Shadowrun, p.21
Shadowrun, page 21
Her eyes narrowed in defiance, and she flashed a fierce grin. “I play to win, omae. But…I guess I’ve got a lot to learn.”
He patted her shoulder. “Might make a decker of you yet. Now sit tight and I’ll get us both sorted. I always keep a first aid kit and stash of painkillers tucked away, just in case a dive leaves me wrung out. That along with a little paste down our soyholes, and we should be feeling half alive soon enough.”
“Wiz,” she said. She lay back and put an arm over her eyes to block out the light.
Adric studied her for a minute. She’d come through a situation that would’ve sent plenty packing their decks for good, and didn’t seem too worse for wear. Maybe she had as much potential as he’d hoped.
He turned to unlock his storage cubby…and froze as a sound snagged his ear. It was so soft, he almost missed it, but it couldn’t be mistaken for anything else.
Vilyna had giggled.
MOON PALACE, SERPENT SEA
(2 of Cups, The Avatars)
LUCY A. SNYDER
The sound and stink of the casino assaulted Velocity Joy’s scorched senses. Drunken gamblers brayed and shrieked with laughter while the gaming machines blasted their cacophony of ringing, clanging, shouting and wheedling everywhere. The air was thick with the stench of metahuman sweat, cig smoke, and a hundred varieties of Cleaver body spray, each more obnoxious than the last. If she could bottle the pong of the place, she’d sell it under the name Mal Choix de Vie: “Terrible Life Choices.” But people would still buy it because it sounded French and fancy.
Fraggin’ Felician and his stupid meetup sites, she thought. This place had to be teeming with electronic eyes and ears, scammers and runners of every stripe. At least there hadn’t been a weapons check at the front door. She could keep her twin Colt Manhunters strapped beneath her black leather jacket where they belonged, just in case anybody tried anything funny. Her backup credstick hung in a shielded pouch on a chain around her neck, nestled snugly between the girls. Her commlink was tied to the forged SIN she used when dealing with Felician; he’d been a good fixer in the five years she’d been taking jobs through him, but she knew full well that any situation could turn bad in a moment, and she’d have to dump her current identity and run. She had a real SIN to fall back on, but since it was tied to her actual medical records, she would go to great lengths to protect it. As far as the authorities knew, Velocity Joy had nothing to do with Cindy Lou Garza, a perpetual college student whose treatments and enhancements all stemmed from her love of extreme sports.
Shouldering her way through the crowd, Velocity intended to head straight down the neutral green carpet that led through the acres-huge casino floor to the shops and restaurants in the back. Felician wanted to meet up at a place called the Jurassic, a buffet that advertised vat-grown dinosaur meat. How anybody would know a fake brontosaurus roast from a fake pork roast she had no idea, but for fifty nuyen a pop, the place had better serve some epic grub. At least booze was included. Doc Sawbrains had told her to steer clear of any heavy drinking until her neurons healed up a bit more from the Black Hammer variant that had nearly turned her cerebrum to a brûléed flan, but a girl had to get her money’s worth somehow, right?—
Suddenly, she was no longer in the loud casino, but was standing naked on a beach. Green waves teeming with dark serpentine forms surged and foamed, crashing at her feet. Salt and the stink of rotting kelp lay heavy on the chilly wind. The serpents writhed free of the waves, spilling onto the wet sand in shiny coils as though the ocean had been eviscerated, and slithered toward her while she remained frozen, rooted to the spot—
—Velocity found herself back in the casino and felt a wash of relief that, according to her commlink, she’d hallucinated for less than a second. But her relief faded just as quickly: she’d stumble-stepped off the green strip, and was now standing on the garish casino carpet. Already the machines around her had lit up, and were pulling themselves free of their floor sockets to greet the fresh meat.
“Welcome, Chummer!” A penny slot sidled up to her, spinning its holographic dials seductively. “One nuyen gets you a hundred chances!”
“Don’t listen to that junker,” replied a chrome-and-neon Wheel of Fortune machine. “His payouts are terrible! Try me!”
“No, try me!” squeaked a machine with a Japanese pop soundtrack and dancing cherries.
“You’ll try me first,” growled a sleek black poker machine. “Unless you just can’t handle the best!”
Frag. The wheedling machines had her completely surrounded. The casino’s programmers knew exactly how long the average new gambler had to play to get hooked, and this bunch was set to hound her into playing until she’d crossed the threshold. And she had neither the time nor interest in this.
Velocity entertained a brief fantasy of pulling out her twin pistols and blasting them all into sizzling glass-and-plastic shrapnel, but each one of the machines was probably worth more than the job Felician had for her. Satisfying though shooting them might be, she could neither afford to pay off the casino nor blow her professional reputation as a gunslinger of supreme chill.
“C’mon, darlin’, don’t be coy.” The video poker machine slid up close to her, positioning its controls right under her hands. It stank of Cleaver—the exact fragrance was probably called Throwdown or Anarchy or something—which was probably olfactory residue from a gambler who’d recently abandoned it, but for all she knew the machine had scent jets to attract ostentatious losers. “Just thirty nuyen to play Texas Hold ’Em, and you could win up to 50K!”
Velocity grabbed the top rim of the poker machine and flipped herself up and over, landing softly on the carpet behind it. She smoothly stepped back to the safety of the green strip and strode toward the buffet as the thwarted machines emitted electronic groans and synthesized trombone womp-womps behind her. Hardly anybody had noticed her escape. Good.
Still, her brief fugue to the scene on the beach left her a little rattled. She’d need to increase the brain candy Doc Sawbrains had prescribed, that was for sure. The hallucinations and dreams had all started after she’d gotten Black Hammered. Doc said that was pretty normal, considering the hit her brain had taken, but...it all seemed so weirdly real. Realer than her regular life, even. It was the same scene over and over—the beach, the ocean, and the serpents—but each time there was just a little bit more. It all felt as though it should mean something. It felt like prophecy, not just misfiring brain cells. She’d gotten tested, and so she knew she had some innate magical ability, but she liked gunning and driving. Beneath all the mechanical complexities of weapons and vehicles was the solid predictability of Newtonian physics. Magic wasn’t predictable, however, and it made her uneasy. It felt like gambling: something she knew she could be very good at, but also something that could eat her alive.
Not just could, but would.
Velocity found Felician sitting in an alcove in the back of the buffet’s dining hall with a tall elf she didn’t recognize. She spotted them before they noticed her, so she hung back behind the fronds of a potted cycad tree, taking in the scene and feeling acutely annoyed that her fixer hadn’t come alone like he’d said he would. Their plates were piled high with “brontosaurus prime rib” and garlicky algae mash. A discreet surveillance jammer sat beside Felician’s sweaty mimosa goblet, projecting a white noise screen and hologram blurs over their mouths to foil lip readers.
Was the stranger her Mr. Johnson? She didn’t like clients knowing her face and voice; that’s why Felician got his cut. He was supposed to be the face of all the deals, and he was supposed to deal with the heat that could bring. He got paid so she could remain anonymous.
But the mystery elf didn’t look like a corporate type. He wore a street-anonymous dark tee shirt and jeans, but he had an electric blue topknot and a whole lot of facial piercings. And the lack of telltale scars behind his ears from his studs getting tacked into his skull meant he didn’t get in many fistfights. And that meant that he was either a crummy fighter (and maybe a total poser)...or he was good enough with his tongue or a blade or gun that he didn’t need to brawl. His face reminded her of a half-dozen trideo stars, and he looked to be in his mid-twenties, which probably meant he was in his forties or even a bit older, a seasoned pro. His gracefully sinewy forearms bore only one visible tattoo—a two-headed coral snake coiled atop his left wrist—but she did see a couple of healing blade scars, the kind you inevitably got going in for the kill. Yes, this guy liked to play with knives. Not a brawler, but a fighter for sure.
And that realization made her feel annoyed all over again. Felician knew she worked alone. She didn’t want to have to worry about some dumb bolt screwing up the job, nor did she want to have to chase down a dumber jack who decided to run off with the loot. She’d been on awful crews her first few years running, and she was done with that nonsense. Her requirement for solo jobs was her hardest rule. Why had Felician ignored it and invited another runner to their business discussion?
She fixed a neutral smile on her face, stepped out from behind the cycad, and cleared her throat. Felician glanced up and beamed at her.
“Ah, Velocity, my love!” He raised his drink in greeting. “So glad you could join us!”
She extended her hand to the mystery elf. “Greets, chummer. I’m Velocity. And you?”
He gave her a bright grin and replied, “Hi, I’m Borealis.”
His voice was deep and smooth as Belgian chocolate, and he had a knee-weakening New Orleans accent. She ran hot and cold with sexy Southern boys. Sometimes they were easy on the eyes and no good at all in the sheets, but the ones who were good were oh my so very good...
She struggled to keep her expression steady. Frag me sideways, she thought. I don’t need this kind of distraction right now. Is Felician trying to get me killed?
“Have a seat, Velocity.” Felician scratched his short dark beard in a gesture that she’d long ago learned was a sign of nervousness. “We can all have a nice friendly chat.”
She slid into the booth next to the fixer and gave him an expectant look.
“So you’re probably both wondering why the other is here,” Felician said. “Well. You two have so many things in common.”
“One being that we both prefer to work alone?” Borealis said, his eyebrow arching up ever so slightly.
Another beard-scratch. “Yes, that’s one thing. But! Both of you recently ran afoul of that particularly nasty black ice that the Evo Corp deployed to protect its interests. And so I believe both of you would like a chance to count coup against that particular corporation, yes?”
Velocity and Borealis glanced at each other and shrugged.
“Because you’re both still recovering from that unpleasantness,” Felician said, “you also both need to stay in meatspace, and this won’t involve the Matrix. Under usual circumstances, this job would be easy for either of you to accomplish as a solo mission. However, your ongoing recoveries would make a team effort more prudent. So I would ask that you set aside your solitary preferences, just this once.”
“What about the payment?” Velocity asked. “Half of my usual fee isn’t going to keep me in coffee and ammo.”
“There’s plenty to go around.” Felician texted her a number with enough zeroes after it that she was suddenly imagining taking that trip to Tahiti she’d always dreamed of. And she could stay at a real beachside resort, not a runners’ flop by the wharf. And afterward, she could get that skeletal enhancement she’d had her eye on; never again would she have to worry about busting a bone if she had to take a dive out a fourth floor window.
She glanced over at Borealis, and she could see by the gleam in his pretty silver eyes that he was daydreaming about well-funded funtimes, too.
In hushed, calm tones, Felician laid out the plan. Their client wanted them to break into the mansion of an Evo Corp executive named Morgenstern Moon and steal a metal storage box he kept hidden in his panic room. Velocity and Borealis would deliver the box unopened to a particular drop site, whereupon the mysterious Mr. Johnson would upload the money into Felician’s account, whereupon he would share out the funds.
“I have blueprints for the house, and Moon and his guards will be away at a charity fundraiser the night of the heist. It’ll be a quick, tidy job, and I’m sure you’ll both sleep better knowing you royally reamed the suit who signed off on the program that scorched you both.”
Velocity glanced at Borealis. It looked like he was still doing math in his pretty head, and liking the sum he was coming up with.
She put her hands on the table. “I still need to know who I’m working with before I can agree to this. No offense.”
Borealis nodded. “None taken. I feel the same way.”
Felician smiled. “I’ve uploaded your respective resumes—with sensitive details redacted, of course!—to your dropboxes. Get some food, take a look! Take your time. I have every sincere belief that you’ll both get on like a house on fire.”
Velocity cued up the file in her commlink and slowly scrolled through it as she walked through the buffet line. Her initial impression that he was a blades expert was correct. Borealis had a background in covert ops. Apparently he’d worked for Lone Star in his youth, but he’d gotten fired and nearly killed after he refused to exterminate a bunch of street bums whose only crime was panhandling in an area where it had been deemed a nuisance. Velocity knew that kind of moral code was laughably old-fashioned, but if she was honest with herself, she didn’t want to kill innocents either, not even when the money was too good to pass up. Softie or not, Borealis had been on dozens of successful heists and covert ops missions since his dishonorable discharge. Client recommendations praised his quiet, low-key efficiency.
He certainly seemed like the kind of runner she could do a job with. The bigger question was whether his file was accurate or not. They could be playing her. That was always a risk. But why would Felician try to trick her into working a job with him? Who would benefit from that? She laid out the known facts, and no matter how she sliced them with Occam’s Razor, she came to the same conclusion: this was a straightforward job. Felician’s nervousness was probably due to worry that he’d lose his cut on a sweet gig because she and Borealis would refuse to work with each other out of paranoia or stubbornness or both. If her jobs were typical, it would also be more money than he’d seen in months.
She got back to the booth with her plate filled with fried archaeopteryx eggs and stegosaurus sausage, a tall mimosa in her other hand, and said, “I’m in.”
“Me, too,” said Borealis, and they bumped fists.
“Outstanding.” Felician gave them both a wide, relieved smile. “Let’s go over the details...”
Three nights later, Velocity picked up Borealis and his gear bag outside a downtown coffee shop. She drove a nondescript, aging Eurocar she’d picked up after the brunch; she’d done just enough work on it to make sure the engine, tires, and brakes were all solid and would stand up to a fast getaway over rough ground. But they were going to dump it after the job no matter how it went, so it had been a Duct Tape Special for sure.
Borealis wore dark jeans, boots, and a long-sleeved, deep red shirt that nicely contrasted with his hair under the fluorescents, but would look black in low light. She could see the faint outlines of body armor beneath it. So far, he looked and acted like a real pro.
Felician, for your sake I better not regret this, she thought.
“You got the plasma cutter?” he asked.
“I got everything on your list,” she replied. “It’s all in the trunk.”
“Mind if I put on some music for the drive?”
“The speakers are trash, but go ahead.”
He cued up an old album by Ivan and the Suckmunkies.
“Wow, I haven’t heard this in forever,” she said.
He seemed surprised she’d heard it at all. “What do you think of Bässgrindeur?”
“I love those guys! But really, Basterd Rat did his best work with the Broken Nose Trio....”
They continued bonding over obscure bands as she drove them out of the city into the woods. The road to the executive’s valley compound wound through hills and trees so tall she could barely see the darkening sky. Shortly after sunset, they crested a rise above the valley and saw a huge glowing dome that looked like the Moon itself had fallen to earth and embedded itself in the valley floor. Her knowledge of lunar terrain was pretty minimal—it was hard to see it very clearly through all the air pollution—but she saw craters etched in the surface, and thought she recognized Mare Imbrium and the other dry seas of the rocky satellite.
“Well, that’s a fragging amazing replica,” Borealis said. “Way better than I was expecting.”
“The map says ten stories tall at the apex, but the panic room is directly below the first floor master suite.” Velocity pulled the car off the road and killed the headlights. “We’re about a two kiiometers away. Can you sprint that if we need to bug out in a hurry?”
He nodded. “I run every day.”
“Good. Felician’s intel says that the best way to get there is to just cut through on the southwest side.”
“Below the replica of the Grimaldi crater, yeah. I see exactly where it is.”
“Okay, let’s roll.”
They gathered their gear and headed down through the trees to Moon’s palace. At ten kilos, the plasma cutter was the heaviest piece of equipment they had to carry, but if it performed as expected, it would make short work of the exterior wall. And in a pinch, it would make short work of any armored guards they encountered. Most of his security detail was supposed to be with him at the charity event, but there were always at least one or two guards left behind.
