Shadowrun, p.38
Shadowrun, page 38
Zap! One lightning bolt mark. Slam! Two down, one to go…and three. “Success! I’m in.”
“Great, Jinn!” Mara said over the comm. “Start the evac on the 153rd, then the floors above, then below. Go now.”
Jinn spun his hands into miniature versions of the twister underneath him and plunged them into the climate controls.
Chaos erupted on the 153rd floor. As the fire sprinkler system engaged, white-collar employees scrambled to salvage essentials and run for the stairs.
Aufheben headed to the air duct on the far side of the floor. Kneeling, he unscrewed the faceplate and removed the package. He found it hard to focus, his mind sluggish. Even so, less than a minute later, he had grabbed the package from the second duct as well. Jogging toward the third duct, he lifted his head to see if anyone had spotted him.
Same as always, he thought. Too absorbed in their own lives to think about others.
Unable to force the irony of that statement from his mind, the face of Juhaina Awan flashed into his thoughts again. Had he ever thought about her life, or was she just another asset to throw at his mission? And what did it get her? Her kids? They’d grown up in the Caliphate anyway. Without a mother.
In the Global Sandstorm Matrix, Jinn reached to engage the fire suppression system on the floors beyond the 153rd. As he plunged his hand into the system again, searing pain shot through his skull. The angry genie spun around to see two Global Sandstorm sphinxes flanking a smaller sphinx with black oil covering its feet and dripping out toward him. Behind them, a golden dragon approached.
Four against one and a tarpit? Subhan’Allahm. I’m in trouble.
Uncharacteristic guilt was making Aufheben’s every move heavy. As he reached the final air duct, he let his rage propel him as it so often had before, empowering him to complete his mission. But his anger had somehow shifted, from all of the oppressors he has always hated, to himself.
Corporations, nations, dragons, and empires, great or small, were all singular personalities, controlling others and shedding others’ blood to further their own ends. And now, at this very moment, Aufheben realized that in practical terms, he was no different. He used others for his own ends, as noble as his goals may have been, and they died. And nothing changed.
How many husbands, mothers, sons had he led to their deaths for nothing other than ideology? And how many wives, fathers, and daughters had he killed in order to resist what he decided was tyranny? And Mara. Had he given up the best thing he’d ever had for a lost cause?
While he fought through the maelstrom in his mind, Aufheben’s body was on autopilot, assembling the bomb that would bring about an instant, lasting change. This time, at least, things would be different.
Elsewhere, a golden dragon clawed the arm off an angry genie. The two sphinxes continued their fiery barrage on Jinn’s icon as well. The programs they used caused him to feel all of this in his physical body as well.
Panicking, Jinn’s only thought was to destroy the Sphinx with the black oil on its feet. If I can just geek that tar pit, I just might make it out alive.
He felt the dragon bearing down again as he flung one last bolt of lightning at the oily sphinx…
Scanning the floor, Aufheben could see everyone had evacuated. He switched his comm back on to tell Mara that the bomb had been armed and that he was activating the amulet.
“—eben! Aufheben! Answer me, damn it!” Mara shouted.
“I’m here. What’s happened?” he replied, now fully present in the moment.
“Something happened to Jinn. He didn’t set the alarms off on the other floors. There are still hundreds of people up there!” Mara’s voice was pleading.
“That…is unfortunate.” Aufheben kept his voice calm, centered. This was one last chance to really make a difference, to make all that blood matter, to make those sacrifices count. “Mara, we can’t let that stop us. This is the only chance we’ll ever get like this. We have to take it, no matter what the cost.”
“I thought you would say that. So I came up to be with them.” Mara’s voice was resolute. “You were right. When you said I only save the lives of people like me, you were right. It’s all I’ve thought about since then. I know the bomb is active, and I know I can’t save them, but I’m going to stand with them. Like I never had the courage to do before.”
“Mara! No! Get out!” He switched on the image link to see through her goggles. There she was, a Jew standing among citizens of the Caliphate, many of whom would want her dead if they knew who she was. Yet she stood with them now.
He cursed at the god he had never believed in. He finally had a chance to bring about real change, taking out all of the major players at once, but now this! In thirty seconds, it would all be over. He looked through Mara’s eyes at the people in the building. It made him even angrier at the tyrants who oppressed them. But they weren’t the ones who would kill these people.
He would.
Aufheben stared at the amulet that would save his life when the bomb went off, but wouldn’t save theirs. If history is any indication, another ruler or rulers would take the place of the oligarchs upstairs, and nothing would have changed except more people would be dead.
He took another look at the bomb, and closed his finger around the amulet, his determination growing stronger.
In a world built on greed and domination, perhaps the only true revolutionary act is a selfless one.
Clutching the amulet, he ran to the bomb and held it to his chest. As the time ran out, Aufbehen spoke the Name. His last rebellion against the powers was complete.
Outside the city, Mara looked toward downtown Dubai. It looked peaceful from the shore, with the rising sun casting half the buildings in shadow, but bringing a sort of angelic illumination to the parts of the city facing the dawn. Mara knew she couldn’t stay in this moment forever.
As if in response to her thoughts, her commlink rang. Allowing herself a sliver of hope, she answered it,
“Mara? They just confirmed it. Aufheben is dead. I’m sorry. And I’m sorry that no one else died.”
“I’m not,” she said. “Jinn…I’m glad you’re okay.”
“Thanks, hon. If you ever need me again, I’d like a chance to redeem myself.”
“It wasn’t your fault. We couldn’t have known Saeder-Krupp was attending the meeting as well, and had bolstered Global’s defenses. It wasn’t your fault.”
“If you say so. Many thanks.”
“You too,” she said as she ended the call. Aufheben had failed. She had failed. And soon, they would come looking for her.
As she lingered, considering her bleak future, a bellowing roar came from above. She looked up to see the distinct form of the Great Dragon Aden soar overhead, flying so quickly she could barely track her. She seemed to enter the Burj Khalifa, near the spire where the bomb should have exploded. Mara shuddered as she imagined the dragon finding the Net. Would she kill them all? Just take the artifact? Would they try to trap her?
Minutes later, the dragon launched itself out over the Persian Gulf, hovering just long enough to cast a backward glance at the city before resuming its terrible speed and flying off toward the Northwest.
A revolutionary is dead, she thought. But the sight of the dragon reminded her: revolution can’t die. Someone has to stand with the people.
And she vowed that as long as there was even one tyrant left, someone always would.
FINAL STROKE
(2 of blades)
SCOTT SCHLETZ
“A true warrior does not die to a killing blow. A true warrior lives on to complete his final stroke, no matter how broad that stroke may be.”
Family. Dead.
Friends. Dead.
What was left?
Looking down, Cal pressed the small oval button on his watch, the connection to the commlink tucked into the small of his back, but currently not transmitting. With the light touch, the screen’s soft, blue glow erupted like daylight in the dark of the city sewers. The piercing light stung his eyes like the pungent stench of the dank water stung his nose.
23:47. It was thirteen minutes to midnight, and Cal knew he needed to hurry up. The garbage was only brought down from zero hundred hours to zero hundred ten. It was the only soft spot in the security. A narrow window for a quiet entrance.
A soft whirring came from a side tunnel, and he moved away from it. One of the signs he’d memorized while taking this walk a dozen times in the last thirty-two hours. He’d only waited once, listening as the garbage was dumped before heading back the same way he came. All done in near pitch-black. He managed thanks to his eyes’ low-light modification, because too much light would give him away.
It was light when his life was darkened.
The sun shone high in a cloudless sky. The recreation area the family rented was quaint. A small pavilion alongside a park with six swings, a slide, and a small jungle gym. It abutted a large open space with a volleyball court set up just past the outfield of a softball field. A few trees gave a little shade, but most of the area was cast in the bright light of the noonday sun. All of this a thousand meters up in the Chicago Core. It was where they gathered every year. A rare expenditure for a combination family reunion and end of summer bash.
Hamburgers were sizzling on the grill, with Uncle Dan handling the fire like a pro. A plethora of salads, each the specialty of one family member or another, lined the tables. Watermelon and ice cold drinks, all of the non-alcoholic variety due to local regulations, filled coolers and ice-filled tubs. It was a smorgasbord of gluttonous consumption laid out all over the pavilion. Much like the location, the food was a rare treat for many in attendance. It was all real.
The kids buzzed around the swings, slide, and jungle gym like electrons whizzing around a nucleus. Filled with an unending supply of childish energy, they slowly burned out the older kids who tried to chase them around. It was picturesque. Like something you’d expect from an ancient Norman Rockwell painting.
A few of the elder cousins were on the softball field playing 500. Cal and a few other middle-agers were doing their best to fight off the onslaught of the college-agers on the volleyball court.
It was a bliss-filled moment, leaving Cal oblivious to the trouble about to rain down on his head and drown his family in the flood.
Two beeps in his wired earpiece let Cal know he had one minute until the garbage would be tossed. He was already in position. It was going to be a long minute.
Nerves made him lay a hand over the cargo pocket of his pants. He could feel the stiff edges of the card there as he reassured himself that his lucky charm was still present. He knew it was more now, knew it had connected to him in unknown arcane ways. The Lady of the Blades was linked with him, for good or ill, until she was done with him.
The service elevator was built out from the wall, an addition to the structure from a former age. It had only a wire cage shielding its open front. It opened into a squat, two-meter-wide concrete hallway, with a large compactor fifty meters down. The single compactor serviced six buildings in the Core, each with a room just like this one. They all attached to the sewer system, a design and system older than all the corporations currently housed in the revamped skytowers above.
Despite his fears, time passed and with thirty seconds to midnight, the sound of the elevator coming to life echoed down the silent corridor. Lights came on, bathing the center of the room in harsh orange tones. Cal slipped further back into the shadows of the nook created by the elevator and looked out. Low-light adjusted rods made it look like daylight.
The elevator hit the bottom with a loud clunk, followed by the rattle of the cage door being rolled out of the way. An out of tune version of JetBlack’s “Prima Nocturna” echoed off the walls from the garbage man singing as he worked. Cal let him pass by with one load, only observing. The man looked to be in his early twenties, dark hair, pale skin, sharp features, zip-up grey jumpsuit, work boots, and an ancient pair of headphones, complete with a cord running to his pocket where he must have tucked an ancient audio player.
The singing trash man had a black bag in each hand that he carried down the hall to the compactor, then dropped. Pulling the door open with both hands, he picked up a bag and tossed it in. Leaving the second bag on the floor, he walked back to the elevator, still oblivious to Cal in the shadowy recess.
Hands filled again, the garbageman emerged from the cage and headed to the compactor. This time Cal followed.
As he stalked, thoughts of this young man’s innocence raced through Cal’s head, but he asked himself yet again, “what’s left?” and pushed aside any compassion he may have had yesterday.
The unaware singer tossed one bag, then the other, into the compactor as he approached, then bent to pick up the one he left.
Cal stepped in for a quick kick, but the garbageman saw him out of the corner of his eye. His reaction was just enough that the kick, intended to shove him into the compactor, glanced off his hip as he dodged forward.
The quick movement left them both off-balance on a slippery wet floor. The singing sanitationist flailed, reaching for something to save his fall as his feet slipped. Blind luck landed his fingers on a long lever jutting from the wall near the door. The grip kept him up but left him defenseless.
Cal wasn’t expecting to miss, but years of training taught him you don’t always hit your mark. His recovery was faster, and he snapped another kick out. The blow made solid contact and pulled the garbageman’s fingers free. A second blow, a rising knee, sent him tumbling over the lip of the compactor.
Singing was now replaced by screaming as the janitor’s feet dangled out of the compactor, kicking wildly in the air as he tried to scramble back out. Cal swung the massive metal compactor door hard. It shut with a resonating clang, neatly tucking the janitor’s feet in. Boot heels pounded on steel, but were soon drowned out by hydraulics coming to life. Large red letters flashed to life, warning users that the trash was compacting.
Innocent or not, Cal thought, I have a bigger fish to fry.
Not everyone saw it happening. All of these men’s movements seemed surreal to the partygoers. Those who did notice, watched in awe, but no one understood. No one but Cal.
Four Osprey 22Ts, tilt-wing transport aircraft, rose up over the lip of the skypark. Their doors rolled open in unison and disgorged their load of black-clad men. All carried small assault rifles with bulky, complex-looking scopes, and long cylindrical silencers. Most at the affair didn’t know more than that, but Joe, a cousin heavily into action trids, could’ve told everyone they were Colt M-23 Type 4 carbines, kitted out for Special Forces use.
The kids continued running all over the playground. The bat still cracked for 500. On the volleyball court, Cal ripped a line drive serve just over the net that caught his cousin Sean square in the face as his attention was elsewhere. Cal’s attention stayed on the court as he ran to make sure his cousin was okay. His aunt, Sean’s mom, ran with him, but everyone else had turned their attention toward the pavilion and the Ospreys.
The next moment was seared onto Cal’s memory like a brand. It was a scream, not of fear or physical pain, but the howl of a banshee, full of emotion that pierced not only his ears, but his very soul.
The elevator creaked along on its slow ascent. It stunk. Not of garbage, but of the strong chemicals used to clean and cover the smell of garbage. Cal’s eyes burned from the acrid stench.
Blinking rapidly, he pulled up the rifle hanging from the strap across his back. The small , silenced assault rifle was comfortable in his hands, but then again he’d never held a weapon that wasn’t. Guns, knives, swords, clubs. All of them felt like part of him.
As the elevator rose, he gave the rifle a quick once over and pulled the bolt back to chamber a round. He looked over the silencer one last time, because once the shooting started it would be too hot to check.
The weapon review kept his attention focused and nerves settled until the elevator stopped. The abrupt halt was a surprise. It was one of many Cal had to be ready for as he entered the uncharted locale. He knew the sewers. Knew the compactor room. Knew the elevator. But all he knew about the office was the number.
1401.
It was the only office on the fourteenth floor, or rather the thirteenth, but superstition meant there was no thirteenth floor. The thin cover was all well and good but, no matter what the numbers said, bad luck was still on its way.
Cal pulled the cage open with one hand while the other stayed on the grip of the rifle and tucked it into his shoulder. With the cage clear, he opened the door that protected the building’s interior from the stench of the elevators to reveal his first surprise.
Directly in front of the door was a black-clad guard who turned toward the elevator. Cal could tell he was beginning to say something friendly, probably expecting the young singer who would have been returning. The banter stopped in mid-word when he saw Cal.
The guard’s hand shot for his hip. With only one hand for control, Cal raised the rifle and squeezed the trigger.
The first shot was low, hitting the guard in the meat of his thigh. His hand changed paths to grab for the injury, but the second shot stopped that. A soft crack and the clicking of the bolt, followed by the soft thump of a bullet hitting flesh, made the guard’s eyes widen before he collapsed in a heap on the floor.
Cal stepped over the body, hoping his soul would quickly find its way to the hell it deserved. He’d seen his face before, and knew his sins.
