8
2100 hours, November 13, 2053
Falcon shifted on the tattered vinyl couch, tried to find a position where the broken springs didn’t poke into his back and ribs. Mission fragging impossible, he told himself with a snort. More fragging comfortable on the floor.
Regardless of how uncomfortable was the couch, he had to admit that he had slept on it. Fitful snatches, but sleep nonetheless. His body still needed more after the long, tense night, but now that his mind was working again he knew he wouldn’t be able to drop olf anymore. He looked at the clock on the gray wall. Only nine o’clock? It couldn’t be, he’d only gotten here at about seven. . . .
Then he realized the clock was the old twelve-hour variety, not the twenty-four-hour style he was used to. That meant it was twenty-one hundred, halfway into another evening. He’d been asleep longer than he thought.
He swung his feet to the floor, rubbed at itchy eyes with the back of one hand while glancing around at the waiting room he’d staked out as his flop.
Pretty slotting lousy, he thought. Yellowing linoleum tile on the floor. (And what did that say about the age of the building? How long ago did people use linoleuml) Gyproc walls that might once have been white. The torture device disguised as a couch. A telecom with its screen broken and outgoing circuits disabled. Just charming. The air was sharp with an assortment of disturbing smells, mostly what Falcon classified as “medical,” but with an unhealthy underpinning of rot. I should have taken him to a real doctor, he berated himself for the dozenth time.
But that was the last thing he could have done. Nightwalker was suffering from bullet wounds, and Falcon knew that by law the doctor would be forced to report the matter to Lone Star. Obviously, legal entanglements were the last thing the big Amerindian needed right now.
Then there was the problem of identity. Falcon was willing to bet that, as far as the establishment was concerned, Nightwalker didn’t have one. Like Falcon himself, he probably was one of the SINless—an individual who had no System Identification Number, the official identity code by which the government, the medical system, and every other facet of society recognized its own. Had he taken Nightwalker to any hospital or to just about any licensed physician, the drek would have hit the fan as soon as the receptionist asked to see the runner’s cred-stick with his SIN stored in its bubble memory.
And even if he’d managed to get around those two problems, there was the problem of credit. Runners didn't have health insurance, that was for fragging sure, and neither he nor Nightwalker had enough on their cred-sticks to pay emergency-room user fees.
So what did that leave? A free clinic, like the ones run by that touchy-feely Universal Brotherhood outfit. But there were problems with that idea, too. Falcon wasn’t sure that they didn’t buy into the same “gunshot wound, call the Star” drek as the real hospitals. And anyway, the ganger didn’t think he could drag the fading Nightwalker all the three or four klicks to the nearest clinic.
The one option left was a street doc, a shadow cutter. At first Falcon thought he was fragged there, too. This wasn’t his patch, and street docs didn’t advertise in the public datanets.
But then he remembered hearing one of the First Nation “elder statesmen”—a tough-talking Haida who must have been at least nineteen—bragging about how he’d been stitched up after a rumble by a shadow cutter who worked out of a defunct restaurant near Sixth and Blanchard. That was enough to get Falcon started, and a few cautious queries made of some squatters he’d almost tripped over helped him find the spot.
Just in fragging time, too, he thought, remembering how Nightwalker had looked when he’d finally dragged him into the shadow clinic. Another few blocks and he wouldn’t have made it.
For a moment, his fear for the runner’s life, pushed into the background temporarily by his faith in medical tech, rushed back. Was Nightwalker going to make it?
Then another question struck him. If he didn’t, what did it matter? Nightwalker wasn’t a chummer, he wasn’t in First Nation. And he was so fragging old . . .
But he was a shadowrunner, and that had to count for something. A runner, and an Amerindian—even if he claimed not to have a tribe. And, most important, he’d trusted Falcon, depended on him for help. And that’s why it matters, he told himself.
Falcon looked at the clock again. Twenty-one-ten. Fourteen hours since he’d dragged Nightwalker into the decrepit building. Thirteen since the doc had disappeared into the treatment room with him. Was she still operating, or stitching, or whatever it was docs did? Or had Nightwalker croaked on the table, and she just wasn’t telling him? He stood up, took a step toward the door into the treatment room. Stopped in doubt. He’d never been very good at waiting—particularly if he couldn’t sleep through it.
As if on cue, the door opened and the doc walked out. She’d introduced herself as Doctor Mary Dacia, but Falcon knew the street had mangled her name to Doc Dicer. She was small and thin, with short-chopped red hair and big expressive eyes. Kinda cute, Falcon thought, particularly with those bodacious rockets. Or she would have been cute if she hadn’t been so old—easily more than twice his age.
“You finished with him?” he asked.
Doc Dicer looked tired. She’d been wearing some semi-fashionable face paint when they’d arrived, but now she’d scrubbed it off, leaving her face pale and wan. She raised an eyebrow expressively. “I finished with him a while ago,” she said in her throaty voice. “Looked out to see how you were going. You were catching zees big time.”
“So how is he?”
The doc’s expression became more serious. “As well as can be expected, which is not fragging very. I put everything back in the right places, made sure nothing too vital was missing, and patched all the bigger holes. If he wasn’t so tough, he’d have flatlined hours ago, or as soon as I put him under, but he’s lost a lot of blood. His heart’s under major stress. I almost lost him when he had a cardiac arrest on the table.” She looked at Falcon sharply. “Did you give him metamphetamines?”
Falcon swallowed hard. “Yeah, but he . . He cut off the justifications before they could get flowing. “Did they hurt him?”
Doc Dicer shrugged. “Can’t say,” she told him.
“They stressed his cardiovascular system like you wouldn’t believe, but maybe they stopped him from arresting earlier. Even money either way.”
That let Falcon breathe a little easier. “Can I see him?”
He could see the doc mull that over for a moment. Then she nodded and led him into the treatment area.
Nightwalker looked almost small lying in the bed surrounded by high-tech monitoring equipment. His face was nearly the same color as the grimy walls and his closed eyes seemed sunken. He looks a hundred years old, Falcon thought. Prematurely aged. For an instant he thought about his mother, then forced the image away.
Falcon glanced around at the tiny “ward,” which was only marginally bigger than the bed. The gray walls, the monitors, anywhere but at Nightwalker’s face. Weak! he raged at himself. You’re weak! He forced his eyes back to the Amerindian. This time the images of his mother didn't recur. He felt his breathing slow, his muscles relax.
Doc Dicer had been watching him, but quickly looked away when he shot her a glare. “When will he wake up?” he asked.
“I am awake.” The runner’s deep voice startled Falcon. “Just drifting, you know?” He opened his eyes, looked around. “Where is this?”
Quickly, Falcon brought him up to date.
Nightwalker looked at the street doc, then back at Falcon. “You did this for me, huh?”
Falcon nodded.
“Sure you did,” the Amerindian said, almost to himself. “You had to. Runner’s code of honor, right?”
Falcon knew that was all the thanks he’d ever get from Nightwalker. But it was plenty, better than the cliche words that were so easy to say. For the first time he felt that Nightwalker was accepting him, maybe not as an equal, but at least as a comrade. He no
dded again, not trusting himself to speak.
“What time is it?” the runner asked. Falcon told him.
“Frag!” Nightwalker spat. “The second back-up meet’s at twenty-two-thirty. Gotta move.” He tried to sit up.
Doc Dicer put a hand on his chest, pushed him down. Falcon knew that the Amerindian could have thrown her across the room one-handed if he’d wanted to, but he obediently settled back again. His dark eyes were fixed on hers.
“You’re not going anywhere,” she told him sharply.
“I feel good enough,” he answered. “This is something I’ve got to do.” Gently but firmly, he took her hand, moved it off his chest. Falcon could see the doc’s muscles tense as she tried to pull her hand from his grip, but she couldn’t move it a millimeter.
“Look,” she snapped, “maybe you don’t hear too good, or maybe you got brain damage from anoxia when your heart stopped.” She spoke slowly, with the kind of tone people reserve for congenital idiots. “Yes, you feel good. Because you’re jazzed to the eyeballs on painkillers, energizers, and don’t-worries. If I take away the painkillers and the tranqs, you’ll know just how bad you feel. If I take away the energizers, your heart’ll stop just like that." She tried to snap her fingers but it didn’t work.
She went on firmly, overriding his attempt to reply. “You haven’t croaked—yet—because I happen to be damn good at my job.” She sighed. “You don't know how bad you’re hurting,” she said more quietly, “how bad the damage is. If you were a car, I’d say you were firing on only one cylinder, had only one gear—the rest are stripped—no brakes, doubtful steering, and three flat tires. Do you hear what I’m saying to you?
“You’re alive. Now. If you stay here, I can keep you alive for a day or two for sure, maybe longer if we’re both lucky. If you go to a hospital, a real hospital, they’ll be able to put you back together properly, and odds are you'll live. But”—her voice grew harsh again—“if you think you’re going to be able to walk out of here, forget it. You’ll make it to the front door—maybe—before your heart stops, and that’s only because you’re a tough motherfragger.” The diminutive doctor pulled her hand back from the big man’s grip, and glared down at him.
Falcon watched as Nightwalker’s eyes closed and his breathing slowed. Was he thinking? Deciding? Or maybe consigning his spirit to the totems . . .
After a few seconds, Nightwalker opened his eyes again, looked up at the street doc. Falcon saw those eyes were clear, untroubled—calm. The eyes of someone who’d made the big decision.
“I’m on energizers, right?” he asked gently. “What energizers? Turbo, right?” He named one of the designer drugs originally created for medical purposes but that had found an even bigger market on the streets.
Unwillingly, Doc Dicer nodded. “Turbo,” she confirmed.
“What dosage? About fifty milligrams?”
She nodded again.
“So two hundred mil would see me through the night.”
“And kill you by the dawn,” she snapped.
He nodded acceptance. “But I’ll be able to function tonight.”
“Yes. If I gave you that dosage. Which I won’t.”
Nightwalker was silent for several seconds. Falcon could hear Doc Dicer’s rapid, angry breathing, could hear his own pulse in his ears.
Finally Nightwalker said quietly, “There’s something important that I have to do, Doctor. I can’t tell you what it is, but I’ve sworn my life to seeing it through. Do you understand? I need two hundred milligrams of turbo.”
“It’ll kill you,” the doctor said again. “I can’t do it. . . .”
“You can’t not do it,” the runner pressed. “Everyone has the right to choose the time of his own death, the right to give his life as he sees fit. Who are you to take that right away from me?”
There was silence in the room for almost a minute. Nightwalker just lay there on the bed, watching Doc Dicer with almost inhuman calm. The doctor couldn’t meet his gaze. Falcon’s eyes flicked back and forth between the two of them.
Finally the doc moved. Reached down into her belt pouch to pull out a hyposprayer and a small ampoule of violet liquid. She still couldn’t meet Nightwalker’s gaze as she fumbled the ampoule into place, adjusted the hypo. “Two hundred milligrams,” she rasped.
Falcon turned away as she administered the drug.
* * *
“What do you expect to do?”
Nightwalker turned at Falcon’s question, looked down at the young ganger.
“What do you expect to do?" Falcon asked again. Before you die, he wanted to add, but didn’t. “What if this meet’s a setup too?”
The runner just shrugged. They’d taken an autocab, one of the cybernetically controlled vehicles just beginning to proliferate in the sprawl, to Boren and Spruce, and were now walking the last couple of blocks to Kobe Terrace Park.
Nightwalker was having no trouble keeping up with Falcon’s purposefully fast pace. He moved so smoothly, so easily, that the ganger could almost forget how injured the runner was, about the drug coursing through the other man’s veins, burning up his body from the inside. Nightwalker seemed young again, almost as young as Falcon himself. In some way, maybe that was appropriate for the night before he died.
“And so what if it isn’t a setup?” Falcon pressed. “What the frag can you do?” Before you die.
Nightwalker answered calmly, ignoring the anger in the young man’s voice. “With Marci and Cat-Dancing gone, there’s just the tribals left. They don’t know the sprawl. I can tell them how to make it back to the Salish-Shidhe lands without getting stopped—either by the Border Patrol or the corp armies. I can give them some contacts.”
“What if they’ve already gone?”
“They won't be.”
Falcon shook his head angrily. “Then what if the corp already got them? You’ve killed yourself for nothing.”
“Then I die,” the Amerindian answered simply. “The decision’s made, why torture myself about roads I didn’t take?” He looked up at the clouds reflecting the lights of the city. From the runner’s expression, Falcon might almost have thought Nightwalker was looking through the clouds, at the stars. “Tonight is a fine time to die.” At twenty-two thirty hours, the downtown core was humming. The suits and the beautiful people were out to see and be seen, eating and drinking, catching a show, cruising the clubs. The energy was high; the night almost buzzed with it.
Not in Kobe Terrace Park, though. The ground rules were different here. By day it was a safe place—as safe as anywhere could be in the plex—a spot to sit out on the grass on the rare sunny day, to eat lunch, to relax.
Like so many other parks it became a war zone after dark. Two-legged predators prowled the concrete terraces, lying in wait behind bushes and trees for any prey foolish enough to wander into view. Lone Star—all too often outgunned by the first-tier gangs who used the park as a venue for settling scores—left the place alone once the sun went down.
Falcon didn’t know the park well, having been there only once by day. Never at night. Only gangs like the Ancients and the Tigers, the heavy-hitters of Seattle, came out to play there after dark. The First Nation wasn’t anywhere near their league—being second-tier, or even third.
These and other uncomfortable thoughts rattled around Falcon’s mind as they reached the park. Nightwalker seemed totally unconcerned, jandering south from where Tenth Avenue ended at the park proper. (And why the frag not? Falcon asked himself bitterly. He’s got nothing to lose.)
The young ganger tightened his grip on the butt of his Fichetti, which was reloaded, cocked, safety off, ready to party. (He was still somewhat surprised that it was Doc Dicer who’d sold him two clips of ammo. Shadow cutter and gunlegger?)
“What if it’s another setup?” he hissed to Nightwalker.
The runner just shrugged. “If it is, it is.”
Just fragging chill, Falcon thought bitterly, stepping up his scrutiny of the impenetrable shadows aroun
d them. Right now he was wishing for eyes in the back of his head.
It was Falcon who spotted the figure first. A patch of deeper blackness in a pool of shadow. The ganger stopped dead, nudging his larger companion with an elbow. “There,” he whispered, indicating the direction with a jerk of his chin.
He felt the runner tense up beside him. Nightwalker brought his left hand up to his waist, made a quick, curious gesture. The shadowy figure responded with another, similar gesture—not the wave-off that had cost Cat-Dancing his life, Falcon was glad to see. Nightwalker relaxed, strode forward to join the figure. Belatedly, Falcon scurried to keep up with him.
Now that he was closer and his eyes better night-adapted, Falcon could better make out the figure. His first impression was that the man looked a lot like Nightwalker. He was big too, maybe even broader across the shoulders than his comrade. He had the same straight black hair, the same aquiline nose, the same hard eyes. There was no doubt of his Amerindian blood.
The two men clutched each other’s forearms. Falcon couldn’t be sure, but he got the feeling Nightwalker was more pleased by this meeting than the stranger. “Hoi, Knife-Edge.”
“Hoi, Walker. Thought you were hosed, man.”
“Not yet.” There was something about the runner’s voice that made the stranger search his comrade’s face.
But if Knife-Edge understood what he saw there, he didn’t mention it. He flashed a hard glare at Falcon. “What’s this?” Falcon bristled at the man’s tone, but held his tongue.
“Stay chill. Edge,” Nightwalker said quietly. “He’s stone, chummer. He helped me out of heavy drek. We’re tight.”
Knife-Edge looked skeptical. “Tight with that?” He snorted. “Well, your funeral, omae."
“Yes,” Nightwalker agreed simply, earning him a quizzical look from the other runner.
“Yeah, right,” Knife-Edge muttered, turning away. “The others are here. Bring your chummer if you got to.”
With a reassuring pat on the shoulder, Nightwalker led Falcon deeper into the shadows.
Shadowplay Page 11
