“When will you be back?”
Warren shook his head. “Not sure, but it’ll be a couple hours, easy. Maybe more. Will you be here?”
She shook her head. “No. I think I’ll head over to my place. Get cleaned up to go to work.”
Just the thought of the having to go to The Joy Club made her tense. It wasn’t too far from Warren’s doss, just a few blocks over in yakuza turf downtown, but to her it was another world. She didn’t do any horizontal bop, so she didn’t make the money some of the other girls did, and she was sick of the whole thing. Rachel shook her head at the thought. There weren’t very many opportunities for someone like her, and strip-dancing was still one of the most lucrative. It was only lately that she thought she might have found a better way.
Rachel hadn’t told Warren yet, but she wanted to become a shadowrunner. The Joy Club’s bartender, a troll named Flak, had a team of his own and he’d been teaching her. Maybe he thought she was just another wannabe, but Rachel didn’t care. She was serious. From the scan she’d heard, running the shadows brought better nuyen than flashing your goods to drunk idiots. And according to Flak, every once in a while-not often, but every now and then-you got to do something good. Something that could help somebody.
She’d been practicing with a gun and saving up for a datajack. Recently, she’d helped Corinna, another dancer at the club, hire Flak and his team. Some guy had been abusing Corinna and she wanted to teach him a lesson. Flak had assured her that his team was more than up to the task.
Acting as a fixer for a friend had given Rachel a feeling unlike anything she’d ever felt, especially considering that her means of livelihood was taking off her clothes for the men and women who came into the club. The only thing that might have made it better would have been participating in the run herself. Flak had told her just the other day that she was close to ready, that her progress was excellent.
She looked at the small, old-fashioned clock on the night table. If his timetable were correct he and his team would be making their run in just a few minutes. Just thinking about it sent a small tremor of anticipation through her. Finally, a way out of the life she was leading.
Warren gave her sad eyes. “I’m sorry, Rach,” he said. “If I didn’t have to go. believe me, I wouldn’t.”
Rachel sighed, then nodded. “I know. But you remember this, Warren Storey. You owe me. A full day, no less.”
Warren smiled and kissed her. “Promise.”
He retrieved his sweatshirt from the floor and pulled it over his head.
Rachel leaned back against the wall and stared at him.
“You’re going to a funeral dressed like that?”
Warren looked down at his ripped Harvard sweatshirt and ragged jeans tucked into his boots. Then he grinned up at her. “I figure if the little shit is in Hell looking up, I should let him know exactly what I think of him.”
Rachel didn’t return his smile. “Be careful, Warren. You scare me when you’re in this mood.”
Warren bent and kissed her, then turned and walked out. He grabbed his black leather jacket and motorcycle helmet on his way out the kitchen door.
3
The racists of the Sixth World tell us that the newly Awakened races are demons, monsters-not human and therefore our enemy. But even as they rouse the ignorant masses against our harmless brothers, the real demonspawn lurk in the shadows, growing stronger on the blood of the living. They are the vampires, the so-called living dead.
–Martin de Vries, Shadows at Noon posted to Shadowland BBS, 24 May 2057
Light morning rain spattered against the rusted, pitted metal of the fire escape as Sinunu Sol climbed, her heavy boots making so little noise as to be completely silent against the backdrop of the soft Street noise from below. The Capitol Hill district was unusually quiet this morning, with only the occasional car rumbling through the twisting, turning streets of downtown Seattle. That was fine with Sinunu. Considering the whammy she and her team were about to pull, the less people watching, the longer it would take Lone Star to scan to what was going on.
Dressed in skin-tight black synthleather and a dark brown wrap-around duster that contrasted with her albino skin, Sinunu caught a glimpse of herself in a dirty pane of glass as she topped the last landing before the ladder to the roof. Her shock of white hair was slicked back by the rain, and her pink eyes seemed to float in her ghost face, She smiled at her reflection as she moved past.
Sinunu was riding the groove, everything clicking on all twenty-four, and in the slot. It felt just fine. She and the crew hadn’t worked for almost a month, and she’d thought she might go crazy for the want of action, So. even though this was mostly a charity gig-with the little dancer squiff only able to cop up enough to pay expenses-it just didn’t matter.
She climbed the ladder quickly, feeling the grit of time under her pale hands. Stepping over the dirty brick of the caping wall, her foot touched the rooftop just as the rain started to slacken. Bits of grainy sand skittered under her heavy boots as she moved quickly across the roof.
She reached the large ventilation intake, and opened her duster. Strapped there, in six separate leather holsters, were the pieces of her Barret Model 121 sniper rifle. With precise moves that wasted no energy. Sinunu assembled the rifle in less than twenty seconds, taking the time to double-check the silencer’s fitting. Slotting the caseless ammo, she lowered the tripod and quickly carried the weapon over to the edge of the roof top.
From there, she could see the target’s front bay window on the second story. Through the window, the man himself was visible, talking to someone out of her Line of sight.
Probably that damn ork he’s got for a bodyguard, Sinunu thought. That puffed up razorboy couldn’t guard water from getting wet.
The target, a rich weasel named Carlos Sevase, didn’t look too happy, and that made Sinunu smile. Carlos was everything she detested about men. He was small-minded, petty, and came complete with a mean streak that included hurting pretty young girls who didn’t do exactly what he wanted.
Sinunu was fairly sure that Carlos had just learned that his latest punching bag had hooked, and was nowhere to be found. At least not by him. The crew had moved her out of town last night, after Truxa had done her best to patch the girl up. Corinna was the girl’s name, and when Sinunu had seen that bruised face, she’d had to do a full ten-breath count to get her anger under control.
Corinna was going to lay low for a few days, just long enough for Sinunu, Flak, Truxa, and Sandman to convince Carlos that maybe he should learn to play nice.
Sinunu smiled again when she thought about how this was going to go down. Looking across at Carlos, her smile grew into a grin. Thirty seconds with Flak will have that boy in tears.
Sinunu forced the grin from her face, and Concentrated. She subvocalized into the headset mike of her Philips tacticorn. “This is Bird’s Eye, got the-”
Suddenly her senses kicked into high gear. The patter of rain had covered the approach and dampened the smell, but she still knew he was there before he even spoke.
“Well, well. What do we have here? I suggest you release your hold on the rifle slowly and roll over onto your back, hands on your head.”
Sinunu cursed under her breath and did as she was told.
The man towering over her was elven, a fact that surprised her because the only meta of record Carlos had on the payroll was the ork. This guy was tall, with jet black hair done in dreds down his back. His dark skin glistened in the rain.
He held a Cobra Colt in his thin hands. The weapon’s stubby design made it look as if the designers had forgotten to add a barrel.
“Hey, there, pretty boy, you know how to use that gun, or do you just think it makes you look tough?”
The elf grinned, “I know a bit more than you.”
He took one more step toward her, and without lowering the weapon, held up his left hand. Talking into a headset almost identical to Sinunu’s, he said, “Got one on the roof. I’ll finish this and find
the rest of the mice for you.”
He took one more step and Sinunu moved. Everything slowed around her as her talent took over. The elf’s face froze in that stupid, mean-looking grin as Sinunu cocked her right leg back and rammed it straight through his kneecap, splintering bone.
Suddenly without any balance, the elf tumbled forward, a scream giving away his pain. With ease, Sinunu lifted herself off the rooftop with her left leg and caught him just under the chin with the toe of her right boot.
The elf’s head shot back, blood spraying as teeth splintered in his mouth and flew through the air.
He collapsed into a heap at Sinunu’s feet. “You don’t know squat, you damn amateur. Maybe that’ll teach you not to get too close.”
Without another look at him, she rolled back over to the sniper rifle, and subvocalized into her tacticom. “Like I was saying, this is Bird’s Eye, and I’ve got the back door covered.”
Sandman’s voice in her ear sounded like a ghost through the headset. He was in the stepvan parked just down below in the alley. but his transmission via the Matrix always gave his voice an ethereal sound. “Front doors pop. No auto see devices, and just the three of them in the room. You can party whenever you’re ready to put on your boogie shoes. Just give the door a little push.”
Then she heard Flak’s voice. “You ready with the bang-bang, Trux?”
There was a pause that stretched long enough for Sinunu to realize she’d stopped breathing. Take it easy. Truxa can handle anything these punks throw. Even as she thought the words, she had a hard time believing them.
Truxa Fin was the team’s elven mage and she was also Sinunu’s lover. Sinunu knew she had a problem being overprotective, but there was nothing she could do about how she felt.
After a second more, Truxa’s voice, bright and cheerful, sounded over the tacticom. Sorry about that, Had a problem with the now previous tenant of the apartment It seems he took exception to my presence, but he’s feeling much better about things since he decided to vacate, I’m in the slot and ready to roll.”
“Then it’s party time.”
Through the window Sinunu watched as Carlos suddenly whipped around toward the front door, and even though she couldn’t see it. she knew what had happened. Two hundred kilos of very pissed-off troll had just smashed through his front door.
There was a brief pause, and a body flew through the air, crashing into the wall Opposite the bay window. So much for the ork.
That’s when things started to go south.
“I got heat signatures on the floor above, moving fast, and it don’t look like a meeting of the glee club.” Sandman’s Matrix-distoned voice sounded harried, and Sinunu briefly wondered what had gotten him so agitated. Then, she knew.
The Sound of gunfire rolled softly across the Street, and she could hear the distinctive screaming roar of Flak’s Vindicator as it cranked up to rock and roll.
Carlos was still standing with his back to her, and now she could see Flak, facing away from her, the spinning barrel of the Vindicator spitting fire. in the same instant she also saw Carlos reach into his suit coat to pull out an Ares Predator.
Without thinking, Sinunu triggered the Barret, and felt the small recoil as the heavy slug shattered the bay window. The round caught Carlos in the back of the neck almost taking his head off as the force spun him completely around. The sounds of gunfire echoed loudly through the streets now that the window was gone.
Sinunu spoke quickly into the tacticom. “Back door is Open.”
The wall at the back of the apartment seemed to come apart, blowing inward, and suddenly, there was Truxa alongside Flak, her tiny hands making complicated motions in the air.
A ball of flame about the size of a small car ripped through the air and flashed out of sight toward the front door, and Sinunu could hear the screams of men who couldn’t get out of the way in time.
Flak never let up on his spray of lead as he and Truxa backed to the window, stepping over the body of Carlos.
From far away, the wail of Lone Star sirens could now be heard over the din of the firefight. Just below her, Sinunu watched as the blue stepvan peeled out of the alley and stopped just under the second-floor picture window.
“Flak, back door. Go!”
In a simple motion, Truxa grabbed the big troll’s back and hung on as he turned and leapt from the window, landing with ease on the roof of the stepvan, which buckled slightly under his weight. The van accelerated back out into the street, with Truxa and Flak still on the roof.
Sinunu watched as smoke began billowing out of the window. A couple of men in dark body armor made their way through the smoke and tried to level their weapons at the fleeing vehicle.
Too bad you spent so much on body armor; boys. All the less nuyen going to your grieving widows. With that thought, Sinunu opened fire.
Three rounds, three head shots, three kills, clean and by the book.
Climbing rapidly to her feet, she took the Barret apart quickly, placing each piece back into its individual holster.
Slowing only to pick up the Colt Cobra from where it had fallen, then putting two rounds into the unconscious elf’s head, Sinunu exited the roof top.
When she reached the alley, she carefully wiped the Cobra clean and dropped it into a dumpster. Then she tightened her duster around her and headed toward the Street, where a gaggle of Lone Star patrol cars had just arrived screaming on the scene.
She figured she might as well watch the show. That, and make sure Carlos was hauled out in a body bag. She’d meet up with the rest of the crew after.
4
Mike, got your request and did a little digging. Unfortunately there isn’t much to tell. Fratellanza, Inc. seems to be legit, despite the fact that they’ve got contracts with some high-ranking Mafia and Yakuza members. Especially since Butcher Bigio got the nod as the new capo of Seattle. Fratellanza’s small, but they got a rep for doing personal security like nobody else. I’ll keep my ears open on the son’s death, but I think you’re probably wasting your time on the Mafia angle.
–Inter-departmental email, Lone Star Security Services Inc., Stem Carlson, Department of Organized Crime. to Mike Powell, Department of Homicide, 03 August 2060. Transmission intercept by Fratellanta deckers. Scan word: Fratellanza, 05 August 2060
The morning rain felt in gentle sweeps, bordering on mist. Tall, opulent gravestones lined the roadway, extending back as far as the eye could see through the drizzle. Dotting the landscape were spires of rock topped with everything from carved angels and lions to robed saints and mitered popes.
The graveyard was a huge, grassy expanse near the University of Washington. Founded in the early eighteen hundreds, it was old enough that even the burial ground’s thirty thousand square meters had become crowded.
Stone statues fought, elbow to elbow, with granite markers for the remaining clear areas. The only free space was deep in the heart of the grounds. There stood the small mausoleum where the city’s founding father was buried.
The cost to bury a loved one here was astronomical. But to the people attending the funeral today, money was no object.
Just behind the founding father’s mausoleum, a group of the city’s wealthy had gathered to bury one of their own. In their tailored suits and designer dresses, with not an income in the group below several hundred thousand nuyen a year, most of them would have found the idea of an annual salary ludicrous. One had money, and it was managed. There was no thought of a wage.
Among the dead man’s mourners were a number of the family’s business acquaintances, those whom Fratellanza, Inc. counted among its stable of clients.
The corporate brotherhood.
Fratellanza Inc. had started small, but rather than trying to compete with Lone Star or Knight Errant, its owners had taken a different angle. Instead of trying to offer comprehensive protection for their clients’ assets, they’d concentrated strictly on personal security, leaving all other Sec duties to the bigger boys. This had allo
wed them to offer a level of personal service and pampering that the larger, more unwieldy corps didn’t even try to match. In this way. Fratellanza had carved a small niche for itself that had become immensely profitable beyond what the size of the corporation might have indicated.
Many of Fratellanza’s best and brightest had also turned out for the funeral. Derek D’imato was the son of CEO Marco D’imato. Showing respect was important to an employee’s long-term health and prosperity.
Old men and young, with their wives. All of them appropriately grim-faced, a few even shedding tears. For some, however, the demise of Derek D’imato was a priceless gift in an ugly wrapper. Some of the mourners stood to gain much by this burial. So for many, tears were harder to find, unless they were tears of joy.
Also present were three solo women, each from a distinctly different social circle. The chesty brunette was a high-society girl. used to fast cars and faster men. The two blondes looked enough alike to be sisters though one was originally from Sweden, where her father had made his money in pharmaceuticals, and the other was from the Confederate American States, heiress to nearly a hundred million nuyen in real estate. Each woman cried, foolishly thinking the same thought. That she had been the only one to lose her lover.
Then there was the D’imato family.
The man in the dark overcoat pushed his older brother’s wheelchair to the grave site. Twin wheels left deep grooves in the lush green of the immaculately kept lawn.
The priest began his benediction. The crippled man did not cry, and no one expected him to. This was Marco D’imato- Derek’s father and founder of Fratellanza, Inc.
No, Marco D’imato was not the type to shed tears at a death. Though if any of those present had known the reason behind that implacable calm, that steely expression their horror would have far outweighed their grief.
“The light burns me, brother,” Marco said, sitting in his wheelchair, relishing the sprinkle of rain. “And yet I endure it and survive.” Through the heavy makeup he wore, the daylight was a glorious scalding on his skin. Everything seemed so bright that it took all his willpower to remember why he was here. He felt a mad desire to grin, even though he knew that would be deemed inappropriate by the lovely, blood-filled humans who surrounded him.
Terminus Experiment Page 4
