Never Deal with a Dragon

by Robert N. Charrette

  Once inside the small room and with the door closed, the noise level dropped. Overhead, a small fan chopped ineffectually at air already thick with the odor of crowded humanity. A harsher, more vile stench oozed from the peeling walls and battered furnishings. Crenshaw crossed the room to put her back to the wall opposite the door. Addison followed, nervously eyeing the occupants.

  One of the quartet of Orks who almost filled half the room did an imitation of the decker’s body language. His companions roared with laughter. Their amusement didn’t touch the two norms in the other half, who sat as far from the Orks as from each other. The one nearer the door was thin, almost cadaverous, with metal gleaming from beneath his shirt sleeves and from the implanted shields over his eyes. The other had no obvious cyberware, and seemed as nervous as Addison. The two norms watched Crenshaw and waited. She waited, too, for the Orks’ laughter to die down.

  “Good evening. I’m Johnson, and this is my associate Mr. Smith. Mr. Smith will be providing Matrix cover and research as necessary. He will also serve as contact point should any of you wish to pass information outside of arranged meetings.”

  The thin man snorted. “Well, well. Shoulda guessed it was you was the Mr. Johnson. I’d heard you’d moved into this burg, and the ad had your style. Thought you’d clawed up the ladder, A.C. Get your ass trimmed or you just sprawling for a thrill, like the rich folks do?”

  “Nice to see you ,too, Ridley,” she lied. She hadn’t liked him when he worked for Mitsuhama and nothing had changed that. But like has nothing to do with it, she reminded herself. It was business and he was good in the shadows. “New arm?”

  Ridley flexed his right arm and stroked the satin-buffed foil sheath that was its skin. “Previously owned. Yak hack tried to geek me with it, but he wasn’t fast enough. I ripped it off to compensate for the trouble he put me to. Nice piece of work, so I kept it.”

  “You fast enough with it?” one of the Orks asked.

  “Try me, Tusker.”

  The Ork snarled and sprang from his chair, drawing a wicked knife from her boot sheath. She got no further because the biggest of the four grabbed her by the collar and slammed her back into his seat.

  “Keep it friendly, Sheila.”

  Sheila said nothing, but her eyes promised Ridley a reckoning.

  “You in charge?” Crenshaw asked the big Ork.

  “Dat’s right, Mr. J. I’m Kham and my guys are de best muscle gang on dis side of Seattle.”

  “Not gonna claim the whole town?” Ridley scoffed.

  “Troof in advertising,” Kham said, which set the other Orks to hooting again.

  “Quiet down,” Crenshaw ordered. She turned to the norm who had still said nothing. “I’m glad you could join us tonight, Mr. Markowitz.”

  “Stuff the fake courtesy, Johnson. Get on with it. The sooner I’m out of here and away from this gutter, the better I like it.”

  “You stuff it, Markowitz,” Ridley said. “I heard about you and the Clemson kidnapping. All very noble, I’m sure, but murder is murder.”

  Markowitz started to speak, then merely shrugged as he turned to Crenshaw again.”Can we get on with it, Johnson?”

  Before she could reply, the door opened to let a squat figure come strutting through. Dressed in studded leathers whose pattern indicated hidden plates of armor, the Dwarf rested his hands on the grips of a matched pair of Ares Predators. One of the Orks whispered, “Greerson,” and the new arrival smiled tightly. He took a step toward the speaker, who scrambled up from his seat and retreated away from the Dwarf. Greerson appropriated the vacant chair, dragged it back to the door, and sat down, leaning the seat back against the pocked wood.

  “You’re late,” Crenshaw said.

  “You down to business yet?” Greerson asked.

  “Just got there.”

  “Then I ain’t late.”

  Crenshaw waited a few moments to reestablish her control. “None of you are green street punks,” she said slowly, “and you all know the score. We’re going to have to put our differences aside until this job is done right and you’re all paid off. Till then, I want teamwork.”

  Greerson eyed the assembled crew with a sneer. “Dump the drek, Johnson. Name the targets and delivery date. If you got enough nuyen, you’ll get what you want. I don’t need any help.”

  “Everyone here has valuable skills, Greerson. Some in areas where your own considerable ability does not reach.” Crenshaw ignored the Dwarf’s glare. She pulled a handful of hardcopy files from her case, and gave them to Addison to pass around. “Mr. Markowitz has already determined that the principal target has returned to Seattle within the past few days. There are pics and pertinent data from his corporate file. Don’t be fooled by Verner’s innocent face. He’s been edging the shadows since he hit town. I don’t know how big his ring is, but he’s definitely got high-powered connections with access to serious muscle. That’s the reason I need a team like this.The only one of his associates that we’ve been able to tag is a local, an Elven decker by the street name of Dodger.”

  “Dodger?” Kham asked.

  “That’s right.”

  “Dis run ain’t against Tsung’s crew, is it?”

  Mention of the notorious shadowrunner triggered unpleasant memories, but Crenshaw kept them locked behind a bland expression. “Not as far as I know. The Elf works with her?”

  “Sometimes.”

  “I suspect that the Elf is operating independently this time.”

  “If he ain’t, me and de guys are out.”

  “Me, too,” Ridley said. “I’m not going up against Tsung and her bunch without magical backup.”

  “Dump them now, Johnson,” Greerson said. “They ain’t got the balls for the job, so I’ll take your whole budget and do it alone.”

  Anticipating an anticipated outburst, Crenshaw spoke loudly and quickly. “You probably could take Verner and Dodger by yourself, Greerson, but the extent of this operation is still unclear. At one point, a dracoform was involved. If it still is, Kham’s crew will, I believe, provide a necessary volume of firepower. If it turns out Kham needs to withdraw because of Sally Tsung’s involvement, I will accept his decision, as long as he gives me enough time to secure replacement firepower.”

  Kham cleared his throat, then drew himself up when he had everyone’s attention. “Me and de guys ain’t weed-eaters. We ain’t afraid of Tsung, see. She and me, we got a working arrangement.”

  “I see,” said Crenshaw. And she did. She saw Kham’s face floating over an H&K 227 in a Renraku-owned Boeing Commuter. She saw that face next to Sally Tsung’s. She remembered Kham now; he had been part of the team that had abducted and abused her. He obviously didn’t recognize her. Or care, if he did. She’d make him care, but settling with Verner came first. Kham would have to wait his turn to pay for the indignities she had suffered. But if she could twist things so that Tsung’s connections turned on one another, she’d be that much closer to settling the score with them, too. “But if the Elf is working alone, you have no reservations about disposing of him?”

  “Naw. Never did liked de smart-mouthed fairy.”

  “And you, Ridley?”

  Ridley folded his arms. “I guess so. But if Tsung is involved...”

  “You do not have personal objections?”

  “No. But the magic...”

  “If we determine significant magically active opposition, I shall arrange for countermeasures.”

  “A good wiz is a lead-filled wiz,” Greerson pronounced. “Best countermeasure I know. Magical superiority through faster firepower.”

  “Greerson makes a good point,” Crenshaw said. “Let’s all keep it in mind. A magician can’t cast a spell if you shoot him first.”

  CHAPTER FORTY

  The Elven decker’s directions had been accurate, even though his description of the final destination was not. Dodger said it was an antique shop, but the sign proclaimed it a pawn shop and offered cash for credsticks and corporate vouchers. Sam
did see the ornately carved cuckoo clock Dodger had said would be in one barred window. The hands were frozen at two o’clock. If this was the place, that was a sign Cog the fixer was in and open for business.

  As Sam entered, he heard no chime and saw no surveillance devices, but was sure they knew he was here. Skirting several islands of junk, he made his way to the back counter where, ensconced at one end and shielded by an actual cash register machine, a wizened old man sat reading last month’s Intelligencer.

  “Excuse me, I saw the clock in the window. Is it for sale?”

  Gray eyes regarded him from under bushy brows and behind old-fashioned spectacles perched precariously on the tip of the man’s nose. “Sold it yesterday. Didn’t you see the tag?”

  “I thought that I might outbid another purchaser.”

  “You need to talk to the owner.”

  “That’s right. I need to talk to the owner.”

  The old man reached under the counter. With a loud snick, a door in the back wall popped ajar. Sam thought he also heard a softer, echoing click from the front door, the sound of a bolt sliding closed. The caution of the fixer’s minion was apt. Those who dwelt in the shadows must take precautions. Remember, you’re one of them now.

  “Go on in,” the man prompted. “Sit down and wait.”

  Sam walked through the door, seeing no other visible way into or out of the bare-walled cubicle of a room. The only piece of furniture was a steel-framed chair fitted with soft, slick cushions. When he sat down, the door closed, apparently of itself, and he heard the lock engage. Sounds from the street had filtered into the shop, but no trace disturbed the quiet of this little room. He waited patiently for five minutes, by his watch. Then he waited another ten impatiently before a voice spoke to him.

  “I do not know your face. Who are you?”

  Sam could not discern the source of the voice, but he was sure it was electronically processed to change its characteristics. The person behind the voice would be none other than Cog.

  “Twist.”

  “Dodger’s friend?”

  “That’s right.”

  The fixer was silent for a moment. “You’re supposed to be dead.”

  In reply, Sam merely shrugged, sure that his disembodied questioner could see the gesture. If the fixer had heard that Sam was dead, perhaps Drake had, too.

  “Do you have proof of who you say you are?”

  Sam shrugged again. “Dodger said you were a good connection.”

  “Now I know you are lying.”

  “Dodger said that you’d say that.”

  A thin chuckle. “Perhaps you are Twist. If so, you have proven remarkably resilient. Perhaps we can do business. What can I do for you until we establish your bona fides?”

  “I need some cash and a place to stay. And I need an identity.”

  “And in exchange?”

  Sam pulled his trade goods from the pocket of his vest and held them up one by one. “An I.D. packet for one Edward Vinson. A credstick tagged to Samiel Voss. A pair of data chips, late of a small genetic research firm just north of here.”

  “The last is a recent acquisition?”

  Sam smiled inwardly at the hint of interest seeping through the modulated words. “Very.”

  “Place them under the chair.”

  “I’m supposed to trust you with it?”

  “Dodger said I was a good connection.”

  “So he did.” To Cog, Sam was a stranger, possibly a corporate plant or just a hustler peddling a sharp deal. The fixer wanted to verify the material, but he offered no surety. Trust could only be built on trust, and someone had to take the first step. Sam couldn’t trust the faceless voice, but his need outweighed caution. He put the chip case and the cards on the floor and slid them under the chair. “Now what?”

  He got no answer. Then realized that was his answer. Leaning to look under his seat, he saw that his goods were gone. He straightened and settled back to wait.

  Lofwyr had supplied the Edward Vinson identity. In giving it up, Sam was throwing away a potentially useful resource. The fictional Vinson had a townhouse in Seattle proper, a comfortable and non-demanding Matrix research slot with Aztechnology, and a System Identification Number that would have allowed Sam easy passage through most of the metroplex. Without that SIN, Sam was barred from some of the places where he hoped to hunt Drake. But with it, Lofwyr would likely be able to monitor everything Sam did within the public Matrix, tracking his use of facilities and observing any financial transactions Sam made using the identity. Until Vinson evaporated, he could open doors, but evaporation was a good possibility after Sam had used Lofwyr’s chip to access Genomics research files. He had done it even though sure the Dragon would object. To punish Sam, Lofwyr might make Edward Vinson vanish, leaving Sam high and dry at some Lone Star checkpoint or corporate security desk.

  Trust and caution at war again.

  The Dragon had helped Sam because he wanted something from Sam. And when Lofwyr had that, then what? A reward of money, safety, teaching, and assistance in finding his sister. Would the Dragon keep his word?

  If Lofwyr were trustworthy, his offer would stand after Sam settled with Drake, whether or not he used the Vinson identity. If Lofwyr trusted him, no problem. If Lofwyr didn’t trust him, the Dragon might consider Sam’s sale of the identity a theft of property. Who could know what a Dragon might think?

  Caution argued that he was better off making it harder for anyone, including Lofwyr, to track him. Caution suggested he was safer if his benefactors did not know his plans and actions. Caution warned him to trust no one but himself. That was why Sam had come to Cog. Caution’s voice was more insistent than trust’s.

  Now waiting here in the quiet little room, he was having second thoughts. Lofwyr had done him no harm. Why was Sam so reluctant to trust the Dragon? Had his experiences with Tessien soured him against all of their breed? Or was he just reacting to the beast’s alien nature? Sam didn’t like to think he could surrender so easily to such prejudice.

  He had been raised to believe that all sentient creatures had souls and that the soul was what separated them from animals. But in his interview with Lofwyr, Sam had sensed a cold ruthlessness, as though humanity were his plaything. Did Dragons believe that only their kind had souls? Or did they even believe in souls at all?

  His father had taught him to judge each person individually, but the elder Verner had never met a Dragon. The United Nations recognized at least three kinds of dracoforms as intelligent beings and thereby entitled to full rights under international law, but that didn’t mean Dragons thought and acted like normal Humans. Who could ever know or understand them?

  A slight hiss from the hidden speaker cut off his ruminations.

  “My apologies for the delay, Twist.”

  Sam mentally scrambled back into his street-wise attitude. “So I am who I say?”

  “Let us say that I do not dispute your claim at this time and that we may do business. Your offerings seem legitimate, though Mr. Vinson is a somewhat transparent construct.”

  Whether or not Lofwyr were trustworthy, Sam doubted he would hand out inferior tools. “You know as well as I do that the I.D. is solid, Cog. But nothing lasts forever, right? You might want to move it along.”

  “I see. That does reduce its value accordingly.”

  Clever, Sam thought. His first gambit to increase profits had failed, but he saw another way to get the same benefit. “What’s your offer?”

  There was a slight hesitation, as though Cog were put off by Sam’s abrupt descent to the bottom line. “Have a look under your chair.”

  Sam’s questing hand found an envelope. Opening the rough plastic seal, he pulled out a resume for one Charley Mitchner, a disability pensioner. The other sheet of paper read “2,000¥,” in typescript. The resume looked good to Sam. Low-profile and totally unremarkable. A Mister Nobody was just what he needed, but the cash offer was too low. “You can do better, Cog. There was more cash on the creds
tick.”

  “I have transaction expenses, Twist.”

  “I have expenses, too, and I need equipment.”

  “Well, why didn’t you say so?”

  In the end, Sam walked out of the pawn shop as Charley Mitchner, former packer for Natural Vat and regular relief claimant on SIN 555-405-6778-9024. A hand-held data reader and a bug scanner weighed down one pocket of his vest. In the other was a box of ammo for the Narcoject and a slip of paper with the address of his new residence, a squat in an old relocation development in western Bellevue near the Redmond Barrens. His pocket bulged with a wad of 3,330 nuyen. He dumped 50 of that on access to the public Matrix to leave a message for Dodger in the prearranged mailbox.

  Dodger leaned on the fire escape railing with a sigh. He didn’t need cybernetic ears or even his Elven hearing to catch the rhythmic sounds and breathy gasps coming from the squat through the open window. The two inside would know that he was waiting. Ghost Who Walks Inside’s auditory enhancements would have picked up Dodger mounting the ladder. The Elf suspected that the street samurai could also monitor the challenges of his tribe’s sentries at either end of the alley.

  The alley was a malodorous, clogged artery in the byways of the Redmond Barrens. If not the worst neighborhood in that decaying section of the Seattle metroplex, it was a prime specimen of moldering urban blight. The grimy brick wall of the neighboring tenement and the refuse-strewn concrete were hardly fit for contemplation. Dodger turned his attention to the mouth of the alley, where the flickering glare of a neon sign cast mad rainbows over the three guards.

  Local residents must find the trio’s warpaint, feathers, and fringed synthleather garments a routine sight, for this turf belonged to the Full Moon Society. Like most of the gangs in the Barrens, they provided soldiers, protection, and what passed for law and order in this part of the corp-forsaken slum. Unlike other gangs and freelancers who affected Indian fashions, the Society members actually had Indian blood. The Full Moon Society was the physical muscle of Ghost Who Walks Inside’s urban tribe.