward me, or who she believed was Kevac. “Or I’ll find a vacuum cleaner and suck you in.”

I really, really didn’t want to laugh. But I did.

Tiffany looked past Tybalt toward me and winked.

“You could,” the spirit replied. “But it’s my job to make sure Kevac doesn’t get into trouble. So I need to know he won’t be implicated when you go to jail.”

“I’m not going to jail. No one’s going to figure out what I’ve done. Now give me the dice.”

“Pretty,” I said in a Kevac-like voice.

“Yes, I am pretty,” Tiffany said and tried to go around Tybalt. But he simple reappeared in front of her. “Damn it, Casper. Go away!”

“I need confirmation your mother won’t come after Kevac.”

“My mother won’t be able to come after anyone. Once I frame her for kidnapping me for the insurance money, she won’t be in any position to come after anyone.”

So, that’s what she wanted to do. Somehow she was going to use the new dice to fake her mother doing something she could use to have her arrested. It didn’t matter what—not right then. It just mattered that the crow now sitting happily in the warehouse rafters had heard it all.

“And the boyfriend?”

“Mitch?” She made a rude noise. “That idiot gets to be the hero. Lila’s gonna lead him on a chase around the city. That’s why we planted her in that vid, so he’d see her and do his little detection schtick. She’ll lead him right back here, where he’ll find me and rescue me. Once they see this new vid my hired guns are gonna make, they’ll cut him loose as a suspect, arrest my mom and I’ll be made CEO. No one will ever know about the dice.”

“And Mitch? What happens to him?”

“He eventually has a horrible accident.” She reached out to shove Tybalt away.

But the spirit was already gone.

I was too preoccupied trying to figure out why Tiffany thought she’d be CEO. Wouldn’t that be up to the board?

So, when she touched me, I made a noise and nearly released the spell. I thought I’d blew the ruse, but it was pretty much a given that any weird behavior was normal behavior for Kevac.

“Chill, kiddo. Just chill.”

“So…you going to get rid of the evil queen?”

“Yes I am, Kev. And when I do, I’ll make you my king.”

Liar liar, pants on fire.

I reached into my back pocket and pulled out the dice. It glowed a soft, pinkish orange as I held out my hand with the dice in the center of my palm. She reached out to take it, but the spell I’d placed over Kevac’s instantly repelled her.

She flew backwards over the table and onto the floor and remained still. The magic dropped after that and the illusion of Kevac vanished. The runners bolted toward me as I released the spell.

Within seconds, I was in the eye of a maelstrom as high winds circled me. Tendrils spun off and grabbed objects, pummeling the shadow team as they fired their guns at me. The orc was laid out with a single crate over his head. The elf was flung into the air, and then tossed back out through the warehouse window. The table and every piece of heavy trash came at the hobgoblin and knocked him head over heels.

The last two to go down were the human and the dwarf. The dwarf made a seriously sloppy charge at me, but was stopped not by my spell, but by a very, very large fire spirit as it appeared as a wall of flame and engulfed her.

The human? He smartly took off running out of the warehouse, but was stopped by gunfire from outside.

Detective Crow and her officers didn’t enter until the spell was dismissed and everything was still.

They began rounding up the semi-conscious team, as well as Tiffany Allen, as Crow approached me and Tybalt. “I didn’t know you had a spirit.”

“I didn’t.” I smiled at Tybalt, and he bowed at the detective. “But I couldn’t have done this without him. I take it you heard Tiffany’s confession?”

“Yes. And it was the truth.”

I pointed at her. “That’s what you used on me in the interrogation room—some kind of truth spell.”

“It was a spell to analyze the truth. It’s a very active spell, and though I trust it one hundred percent, Lone Star doesn’t always. That’s why we needed to get this on vid.” She looked up as several drones descended from their hiding places. “Thanks for the heads up about this place. How did you find it?”

“I used Kevac’s astral trace on this dice, and just followed the trail to the matching one. Tybalt took a look inside for me, and then contacted your spirit guardian.”

She nodded her head in a slow, thoughtful way. “Good work. You have a skill, Mitch Donavan. And you have a genuine need to do good. Is your heart set on leaving Grand Rapids for some Knight Errant office somewhere? The Silver Dawn could train and use a detection specialist like you.”

Now that was an idea…

“I’ll think about it.”

“That’s all I can ask. You’re cleared. Just stop by the office tomorrow and pick up your things.”

“Oh…Detective,” I stepped toward her, and we walked side-by-side out of the warehouse. I didn’t watch Tiffany leave. I didn’t want to watch her at all. I was feeling a little numb, and very tired. If I hadn’t had Tybalt feeding me mana, that spell would have wiped me out. “Was Tiffany delusional that she’d be the new CEO of Allen Securities?”

“No. There’s a clause in the company charter that if the CEO is proven corrupt or arrested for a crime, the board votes on a new CEO. But—” She gave me another one of those smirks. “—guess who holds controlling interest, and is now on the board by proxy?”

“Tiffany.”

“Yep. You have a nice night, Mr. Donavan. Come by and see me tomorrow.”

I watched her leave and stood by the door in the cool night air. I was still in shock how fast my life had changed in just twenty-four hours. I’d gone from having a girlfriend and a job I was about to get fired from to no girlfriend and a possible new career.

“I genuinely hope all of our adventures together are this entertaining, Mr. Donavan,” Tybalt said before he vanished.

And…apparently I also had a spirit bond.

What a steal.

A Life on the Line

By Aaron Rosenberg

Right up until the moment the street gang appeared, Neil Orrick hadn’t really minded being lost.

He’d been caught up in his readings, of course, examining the buildings, the lamp posts, the street signs, even the sidewalks with his handheld scanner for minute traces of toxic chemicals, and when he’d glanced up from the tiny readout at one point he’d been surprised to discover just how far he’d apparently walked. Gone were the handsome, brick-and-cobblestone streets he knew, with their quaint brick and stone houses and noble elder trees. In their place were larger, gruffer buildings, more square and utilitarian in their profile, steel and concrete and wood offering shelter with little thought to aesthetic. The streets were wider as well, and their asphalt had probably been glass-smooth in the distant past but was now pitted and rough, their crude, worn appearance matching the buildings that marched along it.

Neil sighed. It wasn’t the first time he’d gotten so distracted that he’d missed the turn to his flat and had wound up somewhere else entirely.

It was, however, the first time he’d wound up in a completely different city.

That wasn’t entirely accurate, he knew. He was still in the Scotsprawl, if far to the west of his usual haunts. But he was in Glasgow rather than Edinburgh.

And that made all the difference.

Which was exactly when the ganger rounded the corner.

Small and wiry, his arms bare beneath his leather vest despite the Scottish chill, the skin there covered in tattoos, as if those could ward off the cold all on their own, the ganger spotted Neil at once and paused. They were far enough away that he probably didn’t have a good sense of any particulars, and plenty of others over the years had misinterpreted Neil’s tall, solidly-built frame as a potential threat. Unfortunately, in this case the newcomer seemed to consider it something of a challenge.

“Oi!” the ganger shouted, swaggering in Neil’s direction with all the confidence of a man on his home turf and among friends. “What you doin’ down this end o’ things, eh?” Even the accents here were rougher than Neil was used to, broader and cruder, less musical and far more jagged. The harsher sounds suited the street tough perfectly.

And Neil suspected they would likewise suit the other three gangers who suddenly came round the corner and hurried after their friend with glowers and growls.

Neil was no fool. Far from it, according to his teachers and his test scores. And, although he had no experience dealing with street gangs, he did know that sometimes direct and immediate action was the best plan.

Which is why he turned on his heel and ran.

Though normally a bit sluggish, this time fear lent him wings, and Neil took off like a rocket, practically flying down the wide, rough streets.

There was a whoop and several shouts as the gangers took off after him.

Crap crap crap crap, Neil thought as he ran, scanner still clutched in his fist, arms and legs pumping, chest drawing in deep, shuddering breaths. If I wind up dead in a ditch all the way out here, how will I ever show my findings to Professor McTyre?

That fear proved more potent than any other, and he shifted into a high gear he hadn’t even known he could reach. The stolid buildings now slid by in a blur, people the barest of suggested impressions, and Neil was happy he’d chosen first-thing Monday morning for this expedition. There still weren’t very many people out as the sun just began peeking up above the horizon, which meant at least he didn’t have to worry about crashing into someone as much as he might have otherwise. A collision now could literally prove fatal for him, less from the impact than from the loss of momentum and his head start. The shouts from behind him kept Neil moving, his entire focus upon the ground right ahead and just a little ways beyond.

Which is why he was doubly surprised when he suddenly emerged between two massive, shabby warehouses and found himself standing by the start of a series of worn, old docks.

He was even more shocked when his eyes caught a telltale, iridescent gleam sitting atop the water just beyond the dock, as if sprinkled there and loathe to mix. When really, he mused almost giddily, it should be the water that wanted nothing to do with its unpleasant boarder, and minimized contact as much as possible.

The sounds of pursuit had faded and finally vanished at some point, but Neil barely noticed as he slowed to a jog, then to a quick walk, and finally to a bare crawl. Something in him wasn’t willing to stop completely, though. Not when that lay before him. He tried to catch his breath even as he staggered forward, toward the first dock, the rough old timbers still sturdy beneath his feet.

He’d known he was somewhere in Glasgow, but hadn’t realized he was quite so close to the water.

And he’d no idea whatsoever that the water would be so tainted.

It shouldn’t be, he reminded himself as he approached, staring down at the gently lapping water with its odd rainbow shimmer. That shouldn’t be anywhere near here.

The Toxic Zone was, after all, along the UK’s northeast coastline. Well above Edinburgh. And Glasgow was the west side of the sprawl, butting up against the River Clyde. While not free of taint—nowhere really was—the city and its surroundings had only the standard pollution levels one would expect from a major urban sprawl. Nothing even approaching TZ levels.

Or so he’d thought.

This is amazing, Neil thought, leaning in to get a clearer look and to bring the scanner close enough to get a clear reading. Some kind of offshoot from the Toxic Zone, or the start of a secondary locale. Never mind his original thesis, which would have been interesting and potentially useful, particularly for homeowners, public works, and building concerns, but was otherwise unremarkable. This discovery could be career-making.

He peered down at the oily water, leaning out a little further, arm outstretched—

—and barely had time to yelp as his foot slipped on the time-slicked wood of the dock, sending him pitching forward—

—and right over the side. Toward the water.

Well, it was nice while it lasted, Neil had time to think as the rainbow-hued water rushed toward him. If only I’d—

—there was a blinding flash of light, and the hint of odd, stilted but haunting music ringing in his ears—

—followed by a confused flurry of motion and rapid images, as if the world around him had sped up to a near-blur—

—and Neil found himself standing on a footpath, staring slack-faced up at the building before him. An imposing, U-shaped, two-story stone edifice, columns separating the many doors and round-topped windows, handsome stairs leading up to it from a wide walk around a rectangular lawn, an elegant golden dome peering down from above the central wing.

It was a building he knew very, very well.

The Old College, formerly home to administration, the School of Law, and the Talbot Rice Gallery. Now containing much of the Environmental Sciences department as well. Started in 1789, though not finished until almost a century later, it was still one of the oldest buildings at the University of Edinburgh.

It was also the place Neil most considered home.

And it was, he estimated even through his shock, a good sixty or more kilometers from where he had stood—and fallen—what felt like an instant before. A quick glance at his chronometer, however, proved it to have been closer to ten minutes—still not enough time to cover that distance, but perhaps something to do with the blurred flurry he’d experienced.

What just happened? Neil wondered. And how? But some of his questions got pushed to the back when he spotted a short, stout figure in a distinctive tartan overcoat and garishly clashing scarf striding along the lawn.

“Professor!” Neil called out, hurrying after the man. “Professor McTyre!”

Hearing his name, the professor slowed his quick pace enough for Neil to catch up. “What is it, Orrick?” he demanded with his usual crossness. The old joke was that McTyre’s temper was as short as he was—and woe betide the student who was overheard saying that! “Shouldn’t ye be gathering research right about now?”

“I was, sir,” Neil answered, still a bit out of breath. “But here’s the thing—I wound up over by the docks in Glasgow, sir, and I saw something there. Something completely unexpected.” He paused, only now noticing that the scanner was no longer in his grip. I must have dropped it when I fell, he realized. Which means I don’t have any readings for proof.

“Well, man?” McTyre demanded after a second. “What was it? A bloody unicorn?” Which wouldn’t have been all that unexpected, really, though a little odd—most magical creatures didn’t care for Glasgow’s heavily industrial nature.

“No, sir,” Neil replied, not letting himself get distracted. “It was the Toxic Zone, sir. Or at least a small patch of it.”

“Near Glasgow?” The little professor’s thick, gray eyebrows rose. “Impossible.” And he turned away, dismissing the idea physically as well as intellectually.

“I know what I saw, sir,” Neil insisted. He really wished he’d been able to hold onto that scanner!

“Orrick, ye know as well as I do that the Spill Zone is advancing upon us, steady as old age,” the professor snapped, shifting back to glare up at Neil again. “A meter a year, give or take a few wee jots. That’s all. Glasgow’s on the wrong side of the country, man! And it’ll be thirty years or more afore the spill even reaches us here! How in the name o’ the Pendragon would it make its way over there instead?” He shook his head. “Ye’re workin’ too hard and not resting enough. Your mind’s in a muddle, and your eyes’re playing tricks on ye. Go home, rest, and start afresh tomorrow. Better that than to muck up your data and damage your project.” He resumed his trek, his tone and the sharp way in which he’d left making it clear he did not wish to continue the conversation.

But I know what I saw, Neil told himself. I’m sure of it.

And I’m going to prove it.

I’ve had worse ideas, Neil told himself as he retraced his path along the Glasgow streets toward the river and the docks, a second scanner tucked safely into a pouch at his side. But maybe not much worse. He wasn’t one hundred percent sure he could even find the same dock again—he’d been a bit distracted when he’d wound up there the first time, and didn’t appear to have left by any conventional means—and of course there were street gangs and worse roaming around.

But he had to find it again. He had to show McTyre that he hadn’t been lying or hallucinating or whatever else.

He had to prove himself.

Twice he caught sight of street toughs; the same gang, judging by their tattoos and piercings. Both times, however, Neil saw them first, and was able to duck into doorways or behind dumpsters to avoid being spotted. He really didn’t need a repeat of earlier.

The fact that it was the same gang boded well for his finding the dock, at least. Clearly he was back in that group’s territory again.

Ten, perhaps twenty minutes later, Neil rounded a corner and saw, up ahead, where the buildings came to an end. And just beyond the last of them, across a street, was the same dock from that morning.

Neil hurried to it, checking to make sure there wasn’t anyone else around. Sure enough, as he glanced—more carefully this time!—over the edge he saw the same oily, reflective surface as before. Working quickly, he aimed the scanner at the water and took a clear reading. No question about it, the pollution level was a near-match for the UK Toxic Zone.

Now to take a little of you home with me, Neil thought as he tucked the scanner back away and pulled a stoppered specimen bottle from his jacket pocket. Let’s see McTyre ignore you then!

He pulled the cork-lined stopper free and, kneeling, leaned over to gather his sample—

—when the water suddenly reared up and away from him. Like a cat that doesn’t want to be petted.

As if the water itself were somehow alive.

“Oh, come on,” Neil said, waving the bottle toward the water. “It won’t hurt.”

The water recoiled further, unmistakably pulling back. And then, with a hiss like steam, it rose up and up and up, arcing high overhead, looming above him like a snake preparing to strike—before racing downward at blinding speed.

Directly toward the spot where he stood.

Neil threw his arms up to protect himself, but just as it seemed the water was almost upon him there was another flash of light, more faint music, another confused blur of image and motion—and Neil was once more on the lawn before the Old College.

All right, he told himself grimly as he pocketed the still-empty bottle and brushed himself off, despite being completely, astoundingly dry. Clearly something is happening here. Not just with the water, but with these miraculous flashes. Something is going on.

And I intend to find out what.

Research was one thing Neil was very good at. It was his raison d’être, after all. Of course, in this case he didn’t have a whole lot to go on, but that didn’t stop him from tackling it like any other research problem.

So, he thought, slouching at his desk in the cramped little office he shared with two other student researchers, what do I know about this?

He rose, took a dry-erase marker from the cup on his desk, and turned to the whiteboard in front of him. “I’ve got two different things going on here,” he declared, working through the problem out loud, “the flashes and the spill. They seem to be connected but at cross-purposes, the one having saved me from the other twice now, so I’m going to assume for the moment that they’re completely separate forces or agencies, rather than two ends of the same one.”

He wrote flashes and spill on the board. “Let’s focus on the spill first,” he decided, “since it’s the more known of the two. We know all about the main spill, also known as the Scottish Fringe Toxic Zone. We know where it is, we know when it began, we know how it began, we know its affects on those who come into direct contact with it—and, if I ever finish my research, we’ll know long-term effects of its proximity to people, animals, and architectural structures. What we don’t know is what it’s doing on the other side of the sprawl, splashing up against the outer docks in Glasgow when it shouldn’t even be anywhere near the easternmost edge of Edinburgh yet. That’s problem one.” Which at least he could prove to some degree, thanks to the scanner’s reading. But the spill’s presence here still defied explanation, and that bothered him.

Neil frowned and considered the other category he’d written. “And then there are these flashes. Which coincide with my suddenly moving very quickly—far more quickly than should be possible—from the docks there to the Old College here. The one place I feel safest.”

He forced himself to set aside any preconceived notions and focus only on what he knew and what he could surmise, however outlandish. “Flashes could mean anything,” he admitted, “but moving like that, so fast it’s all a blur? That must be magic.” He tapped the marker against his chin. “And magic, here in the UK, usually means ley lines. But there aren’t any of those out that way.” Stepping over to the overstuffed bookcase that dominated the back corner of the little room, he dug about in the collection of charts and maps and surveys until he found the one he was looking for, then unrolled it across his desk. It showed all of the UK, with spots marked for the major cities and other key locations, and dotted lines indicating where the ley lines ran. The only one that touched the Scotsprawl at all started at Holyrood Park, ran up through the palace and along the Royal Mile to Edinburgh Castle, but from there cut up at a northwest angle to Falkirk and then on to Loch Lomond. There weren’t any ley lines anywhere near Glasgow.

At least, none that anyone knew of. But there’d been stories about new ones cropping up since the Awakening, and at least one, the Wild ley line, had actually been verified.

What if he’d stumbled upon another one?

Neil staggered back over to his desk chair and dropped into it. A new ley line. Discovering that could be even bigger than locating an odd out-pocket of the spill. There were only six ley lines in all of the United Kingdom. If he’d just found a seventh, well, that was the sort of thing that made history.

If that’s what it was—there were other things that could have caused it, after all, including just some friendly mage setting up the equivalent of a safety barrier that shunted people away whenever they got too close. And that barrier leaving him so dazed he’d walked home again without even realizing it. He’d have to find some way to be sure, some way to discount every other possibility, some way to demonstrate it was a ley line. And some way to prove it.

Which meant going back out there. Again.

This is getting to be a bad habit, Neil thought ruefully as he tossed the marker back onto his desk and clambered back to his feet.

And here I went into research, at least in part, because I didn’t want to have to do any fieldwork!

It was all going well until Neil rounded a corner—and walked right into someone.

Someone every bit as big as he was, a whole lot broader, and armed to the teeth.

And tattooed or pierced just about everywhere else.

“Oi!” a deep, grating voice rumbled out by his ear, even as a heavy, chain-wrapped hand shot out and grabbed Neil by the collar. “Watch where you going, yeah?”

“Yes, of course, sorry,” Neil managed to mutter, fighting down the urge to grab at the restraining limb. That would only make matters worse. “It won’t happen again.”

“Right, see it don’t.” The tough lifted Neil up until his feet were barely scraping the ground—no mean feat, but judging by the guy’s features he was at least part ork—before dropping him. Neil didn’t even try staying upright, but let himself fall on his butt instead. It hurt, of course, but the big guy laughed and turned away, and that was worth the brief injury.

Until two more gangers peered around to see what was so funny—and the smaller one was someone Neil recognized.

“Oi!” the little tough shouted. “Ye that same bloke was pokin’ ’round here earlier!”

All three of them converged on him now, the big one’s expression going from slightly amused to confused to belligerent in an eyeblink, and Neil groaned. He started to haul himself to his feet, but the big tough expedited matters by reaching down and yanking him back up into the air as easily as a grown man might lift a tiny kitten.

“Ye invading our turf?” the big guy demanded, his short, wide, ring-pierced nose mere inches from Neil’s own, his small eyes glaring out from under a heavy, spike-studded brow. Definitely part ork. “Think ye can muscle in on the Haggis Hunters?”

“No, not at all,” Neil stammered, not having to pretend fear in the slightest. Not with three gangers around him and two more appearing down the block. “I—I’m a researcher. From the Uni. I’m just studying the effects of the spill, and I wound up here by accident. That’s all.”

“Accident, eh?” The little tough fingered a bolt in his lower lip. “Once, maybe. Twice? Not likely.”

“Three times, I’m thinking,” another voice put in, and Neil winced. He’d seen the ganger in question, a stocky gal with a row of green spikes for hair, both that first time and the second, though he hadn’t thought she’d spotted him then. Apparently he’d been wrong as she continued. “Thought I saw him wandering about a bit ago, but wasn’t sure. But if he’s back twice, why not once more, eh?” She kicked him in the shin with a steel-shod boot, hard enough to leave a bruise.

Her friends laughed. Another one kicked him in the other leg, and the big guy shoved Neil, making him stumble against someone behind him, who pushed and punched him forward again.

Well, this is going to hurt, Neil acknowledged, bracing himself as best he could.

“That’s enough!” a high, sharp voice called out, cutting through the curses and insults and taunts that had begun to rise up all about him, and for a second all other sound ceased. Then, with a lot of muttering, the gangers began to back off, though not without a few glares and a couple of final shoves. They didn’t go far, just down the block or to the other side of the street, but it was enough to give Neil some space—and to leave him face to face with the one who’d just saved him.

She was small, five feet perhaps, and slight of build, but willowy rather than skinny, with a strength that radiated out almost palpably. Her long, silvery hair was pulled back into a thick braid that ended in a carved spike like a dragon’s talon, revealing a pair of upswept, pointed ears. Her clothing had ornate knotwork braiding at the cuffs and collar but was also practical, tight pants under a short tunic and over high leather boots that matched elbow-length leather gloves. A pair of jeweled pommels rose over her shoulders like a second set of eyes that made her violet gaze even more unnerving. Though her gang colors and tattoos matched the others’, compared to the rest of the street gang she was like a sleek motorcycle surrounded by battered bicycles—similar in principle, but several worlds beyond in style and function. Neil had never seen anyone like her. He stared—he couldn’t help it.

“Take a snap, it’ll last longer,” she said after a second, but her tone was light and her eyes suggested amusement rather than ire. Even so, Neil blushed.

“I’m sorry,” he told her. “I’ve just—you’re—” He foundered, unsure what to say that wouldn’t make things even worse, and cursed his usual inability to talk to girls. Not that she was anything like the girls he typically ran into at the pubs!

“It’s all right,” she assured him, resting a hand gently on his arm. She had a thin, faintly glowing silver chain wrapped around her arms, wrists, and hands. Neil tore his stare away from that to look into her calm, knowing eyes, and realized he wasn’t frightened of her. “Ye’re safe now.”

“I am?” He glanced around at the gangers still waiting nearby. None of them were making a move on him, however. “Ah. Well, thank you.” He offered her a shaky smile. “I’m really not trying to muscle in or whatever. I’m just here to study the spill.”

“Are ye sure that’s why ye’re here?” There was nothing flirtatious in her tone, nor anything antagonistic—she sounded genuinely curious. “And no’ for som’thing else?”

“Wh-what do you mean?” He felt like she already knew the answer and just wanted to hear him say it, but while he appreciated her saving him just now, he didn’t know her and wasn’t inclined to share. Especially not something this big. “No, I’m definitely here for the spill.”

“Sure y’are.” She smiled, more of a knowing smirk, but still lovely on her. “Ye’ve been touched, ye know. Chosen.”

“Chosen? By whom?” Neil had a sudden image of the water rearing above him, and flinched. But the elf—that had to be what she was—shook her head as if she’d seen the picture in his head as well.

“All ye have to do is listen,” she told Neil. “Just listen. Ye’ll understand then.” Her smile widened. “Or, if not understand, at least ye’ll ken. Eh?” She grinned outright now, apparently amused by his obvious confusion, and even laughed as she waved in the direction of the docks. “Go on, now. We’ll not stop ye. Perhaps ye’ll stop by this way again, even?” Neil thought he caught just the barest hint of flirtation in that, but he wasn’t sure and certainly didn’t want to presume. Instead, he just nodded, mumbled his thanks again, and hurried off before she changed her mind.

The gangers watched him go, but no one made a move to stop him. Neil thought he heard laughter at his back, however—high, sweet, gentle laughter. And something else mixed in with it.

Just the barest hint of almost-remembered music.

For the third time, Neil found himself walking along the docks, staring out past their tarred, weathered wood at the water beyond—and the angry, roiling swirl that was the toxic spill.

And this time it didn’t wait for him to produce a bottle. The second he set foot upon the docks the water rose, hissing like an enraged cat. Its front edge licked forward, a wave in slow motion, pausing right before Neil’s face and swaying from side to side, as if it meant to hypnotize him with the rainbow sheen dancing across its surface.

Then, as if it had confirmed its initial dislike, it flared up still higher, broadening as well as it drew more river water to it, the swirl of oily taint spreading across its entire surface as it swept up to almost blot out the sun, its shadow engulfing Neil, just as it clearly intended to do itself in a moment.

And this time, there wasn’t any faint music tingling just under his skin. No hairs twitching along the back of his neck. And, he suddenly suspected, no astonishing flash to whisk him to safety.

 This time, he was on his own.

And about to get swallowed alive by the toxic spill, or some small fragment of it that had crept this far inland.

From his research, he knew that at least the end would be swift.

If horribly, horribly painful.

No! Neil thought suddenly, even as the spill loomed above, a hungry beast eager to pounce. I refuse to let it end like this!

“All ye have to do is listen,” the elven ganger had said. Something in her words had rung true within him, like an ancient truth forgotten but now uncovered once more.

All right, Neil decided solemnly. I’m listening.

He forced himself to hear around him. There was the faint whistle of the wind, the distant thrum of generators, the far-off rumble of cars and cycles, a cawing of birds somewhere, perhaps the murmur of people? 

But none of that really helped him.

Closer in, there was the hiss and whine of the spill, sounds as slimy as its surface, filled with slick rage and a deep hunger.

And somewhere nearby, just barely at the edge of his hearing—music?

Neil listened harder. Then, with a sudden burst of intuition, he stopped forcing the issue. Instead, he made himself relax. Rather than straining to hear what was out there, he focused upon hearing what lay inside. Listening within.

And the music swelled up all around him, filling him with energy and purpose, lifting him up, invigorating him, making him whole.

It was a ley line, Neil knew now for a certainty. A new one, born for a very specific reason—to protect the Scotsprawl and its surroundings. To defend it and its people against threats like the Toxic Zone.

But though the ley lines were sources of immense power, and possessed of a deep, innate need to protect the land and its people, they were not true intelligences. They could not defend the land, not on their own.

They were tools, in a way. Awesome, towering tools of pure natural magic, but still they needed guidance. They needed focus.

They needed someone to wield them.

And this ley line?

Had chosen him.

Yes, Neil told it. And felt its joy thrum through him in a great crescendo.

He stretched out his hands, raising them up toward the looming spill, and brilliant white light shot upward in a stream that became a ray that formed a concave shield. 

With a deafening roar like a sudden downpour, the spill hurled itself at him, but splashed harmlessly off the shield—which then curved around more, expanding and growing and swooping in to encircle all of the spill within its glowing grasp.

Thrashing and hissing, the spill fought back, now struggling not to destroy Neil, but just to break free, to escape.

Neil wasn’t about to let that happen.

Keeping his attention on what he was doing, he poured additional energy into the shield, which was now more than a hemisphere and still growing. The spill retreated, trying to slink back down into the river and away, but Neil sent his shield after it, angling down and scooping up the spill as it went. The edges converged, the last little hole shrinking more and more until, with a tiny musical hum, it vanished, and the sphere was now complete.

With the spill trapped angrily inside.

Neil smiled, but didn’t allow himself to lose focus. Because this, he somehow knew, was the hard part. He drove the walls of the sphere inward, shrinking it tighter and tighter, squeezing the spill smaller and smaller, forcing that toxic taint to contract and compress.

Water spilled forth through the sphere, but it was clean and clear now, stripped of all taint—his shield was like a sieve, filtering the impurities from the river water, trapping the taint within as the water poured free. And with each squeeze, there was less and less water inside. Until finally the sphere itself was no larger than a child’s head, and the spill was all that remained within it, a vague film of swirling shadow, the sheen of an oil slick without the oil.

And with a final twist of will and an audible pop, Neil made the sphere curl itself up right out of existence—and take the toxic spill with it.

As the sphere’s light vanished, Neil felt the music in him swell and then fade. He sank to his knees, overcome with a sudden exhaustion, and stared down at the worn wood planks of the dock, and at his hands resting there before him. They were shaking just a little.

I can’t believe I just did that, he thought.

But he most definitely had. And, if he listened closely, he could still hear the music. It hadn’t left him—Neil suddenly knew that it never would—but it was softer now, just a reassuring melody in the back of his mind.

Until the next time he needed it.

Or it needed him.

He wouldn’t be telling Professor McTyre about this, Neil knew. Nor anyone else. And he wouldn’t be saying anything again about the spill being here, either. Not when he’d just erased all evidence of it.

But he would be watching. And waiting. Because it was obvious the spill had set its sights on the Scotsprawl. This had been an advance scout, sent to study the city from its inland side and search for weakness. He had eliminated it, and hopefully prevented it from relaying any information back to the Zone itself, but even that would only give them so much extra time. The spill would still make its way in this direction. It would eventually get to Edinburgh, to the Scotsprawl as a whole.

And when it did, he would be waiting. Ready to defend his city. Ready to put his life on the line for it.

This, Neil decided as he finally rose to his feet again and turned to head home, is a whole lot more exciting than research.

It’s Nice to Be Wanted

By Thomas Gofton

Sparks showered the uneven pavement from the grinding chassis of Emery’s Suzuki Mirage. Emery was a fine rider in normal circumstances, however, this was anything but. His bike was completely horizontal, which was less than ideal for the elf. Emery hiked himself on top of the sliding bike and squinted his bruised eyes, both to shield from the heat flaring up from below, and to find a way to dismount his no longer comfortable ride. From the shaded rooftops above, he could hear a seemingly endless rain of bullets attempting to find their marks, yet failing to do so.

Through the wash of sparks, Emery could see his obsessively wealthy omae in arms, Leif, blowing from side to side on his souped-up Scorpion, fragments of pavement erupting all around him from the shower of bullets trying to find a new home in tread or flesh. Unlike Emery, Leif wasn’t an elf, and wasn’t particularly fond of being wired either, which made being on the front line of combat somewhat challenging at times. He was, nonetheless, the trio’s Face. A man of dignity, which in normal circumstances doesn’t hold chip-truth, however, in this case, he was chill. 

Emery’s ride continued skidding beneath him as he surveyed his surroundings, still looking for a safe way off. His lightly armoured leather coat whipped around him, reminding him that he had some additional protection beyond his synthetically grafted muscles covering a thin layer of titanium cloaking his bones.

He sighed. “It’s real leather, too. Sorry, omae.” Emery whispered, more to Leif than himself. Then the elven street samurai nimbly leaped off his horizontal ride.

The dust cleared after another round from above as Leif glimpsed his dandelion-eating companion bounce off the pavement and tuck into a tight ball of elven muscle and wire. The samurai was used to being stuck between a rock and a hard place; in this case, pavement and momentum.

The hail of bullets suddenly ceased as Leif whizzed past the tumbling elf. He was hoping to draw fire from the drek-licking, chrome-headed hoop of a hoser shooting at them from the rooftops. Leif heard glass shatter behind him, followed by a street wide-echoing crunch. The Face glanced behind him to see Emery and his Mirage had crashed into a nearby building.

All was quiet, save for the random gasp and muddled one-liners from concerned hidden SINners, both curious to see what was causing the commotion, yet trying to stay out of harm’s way.

Leif’s own thoughts on the matter rose to the surface in the sudden quiet. Only a minute earlier, he and his band of shadowrunners had been ambushed by a roke cyborg assassin while digesting some intel that Mr. Margo, their ‘employer,’ had provided. Margo was no Johnson when it came to compensation, though he definitely had his perks, however, the unexpected rigger-wrench of this night’s run was not one of them. Unanswered questions fluttered through his mind. Where’d the cyborg come from? Who’d sent it? Why? Were his companions safe?

With a glance behind him, Leif saw Emery half-wedged in a cargo bay door. The sign above read: Lord’s Autoshop and Repair. Leif smirked as what was left of Emery’s Mirage finally screeched to a smoking halt in the autoshop’s storefront.

“No tow necessary!” scoffed the Face as he whirled his Scorpion full about. “All right metal head. Let’s see what you’re made of.” He scanned the edges of the rooftops above for any sign of the ambusher, only to see newly modified C.N. Tower’s lights reaching high into the clouds in the distance. Leif’s vision shifted from the rooftops to several third and fourth story windows. Lights were popping on, fear-filled faces peering out. It was only a matter of time before the Stars would fill the streets.

He glanced back to the rooftops. “Where the hell’s Meece!?” he spat, more to himself than to the onlookers all around, or even to his elven omae, who was busy shaking his head back into reality.

Emery heard his friend’s question through ringing ears as he tried to extract himself from the front cargo bay door. Spears of pain pricked his body, reminding him of previous life-choices, and he reached into a side pack on his belt and pulled out a stimpatch. With blurry vision, Emery looked down at his genuine leather coat to discover ragged pieces torn off from the recent amusement park road-rash ride. The elf slammed the patch on an open wound on his left hip, sending tingles under his bone plating and directly to the injury, reminding him of his personal titanium investment. Emery started to see clearly again.

Leif pulled up beside the elf and slipped off his bike, surveying their location. In the distance, he could see illuminated street signs that read Jarvis and Younge. He knew he was close to Illteria-Corp, one of Toronto’s worst biological manufacturing giants.

“Where’s Meece?” he asked again.

“I heard you the first time,” snapped the elf as he rolled his head around to loosen the unnatural muscles encasing his thickened bones. “I don’t know. He fell through a door and went down a flight of stairs.”

Leif never looked away from the rooftops as Emery spoke. The Face’s blue orbs blinked in the moonlight and mist of a damp evening beginning to settle. “I can’t see anything up there.”

“You need some new eyes,” the elf spat.

“Chip-truth to some, but I prefer to be o-naturale.”

“What the drek was that thing?” Emery asked while cautiously slipping out a pair of matte-black Sliverguns.

“Some meatless drone, marked as a property of...” Leif shrugged. “SINless for sure. Whatever it was, it’s making us sing just a wee bit louder for our supper tonight.”

“It’s not gone.” Emery replied. “It’s gone stealth.”

Leif didn’t argue with his comrade’s statement. For a human, the Face wasn’t a particularly fast or durable opponent. He preferred to run without being chipped or chromed. It was his way. He wasn’t a mana chaser either, and his chummers often made fun of him for all of the above. Yet here he was, still standing. Noted as one of the most famous and successful runners in the greater Toronto sprawl, drek, even as far down as New York.

Leif drew his monofilament-laced sword off his back. It was one of a kind, and the envy of most that knew of it. ‘Not your everyday swag.’ the Face would say when he brandished it to his friends.

“Where’s Meece?” he asked again, more to himself than to anyone else.

“For the last time, I don’t kn—” the elf replied as puffs of dust and stone lit up the walls around them.

Emery felt a sharp sting in his leg, followed by two more in his arm and chest. The remaining glass around the Lord’s Autoshop window popped and chiseled as the shells sprinkled the streets.

Leif saw his omae crumple under the impacts of well-aimed flechette rounds. Without allowing surprise to take him, the Face darted to the middle of the road and rolled behind a parked Americar. He popped up for a sec to peep where the shots were coming from, but before he could pinpoint the source, he was forced to take cover again to shield himself from the detonation of a well-placed frag grenade. So well-placed in fact, Leif saw Emery twirl through the air like a rag-doll, singing with every spin before bouncing off a trash can a few feet away. As the dust settled, Leif looked around once more for their assailant.

The ‘thing’ was jandering along the sidewalk toward Emery, holding a Roomsweeper in one hand, complete with a chrome-plated smartlink. Out of his other arm extended the largest cyberblade Leif had ever seen. Some form of metal covered his body from head to toe. Between the joints of its armor, Leif could see pistons and light metal bars where bone and flesh should have been.

This razorguy was beyond humanity.

“What the frag?” the Face asked.

Emery used the momentum of his fall to back roll into the autoshop. Pain from the flechettes tore through him with every movement. Even the stimpatch had already worn off. The elf couldn’t see any more, and the hissing of bullets became muffled enough to disappear entirely. The elven street samurai was down for the count.

Leif slid across the hood of the Americar, noting how easily it dented under his weight, then ran full speed toward his opponent.

A door from a nearby squat opened and a heavy set, bald man rushed out into the street, grumbling disjointedly about “being woken up at this hour.” He wiped his eyes clear of sleep just in time to see the assassin looming above him, bringing down the razor-edged blade. The man screamed and slammed his eyes shut, only to hear the shrill clang of metal on metal. Cracking his eyes open, he saw Leif and the assassin spinning around each other in the street like two pendulums of death, poised to break rhythm. The bald man dashed back into his apartment, slamming the door behind him, with several locks began to click and slide on the other side.

The Face twirled his monofilament blade around and slashed it through where he thought the ’borg assassin should have been. With no time to orient himself, Leif barely noticed the gleaming blade coming in from his left side. As skilled as he was, the cyborg’s attacks were expectedly too quick for comfort. This wasn’t Leif’s first time skating on thin ice, though, and he was able to, just barely, lean back far enough to let it slip past.

Bringing his sword to bear, Leif sprung forward, ready to riposte when he was caught off guard by a back swing from a different blade. The cyborg was in full slash toward Leif with a previously-concealed second blade in his hand. Maybe it was time for the Face to consider some boosted reflexes in the future. If his Docwagon arrived in time, that was…

The cyborg’s blade sliced across Leif’s chest, cleaving through his armored clothing and sending fiber threads and sprinkles of blood to the ground below. Leif hissed in pain as he rolled backward into the Americar, denting it yet again.

“Don’t ever buy an Americar, chummer.” He giggled as he winced and tried to regain his breath. 

The assassin was already on him, blade held high, poised for the final blow. Suddenly a heavy wind kicked up around both of them, blowing Leif’s brown hair wildly around his face. He slammed his eyes shut and found himself thinking of a past life. Or was it the accidental dreamchips from last Friday’s run returning for an encore?

His eyes still closed, he could hear some sort of electric-shorted grunt, and then a heavy, scraping thud. The sound of metal grinding against stone. Then silence.

Leif slowly opened one eye and saw a familiar figure. “Meece!” he shouted. “What the drek? Where the drek? How the drek?”

Meece was just another human inventor by day, but a fairly renowned rigger by night. He was the third member of the trio that worked for Mr. Margo. A tall, slender man, he was covered in trinkets and tools that clinked and clanked when he walked, making him sound like an old school jailer pacing back and forth. Still holding a weird, gun-like device he called ‘Maurice’ in one hand, the rigger lifted a set of large, over-the-top goggles, attached to a small frame strapped to his head, revealing an even smaller pair of goggles underneath. With a drek-eating grin, Meece lifted the second set of goggles to reveal another set of goggles. To add to Leif’s confusion, Meece finally wiped away the eye enhancers to reveal his real eyes. Or were they? The Face couldn’t tell any more, they were a different color, again.

“Where the hell have you been?” he asked as he pushed himself off the side of the crumpled Americar.

As Meece looked down at his feet, his outermost set of goggles gave way to gravity and with a squeak of their hinges, slammed down on his face. “Sorry,” he replied. “I had a few adjustments to make on my wave emitter.”

Leif turned his attention to the assassin lying before him, a blade jutting from its arm. The metal-clad razorguy twitched erratically. The Face straightened, wincing as his bleeding chest reminded him just how organic he remained.

“Don’t worry,” Meece began in his usual optimistic tone, “This one will be down for quite a while.”

Leif stared in confusion. 

The rigger grinned. “I put it to sleep.”

“Sleep?” Leif nodded slowly, still not sure he was getting it.

“Yeah, of course!” Meece replied. “So, basically all I had to modify is—”

“Emery!” Leif shouted, ignoring his chummer’s overly scientific explanation. The Face ran toward the shattered window of the Lord’s Autoshop. Meece followed, still trying to explain the method of his madness.

“No, stay there and watch that thing, Meece,” Leif ordered.

“It’s not going anywhere—”

“Just watch it!” he shouted. “I don’t want any more surprises tonight.”

Meece stopped and slapped his hands at his sides, sheathing Maurice. “Okay, but he’s not going anywhere. Meh. They don’t listen Maurice. They never do.”

Leif hopped through the broken glass of the shop’s window to see the bleeding body of his closest friend and ally, Emery Darkblade. Whipping his jet-black duster aside, Leif pulled out a light stick, snapped it and dropped it beside his fallen omae. As the soft blue light illuminated the area, the Face opened his med kit and began to put some of his skills to work.

Meece walked up and look in the window to watch Leif patching their unconscious companion. The rigger noticed a small stand of synth candy still intact. The label read Made with Real Maple Syrup.

“Yum!” He grabbed one of the candies and popped it into his mouth. “I doubt it’s real though.”

“I told you to watch the vatjob,” Leif said.

Meece glanced back at the fallen assassin, still twitching on the ground,. “He’s fine. Sleeping, I tell you. He ain’t going nowhere.” The rigger clucked, trying to clear the maple candy from his teeth. “Huh, it is real.”

Leif shrugged in frustration, then jabbed a sterile syringe into Emery’s neck. “Come on, ya soft keeb!”

Emery spat out a mouthful of blood and kicked up into a sitting position, his bandages stretched as he moved. Leif bellowed at the revival of his friend. The elven samurai looked like he was chewing something for a moment before he spat out a mouthful of blood, followed by a broken tooth.

“Well now,” coughed the street samurai, “See what muscle replacements and some bone lacing can do for you?”

Leif laughed with relief. “I’m still not getting any implants, you dumb keeb.”

Emery glanced over to see Meece with his usual cartoon-like grin on his face. “Welcome back, my friend.”

Meece smiled even more, which seemed impossible. “Aw, thanks man! You’re only happy to see me because I made Mr. Cyborg take a little nap!” The rigger tossed a maple candy to his elven friend. “Here, man. Takes the taste of iron out of your mouth.”

“Real?” winced Emery spitting out more blood before popping the candy in.

“Ya!”

“Am I the only one concerned about both the slumbering pile of inhuman over there and Lone Star swooping in to nail our asses to the wall at any second?” Leif chimed in, secretly grabbing a candy for himself.

“I told you.” Meece repeated, “I made it take a nap. I put it to sleep!”

“Good. Let’s geek him and bug outta here before it’s too late,” Emery suggested before pulling another tooth out of his mouth. It was covered in maple toffee. “That’s gonna cost some creds.” He pulled the candy off and popped it back into his mouth, then tossed the tooth aside.

“No way, dude.” The rigger was no longer grinning. “Do you know who that is?”

Leif and Emery looked at each other, hoping for some clue before looking back at Meece. The rigger waited patiently for his friends to guess. He wanted to make it more dramatic than it needed to be. It was his way.

“Well?” asked the elf.

“Well, do you?” persisted Meece.

Emery, irritated, roughly rubbed a light cut on his nose, smearing blood over the rest of his face while attempting to smooth out the lines of frustration. Leif simply snorted and began helping his elven friend to his feet.

“It’s Gabriel.” The rigger admitted finally, joining Leif to help lift Emery.

The Face and the samurai glared at one another, both shaking their heads in disbelief.

Emery frowned. “Gabriel?”

“Impossible,” Leif said. “Gabriel’s dead. Has been for a very long time.”

“Trust me, it’s him.” Meece said.

The trio limped out to the sidewalk. Leif took a first look over to see nothing but a crumpled Ford Americar. The cyborg assassin, or Gabriel as Meece claimed, was gone. 

“Drek!” Leif said as he drew an amber-plated, custom Ruger Warhawk, clicked back the modified hammer, and tapped on his laser sight. The red dot hungrily searched for a target to lock on to.

Emery quickly pulled his arms off his friend’s shoulders and reclaimed his Sliverguns from the ground. Leif stepped up his game and brandished his monofilament sword in his free hand. The runners stood side-by-side, scanning the streets and rooftops. A considerable crowd of cautious onlookers had gathered at various balconies and window edges. Several talking into phones in low voices.

“I bet the Stars will be here in two point four five seconds,” stated Meece as he adjusted his first, second, and then third sets of goggles. The rigger opened a compartment on his tac-vest and pulled out two small eye-like orbs. The orbs began to hum quietly and then lifted off his hand. Meece’s chin and face remained stalwart and unmoving as the orbs floated high into the sky, giving him a bird’s eye view of the area.

“I thought you said it was asleep and wasn’t going to wake up for a while?” Leif asked quietly through gritted teeth.

“He should still be asleep. That serotonin pulse to his cerebellum should have kept him in deckhead land for at least an hour or two.” Replied the rigger, staring into nothing while his hand remained stretched out. “No sign of him on the rooftops and streets.”

Sirens blared in the distance, growing steadily louder. “We should get to the safe house,” Leif said, shoving his chin in the direction of the sirens. 

“Chip-truth, chummer, chip, truth,” Emery replied, taking a limping step toward his friend.

“Ride with me?” Leif asked the elf. “Yours is fragged, and you’re not so chill at the moment.”

“I’m okay, now.” Emery rotated his hips and shoulders. “Drek, those stims you hit me with really kick hard, eh?”

“Right?!” Leif replied. “The grass is always green on my side of the fence.”

Despite the pain, Emery snorted at his friend’s mild insanity. Even in the darkest, most painful, despairing or confusing of situations in the past, Leif and Emery always kept a grain of fun in their work.

Meece stood still, commanded his ride to come to him. “Okay, so, we’ll meet at Margo’s then?”

“If anyone in town knows how that razorguy knew where to find us, it will be Mr. Victor Margo,” the Face said as he sheathed his sword, holstered his Warhawk, and then got onto his Harley-Davidson Scorpion. The hog popped and roared alive with but a kick, waiting with anticipation for its owner to engage. “Don’t get geeked.” Leif smiled as he thundered off down the street.

A neon green Nissan Jackrabbit swerved around a corner and skidded to a stop beside him. The doors kicked open, and a set of dark purple leather seats slid back to allow for easy entrance. The rigger smiled without even tilting his jawline to face the elf. “Need a lift?”

Emery glanced inside the Lord’s Autoshop window, where his Suzuki Mirage laid in a crumpled hunk of steel and oil. The street samurai grabbed a loaded cred stick and tossed it through the window toward the bike. “Stars should be here soon. That should help a bit.”

Gabriel? Alive? Leif stood beside his bike at one of Margo’s many private operations, waiting for his friends to arrive. The Face wondered how much time had actually passed since he last enjoyed the complement of his fellow runner, Gabriel. The company of an old friend.

Five years?

It was all a blur. The armor, the speed. The stalker-like tendencies. Whatever the cyborg was, it wasn’t Gabriel any more. Not the Gabriel Leif had known, and definitely not the way Meece was talking about him. It was like a bounty hunter and a robot with one programmed contract: to geek Leif and his fellow runners.

Leif looked up at the crumbling, faded red brick walls of Mr. Margo’s safehouse sprawl. Questions waltzed around his mind, creating Matrix-like white noise. Mr. Margo had been a long time standing ally of the runners. An Ex-Mr. Johnson that went rogue after building such a deep resource pool that even triple A’s like Renraku couldn’t touch him. For the last three years, Leif and his motley crew of runners had worked for the Corp tycoon Victor Margo.

Well-organized.

Well-paid.

No surprises.

Leif stared up the red brick wall while adjusting the scabbard of his monofilament blade. Something wasn’t adding up.

Meece’s Jackrabbit screeched up beside Leif, startling him. The Jackrabbit’s doors flung open in the usual Meece-modified fashion. The rigger and samurai stepped out and adjusted their gear accordingly. Emery still carried a hefty limp from being shot, and favored both arms.

“Anything?” he asked, wincing with every step.

“Just the usual silence of Margo’s safehaven squats,” Leif replied.

“How are we doing this?” asked Meece, fixing his sets of goggles.

Leif stared back up the faded red bricks. “I think we should walk through the front door.”

“Ah, changing it up a bit?” Meece asked.

“If there’s a trap inside, or any double-crossing, then Margo or whoever’s responsible for this may expect us to approach this the usual way. Sleek and quiet,” explained Leif. “So I say we lock and load and walk right in.”

“Don’t have to twist my titanium arms twice.” With a grim smile, Emery slipped his Sliverguns out once again, the pain diminishing with each slender finger gingerly gripping their handles.

Leif tightened his sword to his back and pulled out his amber-plated Warhawk. “Stay close, and move fast.”

Meece popped the trunk of his car and pulled out a shiny Yamaha Raiden. He pulled back the cocking lever, readying his new toy. “I got the rear!”

The runners followed Emery’s lead. Beyond all the hardened implants to his body, he also had low-light vision. Leif was second, his flesh eyeballs barely able to see in front of him, whereas Meece, with his own allotment of visual advantages, took up the rear.

Dust kicked up around the runners as they swept from shadow to shadow, up the stairs and down the hallways of the abandoned building. Margo tended to pick safehouses in less than ideal sprawls. His motto was similar to that of an oasis in the middle of a desert.

At the top of an open staircase was a closed but hardly intact double wooden door. Usually there was a code knock or some sort of ‘secret’ method to open the door, however, this time the code was Emery’s shoulder. The souped-up elf broke the door open like a tusker barreling down a dry field. Shards of authentic wood splintered in all directions as hinges skittered across the floor.

Emery rolled aside and twisted his weapons to cover as many firing arcs as possible. Leif stepped to the other side of the room and surveyed the area while Meece stood central with his finger on the trigger, waiting for any sign to play with his new toy.

The room was riddled with bullet holes and scorch marks. A lump of husked wood lay in the center of the room. Below it was a shredded genuine leather chair. Emery took note and remembered the coat he’d recently tattered.

“Well, this answers one question,” Leif said, shaking his head. “Margo’s not in on it.”

“No man.” Meece added. “It’s in on him.”

Emery and Leif slowly turned their heads to look at their goofy-grinned friend.

A sudden shift of wood reset the runners back into ready mode. The broken hump of the once-desk began sliding to one side, revealing a dusty air conductor shaft. A ladder was fixed to one side, and on it was a slender elf. She wore loose-fitting beige and grey garments bound around her body by scarlet suede straps held together with silver buckles. As she climbed out, her gold locks of hair cascaded down, bouncing off her shoulders, unevenly separated by her pointed ears.

“Hope!” Leif smiled, relieved to see the daughter of Mr. Margo alive and well. The Face just as quickly tried to conceal his feelings for the elf. Unsure of the situation he and his team were in, he couldn’t let past emotions and nostalgia weaken his defenses.

“It most certainly is,” Meece said, his ever-present grin growing wider.

“It’s good to see you too, Meece,” she said, her answering smile not quite reaching her almond-shaped eyes. She waited a calculated amount of time before switching her gaze to Leif. “I’m glad you’re safe.”

Leif remained outwardly stoic, but nodded.

“Hoi!” shouted a nasal voice from below the trap door. Hope stepped aside to help her father climb the ladder out into the room.

Mr. Margo was not nearly as pretty as his daughter. He was a short butterball of a man with a receding hairline, a nose too big for his face, and eyes sunk too deep to distinguish a colour. He resembled an overweight penguin, if one were to exist in this region. It was rare knowledge to know Margo even had a daughter, and even rarer to know she was adopted.

“Margo,” Leif greeted him, holstering his Warhawk. “What happened to this place?”

“I wanted to redecorate—” The penguin man smirked. “—but chose the wrong contractor.”

“We wanted to stay close after we were attacked by a few Stars gone rogue,” Hope added. “We knew if you survived, you’d be coming back.”

Leif stared at Hope, belying his perceived lack of care for a moment. “What did they want? What if they found you?” 

“Bah!” Interrupted Margo, “Sometimes people look far and wide for that which is just under your nose.” His voice was almost squawkish, with an uncommon, old school, East Coast, Torontonian accent. Something out of those ancient 2D, retro-100 year old gangster movies that some tres chique art club screened from time to time as an alternative to trideo.

Waddling over to his shredded desk chair, he sat down as comfortably as if it was brand-new, then lit an oversized cigar with a lighter from inside his thumb. “Apparently, you guys are good, eh?”

“No drek.” Emery sneered. “Care to elaborate?”

“Easy now, chummer,” Mr. Margo blew smoke into the air. “I’m not the cat you want to skin here. You see, over the past little while, you guys have been doing some really trick stuff for me.” Margo took a long puff, letting the smoke rise dramatically in front of his face. “But what’s wiz for Margo ain’t so wiz for the competition.”

“We’ve dodged the corps before. They haven’t been able to get the jump on us like that. That was a surprise that wouldn’t buzz.” Explained Leif, “So give us a bite of something nutrisoy to chew on here.”

Victor Margo bounced his belly with a silent giggle; he was able to eat as much fresh food as he wanted, but nothing beat a good piece of nutrisoy street meat. “An old colleague. You remember that pointy-eared street mage fellow, Gabriel?” Margo asked.

“See!” piped in Meece. “You guys never believe me.”

Margo took another drawn out puff, and then wiped some wood dust off his tattered chair. Leif took the reprieve as a chance to switch his sights to Hope. She stood distant to him, smiling but coy. Leif could see her hands rubbing the sweat off. She was nervous?

“Gabriel?” Emery frowned. “He’s dead. How could it be him?”

“He’s been dead alright.” Margo began, “Mostly dead, ya see. The street mage’s been sittin’ on ice for a couple years, ’til Aztechnology got a clutch on him.”

“Aztech?” Leif scowled, “What the frag are they doing with cryo-corpse acquisitions?”

“It’s been a thing since the ’60’s, nothing new,” Margo returned. “They built him from a few bits of organlegging and some real swag mana chasing. Maybe something more, but for once, I got nothing.”

“It,” Emery corrected, “He didn’t show any magic, though.”

“He didn’t show any meat either,” Leif added.

Margo took another long puff. This one longer than before.

Leif watched Hope again. “What’s the delay, Hope?”

She quickly snapped her attention to him. “Excuse me?”

“We’ve been tight for years. I know when you’re fragged with me,” Leif said as he slowly approached her. “You’re hiding something. I can tell by the way you’re scanning me. Conflicted. Am I right?”

Hope shot a glance at her father. Mr. Margo took another puff before he nodded. She looked back to Leif. “We’ve been set up.”

“Again, no drek,” Emery spat.

Margo sneered at the impatient elf samurai. “You ever heard of a sector of the zaibatsu called Diamond’s North Aztechnology?”

“It’s a bio-technology and munitions manufacturer,” Leif replied.

“Wiz on you, face-man,” Margo said. “DNA Inc., my friend. Obvious, and not so obvious.”

“Obviously,” Meece said with a laugh.

“So, they organlegged Gabriel and made a cybernetic drone out of him for the Azzies?” Leif asked.

“More than that, breeder,” Margo replied. “More than that.”

Another puff.

“Ya see, they took not only the meat, but they took his DNA and built a machine that’s infused with some sort of technology. Maybe something beyond our chipped capacities, but it’s real. And real scary.” Margo said. “But I don’t know what. Could be something UCAS level, or even a Winternight config. But that’s what you were hired for, originally. To find out.”

“So ka,” Leif whispered.

Meece raised his hand and took a few steps forward. “Can I say something?”

“Humor me, chummer,” Margo said.

The rigger pulled out a small camera and set it on the ground. The device displayed a blue holographic video on the wall beside the runners. The image was a drone’s eye view of Leif and Emery fighting the cyborg known as Gabriel.

“I was test recording with my drone here when Gabriel ambushed us. Even though I took a trip down the stairs, I was still able to control it.” Meece froze the image and scanned in closer to show the backside of the cyborg. “While reviewing the data, I noticed a small stamp on the back plate of his armour.”

The scan magnified to reveal a small, skull-like tattoo stamp partially hidden by Gabriel’s shoulder plate. 

“That’s the mark of the Diamond Skull.” Emery said.

“A sect of elven mages that ceased to exist after Gabriel dissolved it,” Leif added. “So what?”

“Remember Gabriel’s tattoos?” Meece asked. The runners nodded. “Yeah, he had a whole bunch, I recall. The one with the most meaning sat directly beside his right shoulder blade. The tat he and his coterie got stamped on their backs when a new member got inducted. Like us, they were his family.”

“You’re going off a trog-sized speculation here, Meece,” Emery said. “Not ruling it out, but that’s a huge jump. There were at least five of those wizards running around.”

Meece paced back and forth, jingling like old-fashioned chimes in the wind. “Yes, I know, but all the others are still alive. At least last I researched, anyway.” 

Emery strode past Meece and sat on a nearby scorched chair. “You archiving madman,” he said to the rigger. “I’ll never frag on your attention to detail ever again.”

“I guessed it was him, since the tattoo was so specific.” Meece concluded.

“This breeder’s a smart one,” Margo added.

“How’d you take it down?” Emery asked.

“If it is Gabriel, he still had to have some sentient aspects. If it was a true cyborg, there had to be something meat left of him in the machine. Like something to hold memories. I don’t think he could geek anyone he cared for if he knew what he was doing. Unless it was some sort of spell forcing him against his will.

“The part of the brain responsible for memory is the hippocampus.” Meese stood there, waiting for his companions to get it.

“And?” Emery finally asked.

“You bangers—honestly!” he said. “That’s the part of the brain that’s loaded with memories!” Meece pulled out Maurice, his modified emitter. “Maurice here is my fav piece of experimental technology.”

Emery noted Meece getting more excited by the word. The elf wasn’t going to ruin his friend’s science rant, however.

“Think about it,” continued the Rigger. “Gabriel, as we remembered him must have been geeked, but before that, he could have had his memory stored into the Matrix.”

Hope chimed in, “Like an e-ghost?”

“Exactly.”

“Myth!” snorted Emery.

“You’d think!?” Meece retorted. “When I put two and two together, it all became clear! The Diamond Skull. What is their primary motivation?”

“Influence?” asked Leif, desperately trying to follow his genius friend.

“Secondary,” halted Meece. “Primarily, the search for immortality. The hunt for the imago!”

Meece, stood mouth open wide, with hands outstretched as if to take a bow. His friends, however, remained perplexed. He sighed. “The imago is an artifact that is said to be able to download memory into the Matrix and store it there. So Gabriel must have had the procedure done, most likely by choice. Then reversed into what was left of his organics. The real question is: are the organics even his, or are they synth? Cloned!”

Margo alternately puffed and frowned. “You’re making’ my head hurt, kid.”

“When the procedure took place, Gabriel probably had an interference pulled on the operation. Some corp influence stepping in. Changing a few things for the worst.” Meece concluded.

“That’s where DNA Inc. came in,” Leif added.

“I fired Maurice at Gabriel, targeting the areas of his brain that should have triggered memories,” Meece continued. “That’s when he started going all weird, and basically overstimulated and knocked himself out.”

“What’d Maurice do to him—like, exactly?” Emery asked.

Meece grinned slyly. “Like I said, it’s experimental technology.” He grinned wider. “Just pretend it’s a solar flare.”

Leif suddenly recalled the moments leaning up against the drek Americar. “So, it worked? That’s what took the vatjob down?”

“Indeed!” Meece pointed at Leif. “The blast of my modified electromagnetic, uh, solar flare, bounced around in the hardware AND the wetware and that must have made him remember you, which overloaded his senses. Confused the frag out of him!”

Meece barked in laughter at his own ingenuity. Suddenly a wave of blaring exhaust pipes could be heard in the distance.

“I’m willing to bet some serious nuyen that those pipes are coming for us,” Leif said. “Friends of yours, Victor?”

“No more mine than friends of yours, chummers.” Margo replied, extinguishing his cigar and finally lifting his rotund form off his chair. “I thank you for your chatter, but we’ll have to continue it another time.”

Hope grabbed her father’s hand and helped him get back on the ladder leading down the shaft. “Look, Leif,” she began, “It’s nothing personal. They had us in a pinch. Caught in a bet.”

“Who?” he asked, making sure his Warhawk was loaded and ready.

“DNA, Inc.,” she answered while Margo carefully climbed down the ladder. “Two execs up the chain. Made a bet on who would be the first one responsible for your exit from this world.” 

Leif stared at Hope like she was a complete stranger. “And you knew this, and didn’t tell me?”

“It’s not that easy,” she said, “A go-gang’s coming here to try and finish us off as well as you. Like I said, they had us in a pinch the same time they had you in a pinch.”

The fleet of ear-splitting mufflers in the distance grew louder. Emery slid over to a covered window and kicked out a piece of wood with his boot. He glared through the crack onto the streets below. The elf snickered at the flock of vehicle lights heading toward Margo’s squat.

“So, where you going?” Meece asked down the tunnel at the fleeing penguin.

“I don’t stay alive by sitting in that old chair all the time, chummer!” Margo called up from below the trap door. “You guys are the muscle. Flex it, see. Consider this a raise.”

“Not liking going into a situation without sufficient information, Victor!” Leif said.

“If you think you’re going to get creased here, this tunnel is your way to bug-out.” Margo explained before Hope slammed the trap door shut.

“Look,” she said, “Let’s scratch this minor itch right now, and then take a trip over to DNA and figure out who’s gambling on us. What do you say?”

“You’re going to do a run with us?” Leif asked. His expression was stoic and unimpressed but deep down, he’d never been more excited.

“You think I’ll just buzz-out?” Hope replied with a coquettish grin. The elf separated her boots enough to balance a series of wild arm gestures. As she whispered under her breath, the remaining dust on the ground around Margo’s desk began cycloning around her. Within seconds, a vibrant angelic form illuminated the dust particles. The angel had no face except for deep glowing amber orbs where its eyes should be. The summon spell ended with a burst of remarkable wings of yellow light, which fluttered through the dust, creating a cloud around the runners.

“Besides—” Hope grinned. “—every team needs a little mana.”

“I like this pixie, Leif,” Emery said as he cocked his Sliverguns and made a foothold to brace his position firm. “So, what’s the action?”

Never breaking his stare with Hope, Leif flipped his monofilament blade over his shoulder and shrugged off the sheath. Warhawk in his other hand, he winked at her, then turned to the main doorway and leaned against it, taking point into the hallway and stairs below. “TGE, omae.”

“Sweet!” Meece cried before taking point beside his elven street samurai friend.

“TGE?” Hope asked.

Leif aimed down the stairs as the rumbling engines of the bikes quieted. “Time to geek everyone!”

Thunderstruck

By Patrick Goodman

Things were not going well at all.

Exhaustion gnawed at Erica. The fight had gone on far longer than she’d expected, and the odds of it ending in her favor were dropping with each passing second.

Two of the gangers lay on the ground in the alley behind the Stuffer Shack; whether they were unconscious or dead, she couldn’t tell. There were maybe half a dozen Vaqueros moving around her, looking to add her to their number, and it seemed like they were going to do it.

Worse, they knew it.

Every ragged breath brought searing pain from her broken ribs. Her right hand throbbed in time with her heartbeat; she’d gotten a few punches in, but had landed them badly. She still had her magic, but even that was failing her; she’d pushed it much too hard, and it was wearing her down, almost as quickly as the Vaqueros.

She thought she’d be facing four of them, but there had been more than she’d expected. Four had quickly become eight, and they’d thought themselves more than a match for a single girl. They were also smarter than she’d given them credit for. They’d all rushed her at once, and she’d been forced to use her magic to keep from being overwhelmed. That had made them rethink their tactics, and now most of them were finding ways to stay behind her, out of her sight. They moved quickly, some sheltering behind dumpsters as others lunged at her. She’d held her own for a while, but it was only a matter of time now.

Closing her eyes, Erica said another short prayer, then opened them again as she felt magic arc between her fingers like static electricity. She heard curses, watched the lone ganger in her field of vision try to find shelter. She thrust her hand at him and let the lightning fly. It struck him in the chest, slamming him into a dirty brick wall as thunder deafened them all; he slumped to the ground, twitching slightly, while everyone else shook it off.

She whirled just in time to feel a ganger’s fist connect with her jaw. Earlier, she might have been able to take it, but now it was enough to make her nearly black out. She staggered back and tumbled hard to the ground. Four Vaqueros approached her slowly, some with knives in their hands, one simply smacking his fist into an open palm.

Erica braced herself; she wasn’t going to go without a fight.

She saw another man, dressed in jeans and a black jacket, join the gang. He must have been their leader, but something didn’t look right. She thought she’d seen them all, but he didn’t look familiar. No, it was more than that.

He…

The ganger on her left flew face-first into the Stuffer Shack wall in a black-and-red blur. There was a wet, snapping sound as his face smashed into the bricks.

…wasn’t…

The young ork standing next to Pulp-nose didn’t get the chance to discover what had happened. His face went slack, and then he crumpled heavily to the ground. Erica saw a vicious combat knife in the newcomer’s hand; it was covered in what had to be the ork’s blood

…wearing…

The remaining Vaqueros turned to face the new threat. The one closest to the man, the one pounding his fist into his palm, popped a pair of twenty-centimeter spurs from his hand, and the two began a blindingly fast, intricate dance. The last one began maneuvering around them, trying to get a better angle to strike at the newcomer. For the moment, Erica had been forgotten.

…colors.

Every muscle in her body screamed its objection, but she forced herself up. She didn’t know if she could muster another spell, but she couldn’t let the ganger shiv the man who’d saved her. She lifted her hand and, through clenched teeth, muttered, “Please, just one more.”

It was more of a glorified spark than a lightning bolt, but it slammed into the ganger’s back as he was about to stab the stranger in his kidney. There was a clap of thunder, and the remaining Vaquero raised his hands reflexively to his ears.

Erica and the other ganger tumbled to the ground. It was very quiet, once the echo faded away. She felt herself shaking, and from somewhere far away, she heard a man’s voice saying, “Don’t you dare d—”

Erica opened her eyes to a clear blue sky. She was lying on soft grass in an open field. To her right, she could hear the crashing roar of a river. A gentle breeze was blowing, but it smelled of brimstone and death.

She sat up and looked around. About thirty meters to her left was the corpse of a crimson dragon, its severed head lying next to one of its tattered wings. Standing beside it was a man in a full suit of armor, a helmet covering his face. In his right hand was an enormous sword, wreathed in flame, its tip embedded in the dragon’s head. On his left arm was a large shield, flat across the top and with a point at the bottom. It was painted white, with a heavy red cross.

“Erica Krieger.” The voice was clear and low, old as the sky. “Seek ye vengeance, or seek ye justice?”

She rose; there was no pain. “I don’t understand,” she said. “Where are we? Who—”

He raised his blazing sword and approached her, slowly, deliberately. “The ones who raped your sister, Erica. Would ye see them fear and respect ye, or would ye see them dead on the ground at your feet?”

She thought of Sophie then, and felt a flash of panic. “I have to get back!” she said, suddenly desperate to get home.

“What would ye see done?” he asked again. “Seek ye vengeance, or seek ye justice?”

He was standing in front of her now; she could see his eyes, burning blue under his visor. She stood up straight and said, in a quiet voice, “Justice.”

“And ye would protect what’s yours?” he asked.

She nodded, and then so did he.

“Good,” he said. He touched her chest with the tip of his fiery sword, and she gasped as pain she had forgotten was suddenly taken away. “Go with my knight,” he said, raising the sword and touching first her right shoulder, then her left. She was suddenly very sleepy. “Learn from him.”

Her knees buckled, and she dropped to the ground. She lay down on the grass and asked, “Learn what?”

She couldn’t see him any longer, but his voice was still clear and strong. “To fight dragons.”

She felt herself shaking, and from far away, she heard a man’s voice.

“—ie on me!”

Erica opened her eyes to a sallow, washed-out sky. She was lying on her back in a grimy alley. What…where? She was back in the alley. She’d been in a field just a second ago...

Above her was the man who’d saved her; his lean, chocolate-colored face was a mask of concern. “Welcome back,” he said, his voice a smooth baritone. He wasn’t even breathing heavily, she noticed.

She sat up, her own breathing ragged. Around her were the Vaqueros, beaten and bloodied, some of them dead. No knight. No dragon.

What the hell? 

“Thank you,” she said absently.

“You’re welcome.”

The man rose, and offered her a hand up. She accepted, and got to her feet. Looking at the chaos, she shook her head. What had she been thinking? Sophie could be in danger right now, and it would be her fault—

“I’ve got to go!” She ran out of the alley, found her BMW Blitzen motorcycle in the parking lot, and brought it roaring to life. She saw the man running after her, but paid him no heed as she hurtled out of the parking lot into the lunatic traffic on Fairmont Parkway, roaring west through Pasadena toward the interstate, and home.

A few minutes later, she pulled the heavy bike into Morrow’s Automotive, the garage she and her sister lived above. She killed the engine and took the stairs to their apartment two at a time. “Sophie!” she called.

“In my room, Erica!”

Erica breathed a huge sigh as she walked into her sister’s room. Sophie was sitting on the floor, dolls and teddy bears arranged around a small table and a tea set. She was completely out of scale to the rest of the room, towering over the toys, a little girl in a young woman’s body. Her dark hair was pulled back in a ponytail, and she wore a little girl’s frilly white sundress adorned with pink dragons.

She smiled up at Erica, and said, “We’re having a tea party!”

One of the teddy bears reached across the table, picked up the pink, plastic teapot, and began to pour for the assembled party of dolls and other toys. The others each raised their cups in salute as it passed.

Erica shook her head; she still wasn’t used to that. Looking into the astral for a moment, she saw her sister’s room alive with about a dozen spirits, each of them animating one of the toys. One of them noticed her and waved, then went back to work.

Shifting her senses back to the physical world, Erica smiled and said, “Well, you guys have fun. I’ve got to get back to work. I was just a little worried, that’s all.”

Sophie giggled. “My friends won’t let anything happen.”

“I know,” she replied. “But I worry anyway.”

“I love you!”

Erica smiled. “I love you, too.” She turned and went downstairs. In the heat of the fighting, she’d forgotten about Sophie’s new friends. She probably couldn’t be much safer, even in this corner of the Houston sprawl.

Once down in the garage proper, she went into the office she shared—used to share—with Danny, sank into her creaking chair, and prepared to cast a healing spell on herself. Even with magic, she was going to be hurting tomorrow—

She sat abruptly upright and looked down at herself. She should be hurting right now. She should be hurting a lot. She’d taken a lot of punishment in that alley, and yet there was no pain. A couple of her ribs—

He touched her chest with the tip of his fiery sword.

—had been broken. She held her right hand up and looked at it slowly. There were no bruises; clenching her fist, she felt no sign of the injuries.

He’d healed her.

“Some weird goings-on back there, huh?”

Erica spun around to find the man who’d saved her leaning in the doorway of the office. She hadn’t heard him enter the garage. She raised her hand, ready to cast another spell, and he raised his own, palms out. “Whoa!” he said. “I don’t want any trouble.”

She looked at him, her hand shaking slightly, and said, “I appreciate you helping me out back there, but I think you should leave.”

The man shrugged, then said, “Sorry to bother you.” He turned around and walked away. As he left, she saw the flaming sword adorning the back of his jacket.

Go with my knight.

She stood slowly. “Wait,” she said. “Did he send you?”

The man stopped and turned around. “Did who send me?”

She swallowed. “The knight. The one who killed the dragon.”

He smiled. “Big white shield, with a red cross on it?”

She nodded.

“Saint George, the Dragonslayer. A righter of wrongs, a defender of the weak. Yes, he sent me.” He motioned to her still-raised hand. “Mind pointing that thing someplace else? I’ve seen what you can do with it.”

She lowered her hand, the spell she’d been about to cast forgotten. Go with my knight, he’d said. Learn from him. “I’m Erica,” she said.

The man smiled and extended his hand. “I’m Leland.” She shook his hand, and he went on. “I just want to talk to you, but I was wondering if you could look at my bike while we did. It’s idling a little rough.”

She nodded. “I owe you that much, at least,” she said with a nod at the bay. “Bring it in.”

He walked out of the shop, and a moment later she heard the roar as he rode a beast of a motorcycle into the service bay next to her own bike. His was about the size of a dinosaur, all black leather and chrome frame; the tank was painted deep purple and emblazoned with the same flaming sword insignia on the back of his jacket. She listened to it for a moment, then signaled for him to kill the engine. “Triumph Rocket R-4,” she said. She looked at Leland. “All the trimmings?”

He laughed. “Bike like this, there’s no point in just going halfway.”

She smiled appreciatively. “Very not bad,” she said, walking to the workbench and gathering some tools and parts. “So, what’d you wanna talk about?” She sat down next to the bike and started to work.

He settled onto a stool next to the workbench and watched her for a moment, then asked, “Why were you in that alley fighting a bunch of go-gangers?”

She sat in silence for a few moments, working on the bike. Then she took a deep breath. “My folks worked at AresSpace,” she started. “They both died when I was five; there was a big accident out at the Johnson Space Center, during the second Crash.”

Leland nodded. “That was a bad time for just about everybody,” he said.

She nodded. “Danny’s dad knew mine, so the Morrows took me in. When Sid died, Danny inherited the place.” She paused and looked around. “I guess it’s mine now.”

The man leaned back against the workbench. “What’s this got to do with that alley?”

Erica brought her attention back to Leland’s bike. “Danny had a deal with the Vaqueros; they stayed away from the place, he’d fix their bikes for the cost of parts. And for a while, that deal held.” She paused, wrestled a part off and replaced it, then continued her story. “A few months ago, our little sister Sophie started to bloom. A few weeks ago, some of the boys in the gang broke the truce.”

Suddenly trembling with rage, she straightened up and stalked to the other side of the garage. After a couple minutes, she continued, her voice breaking. “They raped her, and when Danny tried to stop them, they killed him. I was away on a parts run, or they would’ve probably killed me, too.”

“So you’re hunting them down,” he said. “Ever consider letting Lone Star handle it?”

She chuckled ruefully. “They don’t come out here if they can help it,” she said. She walked back to the Triumph. “They took a statement, but…Sophie’s special. She’s fourteen going on seven; doctors say she’ll always be about seven, mentally. Just a sweet, innocent kid who was scared to death. She didn’t know how to deal with it, so she blocked most of it out, couldn’t give much of a description of her attackers. She thought one of them was called Buzz, but other than that…” She shrugged. “It was gang-related in Pasadena. They didn’t bother with much of an investigation.”

He rose from the stool, a stern look on his face, and approached her. “You left her alone to go find these gangers?”

She shook her head. “No. After the assault, she Awakened. Sort of. Never actually seen her cast a spell, but…well, let me show you.”

She led him upstairs to the apartment, and to the door of Sophie’s room. The tea party was still going on, the dolls and other toys carrying on conversations that only the young woman sitting with them could hear. A different toy had taken up the tea-serving duties. Sophie looked up at them. Erica said, “Sophie, this is my new friend, Leland.”

Sophie looked at Leland and said, “Hi! They told me that you’d come help Erica.”

Leland squatted down, to put his eyes on the girl’s level. “Who told you?”

“My friends.” One of the toys, a Tickle Me Dunkie doll that had seen better days, turned its head to Leland and waved. Then it turned to Sophie, who listened intently to it for a moment before turning to the man and saying, “They said to look into their world.”

Erica watched as Leland stood slowly, letting out a slight gasp as he did. Backing up a couple steps, he turned back to Erica. “That’s nuts,” he said quietly.

Sophie and her friends had already returned their attention to their tea party. “You can see them?” she asked. Leland nodded. “Those spirits adore her,” she said, heading back to the garage. “They started showing up a day or two after the attack. I’m still not used to it; it gets kind of creepy at night.”

“I’ll bet.”

They descended the stairs in silence. Stopping next to the Triumph, she motioned for him to start it up. He did so and listened to the smooth roar of its engine, then smiled and shut it back down. “I’m impressed. What’d you do?”

“Don’t be; all I did was change the fuel filter,” she told him.

He sat there on his bike and looked at her. Finally, he said, “She acts like nothing happened.”

Erica sighed. “Like I said, she’s blocked most of it out so she can cope.” She waved her hand in the air, and added, “I think her friends help her with that, too. I’m grateful for that.” She began putting her tools away. “Why did you help me in that alley?”

There was a long pause before he replied. “The streets need cleaning, Erica. You know it, I know it. Hell, everybody knows it. Most folks, though, are too scared to do anything about it.” He climbed off the bike and walked over to her. “You, though. You rush in where angels fear to tread. You see that the streets need cleaning, and you go do something about it. This day and age, there’s something to be said for that.”

Erica turned away, her face burning. “Yeah, and I almost got myself killed,” she said. “Those spirits won’t let anyone they don’t like close to Sophie, but they can’t pay the rent on this shop or put food on the table.” She paused before her voice could break. Finally, she said, “He said you’d teach me to fight dragons.”

He nodded. “That’s right.”

“I’m scared,” she said softly. “I’ve never even seen a dragon.”

He laughed. “It’s a metaphor,” he said. “It’s hard to see it, Erica, but there’s still some good out there, and it’s worth fighting for. I don’t think your calling is to literally fight dragons; the Lord’s not going to put a burden on you that you can’t bear. I think your calling is protecting the innocent, fighting for that good.” He turned around and mounted his bike. “My calling is to make sure you don’t get killed while you’re doing it.”

The next day, Erica pulled her motorcycle up to the Apostles of Christ Church, as Leland had instructed her. It was a converted storefront next to a particularly seedy-looking stripper joint on Old Galveston Road. Checking the address again, she shook her head and killed the Blitzen’s engine.

She walked through the front door into the small chapel. There were a few rows of folding chairs facing a wall with a cross about the length of her forearm hanging on it. She walked over and touched it. It was made of a light-colored wood, and looked strangely out of place on the bare cinderblock wall.

“Thunder! Right on time,” said Leland from behind her. She turned around. He was dressed in loose-fitting blue pants and a white t-shirt. “Come on back. How’s your sister?”

“Happy as can be, putting on a play with her friends,” she said. She followed him through the back of the church, past a small set of living quarters to a large room set up as a gym. Most of the floor was covered in safety mats; there were punching bags large and small in one corner. He had her take off her boots and join him in the middle of the floor.

“You live here?” she asked. “In a church?”

“You live in a garage,” he countered.

“Yeah,” she replied. “But I work there, too.”

“And I work here. Services are on Wednesdays and Sundays, though lost sheep are always welcome.”

She looked at him in disbelief. “You preach in a church next to a titty bar?”

He shrugged and nodded. “Strippers need salvation, too; some more than others. So do their customers.” He sat cross-legged on the mat and motioned for her to join him. “Does that bother you?”

She shook her head as she sat, facing him. “It surprises me, I guess,” she said. “I mean, you killed a guy yesterday, in the alley. Not something I think about a preacher doing.”

He took a slow, deep breath, and let it out just as slowly. He closed his eyes, and said, “I did.” His voice was heavy. “I wasn’t always a preacher.” There was a long silence before he opened his eyes again. “So, tell me what you did wrong yesterday.”

She sat there, thinking it over, while he waited patiently. “I let ’em know I was a magician too soon,” she said. “They knew to stay out of sight so I couldn’t hit them with a spell.”

Leland smiled. “That, too,” he said. “Your first mistake, though, was rushing in half-cocked, before you knew what you were up against. You let your anger get the better of you.” He rested his elbows on his knees, and steepled his fingers in front of his chin. “How many gangers did you think you were taking on?”

She felt her cheeks flush. “Four.”

He nodded. “Hell of a shock when the rest of ’em showed up, wasn’t it?”

“Yeah, it was.”

He rose to his feet and motioned for her to join him. “The first rule is to know your enemy,” he said. He walked over to the heavy punching bag in one corner of the room. “I can show you how to fight, how to fall, how to roll with a punch, but all of that won’t matter a damn if they surprise you and put a knife in your back.”

She rose, her face a mask of determination. “So what do I do?”

He smiled. “You want to get down to it,” he said. “I like that. Just remember, though, that this is an ongoing process. There’s not a quick way to learn to do this.”

She sighed. “I know.”

“Then you’re already ahead of where I was when I was your age,” he said.

That first workout was nearly the hardest thing she had ever done. The hardest thing was getting out of bed the next morning; muscles and joints she didn’t know she had cried out in protest. She tottered downstairs and went about her normal workday, muttering curses all the while. She dragged herself back upstairs after the day had ended, showered, and prepared dinner for Sophie and herself.

Then, almost against her will, she made sure Sophie had the protection of her spirit babysitters, mounted her bike, and rode to Leland’s church to do it all again. It was a little easier to get out of bed the next day, to begin the cycle again. It went on like that every day for the next three weeks.

Every workout had the same pattern. Leland said a prayer, and Erica bowed her head silently. He taught her fighting moves and made her repeat them for hours at a time. He sparred with her and showed her how to take a punch. It wasn’t all physical workouts, though. He taught her to pay attention, to plan ahead, to use her gifts and talents to their greatest advantage.

On Wednesdays before the workout, there was Leland’s normal worship service. After the third Wednesday service, she asked him, “Doesn’t it say somewhere that we’re not supposed to worship other gods?”

He nodded. “First Commandment. ‘Thou shalt have no other gods before me.’ That’s one of the biggies.”

She took off her boots and walked onto the training mat. “We both follow Dragonslayer. Isn’t that what we’re doing? Having another god before Him?”

Leland looked at her, the hint of a smile on his face. “Am I making a believer out of you, Thunder?”

She shrugged. “Maybe. I don’t know for sure.”

“Fair enough,” he said, joining her on the mat. “You’re listening to my sermons, at least; that’s more than I can say for most of the people in there.” He sat, and motioned for her to join him. “He said not to put other gods before Him, but I gave up counting the number of times He sent one of His angels to help some poor slob who had a job to do.”

“Like in the alley.”

Leland nodded. “Like in the alley.”

“Is that how it happened for you?”

His leaned back on his hands, and stared past her into the distance. “I was older than you,” he said, his voice quiet, “but still young and stupid. I was probably in more trouble than you were last month, but it was a close thing.”

“So is that what Dragonslayer is?” she asked. “An angel?”

The older man sat silently for a while. “I believe that God made the whole universe, Thunder,” he said, “which means He made magic and spirits, too. A friend of mine told me once that what we don’t know about magic is a whole lot bigger than what we do. Maybe what we call spirits are angels, so who am I to say he’s not?”

She smiled. “Sophie’s sitting in a roomful of guardian angels.”

Leland rose to his feet, and so did Erica. “I like the way you look at things,” he said. Bowing his head, he said, “Let us pray.”

Still smiling, she bowed her head and joined him.

Three weeks later, Erica looked up from the Ford Americar she was working on to see Leland walk in with a troll about the size of a delivery van, and wearing Vaquero colors. Rage boiled inside her as she stalked toward them. “Why are you bringing him here, Leland?” she asked, almost yelling.

The older man raised his hand. “I persuaded Wheezer here that it was in his best interests to come and talk with you.” His gaze on her was steady and meaningful. “Don’t prove me wrong.”

She paused and took a long, deep breath. “Make it count,” she said to the troll.

“I know which of my boys broke the truce with Danny.” His voice sounded like sawdust. “I let you have ’em, you call off your war.”

Erica looked at Leland. He said, “I reminded him about what happened in the alley a few weeks ago, and told him that we’d take the gang out one by one to make sure we got the right ones.”

She was sure there was more to it than that, but she wasn’t going to push it. “So drop them on the Star’s porch, and don’t come in here again.”

Wheezer shook his head. “That ain’t happening,” he said. “You want ’em to pay a price, you punish ’em.” He paused for a moment, then said, “No Star, or there’s no deal.”

Erica looked at Leland again; he gave her a barely-perceptible nod. “All right,” she said. “Where and when?”

The troll smiled with all the warmth of a rabid barghest. “No time like the present.” He turned and walked out.

She looked at Leland. “I have to fight them?”

Leland nodded. “Wheezer wants to make an example of them. Or you. No matter how it works out, he figures it’ll strengthen his leadership of the gang.”

She scoffed, and mounted her bike.

Fifteen minutes later, she walked into an old warehouse off Richey. It was a small place, made smaller by the sixty or so Vaqueros lining its walls. Every one of them turned to watch her as she walked in to the center of the room. She felt her chest tighten.

She was afraid.

Leland walked up beside her. “There’s four of them,” he said, pointing to a small group standing next to Wheezer. The quartet, three humans and an ork, looked at the two of them with nervous expressions. “You can do this.”

The troll waved them over.

“You better be right,” she said as she walked, “or I’m going to kick your ass when this is all over.”

“Assuming you live.”

“Always the optimist,” she said. “That’s why I like you, old man.”

Wheezer looked from Erica to the gangers and back. “These are the ones,” he said, his dusty voice carrying over the crowd somehow. “You beat them, they’re yours.” Turning to the four gangers, he added, “She beats you, you’re gone.” He motioned to a spot beside him and said to Leland, “Best seats in the house, old man.”

Leland turned to Erica and repeated, “You can do this.” With that, he joined the troll on the edge of the makeshift ring.

One of the gangers, a kid who didn’t look old enough to shave, charged at her almost instantly. She shifted slightly to her left and used her right hand to shove him behind her. His own momentum sprawled him on the warehouse’s concrete floor. Catcalls erupted from the spectators.

The other three approached more cautiously. The ork was faster than he looked, and landed a brutal punch to her jaw. Another one landed a body blow that left her gasping for breath. This was going the wrong way very quickly.

The ork had gotten behind her and put his arm around her throat. “Come on, Buzz!” he said to the one ganger who hadn’t yet tried to strike her. “Cut her!”

She looked at the man as he approached, casually pulling a knife from his belt. “You’re Buzz?” she asked.

He nodded, a thin smile coming to his lips. “Yeah,” he said.

“You’re the one who hurt Sophie.”

He chuckled. “I had her first, yeah.” He stood directly in front of her now, his blade touching her cheek. “Y’know, I don’t know why I was so worried about you.”

She smiled, then lashed her head backward. She felt the knife slice her cheek as the back of her skull smashed into the ork’s face; there was a satisfying crunch as she felt his nose squish. He let her go and fell away.

The look on Buzz’s face became very concerned as she planted her knee is his groin and then shoved him away.

She spun and backed up so that she could see all four of them. The other two humans spared a quick glance at their wounded comrades, then charged at her. She ducked under one punch, rolled with the other, and came out with a devastating palm strike to the side of the youngest ganger’s face; she felt his jaw break as she delivered a solid kick into the other human’s belly, dropping him momentarily to his hands and knees.

Three of them regained their feet slowly—the youngster stayed down, curled up in a whimpering ball—and began circling around her. If they all rushed her, she’d be in big trouble.

They all rushed her.

What would ye see done?

Time slowed down for her. There was a tingling on her skin, and the faintest scent of ozone in the air. She raised her right hand toward Buzz, said a silent prayer, and unleashed a staggering bolt of lightning. It struck Buzz squarely in the chest; he collapsed into a smoking, spasming heap. At the same time, there was an explosion of thunder. The shock wave shattered the windows of the warehouse. The crowd along the periphery of the combat ducked as glass showered down.

The lightning still poured from her right hand. Abruptly, it arced from the still-twitching Buzz to one of the other gangers, who joined his comrade on the floor. From him it spread to the ork, and from him to the youngster, and from him to Erica’s outstretched left hand.

Her breathing was heavy, but not labored. She could keep this up until they died.

Seek ye vengeance?

They had it coming. They’d hurt a little girl, killed a man. A little longer, and the world would be a tiny bit better off.

Or seek ye justice?

No. She’d be no better than them if she did that.

She dropped the spell, and the four of them just lay there, their muscles twitching. She walked over to Buzz and kicked his knife away. “Sixth Commandment,” she said to him. “Thou shalt not kill.”

She walked over to where Leland was standing with Wheezer; the human had a proud smile on his face, while the troll wore stunned disbelief on his. “We’re done,” she told him. “Stay out of my neighborhood; you’re not welcome there anymore.”

“Or what?” Wheezer asked.

Erica held up her hand; blue-white electricity danced between her fingertips. “Any more stupid questions?” She didn’t wait for an answer, just spun on her heel and walked out of the warehouse, with Leland close behind.

A few days later, Leland walked in with a box under his arm. “Thunder! How’s the cheek?”

She touched the narrow scar that had formed where Buzz’s knife had sliced her. She’d cast a healing spell on the cut after the fight, but the thin white line had remained. “Still a little tender,” she said. “I guess Dragonslayer thought I needed to look a little tougher. What brings you in today?”

“I come bearing gifts,” he said. He pulled an optical chip out of his pocket and tossed it to her. “You can stop worrying about the rent,” he told her.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean the shop’s yours, free and clear. That’s the deed.”

Erica stared at the chip, stunned. “How?” she finally asked.

“I know a guy. He likes you and what you’re doing, so he thought it might be helpful if you didn’t have to worry about the whole ‘roof over your head’ thing.”

She sat down heavily on one of the stools next to the workbench. Short of taking her in when her parents had died, this was the kindest thing anyone had ever done for her. “Tell him…I said thanks,” she said finally.

“I will,” he said. He put the box down on the counter. “This one’s from me. Fighting the good fight can be dangerous, so I thought some protection would be good for you.”

She opened the box, and pulled out a black leather duster. “Leland!” she said as she pulled it on. “This is so cool! Thank you!”

He smiled. “It’ll turn knives and most light pistol rounds, too,” he said. “Looking cool is just a side effect.”

She smiled. “Very not bad!” she said. “Are we working out after services tonight?”

“If you want,” he replied.

He turned to go, but stopped when she called his name. She walked over to him and gave him a long embrace. “I don’t think I’ve ever thanked you for teaching me all this.”

He returned her hug and said, “You don’t have to thank me. Just remember why we do what we do.”

She nodded. “There’s still good out there.”

“There is.” He turned and walked out of the garage, adding over his shoulder, “Keep fighting the good fight, Thunder.”

It was a chilly night; a cold front had come in, bringing with it the promise of rain. Erica was glad for her duster. Even if it hadn’t been armored, it would keep her warm and dry.

She sat on the edge of the roof, looking out over her neighborhood from the ten-story apartment building across the street from the garage. It had been a quiet night so far, which didn’t hurt her feelings. She looked up at the sky, losing herself in the meager scattering of stars she could see over the city lights and the haze in the air.

Her reverie was broken by the air spirit she had roaming the neighborhood. “Sorry to interrupt,” it said, its voice as cool as the breeze, “but there’s trouble a few blocks west of here. Six big, one little.”

She stood and said, “Take me there, please.” In an instant, she was flying west, the spirit holding her aloft as easily as she would hold a doll. Moments later, the spirit set her down gently on the edge of a roof overlooking the alley.

It was a blind alley. In the sputtering illumination of a dying streetlight, Erica could see a small knot of young men and women surrounding someone at the closed end. It was a woman, begging them not to hurt her.

She shook her head at the scene four stories below. “Gangers,” she muttered. “Someday they’ll learn.” She raised her right hand to her chest and stroked the small white shield sewn to the left breast of her duster, the shield with the red cross of St. George emblazoned on it. It was the only bit of color on the garment. “Here be dragons,” she said.

The spirit snorted. “If you say so.”

“It’s a metaphor.” Erica turned and asked the spirit, “Do you play with Sophie?” It was a silly question; all the spirits in this part of town played with Sophie.

“Yes.”

“Do you help her with her memories?”

“When it’s my turn.”

She nodded. “Did she give you a name?”

The spirit chuckled, and said, “She calls me Digby.”

She smiled. It was a very Sophie-like name. “Do you mind if I call you that?”

“Be my guest.”

She unbuttoned her duster as she stepped to the very edge of the roof. “Thank you,” she said. “Please don’t let me splatter on the pavement, Digby.” Erica stepped off the roof into darkness. She stretched out her arms, and felt Digby embrace her. The tails of her coat billowed like ebony wings.

Thunder stopped in mid-air, hovering about a meter above the ground. Her shaggy blonde hair blew in the spirit-enhanced breeze. She watched one of the thugs, her colors impossible to discern in the gloom, notice her silhouette in the sputtering streetlight.

With as menacing a tone as the Dragonslayer could muster from her, Thunder said, “Leave. Her. Alone.”

The other gangers spun around, ignoring their victim, who backed fearfully into a corner of the alley. The punks advanced on her, shouting obscenities and describing what they were going to do to her. Digby lowered her quickly but gently to the ground.

Sparks flashed between her fingertips, and Thunder smiled.

It was time to go to work.

Bottom of the Ninth

By Jean Rabe

The first volley—bricks, rocks, bottles—didn’t hurt. Houdagh barely felt them, the calcified dermal deposits on his hide working like armor.

“Get outta here, ya damn tusker!” A ruddy-skinned elf picked up a hunk of concrete and hurled it, not far enough. Houdagh watched it land well short of his feet. “Stop coming here. We don’t wantcha!”

“Yeah! Get gone while yer still breathin’!” hollered an ork in fatigues.

Had Houdagh seen that ork before? She looked vaguely familiar. Quite a few of them looked familiar. Probably because he often came to the bridge. How often?

“Get get get!” the ork persisted.

Houdagh felt his blood boil, and he raised a cane and shook it at his assailants.

“You get out of here! You hear me! You get—the lot of you!” the troll boomed to the assorted vermin—go-go-gos, vatjobs, gutterpunks, a razorguy marshalling a ragtag assortment of humans, elves, and whatever else stood cloaked by their tattered clothes and the overhangs of their dreary shanties. Another volley of rocks sailed forth when even more squatters piled out from the ramshackle hovels spread across the bridge. “Scram! I…said…SCRAM, the lot of you! Got no right to live on this bridge. My bridge. SCRAM!”

Scram? the ruddy elf mouthed with a frown. Scram? “That’s not a word any more, ya dumb tusker.”

The tough to his right, with broken teeth and tats covering most of his face, pulled out a new-model Spree, a bolt-design submachine gun. Others were drawing guns, too; Colts, Remingtons; a heavily-scarred razorguy had a Shiwase Arms Monsoon. In front of the rusted shell of a Gaz-Willies Nomad, a pair of dwarves shouldered Winchester shotguns that looked like they’d been pinched from a museum. Houdagh didn’t recall the rabble being this heavily armed the last time he stopped by. And when had that visit been? Yesterday? A week ago?

Overhead, the detritus in tents resembling big insect bags tied to the suspension railings poked their heads out. One dropped a sack of rotten potatoes, the spoiled juice splattering his shins. An elf hanging from one of the bags clutched an Onotari Sierra Libra sporting rifle.

“Frag. Frag. Frag.” Houdagh figured he’d been holding his own against the squatters ’til the guns came out. The Monsoon and the Spree were going to more than hurt. The Libra might kill him if the elf’s aim was any good. This had been a double dose of foolishness; coming up to the bridge right after breakfast—and coming alone.

The troll reluctantly backed up, leaning on his twin canes as he went, snarling threats at the mob slowly advancing on him. Another chunk of concrete flew, hitting him squarely in the chest; he felt that one; hard, like a rivet driving into steel.

“Six million rivets,” he snarled. “And you dumbasses disrespect every one of them.” He struggled to retreat faster.

What the hell had he been thinking?

He hadn’t been thinking—that was the problem. Thinking was difficult anymore. It was probably the dementia the doc had diagnosed some months back. Lewy Body, the doc had said. Rare in trolls, the doc had said, not treatable in ’em either. “Should be in a nursing home,” the doc had said with a finger wag attached, assisted living, Alzheimer care unit.

“Should be dead,” the attending nurse had whispered. “No right to live so long.”

“Get outta here, ya damn antique!” The ruddy elf had picked up a hunk of asphalt with a piece of twisted rebar sticking out of it. Had to be heavy; the elf must have a cyberarm, maybe bone lacing and a little muscle aug. “Get outta here, you!”

The troll growled, but obliged. “I’m leavin’. I’m leavin’.” Softer: “But I’ll be comin’ back.”

The first big drops hit just as Houdagh reached the edge of the bridge. He started toward the city proper, and decided it was too far to walk to find some cover from the rain. His knees throbbed dully, he needed to sit.

“Frag. Frag. Frag.” He looked up, spotting thick, pink lightning flickering, hinting that magic would be coming down. That clinched it. He hated Sydney’s storms, especially when they also rained magic. “Frag and double-frag.” Had to find shelter fast.

Leaning heavy on his twin canes, he slowly picked his way down the embankment. He’d hunkered under the bridge before—often, hadn’t he? Just last week? Yesterday? And there was a particular piling the squatters stayed away from. Wasn’t there? Had he tried to stay away from it, too? Difficult to remember, his mind like a sieve that too many things slipped through. And his ideas didn’t congeal properly, no matter how hard he tried to hold on to ’em, eluded him like shadows chased by a flashlight beam.

But that pink lightning…

Houdagh was under the span when a big rumble of thunder tickled his feet. In a handful of heartbeats he was at the piling. He kept his gaze straight ahead, where the water was open; to his right, a collection of homemade houseboats were strung together like an ugly island, and he didn’t like to look at them. He wished the lot of them would sink.

“Old soul, old troll, what’s a stirring ’neath that bowl?”

“It’s a helmet, Stella, not a bowl.” He sat and laid the canes across his lap, grateful to temporarily take the weight off his sore legs. He remembered now; she was the reason he avoided this piling. His memory played tricks like an expert magician, but he couldn’t entirely chase her out of his head.

“Not a bowl? I’d drink soup out of it.” The woman stretched a thin arm up and tapped the pitted metal helmet perched crookedly on Houdagh’s overlarge head. “Could drink me a lot of soup out of that. I like broccoli and cheddar cheese with garlic croutons. Tomato will do, though.”

He closed his eyes and listened to the rain that tat-a-tat-tatted viciously against the bridge overhead and against the harbor spread out before them. Sitting with his back to the graffiti-covered piling, he was protected from the brunt of the summer storm. Only the cool breeze slipped under this section of the bridge.

“Old troll, old soul, what’s a—”

The troll growled. “Just thinkin’ ’bout this bridge, Stella, that’s all.”

“Honestly, Houdagh, you don’t have to grouch at me. I was just making conversation.”

She continued to prattle, and he tried futilely to shut her out. Didn’t she always “make conversation” when he came under the bridge to avoid the rain? Didn’t she always always always prattle? If this deluge wasn’t so fierce, he’d leave and find some better company, think about where to go for lunch. But the lightning had been pink, and so he’d stay put for a while.

Pink.

Frag and back again.

Stella was a fixture at this piling, filthy, homeless—well, the assemblage of nearby crates was her home. Wearing the same baggy clothes for likely a few years; she reeked, and obviously avoided soap and water like they were poison. Despite the frequent storms, she apparently managed to evade the rain, likely slipping out during dry spells to scrounge in the dumpsters behind restaurants and restock her larder. Sometimes Houdagh took pity and brought her take-out Chinese. Or was that Turkish?

He couldn’t tell if she was human or elf or possibly a short, skinny ork by her dirt-smudged face, her features further concealed by long, tangled, gray-black hair. Oh, Houdagh knew he could decipher her race if he took a closer look or a deeper whiff, figure out if she had any augmentations, but he didn’t want to utterly slay his senses just to settle his curiosity. Bad enough that she’d sidled up against him under the bridge.

She poked his helmet again. “The bridge, huh?”

“Yeah, the bridge.”

“Old soul, old troll, big eyes the shade of charcoal.”

Houdagh growled again, louder this time.

Stella seemed undeterred. “So…what about the bridge?”

Houdagh prayed the storm would lessen soon; the rain fired down with the intensity of bullets spat from a machinegun. “The squatters up top. Thinking about them, Stella. Doesn’t matter how bad it rains, they won’t leave the bridge…leave what’s left of the bridge. My bridge.”

“Yours, eh? ’Spose every troll has to have a bridge.” Stella talked louder to be heard above the downpour. She leaned in closer, and he gagged from her stench, so strong it settled on his tongue like a dollop of wet cement. He swore she smelled as bad as a body dead three days. “You remember it, don’t you old soul old troll, what it used to be like, the bridge? You’re antique enough, aren’t you, a geezer what’s lived twice as long as he should have, counting the days until his last breath. Old troll, old soul, brain that’s got a big pothole. But you remember what it used to look like, before it was closed. Me? I just saw it in pictures is all. Pictures from before the Awakening.”

The rain was a solid sheet now, cocooning their spot behind a wall of water. “I remember,” Houdagh said, too softly for Stella to hear. “I remember everything about this bridge.” The Sydney Harbor Bridge was a physical representation of his best memories, and his brain wasn’t quite so leaky when he was touching some part of it, as if its very substance was somehow connected to him.

Houdagh was halfway through his nineties, closing in on double the lifespan of the average troll. He attributed his longevity to Buddhist meditation and a couple of medical “procedures” he’d undergone fifty years ago; he couldn’t recall just what he’d had done. Stella had hit close to the mark, though, he was counting down to his last breath. He could feel it, stomach almost always aching, lungs not filling like they used to, joints all knotty and painful with arthritis, feet always always always hurting. A chore to walk. Almost impossible to stand in one spot without wobbling. Took him forever to climb the stairs to his second-floor apartment on…on…Darlinghurst! Darlinghurst Darlinghurst Darlinghurst. Had to remember that.

Wouldn’t be too much longer, though, he could tell, sense it in atrophying muscles. Counting down to his very last breath. Then he’d find out if there was another side—and discover whether he’d fit through the doorway to get there. He didn’t easily fit through some of the doorways in Sydney. Houdagh was big, not much under three meters, a veritable giant of a troll—but looked a tad shorter because of his stooped posture. He pushed the scales at a hair more than two hundred kilograms—except for his overbroad shoulders, he was on the lean side. Just a few years ago he used to be even more foreboding; a few inches taller, fifty or sixty kilograms heavier. Age had shrunk him a little, and his appetite wasn’t what it used to be because of his aching gut.

“I don’t remember much of the recent stuff, Stella,” he whispered. “But, yeah, I remember the bridge in its glory. And me in my glory.”

“Tell me about it,” Stella said. “Again.”

As a teenager, he’d crossed the Sydney Harbor Bridge in a car. The bridge had been intact and beautiful then, shots of it gracing postcards for sale at every tourist trap in Australia. It was the world’s largest steel arch bridge, the top towering a hundred and thirty-four meters above the harbor, dubbed “the coat hanger” because of its silhouette. The bridge had first been proposed in the early eighteen hundreds, a way to connect the northern and southern shores, with nothing accomplished until after World War I, when some English contractor directed fourteen hundred men. It cost more than four million dollars and took eight years. Hundreds of families who lived in the bridge’s path were relocated, and not a dollar given for their demolished homes. More than a dozen construction workers died; he remembered reading that. It was officially opened in the spring of 1932, and before the nattily dressed New South Wales Premier could cut the ribbon, a New Guard upstart slashed the ribbon with a sword. The ribbon was tied back together, and then the Premier officially cut it to much ballyhoo.

Six million hand-driven rivets, eight lanes, two rail lines. Constantly updated and repaired and kept in impressive condition.

Until the first mana storm hit about eighty years ago.

The magic that came down with the rain damaged the bridge and poked large enough holes in the bed a semi could—and did—fall through. Traffic was rerouted through a tunnel under the river. The remnants of the bridge became home to the squatters—most of them people who’d been displaced when they lost their houses in the city to the mana storm. Sydney’s politicians left the squatters alone…for too long. By the time the officials decided to repair the bridge, it was too late. The resulting riot between Knight Errant and the squatters spilled into Sydney proper. Shattered windows, trashed cars, flattened bicycles, broken bodies on both sides, and blood. Everywhere was blood. Despite the decades and the dementia diagnosis, Houdagh couldn’t force the image of all the blood out of his head.

Houdagh’s father was killed in the first hour of the clash, a businessmen trying to defend his property. He lost a sister, too, though it had taken her longer to die…six days in the hospital before they turned off life support. Most of the long-ago stuff, Houdagh had little trouble summoning. Crystal in his noggin. Even the first storm, that image engraved permanently in his mind.

That very same storm cloud hung over Sydney today and stretched out into the harbor. Eighty years it had persisted. Shouldn’t it be dead by now? Shouldn’t it have breathed its last? Shouldn’t the fates have relegated it to the Alzheimer’s wing of some assisted living spot in heaven? Sometimes there were big gaps in the cloud, or it thinned like tissue paper so the sun could shine down, but usually everything looked gloomy. It didn’t rain all the time, just frequently. And when magic was sometimes thrown into the mix…

Pink lightning.

Houdagh shuddered. A good friend of his had been turned into a wombat while they were walking down the sidewalk thirty-some years ago. It was a bolt of pink lightning that did it.

“Six million,” Hoodah said.

“Six million what, old troll?”

“Rivets.”

“What’d you eat for breakfast?” Stella stuck her hand in his vest pocket. “No leftovers for me?”

“I don’t recall what I ate for breakfast.” But Houdagh remembered that the heaviest rivet in the bridge weighed three and half kilograms. He had no trouble with the old bits, especially when they pertained to his beloved bridge.

“I bet it was tasty, your breakfast. Should have brought me some.”

“Six.”

“Million rivets, I get that.” Stella rubbed at a spot of dirt on her hand.

“Yeah. Rivets, Stella. But my number. Six was the number on my jersey.”

“When was that?”

“I usta to play baseball when I was a kid. Shortstop.” His name had been Bill or Rob or something friendly and common back then. Couldn’t remember when he picked up Houdagh. Frag, but that sounded like a gob of phlegm expelling from his throat.

“Baseball. What’s that got to do with breakfast or rivets or the bridge?” Stella tapped his helmet again.

“Bottom of the ninth,” Houdagh said. “It’s the bottom of the ninth, and I’m comin’ up to bat.”

It was well past lunchtime when the storm lessened to a drizzle and the pink lightning disappeared. Houdagh slogged up the bank, steering clear of the bridge edge—though he was mildly interested in whether any of the squatters had been struck by one of those pink bolts and turned into a wombat or koala or some other indigenous creature that he’d find less objectionable. It was too much to hope that the taunting elf had been dispatched.

Maybe he’d find out on his next trip. Would that be tomorrow?

Public transportation took him took him to The Cross, where he got out at the park. He stopped at the restored El Alamein Fountain, watching a long-legged elf with blue fiber-optic hair splashing and popping slips that were no doubt taking her far away from this neighborhood. One of the lampposts near the fountain had grown an attachment since his previous visit. A man in a suit—umbrella in one hand, the other hand firmly affixed to the post—looked like he was performing the famous dance routine to “Singing in the Rain.” Except he was frozen in place, body turned to the same metal of the lamppost, eyes and mouth wide open as in a mix of surprise and agony. Fred Astaire, right? He was the one in that old, old movie. Or had it been Ginger Rogers? John Travolta? Not everything from long ago was crystal in his mind. Emmett Kelly…that was it.

“You ain’t no Emmett Kelly,” he told the frozen man. “Emmett woulda dodged that pink lightning. Danced up a wall with Jerry, that cartoon mouse. Anchors That Aweigh. Pink lightning wouldn’t have hit twinkle toes.”

His tender belly grumbled, reminding him that he’d missed lunch, what with the rain coming down so hard and keeping him under the bridge so long with Stinky Stella. It was a little early for the dinner hour. Perfect timing for those senior citizen specials.

On Victoria Street, he stared down at a permanent shadow, the image of a woman in mid-stride, caught by one of those pink bolts and etched onto the sidewalk like a ghost of Pompeii. He had to stand on her to study the menu taped to Dumplings and Noodles’ window. No doubt he’d eaten here before; he frequented the Cross. Didn’t he? The few square block area was considered Sydney’s armpit, what with all its antiquated strip shows, sex parlors, tawdry-houses, and pubs. Too, it was all-over vintage, old-fashioned, nothing but outdated constructions and the original bricks that made up the streets and sidewalks. It had a backwater feel that fit the troll nicely. And the food was especially to his liking. Wasn’t it?

“Xiao-Long Bao Soup Dumplings.” Third one down under the senior citizen’s specials. That sounded tasty on his tongue. He’d only order three servings, so not to overly upset his stomach, and buy a sack of fortune cookies for Stella. He’d give them to her tomorrow. He’d probably go back to the bridge tomorrow. Did he go there every day?

A Leyland-Rover Transport chugged by, breaking his musings. “Yeah. Xiao-Long Bao Soup Dumplings—whatever the hell they are—sounds good.”

Sated, less than an hour later he was at the end of the street, his feet throbbing, his wrinkled face eerily reflected in the glass-covered poster fronting Cadigal’s Corner. Colors bright because the sun didn’t touch it often, the poster showed a beautiful, dark-skinned woman in a long, red dress. Aborigine, probably. Looked familiar. Had he heard her sing before?

Houdagh stuffed one of his canes under his arm, his free hand wrapping around the front door handle. It was a tall, wide door; he’d only have to stoop a little to go inside.

“Wotter you doin’, mate? First show ain’t ’til seven.” The speaker was an elf in a loin cloth, body paint on his legs looking like a bad job of urban camouflage, more paint on his arms telling the world his go-ganger status. “Like to watch the fake Sheilas? Place on Darlinghurst has ’em all day and night. I gotta coupon.”

Darlinghurst. Darlinghurst. Darlinghurst. He’d have to remember that so he could get home.

“You want me coupon?”

“Not here to see a show.” Houdagh tried the handle. Locked. One tug and he’d get it open, but best not to damage the property. He knocked hard enough to rattle the frame. “Scram.”

Scram? the painted elf mouthed.

“Get!” The word was punctuated by a thunder rumble. Houdagh looked up. Didn’t see any pink lightning. It was unusual for the cloud to throw two magical storms in a row at the city. But not impossible. “Get, you hear me! Get get get!”

The elf shrugged and headed down the sidewalk, wending through a mix of locals and tourists and walking over the Pompeii woman without looking down.

Houdagh knocked again, wincing when he saw a section of wood splinter.

“Pops?” a one-tusked troll that came up to Houdagh’s shoulders opened the door. “What are you doing here?” Thunder boomed again, and the door opened wider. “C’mon in. Don’t need you to catch your death in a storm. You’re not looking too good, Pops.”

Houdagh snorted and followed the shorter, much younger troll through a lobby that smelled of pine cleanser, past a double-door that led into a long, narrow auditorium, the walls shot through with sections of corrugated metal. Houdagh thought the place looked like the inside of a big antique boxcar that had been canted so one end was higher than the other. It smelled strongly of cigarette and pipe smoke and spilled rum, a hint of the pine cleaner under all of it. The aisle descended to the stage down front, and the younger troll gestured to a door off to the side.

“Let’s go in my office, Pops. Quieter.”

Houdagh nodded. He could hear music coming from somewhere backstage, and the tap-tap-tap of dancers practicing. Someone was singing, too: a haunting mi mi mi mi mi mi mi mi miiiiiiiiiiiiii.

“Who put you through college, kid?”

Cadigal cocked his head. “Not you, Pops. ’Sides, I didn’t go to college.”

Houdagh scowled at his grandson. “You should have. Become a doctor or lawyer, bridge contractor, something respectable. If you’d gone to college, you could have done better than running a brothel.”

“I don’t run a brothel, Pops. We’ve been over this before. It’s a tawdry house.”

“I know what tawdry means. I went to college.” He had, hadn’t he? Did he get a degree? “Tawdry—cheap looking, shameful, indecent. T-a-w-d-r-y.”

“It also means flashy, showy, and a bit gaudy.” Cadigal crossed his arms. “Maybe we’re also a little indecent here—depending on how rigid your morals, but—” 

“I need…some nuyen.” Houdagh eased into a wide, high-backed chair across from Cadigal’s desk. His feet felt a little better when he wasn’t standing on them. He watched the younger troll scoot around the furniture and take a seat, rest his elbows and steeple his fingers under his chin. The office looked like one a business executive would fancy; leather, walnut, thick carpet, not a speck of dust. But the posters on the walls of beautiful “women” in sparkly clothes seemed at odds with the furnishings.

“Pension not enough anymore, Pops? I’ll try to help. And if you need—”

“I need some nuyen, I said.” Houdagh thought his grandson’s head was jug-shaped and plain, lacking true troll character. “Quite a bit of nuyen, actually.”

Cadigal cleared his throat. “Listen, Pops—”

“…Please.” That word was hard to force out.

Cadigal leaned forward, expression thick with concern now. “You in trouble? Medical bills?”

“I know you’re tight. You’ve always been tight, just like your father.” Houdagh seemed to remember that his son was a miser, took his savings and moved to…moved to…somewhere on the other side of the continent. He’d not heard from his son in…how long? What the hell was his son’s name? “But you’ve got nuyen, kid. Look at this place! Packed most nights, right?” That was a guess.

Cadigal nodded. “Especially Wednesdays. Ella Gance does three numbers on Wednesdays. Sometimes an encore.”

Houdagh wondered if this was Wednesday. “So, you have a lot of nuyen.”

Cadigal frowned. “Utilities, protection to the Yakuza, upkeep. I have to pay the girls—”

“They’re guys. Your employees are all guys.” Houdagh remembered that, an odd and uncomfortable piece of information that got wedged in the solid part between the holes in his sieve for a brain. “They all have beans and wieners. They just dress like girls and sing falsetto. Fraggin’ transvest—”

“Impersonators, Pops. No room for your backwater prejudice in the Cross, especially not in my place. How many times have we been over this? My entertainers are female impersonators. How many times, huh?”

Houdagh shrugged. “Sorry.” He didn’t know how many times. He couldn’t remember what he ate for lunch. He had eaten lunch, hadn’t he? His aching stomach wasn’t growling too loudly.

“I’m up to bat,” he said after a moment.

“What?”

“I’m up to bat,” Houdagh repeated a little louder, thinking maybe his grandson hadn’t heard. “I need some nuyen, more than I got. We’re family. You help out family.”

Cadigal dropped his meaty hands to the surface of his desk. “Yeah. We are family.” After a moment: “I’m really gonna miss you, Pops.” 

I’m not going to miss you, Houdagh thought, the way my mind is draining away, I won’t remember you’re my grandson come the middle of next week. I won’t miss you because I won’t know you. “Darlinghurst Darlinghurst,” he said.

Cadigal’s eyebrows rose and he opened a drawer and reached in, flipped up a false bottom and rummaged around. Four credsticks came out a heartbeat later. “Do I want to know what you need this for, Pops?”

“Have to buy a baseball bat.” Houdagh put the credsticks in his vest pocket. “Mind if I watch the show tonight? You got troll-sized seats, right? It’s raining. Hear it? I don’t wanna go out in the rain.”

“Yeah. The seats are still there. Center, back. Can’t have trolls sitting close to the stage, blocking the view.”

Houdagh leaned on his canes and headed out.

“Show doesn’t start for an hour, Pops. Stop backstage and say ‘hi’ to the girls. Hurdy Gertie asks about you all the time.”

Houdagh didn’t remember who Hurdy Gertie was. Name sounded like a musical bovine. “Sure. I’ll say ‘hi’.” A pause. “Thanks. For the nuyen.” He had to oblige his grandson—his only grandson?—who’d just given him more than enough nuyen to put him in the batter’s box. He’d find Hurdy Gertie and say hello.

The thickset ork emerging from a dressing room wore a short flare skirt and halter top, both a swirl of white and black sequins that brought to Houdagh’s mind the image of a dairy cow. 

“Pops! Good to see you!” She waddled forward and threw her fleshy arms around his waist. Standing on her tiptoes, she pulled his shoulders forward and planted a kiss on his cheek. “Where you been keeping yourself, mate? Haven’t seen you for weeks.” She had on high-heeled tap shoes and looked familiar. But a lot of people looked familiar to Houdagh; he just had trouble putting names to faces and deciphering how he knew someone and what they might mean to each other. “Remember me? You do, don’t you, Pops?”

Houdagh stepped back and looked down into her wide face. The heavy makeup she’d dabbed over a few rough facial features was easy to spot. So was her Adam’s apple. “Hurdy Gertie,” Houdagh pronounced, not at all remembering her, just guessing this was the woman his grandson told him to say ‘hi’ to. “Who could forget Hurdy Gertie?”

She beamed. “I told Cadi your memory’s just fine.”

Houdagh smiled back. “Good to see you, too.” He cringed when he heard a boom of thunder, felt the vibrations skitter across the soles of his feet. Sounded like another big storm.

“And good you got inside before another downpour, eh? Hope it doesn’t cut ticket sales too much.” She shook her head, her blond banana curls shimmering under the hallway’s fluorescent light. The color didn’t match her plucked eyebrows, probably a wig. Houdagh felt uncomfortable with the notion of female impersonators. Had he always felt uncomfortable about it? Was he prejudiced? “One of these days me and Ella are going to hightail it to Brisbane, get us a spot on one of those big stages. Names in lights.” She made a tsk-tsking sound, and the makeup around her lips showed feathery cracks. “Ella’s a whole lot better than me. She’ll get there first.”

“You’re good, Gertie,” Houdagh offered. “Very, very good.” But he didn’t know if she was. Had he seen her perform?

“Thanks, Pops! I’m gonna do an old show tune tonight, one of your favorites! Appropriate, too.” It looked like she was waiting for him to say something. He leaned harder on his canes. His feet were hurting bad. Houdagh knew that old men lied if they told you their feet didn’t hurt. When he didn’t say anything, she continued. “My first number is ‘Singing in the Rain.’ Can’t do my famous and oh-so-raucous bump and grind to it, but I will shuffle-ball-change up a storm.”

Storm. He ground his teeth together. Houdagh hated Sydney’s storms. Maybe he should have hightailed it to Brisbane decades ago. Brisbane didn’t have a big cloud hanging over it. What kept him in this city? As soon as he thought the question, he answered it. “My bridge.”

Gertie drew her face forward in question, her features looking painfully pinched. “What bridge? What are you—”

“The Sydney Harbor Bridge.”

“The coat hanger?”

A nod. He felt a line of drool spilling over his lower lip. Old men of all races seemed to have that drooling problem. He inhaled the string back into his mouth.

“What about the coat hanger, Pops?”

“I’m gonna take my bridge back, Gertie. Tomorrow, I think. Right after breakfast.”

Gertie shifted back and forth on her high-heeled taps, clearly at a loss for words. “How ’bout you tell me and the girls all about what you’ve got planned. We’ll all grab some tucker at Wesley’s Diner right after the show. You’ll be hungry, won’t you?”

Houdagh couldn’t remember if he’d eaten dinner. “I’m always hungry,” he returned. But his stomach felt like it was twisting into a big knot. “Wesley’s Diner sounds good.” It must be nearby. He hadn’t planned on staying long at the tawdry house, just came to talk his grandson out of some nuyen, then leave for his shopping trip. But the thunder was coming frequent, the vibrations against his feet worrisome. He imagined pink lightning in the mix.

He hated storms.

“Tucker after the show,” Houdagh said. “Wesley’s Diner.” He hoped it was on Darlinghurst.

Gertie patted his arm. “I’m going to knock ’em dead tonight.” She swayed down the hall toward the wings of the stage. “I’ll look for you in the audience, your regular spot.”

Wherever the hell that “regular” spot was, Houdagh mused. Despite the brick walls of the building, he heard the crack of lightning.

Settled into one of the troll-sized seats, he waited. When the Aborigine came on—Miss Ella Gance in a shiny, long, red dress like on the poster out front—Houdagh leaned his head back and listened to her smooth voice soar over the sound of the rain.

Bacon and eggs, he’d had that for breakfast at a place on Darlinghurst that opened before dawn. He remembered what he’d eaten because he just pushed the plate away and there was still some runny yellow on it. Runny like the rivulets of water racing down the restaurant’s front window. 

He paid with nuyen from one of the credsticks his grandson had forked over, and then stopped next door, at an all-hours arms dealer that masqueraded as a pawn shop; he’d learned about it from the waitress.

Fortunately, the pawn shop part of the business had one of those big wire mesh carts that old women drag with them on public transportation, fill them with groceries and second-hand clothes. Houdagh filled it with something else.

“And that one,” he told the cybered-out wageslave behind the counter.

“The AK-97?”

“Yes. And that one.”

“The Ares Alpha?” 

 “Yes. And two of those.”

“Colt M23s?”

Houdagh nodded. Somehow he remembered that the Colts were cheap, mass-produced, not so easy to reload. But he didn’t intend to reload them, just shoot them until they were empty. That’s what he’d do with all the guns. Draining three credsticks, he added a Cavalier Arms Crockett EBR, an Ares Predator V, a short-barreled Remington Roomsweeper, a Ruger Super Warhawk—that the clerk said “is loud as a jetliner and twice as shiny.” He managed to wedge an Ingram Smartgun, tricked out with a gas-vent system, an Ingram Valiant light machine gun, and a used RPK HMG heavy Russian machine gun and tripod in the cart, along with ammunition for everything.

Two flash-bang stun grenades fit in his brand new armored vest pocket, a fragmentation grenade in his pants pocket, and he strapped a half-dozen combat knives to his belt. Houdagh didn’t have enough nuyen left for a riot shield; he hoped the vest would be adequate protection, would last him just long enough.

“What are you going to do with all of this?” the clerk asked. “Start a gang war?”

“Finish one,” Houdagh said.

“Knight Errant’ll stop you out on the sidewalk. Well, maybe not. It’s raining harder. Want to buy an umbrella?”

Hoodagh shook his head and felt a string of drool spill over his lower lip. It stretched to the floor.

The clerk passed over a plaid blanket that Houdagh arranged over the cart to conceal his impressive cache. “And I have some paperwork to fill out for the boss. What name do you want to use?”

It seemed an invitation to give a false one. Houdagh looked at the remaining credstick. It had a little nuyen left. “Louis Body,” he said. “My name is Louis Body.”

He stopped at a quick mart and drained the last credstick. His feet hurt terribly, and his knees ached. The soaked-to-the-bone old troll needed to rest, but he couldn’t afford the time. Breathing was onerous, and his stomach had a deep pain. It was the countdown. He glanced up; lightning, but it wasn’t pink.

Houdagh hefted a sack over his shoulder, left the cart at the top of the ridge, concealed by a scraggly bush, and worked his way down the bank relying on only one of his canes, which made the journey more difficult. He’d lost the other one somewhere. Still, he persisted.

At the bottom, against the graffiti covered piling, he passed the sack to Stinky Stella.

“Old soul, old troll, you come to feed my pie hole.” Stella giggled with delight when she pulled out a packet of fortune cookies, along with wedges of cheese, a container of cold cuts, a small loaf of bread, a jar of pickles, and a box of crackers. “Old troll, old soul, must have a fine bankroll.”

“Goodbye, Stella.”

“Counting down to your last breath,” she said.

“Six,” he said.

“Million rivets. I remember. Old troll, kind soul—”

“—is gonna leave this hellhole,” he finished. “Number six is up to bat.”

He barely made it back up the embankment, and fortunately the building closest to the bridge had an elevator. After pummeling a security guard unconscious, Houdagh rode up to the top, pulled his cart onto the roof, perched himself at the edge, and started with the Cavalier Arms Crockett EBR, a super rifle that had an effective silencer. The keenest part of his vision had fled a long while ago, but what remained, with its better-than-human broader spectrum, allowed him to pick off eight of the squatters before they realized something was wrong. The pummeling rain had worked to his advantage; they couldn’t tell where the shots were coming from.

For once, Houdagh didn’t mind the storm.

He’d already set up the RPG HMG on its tripod, and it had the range to reach the armed go-go-gos spilling off the bridge to take on whatever was threatening their little community. Houdagh mowed an easy three dozen down before the gun jammed. He picked up the Ruger Super Warhawk next. The clerk had been right. It was loud, and it was enough to send the squatters running back onto the bridge and into their hovels for cover.

Houdagh took the elevator down, clocking the security guard, who was just coming to, again.

Stinky Stella was wrong, he thought. I’m not a kind soul. Not today. Had he ever been?

He struggled under the weight of the remaining guns slung over his shoulders and burst out onto the sidewalk to hear sirens. The sidewalk jittered under his feet, the thunder coming in time with his failing heart.

People on the sidewalk—metahumans and humans, wageslaves most of them—screamed and cleared out of his way when he waved the Remington Roomsweeper as a warning.

The rain was coming down harder, if that was possible, by the time he reached the edge of the bridge. He hoped Stinky Stella was staying nice and dry next to her piling, hoped the rain would worsen and sink the boat-island down below.

His feet ached terribly, like thumbtacks had been shoved into his heels and toes. The throbbing in his knees threatened to drop him, but Houdagh kept going. Had he ever felt this much pain?

“Bottom of the ninth,” he growled. “Six is up to bat.”

He emptied the Roomsweeper on the assorted go go gos, vatjobs, gutterpunks, and razorguys that attempted to challenge him. Hair and raggedy clothes plastered to the humans, elves, and whatever else was occupying his bridge, they looked a pathetic lot. Their dreary shanties didn’t provide enough cover, making the troll realize Knight Errant could have taken the bridge back some time ago. The politicians probably didn’t want it anymore.

But Houdagh wanted it.

A tough with broken teeth and tats covering most of his face drew a new-model Spree and aimed, but Houdagh cut him down. And the others that had guns—Colts, Remingtons, a big Shiwase Arms Monsoon, the troll threw the frag grenade in their midst, sending shrapnel deep into their filthy hides.

The thunder applauded Houdagh’s war, and thick fingers of pink lightning painted a hellish glow against the bridge bed. In front of the rusted shell of a Gaz-Willies Nomad, two dwarfs shouldered museum-quality Winchester shotguns. One got off a shot, striking Houdagh in his armored vest. The troll dropped the Roomsweeper and swung the AK-97 around, bullets punching into the dwarfs and turning them into crimson confetti that the rain quickly washed away.

He couldn’t tell who was shooting back or with what, the rain driving down in a solid sheet. Bullets bounced off his vest and his calcified dermal deposits, but some got inside. The troll felt them burrow into his flesh and hit his bones, felt something crack inside. He staggered to the railing, emptying the AK-97, dropping it, and unslinging the Colt M23s, one in each hand. Leaning against the railing, he fired and fired and watched more of the trespassers drop, listened to their screams, the snap and crackle of pink lightning, the sirens.

Houdagh balanced on the edge.

It’s a thin edge between life and death, he mused, where breath and all sense of dignity flees, where every last good and important memory is sucked from your shriveling brain, and all you have left is the endless storm, and a dilapidated bridge that’s supposed to mean something to you.

He tipped his head back and opened his mouth, let the rain sluice in, kept firing though he was no longer looking for targets, roared his defiance at the squatters who had dared to take his bridge.

Bottom of the ninth, he thought, as the Colts emptied and fell from his hands. Bottom of the—

The pink bolt of lightning struck the center of his back, its electric tendrils galumphing merrily along his arteries and to his failing heart, jump-starting it with a boom Boom BOOM!

Bottom of the ninth, and Houdagh felt amazing. Strong and young, limbs of iron, welded to the bridge railing and frozen like Emmett Kelly Singing in the Rain on the lamppost near the El Alamein fountain in The Cross.

His bridge. 

The bridge that served as a physical representation of his best memories. His brain didn’t leak when he was touching some part of it, as if its very substance was somehow connected to him. And now he was forever connected to it.

The six millionth and first rivet.

No one could ever make him leave now.

The Cost of Science

By Dylan Birtolo

The door to the small coffee shop swung open again, forcing Chiara to pull her parka tighter around her body in a vain attempt to suppress a shiver. It felt like the temperature dropped five degrees every time someone entered the place. That was probably why the proprietor didn’t bother to heat the interior enough to let customers shed their heavy coats—it would be a waste of energy. Not to mention, in her three days here, she wasn’t sure she ever saw any of the locals without their protective outer layers. Given that her entire team was used to a much warmer climate, they weren’t about to break the custom.

Chiara flexed her fingers inside her mittens, rubbing her hands up and down her arms. With all the layers, she could barely feel the sensation, but the motion helped to stimulate blood flow.

Sandra sat across from her, leaning back with her feet propped up on the table so that her chair tilted back at a dangerous angle. She also wore warm clothing, but favored a lined jacket over the padded parka adopted by the rest of the team. According to her, the extra padding restricted her movement, and that was something she couldn’t tolerate since she was the team’s security. Chiara noticed the metal rings in Sandra’s pointed ears tremble against each other in the gust of wind that swirled in before the door shut, betraying her cold.

Despite these discomforts, the corners of Chiara’s mouth turned up in an undeniable grin. She knew they were close. If all went according to plan, they would be back in France within the week with the necessary samples to continue their research. It was too early to get excited, but Chiara couldn’t help herself. If their theories were correct, this could be a monumental breakthrough. They might even be able to stop the spread of HMHVV.

The smell of heavily spiced soykaf snapped her back to the present as the server, a young elf very light on his feet, set two cups on the table in front of the ladies. Before Chiara had a chance to thank him, he flashed a brief smile and turned to return to the bar.

She picked up the steaming mug and held it under her nose, enjoying the warmth against her upper lip as much as the aroma. Taking a small sip, she sighed as the heat spread through her chest.

“Do you think he’s gonna show?” Sandra drained her soykaf in one quick shot and slammed the empty mug down with a metallic thud as her cyberarm struck the tabletop. 

“He’ll be here. He was a bit resistant at first, but once he saw we wouldn’t be easily deterred, he agreed to meet.”

“You mean once he saw the amount of nuyen you’re willing to cough up. He might just be trying to rip you off.”

“That’s why you’re here—to keep us safe.”

Sandra grunted, and lifted her hand to gesture at one of the waiters walking by. She pointed at her empty mug and he nodded. When he returned to their table, he brought a pitcher of soykaf radiating a cloud of steam.

As he refilled her mug, the door swung open again, and an older ork stepped through, thick furs covering every inch of skin except for his face. He stomped heavily, making the floor tremble as he kicked snow off his boots. Almost immediately his gaze was drawn to Chiara and Sandra. After a couple of long strides, he stood next to the table, looking down at the two women.

“You are Doctor Rosi, yes?”

Chiara scraped her chair against the floor as she stood and held out her hand to the stranger. His large mitten engulfed her hand, and she winced as he squeezed. The reaction made Sandra stand, narrowing her eyes at the stranger. With a quick glance, Chiara let her protector know that she was fine. The ork let go and turned to Sandra, offering the same courtesy. After the greeting, all three took their seats. When a waiter came over with a fresh cup, the ork waved him away.

“I am Semyon. You should not be here. You do not belong.” His accent was thick as he struggled with the English words, but his harsh tone required no translation.

A corner of Chiara’s mouth turned up, and she suppressed the urge to roll her eyes. Instead, she opted for a fierce shake of her head. “As I told you in our messages, Semyon, this is too important. I know the wilderness is dangerous, but if my team is right, we have a real chance to find a cure for HMHVV. Both legend and scientific evidence points to this region as having some of the largest yetis ever seen.”

“Yes, large yetis. Very big. Very dangerous. Many seek, few return.”

“You’ve led hunters into the wilderness to look for these beasts before, haven’t you? We saw your name on some boards.”

Semyon’s lips tightened around his tusks as his jaw muscles flexed. With a subtle turn of his head, he looked behind him as if expecting others to overhear. When he turned back, he leaned forward, placing both arms on the table and gesturing for the ladies to come closer. They obliged, and his whisper sounded like rocks tumbling down a ravine.

“All dead. Eaten.”

Chiara expected as much, considering the lack of current information about the hunting party. Granted, she didn’t know the people; they were anonymous hunters that Vladik had found while perusing the Matrix. But they were regular communicators, often sharing trids of their latest adventures and trophies. After this venture into the Yakutsk wilderness, there had been nothing. And it had been three months. Still, sometimes science required taking chances.

“We aren’t hunters, Semyon. We’re scientists. We’ll stay well away from the beasts. We just need to observe them and get a few samples, nothing more.”

“Too dangerous. You will die.” He leaned back, crossing his arms across his chest as he made his proclamation.

Chiara reached inside her parka and pulled out one of the certified credsticks. She placed the silver piece of technology on the table and slid it across to Semyon. He froze for a few seconds, staring at the credstick. He reached out and started to push it back with a shake of his head. As he opened his mouth to speak, Chiara slapped a second silver credstick down next to the first. She watched the expressions on Semyon’s face as he weighed his options.

Come on, she thought. She needed him to take it. The last credstick represented the rest of their research budget, and she could only use that for emergencies. Aware she was holding her breath, she let it out slowly, hoping he didn’t notice.

With a swipe of his paw, he scooped up both credsticks and shoved them into one of several pockets on his coat. He stood up and bowed to the women at the table.

“Tomorrow. Sunrise. Meet here.”

He turned on his heel and strode out the door. Chiara and Sandra watched him go, waiting until the door shut before they said anything.

“I told you he’d come. We’re one step closer!” Chiara gripped the table with both hands in her excitement.

Sandra drained her soykaf. “Great. Now I get to watch out for giant apes in hip-deep snow.”

The next morning, Chiara assembled her team and had them in the café a full hour before sunrise. She didn’t want to give Semyon any reason to claim they missed their opportunity. As it was, she had enough concerns that he’d simply decide not to show and abscond with their funds. But she pushed those thoughts from her mind as she double-checked her gear. At least the café was open this early, offering shelter from the elements as well as the opportunity for a fresh, hot meal before departure.

The group ate in silence, each member preoccupied with making sure he or she was ready to depart when Semyon arrived. Every time the door opened, each of them looked up to see who it was before sinking back down over their respective equipment. Chiara checked her PDA. The sun should rise within the next ten minutes. Looking out the front window, she saw the sky start to lighten, shifting from black to a dark, oppressive gray from the constant cloud cover.

The door banged open, and Semyon stood in the entryway, silhouetted against the growing daylight. He looked at the group of scientists seated around a table, nodded, then turned and strode back outside. The group snatched their things and scurried after him.

As soon as Chiara stepped outside, she was struck with an odor she hadn’t smelled in years: exhaust from a diesel engine. Wrinkling her nose, she held her arm up in front of her face, hoping to ward of some of the smell. Meanwhile, she looked at the ancient truck spouting the noxious fumes. It looked like the front end of an old semi, covered in more rust than paint, and towing a flat bed with three snowmobiles. A fourth was unloaded, sitting on the snow next to the flatbed. Semyon stood by the truck, watching as a troll and another ork unloaded the vehicles.

“Semyon, please let me introduce you to my team. You’ve already met Sandra. This is Doctor Renard Huot, our geneticist; Doctor Diane Beauchemin, our wildlife specialist; and finally Vladik Pavlovich, our technician.”

As she introduced each one, that person stepped forward to shake the ork’s hand. His eyebrows raised when Chiara introduced Vladik. The two exchanged a few words in Russian that Chiara couldn’t understand, but it seemed to please Semyon. He barked a single laugh and clapped the smaller man on the shoulder, making him stumble. Perhaps she should have brought him along during the initial meeting. Regardless, it was too late.

Semyon waved at the group to follow as he headed to the unloaded snowmobiles. He said something to the laborers before dismissing them. As the truck rumbled into the distance, Semyon turned back to face them.

“We go. Two each. Close, always in seeing. Goggles always.” He pulled down his set of goggles and wiggled them into place. To accentuate his point, he tapped the colored Plexiglas and then held a thumb up.

Chiara pulled her scarf up over her face and then pulled her goggles down so that they overlapped the scarf, leaving no skin exposed. Even with this little exposure, her cheeks felt raw and stiff, and she knew it would only get worse once they were moving. Satisfied that she was as prepared as she was going to get, she went to one of the snowmobiles and stowed her backpack. Once everything was secure, she climbed on behind Sandra, glad to have someone else in charge of driving.

The vehicle rumbled to life underneath her, and the vibrations spread through Chiara’s entire body. They lurched forward, and she had to tighten her arms around the other woman’s waist to keep from falling off. Once they picked up speed, the wind felt like it bit right through her clothes, making her shiver so hard she had trouble holding on. Even though she had the goggles to protect her eyes, Chiara squeezed them tightly closed as she leaned into Sandra, using the other woman as a windshield.

It felt like she was on the back of the snowmobile for hours as they crossed the wilderness. At first they dodged around trees as they stayed close to their guide, following a trail only he could see. But the trees thinned out until they were on a vast tundra plain, where the endless sheet of white was only broken by grey mountains on the far horizon.

It began snowing at some point during the journey. The small flakes helped break up the monotony, but the storm grew stronger, until it became difficult for Chiara to see any of the other riders. Once again, she was glad that Sandra was in the driver’s seat. Her cyber-enhanced vision might let her see through the blizzard.

Chiara felt the ground rumble underneath them, breaking up the rhythm of the snowmobile’s vibrations. A shout over her commlink caught her attention. She whipped her head around and caught the silhouette of one of the snowmobiles as it flipped sideways and slid towards a gash in the ground. Sandra jumped off the snowmobile, leaving Chiara to scramble forward and take the controls. She turned the vehicle away from the ravine and back to her teammate.

Sandra was a blur as she raced through the snow, kicking up large clouds of powder in her wake. Ahead, Renard had a leg pinned under the vehicle. His arms flailed as he tried to grab onto something to slow his decent, but the snow provided no purchase. Sandra jumped forward, sliding on her front and reaching out with one arm. Renard grabbed it in both hands, holding her wrist tightly.

Once he had a firm grip, Sandra raised her other arm and slammed the cyberlimb deep into the snow and ice. Even through her protective layers, Chiara heard the crack as the limb shattered through the layer of frost as the two continued to slide. They slowed, and the snowmobile tumbled off Renard’s leg to crash into the ravine. Freed from its weight, the two humans stopped, only a few feet from the edge.

Now that she’d circled around, Chiara climbed off her snowmobile and pulled out one of the climbing ropes from the storage compartment. With the help of the other members of her crew, they secured the line to both remaining vehicles, holding it tight and letting the other two climb up. Throughout the entire operation, Semyon sat on his snowmobile and watched. Once everyone was back on flat ground, he spoke.

“I say stay close. Dangerous. Now three. I ride alone.”

He swung his snowmobile around and waited for the others to get on their vehicles. Chiara turned her back on him, making him wait as she checked Reynard’s leg to see if there were any injuries. Thankfully it seemed bruised but otherwise uninjured.

“Friendly, ain’t he?” Sandra asked as she caught her breath between gasps.

Not for the first time, Chiara wondered about the wisdom of her decision to follow this stranger into one of the most dangerous areas in the world. Renard had almost died. Still, they knew the risks. Great advances didn’t come without treading into dangerous territory. As if in response to her conclusive thought, Semyon revved the engine on his snowmobile.

“Renard, are you okay?”

“I think so. Lost all my equipment though.”

“That’s all right. Climb on behind me. We have a yeti to find.”

She didn’t need to see the scowl on Sandra’s face to know her friend didn’t approve. But at the same time, Sandra was a good soldier. She clenched her jaw, nodded, and climbed back into the driver’s seat.

After another hour, Semyon stopped the group near the base of a small, raised section of tundra. The wall of ice in front of them was just over two meters tall. It stretched out in either direction a fair distance, at least a few hundred meters was Chiara’s guess. Semyon turned around so that he could look at the other members of the group without getting off his snowmobile.

“This where I lead hunters. Yeti nearby. Tracks up on…” he struggled with finding the right word, and eventually gave up and pointed at the shelf. “You go, I leave. I go home, not eaten. You come back?”

Chiara got off the snowmobile and shook her head. They had come too far to even consider returning empty-handed. Even if the search was fruitless, they still needed to try.

“No, Semyon. We still need our samples, and you to guide us back out.”

Semyon waved a hand near his face as if chasing away an imaginary fly. “Keep vehicles. Programmed path back to Surgut. If you live, get back safe.”

Before Chiara had a chance to say anything else, Semyon turned around and left them, his snowmobile disappearing in the falling snow. The other members of the expedition turned and looked at Chiara, waiting for her to make a decision. She could feel the weight of their expectation even without looking at them.

“If he said the tracks are up there, then we go up there. Vladik, I don’t suppose you have Matrix access and could pull up a satellite map of the area?”

Vladik snorted in response, but reached out and opened up some AR screens only he could see. He swiped around in the air a few times before shaking his head.

“Nothing, boss. Not that I expected any different. We are kinda in the middle of nowhere. Like I said before I left, no registered access points anywhere for kilometers.”

“Not a problem. We’ll climb up there and check it out, leaving the snowmobiles behind. If it’s too far, we can always come back for them. At least then we’ll be able to see if there’s a spot where we can drive them up on the shelf.”

Chiara walked to the base of the wall, looking up at the edge. She could almost reach the top. Maybe if she jumped and grabbed the ledge, she’d be able to scramble up.

Before she had a chance to try, she felt something nudge her ribs. Sandra held both her hands in front of her, fingers laced together to give Chiara a boost. In retrospect, Chiara realized she probably would have made a fool of herself slipping on the ice. Glad no one else could see the flush of her cheeks, she put her foot in Sandra’s outstretched hands and stepped up to the ledge.

Once she hoisted herself to the top, Chiara scrambled to her feet and dusted off the loose snow. As the others worked their way up, she stared at the spectacle in front of her.

Large sections of ice and snow jutted up toward the sky. Cracks in the rugged landscape revealed a vast network of ravines and caves. Some pieces of ice rose like crystal spires, glittering in the limited sunlight. It was beautiful and harsh at the same time, and filled her with a sense of wonder. It was amazing to see what the land had done here, shaped without the interference of human technology for years. Perhaps the yeti made this landscape their home for that reason, adapting it to their needs. If so, that spoke volumes for this strain’s intelligence and fortitude.

Chiara eased her way forward, taking her time—the memory of what almost happened to Renard fresh in her mind. She scanned the ground, but saw nothing. If there were tracks, they had long since been covered by the falling snow. More than likely, they’d need to start exploring the caves to find any trace of the beasts.

At the first cave entrance, Sandra grabbed Chiara’s shoulder before she could enter. Without a word, Sandra went in first, creeping forward and signaling when it was okay for the rest of the group to follow. Just stepping into the shelter was a relief—the wind no longer biting through their clothes and the snow not obscuring their vision. It felt like the temperature rose ten degrees just by being out of the elements.

Sandra signaled for the rest of them to stop as she explored the depths of the cave. They waited in silence for several minutes until she returned.

She pulled her goggles up and her facemask down, rubbing her gloves across her reddened skin. “The cave’s empty. I think we should take a few minutes to refuel and rest before we start exploring too much.”

As the others looked to her, Chiara made the call. “I agree. Let’s check our travel kits, eat some food, and get started again in thirty.”

Once the thirty minutes had expired, the group prepared to brave the elements again. They ventured from cave to cave, trying to find some evidence of life in the structures. After some time, Sandra called a halt and waved Diane forward.

“Is that what I think it is?”

Diane crept forward and looked at the small pile Sandra pointed to. Her eyes grew wide and crinkled near the edges as she broke into a grin. Within seconds she whipped off her pack and sorted through it, looking for a sample kit.

“What is it?” Chiara called from the entrance.

“Feces! We’re in the right place! It looks like this cave has been habituated within the last three or four days, judging by the hardness of the sample. I can’t wait to analyze it and see what they could possibly be eating out here in the tundra that could sustain them.”

“All right team, we’ll be setting up here for a while so Diane can run some tests. We don’t want to spook these creatures. We’re in their habitat, after all.”

As they were sitting around their makeshift campsite, Vladik sidled over next to Chiara and tapped her on the shoulder. When she glanced at him, he nodded in the direction of the depths of the cave. The two of them walked back there, leaving the rest of the group behind.

“There’s something I think you should know.”

Chiara waited for him to continue.

“So, you know how I was helping Diane set up her station so she could run some tests out here? Well, the way I set it up, her station automatically pings the Matrix when first activated, to try and access any new data files on our network back home.”

Chiara frowned. “So?”

“So, it got a response.”

“What? I thought you said there was no Matrix access here. We’re in the middle of nowhere.”

“I know. I thought it was weird, too, so I looked into it. Something’s out there, but really faint. It’s like a Matrix spike. Someone built a Matrix access point out here, and we’re just on the edge of its range.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means that someone or something used to be out here, recently, too. Whoever it is still has a hotspot. As near as I can figure, it’s about a kilometer away, maybe less, but definitely in the direction we’re going. And if that access point isn’t registered, whoever’s running it doesn’t want it to be found.”

“In your professional opinion, what do you think we should do about it?”

Vladik shrugged and looked down at his feet as he kicked at some frozen rocks. “I’m not sure. I’m just a programmer, boss. I just thought you should know, cause it’s kinda weird.”

“Can you use that Matrix access point to get a message back to our central lab if necessary?”

“I should be able to. I’ll write a script and have it ready to go.”

“Do that, just in case. Not that I anticipate any problems. As soon as we get the samples we need, we can go home and leave this mystery for someone else. That’s not why we’re here.”

Chiara walked back to the group, Vladik behind her, his eyes unfocused as he began writing his script. Sandra glanced over at their team leader, but she shook her head and waved her off. Sandra would trust her judgment. She meant what she said to Vladik—while his discovery was intriguing, it wasn’t their problem. As long as they stayed away from the signal and got their samples, they’d be able to return without any issues.

Once Diane finished her tests and Vladik finished authoring his script, the group continued exploring, finding more signs of yetis the further they went. Along the way, they found some fur samples. The only thing they still needed was a blood sample. It didn’t need to be much, but it was the most crucial element for their research. Chiara hoped they could find a live yeti before it grew dark. Trying to retrace the route back to their snowmobiles would be difficult, if not impossible without the limited sunlight that was already starting to fade.

As they entered the next cave, they all heard a shuffling sound echoing back from the darkened tunnel ahead. Sandra drew her Predator, loaded with tranquilizer rounds, and crept forward. The rest of the group maintained a safe distance, but not one of them could stay behind when they were so close to their goal. They all wanted to see the yeti alive and in its natural environment.

Even with all her research, Chiara was not prepared for what she saw as she rounded the bend in the cave. She saw the backs of three of the beasts, and they were enormous—over three meters tall with long gorilla-like arms that let their knuckles drag on the ground as they marched away from the group. Each hand ended in sharp talons that were almost as long as a knife. Their fur was blanched white, perfect for blending with the storm outside. Even from this distance, Chiara could smell the creatures’ sweat through her facemask—pungent, but not foul.

The part that made her stop and freeze was that the three creatures were following an elf with most of his skin exposed to the elements and showing several swirling tattoos etched in dark ink. If the cold bothered him, it did not show as he strode forward, using his walking staff for balance. His long hair was braided down his back, with several feathers and bones incorporated into the braid.

Diane lost her balance and skittered on the ice, catching herself against the cave wall, but the noise of her stumble echoed ahead of them. The elf turned, looking back at the group in the small space between the yetis. For a moment, everything was still.

The tattooed elf spoke first. “Kill them.”

The yetis whirled around and howled their rage in an ear-splitting chorus that shook the cave walls, causing small showers of snow and ice.

Sandra burst into action, pushing Diane back and swapping the magazine in her Predator faster than the natural eye could follow. She fired several rounds at the elf even before the yetis took their first step, but they never hit their mark. The air in front of him swirled and thickened, catching the bullets and letting them drop to the ground. Chiara had heard of air spirits before, but never thought she’d see one. Her wonder was short lived as the ground beneath her shook under the tremors of the yetis’ charge.

“Run!” Sandra shouted. The group scrambled back across the slick surface, but made little headway. More than once, Sandra grabbed one of her companions and hurled the scientist back towards the entrance.

The yetis continued howling as they raced forward, using their knuckles to propel themselves with even greater speed. Sandra fired behind her as she tried to spur the others forward, but it was clear the yetis were much faster. They were only a few strides away when Sandra planted her foot and pivoted to face the beasts. She continued firing until her magazine ran empty. The yeti in front was injured and bleeding from several holes until its fur looked more pink than white, but it continued to charge, albeit a bit slower than before. 

Sandra slammed another magazine into place and tossed the Predator into her off hand before charging forward. Her sudden shift caught the injured yeti off balance, and it tried to scramble back and swipe at her with its claws. She got too close for the blow to be effective, and swung her left hand around, planting the muzzle of her Predator against the bottom of the yeti’s chin. The creature’s head exploded, filling the air with a thick red mist.

Sandra didn’t wait to savor her victory, she spun around and moved out of the way of the falling body, advancing on the second beast. She fired a couple of shots at it, making it bring its hand up to instinctively defend itself as she moved in. With a leap, Sandra flew at the yeti’s chest and snapped her right arm forward. As she delivered the punch, a large spike extended from her fist, biting deep into the beast’s flesh. The white fur flashed red as the beast snarled and tried to grab her. She ducked underneath the blow and stabbed again with her fist.

By now the final yeti joined the fray. It swiped at Sandra as well, making her jump back to avoid being torn to shreds. The beast’s claws sunk deep into its companion’s stomach, but it tore its hand free, along with several large pieces of flesh. The second yeti collapsed to the ground with a whimper, but the third kept advancing.

“What are you waiting for? Get back to the snowmobiles!” Sandra shouted over her shoulder as she engaged the yeti.

Chiara watched her dodge another blow, unsure of what to do. The tattooed elf walked forward, a wide grin on his face. There was no way she could help Sandra, and if she stayed, the soldier’s sacrifice would mean nothing. Chiara turned and scrambled back the way they came, her decision spurring the others to action. At the cave entrance, they didn’t hesitate, rushing through the opening and retreating in a mad dash.

After passing a few caves, they ducked into one to stop and catch their breath. All of them were panting, and Chiara could feel that her trembling limbs were on the verge of failing. Renard and Diane collapsed, rolling onto their backs to try and ease the pain of running in the harsh climate.

Chiara forced herself to walk over to Vladik and get her breathing under control. “Those scripts you wrote…you need to send a message. Use the Matrix spike…we need to let the lab know what happened here.”

Vladik nodded and took several deep breaths before plopping to the ground and leaning against the rock wall. He raised one hand and began gesturing, interacting with his programs. Chiara walked to the entrance, looking back for any sign of pursuit. For the moment, it seemed like they were safe. 

A scream snapped her attention back to the cave. Every muscle in Vladik’s body tensed and his eyes were wide as he stared at the AR screen in front of him. After a second that felt like minutes, his entire body collapsed like a marionette with cut strings.

“Vladik! Vladik!” Chiara ran over to him, picking up his head. His eyes were unfocused and his facemask was frozen from the drool coming out of his mouth.

“Evo… Black ice…”

He repeated those words as Chiara tried to support his limp body. What was going on? What did any of this have to do with a triple-A corporation? This was supposed to be a simple research mission. Gather some samples and head back home. Now Vladik was dead, and probably Sandra, too. There was no way she could survive that battle, even with her enhancements. If the yetis didn’t finish her off, the elf and his air spirit would.

As if responding to a summons, a howling torrent of air covered the entrance to the cave. The sound made Chiara drop Vladik’s body and cover her ears. It felt like a hurricane was in the room with them. Large chunks of ice and rock tore free from the walls and hurtled through the air. Renard staggered up and tried to run past the air spirit, but was flung back against a wall with a sickening crack.

Chiara could think of nothing but her own survival. She ran deeper into the cave, down a tunnel with no light that went somewhere. It didn’t matter where it went, as long as it got her away. She didn’t see what happened to Diane, but she heard the woman’s scream get cut short over the commlink. She was alone, and if she didn’t keep moving, she was going to die.

There was no way for her to know how long she stumbled, how many cracks and slick slopes she slid down, or how many times she bruised her body against sharp sheets of ice. Chiara just kept moving forward, knowing that if she stopped, she would die. That thought kept her adrenaline going through her system so that she did not succumb to the exhaustion that threatened to lull her into a sleep she feared she’d never wake from.

After another harsh tumble down a slope, followed by a roll through powdery snow, she found herself looking up at empty, black sky. For a few seconds, all she could do was stare at the clear sky dotted with thousands of tiny stars.

Eventually, she picked herself up, feeling like her body would break if she moved too quickly. She was outside. Somehow, she’d stumbled across a path that brought her back to the top of the ice shelf. Shivering from the exhaustion as much as the cold, Chiara turned around. Most of the caves were behind her, like she was on the edge of the network. Glancing at her commlink, she found she was only 200 meters away from the edge of the ice shelf.

Chiara stumbled toward it, her numb feet dragging long tracks through the snow. If she could just reach a snowmobile, there might be a chance.

When Chiara returned to Surgut, she let the snowmobile’s autopilot drive her straight to Semyon’s shop. The engine turned off, waking her from the fitful sleep she’d collapsed into during the long trip back. She reached down to the straps she used to tie her into place, frozen fingers fumbling with the knot coated in ice. With a shout of wordless frustration, she pounded in vain at the knot a few times and had to stop to catch her breath. She remembered the knife tucked into her belt. Chiara pulled it free and used it to cut the straps holding her in place. When she swung her legs off the seat, they ached and protested the movement. Her entire boy felt stiff as she took a few steps towards the shop, her clothes cracking with each movement. Some part of her brain was in shock that she was still alive.

She swung the door open, and saw Semyon crouched behind a counter. She wasn’t sure, but it looked as if his eyebrows rose in surprise when she stumbled inside. If so, he recovered quickly.

She shuffled over to the counter, collapsing into it and using her arms to support herself. “There’s something out there, Semyon.”

“Yetis.” He stood up and crossed his arms in front of his chest, nodding as he said the word as if that settled the issue.

“No, Semyon. Something much bigger. Something I don’t think anyone’s supposed to know about. If you know what we saw…A corporation…”

Semyon leaned forward and put both of his paws on the counter so that it creaked under his weight. When he spoke, he said each word deliberately and slowly, pausing after each. “You. Saw. Yetis.”

A tickle at the base of her neck made Chiara glance around the shop. As she turned on her commlink, she saw the labels and specs for everything in his shop popping up in her AR. It was far more valuable than what she would expect in a village on the edge of the tundra. The entire collection came from all over the world. And every single piece of equipment, even the furniture in his shop, was tagged with the Evo corporate logo.

Chiara looked back at the ork in front of her and eased herself away from the counter by extending her arms. She took a slow step back and held out her hands to either side. “I…saw yetis.”

“Good. You leave now. Next transport in six hours.”

Chiara nodded as she walked away from the ork without turning her back to him. She’d be on that transport, no doubt about it. She just wished there was one sooner. But where would she go? She didn’t dare head back to her lab. Evo would find her there. Maybe someplace warm, like the Caribbean…

She had one credstick left, which might be enough to get her there. Maybe it would also be warm enough there to chase away the cold, but she doubted it. The constant images playing behind her eyes would keep her shivering, no matter how hot her final destination would be.

Swamp of Spirits

By Jason M. Hardy

The investigation into the murder of Louis St. Cyr was entering its sixth painful year. The fact that he was actively involved in the investigation didn’t make it any easier.

St. Cyr was dripping wet, as he had been for the past five years. Water flowed out from under his porkpie hat and streamed over what had probably been a threadbare suit long before he had drowned in it. He slumped on a battered chaise lounge with splintered legs, even though he had no real need to sit, but his materialized form was well suited to slouching. He didn’t say anything. He sat quietly, occasionally looking over at Ciel with an expression like a dog waiting for a long-overdue bowl of water.

Some days she let him sit there for an hour, his immaterial dripping the only sound in the room. The sound of the dripping suited the wet air. Walking through it was practically like swimming. At least a north breeze off Lake Ponchartrain chased away the sulfur smell that often hung around Ciel’s neighborhood at night, but that didn’t make the air comfortable. Just less nauseating.

Louis patiently didn’t say much as Ciel let the heavy air push her down into her chair. He’d been good since her outburst three months ago, which just showed her that it was good to limit him, to make sure he didn’t get out of line.

Today, though, she let him off the hook quickly.

“Nothing new today.” She dropped the leather helmet she liked to wear while out in the shadows and scratched her scalp between her cornrows.

He nodded slowly, like he always did.

Ciel lit an oil lamp so there would be something besides his pale green glow illuminating the room. The cinderblock walls and cinderblock supports for most of the furniture seemed to suck up most of the available light, keeping it dim inside. She eased the camelskin of water off her back, poured a few cups worth into a battered tin pot, threw in some rice, and got it cooking over the blue flame of a camp stove. Then she settled into the white fabric lawn chair she’d scavenged just last week. It had a small tear where her legs rested, and a few brown stains here and there, but all in all she thought it classed up the joint pretty well.

She closed her eyes and listened to two kinds of water: bubbling from the pot, dripping from St. Cyr. There were muffled car noises from the Pontchartrain Expressway, but the rest was silence. No one outside was crying, no one outside was screaming. She enjoyed it for the few moments it lasted.

Then St. Cyr broke it with his hollow, mournful voice. “I’ve been thinking about Craigie Murdock.”

Ciel sighed quietly. “What about him?”

“He was around the office a lot more in the month before I died. He was taking a more active role in the business. I think he was being more open than he was supposed to be.” St. Cyr paused, the way he always did after a sustained utterance, as if he had breath to catch. The silence was soggy. “You know, since the people who worked there weren’t supposed to know who was in charge. He was being too obvious. Maybe people thought I noticed something.” Another long, wet pause. “Even though I didn’t.”

Ciel shook her head, then leaned forward and turned down the heat under the rice. “We’ve been over everything, Louis. Murdock wasn’t anywhere near the building the night you were killed. We haven’t found anyone in the mob who so much as knew your name. It was exciting when we uncovered the mob connection, but it’s been nothing but a dead end. A three-year dead end.”

“I just thought if we looked into Murdock more closely. Maybe his people—”

“We looked. We checked out his underlings, where they were, what orders they received, the whole thing. We already did that, Louis. We came up empty.”

St. Cyr sat quietly. Ciel knew she had about fifteen minutes before it was time to eat. She closed her eyes again. “I’ve got a busy night ahead, Louis,” she said. “I promise that once the job is done and I get some sleep, I’ll put my mind to it and see if I can come up with a new lead.”

“Maybe we could go out again? Summon some spirits around the office? See if they know anything?”

They never have before, Ciel thought, but she only said, “Sure.”

There was no more conversation until the rice was done. Ciel threw in a little sugar and some raisins and called it a meal. As she was finishing, she dropped a pillow from her chair onto a blanket on the floor. She stood, put her pot in the sink, then stretched out on the blanket. The air above the floor was slightly cooler than the rest of the night, and the concrete under her blanket was even cooler. It was the closest she would come to comfort.

Just as she closed her eyes again, Louis spoke, “Stakeout again tonight?”

“Yeah.”

“In Broadmoor again?”

“Yep.”

“With that fast-talking elf with the long coat and all those knives?”

“That’s the one.”

“I met him, that one time he came by here. I told you not to trust him. Didn’t I? I remembered to tell you that, right?”

“You did, Louis. You did,” she said as she drifted to sleep. She didn’t tell him that the reminder was unnecessary.

“You be careful with yourself,” she heard dimly. That was usually the last thing she heard before she drifted off.

“Buyer’s coming in,” Flintlock said over the comm. “Greasy little dwarf, walking up Robert Street.”

There were far more pillars in the neighborhood than Ciel would have expected. These weren’t mansions with grand columns, just one- and two-story houses trying to make an impression. Some of the pillars were brick stacks that clashed with the aluminum siding of the homes; others were more ornate ionic columns awkwardly situated in front of bungalows. When the columns were painted, they were peeling. Most of the people in the neighborhood were just trying to keep a roof over their heads; beautifying the supports of that roof was not something they had a budget for.

Ciel shifted to astral perception, the haloed street lights and shaded home windows fading and giving way to dim shadows interrupted by the glowing outlines of a few trees and tiny, darting auras of numerous bugs. She looked down the street toward the intersection, waiting for the dwarf to appear.

Stengel was behind her so that his aura didn’t mess up her view. “Got a good view?”

“Yep.”

“Ready to move?”

“Yep.” Ciel had run in the shadows long enough to not let her irritation show at stupid questions. Team leaders asked them so that they would feel in control, so she knew not to take them personally.

An aura came into view. It was pretty flat, non-Awakened. Just a courier. There was caution there, and most other emotions were muted.

“Got him,” Ciel whispered.

“Good, good. I’ve got visual contact. Don’t see who he was supposed to meet, though.”

“Me either.” Having nothing else to look at, she stared more at the dwarf’s aura. There was something more to it than his emotions being muted. His health was off. In fact, it was more than off. He was…

“Drek, this guy’s on his last legs,” she said. “He’ll be lucky to live out the week.”

“Strange choice for a courier,” Stengel said.

Ciel cocked her head. “Or exactly the point.”

“What do you mean?”

“He’s not a courier,” she said. “He’s the goods.”

Then there was a flash, a bright glow coming out of nowhere, an electric blue green flowing toward the dwarf. It shot out with tremendous speed, and Ciel knew what she’d have to do to keep up.

“Keep an eye on me,” she said, then left her body behind, with more hope than belief that her request would be kept.

She’d lived in New Orleans her whole life, she was used to the constant humidity, but when she went astral and separated herself from physical sensations, there was always a moment of relief. A feeling of energy, of freer breathing—even though the part of her that was actually breathing was left behind.

She could see the essence of spirit more clearly now, a being covered in spiky whitecaps. It closed on the dwarf in a blink, and green tendrils smoked out to the dwarf’s face, smothering it and extinguishing his aura. The toxic nature of the spirit was clear at a glance. The shadowy form of his flesh body dropped to the ground. Payment received, the spirit darted away. Ciel was right behind it.

The spirit made no effort to avoid Ciel, which made her tense. The only beings she had ever encountered who didn’t worry about being followed were either too powerful to worry about who was on their tail or completely deranged. She wasn’t happy about either prospect, but she couldn’t break off. She had to find out more.

Dim shapes of houses raced past as the spirit made a beeline for its destination. It was a quick chase, and it ended with the spirit vanishing into nothing behind a white house with brown accents and three palm trees in front.

Ciel slammed on the astral brakes and looked around. It was possible the spirit had journeyed to another plane, but she didn’t think so—if it wanted to shift, it could have done so right after draining the dwarf. She would have laid money on it still being around, just in some good hiding place.

She could detect magic and look for traces of what the spirit had done to hide itself, but casting a spell might make herself too obvious. The spirit was probably sitting somewhere and patting itself on its insubstantial back for hiding so well. She didn’t want to alarm it or make it think it needed to come out after her.

She drifted here and there, back and forth, steering clear of the spot she had last seen the spirit. She scanned carefully, looking for auras and colors that shifted in ways they shouldn’t, or that gave away the fact that they were covering for something. Moving so slowly was a chore, especially when her astral form felt like a bullet train waiting to rocket forward, if only she would ease off the brakes.

But her work was rewarded. There was a small garden patch in the back of a house, more weeds than cultivated plants, and as she moved carefully back and forth, she saw an odd shift in the middle of it, like reality was slipping a bit.

She knew immediately what she was seeing. There was a barrier, a pretty well-disguised one. But thanks to the garden, she now knew where one of the edges was.

She dropped down until much of her astral form was below ground level, keeping most of her out of sight. She eased forward, not wanting to hit the barrier hard if it was prepared to hit back. She made contact, sort of.

Touching the barrier was not like touching something solid. It was like dipping your hand in an electrified vat of swirling cotton candy, full of quick snaps and motion. But it didn’t hurt, not yet. She pushed ahead gradually, a little more, then a little more, waiting for it to snap back at her or for some alarm to go off. When it didn’t happen, she moved her face into it. It felt like a super revitalizing mud mask. She’d had one, once. When she was young, foolish, and had her first good payday.

Her face moved slower than her hands, because she had to be ready to dash off at any moment. Pressure built on her cheeks and forehead, squeezing her face. If the power she was pushing through redirected itself and decided to squish her, it could. One push, one squeeze, and her skull would collapse. Which, in astral space, wouldn’t necessarily kill her, but would hurt like hell.

Fortunately, she knew enough about mana barriers to know that manipulating them that way was a royal pain in the hoop. She hoped that would be enough to keep the barrier in its current shape.

She kept moving forward, millimeter by millimeter, and then, all at once, she was through. Color, vibrant and shining, flowed into her eyes. It came from every direction, and it was so bright she could almost hear it. The barrier was hiding a riot of life.

She focused as much as she could on the teeming auras, absorbing as much information as she could, knowing she could not stay long, trying to understand what she was seeing.

And then, abruptly, she did. And she could not believe it.

Just over five years ago, the body of Louis St. Cyr was found in Bayou Sauvage in the eastern part of New Orleans. He had been drowned—his lungs were full of bayou water. Bruising around his throat and on his chest indicated that he’d had some help slipping under the water. The police performed a cursory investigation, and when no killers immediately confessed or strong leads presented themselves, they dropped the matter. They had plenty of other things to do, and piles of bribes to collect. The death of some middle manager did not really concern anyone on the force. Or in the entire sprawl.

It did, however, concern the sopping wet spirit Ciel L’Enfer encountered in the bayou while hiding out from an extremely angry fence. He was more than a little put out that the supposed emeralds he’d bought were merely magically enhanced green bottle glass. Ciel hoped he would take the whole thing as a reminder to be more thorough in the examination of merchandise, but rather than simply accept the life lesson the situation presented, he decided he needed to retrieve his money, and a pound of flesh—per emerald—from the woman who had cheated him. He was so worked up, in fact, that he brought some of his acquaintances to help him collect.

Ciel had led them on a merry chase across Chef Menteur Highway (since she was not crazy enough to brave the traffic- and pothole-strewn nightmare that was the I-10 when her life depended on it), and she was riding on a long stretch through the bayou when she realized her vehicle was failing while the ones behind her were gaining, and if she did not change her plans quickly, she would be caught. So she turned her sputtering scooter off the road, bumping over grass for about a hundred yards as the ground became wetter and wetter, finally leaping off as its front wheel hit the water, flying clear and attempting to dive into the muck. The water was only a half-meter deep here, though, so her dive became more of a scrape along the bottom and scramble forward. Her hands and knees stung as she crawled, but she ignored the pain. She made her way toward thicker growth as bullets flew around her, then went under water once she was out of sight, hoping to make a direction change they didn’t expect.

The thing that stayed with her the most after five years was the smell. It was moss, decomposing vegetation, old motor oil, sulfur, and multiple kinds of dead animals. Plants from the top of the water stuck to her face like stringy sponges, and the liquid dripping from them was thick and almost gelatinous, making the smell stick in her nostrils. She was focused on running, on moving and getting away, but the odor forced its way into her attention. It was insistent, unignorable, and as vile as anything Ciel had encountered in her life. The water stuck to her when she broke the surface, clinging to every fold in her clothes and skin. She was already breathing heavy with the effort of fleeing, and with each inhalation the odor hit her again, and her lungs seized up. It made the continued exertion of escape quite difficult.

She summoned a spirit when she had half a second to catch her breath, sending it away from her to splash and crash in the water and draw as much attention as possible. An invisibility spell and a silence spell then helped her avoid notice even more, until at one point she realized that it had been more than half an hour since she had seen any trace of pursuit. She had probably lost them.

Unfortunately, as she looked around, Ciel realized she had also lost herself.

She was wading through some tall grass growing up through the murky water next to an old, rotten boardwalk. She was more exposed than she’d like to be, but it was dark and she would be hard to see. Ahead was a line of trees that was even darker, so she headed toward it, even though it could very well make her more lost.

The copse of trees was accompanied by the occasional stretch of non-submerged ground, which Ciel found refreshing. She stepped carefully, always listening for sounds of her pursuers, but only heard the echoing call of loons and the barking cry of hungry pelicans. She walked slowly, only able to see five or ten meters ahead, ready to jump back if moving around a tree or bush revealed a hired goon or sleeping alligator or something else that would be pleased to see her dead.

She thought she was walking north, and tried to keep heading in that direction so she would hit the shores of Lake Pontchartrain, which would give her somewhere to go. She walked over some dry ground, through some mud, then ankle-deep water, always surrounded by trees while Spanish moss occasionally gently brushed her cheek.

Then, as she walked by one particularly thick tree, the noises of the birds suddenly dropped away while a faint glow appeared no more than fifteen meters from her.

She dropped to the ground immediately, but the ground was actually ten-centimeter-deep water, so she landed with a loud splash that would have alerted someone a kilometer away, let alone fifteen meters. But still she lay there, hoping maybe she would be hidden from whatever was glowing. She waited to hear footsteps approach, or something swimming in her direction, or even a voice calling to her. She did not, however, expect the sad tones that eventually reached her ears.

“I’m not going to hurt you,” the lugubrious voice said. “I’m already dead.”

That’s how she met the ghost of Louis St. Cyr.

He was sitting there, dripping wet in his lumpy brown suit, staring at a body lying in the water that looked just like him. He was understandably downcast.

“Hello,” he said when Ciel cautiously came into view. “I think someone killed me.”

She glanced down at the body and then back at the spirit. “Yeah, you don’t look so good.”

There was no sound for a moment besides a slow drip.

“Any idea what happened to you?”

St. Cyr shook his head. “I was at work, last thing I remember. Then I was here, looking at myself.”

“Is this a place you like to go to?”

“No. I don’t even know where I am.”

He sounded so small, so sad, so pathetic, that Ciel said the words she’d subsequently regretted for the past five years. “Don’t worry,” she said. “I’ll help you.”

What had started as innocuous comfort turned into helping him find his way out of the bayou, and then turned to finding out what had happened to him the night he had died. Which had become five years of irregular effort.

They had put a lot together in that time, but none of it had gone anywhere. They had reviewed everyone he talked to that day: his neighbor Julia; Sylvie, the waitress at the café where he had lunch; Boudin, the beggar he spoke to and shared his lunch with sometimes; Gregor, Susanna, and Bloch, his co-workers; and his boss, Barry Cluff.

Barry had received special scrutiny once they uncovered the fact that the company where Louis had worked was serving as a money-laundering front for the Mafia. Louis had become convinced that he’d somehow discovered too much about the company (though without knowing he had known too much), and the higher-ups had rubbed him out for it. When presenting this theory, Louis said “rubbed me out” with a particular twist to his lips that was the closest he ever came to glee. But they’d dug and dug, and had even managed to question Cluff with an assist from an analyze truth spell, and had gotten nowhere. To Louis’ dismay, it seemed like his bosses were barely aware of his existence, let alone suspicious that he had maybe stumbled on some information he wasn’t supposed to know.

They’d reviewed the coroner’s report, with its conclusion that Louis’ last inhaled breath had been pure bayou water, and tried to find someone, anyone, who Louis knew who might have been in the bayou that night. Everyone generally had their whereabouts accounted for, or at least no one had a gap large enough to make a trip to the bayou. That was a dead end they kept running into, with person after person after person.

But what Ciel had seen in the cellar might have changed everything. Astrally, it was the bayou. To a T. Somehow, someone had a bunch of plants whose aura read like a carbon copy of Bayou Sauvage. And if it looked like it on the astral…

When she returned to her body, Stengel was gone. Of course he was. She’d heard there were teams where everyone had each others’ backs and watched out for each other, but she hadn’t found one yet. She just kept working with mercenary after mercenary, people looking out for their own skin and paycheck. Her body was still functioning as it should, though, so she was able to get home without a problem.

When she told Louis what she had encountered, she got to see a rare sight: him looking excited. He didn’t look excited in any conventional way. He didn’t smile, or start bouncing up and down, or anything like that. Instead he wiped his brow a lot. Usually he just let the water streaming out from under his hat wash over his forehead, but when he thought maybe something good was going to happen, he wiped it away more frequently, even though it was immaterial and likely had no real effect on his vision. He started wiping at her place, and kept it up the whole trip to Broadmoor. Because of course once she told him about it, they had to go, walking across town as the sun came up.

He was so anxious that he wanted to go astrally, since it would be quicker, but Ciel was not about to leave her body sitting unwatched in her shed. Gangs, thieves, and scavengers roamed the abandoned development all the time, and she had no desire to think about what they might do if they found her soulless body just sitting around. It was slower, but walking would have to do.

She thought about calling Stengel or Flintlock or someone for backup, but decided against it. They’d left her high and dry too many times, and she wasn’t anxious to give them another opportunity to let her down.

They approached the house, and Ciel stopped when they were three houses away.

“Stay here,” she said. “Duck behind a corner or something. I don’t want someone astrally perceiving you or anything.”

Louis nodded sadly, moved behind a corner, and faded out of sight. Ciel walked the rest of the way to the house and thought about an entry plan.

There were no visible lights on in front of or in the house, but she knocked in the door anyway. She stood for a couple of minutes, didn’t hear anyone approaching, then knocked again. She looked around idly at the old houses full of people who were not in the mood to venture into the steamy air, then back at the front door. She wondered what she would do if the toxic spirit she had seen came out to play. Then she shrugged and stepped away.

That was when the door opened.

The man who opened it was short even for a dwarf. He was bald, had a curly black beard, and an eyepatch. Of all things. Probably hiding a camera, or a commlink, or a bomb. Or just for color. Thugs in this town couldn’t just be thugs; they had to be colorful. She’d found it fun the first two years she’d been on the street, and annoying every year after. It looked like the guy’s face would scowl really well, but right now his expression was blank.

“What?” he said.

A quick assensing of him showed no magical ability, which was good, because it gave her more options. She lowered her voice and slurred her words a little when she spoke.

“Yeah, Bertram be here?”

“Who?”

“Bertram. Bertram! He home or what?”

“There’s no one named…”

A voice, deep and growling, emerged from somewhere within the house. “Who’s at the door?”

The dwarf’s eyes went wide. “Who is that?”

Ciel stepped inside as the dwarf turned. “Bertram? Bertram, is that you?”

“Shelly?” the voice said. “That you? What you doing here?”

“Tracking down your sorry ass, that’s what I’m doing. You ’n me, we got some business to address.”

The dwarf was turning his head back and forth now. “Who the hell you talking to? Ain’t nobody down there!”

“Then get in in here and talk!” the voice said. 

Ciel took a few more steps inside. “That’s Bertram in there, is who it is. Stop trying to cover for him. We got to talk, clear some things up.”

The dwarf grabbed her arm. “You can’t come in! There ain’t no Bertram here!”

Ciel yanked her arm free. “Then why he talkin’ to me? Sit your hoop down and stay out of it.”

“I’m waitin’!” the voice ahead roared.

“I’m comin’,” Ciel responded, and charged ahead.

She had no idea where the basement entrance would be, and her first guess was wrong. She went into what might have been a living room, except it was empty of any furniture, and threw open a door. It was a closet.

“Damn it Bertram, where you hidin’?”

The voice came from an indeterminate spot. “Down here, waiting for you.”

Ciel whirled on the dwarf. “Where’s the damn basement?”

“I ain’t telling you shit.”

He didn’t have to. She plucked the thought right off the top of his brain.

“Wait, I hear him. Movin’ around like a ox.”

She went back to the kitchen, flung open a wooden door with patchy white paint, saw a staircase down, and smelled moss. Jackpot.

“You wanna hide down there? Fine. Here I come.” She stormed down to get a look around. The dwarf was not far behind, looking frantically for Bertram.

Bertram, of course, did not exist. The audio illusion had served its purpose, so Ciel let it go. Then she took a look at what she had found.

It wasn’t really a basement, in the proper sense. Dig beyond the top layer of soil in New Orleans and you hit water, so no one has a fully dug out basement. Instead, the house was built on short stilts, allowing an area underneath the main floor that only barely scraped into the ground but still could stay cool and be used for storage or whatever. In this case, it could be used for a small swamp.

It was astonishing. The smell was dead-on accurate. Water splashed as frogs jumped. Flies and mosquitoes buzzed around, and overhead rows of grow lights simulated the sun. Grass crept up, Spanish moss fell down, making a perfect five-hundred-square-foot section of bayou. And like the real bayou, something was wrong at its heart. A black film covered the surface of the water. Plants had all manner of spikes and thorns, their stems twisted and bent at odd angles, and tumorous growths swelled where they met the black film. It was polluted with something that went beyond industrial chemicals.

She would have stared at it more, but she was distracted by what she saw sitting on a fallen log at the bottom of the staircase. A figure in a brown suit, soaking wet, with a sad expression on his face.

Louis.

“Well, well, well, what have we got here,” Louis said. There was a tone in his voice she had never heard before, jaunty and confident. His face still looked mournful, but his voice didn’t carry the same weight.

“’Spect you feel right clever with your little trick fooling Beauchamp up there,” he continued. “But I seen two-bit magicians at a five-year-old’s birthday party that could fool him. So you down here now, you found this. Question is, what you going to do with it?”

“No, the question is what the hell are you doing here? I told you to stay out of sight!”

“I don’t recall ever having received any instructions from the likes of you,” Louis said.

 “Don’t recall? I said it to you right outside!”

“Mmm hmmm. Well girl, truth be told, first time I ever set eye on you was when you come through that door there. So whoever you told to stay in place wasn’t me.”

That was when she mentally kicked herself. Here she was fooling around with illusions, but then plunging ahead and taking what her eyes told her at face value. She assensed the figure in front of her and immediately saw the difference. Like Louis, this was a spirit, but with a whole different emotional imprint and magical profile. A more powerful magical profile, if she didn’t miss her guess. Not the toxic spirit she had seen last night, but maybe one who could give that spirit orders.

“Well then, I apologize. I must have confused you for someone else.”

But it was too late. The spirit was no dummy. He stood with a wet squelch.

“You must have,” he said, walking closer and peering intently. “And it was probably someone who looked just like me, true that? You been seein’ and talkin’ to some other damp ghosts, haven’t you? And now you here. I think that’s interesting. Really interesting.”

“So you just sit down in this swamp, waiting for someone to talk to?”

“No, girl, let’s keep talking about you. You came here lookin’. What you expectin’ to find?”

Tell the truth, but tell it slant. Always wise words to live by.

“I was in the neighborhood last night. Saw a spirit that drained some poor sumbitch to death. That you?”

“You saw a spirit and followed it back here? Intrepid gal. But you know that spirit—who was not me, since you asked—had some bad juju dancin’ through it. Why would you want to track it down? Someone payin’ you to look?”

“You know I can’t give up information like that just because you ask.”

“You sayin’ you want me to force it out of you?”

“Just stating facts.”

The spirit nodded. “All right. You got information. Got a next move?”

Get the hell out would have been the correct answer, but Ciel didn’t figure the spirit would allow that. And she didn’t want to show a hint of sweat. Which was awfully damn hard in a place without A/C.

Behind her, she heard movement. More than one person. The dwarf had found reinforcements. Bad to worse.

Ciel focused, forcing calm on herself. She stood casually, right hip stuck out, comfortable and poised. Her voice came out languid. “Well, you’ve got a nice old swamp here. Thought maybe I’d stay a while, get comfortable, look around, and…”

Three things happened in quick succession. Ciel made a quick lunge ahead. Then she disappeared. Then there was a loud splash in the water.

The dwarf Beauchamp, with a human and an ork on his heels, stopped at the top of the stairs. “She jumped in the water!” Beauchamp cried.

“Did no such thing,” the spirit who looked like Louis. “Gone invisible and sent some splash in the water to be a decoy.”

“So where is she?”

The spirit’s materialized eyeballs didn’t move, but he was still intently looking around. “Hidin’. Doin’ a pretty good job of it here, with all the astral noise of our little swamp. But only way out for her body is that doorway. You and your chrome zombies keep it guarded, she won’t get nowhere.”

Ciel, who was currently clinging to the wall about a meter and a half from the stairway, knew he was right. She had a decent plan, but it required some bluffing from Louis, which was not his forte. As long as she had known him, Louis had been capable of being Louis, and nothing else. He was more himself than anyone she had ever known. But with four hostiles and no good way out, she had to take a chance. There was no way she wanted to wait until the toxic spirit she had seen last night showed up.

She sent a message to Louis with instructions, then stayed on the wall and hoped he would pull it all off.

She waited for about five minutes before the spirit moved and looked to its right.

“Someone’s tryin’ to get in,” he said.

“Who?” Beauchamp asked. 

The spirit shot him an annoyed look and said nothing. Instead, he focused on the wall opposite the staircase. Green energy, the color of rotten collard greens, gathered around his hands.

Ciel followed the spirit’s gaze and saw a pair of translucent hands push their way through the wall (and invisible mana barrier), followed by arms, a torso, and Louis’ face, which stayed glum throughout the effort. The appearance of the spirit looking exactly like the other one was enough to keep the doppelgänger from unleashing his power, while Beauchamp quickly made it known how he felt about the whole thing.

“What the hell!” he yelled. “Why are there two of you?”

“It don’t matter,” the spirit growled. “We’ll be back to one soon enough.” The rotten green color around his hands deepened.

Louis looked deeply offended by the gathering power. “What’s that for?” he said. “I just got a message, is all.”

“I don’t recognize you,” the spirit said.

“You don’t? He looks just like you!”

The spirit focused a sneer on Beauchamp that could freeze a basilisk in its tracks. “You don’t recognize a spirit by its face, idiot. I’m talking about his aura.”

Louis shrugged. “Not my fault you have a bad memory for auras.”

The spirit turned back to him. “I don’t.”

“I have a message for you is all I know. You can have it or not. I don’t care.”

“Why would you need to deliver a message? I have a direct line to Lavoisier! He can tell me whatever he wants.”

A name. Ciel had a name. That and the address of this place should be enough to get her somewhere. Time to go. She didn’t want to risk sending a message to Louis that might get any other spirit’s attention. So she made a certain type of katydid chirp, a sound that would blend into the bayou, but would alert Louis.

And so it did. As soon as she made it, Louis shrugged. “Suit yourself. I’ll just leave, then.”

The poisonous green deepened again around the spirit’s hands. “Or I’ll send you away.”

“Fine, fine, I’ll blow.” Louis’ form blurred as he transformed into a rushing wind that hit Beauchamp and his friend with a solid wallop, staggering the dwarf into the ork’s legs, sending them both to the floor.

Ciel had started moving as soon as Louis said the word “blow.” She skittered across the wall to the ceiling, then over to the doorway. With no one on their feet there, it was a simple matter to scramble over them. She stayed on the ceiling until she was at the front door, dropped to the floor, opened the door, and ran out. She was still invisible, but the dust kicked up by her running feet wasn’t.

She kept looking behind her to see if the basement bayou spirit was giving chase, but she saw no sign of it. His assignment was to guard the bayou; having driven off the intruder, he apparently felt he had done all he needed to do. And the toxic spirit that hadn’t been seen yet this morning was staying out of sight, and Ciel was happy to leave it that way.

She finally slowed down after a couple kilometers, and saw Louis drifting toward her. He was never far away.

“Good work there,” she said. “I appreciate your help in getting out.”

Louis nodded and maybe smiled a little. “I gotta help the team, right?”

Ciel smiled back. “And the good news is, we’ve got something to go on, thanks to you. Let’s find out who this Lavoisier is.”

Forty-five minutes of Matrix searches, two called-in favors, a discussion with a local spirit, some examination of local auras, and a brief neighborhood canvass directed her to a character described as “grungy-looking” who apparently was regularly seen near where 610 passed over the London Avenue Canal. Ciel was rather worried about how quickly Louis became excited by this news (though excitement in Louis simply meant his chin didn’t sink to his chest quite as often).

“That’s not far from where I worked,” he said. “I think that’s a good sign.”

“Maybe. I don’t know what any of this means.”

“Then let’s go. Let’s go find out. Maybe we finally found something.”

“Yeah, what we found is someone who keeps a polluted swamp in a basement and hangs out near a disgusting stretch of water with a toxic spirit. Meaning he’s probably a toxic. He’s gonna suck.”

“So do I,” Louis said, in what was either a joke or an attempt to sound tough. Ciel decided not to laugh, just in case.

They headed out immediately. Ciel thought about putting on an armored vest, but adding extra layers in this humidity was not something she enjoyed. Plus her vest had taken too many shots to remain fully reliable. She’d wear a tank top and rely on magic, as usual.

They made it to the waterway by mid-afternoon. There was a patch of brown grass leading up to a crumbling wall a meter above the water line. Ciel imagined she could hear the still brown water hissing and seething, but in reality all it did was sit. Animals of some sort must have been using the area as a toilet, because it quite literally smelled like shit. Ciel couldn’t imagine how anyone could stand to spend time there, but there he was, sitting at the side of the canal, dangling his feet over the edge like a kid in summer sitting on a stream bank. Even though his feet came nowhere near the water. He was ragged, grey, and had a penchant for staring at nothing. His clothing looked like it was patched together from the remains of soiled rags.

The man turned to look at something tentacled reaching out of the canal, and Louis saw his face. His immaterial fingers drifted through Ciel’s arms like a gust of cold, clammy wind as he reflexively grabbed at her.

“I know him,” Louis said. “Remember him? You talked to him once. That’s Boudin.”

It took ten seconds for the name to register. “The beggar,” she finally said. “The one you gave food to sometimes. That’s him?”

“That’s him.”

“So he’s already seen me once.” She scowled. “It was a while ago, but I don’t want him getting defensive. I wonder if…”

“Let me talk to him.”

Ciel stared. “You want to take the lead in talking to someone?”

“I’ve watched you enough. I’m ready. And I think we’re close. I want to do this.”

“You understand he’s magic, right? And may be able to banish your ass.”

Louis actually looked her right in the face. It would have been disconcerting even if his eyes had any hint of color. “I can do this.”

“Okay. I’ll back you up. Be careful.”

He nodded, then fully materialized and trudged forward.

Ciel didn’t know what kind of approach Louis had planned, and she didn’t get to find out, because the ragged man spoke first as Louis slogged closer.

“What are you doing out here?”

Louis managed to not look taken aback, partly because his expression never changed much. “I came to talk to you.”

“You have two of the others, two more, watching the swamp, right? No more intruders, we can’t let them through, no no no.”

“Of course,” Louis said, and to Ciel he sounded casual and convincing.

“Good, good, that’s good. So you want to talk, right? Talk to me? So you can talk now, go ahead and talk.”

Ciel took a breath and held it. Now Louis would have to bluff. She hoped he had something planned. 

As it turned out, he hadn’t planned any sort of bluff at all.

“Did you kill me?”

The ragged man turned his head and looked at Louis. His eyes were near-dead cinders with the barest spark of green fire far in the back. The rest of his face looked like a tumor growing from a tree branch, off-color and twisted.

“Of course I didn’t. You’re here, aren’t you? You live, in your way.”

“The real me, I mean. The physical me.”

Lavoisier stood and slowly approached Louis, dragging a seemingly limp right foot behind him as he pulled himself on his left. He stopped half a meter away and stared, seemingly fascinated. Louis, no slouch at blank expressions, stared right back. In her hidden position, Ciel started to become uncomfortable for both of them.

Finally Lavoisier spoke. “I think, I really think, you might be the pinnacle creation of my lifetime, the best, really the best. Accidental genius, of a sort.”

Ciel tried hard for several seconds, but she could not make sense of what Lavoisier had just said.

Lavoisier removed the need for Louis to come up with some sort of reply by speaking again. “I think we need to talk about this more, here, now, because I think you want to know, and I am suddenly very curious myself to understand what happened and what you are now and how you got to be that way, but I think I will feel better if I have some of my friends here for the discussion.”

Then, just like that, there were five copies of Louis surrounding them. Five dripping wet, be-suited spirits, five round faces, though they wore cynical smirks of a sort Ciel had never seen on the Louis she knew. Her Louis looked around, back and forth, looking puzzled and, as always, a little sad.

One of the spirits spoke. “Them’s the ones who came into the bayou. They awful curious, looks like.”

Lavoisier nodded. “Yes, yes, they are, but that’s fine, so am I. Let’s ask questions, get a few things sorted out. I want both of you to answer, my friend over there and your friend who seems to think he’s dead. Both of you answer now. First question: What’s your name?”

“Louis,” said Louis.

“Can call me Murkon, you know that,” the lookalike responded.

“Good, good,” Lavoisier said. “What was the name of your oldest sister?”

“Bernie. That’s short for Bernadette,” Louis said, while the other spirit just snorted.

“I ain’t no flesh thing with brothers and sisters and shit.”

Ciel stood still, but she knew she had to use whatever time Lavoisier gave her well. She assensed the spirits, assensed Lavoisier, watched for any sign of spells being cast, and thought about the exact right spell to cast something of her own that might discombobulate the whole lot of them. Or might keep her alive for a few precious seconds.

“And the address of the house you lived in when you were eight?”

“1514 Eisenhower Avenue in Metairie.”

“I don’t care much about how many times this rock goes around that big ball of gas out there, and I certainly didn’t measure time by it when I was young. Whenever that was.”

Lavoisier nodded, clearly pleased by the answers he was getting. “And your second grade teacher and school?”

“Mr. Presley, Patrick Goodman Elementary.”

The other Louis simply glared, clearly tired of this line of questioning.

“That’s great, great, great, really and truly. You’ve learned all of this, internalized it so well. Everything you might find in a data file somewhere, you learned and told yourself you know it because it was your life. But now let’s do a hard one, much trickier here, and see what you come up with. When you lived at that house on Eisenhower—what did you do on Saturday afternoon?”

Louis and all the copies stared blankly at him.

“Come on, come on, come on,” Lavoisier said, becoming more animated, his brow knitting in focus or anger or passion or some combination of those things. “Every kid, every place, ever, no matter how shitty their surroundings, had those days when they could do whatever they wanted and they looked forward to them, and then remembered them all their life. You had those days. What did you do with them?”

Louis’ mouth moved a little bit, but no sound came out.

“Of course, of course, of course you can’t answer, because you have no memories of those times, because those memories are not yours to have. You are not Louis St. Cyr, you never were. Any more than that one, or that one, or the other one was.” He pointed to the other versions of Louis as he spoke. “You are not a ghost. You are a confused spirit, a being I summoned to be my eyes, to watch him for me, because he gave me things and kept giving me things and that made me suspicious. I made you look like him so I could remember why I summoned you, and when I had more to summon for this task I made them look the same because that’s a good way, a very good way, to organize things, to help me remember the job the spirits I call should be doing. So you watched this person, watched his life, then he died, and when you saw he was dead, something happened to you. You let it shape your brain, or whatever it is that passes for a spirit’s brain, and you took on the identity of the shape I gave you. You even found the facts you needed to help you believe you were really him. I didn’t mean it to happen, but it did, and it’s fascinating, isn’t it? You could be studied, looked over by many leading astral scholars. If I wasn’t about to disrupt you.”

Ciel figured that was as good a time as any to speak. She emerged from hiding, took s few steps toward the gathering, and said a simple word.

“Louis?”

Louis looked at her but didn’t say anything.

“You’re not really Louis?”

“You can’t have believed that!” Lavoisier snapped, sounding genuinely angry for some reason. “You’ve summoned spirits, you’ve talked with them, you know what they are. They are not human! They are not beings imprisoned in rotting flesh, feeding on dead matter! They are not and never were, and you know this, and you should not have been fooled!”

Ciel waved a hand toward Lavoisier without looking at him. “You are saying a lot of things and I can’t pay attention to you! I’m talking to Louis!”

“That’s not Louis!” Lavoisier thundered. “He is a spirit I summoned, one to help me get information and remember what I got, so I could find out if people were hunting me down! And they were, and I stopped him, which means I stopped them. I had tools I used to find him out, tools I used to hide him, and they are my tools. This one, your friend, he ran away and tried to make himself a person, but he is mine.”

“I’ve been with him every day for more than five years. If he’s yours, you haven’t been looking for him lately.”

“Do you have any idea, any idea at all what it is to be me? Do you?” Lavoisier was so caught up in his words that he apparently hadn’t bothered to wonder who Ciel was or where she had come from. As he spoke his arms flapped like a scarecrow caught in a tornado. “I live in this city, this sprawl, that is so close, so close to ending this vicious battle between predator and prey, eater and eaten, and have everything settle into a sludge that will finally bring the blackness that will end everything, but there are people around, people like you, trying to goddamn fix things, to stop the inevitable, when it is just time for it to come already, for it all to end! I work, I work, I work to end the struggle, and there are people hunting me down, organizations paying more money than I’ve ever seen at one time, and this man, this evil man who acts like he is my friend, who buys me food, he is getting the money! Half down up front to bring them my head! That’s what I found out, because I watched carefully, through the copies I made, I watched him work! I found out, and I ended him, and I kept the copies, and made a few more so I could remember what treachery is! And most of them were good servants, they watched my things, but this one, this copy, thinks it’s an original!”

Suddenly Louis looked up. “Oh my God. The Draco Foundation. Half a million nuyen.”

Lavoisier stared at Louis with gruesomely wide eyes, his finger pointed at him and shaking. “You know about it! You know I was hunted!”

And then it was time. Ciel had made her plan, gathered her strength, and waited. This was now the moment.

It started with a simple spell directed just below Lavoisier’s feet. A spell that would cleanse the land beneath of toxins and pollutants, leaving clean, fresh dirt behind. And, given the surroundings, concrete and asphalt.

Lavoisier’s reaction was instant. He danced around like he was standing on hot coals, moving back toward the sludgy canal. He screamed, a hollow, hoarse sound like the caw of a wounded crow. Mana flowed through him in stunning speed, pouring out of his fingertips and transforming into a stream of foul green liquid. But Ciel was ready. The acid steamed away before it reached her, and she already had a spell going back at him. Nothing subtle, a firm wallop to the head that would hopefully knock him senseless. She could see the impact it had on him as he staggered to his right, but since sense had abandoned him long ago the blow seemed to have no other effect besides the brief physical pain.

Worried about when the lackey spirits would dive into the melee, she risked a quick glance in their direction. To her surprise, it looked like Louis had them stymied, trapped behind a mana barrier. All the time they’d spent studying that spell had been worth something.

The glance cost her as Lavoisier made a quick move. His finger was still pointed at her, then he squeezed it, and something flew out from his wrist. Several somethings, flechettes fired from a bracer on his arm. Ciel dropped, but she couldn’t move faster than the projectiles. They peppered her right shoulder and arm, and she had no doubt they were covered in something foul, because that’s how toxics rolled.

She hit the ground and rolled, casting a spell on herself as she did, so suddenly her rolls became faster. Just in time, too, as another burst of flechettes hit the ground just behind her. She got her hands on the ground, pushed up, then sprang at Lavoisier, who hadn’t adapted to her speed yet. He also hadn’t noticed she’d moved a blade from her waist to her hand.

She slashed, Lavoisier squealed, and blood drops filled the air. Lavoisier looked at his hands, saw blood on them, and tried to figure out where it was coming from. Ciel couldn’t tell either, but she didn’t care. She sent another astral blow at him, and he doubled over and stumbled backward.

He looked up resentfully, bared his teeth in a feral growl, then took more steps backward in an awkward, staggering run. His heels hit the concrete ridge of the canal, and as he tripped, his legs pushed. He did a combination fall/jump into the horror that was the water of the canal. It boiled and sizzled as he entered, and he didn’t come up.

Either the pollution of the canal had claimed Lavoisier, or had replenished him so he could make his getaway. Either way, he was gone, which was all that mattered. Ciel took a deep breath.

When she turned, she was facing a congress of Louis. A half-dozen of them, all staring at her. She could pick out her Louis easily—he was the only one who looked at her with any trace of affection, plus he was the closest to her. He had dropped his barriers, and the others were standing a little farther away, looking at her with a variety of expressions, including curiosity, disdain, and impatience. But nothing friendly.

Louis, her Louis, finally broke the silence. “It was a large transfer, half a million nuyen, listed as being from the Draco Foundation. It probably wasn’t—it was just one of the shell games the company played. Lavoisier said he was watching me. That means he saw it. I guess he got spooked, thinking it was an advance on a bounty for people like him. The one-million-nuyen bounty the Draco Foundation pays for toxic mages. So he took care of me. Maybe he thought I had ratted him out. I don’t know.” He shrugged. “And it all started because I felt bad for him and gave him food. Dumb way to die.”

“Yeah, there’s a lot of that going around.” She looked at the conclave of spirits. “So what do you all do next? Revenge?”

The second Louis from the right spoke. He sounded like the one they had met in the basement, but there was no way to be sure. “Naw. You know about spirits and summoners. Not always the kind of relationship that breeds loyalty, naw?”

“So if you’re not bound to him any more, that mean the canal finished him off?”

The spirit’s eyes grew unfocused. “Tough to say. He’s pretty out of it, but he’s in his element. He might could find a way to pull it together. But he’s out of it enough—and between you and me, crazy enough—that this is probably a good time to move on.”

“What now, then?”

“We move on.” The spirit bobbed his head toward Louis. “You should move on, too.”

“I should?”

“Yeah, yeah. You did good. Got the girl here to look out for you, played the role of the sad dead guy and all. But it’s over now. You don’t have to hide. Go on out of here.”

Louis looked at the spirit, then at Ciel, then at the spirit. “I don’t really have anywhere to go.”

The spirit rolled its spectral eyes. “Lord. Look, girl, you should tell him to go. You know he been using you, right? He ain’t never really been Louis. Never been a living human. He played a game and played it well. But he’s just like us. A spirit, not from around here, you ken?”

Ciel looked at Louis. “Is that true? Has this all been a game? A dodge, to hide from Lavoisier?”

“No! I’m what I am, what I always told you I was.” He gave her the pleading look she knew so well. “You know how bad I am at bluffing. You think I could keep a bluff up for five years?”

“C’mon, girl, don’t be a sucker all your life,” the other Louis said. “You see the rest of us here. You heard what Laviosier said. You know where he come from. You know what he is. Let him go home.”

Ciel tapped a hand on her leg. “In five years, I’ve worked with eight different teams. Had three different romantic partners.”

“Three?” the spirit said.

“The life don’t leave much time for socializing. Point is, I’ve seen a lot of people come and go. Louis, though, has been there the whole time.” She turned to Louis. “Like always, you can go where you want, do what you want. You want to stay with me and be Louis, you can be Louis.”

Louis lifted his eyes, unfurled his brow a little, and pulled back the creases in the corners of his mouth in a way Ciel had learned to recognize as a smile.

She could have cast a spell on him, of course, but it would only tell if he thought he was telling the truth, not what the actual truth was. She was pretty sure Louis believed what he was saying—and if he didn’t, she wasn’t convinced she needed to know.

They would go home, she would put together what food she could, and she would break out one of the bottles of beer she kept for celebrations. She’d let Louis talk about his life, mourn his death, and then figure out how to move on. She would sleep, he would do whatever he did when he slept, and when she woke up, for the first time in more than five years, they would do something different.

Social Engineering

By Malik Toms

He meant to keep going, past the squat brown office building that swallowed his days. It would be easy to run. Cabs trickled like blood down the fat vein of Chowringhee Road. Somewhere far down that LED-blasted highway, Rabindra Sarovar Metro Station sat on the lip of an artificial lake. From there, Basu Acharya could’ve boarded a train to Madurai, gotten lost in an ocean of similar brown faces, maybe carve out a small life for himself cobbling together black market nanotech. Instead, he hunched his shoulders and leaned into the warm afternoon downpour, willing his feet to turn toward the lane that led up to the building.

Ahead of him, seven SUVs flanked the entrance to Radhi Technological Solutions. At the end of the row sat a rusting Kolkata police car, its lights flashing. Basu’s breath quickened at the sight. He thought about the last time he’d seen his wife, and again he thought to turn away, but something held him back—his La Martinière education, the redundant social engineering of graduate, then postgraduate school—or perhaps even something more primal. 

On he went through the entrance, shaking the rain from his overcoat, running calloused fingers through his thinning hair. Flashing a dull smile at the front desk clerk, he headed to the work floor.

Basu’s youngest daughter liked to joke that Radhi Tech didn’t actually make anything. Basu would smile and pull her in close and say, “No, we make everything work.” 

Radhi Tech dealt in parts; everything from nanotech to warship turbines. The work floor was a labyrinth of cubicles surrounding the towering macroforge in the center of the room. Basu’s team held the cubicle patch closest to the macroforge. It’d taken him three years to be named head of team, and another six before his group of engineers earned the prime space. 

It was only when the first drops of water glanced off Basu’s head that he noticed something was terribly wrong on the work floor. Rainwater trickled in from a badly patched hole in the ceiling where a skylight once brightened the dreary afternoons. The hole, invisible from the street, was directly over the macroforge. 

Except the macroforge wasn’t there. 

A black void had replaced it in the middle of the work floor. Basu’s feet crunched over black gravel, most likely the remains of the great machine. He crossed his arms, cocked his head and stared. With all that was going on in his life, Basu wasn’t surprised that he hadn’t noticed the machine’s absence. What did surprise him, however, was that could not remember what it looked like. The thing had been a fixture moored in this bottleneck of cubicles. Someone foreign had named it Daedalus. The name stuck. Cups and t-shirts followed. Eventually the name was etched on the side of the machine. Now bits of the broken ‘D’ from the outer frame lay on the ground near his feet. Basu was so focused on the arc of the ‘D’ splayed out in front of him like a bow that he didn’t hear the blond-haired man walk up beside him. 

“They said there was a break in.” The man’s name was Daniel Shay. Daniel was from New York or Chicago—somewhere in the UCAS where they still did not value India so much. He gathered Daniel had been exiled here by Radhi’s parent company, for what Basu did not know. Regardless, Daniel was an expert technician and very loyal; basically Basu’s right hand. “They came in through the ceiling and slagged our forge, man.”

“There was a robbery?”

“I don’t know, man. Nobody reported anything missing yet, but why melt down the forge? To stop production?” Daniel said.

“Perhaps.” Basu was only half-listening now, for he heard something that vaguely sounded like his name whispered. He put a finger to his earlobe to turn up the gain on his amplified hearing. Nearby, co-workers were talking to the security officers, foot soldiers of the corporation, and somewhere in that jumble of sound the security chief was speaking fast and in a hushed tone. Basu’s ear technology was rudimentary. He couldn’t filter out the conversation through the ambient noise nor— 

“—don’t you think?” Daniel’s voice made him jerk his head back. Basu forced a smile, but it came out as a wince. He turned his hearing back down just in time to avoid being blasted again when his name was announced over the speaker system: he was wanted in security.

Radhi Tech’s security office overlooked the work floor. From here, Chief Waghdhare could see into nearly all of the cubicles. Basu was at once reminded of a grocery store setup. Leaning against the wall behind the chief was a thin police officer. The officer scowled, as if put out to be bothered by this affair, though his anger seemed more directed at the chief than at Basu. This did nothing to quell Basu’s creeping fear.

Chief Waghdhare’s eyes focused and unfocused again quickly, the way a camera does when trying to judge distance. Basu knew then he was being recorded, his face and words beamed to the central security datastore, where a copy would be inserted in his file—a black smear on his professional record. He couldn’t imagine where it would go after that. Basu began to sweat.

“There has been a breach,” the chief said. He seemed to be waiting Basu to do something, so he nodded.

“Before the intruders melted down our forge, they accessed local datastores. Our materials manifests and operational specs were affected. The specific target was our aerospace construction resources. This is your research area?” Again, the chief waited on an answer. Again, Basu nodded.

“Do you have any information that could help us with this case?”

Slowly and deliberately Basu said, “I do not.”

“In ten years I have only had one other breach, do you remember it?”

The Igarashi Engine breach. He nodded, letting the sweat roll down his face.

“This was only—” Chief Waghdhare swept his hand from left to right, triggering paperwork that could only exist in AR. “—two months after you began service with our organization. Your file indicates that you were not questioned as part of that investigation.”

Basu said, “I was new. I was not a part of the project that was affected.”

“Yes, but now you are part of this one.”

They stared at each other for a moment before Chief Waghdhare cracked the tension with a smile. “There is not much for you to do here today, Mr. Acharya. You should go home, rest, see your family. Try very hard to remember anything that could aid us in this investigation. Perhaps by the time you return tomorrow, you will remember some information that may be helpful.”

Basu left quickly.

He soon found himself on a train, pressed body to body with hundreds of other damp and soiled passengers. The cramped car stank of mildew. He sensed the eyes of the nearby passengers on him. In Kolkata, people who wore suits drove cars or were ferried by taxi or limo. There was a tension in the city, rising since the rain had continued into its second week. With no reason to believe the rain would stop, people were afraid of losing what little they owned to the waters pulsing through the city.

Basu did not share their fears. His position afforded him a home near Renraku’s protected Acampe Meadows enclave. His fears were much more immediate. The questioning at the office was too brief. Why was the policeman from the city there if this were strictly a company matter? Chief Waghdhare hinted at a lot, even threatened him, but never came out and accused Basu of a crime. Not this crime, at least. His hints about the break in when Basu first started with the corporation pointed to a deeper suspicion, however.

Basu’s heart hammered against his ribcage. He worried that Chief Waghdhare would send investigators to his home, and of what they would find there. He was afraid they were following him even now as the train headed out from the city center toward the poorer sections of Kolkata. Basu knew nothing about being followed. He’d seen it in vids on the trideo, so when he decided he was being followed, he did what he remembered from the shows.

The train came to a stop and a dozen passengers emptied out, replaced by two dozen more. Basu waited until the doors began to close, then leaped for the exit. He collided with a short woman trying to close her umbrella into her purse. The two of them toppled through the closing doors and into a heap on the platform. She screamed and clambered to her feet, trying to get back to the train. Too late, she banged uselessly against the doors as the train accelerated away.

Now she turned her rage toward him, howling and slammed her purse on his head again and again. Basu mumbled a quick apology, covering himself against her blows as he ran down the steps and into the street.

He walked the rest of the way to his destination. He had no other choice.

Trains don’t run to Little Chandigrah. The only way in is to walk or find a taxi willing to take you near the edge of the slum. Little Chandigrah belonged to the Dalit, the untouchables, those who fall outside a caste.

While the rest of the world viewed the caste system as a historical novelty, Indians knew how much it impacted their daily lives. You were hired, promoted, and fired based on your caste. In other countries the smarter, harder worker would get all the advancements, but in Indian society the Dalit would always be inferior, no matter how hard they worked. Many left India to try their luck in another land. Others hid their heritage behind falsified SINs and expensive education. Little Chandigrah was a memory from Basu’s youth, a heritage his parents had trained him to forget, but forgetting never lasts.

The walk into the slum was long and hot. Though the rain should’ve cooled him, each drop sizzled like a falling meteor. The muddy streets were empty. Basu jammed his hands deeper into the pockets of his coat, trying not to notice the safety boxes bent or ripped out of the ground. If someone attacked him, nobody in this area would call the police anyhow.

Finally he came to his destination, a bar Basu knew as the Black Hole. The translation to Bengali was less precise, but he’d been raised to speak English first so that he could think in the language of wealth. His mother thought it gave him a better chance to win a white-collar job. No white-collar types would ever find their way into this place.

The handful of patrons inside were street types, ragged and tired. Several wore sandals held together by wire, and they turned their heads up at the man in the soaking-wet suit.

A surprised look of recognition flashed across the bartender’s round face, and he bellowed, “Vogchod is not to be harmed. He is family here!”

“Why do you still call me that?” Basu said, crossing the bar and shaking hands with the younger man.

“Fool?” The bartender laughed with the gravelly crunch of a lifelong smoker, “Because only a fool thinks he can convince the world he is not what he is.”

Anger tinted Basu’s voice. “And that is what am I to you then? Besides Katari’s blood? Besides your elder?”

Another voice cut in from the far side of the room. “You are an uncle to him. The uncle that dresses poorly.”

The new voice belonged to an ork with scraggly tufts of beard jutting from his round face. Yellowed canines poked up from behind his gray lower lip. Katari laughed loudly and clapped Basu on the back. “Good to see you cousin. It has been too long.”

The two men retired to a small room behind the bar.  Shelves filled with empty bottles of beer and cleaning supplies lined the walls. Katari offered him a chair at the small round table in the center of the room.

“I used to work from this space,” he said. “When clients would come, I would lead them here, sit them against that wall so they felt cramped, so the cleaning tools would almost touch them. It made me powerful in my negotiations.”

He did not sit until Basu did, and then he said, “What do you want from me, cousin?”

Basu told him. He started with the theft, and then his fears of being followed, and his fears that the job was done by someone with ties to the shadows. He did not speak of his wife.

“Ahh, you think I was involved. I am only a businessman now. I have my bar and nothing else. I think you knew this.”

“I did hear this, but you know many people, and may know who did this and how they can be found. Cousin, my information was accessed. They may suspect me in this crime.”

Katari studied him “So, this is why you came to me. You are afraid you’ll be discovered. A Dalit skulking amongst all the pretty ties.”

Basu shrugged, hoping his face would not betray him, “This is a modern world now. It is illegal to persecute the untouchables simply for our heritage.”

“Yes, illegal. As is lying on your job application about your name, your heritage. You are afraid they will discover what you are. Will they blame you for this theft, cousin? Are you prepared to lose everything you turned your back on us to gain?”

“I am afraid they will discover what I helped you to do ten years ago. I worry they will find out how you earned enough to pay for this place.”

The hint of a snarl played at the corners of Katari’s mouth. He said, “Ten years ago, when you left a door unlocked one night so that my friends and I could sneak in and use your forge for a personal matter.”

“Not just a personal matter, Katari. I left the door unlocked and prepped the forge so that your shadowrunners could copy the Igarashi Engine prototype. So your people could steal from my company.”

“Be careful with your words, Basu. When you are discovered, you will only have your family to fall back on. I think you have learned by now that the corporation is not your family.”

Basu sighed, “I have thought about that for some time. But now I am truly afraid that the company will look into my—our—past, and learn things they shouldn’t because of a crime I had no hand in.”

Katari laughed. “Now you are Vish Puri? Or did they teach you Sherlock Holmes in your fancy schools? You are round like both of them, and you have bad hair like them, too. Perhaps you can solve mysteries half as well.”

“No, nothing like that, but I must at least try. I fear I have no taste for prison.”

Katari nodded, “Go back to your home, cousin. I will ask questions and I will contact you, but I cannot guarantee anything. Kolkata is a large city, and its shadows run long and deep.”

Basu left without another word. He trudged a mile through the mud and rain to the edge of Little Chandigrah where he flagged down a cab that took to back into the heart of the city.

Home was a coffin motel room jammed with a half empty suitcase and a week’s worth of dirty laundry. He wished he’d taken more when his wife threw him out. She hadn’t given him time to think about what he needed. There had been so much rage in her, in spite of what Basu felt was a small offense. He knew men who spent weeknights in the red light district burning away half their paycheck on prostitutes. Basu’s offense was nothing of the sort. They were just pictures, after all. Tasteful pictures of girls half the age of his daughters. Artistic pictures. When his wife found them, she had snatched a knife from the kitchen island and made wide arcing swipes as though she were warding off an army with her blade. Then she told him to never return, and he hadn’t—not for weeks now. He didn’t think he ever would.

Basu settled into bed and dreamed of what it would be like to start over.

He woke to sounds of rain and thunder. His back was sore from the lumpy bed, but his head was clear. Basu knew what he had to do. The answers would be at work.

Rain still fell in sheets over the city. Two weeks of this now, and the Hoogly River had turned the parks into oceans, side streets into tributaries. Pressed into the corner of a train, Basu listened to a man suggest that all of the oceans must have boiled into mist and been dumped atop Kolkata. Flood damage was already in the tens of billions, with no end in sight.

Radhi Tech seemed more somber than it had the day prior. Without Daedalus, all projects were at a standstill. Daniel met him at the door, and caught him up on yesterday’s events.

“Management sent the rest of us home after you left. This dude I know in security said Daedalus was activated during the break in. Whoever used it also used supplies from our resource bin. What no one can figure is how or why the machine was slagged afterwards.”

They walked to the cluster of desks nearest the void. Basu tried to appear casual, nodding as Daniel droned on. He stopped at Daniel’s cubicle peering inside. When the other man finally fell silent, Basu said, “I need to be sure our team is clear of any suspicion. I’m starting with your terminal, because I know I can trust you.”

Daniel chewed up the praise. He asked how he could help, and Basu instructed him to send the others off to physically inspect the supply stores while he and Daniel walked the cubicles.

They started with Savi Dutta, a young graduate student whose father worked for the company. There wasn’t much to raise suspicion. Savi hung around the younger workers and interns. Her work was as sloppy as her space. He jacked into her console nonetheless, checking her access logs for anything that seemed out of the ordinary. Daniel did the same for Haru Soto, another expatriate, though from Japan. Nothing stood out there either.

“Where did your friend say the access came from?”

Daniel puffed out his cheeks and blew a long breath. “That’s the thing, man. Security thinks it came from your terminal.”

He’d figured as much when he woke up in the morning. Why else would security target him first? However, the fact that word was getting around meant he was running out of time.

Esh Banerjee felt like a probable candidate. He’d been at the company longer than Basu, but was caught in the riptide of corporate failure. He’d been on the team that was hacked all those years ago. Esh wasn’t responsible for the breach, but corporate protocol was that someone needed to be held responsible. In a way, Esh was then where Basu was now, and the outcome had been the career stall out. Esh hadn’t been promoted in years, eventually coming to work under the younger and more talented Basu. The animosity was obvious, but would the old man go this far?

Basu ran an access comparison, matching up his log times with Banjeree’s and checking to see how much time the man had logged in the host and out in the Matrix. He hoped that somehow Banjeree had spoofed his login and hacked into the systems from his terminal. He wanted the easy answer, but it wasn’t there. Something else was, though. While Basu was logged in, the system security had triggered a security recall on his ID number. Basu’s access to all of the nodes in Radhi Tech was being revoked, the black mark on his record spreading like an ink stain on a white shirt. He was out of time.

Basu made his next move without thinking. Instinct merged with experience to drive him deeper into Radhi Tech’s system. The hack was child’s work. Three full seconds after Basu jacked in, he removed the cord again and stood with shaking hands. He fought against his instincts to glance upward at the security office, where he knew the chief was watching him. Basu tried to keep calm, to keep to the plan.

The last desk in the cluster belonged to Naveen Singh. It was orderly and nondescript save for a small statue of a man with four arms and deep brown, almost golden skin. “I didn’t know Naveen was a religious man,” Basu said.

“Insha’Allah. I suppose you didn’t know I was Muslim either.” Daniel grinned. “You gotta get to know your people better, man. Though I suppose that’s what I’m here for.”

Basu picked up the idol and examined it. They taught about the Vedic Gods in secondary school. He had been very good at secondary school. “Indra, master of the rains. Why would he have this?”

“Actually, it’s Esh’s. He asked Naveen to help him pray for the rain to stop. Esh’s parents live up to the north. They’ve been all right so far, but if this keeps up it’s only a matter of time before their home is washed away. Seriously, don’t you know any of us? Did you know that Savi is dating again?”

Basu ignored the comment. He placed the idol back on the table and jacked into the network a final time. Security protocols had already locked him out of the system, but his hack spoofed Chief Waghdhare’s ID. He ran another access search, modifying the search parameters slightly. This time something popped. It wasn’t much, but it was all he had.

When Basu unplugged from the Matrix, he saw security officers hurrying toward him from over the low cubicle walls. He took two slow steps towards the entrance and then broke into a run. A security guard screamed at him to stop, and then the building was consumed by darkness. Basu burst through the double glass doors leading out of the building, turned and raced toward the main thoroughfare.

Nobody followed Basu. His hack had seen to that.

He flagged down an auto rickshaw on Chowringhee Road. When the software asked for his destination, Basu caught himself giving directions to Rabindra Sarovar Metro Station. The desire to run was a headache fogging his thoughts. Didn’t running make the most sense? Maybe he could repair his corporate record over time, but the doubts about his loyalty would still be there. Evidence of his hack and the crime itself would coalesce to form a polyp that could spread across his professional record.

Again, resistance started nibbling at his resolve, clearing the fog. Redundant social engineering scaffolding his every choice. Katari said the corporation wasn’t his family, but what did he know? Running now meant admitting defeat. It meant abandoning his corporate family. It meant the caste system worked, and his people weren’t meant to live the perfect corporate life—the life he’d worked so hard to achieve. The life he had achieved. He had the wife, two daughters, fancy house on the hill, a high status corporate job—

The fog hardened into a realization. His perfect corporate wife wouldn’t speak to him anymore, and after the photos he would never see his daughters or his house again. Moreover, the slim hope of a lead he had might not even amount to anything, and then he was nothing more than a corporate fugitive.

His schooling had prepared him for work, for marriage, and the rituals of corporate life. It didn’t ready him for the hiccups, the mistakes, and the predilections. Basu sat frozen on the side of the road, deciding his next move. Finally he gave the driver an address.

It was the figurine that convinced him.

On the way, he programmed a stop at a Stuffer Shack, where he picked up a new commlink and a set of screwdrivers. Ever the engineer, Basu tore the phone open in the back of the rickshaw, using the screwdrivers to wire a temporary bypass that made his calls harder to trace. He connected with Katari first, but the former shadowrunner didn’t have any new information to share. Whoever broke into Radhi Tech was not using the black market to move what they stole. After what he surmised about the idol, Basu expected this answer. He broke the connection and called Daniel for a final favor.

“They have local PD and Radhi Security out looking for you. My friend says they’re hoping to catch you at your house.”

The photos. He’d known that part would come out sooner or later, but he was no longer sure anyone would care. “Please, just get me what I asked, and I promise I will return to the office later today,” Basu said.

The cab pulled onto Park Street under a steady downpour, stopping at the arched golden entrance of a Vedic temple. Basu had found the address buried in Esh Banerjee’s access logs in the Radhi host system. He’d accessed the company host from this temple on several occasions. His access always restricted to the aerospace files. It wasn’t enough to explain the crime, let alone prove it.

The temple hummed with the energy of ritual and meditation. Basu had been in temples before, and what he saw here matched his memory and expectation. Candles and images of the Vedic Gods lined a short hallway leading to the main prayer room. Basu walked down the hallway with no clear purpose. He hoped to find something, but he didn’t know what he would find.

The answer found him at the end of the hall. The prayer room was packed with people, most with the healthy, well dressed look of the wealthy. They all prayed or prostrated at the base of three alcoves along the three walls. Each alcove contained a perfectly life-like representation of a God. To his left, Vayu sat resplendent in a gold dhoti. His blue skin looked scaled in the light. A crowd at on the right side of the room partially concealed the bearded and four-armed visage of Varuna. Indra waited at the back of the room. Basu stepped around the bodies to get a closer look.

The God of the rains was muscular and golden-hued. Like Varuna, he had four arms. One held a bow, another a golden double-sided club Basu believed was called a Vajra. Indra’s other two hands were closed into fists, and his expression betrayed anger. Basu stared in wonder at how realistic the God looked. Before his team had been assigned the aerospace contract, they’d done a turn producing animatronics prototypes for Mitsuhama. Nothing they did came close to this. No, they weren’t animatronics. Even the eyes looked organic. He swore he saw moisture pooling near the tear ducts.

Indra looked at him.

Basu blinked, his mouth hanging agape. Indra was staring at him openly now. The statue turned its head ever so slightly. He stood there dumbstruck, wondering if it was real or some carefully crafted illusion.

Indra’s arms wriggled to life and he started to rise, drawing gasps from those close enough to witness and from Basu himself. His two open hands clenched and unclenched menacingly. Basu stepped forward, reaching out to touch the idol before a guard stepped in front of him. He hadn’t even noticed the guards. Two of them flanked each idol. Now one had his hands on Basu, pushing him back away from the statue. He started to speak, but found he had no words.

The two guards led him away from the idols and towards the exit. As he looked back, he saw that Indra had already settled back into place, at once still. He glanced quickly at the other nooks, and discovered all three Gods watching him leave.

It had a to be a trick.

Outside, Basu struggled to process what he’d seen. That wasn’t a God. Clearly the worshippers believed it, but Basu refused to. What he’d seen could’ve been actors and finely honed stagecraft. No, that wasn’t right. The way Indra moved was too real to be anything short of magic. Basu did not believe in Gods, not the Vedic ones, not Allah or any of the Christianity foisted on him at La Martinière. What he’d seen here was the first time Basu had encountered anything more mystical than snake charmers. The moment left him deflated. There were no answers here.

For forty years, he’d been taught to believe life was going to be one thing and in the space of day it had devolved into something else entirely. The Indra-thing was a curiosity, but it wasn’t an answer, so now the only answer was to run. His original plan wouldn’t work anymore. He couldn’t go to the metro station with the police looking for him. Basu needed to find someone who could get him out of the city safely.

Fighting back the tears stinging his eyes, he called the one person he thought could help. Katari answered on the first ring. Basu told him what happened, explaining the lead and how it had fizzled at the feet of a God. Katari didn’t sound surprised.

“Do you remember the SURGE, Basu? Do you remember what happened?” he asked.

“Sudden Unexplained Regressive Genetic Expression. Yes, we were still young then. People began to express impossible genetic traits. There was a girl—Bati, I think. She grew a tail. I remember that the public reacted very badly to all of it. Many people were killed for what the SURGE did to them.”

Katari said, “It was worse for the children. Imagine being six years old and waking up with the most terrible pain only to find that you’d grown two more arms, or that your skin turned blue.”

It all clicked then. “You are telling me those men I saw are not—”

“There were rumors about Vedic orders collecting SURGE victims, but nothing ever came of it until now.”

Basu started to laugh. He finally let his tears go, and they joined the rain pooling in the streets. Katari was very confused now. “Cousin, I don’t understand what any of this has to do with a break in at a tech corporation.”

But Basu did. All he needed to do now was slide the last puzzle piece into place.

Esh Banjeree lived in Nandi Began, what was once known as the ‘upwardly mobile’ ward of Kolkata. Like Esh, the ward had fallen on hard times, losing new business and renters to the corporate-affiliated Kasba and Jadavpur wards. Now it was a refuge of mid-level wageslaves marred by the late night antics of go-gangs.

Basu found his way to the third floor apartment and rapped lightly on the door. When there was no answer, he pounded the way he thought a policeman might. He spread his palm over the keyhole and waited for a response. The door opened ever so slightly to reveal an elderly woman dressed in a sari.

“You must be Esh’s mother,” he said. “My name is Basu. Your son asked me to stop by and pick up a drive we need at work.”

The old woman was confused but courteous. She stepped aside to let Basu in. She was alone. The walls of the apartment were faded to pale orange and adorned with family pictures.

He smiled and thanked her and asked where her son’s office was. Basu found what he needed on the desk. He took the filigreed book along with the diagrams coded onto digital paper. Basu thanked the woman again and caught the first cab he could find back to Radhi Tech. The plan was to sneak into the back of the building and meet with Chief Waghdhare discretely. If Basu could return to the company on his own terms it would never look like he ran. He could still save his career.

But Basu never made it to the back door. As soon as he stepped out of the cab, security officers pinned his arms behind his back and frog-marched him up the stairs to the security office where Chief Waghdhare waited, smiling.

“I always believed it was a myth that the criminal returned to the scene of the crime, but here you are. Your associate, Mr. Shay, reluctantly informed us that you would come back here.”

“I am not the criminal— ” Basu started.

“Mr. Shay told us you would say this as well. He spoke of your theories about Mr. Banjeree, but I see no proof. All I see is a man who has betrayed his company. A man who took the love and trust of the corporation and soiled it.”

“I am no criminal,” Basu’s face darkened with shame. Quickly, he recounted everything, from his investigation, to his memories of the God Indra.

“You are telling me nothing. Fairy tales.”

“I am telling you what the forge was used to build!” He nodded his head towards his satchel and the clues he’d found. In the bag was a book entitled Vaimanika Sastra and beside it diagrams of what could have been a flying machine.

“And this proves what?” The Chief growled.

“It proves that Esh Banjeree wanted to build that vehicle. He studied it, even figured out what materials to use.” Basu rocked from side to side in his chair. His arms were still cuffed behind his back. From the window, he could see everyone on the work floor staring up at him. Katari said the corporation wasn’t Basu’s family. If so, why did he feel so ashamed?

“I don’t see what this has to do with our forge and the theft.”

“It is as Daniel says! Esh wanted the rains to end, so he went to this temple and met with his so-called Gods. Check the access logs. He told them where he worked. Esh accessed our host from their temple. He told him what he could do for them.”

Emboldened now, Basu tried to stand, tipping the chair forward and rising with the ferocity of his words. “It has everything to do with the forge, because he tried to build the device. He machined the parts as best he could and melted down the forge to hide his trail!”

Off-balance and angry, he fell forward, slamming his face into the ground. The guards helped Basu to his feet. He tasted blood on his lips, the first physical pain he’d felt in as long as he could remember. It sobered him. He continued, but calmly. “Those men at the temple—those imposters—they are the ones that told him if he did their work they would end the rains and call back the floods. They are the only ones who would have wanted such a device. It is something they could use to further their lie. More proof to show their followers that they are the Gods returned.”

Chief Waghdhare sighed. He turned to his officers and said, “Remove his cuffs.”

Basu’s eyes lit up. He glanced towards the window, where his coworkers still watched from below. He searched for Daniel, for the rest of his team huddled together in the ashes of Daedalus. He spotted Esh Banjeree and smiled knowingly. The workers below were his family. In almost losing them, he’d realized what they meant to him. He recognized how he’d failed them by not seeing what Esh was trying to do sooner, but now he was triumphant. He would be a better employee. He would be a true leader.

Chief Waghdhare said, “Please escort Mr. Acharya from the building.”

“What?” Basu’s smile died on his face. He spun to face the security chief. “Why? I don’t understand. I solved the case. I found our criminal!”

“Because, Mr. Acharya, your actions here today prove that you are no longer someone Radhi Technological Solutions can trust.”

A team of officers escorted him roughly back down the stairs to the exit. They never even gave him a chance to collect his things. The men pushed him out of the rear door and remained shoulder to shoulder to prevent him from getting back in.

Basu stood in that spot for hours, until his throat was hoarse and dry from screaming, until the tears could no longer come, until his feet were rooted in the mud like tree limbs.

And at the end of the day, after all the employees filed past him in silent succession, he looked up at the sky and realized the rains had stopped.

House of Cards

By R.L. King

I lost my daughter in a poker game. I didn’t think the night could get any worse after that.

It didn’t start out that way, of course. Don’t think that. I’m a good dad. Drek, we’d been out all day, just the two of us, having a blast. We’d just finished a late dinner at Lucy’s favorite place at Circus Circus, the one with the annoying clowns and the AR zoo animals, when I got the call. Little game going down at the Oasis. Some new guys in town. Rubes. Just an hour or two. Was I in?

Wanda wasn’t home yet. Working late. What else could I do but take Lucy along? I was supposed to be staying away from the cards, but this was too good to pass up.

The Oasis is a dump, but some of the best action in town goes down in its grubby, smoke-filled back rooms. Invitation only. I rolled in a little before ten. Ahmed gave Lucy the eye, but waved us through. “In the back,” he said. “They’re waitin’.”

Lucy’s a good kid. I set her up in the corner of the room at a little table with a commlink game and a bottle of water, and told her we’d go home soon. She smiled at me. “Okay, Daddy.” Kid’s got the most beautiful smile. All the neon on the Strip’s got nothing on Lucy’s smile. It’s all Wanda’s doing, naturally. Me, I’m nine kinds of ugly, but the kid’s a doll.

Table was the usual assortment: you could tell the out-of-towners. Nothing obvious, but anybody who’s been in Vegas as long as I have can tell. Five other than me: all guys. Two orks, one dwarf, two norms. The orks were local: I’d seen ‘em around at other games. Dealer was a dwarf who looked like he’d gone five rounds with a meat grinder. They don’t bother with pretty dealers at the Oasis. No point. You want glitz, go to Caesar’s. People come here to play.

Not much conversation. Occasional bleeps and bloops from the corner where Lucy tapped away at her game, but before long I didn’t hear anything but the riffle of the cards and click of the chips, and the low rumble of the other players’ voices. I fall into a kind of trance when I’m playing, which is one of the reasons I shouldn’t be.

And I was losing. Either those out-of-town rubes were lucky, or somebody’d been feeding me lines. Wasn’t sure which. I just saw my stack of cred—not great to start with, mind you—dropping like a showgirl’s top as I got dealt hand after crappy hand. One of the norms looked smug as his pile of chips grew. The orks were losing, too. Drek.

I glanced over: Lucy had nodded off, her arms folded over the table, her little blonde head tucked in tight. She was only four, and she’d had a long day. I needed to get her home. Why the hell had I brought her here in the first place? Yeah, I’m an idiot—nobody’s arguing with that.

Okay, last hand. I peeked at my hole cards, expecting more of the same crap. They play with old-style cards at the Oasis. None of this electronic stuff. E-gambling’s got no soul. 

Pair of eights. Not bad, but no way they’d be good enough on their own. Small bets all around, everybody still in.

The flop was a deuce and two queens. So now I had two pair. Things were looking better. I glanced at my hole cards again (you know, in case they’d changed) and did my best to keep my face expressionless. I had a shot at this if I didn’t blow it. I watched the dealer, waiting for the next card.

The eight of hearts. Holy drek, that was three, and I had two of them in my hand. That meant with the pair of queens, I had a full house. The bet went around again. I flicked my gaze up at the other players as I made a small raise.

One of the orks thought he was going to take the pot. So did one of the norms. They kept up the raises, their eyes cutting back and forth, each sizing up the others. Who’s bluffing? Who’s got the goods?

The room got quiet. The dealer watched with no expression on his scarred face. The dwarf and the other ork had already folded.

The final card. The river. I focused on the dealer’s hands as he placed it in the center of the table next to the others.

The eight of spades.

Face carefully blank, I looked at my hole cards again, hardly daring to believe it was possible. 

I had four eights. 

Four. Fragging. Eights.

The norm smiled slyly at me as he shoved the remainder of his pile of chips out.

I moved to do the same. And then I froze, panicked. Where had all my chips gone? I knew I was getting low, but when had I gotten that low? My stack was a fraction of the size of his. I had a winning hand, and I couldn’t cover the bet.

Sweat gathered at the back of my neck. I looked at the dealer. “I need some cred,” I said. “I gotta see this one through.”

“Sorry, Gordy,” he said, and he actually looked it. “I can’t.”

“Well, call somebody who can,” I said, desperate. I could hear it in my voice. I glanced at Lucy again, afraid I might wake her up. “C’mon, omae. Please. I gotta do this. I got this.”

The dwarf sighed. His eyes fuzzed for a second, and I knew he was communicating with somebody On High. After a moment the door opened and a big, barrel-chested ork with a bad haircut and a rumpled suit came in. His eyes were small and piggy. I’d seen him around before, but never up close. He conferred with the dwarf for a moment, glanced at me, then paused to examine me with more focus. He looked at Lucy, then his tusky mouth twisted in a smile. “Sure,” he said. “Let him have it.”

I should have run when I saw that smile. But then, wisdom was never one of my strong suits.

The ork player immediately folded. The norm eyed me with cool appraisal. He was still sure he had me. He had to be bluffing, or maybe he’d filled out the full house. Easy to do, with four-fifths of it on the table. But to beat me, he’d have to have two queens in his hand. What were the odds of that? Sucker.

The dwarf dealer pushed a stack of chips across the table toward me and handed me a marker to sign. I signed without reading it, trying not to look at the number. I’d be paying it back in a few minutes anyway, then Lucy and I would call it a night and head home. Wanda would be so surprised. Maybe I’d even pick her up something nice on the way home. She didn’t get nice things too often these days.

Triumphantly, I shoved the chips out into the middle of the table. “Suck it, chummer,” I told the norm, not even trying to suppress my grin. I flipped over the eights.

I’d actually reached out for the pot before my brain caught on that he hadn’t thrown in his cards, but rather tossed them, face up, on top of mine. A little sound, not quite a gasp but close, went up from the others.

Two queens.

Four of a kind, beating my four eights.

The norm, beaming, raked the untidy pile of chips over to his side of the table. The other norm and one of the orks clapped him on the back. The dealer remained blank-faced. Pro to the end.

I sat there, numb. My brain wouldn’t engage, except to flash big neon digits across the inside of my skull: the amount I’d just signed for. The amount there was no way in hell I could pay back.

The game was already moving on, the next hand already being dealt. The dealer ignored me: in this world, if you got no cred, you don’t exist.

The ork, the one who’d okayed the marker, stood out in the hall. He had a strange expression on his face; half-smirk, half-stressed. “Bad luck.”

I held tight to Lucy’s hand. She swayed, sleepy. I’d have to carry her soon. “Yeah.” I started to push past him, already trying to come up with something—anything—I could do to get back the cred.

He stepped in front of me, a brick wall in a bad suit. “Where you goin’, chummer?”

I glared at him. “Home. Null sweat—you’ll get your cred back. I’m good for it.”

His eyes narrowed. “Not so easy, Gord.”

“Huh?”

“Didn’t you read the marker? Payable immediately.”

I froze. He couldn’t do that! Even crappy little joints like this had rules. “How the hell—”

He flashed that maddening, tusky grin again. “Hey, you said you had it. I believed you. Why’d you think I let a loser like you have that much cred? Not my fault the cards turned on ya. Now, you gonna pay up, or am I gonna hafta break your legs in front of your kid?”

I flashed a quick glance at Lucy, but she was asleep on her feet. She hadn’t heard. “You know I don’t have it, man,” I said, desperation creeping into my voice, even though I tried to play it cool.

His grin widened. “Well, that’s okay. You just happen to be in luck tonight, Gordy. ’Cause I’m gonna help you by lettin’ you help me. Step into my office.”

I did mention that I was an idiot, right?

His “office” looked suspiciously like an unused conference room, stacked with boxes of napkins and swizzle sticks and smelling like sweat and stale soykaf. He waved me to a chair. I got Lucy settled in the corner, then sat down.

“Call me Jasper,” the ork said, lowering himself into his own chair across the table. “You’re gonna help me out with a little problem.”

I shifted, pulling at my collar. It was hot in here. Why was it so hot in here? Didn’t these guys pay their AC bill? “What kinda problem?”

“You used to run with Max Lushenko. He’s got somethin’ of mine, and I want it back. You’re gonna get it for me.”

I stared at him, sweat popping up on my neck again. Oh, frag. Ohfragohfragohfrag. “No. Wait. Wait a minute, I—”

“Did I say you could talk?” Jasper’s grin vanished, and his eyes got hard. “You don’t talk. You listen.” He slid aside the front of his bad suit just enough to reveal the big black Savalette Guardian in a holster under his arm. When I didn’t reply, he nodded. “All right. Like I said, Max has something of mine. All you gotta do is go find him, get it back, and bring it back here, safe and sound. Then I forget about your marker. Datawork error. Never happened. Scan?” His piggy brown eyes pinned me to my chair.

I was shaking so hard things were rattling. My heart pounded, and pissing myself wasn’t completely off the table. Panic rose. Didn’t he know? How could he not know? “Jasper—listen—you gotta hear me—”

“Wrong answer,” he said. Again, I got the impression that he was stressed about something. He flicked his eyes upward like he was checking out something in AR, then back to me. Leaning forward, he put both of his meaty hands on the tabletop and glared. “Bottom line, chummer: you’re gonna do this. You get back my property from Max, and we’re square. You try to frag with me, and—” His eyes slid over to where Lucy dozed in her chair and he dropped his voice. “I got a couple of ghouls who did some work for me, and I still owe ’em a payment. Are we talkin’ the same language here, Gordy?”

I closed my eyes. How the hell did I get myself into situations like this? Why did I never learn? I wanted to wipe Lucy down to get the slime of Jasper’s gaze off her.

“I need an answer, Gord,” Jasper said, tapping his thick fingers on the table. His nails were too long, cracked and yellow, filed to points.

“You set me up,” I said in a monotone.

He shrugged. “Prove it.” His eyes flicked to Lucy. “So what’s it gonna be?”

I swallowed. My numbed mind spun, throwing out one desperate option: if I could get out of here, maybe I could take Lucy and Wanda and skip town. I could find a job somewhere else. “Okay,” I said, starting to rise. “What do you want? I’ll just take Lucy home and then—”

Jasper actually laughed at me then. “Gordy, Gordy. You’re funny. You’re a funny guy. The kid stays here ’til you do the job. Call it insurance on the marker. Don’t worry. We’ll take good care of her. Just like her daddy.”

Behind me, the door opened and two other meatwalls in bad suits slipped into the room, blocking my exit.

I looked at them, then at Jasper again, and finally at Lucy. At my little girl. At the only thing I’d ever done right in my whole useless life.

I’d never felt like more of a loser.

If I didn’t feel like puking, or screaming, or dropping down into a little ball and just giving up, my situation might even have been funny. Somebody else looking in from the outside might have thought it was a regular laugh riot, like something in one of those screwball trid comedies about the lovable loser. Except I was the loser, and there wasn’t a fragging thing lovable about me.

All I could think of was Lucy, back there with Jasper’s thugs. And the ghouls.

So the upshot of the whole thing was that I had three hours to find a dog.

Not just a dog, either: one of those little, yappy, hairless things I could never spell the name of. The kind of dog that rides around in rich chicas’ purses. When Jasper told me that I almost laughed. He had to be kidding me. No, really, what’s the job?

The dog’s name was “Tito,” and for whatever reason, Max took him and Jasper wanted him back. Jasper, the ambulatory slab of angry meat with the pointy yellow fingernails and the big black gun, wanted his little yappy dog back. He didn’t say why. None of my business, he said. Just get the fraggin’ mutt back alive and well and don’t ask questions.

The only problem was, last time I saw Max he swore he’d kill me if he ever saw me again.

I knew where to find Max. Of course I did. After all, it was me that helped put him there.

I don’t know if he knew it or not, but I’d been keeping tabs on him over the last year. I was going to make things up to him. I swear I was. Whatever happened, I was going to pay him back.

Max and me, we had history. Used to be shadowrunners, back in the day. Okay, maybe that was a pretty fancy term for what amounted to a couple of overpaid errand boys, but we got the job done. We were good, too. Might have made a name for ourselves someday.

Might have. Except for the fact that Vegas always gets guys like me in the end. The house always wins. If it hadn’t been the cards, it would have been the ponies. Or the bottle. I just had that kind of personality that had to overdo things, and eventually the lights and the tables and the lure of easy money got to be too much for me. I thought I was handling it: when I won, I brought money home to Wanda, made sure Lucy had what she needed, did the whole provider bit. When I lost, I juggled accounts and lied and scrounged to make sure nobody found out until I got back on my feet. Most of the time I felt like one of those guys spinning plates on sticks, except the plates were stacked with nitro, and would blow me sky high if I let any of them drop.

Even now, after all this time, I don’t know why I boosted that credstick from Max. It was just a loan, I’d told myself. I was gonna double the money and pay him back with interest before he even knew it was gone. He might even have forgiven me for it, except it had been the cred he’d gotten together to pay off a loan shark who was on his tail.

And of course I lost it—every bit of it.

I hadn’t seen Max since then. I rabbited, naturally. Like the coward I am. I heard through the Vegas grapevine that the shark had caught up with him and beat him up pretty bad. He couldn’t afford to get fixed up right, so he couldn’t get the jobs anymore. Lost his doss and ended up in the Underground. All because of me.

Max, apparently, wasn’t the forgiving sort. It got back to me pretty quick that he was gunning for me. For a while I worried about it. Max could be a vindictive little shit. But after a year of looking over my shoulder, I thought maybe he was all just talk. As long as I stayed out of his way, I figured I was okay.

I guess nobody told Jasper that part.

When most people think of Las Vegas, the first thing they think of is the Strip. The big hotels, lined up along the street like a neon canyon rising out of the earth, glittering and hypnotic and full of promises. Fortunes made and fortunes lost. High rollers and big spenders. Anything you want, if you got the cred. The powers that be in the town spent hundreds of millions of nuyen every year to make sure that was what the tourists saw. Keep the suckers happy until they lost all their cred, then send ’em home with a smile and invite ’em back next year to do it all over again.

The locals, we knew different. For all the highs the rubes saw, there were lows they’d never get near. Whether you were talking about the countless faceless slots who fed the tourist machine, or the dark underbelly of the town where those who knew where to look could find the kind of things even Vegas was afraid to advertise, there was a side to Sin City that never made it into the glitzy brochures.

There was also a literal dark underbelly to Vegas, and that was where I was headed.

History buffs will remember that we used to be a desert, back before the Awakening. Back then, it was fairly common when the rains came up for the town to get hit by flash floods. To help deal with these, they built a series of underground passages designed to divert the extra water away from the streets and buildings. Even back then these tunnels, which ran under most of the Strip and the Downtown area, quickly became a haven for the homeless. Made sense: they were a place to get out of the sun, stay away from the cops, and make a little corner for yourself far from the prying eyes of the tourists. Whole families set up housekeeping down there. It wasn’t the best place to live, but it was free. A lot of people called those tunnels home.

After the Awakening happened and the world went to hell, things changed. The Underground, as it’s called (though it doesn’t have much in common with the more famous Underground in Seattle), started attracting a different and more dangerous crowd. What used to be homeless families and guys between jobs looking for a place to squat became gangers and other assorted lowlifes looking for a hidey-hole. And even worse, there were parts of the Underground where even those guys didn’t go. Even the gangers didn’t want to tangle with the ghouls who’d claimed large chunks of the tunnels, and there were corners that even the ghouls were afraid to venture into. You’d have to be an idiot to go down there without knowing what you were doing.

Yeah. I’m a fraggin’ genius.

The only good thing about the whole mess was that I knew where Max holed up, and I knew how to get there. See, there’s lots of ways into the Underground: some were big, like the wide-open culverts under some of the streets. Others were smaller, accessible through manhole covers and down rusting metal ladders. You had to be careful, going in and going out: the holes were in the middle of busy streets, so if you poked your head out at the wrong time, you could get it taken off by a passing bus. Or if you dropped down without looking first, you might land in the middle of a ghoul hunting party. I could see why Jasper didn’t want risk coming down here on his own, or sending anyone he gave a damn about.

It was cold down here after dark, cold and damp. My feet sloshed through an inch or so of standing water, full of old condoms and soyburger wrappers and used needles. Sound echoed weirdly through the tunnels: the main one was fairly wide, but dozens of tiny side tunnels shot off both sides. Some of them led to dead ends, while others widened out into rooms. Every inch of the walls was covered with layers of graffiti. I’d never actually been down here, but like I said, I’d been keeping tabs on Max. I knew where he was.

I slogged down the main tunnel, wishing I’d brought a gun, or even a knife. All I had was a flashlight, which was all I could afford on what I had left on me after the game. If there were any ghouls hanging around, I was dead meat.

It wasn’t far to the turnoff that led to Max’s squat. I made it about halfway down before I heard sounds behind me. Whirling, I saw two shadowy forms looming there, blocking my exit. “I—I’m here to see Max,” I said, hoping they weren’t ghouls. “Tell ’im it’s Gordy. I think he’ll want to see me.”

Yeah, that was one way to put it.

The two guys hustled me into what almost looked like a room and shoved me forward. I fell hard, landing on my hands and knees.

“Well. Look what the devil rats drug in. Never thought I’d see your ass again.”

I looked up. My stomach clenched with guilt.

Max looked like drek. He’d never exactly been handsome, but living down here hadn’t been kind to him. He glared down at me, little black eyes glimmering out of a fishbelly-white face bristling with stubble. He’d lost weight, but his sagging skin hadn’t caught up with it. His left leg was still twisted, a holdover from when the loan shark had opened up on him. In one hand he held an old, battered Roomsweeper, its barrel currently trained on me; the other leaned heavily on a chipped cane. There wasn’t an ounce of compassion on his face.

“I don’t know why you were stupid enough to come here, Gordy,” he said. “But if you got anything to say, say it now before I blow yer fuckin’ head off.”

I heard a noise off to my right. I moved my eyes without moving my head, and froze. There he was, curled up on an old pillow next to a fancy carrier. Bright little eyes watched me with interest, pink tongue lolling. Collar studded with little gems. Bowl of food and another of water nearby. I’d never seen anything look more out of place than that dog in this hellhole.

My mind went through plans like a mechanic shuffling cards. Max waited. The gun didn’t move. Finally, I just blurted: “Max, you gotta help me.”

He didn’t answer. I risked a look up at him. He was watching me. I guess it was a good sign that he hadn’t shot me yet. “Max—?”

He let out a loud sigh. “Gordy, you are a piece of work.”

I thought of Lucy and the ghouls. No time for games. Time to lay all my cards on the table. “Max, please. I gotta have the dog. You can kill me after. I won’t even fight back. But you gotta give me the dog.” My voice shook, and I didn’t even try to stop it.

His eyes narrowed. “So Jasper sent you. Even after all this, I didn’t think I’d see you runnin’ errands for that piece of shit.”

Now it was my turn to stare. “You jacked the guy’s dog?” Even for Max, that was pretty low.

For a minute, he looked at me like I’d just taken a steaming dump on his dining table. “You really don’t get it, do you?” he said. “You really are that clueless.”

I was barely listening to him. Time was ticking, and I could almost hear Lucy’s screams as Jasper’s ghouls tore into her. “Max, he’s got Lucy. He’s gonna kill her if I don’t bring the damn mutt back.”

Max rolled his eyes. “Well, then, I guess you’re fucked, omae.”

I couldn’t believe it. Sure, Max had every reason to hate me. But— “Max, she’s four. You remember her. You’d let a little girl—”

He shook his head. The gun was still on me. “You still don’t get it, Gordy. It ain’t me. If Jasper’s got her, she’s already dead. Even if I give you the mutt and you take him back, he’s just gonna kill you, too.”

My whole body froze. Was Max screwing with me? “But—”

“You don’t know who that dog really belongs to, do you?”

“Huh?” What the hell have I gotten myself into?

“Gordy, Gordy, you always were an idiot.” Max’s voice was disgusted, but there was something else in it too. Pity? “You really think a thug like Jasper wastes time with a dog like that? He was watching it. For Francesca Gianola.”

Oh, frag me…

Everybody in the underside of Las Vegas knew who Francesca Gianola was. One of the few female mob honchos in town, she was a mid-level boss with the Verontesse Family.

She was also batshit crazy.

That was the only way to put it. She was like a human roulette wheel: any time you dealt with her, you put your chips down and you took your chances. Some days she was sweet as candy; other days she’d have you shot because she didn’t like the color of your tie. Stories about her were all over Vegas. Oh—and she was also a pretty kickass spellslinger. Because, you know, you always want your batshit mob boss ladies to be able to fry your brain. Somehow she managed to keep it together with her superiors, which was why she was still in her position—that, and she was ruthless as hell against the Family’s enemies. “The dog…is—”

Max nodded. “Why do you think I grabbed it? She trusted Jasper to look after it while she left town for the weekend. And Jasper’s got somethin’ I need. So—” he shrugged. “When the opportunity presented itself, I arranged a little dognapping, figuring he’d play ball to avoid pissin’ off his boss.” His gaze hardened. “Looks like he sent you instead. He’s as big an idiot as you are. I should just kill you and the damn dog and send you both back to him in a garbage bag.”

I struggled up to my feet. “Max. Please. Don’t do this. I know you hate me. You got every reason to. But—it’s my kid, Max. What else was I gonna do?”

Suddenly, Max looked tired, and sad, and old. “Frag, I don’t know, Gordy. Last year I swore I’d kill you next time I saw you. Part of me still wants to. But—” he sighed. “It don’t matter anyway. You take that dog back, you’re dead. Your kid’s dead. Like I said, Jasper won’t leave loose ends. He can’t afford to.”

“I gotta try, Max. I gotta. He’s gonna feed her to ghouls.”

There was a long pause, after which he shook his head. “I’m sorry, Gordy. Really I am. But this is my shot. I’m dyin’ down here. This is my last shot at gettin’ out before this place eats me alive. I gotta look out for me. You know, just like you looked out for you when you took that credstick.”

He reached up to scratch his head with his gun hand, and it was right then that something snapped inside me. I didn’t think. I didn’t plan. I just lunged forward and kicked the cane out from under him. He yelped, going over backwards and smashing into the wall. “I’m sorry, Max,” I told him, snatching up the gun. “I really am. But it’s my kid this time. I gotta take the chance.”

He didn’t fight. He didn’t even try to get up, or call his guys back in. He just looked at me, his eyes full of anger and pity and disappointment. “Yeah, Gordy. I know. You gotta do what you gotta do. And frag anybody who gets in your way.”

I could trot out all kinds of clichés about what it felt like to come back up out of the Underground, but let’s just say I was relieved I’d made it out of there alive and let it go at that.

That didn’t mean my troubles were over, though. Not even close. I clutched Tito’s little blue carrier tight and walked fast until I was a couple blocks away from the nearest Underground entrance. I didn’t think Max would send anybody after me, but you never knew. The dog stayed quiet, which was weird: I didn’t think those yappy things had an off switch as long as they were breathing. I plopped down on a bus bench, set the carrier down next to me, and just let myself slump for a minute. Off in the distance the lights of the Strip blazed on.

I had some thinking to do. Some choices to make.

I hate myself sometimes. I really do. I’m a fundamentally flawed human being, no two ways about it. Why else would my fragging brain be suggesting that a valid course of action right now might be to just drop the dog in the nearest dumpster and run? 

Yeah, I know how that sounds. Believe me, I do. You can’t think any less of me than I already do, okay? So just give it a rest.

The thing was, though, if I could believe Max, Lucy was already dead. Whether Jasper had fed her to his ghouls or just put a pillow over her little face as soon as I left, keeping her around was a liability for him. Getting caught with a kid that wasn’t yours was one of the few things the cops might actually pay attention to, even in the lowlife circles Jasper and Max and I ran in. If Jasper was planning to take the dog and kill me as soon as I showed my face, then why keep Lucy alive? 

I looked down at the carrier. Tito was pushed up against the front, looking up at me with those big liquid black eyes of his. Cute little guy, I had to admit. Almost as cute as Lucy. “Frag it, I don’t know what to do,” I said aloud to him.

He watched me in silence, head tilted.

“If I go back, he’s gonna kill me. He can’t afford for Francesca to find out he lost you. As long as I’m alive, I’m a loose end.”

Tito whined and nuzzled against the front of the carrier. I unzipped it a little and stroked his head. “Ain’t your fault any of this happened,” I said. “Tough break all around, neh?”

He licked my hand, but didn’t offer any other advice. This was all me. I had two choices, as far as I could see:

I could cut and run like I always did, save my sorry ass, take the chance that Lucy was already lost. Pick up in some other town, maybe get back at Jasper some time later. It would hurt like hell, oh yes. I wasn’t sure I could do it. But then, my brain always had a knack for self-preservation, and I was a master at making excuses for bad choices.

Or, I could call Jasper, tell him I had the dog, and make him prove to me that Lucy was still alive. Set up a meet, make the swap. And Jasper would kill us both before we could get away. I didn’t have any friends left to call. I couldn’t set up an ambush or some kind of trap. It was just me.

I scrubbed at my face with my hands. I wanted to scream, to cry, to run. Once again, the house had won, grinding little people like me under its wheels. Here I was, nothing but a two-bit gambler—a two-bit loser—and my only choices were to save myself and let my kid die, or follow the plan and let us both die. Those were the rules of the game.

Unless—

I stared at Tito. “Unless I change the rules,” I told him.

And for the first time that night, I smiled.

I met Jasper in the back parking lot behind the Oasis. No point in setting up a neutral meeting place. This would either go down or it wouldn’t. He eyed me. “Where’s the dog?”

“Where’s Lucy?”

“First hand over the mutt.” His two goons flanked him, giving me the stink-eye, their hands on their guns.

I shook my head. “You kill me, you’ll never see the pooch. Now show me my kid and we’ll do business.”

Jasper looked like he wanted to take me apart one piece at a time, but I didn’t miss the sweat beading on his forehead, either. There wasn’t much time left in the three hours he’d given me. He jerked his head at Goon One, who went back inside the building. After a minute he came out holding Lucy’s hand. She still looked sleepy. I wondered if they’d drugged her to keep her quiet. But she was alive. “There ya go. Kid’s safe and sound, see? Now hand over the damn dog.”

I smiled, big and toothy. “You got nothin’ to worry about, Jasper. I took care of your problem for you. No extra charge. You can thank me later if you want.”

His brow furrowed, his piggy little eyes locked on me. “Don’t play fraggin’ games with me, Gordy.”

My grin got bigger. I couldn’t help it. “But Jasper, that’s exactly what I’m doing. Playin’ games. And maybe changin’ the rules a little. I knew how much you wanted to make sure little Tito got back to his Mama, so I took care of that for you.”

You ever see an ork go dead white? I hadn’t before tonight. It was like all the air had leaked out of Jasper as the three figures shimmered into visibility next to me. Two of them, big orks in much nicer suits than Jasper’s, moved forward and relieved Jasper’s goons of their guns. The goons didn’t move. Jasper didn’t move. One of the orks took Lucy’s hand and led her over to me. I picked her up and she snuggled into me. “Hi, Daddy,” she muttered, still mostly asleep.

“Hi, baby,” I whispered.

Francesca Gianola moved up next to me, holding Tito in her arms. The little dog was nearly vibrating with joy at being back where he belonged. “You’ve been a bad boy, Jasper. A very bad boy. This gentleman has been telling me a very disturbing story.” Her voice was silky, but I could hear the knife-edge underneath.

Jasper gaped, first at her, then at me. “You—went to her?” he demanded. His tone was kind of like if he was asking You dived into a blender?

I shrugged. “You rigged the game on me. I didn’t like the rules, so I made my own.”

Francesca smiled. That smile made me shudder: it was the smile of somebody whose grip on reality was about as strong as my resolve at the card tables. I still wasn’t sure this was going to go my way. The urge to grab Lucy and run for my life was overwhelming.

“Tito never liked you, Jasper,” Francesca purred, moving forward. She wore a long silk gown, red like blood, and moved like a snake. “It was my mistake to leave him with you in the first place.” She stroked my hair with long-nailed fingers, and I fought to hold still. Do not insult the crazy lady. Do not insult the crazy lady… “Tito likes this one. Tito never makes mistakes.”

Jasper gulped. He looked like he was thinking about cutting and running too. His color hadn’t come back, and sweat stains blossomed on his cheap suit. “Boss, I can explain—”

She ignored him. Instead, she turned that freaky, I’m-not-all-here gaze on me. “How can I reward you for bringing my Tito back?” she asked, stroking the dog’s head the same way she’d stroked mine. “Suppose you tell me what you want me to do with Jasper here.”

I looked down at Lucy in my arms, then at the quivering Jasper. “Well,” I said, considering. “He did say he had some ghouls who needed to be paid...”

She looked delighted. It was so fraggin’ creepy I thought I might wet myself. “Excellent idea!” She gestured to her orks, and they grabbed both of Jasper’s arms. His screams echoed as they dragged him off, back toward the building. After he was gone, she turned back to me. “Anything else?” Her eyes settled for a moment on Lucy. “Something for you, maybe?”

A good gambler knows when to call it a night. I wasn’t a good gambler, but in this case it didn’t matter. Visions of paying Max back, or maybe a little cred to get me and Lucy and Wanda ahead of the eight ball for a while rose in my mind, but I shook my head. “Thanks,” I said. “Happy to help you and Tito out.” I reached a tentative hand out to the dog, and he smothered it with tiny licks.

Her unsettling smile, for just a second, became genuine. “He likes you,” she said. “Dogs always know.” And then she was gone with her orks, shimmering back into invisibility.

I was alone in the parking lot. Just me and my little girl. “Daddy?” she mumbled, her voice laced with sleep.

“It’s okay, baby. Everything’s okay now.” I patted her back with a shaking hand. My legs were liquid.

“Home now?”

“Yeah, princess.” I realized then that I didn’t have enough cred for a cab ride home, or even a bus. There was still the matter of that marker I owed. Max was probably still after me, and if Wanda ever found out what I’d done tonight, she’d kick me out on my ass. Fundamentally, I wasn’t much less screwed than I was earlier tonight.

But I was alive, and so was Lucy.

So right at that moment, I was feeling pretty much like a winner.

Nothing Personal

By Mel Odom

1

When Bristyl came into the Happy Mushroom Club that night, Stahl had his hands full with three drug-impaired patrons that had decided to frag each other as part of their festivities. But when he saw her brand-new black eye, a split lip, and look of disheveled, wide-eyed panic, he chose to make short work of the three patrons.

Two of them were orks wearing colors from a low-level street gang that hustled Red Orchid, an Awakened opiate. Both stood taller than Stahl, built broad and beefy with huge hands and feet. Pointed ears framed their wide faces. Their lower canines almost reached their flat noses.

The other guy was human, a member of the 289s, a young criminal organization also known as the Easy Money Gang in Kowloon City. The smooth, effortless glide he used told Stahl he was a street samurai, loaded up with bioware. He was also young, somewhere in his twenties, with neon purple tattoos of scorpions that spun and hissed along his arms. He’d paid for his upgrades with his blood and other people’s. A lot of other people’s.

Stahl didn’t know who or what had caused the altercation, and he really didn’t care. Bertram Higgins, the owner of the Happy Mushroom, had hired him to keep the peaceable patrons and his club intact. Stahl recognized none of the guys, so that meant they weren’t regulars.

The Happy Mushroom existed in Kowloon City’s dives, one more festering sore amid the cesspools of shadows of the Chinese sprawl that catered to the locals and the gweilos, the Western sailors and merchants. The patrons came from the docks and the gangs, from the losers and the life-long strugglers that existed between the cracks of success and failure.

It was the kind of place Stahl had known all his life. He’d sneaked into them as a kid, and did business there as an adult. Karaoke nights featuring British punk rock was a saving grace. Holos of the Sex Pistols, The Clash, and other bands spun around the room, neon flickers in the dull sheen of carefully orchestrated shadows.

Whenever he was between runs, or healing up from a run gone bad, as he was now, Stahl found a place like the Happy Mushroom and worked to get himself back to peak performance. He was almost back there now. Damaged cyberware had been repaired or swapped out, muscle had been regrown or replaced, and he’d trained to integrate all of it into the combat machine he’d been once more.

Even before the angry voices had erupted from that corner of the room, Stahl was already heading through the crowded dance floor toward them. He’d read the body language between the three in an eye blink as the whirling disco lights overhead splintered the darkness inside the club with bright light.

If Bristyl hadn’t come in looking like she did, he might have taken things more slowly, might have tried talking to the gangers the way he sometimes did. Or maybe not. He wasn’t big on putting up with any drek after he’d made the rules clear. And he had made the rules crystal clear. He had a rep at the Mushroom.

The sightseers around the three combatants parted as Stahl reached them. Most of the regulars had seen him in action before, and didn’t want to be on the wrong side of the oncoming onslaught.

Broad-shouldered and scarred from past fights, Stahl was a poster child for bad news and instant retribution. Flesh covered his face, but a sharp eye could discern the metal musculature beneath his features. The megacorp shock troops he’d contracted out to after leaving the military hadn’t been big on cosmetics. Stahl had wanted the cyberware, and didn’t had the cred to have it done himself, so he’d taken the jobs he could get and plowed it into rebuilding himself.

The orks and the human had all drawn pistols and continued shouting at each other.

“Enough,” Stahl announced gruffly as he stepped into the circle the crowd had made for the trio. His deep voice carried throughout the club. He was used to commanding, and knew how to make his voice sound louder and more sure.

The orks and the human shifted their attention to Stahl, eyes glittering as they sized up the unexpected opposition. By their standards, Stahl looked smaller and non-threatening.

“Back off,” one of the orks ordered. He was tall and heavy, shaggy and dark. One of his elongated ears was missing its top third, and almost the same amount from the bottom, leaving him with more of a stump than a serviceable ear. Silver filigree traced the bottom canines that curled over his upper lip. His cyber-eye gleamed dully from a cratered pit of scars. “This ain’t any of your frackin’ concern.”

“Wrong,” Stahl replied. “My bar, my rules. You don’t play by those rules, you’re not staying here.”

The ork turned his Hammerli 620S toward Stahl. “I always heard the guy with the gun makes the rules,” he said.

2

Stahl reached up, closed his cyberhand over the pistol before the ork could pull the trigger, and squeezed. As the vise-like grip tightened, bone shattered and metal squealed. The pistol fired, and the detonation cut through the loud music blaring from the club’s audio system.

The bullet flattened against Stahl’s forearm and dropped to the floor. The impact felt like the physical thump of a shockstik, but Stahl didn’t release his hold ’til he was sure the pistol was scrap.

The ork’s hand was reduced to broken bone and pulped flesh that leaked blood. By that time the ganger was howling in agony and trying desperately to get away. Blood sprayed onto the floor. Bits of flesh, bone, and metal followed only a heartbeat later.

Stahl snap-kicked the ork in the chest and sent him flying backward. Even though his hand had been wrecked, the ganger might trigger a stim pack that would erase the pain and allow him to continue fighting. Instead, he was unconscious before he hit the floor.

The street sam moved superhumanly fast as he kicked in his cyberware augmentations. Both hands swept up, then folded back to reveal the barrels of twin cyberguns embedded in his forearms.

Stahl ducked and grabbed one of the heavy, stainless steel serving trays from a nearby table. The high-caliber cyberguns opened up in tandem, and bullets whizzed overhead as Stahl ducked. Patrons in the field of fire shrieked and cursed as they scattered and sought shelter.

Frackin’ wannabe, Stahl thought as he stepped in close to the walking gun pod. This close, you don’t let somebody see your little surprises early.

He pressed the serving tray against the human’s gun arms, feeling the bullet impacts dimple the steel, then released the tray with his left hand and drove his stiffened fingers into his opponent’s stomach. The man must have spent all his nuyen on his weps, because he had no subdermal body armor.

Stahl’s hand ripped through flesh and shattered the man’s spine. Paralyzed and dying— unless DocWagon or CrashCart arrived quickly—the man dropped in a heap.

With a quick movement, Stahl shifted his grip on the serving tray to the edge and spun around. For just the barest moment, he feared his right knee wasn’t going to support the suddenness of the movement. He was still on the mend from his last run. The tray crashed into the second ork’s hand as he leveled a Colt Manhunter.

The heavy pistol spun into the air. Even as he jammed the tray’s edge into the ganger’s throat—not hard enough to kill the guy—Stahl plucked the heavy pistol from the air with his free hand. He slid his finger along the trigger guard and held the weapon ready at his side.

Using his peripheral vision, Stahl checked to make sure no one else was buying into the play. He kept the tray poised at the ork’s throat.

Silence reigned over the club as the clientele looked on; even the music had stopped. This was the bloodiest and most lethal night since Stahl had first accepted the club bouncer job five months ago.

“We done here?” he asked the crowd. “Or does anybody else wanna step up? Try your luck?”

No one answered, and several of the other clubgoers found interest in other things.

Bristyl still hovered nearby, her arms wrapped around herself. Desperation blazed in her dark eyes as she stared at Stahl. She was in her twenties, at least a couple years younger than him, and worked as a freelance dataslinger, the legitimate side of decking. Her chin-length black hair emphasized her Chinese features.

Since DocWagon or CrashCart hadn’t arrived, Stahl knew medical rescue wasn’t forthcoming. The man whose spine he’d broken had gone into cardiac arrest. The first ork was dead, his heart shredded by splintered ribs.

Stahl dropped the serving tray from the surviving ork ganger’s throat. “My name’s Stahl. You tell your buddies that as long as I’m at this club, it’s gonna cost them flesh and blood to bring any drek here. You got that?”

The ork summoned up his remaining courage. “You’re a dead man. You made a mistake tonight, and it’s gonna get you killed. I’m gonna come back—”

Never leave anyone behind who can carry a grudge. Every breath they draw could cost you down the road. That was something the combat sergeant Stahl had trained under had reiterated time and again. Enemies that understood they were beaten could be shown mercy.

Stahl grinned coldly. “You know, I think I’ll deliver the message myself.” 

Understanding spread across the ork’s dark face. Fear seeped in right behind it. He turned and tried to run, shoving through the crowd of observers who also wanted to vacate the immediate vicinity.

Stahl let the ork take three steps, then raised the Manhunter and fired one round into the back of the ganger’s head. The bullet cored through the ork’s skull and emptied his brain pan, painting the door ahead of him with blood.

The corpse stumbled and sprawled over a table, scattering a handful of low-level execs slumming to stretch their entertainment accounts. The execs and the joygirls they’d hired scattered like roaches in sudden light. Curses filled the air.

None of them were directed at Stahl.

Stahl dropped the Manhunter on the other dead ork at his feet and tapped his comm. “Mr. Higgins, I’m going to need a clean-up.”

3

As maintenance workers appeared from the club’s back rooms to deal with the corpses, Stahl crossed to Bristyl. As far as he knew, she’d never been inside the place. He’d met her and her daughter because they had a squat in the same building where he lived.

Liquid fear made her eyes glisten. She wore dark street clothes too modest to make her part of the club set, and too cheap to make her part of the corps.

Her British mother had hung around long enough to name her and decide she didn’t like the idea of children. She’d taken off with the first upwardly mobile junior exec that would have her and gotten out of Kowloon City. Bristyl’s fisherman father had raised her on his boat. She’d taught herself programming on an antique deck.

Bristyl held herself tightly. Fear whitened and tightened her face, except for the dark ring of color blossoming around her eye. She tried to speak and couldn’t.

“What’s wrong?” Stahl asked.

Now that the action was over, the club’s patrons started a beeline for the door. No one wanted to be around when the Hong Kong Police Department descended on the Happy Mushroom. Stahl figured the club would probably remain misnamed for the rest of the night, but the clientele would return. They always did.

Bristyl opened her mouth and managed to squeak, “Michelle.”

Michelle was her eight-year-old daughter. Bristyl never went anywhere without her. Neither of them had ever been to the club. Stahl hadn’t even known she was aware he worked there.

Taking Bristyl’s elbow, he guided her around the carnage on the club floor toward the office Bertram Higgins kept in the back. At the door, Stahl slid a palm over the biometric maglock, watched it pulse, then the heavy security door slid aside.

The opulent office was soundproofed to the extent it felt like stepping into another world when the sec door closed behind them. Real wood furniture in black and heavy red lacquer trimmed in silver and bronze flashings anchored an Oriental rug also pattered in deep red and black.

Bertram Higgins stood at the one-way glass, looking out at the club floor. In his seventies, skin bronze from exposure to the elements he’d gotten as a wharf rat, he was slender and immaculate, but had his shirtsleeves rolled up. When the club got busy, he stepped in and helped out at the bar. His black hair was thin on top and had started to turn gray, and he wore it pulled back in a ponytail. A salt-and-pepper thin mustache bisected his long, weathered face.

“Well,” he said as he swirled his brandy glass, “I guess the party’s over for the night.”

“They’ll be back tomorrow.” Stahl guided Bristyl to the nearest couch and she sank into it, clasping her knotted hands over her stomach. “They’ll want to see where everything happened.”

“There is that.” Higgins sipped his drink and glanced at the woman. “Who’s this?”

“A friend.” Stahl got a bottle of water from the small refrigerator by the kidney-shaped desk. He knelt in front of Bristyl and gave her the drink.

“I haven’t ever met any of your friends.” Higgins’s interest was evident. He knew Stahl ran the shadows. A man didn’t get as many scars as he had from living a straight life.

“I don’t claim many.” Stahl took Bristyl’s hands in his. He wished his cyberhands still carried as much heat as his flesh and blood ones, but they didn’t. He had never touched her before.

Startled, perhaps by the physical contact or by the chill of his cyber flesh or because her space had been invaded, Bristyl pulled away. Stahl let her go and felt bad for a moment. Then she reached for him and closed her trembling hands over his.

Stahl locked eyes with Bristyl. She’d always had a hard time looking into his eyes, and he guessed that part of the reason was because they were cobalt-blue cyber, wholly inhuman. He always traded original organics for functionality, not cosmetic reasons. He knew he didn’t look human, and that was fine with him. He was his own warning sign to people, but he was also memorable. That made disguise difficult, though.

“Where’s Michelle?” Stahl knew Bristyl wouldn’t leave her daughter unattended.

“They took her.” Her voice cracked as she put the words together.

“Who?”

She squeezed Stahl’s hands more fiercely. “The Black Chrysanthemums.” 

A chill touched his heart despite the subdermal armor laced to his ribcage and sternum. He knew who the Black Chrysanthemums were and what they represented. He didn’t let his own fear touch his face.

“They took my baby, Stahl. I—I didn’t know where else to go. I didn’t know anyone else to ask for help.” Tears trickled down her face. “I’m sorry to ask you, but I want her back. I want her to be okay, and I didn’t have anyone else to go to. Please help me.” She lost her fragile composure then, sobbing helplessly, and fell forward onto him.

Quietly, Stahl held the woman to his shoulder and felt her shake as she cried. He made soothing sounds, something he hadn’t done in years, and wasn’t sure where he’d even learned how to do it. He’d grown up in halfway houses all around Denver. Then he finished his maturity in corp-sponsored mil-training. They didn’t believe in the softer side of living, either.

“Mr. Higgins,” Stahl said.

“Yes?”

“I gotta do this.”

Higgins hesitated only a moment. “I’ll take care of Hong Kong PD. But if you’re going up against the Chrysanthemums, you’re going to need some help.”

“I know.” Stahl stroked Bristyl’s hair lightly. “I can get help. I need you to watch over Bristyl.”

“I will.”

“Thank you.” Stahl leaned forward and whispered into the woman’s ear. “I’ll get Michelle back. I promise.”

4

Thirty yards from the marine salvage yard gate, Stahl braked his Suzuki Mirage and waited as calmly as he could. Time worked against Bristyl’s daughter, starting with the moment Michelle had been taken, and he couldn’t forget that.

Falling Leaf Salvage was a legitimate business and turned a modest profit every year. The place was old, heaped with wrecked vehicles and tech waiting to be junked or sold for scrap. Tall weeds grew inside the fence, and cybered rats slaved to the sec systems kept watch from the shadows.

Signs on the five-meter high mesh fence around the salvage yard warned of electricity and armed sec drones in five different languages. Astride the flat black street motorcycle, Stahl felt the whisper-soft caress of Gijit’s sec system cycle over him, pinging his PAN. The rigger buzzed personal area networks as a warning that they were being observed. There were no follow-up alerts.

In the next moment, her avatar—a mechanical face with blocky, unfinished features—materialized inside his motorcycle helmet’s faceshield as he allowed it to merge with his PAN’s digital video display.

“Hello, cowboy.” Gijit’s dulcet tones filled the inside of his head. “It’s not like you to drop in unannounced.”

“I’ve got something working.”

A mechanical eyebrow that looked like an iron hyphen lifted. “Something you’re working on? Or something working on you?”

Stahl didn’t think her voice modulation readers could pick anything out of his words. She knew him, and she was intuitive. “A friend of mine is slotted up.”

“I know all your friends.”

“You don’t know this one.”

Gijit hesitated. “It’s not like you to keep secrets from friends.”

“She doesn’t know about you either. This is something separate from the shadows.”

“Oh my. You are the man of mystery tonight.”

Stahl restrained his impatience. None of the people he needed tonight were big on rushing things. They were professionals. Hurrying was what happened when the frog hit the blender on a run gone sour.

“My friend’s got a kid,” Stahl explained. “An eight-year-old girl. The Black Chrysanthemums took her a little over an hour ago.”

The avatar went away and Gijit’s real face—young, attractive, with a pointed chin and red-gold hair—showed on the faceshield. Her olive eyes, ringed with a tinge of copper, narrowed.

“I feel bad for your friend,” Gijit said, “but going up against the Chrysanthemums isn’t something I want to do.”

“Then I’ll do it by myself. Thanks for your time.”

Gijit sighed. “You don’t have to be the hard guy all the time, Stahl. Would it kill you to ask for a favor?”

Actually, Stahl thought it would. He didn’t ask for favors. Favors meant weakness, and weaknesses got runners killed in the shadows. And the kind of favor he would ask for could get a lot of people killed.

“Never mind,” Gijit said. “Come ahead, and let’s take a look.”

In front of him, the heavy steel gates blocking the salvage yard jerked into motion and slid back. Movement flitted around the edges of the shadows as drones painted him with lasers and lit up his PAN’s early warning system. Gijit wasn’t a trusting person.

Stahl twisted the accelerator and powered into the yard. The gates closed behind him. Shiawase Kanmushi quad-leg bugs—“bugs”—and Sikorsky-Bell Microskimmers crept and flitted nearby. The “bugs” and skimmers weren’t armed, but they were tied into the permanent drone sec emplacements that were. So were the ruby-eyed Sumatran rats riddled with cyber.

A door in one of the smaller buildings opened as Stahl rolled toward it. He drove through and parked in the middle of the oil-stained floor. While he took off his helmet, the floor opened and he sank down an elevator shaft. His cyber-eyes kicked into low-light function, and lit up his surroundings.

The elevator cage was small but dropped smoothly. Gijit couldn’t tolerate any mechanical device that didn’t work at peak performance. The cables and gears moved so perfectly there was hardly any noise even while trapped in the elevator shaft.

Gijit waited for him at the bottom. She wore grease-stained coveralls and had black-lensed welding goggles on top of her head that held back her long, red-gold hair and revealed her pointed ears. She was elven, lissome, and beautiful.

Before the Change had hit, and switched her from human to elven, she’d been the daughter of an Alabama NASCAR racer in the Confederated American States. Afterward, her father had disowned her, and thrown her out on the streets. Before and after her Change, she’d loved everything mechanical. NASCAR didn’t allow riggers or metahumans, preferring to keep their sport pure. She’d had to find another outlet for her passion.

Tools and parts from various projects lay in careful order around the spacious room. A half-dozen vehicles, all in various stages of repair and refitting, occupied the outer ring of the room. Chain hoists hung from the ceiling like mechanical squids.

“You got blood on your face.” Gijit wiped Stahl’s cheek with a shop towel. “Something to do with your friend?”

“Club drek. I had to frag three gangers.”

“Bad night.”

“For them. I saw Bristyl at the same time as when they started their hoo-rah. When they pulled guns, I went to Plan B.”

Gijit smiled. “People always die when you go to Plan B.”

“As long as it’s anybody but us that dies, Plan B’s constantly workable.”

Gijit turned and went back to her worktable. “Tell me about your friend.”

Stahl followed her. “I know Bristyl from my squat. She’s got the unit next to mine. She’s a single mom.”

Gijit raised an arched eyebrow and smiled knowingly.

“We’re not involved,” Stahl said, feeling uncomfortable talking about it. “I just like her and respect the relationship she has with her daughter. She’s been a friend. When she’s not writing code, she works at CrashCart. An OR med-tech. Knows her way around needles and thread, laser flesh binders, and pharmaceuticals.” He shrugged. “She’s patched me up a few times when I needed it after the club crowd got cranky. A couple months ago, I left the club tattered and she saw me. Offered to help. I was leaking bad enough that I let her. I like her kid.”

“And her?”

“Nothing like that. You know me.”

Gijit nodded. “I could have patched you up.”

Stahl nodded. Both of them were in Hong Kong on forged visas and hiding under assumed names. Protocol demanded they stay distant from each other. The last run had gotten dicey, and bounties were still being offered for them over the blackboards. They couldn’t afford to show up on any DocWagon or CrashCart accounts yet. Luckily they were still fat from previous runs, and could afford what they needed from other avenues.

“Bristyl took care of it,” he said. He didn’t mention the dinners he’d been invited to, over and over, until he’d finally accepted. Sharing a calm life like Bristyl had with her daughter had been a guilty, and unexpected, pleasure.

“You must trust her.”

“Not the way I trust you.”

Gijit focused on the deck in front of her. The Renraku deck was sleek and new, but she’d added pieces that Stahl didn’t recognize. He doubted the Japanese corp would recognize the additions either.

She didn’t slide inside the Matrix the way a decker did. She knew her way around, but she preferred to stay in the real world when she did her info runs. She remained still as she worked, half in the physical world and half in the Matrix. Stahl had no idea what she saw.

“You trust this woman enough to take on the Black Chrysanthemums for her?” Gijit asked.

“Michelle’s a kid. Eight years old. The Chrysanthemums are flesh traders. No one else is going to go after her. You know what she’s headed for if I don’t find her.”

A frown twisted Gijit’s face. “I know,” she said softly.

In the years he’d known her, Stahl had never asked what Gijit had done in order to survive on the streets after being abandoned by her father. He didn’t want to know. Later, her aptitude for mechanical things provided her a living as a rigger, and she’d run the shadows. For the last three years, she’d run with him.

“I’ll help you if I can,” Gijit said. “But I’m not going to die for some girl I don’t know.”

“I’m not asking you to.”

“Do you know where the girl was taken?”

“Yes.”

“Tell me.”

5

Concentrating on staying patient, Stahl watched Gijit work. She couldn’t slide between the Matrix overlays and through black IC as easily as a true decker could, but she understood sec systems like no one else Stahl knew, because she’d built them. To her, decking and rigging were a hybrid, both combined perfectly.

He tracked her progress through his PAN, joining her Matrix voyage and piggybacking on her efforts as she sped through the maze of sec cam relays throughout the city.

Stahl didn’t care much for the Matrix. He liked cyber, trusted the weight and strength of it, but the Matrix proper was a dizzying experience to him. It was too big, too unknown, and way too dangerous.

He breathed steadily, pulling in oxygen and letting it out. Even though he tried to prevent it, he kept imagining what Michelle might be facing at that moment.

The Black Chrysanthemums came from Macao. The criminal organization took plenty of heat from the Triads and go-gangs that roamed Kowloon City’s streets like hungry wolf packs. But the Chrysanthemums fought tooth and nail for every bit of turf they could acquire.

They primarily stayed within the Walled City, using the slums and dives there to house their human slaves. Victims came from outside China, all of them looking for a better place than where they came from. But the Black Chrysanthemums offered only perpetual servitude that ended when death took them. Either the hapless victims worked themselves into the grave, or they were gutted and pieced out to the organleggers dealing in black market bio goods.

“She looks so innocent,” Gijit said in a whisper.

With a blink, Stahl abandoned his dark thoughts and accessed his PAN to stream the vid feed Gijit had pried into. When he’d totally embraced the PAN feed she juiced his way, he saw with crystal clarity the vid of Bristyl and Michelle outside the bodega where the Black Chrysanthemums had kidnapped the girl.

Michelle was going to be a beauty if she—When she, Stahl corrected himself—grew up. Her long black hair, festooned with colorful beads, reached her hips. She hadn’t attained a woman’s figure yet, and that was something depraved clientele would enthusiastically open their credsticks for.

Outside Festival Walk, the large shopping center in Kowloon Tong, five gangers approached Bristyl and her daughter without warning. Around the mother and daughter, business continued. Vendors sold sweets, knockoff clothing and accessories, and gengineered pets that could approximate low human intelligence.

Moving in sync, the gangers closed on mother and child like a pack of predators. Recognizing the trouble they were suddenly in, Bristyl pulled her daughter to her and looked for a way out of the trap. When she couldn’t find one, she pleaded for help.

That didn’t come. Bristyl’s plaintive cries went unanswered, reverberating inside Stahl’s skull. Bystanders hurriedly took their leave. Mercifully, Gijit cut the audio feed, and the encounter played through in silence.

Instead of using needlers or shockstiks, the Black Chrysanthemums beat Bristyl to the ground in a flurry of punches and kicks and seized Michelle. They hauled the girl—kicking and screaming and fighting for all she was worth—into a dark blue GMC utility van that rolled up alongside them on the street. Vendors and tourists scattered. A man with neon koi tattoos swimming across his arms and shoulders directed the crew. He fired his weapon into the air and created a hole in the traffic for the van to pull away from the curb.

The violence against the two people Stahl had gotten to know over the last few months moved him in a way he hadn’t experienced in a long time. The critical part of his mind, the survivor part he never lost touch with, told him that feeling stemmed from the fact that Bristyl and Michelle were innocents, people he seldom came into contact with in his biz.

And you know them, he told himself. This is personal.

“Can you download this file?” Stahl asked.

Gijit’s face materialized by the dark van as the gangers pulled Michelle toward it again. The rigger frowned in distaste. “Already done.”

“If we can, I want to ID these guys.”

“I’m on it. I’m not going to chance going through Hong Kong PD’s files and alerting whoever the Black Chrysanthemums might have on payroll there, but these guys’ll be listed with bail bondsmen in the city somewhere. If I can’t find them, we’ll call Zephyr, see if he can free up some time to hunt them down.”

Zephyr was a first-class decker who had an interest in gangs and crime lords. He was expensive and always worked for a flat-rate or a piece of the haul. Stahl had used him before. They’d never met in the flesh, but if there was a profit involved, Stahl knew he could trust the decker.

“Let’s try to keep this small for now,” Stahl said. “Treat it like family. If we don’t play this right, it’s going to spill over and we’ll end up slotted.”

And Michelle would end up dead. He didn’t want to have to tell Bristyl that.

Gijit hesitated for a moment, then said what was on her mind. “They took the girl, but left the mother.”

Stahl nodded. He’d noticed that, too.

6

Chow Chong Wei was, according to the Kowloon police departments reports Gijit downloaded, between twenty-five and forty years old. Questions surrounding his various identity files created that discrepancy. The name might not even have been the one he’d been born with.

But when Stahl laid eyes on the man in the Torch Dragon bar, he recognized Chow from the sec vid. The neon koi tattoos on his shoulders stood out against the burnished butter of his skin. He was young and thin, definitely cybered, judging from the way he moved on the dance floor beneath the spinning disco balls. He wore a black leather jacket and black leather pants. A tangerine muscle shirt stretched tightly across his chest.

Several other Black Chrysanthemum members lounged at tables or danced with joygirls bought for the evening. All of them wore the gang’s tangerine and black colors.

The club was in the heart of the Walled City, tangled in the roots of one of the multi-storied office buildings that cluttered the city’s airspace. Locals hated the loss of the view as the skyscrapers rose into the sky, but nuyen bought all the necessary government permits. There was no stopping progress when profit was involved. A red, neon-lit display broadcast a long, snakelike dragon with a human face running around and around the walls.

A pair of club bouncers stepped into Stahl’s path. Both were Chinese and wore light armor over their black uniforms.

“I’m here on personal biz,” Stahl declared in Putonghua as he stopped in front of the men. “Unless this dive is paying you two enough to die for it, step off.”

Under his long duster, two Ceska Black Scorpion machine pistols hung in shoulder leather. A katana rested upside down in a breakaway sheath from his shoulders, so the hilt rode just below his hip, where a single twist would free it.

Both bouncers were young and hard. The street had stamped its mark in their wary eyes and on their scarred faces.

“Can’t do that.” One of them popped a set of forearm snapblades eight inches long that glinted in the light.

“I have them,” Gijit said over Stahl’s commlink.

“Enjoy the headache,” he growled.

Two microskimmers streaked past Stahl and landed on the bouncers’ faces. Before the men could respond, the skimmers thrust injectors into their eyes and flooded their nervous systems with paralyzing toxin made by a local urban shaman. Both dropped without a sound as Stahl strode past them.

Nearby patrons witnessing the brief confrontation hastily moved aside. A dozen more toxin-laden skimmers sailed into the club and remained unnoticed in the dizzying array of light and darkness. Gijit’s swarm targeted their enemies, and the gangers began dropping in quick succession.

Stahl triggered his adrenal pump and electricity buzzed through his nervous system, amping him up. The world around him slowed. The lights seemed brighter and the noise turned sharper. His wired reflexes came online, and he moved smooth as nanitepaste.

The dancers didn’t have time to evacuate the area. Stahl drew the Scorpions and stepped through the clubgoers. He locked on Chow, and let Gijit’s skimmers build the defensive grid around him, ready and able to take down anyone who came at him. He watched as the skimmers uploaded intel that formed a 360-degree map of the club in his head. Years of training and life on the battlefield had taught him to keep the two images—what he actually saw and what the skimmers uploaded to him—separate yet integrated.

No one knew the club floor better than he did at that moment.

Two Black Chrysanthemums recognized him as a threat and went for the weapons under their jackets. Without breaking stride, without turning his head, Stahl accessed his smart-links and triggered a three-round burst from each machine pistol.

The bullets caught the men in their heads and threw them backward in bloody sprays that splashed across the darting neon torch dragon. He wasn’t going to show the slavers any mercy.

Mass hysteria hit the club then, but everyone moved in stop-motion jerkiness.

Gijit’s skimmers, flying at the same frenzied speed as Stahl because the rigger’s senses turned hyper when she was interlaced with her equipment, landed on other gangers. They delivered lethal toxins this time. Stahl wanted a message sent, and he wanted its meaning perfectly clear.

One of the gangers threw himself over his table like some BTL hero. The pistol in his hand blazed, but the double-action firing seemed slow to Stahl. A quick adjustment allowed Stahl to pump three rounds through the man’s head while he was diving. By the time the ganger hit the floor, he was an organlegger prize, ready to be ripped and stripped by the first jackal that reached him.

Chow’s own wired reflexes surged into action, and he stepped from slow to Stahl’s real-time in a heartbeat. The Fichetti Security 600 pistol in his hand flared to life. Bullets thudded against Stahl’s coat and tracked upward, but the armor shed the light-caliber rounds easily. Before Chow could adjust his aim, twenty rounds of the thirty-round magazine were spent.

Throwing himself forward, Stahl swept the Scorpion in his left hand around and knocked the Fichetti from Chow’s grip. The ganger tried to dive for his weapon. Stahl slammed his other machine pistol against the back of Chow’s head, then lifted a knee into his opponent’s face as it descended.

Chow headed for the ground. His wired reflexes stuttered to life, helping him catch himself only centimeters from faceplanting into the floor. Screams and alarms now mixed with the throbbing techno beat.

Still in motion, Stahl stomped on Chow’s neck, rolled his foot, and drove the man’s forehead into the floor. Chow and his wired reflexes went offline.

Three other gangers took defensive positions behind the bar, a table, and a support pillar. They fired at Stahl, but the street samurai shifted aside, and the bullets sliced through the space he had occupied. None of his opponents were wired. He bracketed one of the gangers in two three-round bursts while Gijit’s microskimmers dealt with the other two.

The rest of the club’s clientele chose survival over valor, beating hasty retreats through the front and rear entrances. Dead Black Chrysanthemums littered the floor.

Stahl sheathed the machine pistol in his left hand and hooked his fingers in Chow’s belt. With the unconscious ganger hefted over his shoulder, he strode out of the club. By the time he reached the street, Gijit rolled a sedan to a stop at the curb.

The trunk opened and Stahl dumped his captive into the large space. He frisked Chow and tossed the ganger’s weapons into the street, then bound his hands and feet with plastic cuffs.

Satisfied that Chow wasn’t going anywhere, Stahl opened the passenger door and dropped into the seat. No one sat behind the steering wheel. Hooked into the vehicle’s onboard systems, Gijit took off at once. The boosted power plant shoved Stahl back into his seat.

“What about the sec cams?” Stahl swept the local businesses with his gaze. Flesh and blood witnesses could be a problem, but electronic surveillance was hard to beat.

“I’ve got them all slotted for now.” Gijit’s face looked serene on the vehicle’s vidscreen. She was always at peace when she was driving. “Nobody saw us.”

Stahl remained silent. The necessary payback for using the adrenal pump and the wired reflexes kicked in and turned him mush-headed. He hated the helpless feeling he got after using the cyberware, but that was the price that had to be paid.

He dozed as Gijit drove, trusting her as he had so many times before.

7

Stahl rode piggyback while Gijit contacted Yung Li Chan, Chow’s boss in the Black Chrysanthemums. Despite her explanation this time and on several other occasions, Stahl still didn’t know how she managed to negate her quarry’s sec systems and contact him without getting caught. All that mattered was that she was able to do it.

The bloody action at the bar hardly rated a sound bite on the news, and was promptly forgotten. Murders happened frequently in Kowloon City. Very seldom did the victims turn out to be anyone of interest to the public.

Or they were never identified.

Gijit shoved a message through to Yung’s PAN. She wasn’t good enough to load it with anything nasty, designer spyware or malware, but she could upload the message and keep her own system from being infected by anything toxic.

>Do you want Chow back in one piece?

Short and sweet. And untraceable, Gijit claimed. She remained locked into the Matrix, waiting for a return on the drop she’d set up.

The reply came within two hours. It actually took less time than Stahl thought it would have, but he remained acutely aware of how long two hours could be for an eight-year-old girl in the wrong hands.

>What do you want?

Stahl let out half a breath. It was time to play the game.

>500,000 Nuyen.

If he mentioned the girl, Stahl knew he’d lose all bargaining power. Yung would kill Michelle simply as an object lesson. The ransom wasn’t going to be paid no matter what, but Yung would pretend at least long enough to lure in anyone that had defied him. Chow’s life wasn’t what was hanging in the balance. It was Yung’s face and iron grip over his business. He couldn’t afford to lose respect in the shadows.

>Chow isn’t worth that to me.

The words hung in mid-air over the holo-pad Gijit had rigged to show the conversation. Stahl glanced over his shoulder at Chow, who sat manacled and bloody in a chair behind them.

“Your boss doesn’t think much of you,” Stahl said.

Chow glared at him. Bruises darkened his face, and dried blood streaked one temple and his jaw.

“How much do you think he’ll pay?” Stahl asked.

“Get fracked,” Chow croaked through his swollen lips. He tried to add more to the glare, but it was hard with one eye swollen shut and the other nearly so.

Stahl turned to Gijit. “Tell him we’ll try selling Chow to the other triads or the corps. Someone will want to know how Yung does business.”

“You ask me,” the rigger responded, “you’re setting your sights too high. I bet Chow doesn’t go for over twenty-five thousand.” But she entered the message all the same.

Yung kept trying to haggle, but Stahl held firm. Yung agreed to the terms, and Stahl asked for a meeting place. After further haggling, they agreed on Festival Walk, a massive, multi-storied shopping center filled with escalators and hundreds of shops. The area, Stahl knew, would be a nightmare for Yung to try to control. Especially with all the onsite sec.

>When do you wish to meet?

Stahl pulled up the time on his PAN. It was 0113 Kowloon time. There was still plenty of life in the night, and Festival Walk operated around the clock.

>0230.

Time stretched for a moment. Stahl knew Yung wouldn’t be happy with the short time frame. The time squeezed Stahl’s rescue op as well.

>That isn’t enough time to get the ransom together.

>Then Chow’s dead.

>All right. We’ll meet.

“Break the connection,” Stahl told Gijit.

She did.

“Did he find you?” Stahl asked.

Gijit grinned. “His decker found the front I set up in Central Plaza in Victoria Harbour. I left enough foolies to keep him busy for a while.”

Tension thrummed inside Stahl as he took a deep breath and let it out. He turned back to Chow.

“Do you think Yung wants you back?” Stahl asked. “Or do you think he really just wants the chance to kill me?”

Chow cursed at him.

“Yeah, I’m favoring the ‘kill me’ part, too.” Stahl smiled as he drew one of the Scorpions. “That’s a game your boss and I are going to play. You and me? We’re going to play another game.”

Visibly shaken, Chow swallowed hard.

“You’re going to tell me what I want to know,” Stahl said in a quiet, cool voice, “or I’m going to take a long time to kill you. There won’t be enough of you left to interest an organlegger.”

8

The Singing Dragon sat at anchor in Kowloon Harbor. Old and decrepit, the freighter looked like her best days had passed her by long ago. Rust covered her so thickly that her name barely stood out on her prow. The anchor chain, links as thick as a ’roided ogre, held the ship steady three hundred meters from shore. She flew a Panamanian flag, and her registration came out of that country as well.

Stahl knew a lot of pirates in the South China Seas claimed homeport in Panama. The Aztlan government profited from the taxes levied on the ships and asked no questions.

Around the ship, the harbor lights barely broke the darkness. Sec lights followed the narrow walkways between the docks, encircled the warehouses, and stood out on patrol vehicles. Farther back, the neon madness of the sprawl caught fire, spreading back into Kowloon City like a prairie blaze.

A crosswind buffeted Stahl as he stood on the stern deck of the powerboat Gijit had liberated for tonight’s run. He raked the ship once again with his cybered vision, spotting only a handful of guards with his thermographic vision.

“I count five,” Stahl said.

“Six,” Gijit corrected. “There’s one that hasn’t walked into your line of sight. He’s on the starboard side.”

The rigger was tied into a LEO—low-earth orbit—satellite currently cruising over Kowloon. The window of time spanned the next seventy-two minutes—if the hack into the sat system didn’t get noticed. Hopefully, that was more than enough time to accomplish what Stahl wanted to do.

They’d had to pay Zephyr for the sat connect, and the decker had accomplished the task readily enough to make it seem easy, and had even given them a discount once he’d found out what it was for. Zephyr hated slavery rings, and Stahl suspected there were personal reasons why, but he’d never asked.

“Any of ’em cybered?” Stahl asked.

“Two, at least. The movements are too smooth to be wholly human. There’ll be others inside the ship.”

“I know.”

“I still don’t see Michelle’s heat signature.” The girl’s would be smaller.

“She’s there. This is where the gangers store their cargo before leaving port.”

“She can’t be the only person these cretins have captured. There have to be others.”

“Then they’ve got them in a shielded holding cell. If the prisoners could be spotted easily, they wouldn’t be able to get out of Hong Kong with them.” Disguise, lies, and no-name credsticks always wove a delicate web of criminal industry.

“Maybe Chow lied to us. We lied to him.”

“Only one way to find out.”

Gijit fell silent and Stahl knew she was checking the feed loops broadcasting back from the bugs and microskimmers. She didn’t like being on the sidelines, but she also knew she was more helpful there than in the field. She wasn’t a fighter or a shooter. She needed the distance her cyber constructs gave her.

Dressed in a wet suit, Stahl reached into the duffel beside him and took out his gear. He pulled on a pair of swim fins, a mask, and a micro-rebreather that fit into his mouth and used tech to draw oxygen from the water.

Then he strapped his weapons into place. The Scorpions slid into waterproof shoulder leather, a pair of silenced Ares Predator IV pistols rode his thighs in drop rigging, the sword and a Mossberg AM-CMDT hung down his back. He also carried explosive foam and a half-dozen flash-bang grenades in the tactical webbing spidered over his body armor.

“Even with Yung pulling his people in for the make-believe meeting at Central Plaza and skinning this crew down, I don’t like the odds,” Gijit said.

“Neither do I. But she’s eight. I’m not going to walk away from this.” Stahl concentrated on returning Michelle to Bristyl. That was the endgame.

Gijit sighed. “I know.”

“You don’t have to be part of this.”

“As long as you’re here, I’m here.”

“Then let’s get it done.” Stahl slid the rebreather into his mouth, threw a small waterproof bag over his shoulder, and slid into the dark, cold water.

Stahl swam easily, drawing long strokes and kicking with his cybered legs. He didn’t go fast enough to trigger the sec alarms guarding the harbor, and Zephyr had managed to slip a foolie jammer into the Singing Dragon’s sec systems that allowed him to shut down the ship’s underwater sonar sec systems for a short period of time without alerting anyone who might be watching.

At the moment, Yung and the Black Chrysanthemums would be hunting ghosts at Central Plaza. Stahl intended to be gone from the freighter before the rest of the gang came back.

When he reached the ship, he put the rebreather into his vest webbing, took off the flippers, pulled on a pair of all-weather Ares Sure-Tread combat boots, and juiced the magnetic attraction in his cyberhands to climb up the freighter’s side. He made no noise as he ascended. By the time he’d reached the deck, Gijit’s deadly microskimmers had swarmed out of the night.

Upending the waterproof bag he’d carried, Stahl dumped another two dozen “bugs” onto the deck. They’d act as scouts, explorers, early warning system, and—with DMSO pellets loaded with nerve toxins—discreet backup if the run turned nasty.

Stahl knew he’d be blown at the first confrontation that went ballistic because the guards would all be wired together, so he unlimbered the Mossberg and stepped into the shadows of the containers that littered the deck.

According to the ship’s manifest, the Singing Dragon carried farm equipment, sugar, and canned foods, all bound for Third World nations. Of course, to get those goods, the vessel had to go to the countries that produced them. She covered the west coast of North America, stopping in at the UCAS and Cali Free State. While picking up trade goods in those places, they offloaded the slaves, which got trafficked to various end users such as pleasure palaces, as well as labor farms and sweat shops. Slaves were always cheaper than tech.

Gijit’s “bugs” came on-line, interfacing with his PAN immediately. For a moment, Stahl was almost buried in the sensory overload.

“You chill?” she asked.

“Yes.” Shaking off the extended-sensory effects, Stahl crept forward through the cargo containers secured to the main deck. A real-time blueprint of the ship played in his vision and a mini-map of his location on the vessel occupied the lower left corner. He carried the Mossberg in both hands. The shotgun’s fire selector was set to semi-auto. He approached the hold, waited just a moment till one of Gijit’s bugs sprayed the lock with a burst of acidic venom, watched the dissolved metal run down the side, and then lifted the hatch so the microskimmers could invade the ship’s belly.

Shifting through the available optics, Stahl chose a bug feed. The drone’s infra-red feed revealed the ship’s waist, the deck sandwiched between the cargo hold and the main deck. Drawing a smooth breath, Stahl flicked through four bug views and saw nothing.

The nearest guard stood stationary twenty-three-point-six meters east of the hold. Stahl guessed the guy was online with someone or cruising a better-than-life chip. Organic drugs weren’t the only thing available in Kowloon. Some of the best BTL chips were manufactured here.

Slinging the shotgun over his shoulder, Stahl gripped the hold’s edges and lowered himself to the next deck. His cybered eyes transitioned immediately, and the darkness inside the ship evaporated. He drew one of the silenced Ares pistols and felt the targeting lock into his cyber.

“Chow could have been lying,” Gijit said quietly. “The girl might not be there.”

“Do you think he was lying?”

Gijit hesitated. “No. But I still don’t like the situation.”

Stahl didn’t either. Closed-in spaces could be beneficial, but there was a lot of open water around Singing Dragon if things went sideways. He’d planned for that. “Girl’s alone. I won’t let this one go ’til I verify.”

“I know.”

A short distance down the hallway, two men turned a corner and spotted Stahl. Both wore gang colors and they tried to bring their machine pistols to bear. Without breaking stride, he put a frangible round into each man’s face, then fired a follow-up round into their heads again as they fell. The suppressor kept the shots practically inaudible against the rhythmic sloshing of the waves slapping the hull.

Stahl keep moving, knowing that his eventual discover by the gangers was only seconds away. All it would take was one missed communication, one man in the wrong place at the right time.

Plumbing rumbled in a room to his left. He followed the noise into a small crew’s cabin, moving in long strides. The bathroom door opened in the back to reveal a ganger stepping out. Eyes suddenly wide when he saw Stahl right in front of him, the man groped for the pistol at his hip and opened his mouth to cry out a warning into his comm.

Still moving, Stahl fired, putting a bullet through the ganger’s gaping mouth. The impact snapped his head back. His next round exploded the target’s throat. Stahl put his shoulder into the man’s chest, knocking him back into the bathroom, then shut the door.

Three men were down. That left three more to go.

9

Back in the corridor, Stahl increased his pace, stepped across the two corpses there, pausing only long enough to pluck a comm from a ganger’s ear and shove it into place so he could eavesdrop. He swapped magazines in the pistol so he’d be at maximum capacity again.

Although he listened intently, all he heard was the ocean and the ship’s operational noises. Somewhere a generator labored, creating power to keep electricity flowing throughout the ship.

Stahl checked the rooms as he passed them, only giving them cursory checks to verify what his thermographics and Gijit told him. No one was there.

But there were three more. At least three more. He kept that thought in his head, the first thing after Michelle’s safety.

“Yung Li Chan’s people aren’t at the Central Plaza dropsite.” Tension clouded Gijit’s voice.

That news was unsettling, and Stahl hesitated for only a moment. This far into enemy territory, his op intel needed to be on spot.

“I’m checking the dropsite, but I don’t see them anywhere.” Anxiety tightened Gijit’s voice.

“Maybe they’re running late, or maybe they’re checking the twenty out more closely.”

“We’re five minutes in. He wouldn’t be that late. You need to flush this one.”

“I’m almost there.”

“We don’t have a handle on this.”

“Then we find one.”

“Those are your rules. You made them, remember? Something’s off, we scatter.”

“Then scatter. I’m here.” Stahl reached the stairs that led down to the hold while Gijit cursed him in a low voice and a lot of feeling. She didn’t like runs that didn’t go as they planned. Stahl didn’t care for it either, but he liked the idea of Michelle in the hands of human traffickers even less.

Now that he was closer, Michelle’s heat signature showed up. At least, he thought the orange and yellow silhouette belonged to her. It was the smallest of the eleven heat signatures inside a confined space in the stern of the ship where he was headed.

“Stahl—”

“I’m going in.” He scanned the catwalks surrounding the cargo area and the block-and-tackle assembly used to offload freight on either side of the hold. For a merchant ship, Singing Dragon didn’t have much in the way of goods. Of course, additional cargo could come in the morning before she weighed anchor.

Three guards roamed the well-lit area and looked sharp, more alert than the first three. That lizard brain warning trilled to full attention in the back of Stahl’s mind, and sharpening his senses. “Pull out. Something’s not right here.”

“I’m not leaving you.”

A handful of microskimmers brushed by Stahl and hummed toward the guards. One of the guards detected the winged invaders, turned with a pistol in his hand. The silencer throbbed and the frangible round smashed into the microskimmer. A brief flicker of sparks spurted in mid-air and the tiny unit’s vid went off-line.

“Someone’s here!” The man pulled up his weapon again and managed to knock another microskimmer from the air. The mini-drone following the two sped into the man’s throat and pumped his jugular full of paralytic. Stiff and overcome, the guard toppled over the catwalk railing and dropped seven meters to the cargo floor with a thud.

Both of the other guards fell in their tracks, managing to fire harmless rounds into the air.

“I’m going for the girl.” Stahl raced across the intervening space, dodging crates and barrels till he reached the far side of the hold. He cleared his vision of Gijit’s bugs, relying on her to tell him if there were any problems.

He reached the bulkhead where the heat signatures were. The people inside the metal wall shifted nervously, dropping down to present smaller targets. Michelle—if that’s who it was—hunkered down in a corner.

A public address system keyed up with a burst of static that echoed within the cavernous space of the hold.

“Ah, Mr. Stahl, I see you made it to my ship.”

At the prow end, a bright light flashed on inside a room that hung from the ceiling. A slim, dapper man stood on the other side of the floor-to-ceiling transparent barrier that allowed him to look down on Stahl. He wore a black suit and his black hair was combed back from his high forehead. The short-cropped beard made his thin face look broader and stronger.

Six men in heavy armor stood behind him holding Ares 97 assault rifles at the ready. Evidently the room they were in offered protection from thermographic optics, because Stahl still couldn’t see them until he switched back to normal vision.

“Yung Li Chan, I presume?” Stahl asked.

The man nodded and smiled. “I am he.”

“Not so interested in Chow, I take it.”

“I’m playing for higher stakes than an underling who cannot keep himself safe.”

“Okay,” Gijit called over his comm’s secondary frequency, the encrypted one that Yung and his men couldn’t break so easily. “Bastian is in position.”

“You’re not concerned about your own safety?” Stahl asked.

Yung held his hands out to his sides. “I should be concerned? You have stepped into my trap.”

“This is a trap?”

 “Yes, Mr. Stahl, and if someone did not want you alive, you would have already been dead tonight.” Yung snapped his fingers.

Whirring echoed behind Stahl, and he borrowed the vidfeed from one of the nearby microskimmers. On the bulkhead above him, four slots opened up and automated machine gun turrets dropped into place. As one, they swiveled immediately and locked onto Stahl.

10

Stahl didn’t bother to turn around. The machine guns were Gijit’s lookout, and Bastian was waiting for the order to go ahead with his end of the op. An elven urban shaman with ties to the sea, Bastian had made certain his approach to Singing Dragon had escaped notice as well. Gijit had prepped the mini-submarine where Bastian waited. He was a backup to the mechanical rescue plan.

Activating his wired reflexes, Stahl leathered the Ares and freed one of the Scorpions. As soon as he had the machine pistol in his hands, he raked the transparent barrier with a short burst, stitching from left to right. The Scorpion held armor-piercing rounds that penetrated the barrier only a few centimeters. The steel-jacketed bullets remained embedded in the transparent surface, glinting as the lights in the cargo hold rolled with the waves.

A short burst from one of the turret guns smashed into Stahl’s back, knocking him to his knees. The armor kept the bullets from tearing through him, as Yung doubtlessly knew it would. Or maybe the man figured a doc could patch Stahl back up enough to save him from death.

On the other side, the man smiled at him. “Your bullets are quite useless, I’m afraid.” He made a fist and knocked on the barrier. “This is bulletproof, as you can see.”

As if he didn’t believe the man, Stahl forced himself to stand and fired another series of rounds, this time tracking from the bottom to the top, laying them right over Yung. Despite his protection, Yung flinched this time and took a half-step back.

Again, the rounds embedded in the translucent wall.

Instead of standing still, Stahl dodged behind a stack of crates. Heavy-caliber rounds shredded the crates and cored into the farming equipment inside, but the industrial grade metal proved more durable than the bullets.

“Do not waste my time, Mr. Stahl. The man who paid for you wants you alive, but that does not mean you have to be all in one piece. There is a lot that I can do to you during our voyage that will make you wish I’d killed you.”

Overhead, the machine gun turrets slid along tracks, shifting into new positions.

“I have them, Stahl.” Gijit’s determination underscored her words. “But you’re going to owe me.”

“I already do.” Stahl raised his voice. “I’ll give you one chance to surrender so you can tell me the name of the man who set you onto my scent, Yung.”

The ganger leader snarled and cursed in Mandarin as well as English. “I was told to bring you to this man alive if I could, but dead if I could not. I mean to earn the bonus.”

“Greed will get a man killed quicker than anything,” Stahl said. “You think I didn’t know this was a trap? You think my team and I didn’t know you were listening in on our comms?”

“Lies!”

Stahl shifted, finding better cover as the machine gun turrets kept sliding. “You wanted me out of the club so you could work off the grid. You didn’t want law enforcement looking for you. If I came to you, that gave you deniability. If I’d been desperate, I would have gone to the Kowloon City police.”

“They would have locked you up. You have outstanding warrants.”

Stahl ignored that. “What tipped me off is that your guys only seized the girl. If they were looking for merchandise to sell overseas, they would have taken her mother, too. You left her free to identify who took her daughter. I knew what I was walking into, and now I’m giving you the same chance to surrender that you offered me.”

“You are on my ship,” Yung said. “There is nowhere for you to go.”

“Okay, then. After what your gangers did to Bristyl, I wasn’t inclined to let you walk away from this anyway.” Stahl reached into his tactical armor for the detonator he’d prepped. “Bastian.”

“Coming…now.” Bastian’s voice was dulcet and unhurried.

Singing Dragon lurched hard to port, and klaxons screamed out warnings. Red lights along the ceiling dawned and flashed along the walls as they spun. The ship vibrated and a deep, basso hum filled the hold.

“Get ready,” Gijit warned.

Through the vidfeeds from the bugs, Stahl watched as the remaining units streaked for the machine gun turrets. The machine guns unleased waves of heavy-caliber rounds. The bugs reached three of the turrets and the resulting explosions ripped the weapons apart, dropping them in smoking chunks to the floor.

“I can’t get the last one, Stahl!”

Stahl stepped from hiding and pointed the Scorpion at the last machine gun as it turned on him. As soon as he was firing, when he saw a cluster of the rounds had embedded in the metal around the turret and the machine gun, he pressed the detonator in his hand.

The explosive rounds buried in the machine gun and in the translucent wall detonated. The concentrated semtex cores within the rounds contained enough destructive force to blast the machine gun emplacement to pieces and shatter the barrier. Firing the explosive rounds had armed them for the detonator.

The blast scattered Yung’s men and made the floor of the suspended room tilt down. Three of the guards dropped to the floor. Only one landed on his feet.

Squatting to take advantage of the industrial machines in front of him, Stahl ignored the bullets flying in his direction. He swapped magazines in the Scorpion, then took up the other one as well. Switching to thermographic vision, he watched the eleven prisoners in the hidden space rushing toward the submersible where Bastian was. A moment later, the twelve heat signatures started dwindling, turning blue as the ocean’s chill swept around them. On the heels of that, the ship listed, letting Stahl know the sea was leaking in through the outer hull where Gijit’s other drones had cut through.

“I’ve got them,” Bastian said. “They’re safe. Get out of there. That ship’s going down, probably quickly.”

“Got a couple things here to tidy up first.” Stahl set the Scorpions on the tractor parts in front of him, then filled his hands with grenades. “Gijit, take out the electricity.”

“They’re still going to have reserve power for emergency lights.”

“Do it.”

The bright lights overhead went out, and shadows filled the cargo hold for a moment before red backup lights flashed on.

Stahl threw the ordnance from memory, placing two high-ex grenades under Yung’s observation point where at least three of the guards were. Then he threw two more toward the opening in the broken barrier.

Yung screamed at his guards in Mandarin, ordering them to protect him.

The grenades went off in a string of bright, hot blasts. The heat blew over Stahl as he squatted down again and readied his final two grenades. Trapped in the enclosed hold, the thunder of the explosions was loud, but Stahl felt the air displacement more than he heard the noise after his audio compensators filtered out the worst of the detonations.

As soon as the last of the grenades exploded, Stahl hurled the two he held and closed his eyes tightly. The flash-bangs filled the vicinity with more booming echoes and bright lights that temporarily robbed the guards of whatever nightvision they might have had.

Once the light had dimmed, Stahl stood and switched over to nightvision. The darkness thinned to the point where he could clearly see. Mercilessly, he started forward and emptied the machine pistols at one of the guards on ground level and another who dropped from above. The first man, his face shredded, fell back against the bulkhead. The dropping man sprawled across the floor.

Leathering the empty Scorpions, Stahl slid the Mossberg shotgun from his back and kept the stock folded, relying on the pistol grip and his own strength to control it. He put a blast of double-ought buckshot through the wounded man’s faceplate and glanced up just in time to see one of the guards remaining above leaning over the sagging platform. Stahl whipped the shotgun up and fired twice more. One of the blasts took the man’s head away.

Without a word, Stahl holstered the shotgun, juiced his palms with magnetic fields, and climbed up the wall under the platform. He heard someone moving around above him, trying to be stealthy.

“Where are you? I can’t see you!” Gijit was torn between frustration, anger, and fear.

When he reached the platform, Stahl curled his fingers around it and held on while the red emergency lights flickered around him and the klaxons screamed into the air.

“Singing Dragon is pinging the harbor master that something has happened. Harbor rescue is going to be on top of you. Damnit, Stahl!”

Furtive rat noises continued on the platform. At least one person was still alive up there.

“Stahl!” Yung cried out. “We can make a deal! I can help you! I can pay you for my life!”

Shifting and pulling, letting his cyber muscle do the heavy lifting, Stahl swung himself up, switching off the magnetic fields in his hands and kicking off the wall behind him. Tucking his legs, he flipped onto the platform. His arm snaked behind his back and the katana filled his hand. The blade ripped free of the sheath with a sibilant hiss.

Red light flickered along the blade’s keen edge as he lifted it to address Yung. “Tell me who set you onto me.”

“I can pay you.” Yung cowered against the back wall. A pistol was in his hand, but he made no attempt to use it.

“Cred’s no good to a dead man. I don’t need somebody looking for me.”

Yung considered that. His eyes were round with fear, and he lowered the pistol a little. “Give me your word of honor that you will not kill me if I reveal the name.”

“All right.”

“Swear this to me.”

Stahl lowered his sword. “I do.”

“The woman’s name was Fereshteh.” Yung swallowed hard. “That is all I know, and even that may not be true, but it is all I have.”

“Fereshteh?” Gijit sounded apoplectic. “She’s supposed to be dead in Peru.”

Stahl was thinking maybe the woman wasn’t dead enough, but that was biz for another day. He stared at Yung, and the man took a step back.

“You said you would let me go,” Yung protested.

“I lied.”

“You swore on your honor.”

“Honor only works between men of honor. You’re a slaver and have no honor, Yung, and I don’t suffer flesh peddlers to live. It’s nothing personal. Just biz.”

Yung moved faster than Stahl would have believed. The ganger leader brought up the big pistol and managed to pull the trigger before he swung the sword. The bullet rocked Stahl back at the same time Yung’s head left his shoulders.

Taking a cautious breath, Stahl stretched and sheathed the sword.

“Stahl?”

“We’re done here.” Stahl vaulted over the railing and dropped to the tilted floor as Singing Dragon listed more to port, settling deeper into the water. By the time he reached the deck, water cascaded over the coaming, and the blue and white lights of the harbor patrol boats approached at full speed.

After fitting the microbreather into his mouth, Stahl dove over the side and swam to shore, taking a course that took him away from the harbor patrol vessels. His thoughts were of Fereshteh and the Ghost Cartel she had worked for. Stahl and his team had been hired to put them out of business, and they had.

Evidently, something had been left undone. But that was for another day.

Epilogue

The Night Market on Temple Street was still in full swing when Stahl arrived with Michelle to meet Bristyl. The marketplace was open till midnight most days, and remained in constant motion, trading with tourists as well as those who lived in Kowloon. Usually it started shutting down at 2200 hours, and coasted to a halt afterward before revving back up the next morning.

Hawkers for pirated BTL chips, simsenses, and knockoff clothing and accessories attempted to engage Stahl as he walked by. He ignored them, as well as the herbalists, shamans, and fortune-tellers.

Michelle held his hand, but didn’t talk much. Pensive and scared, she looked for her mother. Gijit’s microskimmers kept watch from nearby, and Bastian clung to the shadows, watching their six.

“Momma!” Michelle released Stahl’s hand and bolted across the short expanse where Bristyl sat at a small teahouse.

With a cry of joy, Bristyl ran to her daughter, dropping to her knees to throw her arms around the girl. They hugged and talked to each other with tears in their eyes while Stahl watched over them.

After a few moments, Bristyl gathered herself and stood, holding her daughter in her arms. “How can I thank you?”

“You may not feel the same way in a few minutes.” Stahl took a breath. “The men who took Michelle were after me. It’s old biz I gotta get squared away. The Black Chrysanthemums shouldn’t be a problem anymore, but I don’t know if that’s true. I’ve arranged for you and Michelle to have new identities somewhere else.”

“But…this is our home.” Bristyl’s voice turned hollow with disbelief.

Stahl shook his head. “Not anymore. Not if you want to be safe.”

“This should be over.”

“It’s not. The people who went to this trouble to get me, they’ll try again. And next time I won’t be there to stop them. I can’t. They’ll kill you, and they’ll kill your child. You need to understand that.”

“What will we do?”

Stahl nodded at one of the fortune-teller shops. A lean, old, elven woman stood outside. She wore elegant robes that looked gaudy, but matched the neon splendor of the marketplace. “I’m leaving you with someone that will get you out of Kowloon, out of China if you want. Anywhere you want to go. I can give you enough credits to get started and take things easy for a few months, but you’ll have to earn your own way eventually.”

“Now?”

“Now. Get a job in a corp decking. Somewhere safe.”

“But, my father…”

“I saved you and your daughter tonight, Bristyl. I didn’t save your lives here. You have to understand that. Maybe arrangements can be made for your father to join you later.”

Slowly, Bristyl nodded, the slow acceptance of the situation settling onto her like a heavy weight. “We didn’t deserve this. This shouldn’t have happened to us.”

“No.” Stahl felt bad about how things had turned out, but he couldn’t put that into words. There was no time, and there was no apology good enough.

“Will we ever see you again?”

“If you do, it means something has gone wrong.”

Timidly, Bristyl hugged Stahl. The little girl kissed him on his cheek.

He watched them walk away before slipping back into the shadows and starting to think about what might be waiting for him in Peru.

About the Authors

Annie Bellet is the author of The Twenty-Sided Sorceress, Pyrrh Considerable Crimes Division and the Gryphonpike Chronicles series. Her short fiction work is available in multiple collections and anthologies. Her interests besides writing include rock climbing, reading, horse-back riding, video games, comic books, table-top RPGs, and many other nerdy pursuits.  She lives in the Pacific Northwest with her husband and a very demanding Bengal cat.

Dylan Birtolo resides in the Pacific Northwest where he spends his time as a writer, a gamer, and a professional sword-swinger. His thoughts are filled with shape shifters, mythological demons, and epic battles. He’s published a few fantasy novels and several short stories. He trains with the Seattle Knights, an acting troop that focuses on stage combat, and has performed in live shows, videos, and movies. He jousts, and yes, the armor is real—it weighs more than 100 pounds. You can read more about him and his works at www.dylanbirtolo.com or follow his twitter at DylanBirtolo.

Jennifer Brozek is a freelance author for numerous RPG companies. Winner of both the Origins and the ENnie award, her contributions to RPG sourcebooks include Dragonlance, Colonial Gothic, Shadowrun, Serenity, Savage Worlds, and White Wolf SAS as well as the long running Battletech webseries, The Nellus Academy Incident. She has also written for the AAA MMO Aion and the award-winning videogame Shadowrun Returns. When she is not writing her heart out, she gallivants around the Pacific Northwest in its wonderfully mercurial weather. Read more about her at www.jenniferbrozek.com or follow her on Twitter at @JenniferBrozek.

Stephen Dedman is the author of the novels Shadowrun: A Fistful of Data and the urban fantasy trilogy The Art of Arrow Cutting, Shadows Bite, and Savage Gods. His short stories have been published in an eclectic range of magazines and anthologies and reprinted in his collections The Lady of Situations and Never Seen by Waking Eyes. He has been GMing Shadowrun since 1990, and written sourcebooks and adventures for a variety of other role-playing games. For an up-to-date bibliography, see www.stephendedman.com.

Maxwell Alexander Drake is an award-winning Science Fiction/Fantasy author, Graphic Novelist and Playwright. He is also the lead fiction writer and game story consultant for Daybreak Games’ (Formerly Sony Online Entertainment) massive online game EverQuest Next. He is best known for his fantasy series, The Genesis of Oblivion Saga. Drake teaches creative writing at writers’ conferences and fan conventions around the country. For more information, please visit www.maxwellalexanderdrake.com, more about the Genesis of Oblivion Saga at www.genesisofoblivion.com, more about his latest graphic novel at www.downfallthecomic.com, or read what he is doing for EverQuest Next at www.everquestnext.com. You can also follow him on Twitter @MaxwellADrake or Facebook /MaxwellAlexanderDrake.

Initiating as an actor in the Troma-released feature Kill, Thomas Gofton started Lynnvander, Inc. before producing the award-winning series Mind’s Eye as well as the acclaimed Shadowrun parody film The Gamers: Natural One. Thomas published a fantasy novel, Hope’s Ordeal in 2012, along with the RPG supplement for Pathfinder: Legacy of Mana, before creating the worldwide-distributed board games Albion’s Legacy and Deep 5. An intellectual property developer for games and film as well as a professional media editor, he spends his time traveling the world hosting screenings, game design sessions, panels and workshops to creators, filmmakers and fans.

Considered by many to be the Keanu Reeves of abused punctuation, Patrick Goodman splits his time between writing Shadowrun fiction while his children’s books-on-CD are playing in the background, trying desperately not to mess up the aforementioned kids in their formative years, and slogging through his day job. He’s written for Shadowrun for more than 15 years; his recent works include the fan-favorite novellas Another Rainy Night and Sail Away, Sweet Sister, which will soon be joined by Red Rain. He lives in his native Texas with his tremendously understanding wife and their two incredible children.

In a previous life, Jason M. Hardy served as a military adviser to Alexander the Great. His legendary advice (“Turn left at Babylon”) is credited with being critical to Alexander’s success. His facility with words carried over to this life, where he acts as Shadowrun line developer for Catalyst Game Labs. He has published eight novels, including the recent Hell on Water, dozens of short stories, and a book of advice for aliens stranded on Earth. He lives in Chicago with his wife, son, and daughter.

Chris A. Jackson has been sailing and writing full time since 2009. As a sailor, writer, and gamer, nautical fantasy came naturally. His Scimitar Seas novels won multiple gold medals from Foreword Reviews Magazine for best fantasy novel of the year, and his Pathfinder Tales novels, Pirate’s Honor and Pirate’s Promise, have received high praise. The non-nautical Weapon of Flesh Trilogy has become a Kindle bestseller, spurring international interest. His first Iron Kingdoms story, “Blood and Iron,” debuted in 2014. More Pathfinder Tales, the Weapon of Fear Trilogy, and other works are coming in 2015. Drop by jaxbooks.com for updates.

R. L. King is patiently hoping that the Awakening is just a few years late, because she’d really like her magic powers to show up one of these days. When she’s not spending time in the Sixth World or working on her original urban fantasy series, the first of which, Stone and a Hard Place, was released in March 2015, she writes technical documentation for a Silicon Valley megacorp and enjoys hanging out with her understanding spouse, herd of cats, and a gecko named Lofwyr. Her Shadowrun novel, Borrowed Time, was released earlier this year. Find her at rlkingwriting.com, or on Twitter at @Dragonwriter11.

Steven S. Long is a writer and game designer who’s worked primarily in the tabletop roleplaying game field for the past twenty-some years, during which he’s written or co-written approximately 200 books. He’s best known for his work with Champions and the HERO System, but has worked for many other RPG companies. In recent years he’s focused more on writing fiction, and has had numerous short stories published. His Master Plan for World Domination has reached Stage 64-Omicron.

Mel Odom lives in Oklahoma. Author of dozens of novels, some of them in a number of licensed worlds, Mel has also won the Alex Award for his fantasy novel, The Rover. In 1995, he was inducted into the Oklahoma Professional Writers’ Hall of Fame (at a very young age for such a prestigious award!). He is constantly working, and can be reached at mel@melodom.net, @melodom, www.melodom.net, www.melodom.blogspot.com, and on Facebook.

USA Today-bestselling author Jean Rabe has written thirty fantasy and adventure novels and more short stories than she cares to count. When she’s not writing, which isn’t often, she edits anthologies and magazines. She shares her home with a double retriever (Labrador/Golden), a graying pug, and a lively young Boston bossy terrier, all of them rescues. She lives in central Illinois near three train tracks that provide “music” to type by. Visit her website: www.jeanrabe.com.

Aaron Rosenberg is the author of the bestselling DuckBob series and the Dread Remora space-opera series. His tie-in work contains novels for Star Trek, Warhammer, WarCraft, and Eureka. He has written children’s books (such as the award-winning Bandslam: The Junior Novel and the #1 bestselling 42: The Jackie Robinson Story), educational books, and over seventy roleplaying games (including the original games Asylum, Spookshow, and Chosen, work for White Wolf, Wizards of the Coast, and Pinnacle, the Origins Award-winning Gamemastering Secrets, and the Gold ENnie-winning Lure of the Lich Lord). He is the co-creator of the ReDeus series and the O.C.L.T. series, and a co-founder of Crazy 8 Press. Aaron lives in New York with his family. You can follow him online at gryphonrose.com, on Facebook at facebook.com/gryphonrose, and on Twitter @gryphonrose.

Michael A. Stackpole is a New York Times-bestselling author and award-winning game designer, computer game designer, author, editor, podcaster, graphic novelist and screenwriter. “Images” is the first Wolf and Raven story he’s written in nearly 20 years. Ironically, the Shadowrun stories he set in Seattle were written while he was in Arizona, and this story, set in Arizona, was written while he was in Seattle.

Malik Toms is a freelance author, which is a bit like being a freelance mercenary minus all the bullets and moral ambiguity. His work has appeared in more than twenty-five Shadowrun sourcebooks, along with a smattering of high fantasy and steampunk publications thrown in along the way. When he isn’t writing, he’s teaching writing and sociology at a small community college in the desert, and maybe watching a lot of TV. Malik currently lives in Arizona, where he is regularly super-smashed by at least one of his three video game-obsessed boys. He patiently awaits the day they too discover roleplaying games and the awesome power of a cybered-up Umber Hulk.

Phaedra Weldon grew up in the thick, atmospheric land of South Georgia. Most nights, especially those in October, were spent on the back of pickup trucks in the center of cornfields, telling ghost stories, or in friends’ homes playing RPG. She got her start writing in Shared Worlds (Eureka!, Star Trek, BattleTech, Shadowrun), selling original stories to DAW anthologies and sold her first urban fantasy series to traditional publishing. Her first Shadowrun short story “Caliban” can be found in the award-winning Spells & Chrome anthology, and is the prequel to her first Shadowrun book, Dark Resonance, available from Catalyst Game Labs.

Russell ‘Rusty’ Zimmerman failed a Will roll and got hooked on the shadowrunning shenanigans of Dodger, Ghost, and Sally Tsung when he was supposed to be Christmas shopping way back in 1989. An incurable fan of the setting ever since, especially after he met his beautiful wife Felicia through the game they both loved, he started his own shadowrunning freelance writing career several years ago, contributing sourcebooks, adventures, and stand-alone fiction. When he’s not busy dodging deadlines, he’s raising a trio of too-cute dogs and giving history lectures in his adopted home state of Texas. He and his dogs would like you way better if you checked out the new Shadowrun novel Shaken: No Job Too Small, but you can start with the e-novella Neat if you want.

About the Editor

John Helfers is a full-time freelance writer and editor, and the Novel Line Developer for Catalyst Game Labs, where he’s overseeing production of new Shadowrun and Battletech novels, as well as novellas and anthologies such as this one. He’s the editor of the award-winning Shadowrun anthology Spells & Chrome, and has also co-written a Shadowrun novel, Aftershock, with Jean Rabe, as well as provided short fiction for such sourcebooks as Run ‘N Gun, 20th Anniversary Shadowrun Core Rulebook, Shadowrun Almanac, and Seattle 2072. His other media tie-in fiction has also appeared in anthologies and novels for the Dragonlance®, Transformers®, BattleTech®, Warlock II® and Golem Arcana® universes.

An Instant Guide to the Sixth World

The first thing that you need to now about the Sixth World is that what you don’t know absolutely will kill you. So will what you do know. In fact, it’s safe to assume that anything and anyone you see has both the potential and the desire to kill you.

That’s good info to know, but not enough to keep you alive. So here’s a rundown of what the Sixth World is, how it got there, and some of the power players who make sure a few people stay on top while the vast majority of the people wriggle uncomfortably under their mighty thumbs.

Everything Has a Price

Read the sentence in the header there. Read it again. Got it? Good. Because if that’s the only thing you take away from this, if that’s the only thing you learn, then you’ll still be getting something valuable about the world you live in. You walk around this world, you’ll see a lot of heaps, and each one of them’s got someone perched on top of it. Every megacorporation has its CEO, governments have their chief executive, gangs have their lieutenant or head man of chief head basher or whatever the hell they decide to call it. Even that one block in the barrens that has nothing more than a rusty dumpster, an abandoned car, and a shed whose roof has caved in has a scary-eyed guy named Rastool who has scared off all the other scary-eyed guys so he can claim that spot as his own. Each of them figured out what they would have to pay to get to the top of that particular heap, and each one of them ponied up when the time came and paid it.

So this is what you need to know. If we’re going to talk about payments, we need to talk about currency. What I mean is, we need to look at the things you might need to give up in order to get ahead.

Magic: Paying with Your Mind

When magic came back into the world in 2011, it didn’t take too long for people to start trying to get a handle on how to use all the new mana floating around for themselves. Turned out some people had a knack for it. While the rest of us were wondering what they were looking at with glazed eyes and weird expressions, they were figuring out how to channel and shape streams of mana—a sort of magic energy that seems to be just about everywhere. Turns out, if you can suss how it’s done, you can use mana to set the air on fire, make people do things they’d never do, or other truly esoteric and/or insane things. And mana wasn’t just for the spells and stuff we think of as magic. It gave some people the strength to punch through walls, others can shame a cobra with their reflexes, and there are some who can outrun a cheetah; and that’s just scratching the surface. And you know all those magic goodies from legends and fairytales and myths? We got ‘em all. Enchanted swords, magic rings, wands, amulets, mojo bags, every potion you can think of all exist. Not that they always work the way they did in the stories. Don’t just grab up the sword of a legendary warrior and expect to slice and dice like she did, for example. The point is, magic is out there, and people are using it. It’s not easy—it can be draining, physically and mentally, and some people push themselves to the point where their sanity drips out of their ears in a nice steady trickle. That’s the price, and it’s often gladly paid.

Corporations: Paying with Your Self

The way corporations work in the Sixth World isn’t really anything new. It’s just the latest iteration of the might-makes-right way of doing things. There’s a lot of legal history we could cover to help you see how we got to this point, but in the end it boils down to one word: extraterritoriality. That’s the word that allows corporations to say that whatever happens in their holdings, on the buildings and lands they own, is subject to their laws—and no one else’s. Gaining extraterritorial status was a long-held dream of many if the world’s largest corporations, and when judicial decisions in nations across the world gave it to them, they spent several years pissing on themselves and each other in utter delirium. Then they figured out their infighting was cutting into their bottom line, so they stopped fighting each other so much and concentrated on pissing on the rest of us.

Not every corporation in the world has extraterritorial status. To understand who does, you have to know about the Corporate Court, the body the megacorporations created when they realized they were spending too much time solving their disputes by ravaging entire small countries. The Corporate Court is sometimes mocked as a toothless entity, a puppet of the world’s largest megacorps, but it manages—usually—to keep open warfare between the corps from breaking out, and that’s at least worth something. 

As part of its duties, the Court has created a ranking system to tell you how big and powerful a particular corp is. At the top is the Big Ten, the most powerful megacorps in the world. The main thing you need to understand is that these guys are bigger than big. Think of the world’s largest manufacturer of computer equipment. Then add in a powerful magic supplies broker. Throw in a few banks, an insurance firm, and entertainment conglomerate, and a snack-food giant, and you’re still not a tenth of the way to forming one of the Big Ten. They employ millions and control trillions of nuyen. Each and every one of them owns a piece of land within one hundred kilometers of you, unless you’re in the Sahara, the Amazon, or at the bottom of the ocean. And maybe even then. These are the people in the world who have the nuyen, and we want it, which means they determine what the rules of the game are. We just play it.

Augmentations: Paying with Your Soul

Every bit of who you are can be improved with the right piece of gear. Think you’ve got quick reflexes? You can be quicker. An artificial neural network’ll make you faster than a nervous jackrabbit. Think you’re strong? Switch out the muscles you were born with for a set that’s been custom grown for brawn and efficiency and you’ll take strong to a whole new level. Think you’re charming? Implant a few sets of specialized pheromone dispensers and people will swoon when you walk by and nod enthusiastically when you talk.

And that’s just for starters. You can put actual plates of armor on your skin, or lace your bones with metal so that your fists and legs deliver crushing blows. You can make your senses sharper, your brain faster, and you can implant knowledge that you never learned in school. You can replace entire pieces of your body with artificial replicas full of extra strength, nimble agility, secret compartments, and hidden weapons that provide very unpleasant surprises at just the right time.

But it’s not free. And we’re not just talking money; there’s a higher price to pay. All this stuff is useful and great, but it’s artificial, and your body knows it. Each time you get one of these augmentations, you give up a piece of yourself. You lose something inside of you, the essence of metahumanity. We don’t quite understand what this “it” is, but we know this much—the more artificial you make yourself, the farther you get from actual life. If you get too far, whatever animated you is going to disappear, until all the gear you bought just collapses and becomes indistinguishable from any other pile of silicon, steel, and chrome. So go ahead and get yourself augmented up, but understand that each time you do this, another piece of your metahumanity slides away.

Life in the Shadows: Paying with Your Blood

The megacorporations of the world prefer a docile population, a world of people who do whatever work they’re told, build anything, carry anything, sacrifice anything for the mega, then spend all their money in the company store and be glad they got it so good. Sheep. That’s how megacorps see metahumanity: a flock of sheep they have to keep in line to serve their purposes.

Which means the rest of us face a stark choice: Accept their shit. Or not. 

For some of us, corp life is not a life. The megacorps own enough in the world. They don’t need to own us. So we drop out and find another way. We do the jobs corps don’t want their regular employees to do, the things they don’t want connected back to them. Espionage missions; missions of theft, sabotage, and assault—maybe assassination if you swing that way That’s how we survive. We still have to dance to the corporate tune to some degree, but if we live right and build up our skills, we can become the best at what we do and get paid what we deserve. Then, maybe, instead of being one of us, scrambling under the heels of the powerful, we can be one of them, and remake a small part of the world in our image.

If we’re going to survive, we have to find work. There are dozens, hundreds, thousands of jobs out there. You can make money off of them, but each one will cost you something. You’ll get a scar from a bullet that should have killed you. A leg that aches in the cold ’cause you broke it crashing your motorcycle on one of your less stylish getaways. A missing arm because you were standing just a bit too close to a bomb going off and a working cyber model is pricy. A fried brain lobe from lingering in the Matrix a second too long with security closing in on you. And that’s just what will happen to your body. You’ll be double-crossed, betrayed, and abandoned. You’ll see trusted friends turn on you and watch others die. You’ll have every last bit of you tested in ways you can’t imagine just to see how much you can endure.

And if you succeed? If you stay alive? Money, first of all, but more. You become a legend. You join the ranks of the people we tell stories about, the shadowrunners whose names we all know. Dirk Montgomery. FastJack. Sally Tsung. The Smiling Bandit. You’ll have lived your own life, survived, and even thrived. You’ll have stuck it to every man the Sixth World has to offer.

As long as you can pay the price.

Days that shook the World

You know how when you meet some piece-of-drek punk ganger in an alley, and he’s all full of mouthy attitudes and sucker punches, and you find yourself thinking how if you looked into that little dirtball’s past and learned more about his parents and upbringing, you’d understand how he became such a bastard? Well, our world is like that. I’ll give you some of the highlights from the past that made the world into the snot-nosed asshole we all know.

2000: The infamous Shiawase Decision in the United States Supreme Court gives multinational corporations the same rights and privileges as sovereign governments. The era of national governments as the drivers of global events comes to an end.

2001: Realizing they had only been half-heartedly exploiting Native Americans for the past century or so, the U.S. government puts their whole heart back in the job and lets corporations run roughshod over the resources found in Native American reservations during the so-called Resource Rush. This leads to unrest and resistance with serious consequences further down the road.

2010: Virally Induced Toxic Allergy Syndrome (VITAS) appears in New Delhi, India. Eventually it kills a quarter of the world’s population.

2011: The Awakening, or at least the beginning of it. Dragons appear, people develop talents and abilities that can only be described as magic, babies are born in ways that exactly resemble elves and dwarfs of legend, and the world reveals itself to generally be much weirder than anyone suspected.

2018: After the Great Ghost Dance of the previous year, in which Native American shamans spurred natural disasters such as earthquakes and volcanic eruptions across the globe, the United States and Canada agree to the Treaty of Denver, in which large portions of both nations are given to aboriginal populations to become the various states that make up the Native American Nations of the Western Hemisphere.

2021: In a process known as Goblinization, some adults spontaneously mutate into creatures that become known as orks and trolls (a wider range of forms emerge as time passes). People react with fear and loathing, which, after more than half a century, has generally eased to fear and extreme distaste. Though some people prefer to stick with loathing. Dwarfs, elves, trolls, orks, and the like are collectively labeled “metahumanity.”

2029: The Matrix, the interconnected wonder of the computer world, crashes, and crashes hard. The virus that caused the crash takes years to eradicate, and the whole dynamic sets the stage for cyberwarfare in the years to come.

2030: After losing so much territory to the Native American Nations, the remnants of the United States and Canada merge to form the United Canadian and American States (UCAS). In subsequent years, the Free State of California, the Confederation of American States, and the Caribbean League claim parts of what used to be the United States. This mirrors political fracturing and re-alignment occurring across the world.

2039: The fear and loathing against elves, dwarfs, orks, and trolls (particularly the latter two groups) comes to a head in the Night of Rage, a worldwide series of riots targeting metahumans and their families. The pain and scars inflicted that night still linger, nearly forty years later.

2055: After a cult known as the Universal Brotherhood introduces the vile creepies known as bug spirits to the world, Chicago became the most infested city on the planet. When containment did not seem to be solving the problem, the Ares Corporation set off a nuke in the city, an event known as the Cermak Blast. The combined infestation of bugs, removal of anything resembling law and order, and destruction levied by the nuke made central Chicago the blasted wonderland it is today.

2057: The citizens of the UCAS collectively throw their hands in the air, say “What the hell?”, and elect a dragon named Dunkelzahn as president. Dunkelzahn serves for just under ten and a half hours before being blown to kingdom come. A huge astral rift hovers at the scene of the assassination for years.

2061: Halley’s comet passes by and shakes up the world. It initiates the Sudden Unexplained Recessive Genetic Expression (SURGE) event, bringing changelings to the world as some people take on animal characteristics. A new dragon named Ghostwalker emerges from the rift left by Dunkelzahn’s assassination and decides to take up resident as the tyrant of Denver. For good measure, storms, earthquakes, and volcanoes keep the entire population of the world on their toes.

2064: The combination of a massive corporate IPO, the machinations of a crazed artificial intelligence, and an assault by a terrorist group known as Winternight bring about the Second Matrix Crash, or Crash 2.0. A new Matrix emerges in its wake, bringing wireless accessibility to all. Also emerging: technomancers, who can access the Matrix with nothing more than their mind. This causes many to freak out.

2075: After campaigning for years about the lack of security in the wireless Matrix, activist and philanthropist Danielle de la Mar convinces the corporations of the world to revamp Matrix protocols to be stricter, less open, and more subject to corporate control. Because that was something they really needed to be talked into.

2076: A new condition known as cognitive fragmentation disorder (CFD) is spotted, where people suddenly and abruptly completely change their personalities, or become a battleground for warring personalities. A hybrid technological/biological virus is suspected as the source, but questions remain about its origins and how it was created.

The Big Ten

Since these are going to be the guys paying you a lot of the time, you should know who they are.

ARES MACROTECHNOLOGY

Corporate Court Ranking (2077): 7 

Corporate Slogan: “Making the World a Safer Place”

Corporate Status: AAA, public corporation

World Headquarters: Detroit, UCAS President/CEO: Damien Knight

You Know Them For: Making your favorite gun, arresting you for using your favorite gun.

AZTECHNOLOGY

Corporate Court Ranking (2077): 4 

Corporate Slogan: “The Way to a Better Tomorrow”

Corporate Status: AAA, private corporation

World Headquarters: Tenochtiltlán, Aztlan 

President/CEO: Flavia de la Rosa

You Know Them For: Great PR, selling microwave burritos at thousands of worldwide locations. Also, ruthlessness and blood magic, but they keep those under wraps.

EVO CORPORATION

Corporate Court Ranking (2077): 6 

Corporate Slogan: “Changing Life”

Corporate Status: AAA, public corporation

World Headquarters: Vladivostok, Russia 

President: Yuri Shibanokuji

You Know Them For: A billion commercials pitying you for not being awesome enough to sport their entire line of enhancements and augmentations

HORIZON GROUP

Corporate Court Ranking (2077): 10

Corporate Slogan: “We Know What You Think” 

Corporate Status: AAA, private corporation 

World Headquarters: Los Angeles, PCC 

President/CEO: Gary Cline

You Know Them For: Your favorite trid shows, your favorite music, and your favorite off-book bunraku parlors offering the services of people who look like your favorite performers.

MITSUHAMA COMPUTER TECHNOLOGIES

Corporate Court Ranking (2077): 3

Corporate Slogan: “The Future is Mitsuhama” 

Corporate Status: AAA, public corporation

World Headquarters: Kyoto, Japanese Imperial State 

President/CEO: Toshiro Mitsuhama

You Know Them For: The cold feeling of fear in your heart whenever you hear the words “Mitsuhama Zero-Zone.”

NEONET

Corporate Court Ranking (2077): 2

Corporate Slogan: “Tomorrow Runs on NeoNET” 

Corporate Status: AAA, public corporation 

World Headquarters: Boston, UCAS

CEO: Richard Villiers

You Know Them For: Rising and falling more times than a phoenix.

RENRAKU COMPUTER SYSTEMS

Corporate Court Ranking (2077): 5

Corporate Slogan: “Today’s Solutions to Today’s Problems”

Corporate Status: AAA, public corporation

World Headquarters: Chiba, Japanese Imperial State 

CEO: Inazo Aneki (Honorary)

You Know Them For: That big flat-topped pyramid downtown that sends a chill through your heart every time you see it. Also, computers.

SAEDER-KRUPP HEAVY INDUSTRIES

Corporate Court Ranking (2077): 1 

Corporate Slogan: “One Step Ahead” 

Corporate Status: AAA, private corporation 

World Headquarters: Essen, Allied German States 

President/CEO: Lofwyr

You Know Them For: Perhaps being single-handedly responsible for the adage to never cut a deal with a dragon.

SHIAWASE CORPORATION

Corporate Court Ranking (2077): 8 

Corporate Slogan: “Advancing Life” 

Corporate Status: AAA, public corporation

World Headquarters: Osaka, Japanese Imperial State 

President/CEO: Korin Yamana

You Know Them For: Their desperate attempt to get as cozy with the Japanese Imperial State as Aztechnology is with Aztlan.

WUXING INCORPORATED

Corporate Court Ranking (2077): 9 

Corporate Slogan: “We’re Behind Everything You Do” 

Corporate Status: AAA, public corporation 

World Headquarters: Hong Kong, Free Enterprise Enclave

President: Wu Lung-Wei

You Know Them For: Making you move several times during your meet-ups so that you don’t mess up the feng shui of that particular room.

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