From the Street (shadowrun stories) Page 19

  I swung the Airstar lower until it almost skimmed the treetops-best way to avoid future encounters-while a nagging question formed in the back of my mind. Why had the two zoomies tried to shoot me down with no warning? I'd had plenty of run-ins with Salish and UCAS jet jockeys during past smuggling runs, but they'd never opened fire without issuing some kind of warning or threat first. This geek-first-warn-later bulldrek-that was a Lone Star trick. Not the kind of thing I was used to getting from fellow flyers, even if they were the Law and I wasn't.

  The glowing orange orb of the sun, just rising over the horizon ahead of me, was beginning to dispel the shadows on the land below. Too bad it could shed no light on my question. I'd eluded my flying foes for now, but I couldn't run forever. Sooner or later I had to go to ground, and then they'd find me.

  Well, what the hell. Maybe I could still do what I'd been hired to do before the cavalry showed up.

  I landed the Airstar right where the Johnson had told me to, then holstered my Ingram and set out to retrieve the package. I briefly wondered what was in it-something worth sending air jockeys after a lone 'copter, maybe? And how had they known who I was?-but swiftly dismissed such speculation as useless. Smugglers who live to spend their earnings learn not to ask unnecessary questions.

  The McNeil Island Penitentiary Compound was looming dead ahead. It had been abandoned for years, but the Johnson had warned me that "unfriendly people" would likely be watching the place. I knew I'd have to make an unorthodox entrance, but I still wasn't looking forward to it. I reached the entry spot, took a deep breath, braced myself, and lowered myself down into the storm sewer that led to the compound's central building.

  After wading through stinking raw sewage for what seemed like hours, I finally came to the manhole I was looking for. I shoved it to one side, pulled myself up out of the sewer and squeezed through the narrow aperture, cursing under my breath all the while. Then, squatting on the damp concrete floor under a heavy grating, I looked around as best I could in the dim light.

  I'd fetched up in a maintenance trench under the ground floor of the main building. I could see the outlines of power cables and plumbing pipes; they smelled of rust and rot. Hulking overhead, toward the back of the trench, I spotted several giant shadows-turbines, which meant I must be under the plant's power room.

  I was reaching up to lift the grating when a faint grinding noise froze me in place. Then I heard the telltale whine of a laboring combustion engine, growing gradually louder as it came my way. Twisting my head over my shoulder, I saw a dark shadow rumble over the grating. I withdrew my fingers as the thing rolled to a stop directly above me.

  It was a patrol drone-an FMC Sentinel. Only slightly larger than a kid's wagon, it was equipped with tank treads to cover rough terrain, and it packed enough firepower to ruin any shadowrunner's day. If it detected me, it would certainly ruin mine.

  Soundlessly I unlatched the magazine in my Ingram, then reached into my cargo pocket and withdrew a 30-round clip of armor-piercing, silicone-coated depleted-uranium shells. As quietly as I could, I loaded the clip, then flipped the fire-mode selector switch to AUTO and poked the barrel between the chinks in the grating.

  For the first time that night I was glad to be skulking in a sewer. If I'd run into the Sentinel above ground, I wouldn't have stood a chance of destroying it before it spotted me. But like most drones designed for security work and perimeter detail, the Sentinel's underbelly was fitted with light armor. After all, no one expects a security drone to run into anti-tank mines. Sparks flew as I cut loose with the Ingram and punched several rounds through the Sentinel's steel skin. The bullets ripping into its innards touched off electrical fires inside the drone, making it sputter and pop. A loud explosion knocked me backward as a stray round burst through the fuel tank. I scurried away as burning fuel began raining down into the trench.

  Within minutes the place was crawling with drones. I had to expend the rest of my APDU and one thermite grenade before I found a ventilation duct to hide in. Crawling through the network of ventilation shafts up to the top floor took me about two hours. When I finally squirmed out of the narrow shaft, I landed clumsily in a darkened hallway. To my right was a security door, with an electronic keypad directly above the knob. Assuming I'd kept the map in my head straight through all the twists and turns of the ventilator shafts, the package should be inside.

  I loaded another magazine, emptied the Ingram into the lock and kicked the door open. A quick reload later, I cautiously surveyed the room. It had been some grunt's office once, indistinguishable from a hundred others. A computer terminal sat on top of a cheap plaswood desk, both of them covered with dust.

  I walked over to the terminal. A chip was loaded in one of its drive slots. I opened the desk's top drawer-just as I'd hoped, there were a few thumbtacks still rolling around in it. I took out a thumbtack, stuck its pointy end in the slot and wiggled it around until the chip popped out. Package retrieved.

  I'd hardly turned around when alarm klaxons started blaring all around me. The sound of running feet came from the corridor outside; no exit that way. I turned wildly toward the office's sole window, only to see a curtain of thin steel plates ripple down to cover it. The sharp thud of the door hitting the wall made me spin back around, Ingram raised, to confront my new enemy-four armored security guards whose uniform patches I didn't recognize. All of their guns were pointed straight at me.

  For about five seconds, nobody moved. Then I heard a familiar voice from the hallway.

  "Thank you, gentlemen," said my Johnson as she sauntered into the room. "You can put the guns away now."

  As the sec-boys lowered their weapons, the Johnson gave me a brilliant smile. "Congratulations, Roy," she said. "You passed."

  I eased my grip on the Ingram a fraction… but only a fraction. "This was a test? Just a test?"

  "I needed to find out if you were worth your reputation," she answered. "And it seems you are. You've been quite resourceful. I can't afford anything less-not for the job I have in mind."

  "And the chip?" Curiosity was fighting with anger now. I decided it couldn't hurt me to let curiosity win. "Is it something, or just worthless drek?"

  "Oh, it's something, all right." The Johnson laughed softly. "Consider it your payment for today's work, should you decide you'd rather not be part of the real mission." She gave me a measuring look, then continued. "Would you care to hear about it?"

  "You'd really let me leave now? Just like that?"

  "Just like that. I need willing participants, Roy, not just hired guns who might decide to cut and run when things get more dangerous than they bargained for. From what I learned about you before setting up this little excursion, I'd say you might be a willing participant-once you know everything. But for the moment… " She gave me another sizing-up look. "What are your feelings about the Draco Foundation?"

  I nearly dropped the Ingram in surprise. "Can't say I have any, one way or the other," I managed to say after a moment. "Why? Are you working for them or against them?"

  "For." Another soft laugh. "Oh, definitely for. Which I'll prove to your satisfaction, if you want to hear about the job. Over dinner. You choose the restaurant-though I will say, I'm partial to Thai."

  I holstered the Ingram. "I know a place in Tacoma. Roong Petch. Hole in the wall, but it serves the best yellow curry in town."

  "You can still back out after dinner," she said. "I'll tell you enough to let you know what you're likely in for, not so much that you'll be a danger to us if you refuse. As I said, I need more than just hired guns."

  I nodded toward the door. "Time's wasting, ma'am-and I'm getting hungry."

  She smiled at that-a warm smile that lit up her blue eyes. I had a nagging feeling that I'd seen her somewhere before-and not on this job, either-but dismissed it as smuggler's paranoia. As I followed her and the sec-boys out of the room, I wondered just what kind of drek-pile I might be getting myself into. You know the old saying-never deal with a dragon, or wi
th a dragon's employees…

  A NIGHT IN THE LIFE

  Written by Diane Piron-Gelman and Robert Cruz, based on stories by Jonathan Szeto

  I shoulda known it wouldn't be a simple run. It never is. The minute they call it a no-brainer, you know somethin's gonna go wrong. Bad wrong. Real, real bad wrong. And it sure's hell did on this milk run. Double-crossin' Johnson, not enough homework, whatever-somebody somewheres fragged up good, and we all pretty near paid for it in blood.

  But at least I've still got Demon. It'll take awhile 'fore she's patched up and runnin' again, but she's still among the living. A survivor, that's what she is. Like me.

  It started when we met the Johnson-fella in a Vashon Island knockoff suit and a porkpie hat who smelled like cheap cigars. Said he was a private detective, working for some small-time CEO wannabe who was tryin' to buy out another itty-bitty corp. Wanted "evidence of business fraud," which the detective said was in the computer systems of the little corp's HQ. Natch, the system was closed off from the Matrix, so the Johnson needed us to bust in and sit our decker down in front of the boss's terminal. I guess we shoulda asked why he couldn't hire himself a decker solo and sneak the both of 'em in through a window-but we'd all gone a time between jobs, and cred was gettin' tight. A milk run looked like a good deal, so we took it. And my part looked easiest of all-drive my buds 'cross town, drop 'em off in the warehouse district, keep an eye peeled outside while they got down to it inside, and then drive 'em away fast. No trick atall for a rigger like me, with ten years of street smarts and the fastest fraggin' Leyland-Rover in the 'plex. Souped up her engine my own self, and did a fraggin' good job. What could go wrong?

  So I jacked into Speed Demon that night and roared down Intercity 5 toward the rendezvous. Round midnight on the open road… my favorite place, my favorite time. There is nothin', but nothin', in this world as free and easy and flat-out wonderful as jacking into your wheels and flyin' down the highway at whosiwhatever-klicks-per-hour. Felt lighter than air with just me in the van; I knew that'd change once my buds were on board, but for now I soared down that road like I might take off at the end of it.

  'Cept for the occasional cold wreck, the highway was empty-not a heat sig in sight for klicks. Just as well, considering-at oh-dark-hundred hours, anybody sane'd know better'n to hit the highways. Roving go-gangs like to prowl late, lookin' for unsuspecting drivers to play with. Course, I don't claim to be sane. Sane's just another word for boring as dirt. 'Sides, there was other prey for gangbangers tonight. The Spike Wheels, who claimed turf on my side of the I-5, were busy huntin' down Eye-Fivers in revenge for last night's rumble. They weren't likely to come messing with The Stuntman.

  So I flew on down the road toward the night's run. Demon's visual sensors spun a rainbow around me; I saw sodium-yellow lamps flittin' overhead and blinkin' neon billboards of every color flashin' by. Off leftward I spotted the industrial district, glowin' red as a hellhound's eyes on the thermo-sensors. Flashes of chlorine green lit up the car's microwave radar-spikes from solar flare eruptions, which mess up E-M profile like nobody's business. But little drek like that didn't bother me. Me an' Demon were roadrunnin', and by the end of the night I expected to have my hands on enough cred to finally buy the new set of tires I'd been promisin' her for weeks. Ain't nice to make promises and not keep 'em, especially to the bundle of bolts you depend on to save your hoop.

  I shoulda known it was too good to last.

  I reached the rendezvous and picked up the team-two sams, a decker and a street shaman. With me driving getaway, Rocker and Punch packing guns and chrome, Zipdrive to surf the electrons and Catseye to take care of any magical drek (best to be prepared for everything if you want to spend your pay), we figured we were all set. And we woulda been if the set-up had been what the Johnson advertised.

  Demon took us crosstown to the warehouse district, which useta be a decent workin' neighborhood until the jobs dried up and the big-money boys quit paying taxes. It's been slidin' down the scale from "blue-collar" to "wasteland" for years, but seems to have stopped for awhile at "seedy." The only folks 'round the district these days are outfits just like the one we'd been hired to crash: little mom-and-pop corps with big ideas, bigger hopes and small cash flow. It's cheap rent; it's also bad roads with holes and litter and broken glass. I could feel every crack in the pavement through Demon's tires, like you can feel bumps in the sidewalk through thin shoes. For sure, I told myself, for damn-fraggin-sure I'm buying those tires. First thing tomorrow. And a full tank of gas, too. I was feeling hungrier than I had any right to be, considering I'd snarfed down a whole bag of Hot'n'Ched'r cayenne-and-cheese-flavored soychips before starting out. So I knew Demon could use a refill, even though the monitors told me she had enough gas for tonight.

  I turned off at Milton and Third, right where the Johnson had told us, killed the lights and coasted half a block to a decrepit-looking brick rectangle surrounded by cracked concrete and a chain-link fence. As I pulled up and stopped, I keyed Demon into stealth mode. The ruthenium fibers on her outside, electric blue when she wasn't on a job, faded to clear. I'd paid a nice chunk of change to get a radarbane paint job underneath, and this run was Demon's first since her makeover. The area around the Tacoma docks ain't as bad as either of the Barrens, but that just means that late at night you're risking small ordnance 'stead of large. Plus, the few Lone Star patrols sniffin' around tend to ask lots of nosy questions. So stealth seemed like an extra-good thing.

  The rest of the team bailed, Punch in the lead and Rocker bringin' up the rear. Rocker gave me a wolf's grin as she slipped her headset on and leaned in the driver's-side window. "I'll be listening, Stunt. You see anything, give a holler."

  "Chill," I said, and watched 'em go. Four little reddish blobs on thermo, bobbin' toward the big, empty building like some kinda giant fireflies. I didn't wish 'em luck; didn't wanna jinx 'em. Might as well have shouted "Good luck" at the top of my lungs, as it turned out. But right then the night was quiet, and seemed likely to stay that way.

  I settled in to wait. Didn't jack out, of course-Demon's zoom lenses, magnification and external audio sensors made better eyes and ears for trouble than mine. I turned the diskplayer on, with the volume low enough not to scrag the audio feeds from outside. I had an old-style R B recording I'd been dyin' to listen to, and this seemed like the perfect time. The music would keep my brain from being lulled to sleep by the silent night, much more pleasantly than the cold rain that had started to fall. ASIST can be damned inconvenient when it comes to the weather-whatever touches your wheels, you feel just like the metal body of the car or whatever is your own skin. I tuned out the pinpricks of cold and wet as best I could-you learn to, when you've hadda rig through snowstorms a time or two-and kept the sensors peeled for danger. Didn't see a thing 'cept the occasional passing pigeon and a ripped paper bag tossed by the wind; didn't hear a thing 'cept for that same wind and the dim roar of passing traffic streets and streets away. Far off in the distance, some drunk was shouting at his girlfriend. Just the normal night noises of the city.

  Then the sky started to howl, and I knew we were hosed.

  Wasn't really the sky, of course. It was the building's own alarm. Howling like a herd of banshees, loud enough to bring the Star down on us right quick even if nobody inside had managed to push a PANICBUTTON. Every fraggin' po-leece patrol within a klick of the place was gonna come a-runnin'-we needed to bug out right fraggin' now. So I fired up Demon's engine, just as three little red blobs came tearing outta the building. That's right, three-one of 'em big and shapeless, which meant somebody'd got hurt and somebody else was haulin' 'em along. Followed by four more blobs, a little ways behind as yet but catching up waaay too fast for comfort. I switched from thermo to visual sensors and saw Punch pounding toward me, with Zipdrive slung over his shoulder. Rocker and Catseye were close behind, stopping every so often to shoot or sling a spell at the sec-squad following. And I saw two sec-drones, the vidcam kind with a homing beacon that'll f
ilm your sorry hoop in the criminal act and follow you all the way home. The corps love those; they can track you to your safehouse and send the footage straight to the ten-o'clock news. A one-two punch.

  I popped the doors open as Punch came up. Without missin' a step, Punch slid Zippy off his shoulder and into the back seat, then threw himself in beside him. Rocker and Cat jumped in the middle. I slammed the doors and took off. The sec-boys behind let loose a hail of gunfire, none of which hit. I could hear Punch's FN-HAR talkin' back, but didn't dare look behind Demon to see if he'd got anybody. Then I heard some more shots that didn't come from Punch, and somethin' smacked me hard on the back of the head.

  I thought I was dead. Just for a second I really thought one of the sec-skags'd plugged a bullet right through my meat skull. Then my brain caught up with me, and I realized I was still runnin' Demon down the road. Which meant I was still alive. With a killer headache and a weird, itchy feeling across the back of my scalp that told me the fraggin' bastard had punched a hole through Demon's rear windshield. I didn't have to see it to know that the whole thing was crazed with fracture lines. Have to replace it, I thought, while the rest of me concentrated on the road ahead. And also on the sirens that were startin' to wail all around as the neighborhood Star patrols twigged that somethin' was up. I shunted a smidgen more mental energy toward the audio sensors to sharpen the pickup; I needed to know what direction the sirens were comin' from.

  The sensors gave me bad news. The Star was headin' toward us from the north and east. The place we'd hit, with its sec squad on full alert, was behind us to the south. That left just one direction for a getaway-west, toward Puget Sound. Which meant Demon and me'd have to head west far enough to slip past the Star and hope to highway hell that we didn't hit water first. Then we'd have to make a sharp turn southwards, then pedal-medal it back crosstown to the safehouse. All the while keepin' the Star off our trail, or else losin' 'em somewheres in the maze of city streets.