Shadowboxer

by Nicholas Pollotta

  TOO HOT TO HANDLE

  For Two Bears, a dwarf mercenary accustomed to running the shadows, the job sounded like an easy way to make a huge stack of cash: track down and discover the meaning of the word "IronHell." But when the decker he approaches for help gets her brain fried on the Matrix, Two Bears knows he's up to his stout, little shoulders in drek.

  TOO COOL TO GIVE UP

  Realizing that lronHell must be the title of something—or somebody—very powerful, Two Bears looks for some backup to make sure he gets through this job alive. He lines up a street troll called Thumbs, a slick decker named Silver, a suit-wearing samurai called Delphia, and Moonfeather, a magic-wielding disciple of the Cat totem. Together they blast their way through a stream of megacorp operatives, giant meta-beasts, and high-tech pirates, desperate to unravel the incredible secret of IronHell—before it unravels the world....

  CHAOS AND CARNAGE

  From the kitchen, safely behind the fridge, Two Bears put another burst of the silenced Crusader into one of his opponents and tried again to reach the Vindicator minigun lying so temptingly in the middle of the fire fight.

  On the other side of the conflict, the air above the combatants shimmered and buzzed from whatever the two shamans were doing to each other. Then a thundering rainbow filled the room as the stained glass window shattered into a million knives, the shards swirling madly about, slicing everything and everybody into ribbons. Some of the enemy screamed as they were disassembled and the balcony torn to pieces.

  “Got them!” shouted Moonfeather.

  Forgoing the Vindicator, Two Bear dashed headlong from the kitchen, skirting the riddled wall and reaching the hallway door. Yanking it open, he stopped with a jerk. The blade of a Japanese short sword had flashed, and blood was spraying the floor. His blood....

  SHADOWBOXER

  SHADOWRUN : 25

  SHADOWBOXER

  Nick Pollotta

  To Alexander Dumas, the master of adventure

  SHADOWBOXER: noun, antiquarian twentieth-century military slang referring to deadly combat with an unknown or highly elusive enemy. WorldWide Word Watch, 2058 update.

  Prologue

  02:50 AM Eastern Standard, 13 June 2058

  Biscayne Bay, Miami, at the extreme northern territory of the Caribbean League

  A trembling hand broke through the full moon, sending ripples of dancing silver across the water’s oily surface. Steadily, a human hand rose from the polluted Biscayne Bay to grasp hold of a rusty iron cleat attached to the old weathered wood of the oceanside dock.

  Painfully levering himself onto the splintery planks, Blackjack Terhune barely managed to roll over away from the ragged oak edge. With a groan, he peeled the scuba mask off his sweating face. Alive. He was still alive! Unlike everybody else on the hellish run. Fragging drek, it had been like walking naked into a meat grinder. Worse.

  He cast the mask aside, and heard it splash back into the stinking brine. Then he began to perform a combat ritual over his military jumpsuit, hands red from the toxic chemicals in the sea. Boot knife gone, Belgium 9 derringer gone, the big Ares Predator gone—when had THAT happened?—ammo clips long emptied, night goggles burned out by that fragging Shatogunda mage, and the Narcoject pistol used to jimmy open an elevator shaft door.

  Nothing remained of the equipment so carefully gathered in his years on the street. Even Laura’s precious Fuchi cyberdeck had been sacrificed as a simple bludgeon over that ork guard’s head. The dumb frag probably never expected any decker to be that desperate. Who would? Laura herself had seemed surprised when she did it. Wham! Chips and blood flew everywhere as the merc went down for the count. Then Blackjack and the deckless decker made it out of the hellhole to reach the safety of the waiting helo and away they soared, secure and safe.

  Choking on a bitter laugh, he lay back weakly on the ancient wood of the dock, drinking in lungfuls of night air. The cold water ran rivulets off his bodysuit, the armor plating covering his vital kill zones now badly dented.

  Safe. Ha. They’d been anything but freaking safe. Pure pluperfect hell, it had been. Who knew a purely local corporation like Shatogunda would have surface-to-air missile capabilities? His team’s helo was blown out from under them even before they could make visual contact with their offshore boat. He and Laura had spotted the fiery dart streaking toward the helo, and jumped just in time. Big George didn’t.

  Underwater, they dropped everything they could and started swimming for the seawall to reach the open ocean beyond. They were only meters away, they could see it, hear the waves breaking over the coral, when the pack of chipped sharks was suddenly around them, circling closer and closer. Blackjack hadn’t even known a fish-microchip interface was possible!

  Neither had Laura Redbird, gauging from her blood-curdling scream as they took her down. If he could’ve done anything to save her, he would have, even if it meant his own life. But when four great whites each grab a limb and start playing tug-o-war, the victim’s already dead. All he could do was use it as a distraction while he crawled over the ragged, razor-sharp coral of the reef and escape into Biscayne Bay, where the sharks couldn’t physically follow.

  Chipped sharks. What psycho would want to chip sharks! Drek, and that was only one of the many things wrong with this run. One of the thousands. The glint of searchlights off the chrome-plated jack in her temple was the last he saw of Laura. Blind rage almost made him strike back at the man-eaters, but with only bare hands as a weapon and ork and norm guards on the way in paramilitary hovercraft bristling with automatic weapons, brutal logic overcame his fury. Blackjack reluctantly used her flesh to buy him time to escape.

  Used the flesh of a lover one last time. He felt dirty inside as if he’d been drinking chem slime in the sea. What he wouldn’t give for a DocWagon team to come and fly him away to some warm clean hospital full of people anxious to make him stop hurting. Or a friendly shaman to sing a healing song over him. Arctic. Yeah, and if wishes were drek the sewers would be heaven. Stop ya whining, chummer. Still work to do. This run wasn’t over yet. No, not quite yet. One more thing to do.

  When some of his strength returned, Blackjack forced open the velcro of the bodysuit and began to peel it off. The ballistic material stuck to him in several places and had to be painfully pulled free. His body was a mass of bruises and bleeding cuts already starting to swell in spots. No chance of infection after the sea water got in, but poisoning was a fair bet. He’d already applied a slap patch to the throbbing bullet hole in his shoulder, but the polluted Atlantic had weakened the adhesive and it was starting to come away. Diluted, the metaphamines that had kept him awake and able to swim against the fragging current were finally wearing off. Only pure raw adrenaline was keeping him awake now. “And hate, let’s not forget hate,” he told himself bitterly.

  Wearing only briefs, Blackjack struggled to his sore feet and staggered toward the small blue light that had been his goal for the past four hours as he’d followed the seawall to the south. Faintly illuminated by the tiny indigo bulb set in the wall above it was the warehouse’s riveted steel door. So stained and marred from the constant acid rains this year that the ancient sign reading “Honest Bob’s Boat Rentals” was almost obliterated. But the palm scanner recognized his handprint and the massive portal swung open silently. He and the others would have rendezvoused here if any of them had made it.

  Stumbling as he stepped into the darkness, Blackjack pushed the huge door shut behind him and the internal lights came on automatically with blinding force. Momentarily stunned, he stood there blinking against the harsh intrusion. If there was going to be a doublecross, this was the perfect spot. A pimple-faced ganger with a two-nuyen zipgun could take him now. Not that he’d be good for much. He was so fragged to drek t
hat even the orgarileggers wouldn’t want him.

  Tense ticks passed in dripping silence. As his vision slowly returned, he looked around the shoreline warehouse stuffed to the ceiling with marine equipment: bales of nets, bundles of oars, canvas net, sleeved props, and similar equipment. Tools designed a thousand years ago, but as viable today as ever. Equipment so basic it couldn’t be improved. No matter what the techies said, ya can’t improve a nail with a microchip. End of discussion.

  A slim path wound through the towering jumbles of marine equipment. Exhausted, Blackjack lurched from crate to crate, trying to keep one hand on the dank plastic boxes for support. Finally he reached a huge pile of plastene bags that sat pooled in the harsh light of an EverBright in an open area of the warehouse. A momentary flicker told him that even the independent power packs of those supposedly eternal light bulbs could weaken with age.

  Clumsily, Blackjack dug into the packs, tossing aside unneeded civilian clothes for dead friends until he found the medical supplies he was looking for. He awkwardly used his left hand to rig a sling for his right arm, then began to bite off strips of adhesive to tape his busted ribs. Try as they might, those hellhounds hadn’t been able to use their flame breath to hurt his team through the protection song of their shaman, Iron Jimmy, and as the beasts charged closer, his Ares Predator had made short work of them. But the bodies of the dead hounds had continued on through the air by sheer inertia, slamming into them like sledgehammers. Blackjack heard Jimmy’s neck snap before he went down under the onslaught.

  With his chest now bound tight, the agony of breathing lessened to mere discomfort. He pawed deeper into the bag and found a fresh trauma patch, which he slapped onto his bullet wound, plus a few stim patches he applied to undamaged areas of his arms. He inhaled sharply as the organic plastic sterilized and sealed the huge hole, the taste of olives filling his mouth as the DMSO rushed healants through his body.

  There was only one more thing to find now, and then he spied the small black box prominently marked with a red cross. He held it in his hand and checked to see what the Pocket Doc was set for. Damn things only held six ampoules of anything—ya had to load ’em for what you thought would go wrong. Imperfect—but they were a lot more versatile than simple medkits because the things could make their own limited medical decisions. A readout on the side displayed painkillers, stims, antibacs, antitox, and some other stuff he had trouble focusing his eyes to read.

  Blackjack clumsily activated the computerized physician and held it to his side. The robotic device hummed in consultation as it ascertained his condition, then began a long series of hisses, pumping god-knows-what into his system. Finally, the Doc went quiet and he tossed the precious device away, too tired to care. It crashed in the shadows, breaking apart and spilling out its electronic guts.

  Soon, a tingling wave of relief washed over him and he felt his head miraculously clear. Back on line. Looking in one of the other equipment bags for a spare gun, he found a couple of amber bottles instead. No surprise, considering how much Big George had loved his booze. No drugs or chips for him. Here’s to you, George! Blackjack tried not to think about all he and the elf had been through, and that now he’d never see Big George again.

  Blackjack pulled one of the bottles out, startled to see that it wasn’t cheap synathol, but honest-to-frag, scotch. Something called Irish Mist, with a dated label, import seal, and everything! Not caring where the gift came from, he worked off the twist cap with his teeth, and generously poured the single malt down his throat. The chill left his stomach and he was just starting to feel almost human again when a figure stepped from the shadows. It was only partially visible beyond the circle of light, and all he could make out clearly were the shoes and a hand-held case of some sort.

  “Konnichiwa, Blackjack,” said his visitor, bowing slightly from the waist as she set down the expensive leather briefcase. “I have the rest of your payment here, as requested. A genuine certified credstick.” There was a brief flash of white teeth edged with crimson lipstick in the dimness beyond. “Where is my merchandise, please?”

  “F-frag you, Mr. Johnson,” Blackjack coughed. He took another swig off the bottle and slumped against a barrel of engine lubricant. He’d been feeling better only moments before. Why was he now so tired again all of a sudden?

  The Mr. Johnson stepped closer, her body in the light, but not her face. “What do you mean? Didn’t you get the prototype?”

  “Drek no.”

  An icy pause. “And why not?” she demanded, her voice not truly hostile, but close enough.

  “Because your fragging canisters of nerve gas didn’t kill the guards!” Blackjack screamed. “That’s why!” He licked his lips. He tasted something foul... was it from the DMSO or the whiskey? Residue from the ocean?

  “And?” asked the woman calmly. She was the fixer who’d set them up on this shadowrun against Shatogunda. Blackjack had never worked with her before, and now he knew why.

  “And?” he roared, casting the bottle aside. He was having trouble marshalling his thoughts for some reason. “And? Ya muck-sucking null. And they had more mercs than you said they would! They had different weapons, too, and hellhounds—not just dogs. There was even UCAS military support, for drek’s sake! Plus, some unkillable ork goombah with a slapgun showed up from nowhere and shot the living bloody drek out of my whole fragging team!”

  “Most unfortunate,” acknowledged the Mr. Johnson solemnly.

  “Unfortunate, yeah,” growled Blackjack, cradling his aching ribcage. “I lost five of my people before we even reached the main building, then the guards hit us from every side. Tox, they were everywhere! Then some fragging chipped sharks took down my best decker, and if the damn tide hadn’t been coming in, they’da got me too.”

  Making a soft consoling sound, the woman rested one shoe on a small crate of engine parts. Her long skirt parted at the action, exposing a lot of well-tanned, nylon-smooth thigh and more. “Yes, I had counted on the evening tide. But only in an emergency. I gather this was.”

  His mind fogging, Blackjack hawked to clear his throat, and spit whiskey-flavored blood on the floor. “Damn straight it was!”

  A manicured hand barely managed to cover a yawn. “Indeed. Sounds like Shatogunda security did a most thorough job.”

  “A thorough job?” snarled Blackjack, feeling the blood throb in his neck. “Listen, Johnson, those Shatogunda mercs did us up a royal treat!”

  “Yes,” she demurred softly. “Dunkelzahn must have trained them well.”

  He felt his heart stop. “The dragon? We went up against dragon-trained guards?” Before the Johnson could speak, the awful truth hit him like a one-two punch. “Holy drek, this was one of his corps then? Motherfragger! Even dead, the dragon can still frag with you.”

  “Such language. Now, really . .the woman said.

  Furious, Blackjack grabbed hold of a boarding pike lying against a nearby plastic crate and pulled himself erect. His limbs felt like lead weights were attached. Why was he so sleepy? Something was wrong, but his anger somehow gave him the strength to speak.

  “T-this run was a dry hump from the word go! Not only didn’t we have accurate intelligence, almost everything you told us was just wrong enough that once we got started, there was nowhere to go but forward, and that direction got us promptly blown to pieces! It was almost as if we were supposed to fail!”

  He bent over double with a coughing spell and for the first time, the woman known as Mr. Johnson smiled, her teeth gleaming like an animal’s in the darkness.

  “That’s right,” she said softly. “You most definitely were not supposed to succeed.” She watched him carefully, smiling to herself. “Nor were you supposed to return, moron,” she added, reaching behind her back.

  As comprehension dawned, Blackjack balled a fist, and three carbide spikes slid out of his knuckles to gleam in the light of the EverBrights like new sin. The next instant he lunged for her slim figure, which was growing ever dimmer in his
sight. A series of soft chugs stopped him, the pencil-thin flames from the silenced Heckler & Koch automatic tracking his riddled body to the floor.

  “And my name actually is Johnson,” said Erika Johnson as she continued to empty all eighteen of the pistol’s caseless rounds into the still form. “Amusing, neh?”

  The only reply was a low, moist gargling noise almost too soft to hear.

  Returning her weapon to the holster behind her back, Erika calmly went to the dock outside and found the remains of the wet suit. The mask was nowhere to be found. An inconvenience, at most. She folded the garment neatly into a square and placed the suit inside her empty attache case. Going back inside, she stripped the wet shorts off the corpse and dressed the bloody body in a grease-stained worksuit taken from a wall locker. The pockets already contained assorted personal items, some illegal simsense chips, and a deluxe, three-ring, executive credstick with over ten thousand registered Caribbean League dollars. She smiled, thinking how on the street the tourists and merchants called them doubloons, looking for some kind of thrill of the forbidden, but this had come straight off her expense account.

  She’d had carte blanche for this exercise, as befitting an executive of her high rank. Only Hakutsu Hotosama himself and that gaijin James Harvin were over her in the hierarchy of the Gunderson Corporation. And soon that would change too. Oh, yes, very soon.

  Johnson pulled a pair of medical gloves from her belt pouch and donned them, whistling a tune as she skillfully used a surgical probe to remove all of the bullets from the dead man. She deposited the bloody lumps of metal into a small plastic container, which she sealed and placed inside her coat. Then she took a different spent round from another container and inserted it into the still warm wound. There, one left for Lone Star to find. If the incompetent fools could, that is.

  Dragging the corpse over to the small machine shop in the corner of the warehouse, she carefully positioned the man under a shelf deliberately overloaded with tools. A gentle tap with a broom handle made the previously weakened support collapse, and with a mighty crash the heavy shelf smashed the runner’s once-handsome features into an unrecognizable mess. Perfect. Erika stayed for a minute to look at the disfigured corpse, feeling oddly excited, but then turned and walked away, dropping the telltale broom alongside the mess.