Shadowrun 46 - A Fistful of Data

by Stephen Dedman (v1. 0) (epub)

  The elf frowned. “Frag,” he muttered a moment later. “How is Yoko?”

  “Better. She may be able to walk out of here herself, if Lankin can buy us enough time.”

  “That’s great. Okay, don’t tell anyone about the drain. We might be able to bluff.”

  Magnusson gave him a crooked smile. “Who else have you told?”

  “Only 8-ball. Can you let me know when Yoko wakes up?”

  “One complete outfit for everyone,” Lankin announced to the group gathered in Boanerges’ medicine lodge. “Waterproof jacket, securetech vest, pants, T-shirt, boots, socks and underwear. It’ll be cheap stuff, probably Aztlan army surplus or something like that, but clean. Plus a prepaid handset phone, a transit pass, a backpack and ten days worth of ration bars each. Anybody with no money should be able to sell the phone and the vest to a pawnbroker and get enough for a few nights at the Y or somewhere similar. That only comes to a few hundred each, but he’s also providing another small truck. I know it doesn’t sound like much,” he said before anyone else could speak, “but it may buy us a few more hours while we measure people and the Hatter tries to get things that fit.”

  8-ball snorted. “You’ve never been in the army, have you, college boy? They only make stuff in two sizes—too small and too big.”

  “That’s why I asked for boots as well. If the meres are going to search us, that’ll also slow them down and give the diggers more time. I suggest whoever goes out first packs as much crud in their bags as they can carry, so they take even longer to search.”

  “Your list also lets him know how many of us there are,” said Mute.

  “Not really,” said Lankin, smiling. “I inflated the figure by about forty percent. It hides our numbers, and will give the squatters more stuff to sell.”

  “And what’s in it for you. Lank?” asked Ratatosk. “Somehow 1 can’t see you in khaki and army boots.” Lankin scowled. “Like you, I’m gambling on the possibility that we’ll find something valuable in that container before the meres come storming down the ramp. If we don’t, we all come up dry, but I’m sure that’s not a new experience for any of us. Anyway, the Hatter said he’d call back again soon after five. Do I tell him we accept this offer?” This was greeted with nods and a few shrugs. “What if we do find something?” asked Sumatra. “Those boxes are a bit big to put in your boot, and fraggin’ heavy. How’re you goin’ to get ’em past the meres?”

  “We can’t make any plans until we know what there is to find,” said Mute. “Do we know what was in that first lot of cases?”

  “We haven’t opened them,” said Zurich, “but if the labels are to be trusted, they’re stuff that isn't safe to try to sterilize or destroy in the usual ways, and isn’t worth recycling. Medical radioisotope capsules with a short half life. Power packs from old-fashioned cyberware. That sort of thing.”

  “Why didn’t they sterilize it magically?”

  “Maybe no one on staff knew the spell that long ago: you’d have to ask Maggie. But I can’t see what use any of it could be to Aztechnology. We’ll just have to keep looking and hope that we recognize the stuff when we see it. It might just be data that we can copy. Or it might be something too big to hide in a backpack, in which case we’ll just have to think of something else.”

  “If it’s small enough for one person to carry,” said Sumatra, “I know an invisibility spell—one that’ll get me past any drones without being detected, as well. And I haven’t been casting as many spells as the healers, so I should be able to maintain it until I'm well out of range.”

  Lankin nodded. “That makes sense. We might be able to fool the meres, but getting past the rotodrone . . . that won’t be easy. Crane, how long can one of those things stay up?”

  “At cruise speed, like that one? About five hours, five and a half. They put it into the air in midmorning . . . they must have taken it down to refuel at least once, about three thirty at the latest. They’ll probably refuel again before sunset, to make sure it’ll stay up while we’re bugging out.”

  “Could we shoot it down?”

  “With an assault cannon, yes; it would be in range. But you’d only get one shot.”

  No one spoke for a moment, and then Lankin nodded. “Thank you, Sumatra. That’s the best plan I’ve heard in a while. We’ll keep it in mind.”

  Wallace and Griffin walked outside the Step-Van, leaned against its side and watched the sky shade through gray and scarlet to a somber muted mauve, to the grim shade of blued steel. The synchronized digital clocks in their retinal displays said 1825.

  Wallace sighed, and turned to his old friend. “Call 8-ball; ask how soon he’ll be ready. I’ll call Fedorov, see if he’s got an ETA for that truck.”

  The elemental pounded away at the concrete as though determined to get back to the real earth beneath the vault. Pierce swung the pick to the same beat, pausing occasionally to move chunks out of the way to reveal more of the container. “That’s both hinges clear,” he said. “You going to open her?”

  8-ball nodded, and Jinx ordered the earth elemental to move over to the next compartment. Zurich bent down to examine the old-fashioned lock, then removed a drill from his tool kit. 8-ball didn’t notice his phone vibrating until after the drilling had stopped; then he flipped the screen up and looked at the caller ID. “Hold it ’til I get back,” he said, and walked down the corridor to an empty room— one decorated with pinups of huge-breasted female fomori and giants. No accounting for tastes, he thought. “Yeah, Griff?”

  “Chief wants to know whether you’re ready.”

  “We’ll start moving people out when the stuff arrives. No point in doing a strip search if you’re going to put the same clothes back on, is there?”

  “Uh-huh. I’ll tell him. See you soon.”

  The dwarf nodded, pressed the Disconnect button and left the room. He turned at the sound of someone running, and saw Magnusson, his face pale and . . . wet? “ ’Sup?” “DocWagon just called me,” said the magician, talking quietly as though every word had to be forced around the lump in his throat. “Boanerges is dead.”

  16

  Griffin returned to his seat in the back of the Step-Van and plugged himself into his control rig. It had started raining again almost as soon as the sun had set, and he checked to see that the rotodrone was still maintaining the correct altitude and path. It was, and the infrared didn’t show any movement except for their own sentries.

  No sign of the bus that Fedorov said he’d hired, either. He just hoped it was in better condition than the piece of drek that troll had driven up. That didn’t look as though it’d get to the nearest junkyard without breaking down. At least the drones were well maintained, as were the Step-Van and the Nomad. The snooper was still rolling around the mess of underground rooms and corridors, functioning pretty well apart from a hazy picture and sound that dropped out occasionally, but it wasn’t giving him much data except for reminders of just how little the squatters had, and just how difficult it would be for invaders to take the place. The small rooms and narrow twisting corridors meant that they’d have to fight for every meter they advanced, and keep an eye on their satnav or compass readouts to make sure they weren’t walking in circles and coming up behind their own people. It was almost as if the Crypt itself was determined to keep them out, and resisting them as best it could.

  Wallace’s voice traveled through the bones of his skull to his ear. “The Dobie prepped? Fedorov wants it sent in as soon as they say the last of them is out.”

  “Dead?” 8-ball repeated.

  Magnusson nodded and grabbed hold of the wall for support. “They’ve stopped trying to revive him. No EEG readings, no aura, no pulse. They want to know what I want done with the body.” Fie gulped. “I asked about Patty. They said she’s out of surgery, but not out of danger. She’s on a respirator, and they may have to grow her new lungs. Lungs that big, they don’t keep in stock.” He turned as Jinx stepped into the corridor.

  “We’ve found so
mething,” she said. “At least, it may be something. It’s not from the hospital, anyway.”

  “What is it?”

  “It’s another hazmat container. Same make, looks a lot like the others, and it’s sealed just as thoroughly . . . but it weighs almost nothing and there’s no radiation hazard trefoil on the label. And it’s addressed to the biotech R&D lab at ORO Corporation, in Tenochititlan.”

  “ORO.” 8-ball blinked. “That’s what Aztechnology . . . What else does the label say?”

  “Zurich’s looking at it now. There’s some sort of declaration on the back, in English and Spanish, but it’s pretty cryptic. You don’t have a clairvoyance spell, do you?” “No. Remind me to learn that one when we get out of here.” He waved at the curtain. “After you.”

  “Are you going to tell her about Boanerges?” 8-ball murmured when Jinx was out of earshot.

  “Later.”

  After some hurried discussion and a hasty distribution of chemsuits and filter masks, it was agreed that Zurich and Magnusson would take the box to the improvised pistol range while Mute stood guard and kept everyone else a safe (they hoped) distance away—on the ramp, if need be. Zurich began carefully breaking the tamperproof seals, and Magnusson stood by ready to cast a sterilize spell. The dwarf didn’t inhale until the box was open, revealing two vials sealed inside multiple layers of transparent packing material and an old-fashioned optical computer disk. Zurich whistled as he gingerly picked the disk up by the edges and examined the shiny surface. “Seems okay,” he said. “Wonder what’s on it.”

  “No bioweapons,” said the magician, examining its aura for signs of toxicity. “Nothing intended to kill . . . Can you read it?”

  “Depends on the formatting. I haven’t seen a data disk this size since I was a kid. It won’t fit any of the equipment I have on me: I’ll have to jury-rig something. Get Ratatosk, and tell Didge I’ll need her CD player again—and tell the others to keep digging. This may not be it.”

  Magnusson walked out, returning two minutes later with Ratatosk and the makeshift metal detector. “8-ball just had a call from their rigger,” said the elf. “The transport’s just left the freeway. ETA ten to fifteen minutes. Wow, an antique.”

  Zurich smiled behind his respirator mask. “I just hope I can read it and copy it into memory. What do you want to bet it’s encrypted?”

  The decker snorted and sat opposite him, folding his limbs into a lotus position. “If you can read the disk, I can crack the code.”

  “In fifteen minutes?” asked Magnusson.

  “The code isn’t the problem. Even an old disk that size could hold a few gigs of data. If I don’t have some sort of clue as to what I’m looking for . . .”

  “There’s a label on the vials,” said Magnusson. “GNX-IV. Does that mean anything to you?”

  “No,” said the decker. “But it’s a good place to start.”

  8-ball was helping Leila and Sumatra pack the library, enchanting kit and telesma when Griffin called to say that the bus had arrived with the clothing and other supplies. “Thanks,” the dwarf replied awkwardly. “We’ll start sending people out as soon as we can. How many can you search at a time?”

  “Four, and no more than two of them female. Okay?” “Copy. I’ll get ’em organized.” He looked over at Leila. “I’ll be back in a few minutes.”

  “We can manage here,” said Sumatra.

  8-ball nodded and walked to the clinic, where Doc Czarnecki greeted him with a grunt. “Did you hear about Boanerges?”

  “Yeah. Magnusson told me. Where’s Mish?”

  “Taking apart her medicine lodge.”

  “Okay. Do you need any help packing up here?”

  “No chance of a reprieve, huh?”

  “I wish. The bus is outside. Do you want to move the wounded first, last, or . . .” He looked at the bodies on the beds and mattresses. “How are they?”

  “Yoko’s doing well. The others . . He shrugged. “Akira’s out of danger and stable, as long as we can keep him somewhere reasonably safe and clean. Angie has a SIN, so they should be able to find room for her at Good Samaritan. I don’t know whether Rove has a SIN or not, but he’s young enough that they won’t just let him go: either they’ll find his parents, or they’ll send him to some other home. And if he can’t come back here, I don’t know where he’ll end up . . .”

  “Look, do you have to be in Puyallup to do this work?” “What? No, I suppose not, though I think we can help more people if we are. Why?”

  “Crane’s paid the rent on a garage in Redmond for the next few weeks. You might be able to set up there as soon as we convince a Seoulpa Ring that he’s not coming back anytime soon. It isn’t as big as this place, but there should be room for a few beds and the library and the other stuff. Call it Boanerges Memorial.”

  Ratatosk stared at the lines of gibberish and swore under his breath. “It should be a simple scramble program, easy to decrypt with . . . Oh, frag. I’m an idiot.”

  “What?” asked Zurich, his tone suggesting that he agreed with the assessment.

  “It’s in Spanish. I’m using character frequency algorithms for English, and the numbers are all wrong . . . What did you say this was called, again?”

  “GNX-IV.”

  “Okay, that’s . . . Okay, it’s starting to come together.

  Give me another minute. How’s your Spanish? My translation software might not handle some of the jargon, and I know just enough to get my face slapped by waitresses.” “I know a little more than that,” said Magnusson, “and I have a translation spell, but I’m no biologist either. Should we get Czarnecki?”

  “Not yet. Okay, some of these things are turning into words, I think. Does . . .” He stopped, then swore again. “Get him.”

  Yoko opened her eyes a few seconds after 8-ball had walked out, and waited for things to come into focus. “What happened?” she croaked through cracked lips.

  Doc Czarnecki rushed to her side. “Hey, welcome back. How do you feel?”

  “Like drek. Did I just hear someone say something about Boanerges?”

  “He’s dead,” said the street doc gently. “He cast a stabilizing spell on you after that toxic attacked you, and the drain was too much for him. DocWagon picked him up, but they couldn’t help him. How many fingers am I holding up?”

  “Three,” she said muzzily. “I’m still in the Crypt?”

  “For another few minutes. We’ve begun evacuating.” “What?"

  Czarnecki filled her in on the events of the past few hours as succinctly as he could. He was recounting Sumatra’s plan for removing whatever they found when Zurich burst in. “Doc! Do you speak Spanish?”

  “Yes, but I can’t leave the clinic while—”

  “Then we’ll bring the disk here. Ratatosk thinks he knows what GNX-IV is . . . but he’s having trouble believing it.”

  8-ball watched as another four people—a human man and woman, their ten-year-old elf son, and a teenaged ork girl with the pallor of a severe heliophobe—walked up the ramp, moving slowly because of the weight of their bulging bedrolls. The dwarf shrugged, then turned to Leila. “Okay, you’re in charge until I get back,” he said. “Keep them moving out—but not too fast. And don’t let anyone touch my car. You two, stick around,” he instructed Pierce and Ulla. “We’re going to need stretcher bearers. Okay?”

  He didn’t wait for them to answer, but hurried to the clinic, where Yoko was sitting up on her bed. Czarnecki had refused to leave his patients, so Lankin, Crane, Zurich, Sumatra, Magnusson, Mute and Ratatosk were all crammed into the small room with him. “Okay,” said 8-ball. “What’s in those vials?”

  “They called it GNX-IV,” said the street doc. “It’s a virus, and seems to have naturally mutated and been discovered by chance, rather than being engineered. The ORO Corporation thought it might be turned into something that could reverse goblinization.” He paused. “They tested it on fifty subjects here—orks and trolls, most of them homeless or prisoners, bu
t technically volunteers. ORO wanted to test it on even more subjects in Aztlan.” “Did it work?” asked Sumatra, fascinated.

  “After a fashion. It caused their outer layers of skin to liquefy, along with any dermal plating, and also loosened their teeth until they were easy to pull out. Unfortunately, nearly all of the subjects died before their skin could finish growing back. In fact, it killed all of the orks, and all but two of the trolls, both of whom made it through the last two rounds of testing. Those trolls survived long enough to contract HMHVV. After that, the lab here decided to hand the whole thing over to head office.

  “The scientists had tried combining the virus with drugs they’d hoped would give the subjects a chance to survive while their skin regrew. None of them worked, unless you count the two trolls. Even if you count them, the mortality rate of the project is still 96 percent. The volunteers were never told that. They were never given any idea of just how risky it was.”

  Lankin smiled evilly. “No wonder Aztechnology wants this stuff back. If that leaked out, and the families sued, it would cost them millions—maybe billions, if you factor in what the bad publicity could do to their share price. Are the names of the subjects on that file?”

  “I don’t know,” said Czarnecki. “I haven't looked for them.”

  “I think we should call the Hatter and say the price has just increased slightly. He gets the vials and the disks, and you get to keep this place, free and clear, and . . . shall we say five thousand each?”

  Czarnecki stared at him.

  “Or instead of cash, would you prefer a stabilization unit and a case of slap patches? Something like—”

  “Hold on a fragging second!” said the street doc. “You’re talking about giving them back a virus that has a hundred percent fragging fatality rate among orks!” Lankin was silent for a moment. “What makes you so sure this is the only sample? They might already have it.” “I don’t think so,” said 8-ball. “If they did, they would’ve used it against the rebels in Campeche by now. Or just to clear out some slums. How is this virus transmitted, Doc? Airborne?”