Shadowrun: Crimson

by Kevin R. Czarnecki

  He folded his hands on the table, considering his words before speaking. “Just what is it that you want, Mr. Crimson?”

  “Well, at this point, I’m not sure what you have to offer, but I’ll lay my cards on the table. I represent a group which would like to foster positive relations with you.”

  “What group would that be?”

  “I’m…not sure I should tell you, yet. Some things should only be spoken of with those you trust.”

  “Indeed.”

  “However, I’m willing to reveal more if you are.”

  He smiled briefly, like a chess player who ruefully admires the move his opponent has made.

  “I am… someone who brings the truth to the people.”

  “What truth is that?” I’d had my fill of religious zealots.

  “Any truth. Mr. Crimson, you look like a man of the world. No doubt you’ve been privy to some circumstance or another involving wealthy or influential parties who did not want the actual nature of things discovered. So they spin-doctor it.”

  “Go on.”

  “Our world is, for the most part, run by massive, multinational megacorporations, complete with extraterritoriality. History shows us that governments have always moved to cover up their dirty secrets. And when every corporation is a government unto itself, how many more cover-ups do you think take place? Dozens, every day. Hundreds. Thousands. The spin-doctor is a profession that finds a lot of work, lately. And after they are done reweaving the truth into bland, digestible pap for the evening news, the regular Joe who makes the machine work has no idea what the world about him is really doing.”

  He leaned forward, the intensity in his eyes thrilling to behold. “Someone has to uncover that story. Someone has to bring truth to the populace at large. We deserve at least that much.”

  “And you’re that someone?”

  He sat back in his chair, scowling lightly.

  “It is not an act of hubris, Mr. Crimson. Heroism is self-evident, in my opinion. This is simply a duty someone must fulfill. But, with those qualifiers made known, yes, I am one of those someones.”

  I smiled. I genuinely liked him. “So what can you offer me, then, Mr. Focht? Or is it professor?”

  His scowl became a smirk. He nodded. “I suppose after this you can trace plenty of facts about me off the legal net, alone. Yes, I am a tenured professor at Columbia.”

  “A school for artists?”

  “Do not underestimate the passion of youths in search of truth. Or their familiarity with broadcasting equipment and methodology.”

  “Touché. All right, then, I take it you operate pro bono? No money under the table to get you to paint the story just one shade off from true?”

  “No, Mr. Crimson, I do not take bribes. I make more than enough money for myself with my regular job. And I am not just another link in the chain of misinformation. I am receptive to stories people have to tell, then I set about verifying their veracity.”

  I didn’t ask how. He was obviously a data miner. Probably good, too.

  “I suppose it’s occurred to you that others might view your work as a way to slander their opponents?”

  “Every job comes with some level of bias. I have no illusions about that. But then, the truth usually only hurts those who are guilty. I do not endeavor to influence people’s minds, only supply them with the necessary information to make up their own. I will report any truth that’s been hidden which I find, if it involves public matters.”

  “Then no personal secrets?”

  He smiled. “No, no personal secrets. For example, I don’t see why it would be necessary to broadcast that you are a vampire.”

  That took me by surprise, although I thought I kept my expression suitably deadpan.

  The dwarf smiled. “Don’t look so surprised, Mr. Crimson. The fact that your contact specifically told me to meet you after sunset was the first indicator. When you walked in, I noticed that you are exceptionally pale. You also purchased a soykaf that you haven’t even touched since you set it on the table. Your blinking is sometimes staged, and it is only just possible to make out the tips of fangs and a red tinge around your eyes. The fact that they are blue, and natural, only accentuates that oddness. Of course, I might not have noticed those last two unless I was looking for them.”

  He had me in a pinch. Would it be safe to let him retain that knowledge? I’d long forgotten the spells to erase memories, and I had no intention of killing him.

  He seemed to sense my inner conflict and chuckled. He reached across the table and patted my cold hands wrapped around the hot cup. “Your secret’s safe with me. I’ve got a pretty good sense for people, and I’d judge your character as being basically beneficent.”

  “I might take that as an insult, considering my profession.” I was still stunned.

  He chuckled again and offered me an ARO with his information. “Whoever you represent, you’ve done well enough to inspire my curiosity. If they’ve a story they want told, and told honestly, I’ll see to it. Until then, I hope we have the pleasure of sharing a cup of coffee again soon.”

  He strolled out, his so-called bodyguard trailing out after him, looking comically suspicious. No doubt a performance artist.

  Chapter 7

  Deaths and Rescues

  It was only ten o’clock, and I had all the time in the world to kill. Somehow, though, I didn’t feel much like living it up. Low on cred, no fake ID, and the knowledge that I was recognizable as a vampire made me feel glum and self-conscious. I started to turn up my collar, whether against the season or to hide my features, but that made me feel worse, thinking it was as obvious as an opera cape.

  I slowly walked back to the warren’s secret entrance, hands jammed in my pockets against the chill autumn winds. It’d be snowing soon, and that meant some unpleasant nights ahead for the warren. Chicago winters were dangerous in the best of times, and everything the world had gone through had only made them worse. I made a note in my PAN to pick up some portable heaters or something similar the next time I was out with cred to spare.

  I turned a corner and bumped into an ork so large I might have mistaken him for a troll. The sheer mass of his body bounced me back, and I started to apologize before seeing his two friends. One had a small bag filled with what I took to be novacoke. The other was handing him a chromed credstick. The one I had jostled slowly turned to scowl at me. Bald, a bandanna with gang colors on his head, and piercings through his tusks and ears. His eyes blazed at me.

  “Sorry,” I said lamely, knowing I was in trouble.

  He turned completely to me, and I noticed the two behind him putting their hands in their coats, no doubt on hidden guns. Great. This was my nice jacket.

  “Sorry ain’t gonna cut it, omae. You best be bringing some’ting a little heavier den dat.”

  I like to think I have my share of humility, but I wasn’t about to beg for my life to gutterscum. Besides, even if they could roll me, I had maybe fifty nuyen, if that.

  “Look, buddy, I’m sorry. What else do you want from me?”

  “Depends what you got ta give.”

  I rolled my eyes. I was done with guile. I felt like being me. I felt like being a real asshole. Go figure these three were in the wrong place and the wrong time. Just another story of the streets.

  “All I got is troubles, chummer. Wanna share them with me?”

  He flashed a chrome-toothed smile as he pulled a Remington Roomsweeper from his pants. Leveling it at my head with an awkward sideways grip, he lifted his chin as his grin grew even wider. His two friends pulled smaller holdouts, maybe a Streetline Special with a silencer and a Fichetti Security.

  “No, omae, now you gots troubles.”

  I just smiled. Rookies.

  I stepped closer to the ork, using his massive bulk to shield myself from his buddies. Sweeping my arm up to get his shotgun out of my face, I followed through with a punch to his unmistakable gut. He took it, grunting but not doubling over. The Roomsweeper boom
ed next to my ear, and damn near deafened me.

  The other two also sprang into action, one stepping away to aim his gun at me, the other wading in on my left to drive a fist into my side.

  I was too occupied with the shotgun-toting ork, and took the punch. These three were tough, to be sure. The one with the drugs was skinny as hell, but the other two gang members were big, burly types. I felt my kidney flare, and my whole back tensed at the impact. He must have had either bone lacing or brass knuckles.

  My twinge gave the ork an opening to swing at me with a huge fist. My head snapped around, and I felt something in my jaw crack. I spit out a tooth, probably a molar, as he went to work on my stomach. It was too much for me to resist, and I took the punches.

  I suppose I could have drawn on my reserve of stolen essence to take the blows, or get stronger or faster. I probably could have turned to mist. But something in me just didn’t have the heart for it. The world seemed to slow with the pain, and I drew into myself.

  There’s nothing left of you, Rick. You’re just a puppet. Hell, you’re not even Rick, anymore. Just his shell, animated by a virus. Just a puppet with a hunger. You’re not strong. You’re not even weak…

  You’re dead.

  “Look at dis little bitch! He’s cryin’!”

  The three thugs laughed heartily, taking a moment from their abuse to guffaw at me. I felt the wetness trickle down my face, felt my chest tremble with sobs eighty years in the making. I didn’t hold it in. I didn’t even try for dignity. I just let it flow. My moaning wail filled the alleyway, a screaming cry for my lost innocence and all the simple joys and accomplishments I could never know. I sobbed for my dead mother and stepfather, my sisters and brothers, my friends and acquaintances and memories crumbled away long ago. I let loose the anguish of missing all those years trapped beneath the cold, salty waves. I even shed a tear or two for Gypsi. I hadn’t cried since I’d died. This was long overdue.

  “Aw, Jonesy, will you shut him up?”

  The ork named Jonesy took another solid shot at my solar plexus, and the air whuffed out of me. I squeezed out the last moan, and then started laughing breathlessly. The two grunts holding me looked confused, and Jonesy’s face twisted into an enraged sneer as I looked up with my manic, bloodstained smile.

  “Whassa matter, Jonesy? Ain’t got the salt to keep hittin’ me?” My words whistled through broken teeth and gurgled with blood streaming from my nose and mouth.

  His fist flew at me again, knocking my head back in a whiplash of startling force. Even as I felt my nose break, I couldn’t stop laughing. It got more and more intense, the more he hit me, until I was spitting blood with every hysterical snigger.

  “That’s the spirit!” I shouted with glee as he worked my lower body. I don’t think he could understand why I wasn’t passing out or dying yet. I’d lost track of time, but we had been here a little while. The boys holding me up started looking impatient.

  “Look, Jonesy, he’s psycho. Just finish it already!”

  Jonesy walked up to me slowly, putting his left hand on my sore chin to make me face him. I spit a bloody gob in his face and smiled at his wince. He put his hand to my scalp, pulling back my eyelids so I could see his right fist as three spurs slid out from between his knuckles. With a long, slow pullback, he slammed them halfway through me, just piercing through my stomach to my back, almost two inches from my spine.

  I guess it just wasn’t my night to die. These slags certainly couldn’t kill me. I’d just have to show them how it was done.

  I looked up, my eyes placid, as I yanked my arms from the two thugs and stepped toward the ork, impaling myself even harder on the spurs. Something deep inside wouldn’t let me resist drawing on my essence any more, and I felt myself becoming stronger. The virus in my veins knew it was about to be fed. Who was I to deny it?

  Jonesy looked from the spurs piercing me back up to my serene expression. I put a hand behind his elbow and jammed the spikes in to his knuckle, stepping forward to draw him close. When his eyes were fixed on mine, I smiled broadly, revealing my fangs, already growing longer and regenerating from the cracks of so many hits.

  “You wanna share my troubles, Jonesy?”

  Grabbing his head with both hands, I pulled it forward and headbutted him with everything I had. His skull had nowhere to go, and I felt him slump from the impact. Dropping him, I let the spurs slide out as I turned to the drug dealer, who was screaming and wildly firing his Fichetti at me. He had no idea how to shoot, and I felt no fear, even as a stray bullet tore off the top of my left ear. Human length now, I felt the spot grow warm as it slowly grew back.

  He screamed again, and I rushed him, driving a fist into his stomach hard enough to make him vomit. As he doubled over, I dropped an elbow on his neck, sending him to the ground. I stepped over his unconscious body and meandered toward the last one. He held the Streetline in both trembling hands. His eyes darted back and forth, as though searching for help.

  “St-stay back!”

  I smiled and held my hands out from my body, as though to ask what I could do. He whimpered and I shook my head, still smiling. My ear was completely healed now, and I could feel all my teeth in place, once again. I pushed on my jaw, and felt it pop into place. Sometimes regeneration left me a little stiff. The loud snap made him squeal, and I almost laughed.

  Then he did something that stunned me. Looking around, realizing there was no way to escape, he dropped to his knees and, with a look of despair that haunts me to this day, put his own gun in his mouth and pulled the trigger. The shot rang with a hollow pop, the tiny bullet never exiting his skull. One eye jerked to the side, and he fell forward, slack face splashing into a murky puddle.

  I was in a trance. I felt nothing. I was nothing. I strolled back to Jonesy, squatting over him and slapping his face to wake him up. His blurry eyes focused on me, and he let out a yelp loud enough to wake the dead. I dropped and pinned his arms with my legs, clamping a hand over his mouth and running one finger along his throat, feeling for the pulse. Fear, rich and sweet, radiated from him so thick I could smell it, a tantalizing tang. I stared down into his frantic eyes.

  “You really want my troubles, Jonesy? You think you can handle my troubles?”

  He shook his head in terror, and I felt something inside me become…aroused. It wasn’t me. Even if I’d liked men like that, I wouldn’t have liked Jonesy. But something similar, something akin to the thrill right before sex, stirred in me. I was compelled to drain him to the last drop, draw it out slowly and let his body lay undisturbed for a day or two, until he awakened.

  The virus in me insisted, urged my open mouth down to his neck. My teeth pierced his throat, and the first taste sent me over the edge. Red blurs consumed my vision even as I consumed him, blood and soul. I let go and gorged.

  It lasted an eternity.

  I came back to my senses still crouched over him, his limp, pale body in my arms. I leaped away for a moment, noting the cuts on my clothing and blood everywhere. I glanced out the alley’s mouth, but no one was coming. Maybe I’d misjudged the safety of the neighborhood, after all.

  I quickly looted the bodies, grabbing everything. The drug dealer had a fake ID and a real one—I couldn’t tell which was which—along with plenty of other drugs and a little cash. The others had a few weapons and a little nuyen. Jonesy had half a handle of synthahol on him. I would have loved to take a pull of it. If only he’d been drunk himself, I might have gotten a buzz off his blood.

  As I picked up the Roomsweeper, I looked at the drained corpse. The eyes were frozen, the mouth a rictus of terror. I had to look away. I didn’t have the luxury of debating whether I was a man or a monster, right now. But all the same, I knew Jonesy was now host to a parasitic, metamagical virus. Even now it was making inroads into his body and, presumably, the tattered remnants of his soul…. I didn’t want to think about it.

  “You wanna share my troubles, Jonesy?”

  I flicked off the safety and aimed
the gun at his head. If I took out the brain, he wouldn’t change...

  Something inside me railed against the thought of killing him. It felt like it was my idea, my prerogative. Instinctually, I wanted to make sure he changed. It was procreation, pure and simple. Rape, if you looked at it long and hard enough. The gun felt heavier, my vision blurred, a dozen little symptoms to unconsciously make it harder to fire.

  I blinked, drew a deep breath, and with the same willpower that makes a chain smoker throw away a full pack, pulled the trigger.

  I picked up the bodies, still benefiting from my strength boost, and tossed them into a dumpster with old newsprint stacked up. I crumbled each up for kindling, then emptied the bottle of synthahol on them. The dealer’s lighter was last, making the dumpster a funeral pyre. I wasn’t so concerned about the cops identifying the bodies as finding traces of me on them. Ritual sorcery had made police work a whole new ball game.

  I picked up my lost molar and pocketed it. Splashing some cold puddles over the bloodstains would tamper with the link enough to keep me in the clear. Taking one last look, I ran down another alleyway and zigged about the city for an hour in search of a shower.

  The drug dealer’s money paid for a full hour of hot water and good soap. As I stepped into the booth, I placed an emergency delivery order for a small clothing store nearby to deliver some clean clothes in my size. Again, the dealer, Ronnie Chase by ID, picked up the tab.

  I let the heat numb me. I hung my head and wished I had tears left to cry now, but the shower played surrogate well enough. The fact was, I was too pragmatic to linger over dead friends and family for long, no matter how well-loved. Life goes on, and in my place, they’d have to do the same.

  Life, I mused to myself. Is that what this is?

  I couldn’t stop the debate now, as I wondered about the nature of an infected soul. True, the Human-Metahuman Vampiric Virus was mystical in nature, the more potently-infected feeding directly on what some called “essence,” or the soul. It took root when there was no more resistance, and made the victim into a host. The question was: did the virus leave the last shreds, the core of your soul, intact and mutate the rest, or, like a perfectly-merged insect spirit, did it simply retain your memories and skills, using those to hunt more efficiently?