Shadowrun 46 - A Fistful of Data

by Stephen Dedman (v1. 0) (epub)

  Perhaps the only one of her kind in the entire Seattle sprawl, Leila was a Night One—a European elf metavariant. Yoko still felt a mild jolt of surprise every time she saw the girl, whose skin covering of fine midnight blue fur matched her eyes. Leila gripped her club nervously, then rushed at her. Yoko parried her blow, then used her stick as a lever to put Leila in an armlock, being careful not to hurt her or to use any abilities that only adepts could learn. A quick twist and Leila’s club dropped to the street.

  “Can we see that again?” asked Didge. “In slo-mo?”

  Yoko released Leila, who retrieved her club and walked back to the line, rubbing her wrist. “Okay,” the adept said to the dwarf. “Your turn.”

  Getting to the top of the cooling tower from the inside had taken Carpenter nothing more than a grapple gun, climbing gear and a refusal to look down: the tower had been designed to be earthquake proof and was still structurally sound after all these years. Turning it into a secure sniper’s nest had taken a little more effort, but the end result was a platform that hung from the rim of the tower and a carved, narrow gunport allowing Carpenter to watch the Crypt while presenting the smallest possible target. The sniper had tethered himself to the platform and had his smartlink-adapted rifle fastened to his belt with a metal lanyard. He was also equipped with a hooded urban-camouflage cape, a pack full of ration bars, several bottles of water and an almost machinelike patience.

  He watched through his telescopic sight as an attractive dark-skinned human woman in a charcoal jumpsuit guided a Land Rover through the ruins. When she seemed satisfied that it was in the correct position, an ork with multiple facial piercings and a leather-clad troll with a severe buzz cut set about covering its tracks, placing nailed boards across any pathways wide enough for vehicle access. A bald black dwarf in an armor jacket climbed down from the Land Rover, followed a few seconds later by a shabbily dressed ork.

  “Chief?” Carpenter subvocalized, as the dwarf and the woman draped the Land Rover with camouflage netting, then carried two heavy duffel bags to the ramp and down into the sublevel. “Looks like they’ve brought up reinforcements, and they don’t look like squatters. At least two of them move like they’re wired or boosted. And I can see two sentries—a dwarf and an ork. Over.”

  There was no reply for a few seconds, and the sniper wondered if his radio was working. “Chief?”

  “I read you,” said Wallace. “Sorry—the pups were making a racket. Been cooped up too long.” He looked over at King, who was feeding his pet barghests. He had removed his gloves so he could scratch their ears. The raw-boned sergeant felt his commander’s gaze burning into the back of his neck, turned around and hastily put on the rest of his armor and climbed aboard the Step-Van. “The mage says they’ve set up astral defenses, too,” Wallace continued, “but nothing that’ll keep the pups out.”

  “Any idea why this pit is worth so much? Over.” “Nope. Ours not to question why, remember?”

  “Yeah.” Carpenter peered through his sight at the troll, drawing a bead on the back of her neck. “Over and out.”

  5

  There was a thin yellow line of sunlight barely visible on the horizon when Akira heard the approaching vehicles. For a moment, he thought he might be imagining it. He’d been on guard for less than ten minutes, and awake for no more than twenty. But he poked his head up from behind the wall and looked around until he could see the trucks. He fumbled for the radio Zurich had given him, and breathed, “Someone’s coming.”

  “How many?” asked Yoko, looking up at Boanerges. “Clever,” muttered the shaman. “Just when we’re at our weakest.” City and hearth spirits went their own way at sunrise and sunset, the metahuman sentries who were allergic to sunlight had just been relieved, their thermographic and low-light vision no longer giving them any edge.

  But hardly surprising, thought Yoko. She peered down at the diagram they’d drawn of their defenses, noting that Akira was watching the northwest corner.

  “Can’t tell,” said Akira, over the radio. “There’s a small truck, and another car or van behind it. No lights.” “Easy?”

  “Hear them, but can’t see anyone yet.”

  “Jinx?”

  “Same here.”

  “Pike?”

  “Nothing here,” said Pike, who was watching the southeast corner and already sounded bored.

  “Okay. Stay under cover, and for frag’s sake, don’t shoot anyone. Akira, I’m sending someone up to check it out.” Yoko put the radio down and thought. Sumatra and Mag-nusson were sleeping off their spellcasting from earlier that morning, and none of Boanerges’ students knew any spells that would be useful in combat. Several of the students were also allergic to sunlight, as was Sumatra—or so he claimed. She suspected the rat shaman’s only recurring medical problem was an allergy to honest work.

  “I’ll go,” said Boanerges, as though reading her mind. “No.”

  “We know they have at least one mage on their team,” said the shaman. “The watchers spotted her when she flew over in astral. She didn’t come close enough for them to attack, but she would have seen them, and she might have seen our sentries, too. And I’m protected by a deflection spell, in case anyone starts shooting.”

  Yoko drew a deep breath. “You said I was in command of the muscle, right? Well, your muscles are staying down here until the sun’s fully up and you can conjure a city spirit to protect you.”

  Boanerges glared at her. “Who taught you about magic?”

  “You did, Master,” she said without a hint of sarcasm. Boanerges had initiated her into the Crypt’s coven years before and taught her to develop her astral vision, and she’d picked up more than a smattering of magical theory in the process. “Send up another watcher to get a report, if you like, but you’re also the best healer we have, and you’re staying down here until I know what we’re up against. Mute!”

  Mute, who had been lying motionless on a mattress with her eyes closed, was instantly awake. “Yes?”

  “Go up to the northwest corner and take over from Akira. And take a rifle.”

  Mute picked up her silenced Browning and a clip of armor-piercing sabot rounds, then followed the adept’s orders. Boanerges and Yoko watched her stride out of the medicine lodge and disappear into the corridors. “Think you can move that quietly?” asked the adept softly.

  “You probably could, but not me—not without a stealth spell,” said the shaman. “I’ve heard librarians make more noise. I guess I’ll go see if Doc needs any help.”

  “Good idea,” said Yoko. “Zurich can’t fight until his hands have healed, and Crane’s still on painkillers.” The rigger was recuperating from a dash with one of the Seattle Seoulpa Rings and was planning to leave town as soon as he was well enough to fly, hoping to get beyond the reach of the Korean organized crime syndicate. “But don’t knock yourself out; we may end up with some people who really need help.”

  “You think it’ll come down to a real fight?”

  Yoko grimaced. “I hope not. A standoff will be more costly for them than it is for us; we’ve enough food to withstand a siege for a few days, and enough water, thanks to the rain.” 8-ball had bought several boxes of ration bars, MREs and other packaged food on his way back from the run that morning rather than depend on the Crypt’s meager stores, food creation spells, and the drek the squatters had collected while Dumpster diving. “It depends on what their budget is, and how badly they want this place. But I think it’ll come down to negotiation; that’s why I brought Lankin. He could cut a deal with a dragon and not get burned.” “What sort of deal?” asked Boanerges, sounding unhappy.

  “Help to find a new place for the Crypt that’s big enough and safe enough. Transportation. Maybe some food and bedding thrown in. More time, so we can get word out on the street that you’ve moved. That sort of thing. Let’s face it: it’s not the location that makes this place so important to so many people.”

  “There’s no point in offering sanctuary if no
one knows where you are,” Boanerges replied sharply. “And here in the Barrens, we have no trouble with any of the syndicates—we’re under their radar, or their cost-effectiveness formula—and almost none with the gangs. We’ve spent years building the reputation of this place; it means a lot to a lot of people, and not all of it can be moved easily. The vegetable and herb gardens, the lodges, the magical circles . . . they’re going to take money and a lot of time to rebuild. But it’s not just that. For a lot of people, knowing they have a bed here is the only stability and security in their world. This place has seen . . . seen so much happen, and absorbed it. You can feel the good memories, if you’re quiet for long enough. The people we’ve healed, the kids we’ve taught, the magic we’ve performed—there have been good times ...” He shook his head. “I just wish I knew who’s really behind this piano company drek, why they want the place, where the money is coming from—”

  “I can tell you one thing about them,” interrupted Mag-nusson without opening his eyes. “They play chess.”

  “What?”

  “I’ve just realized where I’d heard of Giuoco Piano before. It has nothing to do with music; it’s a chess opening.” The magician rolled over on the thin mattress and picked up his pocket computer. “And Fedorov was a grand master,” he said a moment later. “They’re chess players. And it’s their move.”

  Mute cautiously poked a metal mirror around the edge of the wall and angled it so that it showed the advancing vehicles: even her expensive cybereyes didn’t allow her to see around corners or through concrete. The Step-Van in the front was a matte black with no visible logos; the other vehicle was smaller, and the Step-Van blocked her view of it, but to her enhanced hearing it sounded like a multi-fuel four-wheel-drive SUV, probably a Gaz-Willys Nomad. Both vehicles stopped half a block away, their engines still idling, and Mute wondered what they were waiting for. She switched her sight to thermographic, and a hint of movement overhead caught her attention. She looked up, filtered out the sound of the trucks, then grinned savagely. There was a small drone hidden in the low cloud cover above the Crypt, quiet enough to be undetectable by anyone with merely human vision and hearing—probably a Condor, a hydrogen-filled balloon with some electronics, using its turboprop just enough to hold its position. She used her image magnification to zoom in on the small heat source above, then aimed her silenced smartgun at its center. Her first round nicked the gasbag, causing a slow leak; the second shattered one of the cameras, and the third ignited the hydrogen.

  Griffin winced as the infrared picture from the Condor winked out. “They’re shoo—” he began, then froze in midword. Lori passed her hand in front of his eyes, then remembered that the rigger’s cybereyes would track even if the brain was out of action. “Griff?”

  No reply. Quinn, sitting next to the rigger in the back of the Step-Van, looked over queasily. “Dump shock?”

  “I think so,” said the mage, looking him over in astral. “No sign of a magical attack. I think they got the drone.” “Drek.” Quinn thought a moment. Wallace had ordered them to keep radio silence until they emerged from the vehicles, but it looked as though the squatters had started the fight without waiting for them to arrive. “Chief? I’m not getting anything on-screen from the Condor. How about you?”

  “Nothing here,” Wallace replied, after a quick look at the screen on his wrist computer. “Not even a status bar. What does Griff say? Was it jammed or brought down?” Quinn relayed the question to Lori, the only member of the group who lacked a headware radio. “He’s coming around now,” said the mage, relief plain in her voice. “No signs of physical damage. But I think he was trying to say ‘They’re shooting’ when he was dumped.”

  “Either that, or he was commenting on their footwear,” said Quinn dryly. “Wallace? Shall I ask Carpenter if he can see any guns?”

  Wallace thought for a moment. The sniper had made two reports since taking up his position in the cooling tower, and hadn’t mentioned any weapon emplacements. The guy Mr. Johnson had sent in for initial recon hadn’t even seen any handguns. “Tell Lori to turn her radio on; I’ve got a question.” The elf mage was a valued member of the team, but her distaste for technology sometimes irritated him. “Lori, could you bring a Condor down with a spell?” “Me? Probably not. But in theory, it’d be a snap. A fireball or lightning bolt would be easiest, and an air elemental could—”

  “Thanks. That’s all I needed. How’s Griffin?”

  “On the Richter scale?” the rigger replied as he tried to sit up. “Bad hangover. You want me to send up the other drone?”

  “No, not yet. Did you see anyone shooting at you?”

  “I saw someone pointing a pistol, but didn’t hear any shots or see any muzzle flash. She’d have to be a fraggin' good shot, at that range, or extremely lucky. But T was recording; the cameras may have seen something I missed.” “Okay. Everyone armor up and get ready. Lori, is any of the magical drek they’ve set up going to stop you doing that gun-counting spell of yours?”

  Mute watched as the vehicles drove onto the garbage-strewn lot to the north of the Crypt, noticing that the driver of the Nomad positioned the SUV so that the Step-Van was between him and the Crypt, which suggested that the black van must be pretty heavily armored. She heard the doors on the far side of the van slide open, then a soft, all-too-familiar howling.

  Barghests!

  Mute stiffened, then gritted her teeth and waited for the invaders to emerge from cover. A moment later, a figure appeared at either end of the Step-Van. They wore urban camouflage fatigues; their faces were hidden by security helmets, and their hands by heavy gauntlets, but one was too big to be anything but an ork, while the other seemed human scaled. Both carried AK-97s, with stun guns, survival knives and a few grenades clearly visible on their web belts. Mute waited until they were halfway across the road, then fired a shot at the ork’s ankle. The ork yelped as the armor-piercing bullet tore through his boot; then he dropped to a kneeling position with his gun at the ready. The human dropped to the roadway, supine, looking for a target. Mute heard Easy laugh, and the human fired a shot in her direction before the ork barked out an order. “Cease firing!” he snapped. “Who’s there?”

  Boanerges’ astral form appeared on the sidewalk almost instantly—a powerful-looking figure in silver and white robes, much more muscular than his scrawny meatbody, with dreadlocks that seemed to move like a gorgon’s crown of snakes. “We live here,” he said. “Who are you?”

  “This isn’t your property,” said the ork calmly. “We’re here to escort you from the premises.”

  “To where?”

  “You’re free to go wherever you want.”

  “We don’t want to go anywhere. This is our home.” “Not anymore. Look, chummer, we can move you if we have to.”

  “Who says you have to? Who are you working for?” “The legal owner of this land!”

  Boanerges smiled. “We’ve been here for more than twenty years, and possession is nine-tenths of the law.” “Dead people can’t own property,” the human subvocalized into her throat mic.

  The shaman could not have heard the words, but his astral form detected the finer shades of the emotional content, and he stared at her, his eyes suddenly reptilian. “Indeed,” he replied.

  The ork shook his head. “Enough of this drek. You, Dreadlocks, you want to see what you’re up against here? Okay. Go, go, go!”

  The vehicle doors opened, and another nine mercenaries poured out, all with guns at the ready—except for the dog handler, who had a leash in each hand and a carbine slung on his back. The jet-black barghests sniffed the air and howled again, this time more piercingly.

  8-ball shuddered. The cameras in the Land Rover were fixed, without a view of the street. He grabbed the radio. “What can you see?” he asked Mute, trying not to sound as though he were pleading.

  “Eleven armored, ten rifles and two barghests. Guessing three orks, a dwarf, a troll; the rest look human. Probably mere, not corp.”<
br />
  The dwarf turned to Yoko. “Permission to go—”

  “No.”

  “There are three kids up there with handguns, against eleven of them! Mute can’t take on that many alone, and what’re we going to do if they take hostages?”

  The shadowrunners looked at Yoko expectantly, and she sighed. “Okay. Patty, you’ve used an assault cannon?” “Sure.”

  “Take that and your smartgun. Use the cannon on the trucks, if you have to, but not on the people. Lankin, Maggie, go with her. 8-ball . . . you get Pike and Easy. I’ll get Jinx. The rest of you stay here. Make sure those meres don’t get down the ramp. Okay?”

  The dwarf nodded, picked up his smartlinked AK-98, handed the remote control for his car over to Crane and followed Yoko up to the surface.

  Limping, and wincing with every step, the ork advanced toward the warehouse ruins. Mute watched, admiring the way the squad kept in formation, far enough apart that even a perfectly placed grenade wouldn’t injure more than three of them. She suspected the helmets were fitted with air filters that would have made her neurostun grenades useless even if the wind hadn’t been blowing the wrong way. She reached for a concussion grenade with her left hand while keeping her pistol trained on the ork. His armor jacket and pants looked like standard CAS issue with the insignia removed—which meant that the weakest spots were inside the elbow and behind the knee. She was waiting for a clear shot when Beef Patty came roaring through the rubble like an ugly comet, with Lankin and Magnusson in her wake. The troll stopped just beside Boanerges’ astral form, dropped to one knee and aimed an assault cannon at the Step-Van. “Not so fraggin’ fast!” she roared.

  The ork in the lead stared at the mismatched trio—a hulking, leather-clad troll with a blond buzz cut, a dark-skinned elf fashion plate who was even taller, and a bookish-looking silver-maned human in an old but clean topcoat—and shook his head. “You’re outnumbered,” he drawled, “outgunned—”