Shadowrun, p.17
Shadowrun, page 17
It was Satin Sal.
“Yes, Signore Forzo, but I’m confused. She never figured out you were the CEO of Domenica, Inc.?”
Bastardo! I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. How could he have betrayed me? Wait… Did he figure out I was ripping him off? Had he known for months, only to sleep with me, to betray me, to set me up for the ultimate revenge—to bring me back into the arms of Domenica, Incorporated?
“I do not owe either of you any answers. That’ll be all for now. You may go. I can handle her.”
I remember the beads of sweat on my forehead. I remember how he smelled when Satin Sal/Mateo Forza leaned over me—a mixture of pine-scented soap and spicy amber cologne. I remember counting slowly one…two…three… concentrating on my heartbeat, to keep it from pounding or from breaking.
My mind raced as a tangled jumble of thoughts, one after the other, flooded my barely conscious mind.
My ex-lover had betrayed me.
My runner—the face I had hired—was actually the head of the corporation I’d sworn to take down.
Worse, the rest of my team had either left me for dead, or they’d been killed by a friendly face.
Stuck in that infirmary, I had no backup, no way out. For all I knew, Sal’s goons had already searched me and snatched my grenades and the vial. I hoped they were as dumb as I thought they were, and Mateo just as arrogant.
“Do you remember the time we went to Vienna, darling?”
My head pounded, my back felt like it was on fire, and my ears were still ringing—but I pulled myself up as best I could. Testing my voice, I squeaked: “How could I forget, Sal? It was magical.”
“Magical, yes…” Sal scratched his chin. “You never did like magic, even when we were in bed.”
“I never needed to,” I confessed. I had managed to pull of dozens of jobs without relying on magic; it was something I was proud of, and he knew it, too. “Of course, I thought I was sleeping with a friend, not my enemy.”
“Am I your enemy…Maria?”
I didn’t take the bait. Instead, I asked him point blank: “Did you kill the rest of my team?” I already knew the answer to my question, but I wanted him to admit his guilt. I needed him to.
“Yes. Or at least, my bodyguards did.”
I sucked in my breath. For a moment, I forgot my body was broken. I wanted to lunge at Sal, to wrap my hands around his neck and squeeze the truth out of him—but I didn’t dare. If I moved, I worried I would fall off the lab table, and he’d shoot me in the back. Instead, I said: “What do you want, Sal?”
“This.” Sal waved the vial I had stolen in front of my face. “Would you like to be the subject of another experiment?”
“Go on.”
“You know, Rico was right. You are gullible. Domenica, Incorporated didn’t engineer VITAS-m. We bought the emotion-manipulating formula from a UCAS stooge, somewhere in Idaho, I think, but it requires VITAS to work. This vial, though, this is VITAS. And, in order for me to know if it’s still good, I need to test it on a live subject. Whaddya say?”
“And if I refuse?”
By the expression on Sal’s face, I suspected he still cared about me. His forehead furrowed, and he looked…concerned. It was almost as if he wanted to test the limits of my resolve against his. Worse, even if I wasn’t in my current state, he could overpower me. I don’t know how much bioware he had installed in that body of his, or even what his enhancements did, but it was a lot more than I had.
I did have one thing going for me though, because even though I didn’t know if the vial contained a live virus or not, I had already survived a lesser strain of VITAS. I understood enough about human biology to know those antibodies were still in my system, so if I did take it and got infected, there was a slim chance I’d survive.
“I’ll drink it,” I said. “On two conditions.”
“Name them.”
“I promise to stop running, and you’ll let me go. If I am infected, you know the virus will spread, even if I’m lying in a hospital bed in quarantine.”
Sal gritted his teeth and tilted his head. He knew Belladonna well enough to know she would lie to him, but he didn’t know Maria Santini at all. The truth was: I couldn’t lie to him. Even if I wanted to put a bullet in his brain or hunt down Rico and kill him, too, I was right back where I started, sick and in desperate need of help.
“So be it. If you’re infected, though, I’ll collect your blood myself.”
My heart sank. If Sal had the vial, did that mean his goons searched for Toro’s grenades, too? I tried not to laugh at my awful luck. I gingerly tested the limits of my movement and, much to my surprise, discovered that, while standing was difficult, it was not impossible—which meant walking wouldn’t be, either.
I stuck my hands in my pockets, and realized the grenades were still there. It was a miracle, and one I would not let go to waste.
“So you’ll really drink it?”
“Yeah,” I said, fingering a pin. I thought about yanking that pin before he had a chance to speak, but if I pulled it now I wouldn’t walk away unscathed. I had to time it just right—and that meant going through with my end of the deal. “I’ll drink it, Sal, Mateo, whoever the frag you are.”
Throwing my head back, I stuck out my hand. Without a word, the CEO of Domenica, Incorporated placed the vial in my palm and folded his arms, waiting.
“Bottoms up.” Slamming the shot, I held the bitter liquid in my mouth, not knowing if it contained one of the deadliest viruses of the Sixth World or not, just long enough to see Sal smirk. Oh, how I wanted to wipe that grin off his face—and take his subdermal enhancements along with it.
“So easy,” he said. “I knew you wouldn’t be a challenge. I even gave my guys the night—”
Cocky and arrogant as ever, I thought, tuning out the rest of his little speech. Mentally, I counted to three and spit the liquid into his face. Then, I grabbed the first grenade I could get my hands on—it was the mag-frag, thank the dragons—and pulled the pin. Remembering Toro’s advice, I used every last ounce of strength I had to leap over the lab table, pull it toward me, and use it like a shield.
I heard a loud bang! as the mag-frag grenade exploded, sending a cloud of tiny magnetic balls mixed with plastic fragments into the air, followed shortly afterward by a terrible scream.
“Ahhhhhhhh! Mio Dio! What did you do? It hurts!”
I held my hands over my ears to block Sal out of my mind, and I waited until he fell silent. Carefully, gingerly, I stepped out from behind the cabinet and glanced over at the shredded body of “Satin Sal,” otherwise known as Mateo Forzo, the head of Domenica Incorporated. Whatever tech he had augmented his body with, had been utterly wrecked by the mag-frag, which gave me enough time to walk out of the room—and pull one last pin.
Minutes later, thin rivers of blood mixed with sweat poured off my back as I stumbled toward St. Peter’s Square. I awkwardly weaved through the bodies packed together so tight they couldn’t move their heads other than to look up, up, up at the sky.
As I rushed to the nearest hospital, hoping there was a God, I remember wondering what the faithful were staring at. I remember stopping for one precious moment to glance up as a pillar of white smoke puffed small, billowy clouds into the night air.
“The Pope is dead,” I whispered gratefully as I collapsed to the ground from exhaustion. “Long live the Pope.”
ONE FOR THE OTHER
(Queen of Blades)
R.J. THOMAS
At first it was barely noticeable, like a light breeze or an errant thought echoing in the mind; nothing to pay attention to, and easy enough to dismiss. But instead of the echo fading away, it began surging and pulsing, like a distant heartbeat.
Rising from an ornate rug, she stopped and sensed. It came from everywhere, yet nowhere at the same time. Moments passed, and she felt the power growing. The echoes quickly became a call, words now with form and power. They were different, but she recognized them for what they were.
No...
They were a gentle caress at first, almost inviting, a soft voice urging her to submit.
No, not again.
She resisted, pushing back with her will. She had earned her release long ago through pain, agony, and torment. She thought she had created a safe place, a hidden place in this small earthen cottage just outside Fez. Apparently, she was wrong.
The voice grew in power; it now demanded her submission.
NO! Not again!
Resentment, humiliation, and pain-filled memories ignited a hot fury within, and she lashed back now. And for a moment, the voice faltered.
Then it hit her, an opposing will struck back. She felt the blow almost shatter her resistance, almost to the very core of her being.
Almost…
Again she resisted, but the assault was unrelenting. She knew her will would eventually crumble. Only one thing could do this, and the realization filled her with dread. But how had she lasted this long? She then realized that something about the voice was flawed.
The name—that was it!
Knowing what was coming, she saw what could only be described as a gateway through the metaplanes open, and unbreakable strands of magical power reach for her. Steeling herself with all the will she could muster, she anchored herself to her home as the mystical energies seized her. The pain was intense as her essence was literally and violently pulled across great distances like a rubber band while mystical energies formed the first binding links.
With the primary link formed, she now saw him. He commanded powerful magics, borrowed from a time long past, but he didn’t recognize the flaw, the imperfection in his energies. Looking at him, she saw the primary link take the form of a chain that would bind her to him forever.
He simply smirked at her and continued speaking, his words an approximation of ancient Arabic.
Magical energies swirled between them and he symbolically reached out with his hand to pull her close just as a slave collar formed at the end of the chain. As she drew closer, the collar began closing around her neck.
Then she struck.
It was a flash of steel and flame…and for the briefest of moments, everything went still. His eyes and mouth both widened, just before his head fell from his body. Magical energies then exploded, violently snapping her back.
Sometime later, she awoke in her cottage and gently kissed her beloved blade, which had served her well yet again. Alone and safe for the moment, she gathered her strength. Somehow, someone had found a way to forge a similar, yet imperfect, connection to the one she had broken long ago. That information was still out there, waiting for someone else to try again.
Red fury turned to cold determination.
“Never. Again,” she said.
One of the worst mistakes someone can make is letting people know how good they are, because then they come to you for help, usually at the most inopportune time.
“Please Fennec, I am in desperate need. Please, hear me out,” he pleaded over a lounge singer droning on about “—a kiss is just a kiss.”
Taking another sip of cold mint tea to hide my irritation, I checked the chrono projecting in the corner of my Erika smartglasses. With my business concluded at Rune’s Avatar Café, I was about to leave when a black market fence named Farouk finally requested an audience as I rose from my table. Apparently, he had been waiting all day for this moment, much to security’s growing impatience.
Normally I would have let Azim deal with this, but it would have been rude—not to mention unprofessional and costly—to make such a scene in Rune’s establishment. Despite the throwback 1930s decor and AROs that only projected in black in white (something Rune herself described simply as “1930s ambiance”), the Avatar Café was one of the best places to do business in Rabat, if not all of Morocco. Being blacklisted from here was extremely bad for one’s reputation and general health.
But Farouk had done good work for me before, and with his recent bad luck, I felt obligated to at least hear him out.
Still, his timing was bloody awful.
“Farouk, you have no idea how painfully inconvenient this is for me. However, out of respect, you have five minutes. Make it quick.”
After wasting a full minute thanking me, Farouk got to the point. A few months ago, an arms deal with LongJack, the leader of the Afzalat, a prominent mercenary group based here in Rabat, went gone horribly wrong. How wrong? Enough to earn Farouk a fifty-thousand-nuyen bounty on his head. And given that Rune paid Afzalat protection money, it was safe to assume they knew he was here. I did not even have to read his aura to see how desperate he was to meet me here of all places. His odds of making it even a half-kilometer after leaving the café were slim.
“I’ve received information about a weapons shipment that is of sufficient value that if I present it to Afzalat, it should clear up all misunderstandings. But, I need your help in getting a meeting that doesn’t end in my death.”
I looked at my chrono again. I could not help him. Plans were already in motion, and soon I would be gone. But if I turned Farouk down, he would cause a scene. Worse, if I agreed to help him now and then disappeared, he would search for me, which would also jeopardize my plans. And now, many in the café had seen us together. Farouk had no idea that by talking to me here, he had endangered himself even further. And it could cause more problems for me later.
Most of all, I hated breaking my word and had never done so. Damn you Farouk, for putting me in this situation. But was my reputation, my word, really worth it now? Was Farouk’s life worth it?
“Farouk, when would you need my services? When do you plan on securing this shipment?”
The small man smiled, no doubt thinking that he was about to make a deal. “Two weeks from now.”
Sipping my tea, I considered my response. When I decided, I cursed myself for it.
“Contact me when you have the shipment. I will do what I can.”
Farouk practically beamed. “Thank you, Fennec! May Allah grant you many blessings!”
Outside the Café, Farouk’s words echoed in my mind and made me sick. I had no illusions about what I done, and forced myself not to think about it. I tried to reassure myself that Farouk’s problems were his alone. But I had given him my word while fully intending to abandon him.
Sighing, I walked toward my car. Azim was there, with the door already open for me. The ork mercenary looked dapper tonight, sporting a tailored tuxedo that completely hid his machine pistols.
Sliding into the passenger seat of my Saab Gladius, I closed the door and pulled out my commlink as Azim got into the driver’s seat and drove us away. A flurry of messages later, my allies knew the plan’s timetable had been moved forward.
As I sent the last message, another thought crossed my mind. I could easily get word to Afzalat about Farouk’s location and solve that problem. At that moment, I did not know what I hated more about myself: that I’d conceived that idea, or that I was seriously considering enacting it. No, I had betrayed Farouk enough as it was. Fate would decide if he lived or died.
As we traveled, I ran my hand along the Gladius’ dashboard. I would miss it. I thought about everything and everyone I would soon lose. Still, considering what I would gain, it was a small price to pay. I caressed the tear-shaped pendant around my neck, my finger lightly touching the small diamond in the center surrounded by an eight-pointed star. There were still some things I would never abandon.
Reaching into the glove box, I pulled out an electrode rig. Securing it to my head was always interesting, especially with my larger-than-average ears. Most assumed I was an elf, but I was just a human with large ears, like my animal namesake. Plugging them into my commlink, I took a deep breath before dialing in a secure Matrix address. When I hit
I opened my eyes to a familiar office. Antiques of Britannia hung on the walls, while a large window directly ahead overlooked the Port of Casablanca in all of its industrial glory. In front of that window was a large desk made from the finest English oak. In a five-thousand-nuyen office chair sat one J. Murdock of Murdock Import-Exports, the biggest information broker in North Africa and Southern Europe. Multiple AR windows orbited him like a planet’s moons.
I sat in my customary seat, back ramrod straight, legs tucked just to the right of the chair with my left ankle over my right, hands folded neatly on my lap like a proper English woman—my Moroccan blood be damned—just as etiquette demanded; just as he demanded. He would acknowledge me when he was ready, and not a moment before. Until then, I waited.
“Your negotiations in Rabat went as planned?” he finally asked, holding an ARO between his fingers.
Despite the virtual environment, I swallowed before answering. “They did, exactly as you specified. Although, I could have brokered a better deal with the Italians if...” I started to say and immediately regretted it. So stupid, I knew better. Did I really want to fail now?
Murdock flicked away the ARO, leaned forward in his chair, steepled his fingers, and looked me in the eyes. Even in the Matrix, that look frightened me. But I dared not look away from him. If I did, he would know.
“My dear, do not force me to have this conversation with you again. Despite your skills and contacts, you cannot possibly fathom the complex depths of my affairs. Your sole concern, nay, your reason for being, is to negotiate on my behalf exactly as I instruct you to. Do not forget your place. Are we clear on this?”
Taking a deep breath I said, “Crystal clear, sir.”
He held my eyes for a few more moments, drawing out the silence simply because he could. In the back of my mind, I knew time was ticking away. “Good. Send me the summary reports of your negotiations. I’ll look over them later,” he finally said, going back to his AROs.
Relieved, I was about to disconnect when he spoke again.
“Before you go, there is one other matter that requires immediate attention.”
