Shadowrun 46 - A Fistful of Data

by Stephen Dedman (v1. 0) (epub)

  Ratatosk chewed his lower lip for a moment, then slipped out of the Aztechnology system and into the RTG where he’d set up a secure comcall conference network. “The software’s in place,” he said. Magnusson and Mute were waiting in a Jackrabbit in the parking lot of Seattle General with a clear view of the Pyramid. 8-ball and Jinx were orbiting the Pyramid in another Jackrabbit, staying at least three blocks away at all times. Yoko and Lankin were parked near northbound and southbound highway entrances in an Americar and a discreetly armored Leyland-Rover personnel carrier. Crane’s fixer had been helpful and efficient, even throwing in a box of magnetic rubber logos for the carrier at no extra cost.

  “Did you find anything?” asked Lankin.

  “Not much. I’m not going back in until Hare leaves. After that, even if I get caught, it won’t tip him off. One strange thing, though. They’ve changed the sign-out sheet to say that the Nomad was checked out by someone else. Just that one, not the Step-Van; I haven’t checked the inventory for the drones. But it looks to me like they’re covering their tracks.”

  “What?”

  “I don’t get it either. There’s been no report of the vehicle being used in a crime, or anything like that, so why bother trying to set up some sort of plausible deni ability just for a car?”

  “Unless they weren’t authorized to use it,” Lankin responded. “Or the job went so badly over budget that they’re trying to shift the losses onto somebody else’s books. Who do they say took it out?”

  “A Dr. Morales. Software R & D. But he’s—”

  “Disappeared?” said Mute softly.

  “Yes.”

  “I helped him disappear.”

  “The Hatter must have heard about it ... of course he would have. He works in security for R & D.” Ratatosk’s icon slapped its forehead. “He went voluntarily?”

  “Yes.”

  “If they’re trying to hide something like this, on a secure system,” said Lankin, “then they’re trying to keep it from their own people, and that could make it difficult for them to call for backup. And if they’re bothering to conceal a loss like that, they don’t have unlimited resources, either.”

  “That doesn’t do us much good if the cream of the security team is also in on the secret,” Ratatosk countered. “Even if it’s something they’re doing on the side, we’ll still be up against the Leopard Guards, as well as their deckers . . .”

  “The job wouldn’t have needed meres if he’d had any Leopard Guards on the side; they’d have come storming in wearing plain clothes, on their day off. And the Leopard Guards wouldn’t bother concealing the loss of one vehicle; have you ever seen the way they drive, even when they’re sober? No, I think this is a small group with their eye on a nice little earner; the more people know, the less each of them gets.”

  “That sounds reasonable,” said Magnusson, “but if we’re thinking of going into a secure facility crawling with troops, I’d rather err on the side of caution.”

  No one argued with that, and the line was silent for several minutes, until Mute said, “The lights just blinked.

  We’re on.” She pulled out of the parking lot and drove around the block until they saw a three-door silver Jackrab-bit heading along Broadway away from the Aztechnology Pyramid. Magnusson astrally projected into the car and looked around. The only occupant was an elf with some headware, who seemed to be enjoying a trideo while the car ran on autopilot. There was no sign of any magical security on the vehicle, or any magic about the passenger, so Magnusson conjured up a watcher spirit and told it to sit on the roof of the car, without manifesting, to help identify it from the hundreds of identical boxes on the road. The watcher obeyed, making a great show of turning its head blue and spinning it around like the kids in The Exorcist XIII.

  Magnusson returned to his meatbody, still assensing the watcher. “Signal in place. Looks like Hare, but he doesn’t seem to be paying much attention to the road. No sign of the Hatter. Following south on Broadway.” They continued shadowing Hare for several blocks until Mute saw 8-ball’s car ahead; then they slowed down.

  “He’s headed across the lake,” said 8-ball a few minutes later. “Probably going to the Gates. I don’t think we should try to intercept him anywhere on the way: Lone Star would be there in a minute.”

  “Agreed,” said Yoko. “Ratatosk?”

  “You’re not going to ask me to hack in to the Gates’ system, are you?” said the decker, putting a plaintive note into his voice. “They’ve got enough IC to sink the Titanic. I’d be safer in the Pyramid.”

  “I know people there,” said Lankin. “I’ll see if they can tell me anything.”

  “Fine. I’ll try to access the Hatter’s personnel file. I’ve found his apartment, if that helps, and Hare’s. The Hatter’s is going to be a problem. It’s on the fifty-eighth floor, with a window, right next to the express elevator for the security teams—and they’re slaved to the off-line security CPU in a cold vault, not the main system. I can’t do anything with them without physically going inside and jacking in there.” “What about Hare’s?”

  “Much better. Fifty-second floor, just a few doors down from the main elevator shaft. It won’t be easy, not by a couple of decimal places, but if we can get inside the garage, the main problem is security cameras. All we’ll need to do is look as though we belong. It’s not a heavily restricted area.”

  “What about the lock?” asked Mute.

  “Fifty-second floor . . . probably a retinal or voiceprint scanner, slaved to the security CPU. I’ll see if I can get that data from the personnel files. Have fun at the casino.”

  The hatcheck woman, a pretty elf with hair as red as Ratatosk’s, smiled at Yoko when she introduced herself as a friend of Lankin’s. “He told me you’d be here. What’re you after?”

  “Anything you can tell me about the elf at the blackjack table—the one with the big teeth, looks as though he sleeps in a wind tunnel.”

  “Herrera? He comes here once or twice a month. Secure coat, off the rack, Fichetti pistol. Gets very friendly and tips well when he wins—sometimes more than he wins. Bad loser, though.”

  “How bad?”

  “I’ve heard rumors that he’s hit people, but I’ve never seen it happen. One time the pit boss told me to lose his gun and have it sent back the next day by courier. He’d lost more than enough to make up for the expense.”

  Yoko nodded. “Does he come here alone?”

  “Usually. Sometimes there’s a man with him, occasionally a woman. Always the same man, but I don’t think it’s ever been the same woman twice.”

  “Tell me about the man.”

  “Human, well dressed—beautiful secure coat, and even wears a top hat. Slivergun, palm pistol, sometimes a smartgun as well. English accent. I’d know him if I saw him again, but I couldn’t tell you much more about him. Might be his boss.”

  “You said he gets friendly when he wins. How friendly?” The woman looked wary. “Depends how much he’s won, how good-looking the woman is and what she’ll let him get away with in exchange for the tip. When he actually leaves the tables, he goes for the professionals. Doesn’t like to waste time.”

  “No!” Lankin snapped.

  “The yakuza started training me as a geisha before the mamasan decided that my true calling lay elsewhere,” Yoko reminded him. She was sitting in one of the soundproofed toilet cubicles, but spoke into the phone quietly anyway. “I know I’m not dressed for the part, but there are boutiques here. I think I can get him interested.”

  “No. The Mafia runs the escorts in there, they vet them thoroughly and they have a zero-tolerance policy when it comes to freelancers. And what if he recognizes you?” “He won’t recognize me,” said Mute before Yoko could respond. “And I can get you a photograph, even a voiceprint.”

  “That’d be useful,” said 8-ball.

  “Okay,” Yoko replied. “I’ll keep an eye on him, but I won’t get too close. See you when you get here.”

  Mute w
alked in a few minutes later. She still wore her black leathers and running shoes, but they were stylish enough to meet the casino’s dress code, and she’d opened the jacket to reveal a distractingly low-cut saffron top beneath it. Yoko watched from the half-nuyen slot machines as she approached the blackjack table and stood opposite Hare. The decker was losing, and so intent on the cards that he didn’t seem to notice her at all. Mute hovered around the table for a few minutes, photographing him from several angles and recording his voice, then retreated to the powder room. She slotted a chip into her head, downloaded the picture and audio files of Hare from the headware memory connected to her camera eyes and cyberears, then removed the chip, inserted it into her wristphone, and sent the data to the rest of the team. Yoko was waiting by the sinks as she emerged from the cubicle. “Any problems?”

  “Not for me, except that he didn’t say much and I couldn’t see his eyes well enough to get a shot of his retinal prints. He’s losing fairly badly, and raising the stakes to cover his losses. They’re not very high yet, but he’s not happy.”

  Ratatosk analyzed the probe IC that encased the index of personnel records and carefully deflected it using his deception software, then began decrypting the scrambled text. A quick search gave him the system location for Hare’s and the Hatter’s personnel records, but he paled when he identified the IC that surrounded the datafiles. He made a quick sensor test to make sure there were no other deckers in the datastore, then tried to decrypt the Hatter’s file while avoiding the tar pit. He had just begun downloading the dossier when he felt a shadow pass over him, and looked up to see an icon approaching—great black skeletal form, the image of the Aztec death god Mictlantecuhtli. Ratatosk hit it with a slow program that enabled him to evade the incoming attack, but he knew he had no chance of defeating such high-rated black IC, nor of holding it off for long enough to copy the complete file. He logged off as deftly as he could, and found himself in the back room of the Big O, surrounded by Leila, Pierce, Didge and Zurich. “Slot and run,” he said quickly. “I don’t think they traced me, but I don’t want to stick around.” He hurried out with barely a glance at the strippers on the catwalk, leaving the others in his wake. The five of them piled into the Nomad and Ratatosk’s Jackrabbit, and headed for the alternative jackpoint, an illegal tap behind a Stuffer Shack a few kilometers away.

  “Hare’s put extra IC on his own file, and on the Hatter’s,” Ratatosk explained to Lankin and 8-ball when he phoned to apologize for the temporary loss of their secure comcall network. “They’re probably better secured than the CEO’s. When he gets back to the Pyramid, it won’t take him long to work out where I’ve been or who we’re after.”

  “Will he know it was you?” asked Lankin.

  “No, but depending on how many other people are gunning for him at the moment, he might guess. Or he might just be arrogant enough to think it’s headhunters hoping to recruit corporate deckers . . . but I wouldn’t count on it. I think it’d be better if he never returned to the Pyramid— at least, not until after we’ve tackled the Hatter. I suggest we go in tonight.”

  “And / suggest we wait until we know more,” Lankin countered. “He must have some sort of weakness we can exploit—and this decker may not be the only friend he can call on. He’s in security, so he’s probably wired from the eyes down, and he must know some mages as well. It’s too risky.”

  “He’s not going to lower his guard anytime soon,” replied Ratatosk, “and if he thinks we have GNX-IV, he may already be gunning for us. We know Sumatra told him our names. He has dossiers on any of us who’ve worked for Aztechnology. 8-ball? How do you vote?”

  “I think you’re right,” said the dwarf. “And I’ve never gone for that ‘revenge is a dish best served cold’ drek. Sorry, Lankin.”

  Lankin shrugged. “I think it’s a mistake, but I’ll go along with the majority. Let me know when the network’s back up, and I’ll see whether my contacts have come up with anything useful.” He hung up.

  “Any damage to your deck?” asked Zurich from the backseat, to break the silence.

  “I don’tjhink so, but I’ll run a medic program now.” He plugged liimself back into his deck, letting the autopilot drive until they reached the Stuffer Shack’s parking lot. Pierce, in the Nomad, pulled in beside them a moment later, and headed for the stuffers while Ratatosk busied himself reestablishing the secure comcall link.

  Lankin phoned back a few minutes later. “I have something,” he said. “Yoko, are you there?”

  “Yes.”

  “Is he still losing?”

  “I think so,” replied Mute. “Magnusson’s watching him. He has his phone switched off, but I can ask him to leave the tables.”

  “It can wait. I’ve been speaking to a contact in what is euphemistically known as the Seamstresses’ Guild. They have a fat file on Mr. Herrera: they won’t let me read the whole thing, but they’ve given me a summary of the highlights. He gets nasty when he loses, and likes to leave bite marks and welts. They’re bad enough that most professionals won’t go near him—certainly not those at the Gates. So he’s made a deal with a few of the brothels. They get some chiphead or other addict who doesn’t feel pain, somebody desperate, clean her up a little, make sure she can’t feel pain or remember too much, and let him go to town while another woman watches to make sure it doesn’t go too far.” “What do you mean by ‘too far’?”

  “If any of them die, he has to dispose of the bodies himself. My contact tells me that none of them have, so far, but they think it’s possible.”

  “Is this just to discourage me from trying to pick him up?”

  “No. There are very few brothels willing to offer that sort of service, and my contact gave me the name of the only one in the area. It’s called Nero’s; I’m on my way there now. I’ve had to pay for the information—well, offer to pay—but if Hare loses, we’ll know where he’s headed next, and can be waiting for him. Ratatosk, can you check out their security system?”

  “What if he wins?” asked 8-ball .

  “Then we’ll have to think of something else.”

  “I have an idea,” said Mute. “You said he hires two women when he’s winning, right?”

  “Yes, but—”

  “How well is he likely to play if he’s distracted?”

  Hare looked down at his cards—an eight and an ace— then at the deck. The casinos had taken steps to prevent people with headware memory from counting cards, as well as more obvious measures to stop magicians from using spells such as magic fingers on the roulette wheel or analyze truth in the poker tournaments. Hare’s own memory and his ability to calculate probabilities were good enough to give him an edge at the game despite the frequent and seemingly random changing of the deck, without diminishing the thrill.

  He looked up as he heard a woman ask for another card, and his jaw dropped slightly as he saw an unnervingly beautiful elf sitting a few seats away, next to a dusky-skinned human woman in black leathers and low-and-behold top. The dealer gave her a six to add to her pair of sevens, then turned to him. “Another card?” he asked.

  He nodded, and the dealer gave him another eight. He winced, and the women laughed as the dealer passed them their chips. The elf wrapped her arms around the human and lifted her up until their faces were on the same level, then kissed her. Hare stared as the kiss seemed to go on forever, then tried to turn his attention back to the table.

  His next hand was a four and a five; the women were dealt a pair of jacks and a six and a nine, respectively. He stared at their cards, trying to remember what cards had already been dealt from the deck, and found that he couldn’t concentrate on any of the numbers. After losing the next two hands, he left the table, cashed in his remaining chips and called for his car.

  According to its license, Nero’s was a tavern and restaurant that offered live entertainment. Ratatosk’s quick search of guides to less-than-legal Seattle turned up descriptions of the quality of the table dancers, a schedule of its p
rices for private shows, and a mention of the restaurant’s soup kitchen and shelter for homeless women. It was officially owned by a shell company, but security and many other services were provided by well-known Finnigan family fronts . . . which he knew meant that the business’ computer systems would be online, to enable the mafioisi to keep an eye on the business and make sure the profits weren’t being skimmed too heavily. The security camera network was protected by ripper IC, which could crash his deck, but nothing as dangerous as the countermeasures he’d encountered in the Aztechnology system. “Okay, I’m in,” said Ratatosk. “What’s the plan?”

  “I don’t want to try putting anybody inside the place,” said Lankin. “Too risky, and there’s no time. But if you can put the cameras in their parking lot on a closed loop, we can ambush him there. The lot should be a bit out of the way, so it’s much safer than doing it on the street.”

  “Piece of cake,” said the decker.

  “I’m following his car,” said 8-ball. “He’s headed in the right direction.”

  “He’s there,” said Ratatosk a few minutes later. “Getting out of the car, walking up to their back door . . . He’s in. I don’t have to watch him while he’s in there, do I?”

  “Just keep an eye on the exits. All of them.”

  “I am. Who’s going to pick him up?”

  A little over an hour later. Hare walked out of the back door of Nero’s with a grin that showed his large teeth. He opened the door of his Jackrabbit, climbed in and squawked when a bald black dwarf leaned over the seat and pressed something into the back of his neck. “Not a sound,” 8-ball warned him. “Just take out your pistol and your phone and give them to me, then set the autopilot for Montlake.”

  “Who are you?” asked Hare, handing over the Fichetti and removing his wristphone. He grabbed a cable that was plugged into the dashboard jack, but froze when 8-ball growled.

  “I’m the guy pointing a gun at your head,” the dwarf reminded him. He saw no need to mention that the pistol was a narcoject dartgun. “And if you’ve got a phone in there, or anything like that, don’t bother trying to call anyone: I’ve got a jammer back here. The autopilot recognizes your voiceprint, doesn’t it?”