Never Deal with a Dragon

by Robert N. Charrette

  Though he did not call this forest his home, as did many of his kind, he always felt its powerful lure. Such great peace among the looming giants, peace even amid the nightly games of survival unfolding all around him. Sometimes he even wished to remain here, but that did not happen often. His work was important to him, and it was work he could rarely do here.

  He looked up at the sky, rejoicing in the multitude of stars showing through the gaps in the clouds to shed their light on him. So many, burning through the cold of space with tantalizing promises of their hoard of universal knowledge. Someday, he promised them, we will come to you.

  A slight motion caught the Elf’s attention. A falling star, he thought. Changing his focus, the Elf saw it was not a falling star, but a craft moving across the heavens faster than the celestial objects themselves. Time in motion.

  Time.

  The thought broke his communion trance and returned him to the mundane world where seconds passed inexorably, hurrying past the nowthat was the forest’s life. A quick check of star positions told him that the others would be already in place, waiting for him. He stepped back under the canopy and knelt by the small, low table.

  He snugged the surgical steel jack into the socket at his temple and his fingers flew across the keyboard of his Fuchi 7 cyberdeck, launching him into the Matrix. His vision shifted to that dazzling electronic world of analog space where cybernetic functions took on an almost palpable reality. He ran the electron paths of cyberspace up the satellite link and down again into the Seattle Regional Telecommunications Grid. Within seconds, he was well on his way to the rendezvous with his companions inside the Renraku arcology.

  The lights of the Seattle-Tacoma International Airport vanished behind the craft, only to appear again in front of it. The plane was circling. Sam briefly wondered why, but dismissed his concern, sure that the pilot would inform the passengers of any problem. His own life seemed to be taking a circle, returning him to the country he had so willingly left for a scholarship to Tokyo University. Around and around he went, chasing his own tail and getting nowhere.

  Three hours ago, he had gone through the latest in a week-long series of brush-offs of his efforts to learn the state of his sister’s health. They wouldn’t even tell him exactly where she was being treated. He had lost his temper when his Renraku escorts began to hustle him away from the telecom and along a boarding corridor to the waiting JSA spaceplane. It was only the fear that, once away from Japan, he would lose all contact with Janice that allowed him to give in to his anger. His escorts, members of the famed Red Samurai security force, had simply taken his histrionics in stride and deposited him, per their orders, on the aircraft.

  Two hours later, Sam was on the ground at his destination, being greeted by a Renraku employee in a fringed synthleather jacket, floppy pilot’s cap, and pointy sequined boots. The clothing was no less outrageous than the woman’s overly familiar forms of address and rude jokes. First she led Sam through the intricacies of Seattle customs and security checks before they took him onto the field to a waiting Federated Boeing Commuter marked with the Renraku logo. The woman assured him that the tilt-wing shuttle plane would take them to the arcology in the most expeditious manner. When Sam had boarded and taken his seat in the luxurious passenger cabin, his escort vanished through the forward door to the cockpit. A few moments later, the craft lifted from the ground. Take-off was accompanied by the pilot’s commentary on minor faults in the tower control’s procedure.

  Sam decided for the twentieth—or was it fortieth?—time that there was little he could do at the moment. To distract himself, he turned his attention to his fellow passengers. Like him, all were bound for the Renraku arcology.

  Seated at the bar was Alice Crenshaw. She had sat next to him during the trip from Japan, but had said little, which suited Sam’s dark mood just fine. What Crenshaw did tell him was that she, too, was being transferred to the arcology project. She was equally unhappy about it, insulting the steward who politely inquired about the reason for her transfer.

  Crenshaw had boarded the Commuter a moment after Sam, saying nothing to the others already aboard the VTOL transfer shuttle and ignoring their friendly attempts at conversation. Instead, she had busied herself almost immediately with a bourbon and water.

  Chatting quietly on a broad bench seat were a couple who introduced themselves to Sam as Jiro and Betty Tanaka. He was Nisei, a second-generation Japanese born in the Americas, and she was from the California Free State. Sam envied the simple hopes and fears of the sarariman and his wife. For the young Jiro, an assignment to work as a computer specialist in the Renraku arcology would actually be a step up in his career.

  The only other passenger was a Mr. Toragama. Put off by Sam’s distraction and Crenshaw’s disdain, he had buried himself in his middle-manager concerns, alternately tapping the keys and studying the screen of his lap computer.

  Sam turned his head to gaze out the window again. The Commuter had left its holding pattern and was moving across Seattle toward the glitter of lights that marked the heart of the metroplex.

  There, looming ahead was the Renraku arcology, its massive presence dwarfing the tall office buildings of the nearby central business district. Even though portions were still under construction, the arcology already enclosed a dozen city blocks. Beyond it in the distance, Sam saw the garish neon of the Aztechnology pyramid proclaiming the arrogance of the corporation’s Atzlan owners.

  The Commuter banked, gliding past the sloped southern face of the arcology. Diamond reflections of the aircraft’s landing lights glittered from the banks of solar concentrators sheathing the surface and again from the dark waters as the plane moved out over the Sound. Though the noise was muffled by the cabin’s superb sound-proofing, the vibration of the shift from horizontal to vertical flight mode permeated the cabin. The craft dropped a little altitude as it moved over the Renraku-owned docks and warehouses skirting the water-face of the arcology. The VTOL tilted in toward one of the many landing pads.

  Sam could see the landing lights getting closer, but the pad seemed deserted. No official greeting party waited, not even the usual scurrying ground crew. As they neared touchdown, the aircraft gave a slight lurch before steadying itself and settling slowly to the pad.

  No word came from the pilot’s compartment as the passengers waited. The Tanakas pointed out sights to one another through their window overlooking the Sound. Mr. Toragama stowed away his computer to the accompaniment of tinkling ice as Crenshaw mixed herself a last drink. Unwilling to move, Sam sat staring at the still-spinning rotors. A sharp clack resounded in the cabin as the outer hatchway latch turned.

  “About time,” Crenshaw groused.

  The hatch eased open and the gangway rattled into position. The noise level in the cabin suddenly increased as the sound of the Commuter’s idling engines swept in. Smells came in, too, the tang of the ocean permeating the harsh odors of aviation fuel and heated metal and plastic.

  Then all ordinariness died in a thunder of gunshots and automatic weapons fire. Crenshaw dropped her drink and started to reach into her suit jacket but stopped in mid-motion as a massive figure dove through the hatch and rolled quickly to his feet. Bulky with muscle and armor, the intruder was an Ork. The cabin lights glinted off his yellowed tusks and blood-shot eyes, but the blue steel of his HK227 automatic rifle gleamed with cold perfection.

  “Move and die,” the Ork snarled in barely understandable English.

  His words might be garbled, but the raised muzzle of his rifle spoke loud and clear. No one moved. Betty Tanaka began to hiccup softly and Sam saw Jiro held back by fear from reaching out to her.Satisfied that he had cowed them, the Ork moved cautiously into the plane. A swift sidestep took him past the closed door of the pilot compartment. His movement made room in the doorway and two more invaders quickly filled it. The one in the fringed leather duster was a woman. The other, ragged in surplus military gear, was an Amerindian male. Sam barely had time to register all that
before an eerie howling filled the air.

  Frozen with unreasoning fear, Sam stared in horror at the massive shape bounding into the cabin. The huge, hound-like beast shouldered aside the Amerindian to land with a snarl at the feet of the female invader.

  Yellow teeth snapped at her, catching the fringe on the left arm of her coat. She shoved that arm straight into the beast’s mouth, jamming it back into the hinge of the animal’s jaws. The beast backpedaled, seeking to disengage, but the woman’s free hand whipped around to grasp the studded collar around its neck. The hound reared on its hind legs, lifting the woman off the floor.

  Suddenly the animal arched violently as a yellow, sparking glow ran along its collar, the light revealing the Renraku logo etched in the band. Throwing itself away from its antagonist, the beast slammed against the bulkhead, with a yelp of pain, then twisted and bit at itself as though trying to fend off its agony. The animal howled again, but this was not the bone-freezing sound that had paralyzed Sam and the others. Only pain and the animal’s own uncomprehending fear remained. It crashed to the floor and whimpered once as it died. The stench of singed fur was overpowering.

  Had the woman dispatched the beast with magic? Sam couldn’t be sure, never having seen a magician in action, but he could think of no other explanation.

  Hollow-eyed and panting, the woman spoke softly, almost to herself. “Damned barghests. Why don’t they ever go for the muscle first?”

  Weapons sounded outside the aircraft again, filling the cabin with sudden death. The woman threw herself to the cabin floor and the man dodged back against the Commuter’s bulkhead. The Renraku employees were slower to move. Betty Tanaka jerked and tumbled backward as slugs ripped into her. Jiro spun, blood spraying from his shoulder, and crashed into Toragama before the two of them pitched to the floor. Sam dropped behind his seat just as bullets chewed through the padding and light aluminum frame over his head. Crenshaw, out of the line of fire, stood still and eyed the Ork, who also remained standing, saved from the fire by a kink in the bulkhead.

  The male invader made a sudden jump and snatched the hatch handle, tugging it closed. By the almost superhuman speed of the man’s movement, Sam realized it had to be cyberware enhancing his reactions.

  As the woman picked herself up from the floor, her duster gaped open, revealing an athletic body clad in little more than weapon belts and amulets. She cursed softly as one of her feet caught on her scabbard. Sam stared at the weapon it held. Though he had never seen one before, he guessed that this ornate and intricately decorated object had to be a magesword. For the first time in his life, he stood in the presence of a magician. The idea brought cold sweat to his brow.

  This was a most dangerous gang if one of them could perform actual magics.

  “Where’s the pilot?” the woman demanded of the Ork.

  The big ugly jerked his head toward the forward door. “Hiding up dere.”

  “Go get him moving. Those trigger-happy Raku goons aren’t going to wait forever before bringing up the artillery to pry us out of here. We need to get off this synthetic mountain now.”

  The Ork gestured toward the back of the cabin with his gun. “Can’t leave dem here on our ass.”

  “We’ll watch them.”

  “Should geek dem now,” the Ork grumbled around his tusks.

  “No time to waste. Get to the pilot.”

  The Ork snarled, but the woman, who seemed to be the leader of the band, did not budge. Giving in, the Ork readied his weapon and threw open the door. When nothing happened, he slipped into the passageway. His bulk blocked the view, but Sam could hear the faint voice of the craft’s computer as it repeated over and over, “Please signify if you wish engine shutdown.”

  The woman ran her gaze over the carnage left by the short burst of gunfire that had followed her into the Commuter. The stench of death hung. Betty Tanaka lay sprawled across the bench seat, her blood soaking the cushions and splattering the wall and window behind it. Sitting on the floor by her side, oblivious to his own wound, Jiro held his dead wife’s hand and wept. Mr. Toragama was a huddled, lifeless lump in the main aisle.

  “No one has to get hurt. Take your seats and buckle in,” the woman said quietly. When no one moved, she repeated the words in crisp Japanese.

  Sam was amazed. Hadn’t they already been hurt?

  “And keep your hands in sight,” the man added in broken Japanese. He emphasized his point with a slight shake of the Ingram machine gun in his left hand. The one he held in his right remained rock steady and aimed at Crenshaw.

  “We’re hosed real good,” the Ork bellowed from the cockpit. “De flygirl had a window open and took a stray shot. She’s ready for de meat locker.”

  The woman flicked a glance at the man, who nodded and moved to join the Ork. As he passed behind her, she reached under her duster and slid a short-barreled shotgun from a holster.

  Sam tried to watch Crenshaw. The obvious attention the attackers were paying her suddenly lined up with the deference the Red Samurai had shown back in Tokyo. She was likely a special corporate operative, what the screamsheets liked to call a company man. He wondered if she would try something against the reduced odds. The magician looked exhausted, drained from using the powerful spell that killed the barghest. That would surely slow her reactions enough to give the veteran Crenshaw an opening. The invader’s leveled shotgun seemed to be threat enough to restrain Crenshaw, however. She complied with the orders, found a relatively gore-free seat and buckled herself in.

  Sam felt betrayed. Of them all, Crenshaw should have taken the lead. She was trained to deal with thugs like these. Why hadn’t she protected her fellow employees instead of folding in the face of danger? What more could he be expected to do? Resignedly, he pulled Jiro away from his wife’s corpse and into a seat, but the man seemed not to hear Sam’s attempts at soothing phrases.

  Sam was buckling himself in when the Amerindian called from the cockpit. “We’ve got real problems, Sally. This damn thing only has rigger controls.”

  “Told ya we shoulda brought Rabo,” the Ork whined. “He coulda skimmed us out real wiz.”

  “Rabo’s not here,” Sally snapped. “The veetole’s dog-brain will never be able to get us past the patrols.”

  The two male invaders reentered the cabin, dragging the limp form of the pilot.

  “We can use dese suits as hostages or shields,” the Ork suggested with an evil grin, as he dumped the body on top of Mr. Toragama.

  Sally’s only reply was a look of disdain.

  “What about the Elf?” the Amerindian asked. “Could he take us out by remote?”

  “I don’t know,” she said. Taking a small black box from a pocket, she flipped up the screen and pulled out a cord, snapping it into the jack port on a bulkhead intercom panel. She tapped in a code.

  “At your service,” said a voice from the crackling intercom speaker. “Where are you? Your signal is quite poor.”

  “We’re cornered in a veetole, with a handful of Raku employees. Pilot’s dead and the damn ship is rigger only. Can you get into the autopilot and fly us out?”

  “I wish it were otherwise, Sweet Lady, but what you ask I cannot do. I’m a decker, not a rigger. I don’t have the wiring to control the aircraft.

  “I do suggest that you find an alternate means of transportation. And quickly. Their deckers are starting to move now and my position becomes more precarious by the microsecond. I have been able to isolate the communication attempts by the varlets who pursue you, but I fear that central security will soon become aware of the blind spot in their coverage. Even maintaining this communications link is a danger.”

  “There must be something that you can do, hotshot,” the Amerindian insisted.

  “As you have had to abandon the planned route out, there is very little.” The Elf’s faint voice paused. “Perhaps one of the passengers is a rigger.”

  Suddenly, Sam felt the group’s attention focus on him, all eyes on his datajack.


  “What’s your name, boy?” Sally asked.

  “Samuel Verner.”

  “Well, Verner, are you a rigger?” the Amerindian demanded.

  Should he lie? If he did, could the magician read his mind and know? Perhaps he could pretend to have trouble with the aircraft. If he could delay these brigands long enough, Renraku security would catch them. But surely not without a fight. Two people had already died for simply being in the way. Sam shook his head slowly. “It’s a datajack. I’m a researcher.”

  “You ever flown anything?”

  “Gliders. Used to have a Mitsubishi Flutterer.”

  “Great,” moaned the Ork. “A toy pilot. I’d rather trust de dog-brain.”

  From the intercom, the Elf’s faint voice spoke. “Oh thou great lump of flesh, the boy might not be a rigger, but he does have some experience in flying. His input could add the necessary randomness to the autopilot’s rather limited repertoire of behaviors. Even if he is no pilot, it might give you enough edge.”

  “That’s right.” It was the Amerindian who spoke up. “We might have a chance if the Elf could redirect their anti-air and send some of the patrols on the wrong vector.”

  Sally looked thoughtful for the briefest of moments. “Well, Dodger. Can you do that?”

  The intercom crackled softly as the Elf considered the plan. “It will not be easy, given that they are on alert, but I shall endeavor to do as you wish, Fair Lady.”

  “Then it’s time to fly,” she announced. “All right, Verner. Up front.”

  Sam looked to his fellow Renraku employees for support. Jiro’s eyes were locked on the body of his wife, and Crenshaw’s face was wholly noncommittal. As for the dead, they were offering no advice. He unbuckled his seatbelt and stood.

  The cockpit stank as much of blood and feces as the cabin. Trying to ignore the blood that stained the pilot couch, Sam lowered himself into it. The Amerindian slid into the co-pilot’s seat.