Shadowrun 46 - A Fistful of Data

by Stephen Dedman (v1. 0) (epub)

  The dwarf smiled. “I wish. ’S’up?”

  “I’ve been ordered to send a drone down into your cellar there to look around,” said the rigger, a hint of apology bleeding through his Louisiana accent. “It’s just a Gaz-Niki Snooper. No weapons, standard sensor package. I just thought I’d warn you, and let you know that I’ve only got the one.”

  “Thanks.”

  “So if anything bad happens to it, I don’t have a lot of options for replacing it,” Griffin continued. “Just a Doberman patrol vehicle with twin machine guns. And the frag-gers only issued me one belt of gel rounds, too . . . but you know what fraggin’ supply sergeants are like.”

  “I understand,” said 8-ball dryly. “I’ll tell the sentries to let it pass, and warn people not to step on it. Ahhh ... it doesn’t weigh enough to set off a land mine, does it?”

  “I hope not.”

  “Uh-huh. Catch you later.” He flipped the vidscreen down and looked around the room. “Sounds like they’re on to us.”

  “It could be a coincidence,” said Ratatosk uneasily. “Yeah, it could be. They could be trying to count the guns, or the wounded, or anything like that. I guess we’ll know if they head straight for the dig.”

  “What do you want us to do?” asked Pierce. “Fill the fraggin’ hole in again?”

  Zurich shook his head. “The standard sensor package for a snooper doesn’t include anything like a seismograph, does it?”

  “No,” said Crane, “but the sniffer might detect the dust if it gets close enough, and the mics will pick up the sound if we keep digging.”

  The dwarf looked straight up. “How reliable are the sensors? Will they be surprised if they lose the signal? After all, we’re inside a big metal grid.”

  Crane shrugged. “They’re designed for use in rebar concrete buildings like this; there may be some interference, a little signal loss, but if their rigger’s any good, he’ll allow for that. After all, we can still use our cell phones in here without too much trouble, even though I don’t know where the nearest relay station is. I think he’ll smell a rat if we try to jam him.”

  “He will,” said 8-ball. “And if he thinks we disabled the snooper, he might program the next patrol drone to fire at any humanoid target if the signal is disrupted for more than a few seconds. I’m not saying he will, but I know he can, and he knows I know. And then he’ll come and fix it, with half the squad to back him up.”

  “What if we set up some sort of obstacle course so this drone only goes where we want it to go?” suggested Leila. “It can’t open doors, can it?”

  “Not this one. But a couple of linked machine guns can open most doors,” replied 8-ball.

  “It could buy us some time,” said Zurich. “Crane, you have your deck here, don’t you?”

  “Yes, but no drones—”

  “So we borrow theirs. 8-ball, do you know what radio frequency they’re likely to be using?”

  “Yeah, but—”

  “We can send a stronger signal from inside this box than their rigger can from outside, and we have the transceiver from the drone Mute shot down, which should tell us what sort of encryption he’s using.” He smiled. “So we should be able to send it new orders. Turn left instead of right, turn down the gain on the mics . . . nothing too obvious, but it should be possible to keep it out of sensitive areas. Right?”

  “We can try,” said Crane. “Leila, can you and Pierce stop it getting in here, into the clinic, into the dig . . . anywhere else?”

  “The latrine?” suggested Sumatra, standing. “And while we’re on the subject, is this meeting over? I’ve got to go. I don’t know what was in that MRE I just ate, but I think they were supposed to feed it to the enemy.”

  8-ball waved him away, and Sumatra ran toward the chemical toilets. Zurich stood and stretched, then turned to Crane. “I’ll go get my tools. Do you have what’s left of that drone?”

  “In my room.”

  8-ball nodded. “Mute, can you ask Magnusson about the earth elemental? Lankin, can you call your guy in the Pyramid? Okay, I think we’re finished.”

  Lankin watched them leave, then grabbed his pocket secretary and muttered, “Esquivel.”

  The phone rang twice before Jose Esquivel’s face appeared on the screen. “Yes?” he said, then paled slightly as he recognized Lankin. “What is it?” he asked warily.

  “I need some information,” said Lankin. “What can you tell me about an Aztechnology employee named Thomas Mather?”

  Esquivel’s expression didn’t change, but he looked around his expertly decorated office before answering, as though trying to calculate how' much he had to lose. “Why do you want to know?”

  “Does it matter?”

  “Let’s put it this way,” said the exec carefully. “If it affects the corporation, it affects me. Yes, we do have a Thomas Mather working here. He’s the champion on our competitive pistol-shooting team, as well as one of our best bridge and chess players. I can tell you that much for free. He doesn’t have much to do with my department, and I’ve only met him a few times, so I don’t know much more than that. But if you’re planning on blackmailing him ... be warned. Word is that he’s extremely clever, unpredictable and a worse bastard than you are. He’s also wired like a Christmas tree, with the best alphaware and biotech he can afford—reflexes, smartlink, headware and God only knows what else. He and his partner are supposed to be Cruzan’s pets: she brought them with her from HQ.”

  Lankin smiled. Maria Cruzan was head of Aztechnolo-gy’s electronics division in Seattle, and frequently employed shadowrunners for industrial espionage and extractions. “Who’s his partner?”

  “His name’s Herrera, but he calls himself the March Hare.”

  “A decker?”

  “That’s right. Do you know him?”

  “Only by reputation. Do you know what they’re working on?”

  “Not really. Mather’s usual job is head-hunting, vetting new employees for security clearances, that sort of thing.” “Recruiting supplemental resources?”

  Esquivel smiled slightly at his use of the corporate euphemism for shadowrunners. “If someone has particularly valuable talents, and is proving difficult to relocate, he might occasionally hire employees on short-term contracts to assist with the . . . transport. But I’ve never had to make use of his services: I understand he mostly works for the R & D people.”

  Lankin nodded. Esquivel was a middle manager dealing with sales and distribution of the food and home appliances; the only use his division had for shadowrunners was the occasional datasteal from their competitors. “Can you access his personnel file?”

  “No, but he probably has one on you.”

  “What?”

  “He and Hare keep dossiers on unofficial assets—those who’ve worked for the corp, and as much information as they can get on those who’ve been hired by our competition. It’s their forte. I don’t know if the Hatter still does the fieldwork himself, but he’s usually consulted when any supplemental resources are needed.”

  “The Hatter?”

  “That’s what most people call him—and what he calls himself, I understand. He wears a top hat most of the time, even indoors.” There was a hint of a sneer on his face: Esquivel’s own clothing was conservative, not flashy, and mostly bought from Aztechnology’s own stores at wholesale prices. The only hint of color in the ensemble came from the small Aztlan flags on his tie.

  “Can you get copies of those dossiers?”

  “I don’t think so. I’d have to submit an application for temporary staff, with a budget and a timeline and a detailed set of objectives, and the applications are prioritized according to profitability as well as urgency. I can recommend particular individuals for a job, but I doubt my division could afford your services,” he said, showing his teeth for an instant. “I’m also sure the Hatter would want to know why I’d chosen you, and that might be difficult to explain.” Lankin nodded. “Where does your wife work?” he asked casually. />
  Esquivel froze. “You wouldn’t—” He studied Lankin’s face, realized that he would, and changed tack. “She can’t help you either. She works in accounts, in payroll, but she doesn’t have the security clearance to look into payments for supplemental resources. Certified credsticks usually come out of research costs, not salaries.”

  Lankin looked at his eyes and decided that the exec was probably telling the truth. “Do you know why Aztechnol-ogy R & D might be interested in Puyallup?”

  “No, but I don’t know what R & D is working on—and I have nothing at all to do with the magical division’s research.”

  “Thanks. Good-bye.” He hung up and stood, wishing the ceiling wasn’t so low. The only hunch he had was in his shoulders, to prevent him banging his head on the ceiling. Grudgingly, he walked over to Yoko’s room and knocked on the doorframe, then pushed his way through the curtain without waiting for an answer. The decker was lying on the bed with his eyes closed; Lankin was disappointed to find him alone, but he consoled himself that at least he could disturb his rest. “It was a waste of time,” he said. “All he could tell me is the name of the decker who fried you. He calls himself the March Hare, but his real name’s Herrera. A real hotshot, apparently. Cruzan brought him up from Aztlan when she was transferred.”

  Ratatosk opened an eye. “March Hare?”

  “Right. And Mather’s known as—”

  “The Mad Hatter?”

  “Right again. They’re characters from Alice in Wonderland, right?”

  “Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland,” Ratatosk corrected him, closing the eye again. “And they return in Through the Looking Glass. And . . . and I’ve just remembered where I’ve heard of them before.”

  “Where?”

  “A file I reconstructed a year ago. Did you know Mandy Mandelbrot?”

  “No.”

  “She managed to partially download some files from a sealed system inside the Pyramid before her team had to slot and run. She brought the files to me to see if I could recover them; I was recovering from surgery.” He raised his cyberarm slightly, then let it fall back to the mattress. She liked excitement, never had the patience for the tedious stuff. She went on another run a few weeks later, and died.”

  “Another one of your harem?”

  “Briefly, yeah, but that’s not...” He drew a deep breath. “One of the files was about something called the Balcony Project. Pet scheme of Cruzan’s. They were deliberately hiring people with personality disorders for certain positions. Paranoids. Self-mutilators. Surgery addicts. Obsessive-compulsives. And psychopaths.

  “The file listed two of the most promising case studies— a decker with narcissistic personality disorder, a borderline psychopath, and a company man who was a full-blown sociopath. Their full names weren’t listed, just their initials and their street names. The March Hare and the Mad Hatter.” “They deliberately hired these people?”

  Ratatosk shrugged. “As long they know what they are, they obviously think they can control them. And do you think they’re the only psychopaths working for the corporations? Frag, if the megacorporations were individuals, most of them would fit the definition of a sociopath perfectly.” “Spare me the psychobabble,” said Lankin, yawning. “Does knowing this help us in any way?”

  “It tells us that we can probably rule out negotiating with Mather, if you were thinking of trying,” the decker replied. “What else did your contact say?”

  Sumatra looked at the walls of the Porta-John and decided that the soundproofing probably wasn’t good enough for him to risk speaking. And sending a watcher spirit with a message would be pointless; it might succeed in leaving the Crypt without being detected, now that the only guards capable of astral vision were his own watchers, but it wouldn’t get through the magical security on the Aztechnology Pyramid. He took out his cell phone, flipped it open and began composing an e-mail.

  It had been nearly a year since Sumatra had done a job for a Mr. Johnson who wore a top hat, but he’d never figured out who the man was working for. Now that he did know, and knew the man’s name and had some idea of what it was he wanted and—best of all—what he might be prepared to pay for it. . . well, they’d done business before, and while the relationship had been brief, it had also been profitable. This could be even more so. Much more.

  15

  Quinn leaned over Griffin’s shoulder, looking at the vid-screen as the rigger guided the drone between the sentries. The fixed camera showed darkness ahead; the turret-mounted rotating camera revealed that one of the rifle-toting sentries, a female dwarf with purple hair, was watching the drone while the other, a scrawny ork missing both ears and one hand, looked up at the entrance. “Recognize them?” she asked.

  “No. They both look a little young to have been in the army,” said Griffin dryly. “D’you think I know every metahuman in Seattle?”

  “No.”

  “I’ve never even been here before. Flew a Banshee into Cascade Ork territory once to nab some smugglers, but that’s as close as I’ve come.” He adjusted the brightness and contrast settings on the low-light camera until he could see two taller figures standing amid the clutter at the end of the ramp. The studs and rings in the ork’s face and ears reflected the available light, forming a constellation, while— Griffin swore in surprise. “That’s a Night One there—the one that’s basically a misty silhouette.”

  “Lot of crap on the ground,” said Quinn. “Do you think they’re trying to slow you down?”

  “Probably; do you blame them?” The exec didn’t answer. “There’s a lot of crap in the air, too. I wonder how they breathe in there.”

  “What is it? Smoke?”

  “Not sure. I’m not getting anything on infrared to say there’s any big fires down there, but it could have been hanging around for a while—the place can’t be that well ventilated. The sniffer says it’s inert, and it’s not getting through the filters, so it’s not any chemical weapon I’ve heard of. It’s reducing visibility by a little, but not enough to make a real difference.” He shrugged.

  “We’ll find out when we go down there,” said Quinn darkly, and glanced at the clock on the dashboard. 1624. A little over two hours before sunset.

  The Hatter looked at the message on the small screen of his pocket secretary, and examined it carefully for traps. Mr. Mather, it read, I am inside the Crypt, unable 2

  TALK 4 FEAR OF BEING HEARD, BUT CAN LISTEN THROUGH EARPIECE. I HV INFORMATION THAT MAY INTEREST U.

  He thought for a moment, then swiveled around in his chair and downloaded the file on Sumatra. It had been nearly a year since he’d last hired the rat shaman, and the run had been only partially successful—though that seemed to have been the decker’s fault, not Sumatra’s. The file refreshed his memory. Sumatra was an initiate, capable of reflecting hostile spells; he was also observant, sneaky, greedy, and accomplished at preserving his own warty hide at any cost, all qualities that the Hatter admired greatly. The photo looked vaguely familiar, and on a hunch, he called up Foote’s fuzzy snap of the ork hiding in the shadows of the Crypt and ran both pictures through his facial recognition software. Match possible, but insufficient reference points to confirm. The Hatter drummed his fingers on his desktop for a moment, then said, “Convert voice to text.”

  “Converting.”

  “Who else is down there, question mark, end, send.”

  Magnusson examined the material components that Jinx had gathered from the enchanting kit, assensing their purity, and finally nodded. “You’ll need to draw a new circle,” he told her quietly. The four reusable circles he’d created for teaching purposes—one for each type of elemental— were upstairs, in the garden, where there was natural earth, clean air and water on good days, and enough room for a bonfire. “If they see you performing any sort of ritual, their mage might try to stop you. She’ll certainly know what you’re doing, and she may work out why. Now, there isn’t much material here, and even if there was, we don’t have time to summo
n anything very big or powerful. Can you draw a meter-wide circle in your room?”

  “Me?”

  “I’m needed here,” he said. As well as healing, he was using a clean air spell to minimize the level of dust in the clinic. “You know the ritual, don’t you?”

  “Yes, but I’ve never done it without you watching me! What if I frag up?”

  “Tell me when you’re ready to begin the actual summoning, and I’ll come and look at the circle and make sure you have it right. If the elemental gets away from you, which I’m positive it won’t, I’ll take control of it myself.” She nodded, but it was obvious that she was nervous. Czarnecki watched as she walked out of the clinic, then walked up behind Magnusson and murmured, “You’re sure she can do it?”

  The mage raised an eyebrow. “Are you suggesting that I can’t teach a simple procedure to one of my most gifted students? Anyone who wants to pass Hermetic Conjuring 101 has to be able to do a one-hour summoning.”

  “What happens to the ones who flunk?”

  Magnusson’s expression didn’t change. “If it’s an earth elemental, usually a premature burial. Brief and nonfatal, of course. All the examiners have to know healing spells as well as banishment rituals.”

  “What if it’s a fire elemental?”

  “The university stopped us using that as a question in the first year practical exam back in 2052,” the mage admitted. “The insurance is too expensive. But please don’t tell my freshman class. I’d hate them to think they didn’t have to know it.”

  The Hatter looked at Sumatra’s reply to his question, and his eyes bugged slightly. He began reading out the names, and his computer pulled dossiers out of the database. Most of the names drew blanks, but there were enough elite shadowrunners among them to make the Hatter feel as though he’d just seen an opponent in a chess game turn all of his pawns to queens. He made a quick estimate of what it would cost to hire this team for even a day, and paled.

  Only two possible explanations occurred to him. One was that they’d learned about GNX-IV and were trying to beat him to it. Or alternatively, they didn’t know what they were looking for, but were working for someone else who did— a fixer, perhaps, or one of the corps. He might still be able to win a bidding war, but that would eat into his already depleted budget—and if they demanded quick payment, he was sunk.