From the Street (shadowrun stories) Page 9

  "This is nonsense and you are not serious, 'Ivan'," Artaud said. "The Russians want Poland under control, but they would never dare to threaten the German Alliance, even with popular support. Moreover the Poles are Catholics and Rome would throw its weight in the affair. By the way, Cardinal, what is the Vatican's stance in what regards the current Russian presence in Poland?"

  "Well… we naturally defend the Catholic community in Poland, but we are also fervent advocates of peace in Europe. The Church supports the aims of the Liberation Army but we believe an agreement should be reached with the current government, that of Rybinski… even if it is influenced by the Russian occupation forces," the Cardinal said.

  "I don't think the Big L would agree with granting Suchov full control over Poland," Dabrowski added with a smile.

  "I think you overestimate the Wyrm, Herr Davidowicz. He's not that powerful in terms of political and military power. At least not compared to our Bundeswehr," said the General.

  "Last time I heard, it's been a few decades since your military blasted one of those lizards. As far as I know, it's not one of your jet fighters that blew Nachtmeister off the face of the planet. And do you believe the sudden exodus of wyrms out of Germany is a result of your army's operations, Herr General?" Artaud asked over his flute, with a touch of irony in his voice.

  A conniving light shone in Dabrowksi's eye. "My friend's fair enough. In fact, General, some people in France and Great Britain pretend that the German dragons used to protect the country more effectively than the Bundeswehr do… "

  Reuber's face burned red with anger. "The thing is, meine Freunde, we have the means and will to defend our country. Whatever Saeder-Krupp wants, if we do not help the right side in Poland now, and the Liberation Army overthrows the current regime, the next government in charge could be that of that ultranationalist madman Wysocki, and the situation there will look strangely similar to Hitler's rise to power in 1935. And that is a real threat. And what would you say about it, Mr. Artaud?"

  He was losing some precious time. What was worse, this was getting unbearably boring. "I'd point out to you the fact that no, the situation would really have nothing in common with the one you mentioned. And that Hitler rose to power in your country in 1933, not 1935, Herr General."

  Reuber gawked at him. Dabrowski was smiling broadly.

  "Now if you would pardon me, I need to leave your company. I really can't leave my wife alone any longer. You know, women… " Artaud said. "Or maybe you don't, after all," he finally added after an amused look in the direction of Cardinal Mazotti.

  He left them behind, losing himself in the crowd.

  – So? What gives?

  – Everything's fine, man. Kern says the astral is clean, he's back here with me. Celine is in the room.

  Artaud mentally dialled Celine's number in his headphone. She answered immediately.

  – How are you doing, my dove?

  – Pretty well, honey. I've talked our chummer into showing me the interesting parts of that place. He had to get to his room to take his passkey, and I managed to see his door's code. Thank God for the eyezoom. He showed me the opera, the gambling grounds and more. I left him after promising him some surprises for later in the night.

  – What kind?

  – You don't want to know, honey. Anyway, I managed to say good-bye and enter his room… and now I'm almost through with the installation of the sat dish. By the way, how was it with Dabro? You're still with him?

  – Nope. I've just left him. But I couldn't find out what the fragger is doing here. I'm wondering…

  – Wait a minute… Good. Nolwenn, the link and the terminal are on. Deck in, but please hurry up.

  – Acknowledged, the decker answered on her second line.

  * * *

  Artaud's Westwind emerged from the tunnel, soon reaching the docklands of the western districts of Marseille. He drove to reach the northwestern districts, where he had a small flat. There he could rest for a while and think about what his next move should be.

  They had almost made it. It had been hanging on a thread…

  * * *

  – Any info on the corp suit?

  – Not much. Young, a slight Yankee accent…

  – Ares?

  – Maybe, I… He! Nom de…?!

  – Celine? Celine?!

  The comm had been shut down.

  – Kern, go see what happened!

  He switched to Nolwenn.

  – Are you OK? What's up?

  – She's down, Laurent. Her cam is aimed at the ceiling. On est mal. What are we doing now, for frag's sake? I've decrypted the file and I'm downloading it.

  – Try to complete the d-load if you can, but prepare for possible dumpshock if someone pulls the plug. Is she…?

  – Don't know, sorry Laurent. Kern is back in astral to check what happened to her.

  Struggling to keep his calm, Artaud was crossing the hall of the Casino, moving for the door. Someone clasped him on the shoulder. He stopped, his heart missing a beat. Then he turned back.

  Dabrowski was smiling. As usual.

  "You don't really think you are going to leave me like this, Tusky Trog?"

  "We are no longer in Vienna or in Prague, Piotr. Leave me alone."

  "You are right. But I know you are here for business… "

  Nolwenn's voice anounced in his head: Deleting clues of my intrusion… Chie, Laurent, security is zeroing on you…

  "… and I'm here for business, too," Dabrowski said. "Nothing personal, you know. But you are not leaving this time."

  – Keep a low profile and do whatever you can. Prepare to get into gear with the van if anything turns ugly for you.

  – Okay. I'm jacking out, Nolwenn said.

  Three humans and an ork dressed in black suits, dark glasses covering their eyes, surrounded him and invited him to follow them without resistance. They led him out of the hall through the Euro-elite crowd and into a deserted corridor. Dabrowski was following them.

  "You know, I couldn't let you steal those files. Richard doesn't like when someone messes with his collection, even on this side of the Atlantic. You didn't choose the right sheep to shave, Laurent. He's got many connections in this country," he said.

  Artaud didn't answer. Suddenly, the leading guard stopped and turned back, startled.

  "Astral assault! Jean-Pierre warns me the elementals have been disrupted!"

  Then two ethereal forms, small humans in hooded dark robes, each of them wielding a staff, appeared and immediately attacked the guards. A third spirit was standing in front of Artaud, his scary, piercing red eyes looking directly in his.

  – Run, Mann. My spirit is concealing you. Behind the spirit materialized a fourth entity, the manifested astral form of Kern, pale and clad in dark robes too. I'll keep them busy while you get away.

  Before he really knew what he was doing, Artaud found himself running in another corridor, the spirit beside him. He looked back, saw the guards struggling with the apparitions, and heard Dabrowski shouting orders. For thirty frightening seconds he ran, and eventually found a door that according to the signs on the richly decorated walls lead outside. Praying for it not to be locked, he pushed it. The door opened, and he was out in the gardens and the hot summer night. Breathing heavily, he forced himself to calm down. The spirit was gone.

  – Laurent? Nolwenn's tense voice asked over the phone line. There are men with SMGs outside the van! They are going to break in, and Kern's still unconscious.

  Oh, yes that was botched.

  – Get away, as fragging quick as you can, and leave me on my own. He didn't want to lose a second teammate through his fault. And what about the magician? What if his meat body was hurt, or worse? But he could not do anything for now, just try to escape and save his skin. He walked towards the edge of the garden, spotting a small gate in the outer fence opening on the street. A young man wearing the uniform of the Police de Monaco guarded it. He breathed in, and drew a small cell phone fro
m his pocket. Then he strode towards the gate.

  "No, just tell him I want to talk to him about Haneda," he said in the phone, with a menacing tone. "I-don't-give-a-fragging-clusterfrag he's with the Wuxing representative, Morris!"

  The young cop gestured hesitantly towards him to block his way. Artaud took a scornful look at him, still talking in the phone.

  "You call your boss, chummer, or Fextron Cybertronics' future in Europe is sealed and… wait a minute." He looked at the young man with as much contempt as he could muster. "So what, kid, I'm not going out this way? I must go round? Don't waste my time, I really could take it very bad."

  The cop stepped back before the ork's expression and teeth.

  "N… No, sir, naturally there is no problem sir please go this way… " he said, puzzled.

  Artaud ignored him and went forward through the gate, still shouting in his phone. "Ah, now this is better. Yeah. And tell him to move his butt or I'm selling my shares to Cross."

  He was out of the gardens, out of the casino and back to the streets.

  * * *

  Artaud drove his Westwind to a small neighborhood in the north of Marseille, called La Carrere. It was poor, but hadn't fallen in the same state of decay and anarchy as other parts of the Quartiers Nord. Still, litter covered the streets and the sidewalks, and small-time gangers were roaming. Nothing to be really afraid of, and at least the police never went to those parts of the metroplex. Dodging obstacles, he headed towards his secure parking lot.

  * * *

  He could reach neither Celine, nor Nolwenn or Kern. Unsure, he walked rapidly a few blocks deeper in New Monaco towards the underground parking where he had left his Westwind. He had parked it there the week before, in case they would have needed a quick getaway. Since all of them had come to Monaco tonight with the Eurovan, he could reasonably believe Dabrowski's men weren't informed about the Westwind. Still, he was frightened. He reached his car and left the parking without noticing anything unusual or threatening. Less than five minutes later he had left Monaco, quickly reaching the highway. East towards Italy, or west towards Nice and Marseille?

  He chose the second solution. He wouldn't stop in Nice, which was a reactionary and racist free city since conservative aristos had taken over after the '43 quakes, and where he had no connections. It was different in Marseille, where he could use contacts in the Milieu.

  * * *

  And there he was, crossing the street at 4 AM to enter his run-down building. There were several people outside tonight. Most of them young, most of them of North African origin. One of them was a changeling. That was one of the things that helped him to hide: he just had to change his clothes and his speaking mannerisms to seem like a guttertrog. It was funny to see how a thug or a squatter in Marseille was so similar to one in Seattle, Berlin or Hong Kong. Misery was probably the thing most commonly shared among metahumanity.

  He went up the concrete stairs, opened his door on the third floor and locked it behind him.

  He turned the trid on and fell on the sofa. Nothing about New Monaco on the news channels besides the regular Grand Tour coverage, and nothing on him or his team.

  Artaud was starting to drift towards sleep, when he remembered that he had left his gun in the car. He forced himself to get up to go and retrieve it; it would help him feel safer. He left his flat and crossed the street once again. The night was clearer, and in one hour dawn would arrive. The ork was about to enter the parking lot, when he spotted a black van rolling down the street, all lights out. He swiped his passkey in the cardreader and slipped inside, looking through the small window at the top of the door. The van stopped across the street in front of his building, and four men in long coats stepped out of the vehicle.

  Too hot for the season. Even late at night.

  Two of the men entered the building by the front door, while the other two were going round the block. It couldn't be a coincidence. Artaud hurried for his car, and sat in the driver seat.

  How did they know?

  Celine.

  He swore. Naturally. Rule number three: never mingle private life and biz. And he had brought Celine here once, back when they had been together. Frag.

  So she talked.

  He couldn't blame her. God knew what they had done to her in order to make her talk. Or had she… Horror fell on him. Could she have betrayed him? No. Nolwenn had said she was down. And what if she too had been lying… After all, he wasn't sure that Nolwenn had really decked the computer, nor that Kern's help wasn't a trap…

  No. That didn't make sense. They had caught him for good, and he couldn't have escaped without the magician's help. He was becoming too paranoid. Still, he didn't know what to think anymore. One thing was clear, though: he had to flee, far from here. He drew his Fichetti from under his seat and looked at it for a few seconds, then dumped it on the passenger seat.

  Thinking about it, he realized the old motto was double edged. It's not about what you know, it's about who you know. This time "who he knew" didn't really help him, to say the least. Maybe it's rather who knows you, he thought.

  He looked in the rearview mirror, and saw a tired and old ork wreck. Then he smiled, his tusks emerging from his lower lip. He frowned, just a little. Oh yes, he had everything he truly needed. He had his gun, his car, a few chips and certified credsticks as well as a fresh tuxedo on the back seat. And above all, he had his face. Paris, London, Amsterdam… Anywhere he could start all over again, and find out what had really happened.

  Artaud entered the code of the parking door, jacked in, and was ready to drive.

  REDEYE FLIGHT

  Jon Szeto

  The fiery orange rays of the setting sun seared through the horizon's ash-gray clouds as I guided Angelfire over the last set of hills. The Hughes WK-2 Stallion helicopter dipped gracefully in descent, hugging the crest line closely to minimize the radar signature. My flight path was just skirting the border between Fort Lewis and the Salish council lands, so it would be a good idea for me to keep my head down.

  My flight destination was Smuggler's Valley, a valley nestled in these hills, seated just beyond the Seattle Metroplex in Salish lands, near the town of Tenino. I was flying there to deliver a package to some t-bird smugglers en route to Denver. Smuggler's Valley used to be a quarry back when this was still part of the old United States, but it closed shop before the area became tribal land. The tailings in the quarry contained a lot of iron that messed up radar, which combined with the rolling hills in the surroundings, made for a perfect hiding place for t-bird smugglers running from Athabaska to Denver.

  As I turned to swing around a rock outcropping, I felt a simsense-induced stiffness in my lower leg. Angelfire's vehicle rig was warning that the tail rotor was acting improperly, but I already knew that. While I was leaving the Tacoma docks on this trip, a Yakuza gang hit the people I was picking up from, and Angelfire took a hit in the tail rotor. The damage wasn't serious by any stretch, but it made turning and maneuvers a little balky.

  All of a sudden warning klaxons blazed in my ear as a spray of crimson washed over my sight. Someone was painting Angelfire with radar, causing the copter's sensor warning receiver to scream its head off. Looks like the folks I was supposed to meet are just as edgy as I am.

  With the twinkle of a thought, I called up the communications menu, selected the digital transponder, and ordered transmission of the preselected code I had received. A second later the cone of red transformed to a cerulean blue, as the radar recognized me as a "friendly" rather than a potential hostile.

  Reassured I wouldn't get shot down while landing, I crested the last ridge as the quarry opened up below me. Two t-birds sat in one section of the rocky pit, a pair of olive drab pillbugs scavenging at the bottom of a rocky-gray flower pot. One had several panels removed for repairs, and on the other I saw visible blast marks on the hull. Seems pretty obvious just why they were so edgy.

  Within the simsense environment of Angelfire's rig, I leaned back and spread my
arms. The helicopter responded by descending down into the quarry, opposite from the two t-birds. As the walls of the rock pit rose above me, I slowly brought my arms to my side, slowing the copter's rate of descent. By the time my arms met my waist, Angelfire touched down with all the impact of a feather falling on the skin of a custard. I exhaled slowly, and the whine of the engines faded as they powered down.

  As I unjacked from the system, my mind attuned itself back to a body left unattended for the past half hour. I removed the flight helmet and undid the ponytail holding my hair together, letting the auburn curls fall freely to my shoulders. Stretching my arms as I hopped out of the cockpit, I straightened my synthleather flight jacket and adjusted the pistol belt hanging at my waist. These smugglers only knew me by reputation, so it was important to convey a striking first impression. I turned towards the t-birds, my boots making a scrunching along the ground as I walked over the loose gravel.

  Two of the smugglers, an ork and a woman, were coming to intercept me halfway across the quarry. Although their hands were empty, I could see their sidearms hanging ready at their waists, with holsters unstrapped should they need to draw quickly. I kept my own hands open, freely swinging with each stride, but I made sure my gun hand didn't stray too far from my Predator. Neither of us really wanted a fight, but neither were we going to back down. Showing weakness shortens one's career in the shadows pretty quickly.

  The ork was the first to break silence. "You Josie Cruise?"

  "Depends," I answered noncommittally, "you one of the Sooners?"

  The woman frowned skeptically as she sized me up. "I thought you had died."

  "Twice." I smiled as I glanced at her over the top of my mirrorshades. It seems like the reports of my last run-in with the UCAS Air Force were still circulating around.