At the same time. Troog did his best to help the wounded. He had arrived half-carrying his friend with the shoulder wound from the landing fight, and now he repeatedly dashed out into the smoke to help some other staggering survivor find a place in the trailer. StrangeDos also helped guide people in.
By that time, with some more instructions from P’kenyo, who turned out to be a mechanic and occasional shotgun rider as well as a dock foreman for Bob’s Cartage, Turtle had the engine started, and was carefully building up the revs. We were waiting for a signal from the back to take off, something to alert us that all the survivors had reached us.
The smoke from burning vat products filled every bit of air and billowed out of the few small doors that were open. The eyes of most metahumans—elves, dwarves, whatever—are heat-sensitive, and P'kenyo and I were nearly blind in the terrible glare. My skin felt like burning steel, my lungs were on fire, and we were all coughing desperately. Finally, someone banged on the inside of the trailer, and P’kenyo scrambled beside me into the cab, yelling, "Go! Go!"
Turtle let out the clutch as swiftly as he could without popping it. I prayed the big truck wouldn’t stall. If it did, we were all dead. It felt like eons as my flesh seemed to cook right on my bones. I experienced every moment as though events were moving in slow motion, yet everything was happening with all possible speed. The powerful cab leaped forward. accelerating smoothly even with the trailer dragging behind it, and the red needle edged the fifty-kilometer mark as we hit the door.
Metal squealed, buckled, and popped as we bulged, then ripped the big door free of its ceiling and sidewall mountings. Astonished Yakuza opened up on us with all their weapons, which, luckily, didn’t include any LAW rifles. Bullets shattered the glass of the windshield and windows and pinged off the metal body, but Turtle, P'kenyo, and I crouched low. The weapons fire missed us, but the cool night air shocked our skins with its moist embrace.
Turtle hauled on the wheel and got the truck turned into the street before we crashed into another building across the way. He pushed the pedal to the metal, and we roared off into the darkness like a smoking behemoth. "Turn on the headlights, ya damn fool!" barked P’kenyo.
The gunfire faded behind us. Our would-be killers had to let us go, for the predawn was now filled with the sound of sirens as police and fire trucks converged on the scene. Behind us. the warehouse was one huge bonfire. We had gotten out just in time. One cop car appeared in our path, but Turtle was still accelerating, and our truck shunted it violently aside as we hurtled into the night toward the suburbs.
Turtle was out of the Tower!
Later we ditched the truck in a rundown park, and Troog led our little band to an abandoned tenement. Out of twenty-six people who had been inside the warehouse when the Yakuza attacked, eleven had gotten out alive. Four of those were severely wounded, while the rest had minor injuries or burns. Turtle actually had three bullet holes in shoulder and upper back, but his dermal plating had turned the slugs, and the wounds were only bloody grazes.
As we sat around watching the sun rise and eating some Vat egg salad breakfast, Troog voiced his doubts. "We survived. but now what?" he asked.
"You could all stay with me," said Turtle. "I think we have the nucleus of a pretty good shadowrun team. There’s a gang war coming in Youngblood terra, and that's where we could make our mark. We’ve got two magickers, a decker, and some of the best fighters around."
"Yeah, I like it," drawled the dwarf, "and I’ll be the brains of the outfit." That got a good laugh, yet most of them were taking Turtle’s suggestion seriously. The stranger had saved their lives that evening, and his natural charisma was doing the rest.
"Why not?" said Shadaman. "Online!" agreed StrangeDos. "You’ve got my vote," said Vicious Sid, one of the extras who had joined us right at the end. Even Troog acquiesced. Having formed his own gang, Turtle now had a power base of sorts.
Turning to me, he smiled wearily. "Well, Flut, how about another reading? What’s in the cards for us?" He emphasized the last word in a way that made my heart thrill. As I reached into the bag for my tarot deck, I had the distinct feeling that this reading would be much happier than the last.
FREE FALL by
Tom Dowd
NEW YORK, United Canadian American States—At a star-spangled satellite conference yesterday Scott Mislan, image coordinator for MegaMedia, announced the sale of the eight-millionth copy of Free Fall. Free Fall, the simsense disk that media experts credit with establishing the market, launched the career of its star. Honey Brighton, four years ago, in 2046. Mislan also announced that Rock Solid, the next Honey Brighton simsense. was currently in post-production at MegaMedia’s Seattle studios, under the governing hand of Free Fall's famed director. Witt Lipton. "We seriously expect Rock Solid to outsell Free Fall within the year." said Mislan.
* * *
In the dimly lit rooms of technology where simsense programs are really made, Witt Lipton is god. This is a world of suggestions, impressions, and false images, a world where subtlety and directness work hand in hand. The fax ads scream: "The Experience Of A Lifetime!", "Be There As It Happens!", "Feel The Surge! Hear Your Pulse Race! Fly On The Wild Side! All Without Leaving your Floatchair!" and the public believes. They believe that when Honey falls four thousand meters, pulls her ripcord and nothing happens, that the quick, piercing spike of sexual ecstasy she/they feel is real. Witt Lipton knows better. He knows that it’s as real as MegaMedia’s three-million-nuyen Yamaha SSX-7500 signal processor can make it.
Five years ago. he was an assistant programmer, pushing envelopes for the old-men producers who thought simulated-senses technology was best suited to travelogues. Everyone was afraid of pushing it too far, of making it too real. Witt and a willing starlet showed them how to make it better than real. He made MegaMedia the premier telecom corporation of his generation. He’s paid handsomely, but the men calling the shots are suits, not artists. Witt remembers the days when simsense programming was raw. an art for the risk-takers, not prestructured sequences and patterns Back before he was required to supply an urge pulse every 137 seconds. He remembers those days most clearly when he sits quietly in his study, carefully dipping his finger in and out of his straight Absolute Platinum.
Witt Lipton has an idea, and it's one he hopes someone will be willing to kill for.
* * *
I coughed once gently into my hand, watching as Raphael's mind returned from whatever far shore it had been travelling, then continued speaking. "Ever since MegaMedia lost Resnick during the February sweeps, they’ve locked down on their creative people pretty hard."
Just to my left, Allyce ran one hand through her long blond hair. It was a luxury, a risky indulgence for someone in our line of work to have shoulder-length hair. "Can it be that tight?" she asked, eyes darting between Raphe and me. "I can’t imagine arty types being too happy with watchdogs at their heels."
I started to reply, but saw Raphael finally bringing his full attention back to the matter at hand. All this time, he’d been distracted enough that everyone had noticed. A thoughtful Raphael was a common sight, but for him to be inattentive was a rarity. "No, but I’m sure it’s tight enough to make this more than a simple pass and grab," he said, absently playing with the lobe of one ear.
The small tray of soft-pack drinks on the end table jittered as a wave of near-subsonics filled the room. Jack’s voice came from every corner in booming, multi-channel digital stereo. "MegaMedia has a Lone Star contract for high-security jobs, but use their own people in-house. The Star guys are generally pretty good, but the house-boys are reformed punkers." he said, the frequency of his voice distorting very slightly on the high end. Trust hotel telecoms to have bad chips.
Next to Raphael, Janey Zane grabbed the remote control and tuned down the frequency response. "Owv! You may be fast, Jack, but you ain’t swift! A little less on the bass, eh?" A security camera in the corner of the room tilted slightly toward her, its single red eye blinking slowly.<
br />
Jack’s dry chuckle was reproduced nearly perfectly, except for that high-end jitter. You couldn’t tell, but I knew it must have been driving him wild. "Oh, Janey baby, you're pressing my buttons."
"You want buttons, tiger? Hows about this one?" Her finger flexed and the entertainment center’s power lights faded to black. I shook my head and waited for Raphe to say something, but he merely turned slightly and looked at the table phone
"Janey,’ said Allycc, "please turn it back on. We need him litre." She’s the least tolerant of our razorgirl’s occasional antics.
I placed my hand gently on Allyce’s arm, startling he slightly. "Give him a second." I said, and the telecom chirped. Raphael punched the speaker button.
"Play nice Janey," came Jack's voice, all its depth and quality stripped away, "or I’ll do a run on Wong's House of Wire anti post your refit specs on one of the public data boards
She laughed, deep and strong, not her usual giggle. The giggle you could never be sure of, but the deep laugh was as real as they come. "Touche, Monsieur Chartyr. but I think we should zip it before Raphael melts our laces
Raphael smiled lightly and tilted his head a fraction at her. Still laughing, she jumped up from her chair, curtsied once, and bounced back down again. I laughed, too, in spite of myself, but pulled in the reins when I caught Raphe’s odd look. Something was definitely eating him and he wanted us to get on with it. I obliged, deciding to let matters unfold rather than force them.
"As I was saying, MegaMedia’s got then people covered pretty tight, all things considered. Especially Lipton I couldn’t find out if they suspect him of anything, of if they’re just paranoid. Either way, the results are the same."
"How does he move?" asked Raphael.
"He’s got a eorp-driven Nightsky to take him everywhere If he wants to deviate from the normal route to and from the studio und his condo, they bring a Lone Star rover car to double-cover him."
"Gawd," said Janey. "that sounds more than a little tight."
"Where does he live?" asked Raphael, his expression pensive.
"He lives alone," I replied. "In a triplex on Queen Anne’s Hill. Rents it."
"Rents it?" Allyce repeated and I nodded.
"Jack, when you talk to Lipton, tell him to make a solid offer to buy his condo," Raphael went on. "Let's make MegaMedia think he intends to stay awhile."
"You got it. boss," said the voice from the phone. Raphael leaned in a little toward it. "Are you going to have a problem getting messages through to him?"
"Me?" said Jack. "Have problems getting a message to him?"
"That is what I said."
"Sweet cakes. Raphe. Not a problem."
"O.K." He leaned back. "Liam, do you have anything else."
I sighed. "Not much. I'm afraid. He's going to be tough, simply because they let him do so little. The MegaMedia building's a trick unto itself, and his triplex has got Knight Errant watching over it. I think one of their execs lives there."
"What does he do for fun?" asked Allyce.
"Not much. Very little social life, and what he has is pretty incestuous—casual in-com dating, that sort of thing. No vices that we can dig up. No nothing."
"Can we give him a vice?" asked Janey.
Raphael nodded approvingly. "A good idea. Something to think about."
"Not that I'm volunteering, you understand."
"Of course." said Raphael, glancing back toward the telecom. "Jack, have you turned up anything else?"
Jack started to reply, but his voice was drowned out by a rush of hard static. It subsided slightly, but we could still barely make him out. "Sorry, guys, but I think some drek-brains are trying to run the local telecom processor. Probably some of those stupid Renraku pups." More static hissed out. and I was glad that it wasn’t a direct line to my cyberphone.
It continued for a moment more and then suddenly quieted. "That should be it," he said. "O.K. Our boy’s definitely working the new Honey Brighton brain-nummer. He’s got most of their post-production studios working on it. The corps have sunk about sixty-three point two million into it already, and they’re only about three-quarters done. I'm trying to get a reliable floor plan for both MegaMedia and Lipton’s triplex, but it’s going to be another day or so. I’ve also started sleazing MegaMedia’s computer system."
"Keep on it," said Raphael, his gaze traveling around the room. "Check with Brilliant Genesis and see if they have anything to say to their prospective new employee. I suspect they might, because they're still not one-hundred percent he actually wants to walk from MegaMedia."
"You got it," said Jack.
"Lastly, I received confirmation from Genesis that MegaMedia is going to be holding a wrap party for one of their sims this Friday. We go then."
Allyce’s eyes widened and then tightened. "You have got to be kidding."
"Unfortunately not. It’s their call. It also means we’re getting double pay."
"Well, why didn’t you say so?" Janey said cheerfully.
We laughed, and Raphael shifted uncomfortably on the couch. That had to be trouble brewing. To have Raphael both distracted and uncomfortable was a bad sign. "Anyone else have anything?"
We looked at one another, hoping someone did, but no one spoke.
He sighed. Another bad sign. "Well, I do. We have another job."
I wasn’t sure I’d heard him right, but the looks on the faces of the others told me I had. Janey laughed and clapped. She'd apparently missed it. "Yea! That’s what I like, forward booking! How soon after we're done?"
I looked at Raphael hard, knowing what he was going to say. "That’s not what you meant, is it. Raphe?"
"You're right. It’s on now," He leaned down and retrieved his soft-pack from the table, "It’s a brush-up."
Allyce moaned. "A brush-up? Now? Wizzer, Raphe, we’re gonna be pushin' it as it is. We can't be running background and watches at the same time."
Nodding, Raphael sipped quietly from his drink. It was in the open now, so it bothered him less. I was less worried about it than Allyce seemed to be, because I understood that Raphe would only have agreed for very good reasons. "I understand." he said, "and believe me I wish I could delay this, but I can’t."
"Watcha got. Raphe?" I asked when no one else spoke.
"A debt to an old friend."
"Uh-oh, sounds ripe to me." That was Janey, almost under her breath.
"My friend needs this bad, and I owe her."
After a moment’s pause, Allyce sighed. "O.K., so what do we have to do?"
"A background run and watch-over. Anything we can dredge up on this guy. anything at all." Raphael gestured tightly with his right hand. As he spoke, the ghostly image of a man appeared suspended before us. He was slightly taller than average and in good enough shape, probably from regular workouts at some local gym. A dark complexion that spoke of South American or Spanish descent and even darker short hair. A close-cut, neatly trimmed mustache and beard framed his mouth, contrasting heavily with his wide, plastic smile. His head was tilted slightly, eyes fractionally wide, a posture indicating he was probably greeting someone. Everything about him said, "I like you. You are interesting. We will be friends." Everything, that is, except the cold, dark pinpoints of his eyes. I disliked him immediately.
"My friend has received information that this guy’s running something, and my friend very much wants to know what that something is," Raphe went on.
"Who is he?" asked Jack.
"The guy is assistant director of one of Aztechnology’s local subsidiaries. His name is Samuel Cortez."
* * *
Witt Lipton leaned back and tried to dream. Music surrounded him: simple, nondescript, perfect for dreaming. He couldn’t match its purity. He’d stopped dreaming a couple of years ago when MegaMedia decided they wanted product, not visions.
He tried harder to let images and sensations flow through him as music blended with color and then emotion. Without warning, a voice intruded and called h
is name. Three times it spoke before he understood. "Lipton," it said.
He sat up quickly and the black leather of his couch moved noisily beneath him. An unfamiliar face hung before him on the holovid screen. It smiled, mirth dancing in its dark eyes.
Electronic wind blew through the image’s short brown hair. "Good morning, Witt." came the voice through the room speakers.
Lipton’s eyes darted instinctively for the PANICBUTTON on the end table, just beyond his short reach, and the face laughed. "Good Lord, Witt, for someone who works with A/V tech, it seems you’d get the picture a little faster." Realization seeped into him, and Lipton shook his head. "FastJack. So that’s what you look like," he said finally.
The face laughed again, the harmonics in the man’s voice shifting. "One of me anyway."
"Aren't you taking a risk ..."
FastJack shrugged. "Not really. The watchpost MegaMedia set up in your system is a real dog. A piece of euro-trash." Lipton’s eyes widened. "They’ve got a tap on my system?"
"Natch. They’ve even got the place bugged, passive noise-activated stuff," said Jack. "Don’t worry about it, though. They used the cheap, wired drek so I hacked it where it patched with your system. No problem."
"Jesus . . ."
"But that doesn’t mean we should exchange life stories. Brilliant Genesis is willing to get you out if you’re serious." Witt nodded. "Definitely."
"If you come over, they’re going to want to put you to work immediately to beat the media backlash that Mega-Media’s going to put out against you."
"What do they want?"
"Something short, but sharp and memorable."
"Oh. is that all? I’ll think about it."
Jack nodded. "You do that, and we'll think about getting you out. "
Lipton stood up quickly and noticed the security camera in the corner tilt up with him. "Oh! I almost forgot," he said. "This week. Friday night, MegaMedia's holding a wrap party for Neon Hard Life, the simsense that Chuck DeRange and Tina Taggert just finished. It’s in the studio building. I’ve been invited."
Into the Shadows Page 18
