“I keep this handy as a quiet place to think,” Halian explained. “For the meager price of a pack of Choco-Bombs and some friendly banter, the janitor never comes in here.”
We headed up to his office and grabbed a sleeping bag and some basic toiletries. “Where did you get those?” I asked.
“I’ll be going on a camping trip in the NAN when spring rolls around. I keep my gear here. Good thing, eh?”
I smiled and warmed my hands by the fire. He joined me. “You know, you barely know me, Halian.”
“I know you well enough, Rick.”
“Yeah, but I owe you for this.”
“Nonsense. Think nothing of it. And if you must, then consider it a favor for a friend that you can repay however you see fit.”
He turned to go to the door, leaving a keycard on the table. “That’s to get in and out when you wish. I’m afraid this night’s worn on a little longer than I planned, and I’ll be needing some sleep. I’ll come back tomorrow night after sundown, and we’ll decide how to proceed from there.”
I smiled as he left, dragging the sleeping bag over by the furnace and setting my suit on the chair. Stretching out and trying to relax, I let my mind wander over the strange events of the day, falling asleep wondering how I got myself into such strange predicaments all the time.
Halian was prompt the next evening, knocking and entering just moments after sundown.
Smiling, he held out his commlink to me. “I’ve found a friend who may be able to help you. Link your PAN to mine.”
Still bleary-eyed, I took out my ’link, merging its PAN with my display and earbuds and watched as a black screen with the print “Audio Only” came up. A warped voice came through.
“I’m told you need a new identity.”
That’s right.”
A pause the length of an eyeblink. “What specifications are you looking for?”
I thought about it. “I need to get out of Chicago. Something that will let me carry my gear, not arouse too much suspicion about looking like…”
“An Infected?” the voice finished.
“Yeah. A vampire.”
“Heh. Haven’t done that bad for yourself, then, have you?”
“Could be worse, I suppose.”
“Night travel, or something well-sheltered, then. Where you looking to go?”
Memories of Pretty and her accusations that rang true now in my mind. You’ve only ever run away… It was time to stop running.
“Seattle,” I answered.
“I think I can help, Hannibelle. How about you and I handle this later today, while my friend and I work out the details of his to-be identity?”
“Your call, Lens.”
The connection cut. I looked at Halian quizzically. “Lens?”
“My decking name in bygone days. I apologize, incidentally. Yes, she knows you are Infected, and can pass for a regular metahuman. It’s that very status that gave me the notion to call her first. She tends to sympathize with your kind. I suspect someone close to her was Infected themselves.”
“So what did you have in mind? You look like you have a specific idea.”
His smile turned devious as he brought up a file on my PAN. Lines of student profiles streamed across the screen. “How do you feel about going back to school?”
“Pardon?”
“My administration-level clearance with the university gives me an in regarding student profiles. Those profiles are connected to shared data dumps with other universities and colleges across the world. I could whip up a student profile for you, establish a level of credibility for the SIN Hannibelle will engineer.”
“I didn’t know Chicago had campuses worldwide.”
“They don’t. But a student that does as well as you will have can go almost anywhere there are schools. A transfer, grants from anonymous sources, the works. How would you feel about Oxford?”
I laughed. “You’re serious?”
“Absolutely. I can arrange for the files, the uniform, the student history, everything. But you want Seattle, so Seattle University it is. Hannibelle will use her connections to legitimize what we come up with and provide an actual SIN.”
“Wow. How much is that gonna cost?”
“Oh, don’t worry about it. I’m sure she’d be willing accept an IOU on my part.”
“No,” I said as I pulled the Bhianchi Orb out of my pack and handed it to him.
His eyes widened. “This is that relic stolen from the Chicago Metaphysical Institute, isn’t it?”
I nodded. “There’s no way for me to claim the bounty on it, now, but you can. What’s more, I’ll throw in my observations as to what it does.”
“I thought no one knew.”
“That’s because it was only tested and observed in standard, isolated laboratory conditions, and never in the real world. I’ll write it up and you can drop both off for the loot. I think the DIMR would offer some pretty nuyen for the info alone. Keep the payment to cover my costs. Anything above it you can consider a donation to the college or your pet projects.”
Halian looked like he was about to object, but he bit back the words, probably sensing I wouldn’t relent over this. “Well, Draco Foundation credit is as good as any. Thank you.”
Putting the Orb down, he tossed me a passkey. “That’s for one of the unused student dorms in the building adjacent to this one. You can rest there until we get this whole mess sorted out. Meantime, your homework assignment is to write up a dossier on your skills and talents. We’ll factor those into your profile so you can answer any inquiries naturally, should the question of your identity’s veracity arise.”
I nodded, smiling and staring at the passkey in my hands. “Thanks, Halian.”
“Naturally.”
It took a whole three days for Avery J. Dancing, student at UC-Berkeley with an anonymous grant being transferred to U of S, to be born, fleshed out, and legally have lived for the past two decades. I posed for student ID pictures and SIN photos, having gone back to my crazy hair in its hanging scarlet spikes and stubbled goatee. Halian laughed and said I was looking more and more the part every day. While I didn’t have the pleasure of speaking with Hannibelle again, Halian explained the process of bribes and information to certain black markets and government officials who slipped in the occasional file, falsifying their histories, and making it look as natural as possible.
In my name, Halian and Hannibelle were able to acquire a student license for possession of an edged weapon (fencing team) and Practice of Thaumaturgy (“A rare Awakened prodigy,” my teachers raved.). Plane tickets were purchased and hotel rooms booked. Halian and I even collaborated on letters from my “parents” as physical evidence to corroborate my story, should my luggage, meager as it was, be searched. I loaded a few basic lesson programs onto my ’link, practiced looking like a bored, snobby, rich student, and finally got some new street clothes.
I posed for Halian the day of my flight, in Zoé-knockoff hoodie and jeans and Vashon Island synthleather boots, the perpetual petulant youth. I couldn’t keep from smiling. “It actually feels like I’m going off to school.”
“If only you could. But they’ll have far more checks when you get there. I’m afraid this identity is only going to work as a delinquent student, and even then, it will probably begin falling apart before the year is out.”
“As long as it gets me out of the Midwest and into the Seattle shadows, it’ll have lasted long enough.”
“So, you’ll be getting back into the thick of things?” There was a faint note of disappointment.
“I have no money. No identity. I am a no one, with unlicensed skills and a disease that makes me an exile to society. Any job I take is illegal, technically.”
He shrugged. “I suppose you have to find your own truth.”
“Truth…I suppose that’s what’s really important here.”
“It’s my dharma.”
I nodded, pulling a chip from my commlink and setting it gently on the table
.
Halian picked it up. “What is this?”
“My story. The story of the ghouls of Chicago. Lone Star. The bug spirits. Everything I’ve seen in the past month.”
He cocked an eye at me. “Are you sure you’re comfortable giving me this?”
“I am if you keep your word.”
“Regarding?”
“That you protect the anonymity of the innocent. Don’t tell this story until it’s safe to do so. Or release it on the NooseNet. I trust you to do the right thing. Just make sure people know about the plight of those ghouls. Of all the Infected, for that matter. We’re people. Not all of us are predisposed to horrifying acts just because of our nature.”
He nodded as he pocketed the chip. “I’ll see the story is told. Thank you.”
I grinned. “Sure. Can I have a ride to the airport?”
O’Hare didn’t see as much business now that Chicago was a pariah among UCAS cities, even with the new reclamation and reconstruction effort. Most people simply didn’t have the time or inclination to vacation in a place infested with bug spirits or swimming in Strain III. After the breakout, most of the business came from rebuilding, and heavy equipment travels best on the ground. Some parts of the sprawling airport had been closed down entirely, gathering dust and transients. So long as no one was bothered, though, the staff had a don’t-ask, don’t-tell mentality.
I stood at Terminal 3, handling cross-NAN flights, with my lonely duffel and a long case containing my new sword. I turned to look at Halian, who beamed up at me just like a proud instructor would at his star pupil. What made it so touching was the honesty behind it. How very genuine he was. I think he still thought of me as a child, despite our identical age. And that was fine.
He’d stuck his neck out for me. Spirits knew no one but Needles had done that for me for a long time. It was an unfamiliar feeling to have a friend. I held back the tears that realization inspired as I took his proffered hand and shook it warmly.
“You take care now, Avery. If you ever need anything, you know where to call.” I nodded, and he tipped his old houndstooth hat and turned to leave.
“Halian!” I called. He turned back to me.
“Think I can buy you one last cup of coffee?”
“Sorry, Avery, but you know I have class in the morning.” He checked the time on his HUD and sighed. “But have a cup for me when you get to Seattle.”
“I’ll do that,” I whispered as he disappeared down an escalator.
The final boarding call went out for my flight, a suborbital straight shot to the Emerald City. I brought up my boarding pass on my PAN and made for the gate when an alarm went off. Ahead of me in line, a uniformed man was shaking his head and waving to the crowd.
“We’re very sorry for the inconvenience, lades and gentlemen. There appears to be a technical error. Please take a seat. We’ll inform you as soon as the situation is remedied.”
The crowd gave a collective groan and turned to find seating, eyes rolling, and grumbles becoming the new ambiance. For my own part, I wished Halian had stuck around.
I flopped down in one of the hundreds of seats for waiting passengers, loaded up a Grim Aurora track (thank goodness they still made some good music these days), and fell asleep.
There was no dream, only the briefest whisper of my name in my mind. A voice so familiar I was consumed with it, the warm feeling of water, and a connection as close as twins shared, long-broken for one, and newly-severed for the other. It lasted an eyeblink, long enough to fill a lifetime, dream-wise.
Mene. Still here. She’d follow me anywhere.
The alarm chime broke through into the song, jolting me awake. Second playthrough. 172 minutes. Final boarding call, Seattle Metroplex.
I grabbed my sparse luggage for the sparsely populated flight. Glanced out the window.
Chicago…City of my birth…City of my death.
With one final look, I bid it farewell.
Epilogue
Friends Old and New
Club Penumbra is the one place in Seattle that hasn’t changed whatsoever. Matte black on black with faux starlight and laser shows, a callback to the ’50s that makes me feel right at home.
The crowds haven’t changed much, either. Orks in Sleeping Tiger suits with leopard cuffs and chain link belts, men and women with neon mohawks and platform boots, the familiar hiding spots for hold-outs on nearly everyone. There’s even a booth toward the back, just behind some speakers, where four young punks sit with a corper in a fine suit, slick haircut, and an immaculate and very artificial tan. Mr. Johnson, how little you’ve changed as well.
Even the music is familiar. The voice is a little different, my AR listing an unfamiliar name, but it rings a bell...
“Given dreams now forsaken,
I caught your wandering eye.
You give me life and I take it.
I’d rather bleed you dry.”
I grin. Somewhere, behind the holograms, JetBlack is still making music.
Some things, thankfully, never change.
“There,” Mene whispers telepathically, and my attention is drawn to a Chinese man in a suit sitting at a table nursing a tonic with lime. I nod and move across the throbbing dance floor. With the earbuds, I can make out the individual sounds of the room even through the music, the clink of glasses, and shouted conversations. I can even hear heartbeats when I focus enough.
But I can’t hear the man. As soon as I step to the table, the sound of the club fades. The small box on the table neutralizes the noise. Nothing we say can be heard outside the table.
He looks up, perfect skin, perfect hair, Zeiss cybereyes. His watch is a Fairlight commlink. His cufflinks have sensors. I’ve caught up with technology, and the more things change, the more they stay the same. Corporate. Wuxing, maybe.
I pull out the chair and sit down, folding my hands. My suit isn’t a tenth as good as his, but I keep up with current fashions, and a simple illusion spell has taken me to the tasteful edge. It was an easy spell.
My paradigm works best with my ego. So does talking to a Johnson.
I fold my hands like his. Mimicry is the first step of setting someone at ease. He knows that. And now he knows I know it. I don’t win him over on the first level or even the subtext. I am simply communicating my competency. He is impassive, his artificial eyes at ease, but keen. He takes in details without the darting glances to collect it. When he speaks, he retains a Hong Kong accent, but his English is flawless. That is an affectation, a nod to his heritage. Corporate cultural loyalty. Or maybe a ruse. I don’t think it is. His aura doesn’t show as much, anyway.
“Mr. Johnson? Hannibelle arranged for us to meet?”
“I am afraid I am not a Johnson, Mr. Lang.”
My eyes narrow. It’s not done this way.
The not-Johnson pulls a secondary commlink, equally expensive as the watch, and hands it to me, a call in progress much like a 20th-century cell phone. The sensors in my own cufflinks don’t detect explosives. I put it to my ear.
The voice on the other end is one I have not heard in more than a decade, as calm and cryptic as ever. As always. A single syllable.
“Come.”
The not-Johnson drives me to the temple in Chinatown. The rain has been falling since we stepped out of Penumbra, and I’m still getting used to it. The drive is careful over ice and ash, with swinging neoplas lanterns casting their yellow and gold glow through the steam and downpour. The statues and façade are unaffected by the acid. Not-Johnson opens the door, and then an umbrella for me. He walks me to the doors, and I proceed inside alone.
The temple is quiet but for the hammer of rain on the roof. Incense hangs heavy, but my view is clear to the head of the chamber. Su Cheng has not aged a day any more than I have, kneeling before the altar, the three great statues at his back, the sick yellow glow of his eyes casting dirty amber beams in the thin smoke from the braziers.
“Long time, Great Master.”
He grins broadl
y, revealing his crooked yellow teeth, pointed canines unextended. “You are bolder now, young one.”
“And older.”
“Never as old as I, though.”
I shrug. “Product of coincidence.”
He nods. “And how was your sleep?”
“I don’t remember it. I lost much.”
“And gained purpose.”
I consider it, hands in my pockets, pensive and irreverent. “I suppose you’re right. All it cost was a fortune.”
“Fortunes rise and fall, Richard. Time and tide. Other immortals have lost more over the centuries and millennia and Ages, I am sure.”
I pause. “Just how old are you, Su Cheng?”
He smiles, only a tiny grin this time, and cocks his head slightly to the left. Every movement is calculated, every truth doled out in precise measurements. I wonder what he is trying to lead me to...
“Would you like to rebuild your fortune?” he asks.
“Still fortune-telling these days?”
“Fortune building, when it suits me.”
“What do you have in mind?”
“Nothing beyond your means or skill. In fact, what you do best.”
“I’m not interested in aligning with any of the syndicates or corps.”
He chuckles, a soft grating sound holding a high, keening cackle in its depths. “A man like you does not stay quiet or neutral. But you do stand for yourself. I have always respected that. I do not offer you employment. Simply a contact. A little something to cut your teeth on, and something to put in your back pocket.”
I consider. Su Cheng has yet to steer me wrong, and he has no reason to. Syndicate politics aside, the only times I’ve ever seen his interests are when ours align. It doesn’t play to counter my conscience. And besides, my account is just about empty.
“Keep talking.”
He spreads his long-taloned fingers over the array of spilled I-Ching tiles and human bones, blackened and cracked open over flame. “What do you see?”
Shadowrun: Crimson Page 24
