Shadowrun: Deiable Assets

by Mel Odom

  “Sure they are. They’re not going to kill you ’til they have a good reason. You can keep your personal weapons, but if they put in an appearance, those men will shoot to kill.”

  “If I have to make them appear, I’ll be shooting to kill.”

  Flicker grinned, but the effort wasn’t totally humorous. It, like leaving the keys and the rifle on the dash, was for show. Her eyes were bright and her fingers trembled for a second before she regained control. “Okay, let’s get out. Slowly. With your hands up.”

  Although he didn’t want to go along with the directions because surrender was alien to him and usually only delayed getting dead, Hawke opened the door, then raised his hands above his shoulders and slipped out of the pickup. When nobody opened fire, his next breath was a little more relaxed.

  In the back of the pickup, Professor Fredericks didn’t move. He’d slept most of the day, courtesy of the drug Flicker had given him to keep him unconscious. Neither of them wanted the professor to give into any temptation to call out for help while they were in Caracas. For the moment, the plan was to keep Fredericks alive and with them.

  A male elf wearing black clothing and ruby-lensed wraparound sunglasses, despite the night, stepped forward. His pale blond hair was pulled back in a ponytail that hung past his narrow shoulders. He smiled.

  “Hello, Flicker.” His voice was soft and held what Hawke thought was a Brazilian accent, from somewhere in South America, but not from Caracas. He pulled at the black gloves he wore, thin enough to be another layer of skin.

  “Good evening, Artur,” Flicker replied.

  “It’s been a while.”

  “I’ve kept myself busy.”

  “I saw your run up in Aztlan on the trideo broadcast.” Artur smiled a little more broadly. “Racked up a few nuyen on the bets I laid out. The people I was with don’t know you like I know you. Reminded me of old times.”

  “I don’t know what old times you’re talking about,” Flicker said, but she was smiling.

  Artur chuckled. “You always did know when to keep your mouth shut. That’s one of the things Dorival likes about you.” His eyes cut to the pickup. “Looks like you’ve fallen on some hard times, chica.” His gaze turned to Hawke. “And maybe fallen in with some bad men.”

  “He’s my friend.”

  Artur’s pale blond eyebrows rose behind the ruby lenses. “You don’t claim many of those.”

  “I don’t, so remember that when it comes to him. Now, I’d like to see Dorival, please.”

  “Sure, sure. Put your hands down. You two look like scarecrows or something.” Artur waved at them to follow him as he strode toward the warehouse.

  Gears whined somewhere inside, and the warehouse doors jerked into motion. Tracked grooves ran across the ground. Hawke looked at the massive, heavy gates and realized it would take some serious ordnance to get through them. Despite its battered appearance, the warehouse was a fortress.

  “I’ve got two people in the pickup,” Flicker declared. “Both unconscious.”

  “They’ll be fine. If they wake up, my crew will keep them company. No one will get hurt.”

  Hawke didn’t like leaving Rachel Gordon there because she and her magic were wild cards, but she had the thing in the backpack to protect her. Flicker would have been on her own if he hadn’t accompanied her, less protected than Rachel, and he liked that even less. He followed the two elves into the building.

  “I can get you to the Pueblo Corporate Council. That’s not a problem, though the transfer is not without its difficulties. You say time is a factor. The best I can do is three days. As you know, moving goods and people through these areas is always risky. Some times are just less risky than others. Moving people with as high a profile as the two people you’re traveling with is even more perilous.”

  Dorival sat behind a small, elegant desk that was more of a showpiece than functional. Hawke didn’t know much about furniture, but he’d traveled in Europe, and thought maybe the piece would have fit someplace that specialized in Old World antiques. The desk set off the rest of the room, holding down one end of a Persian rug while the two wingback chairs Flicker and Hawke occupied anchored the other side. To their host’s right, trideo images showed international markets, mediacasts, and front pages of screamsheets.

  Artur and three of his men sat quietly in chairs at the far end of the room.

  The smuggler baron, as Flicker had called him, was also an elf. He seemed older than Artur just because of the way he acted, the timber of his voice, and the way he dressed in a modest-looking, summer weight tan suit that Hawke was willing to bet cost a lot more than appearances led him to believe.

  Dorival’s dark brown hair was parted in the middle and cropped at his jawline on both sides. His pointed ears poked through his locks and the top of the left one was pierced with a gold hoop earring that must have held personal attachment because it was nothing special-looking. His goatee was long enough to have a definite fork shape to it.

  “Time is a factor for us,” Flicker said. “If it’s a matter of nuyen—”

  Dorival held up manicured hands. “Please, Flicker, after everything you and I have done together, I wouldn’t try to squeeze extra out of you for transportation. This is a safety issue. I can get you where you want to go without anyone being the wiser in three days. I’m not going to endanger my record or you by trying to best that when I know it’s not comfortably possible to do so.”

  Flicker thought for a moment, but didn’t confer with Hawke because she didn’t want to appear to defer to him in front of the smuggler. “If we take the three-day deal, how do you plan on getting us there?”

  “Easy enough.” Dorival shrugged. “I own some shipping stock on a freight line that does a lot of business in the Caribbean. An ocean voyage will get you into Havana, and I’ve got air transport from there to Denver.”

  Hawke liked the sound of that. Denver was the Free Range Zone, technically a sovereign state with United Canadian and American States, the Confederation of American States, and the Native American Nations involvement. The sprawl had been a smugglers’ paradise for years, due to its association with the other regions.

  “Denver’s good,” Flicker said.

  “Denver is better than good right now.” Dorival grinned. “Aztlan has been weak there ever since Ghostwalker kicked them out in 2062. That’s as good a buffer zone as you can get from Aztechnology right now.”

  “All right,” Flicker said. “Let’s do that. How soon do we leave?”

  Dorival spread his hands. “The ship sets sail at six in the morning. I’ve taken the liberty of making arrangements for you ahead of time. All you have to do is accept.”

  “We can do that.” Flicker started to get to her feet, but Dorival held up a hand to stay her departure.

  “Tell me about the young woman you have with you. Rachel Gordon.”

  Hawke didn’t move, but mentally prepared himself for a firefight, thinking he needed to take out Artur first because the elf was the most dangerous man in the room. As if guessing what Hawke was thinking, Artur stared back at him, grinning broadly.

  Flicker shook her head. “She’s a package I’m holding for someone.”

  “Maybe I can pay you more for her, and offer you a way to disappear for a while,” Dorival said.

  “The same way you’d sell off cargo you were holding for a client to another client to get a better deal?” Flicker’s voice was flat and her face was impassive.

  Dorival’s face flashed annoyance. “I would never do that.”

  “No, because a client has already bought your services, and those services and your word of honor are the only things you can put up for sale. I remember you telling someone that a few years ago. He didn’t listen, and ended up dead.”

  Frowning, Dorival leaned back in his chair. “A contract should be binding.”

  “It is, and we’re already locked in. We have a code, too.”

  “I understand. Pity. We could have both increas
ed our profit margins.”

  “What do you know about her?”

  Dorival gave Flicker a sad smile. “I’m sorry, but that information is directly from another client, and I am not at liberty to discuss it.”

  As he listened, Hawke wondered if they’d be better off making other arrangements to get back to Santa Fe.

  “You have a client who knows we have the woman?” Flicker asked.

  “No.” Dorival shook his head. “If that were the case, I would be working at cross purposes. I simply have a client who asked me to keep a look out for one Rachel Gordon, in the event she came this way. I don’t have a direct contract with anyone to provide information as to who is looking for her. That client will never know she—or you—were here.”

  He rose and offered his hand and Flicker rose and took it. “Good luck on your trip.”

  “Thank you.” She headed out of the room, with Hawke following.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  When Hawke found Rachel Gordon still asleep in the back seat of the pickup, his stomach muscles untightened a little. He knew he wouldn’t relax any more until he was back in Santa Fe.

  Professor Fredericks was still unconscious as well, though that was expected. He was going to stay more or less comatose for the next three days so he wouldn’t be more of a threat than he already was.

  Four sec men stood near the truck. A lean guy covered in tattooed sigils peered through the window at Rachel. His hard, vulpine face revealed hunger and a trace of fear. Neon tats swam across his scarred features. He held his right hand palm flat against the transplas. A shimmer spread out across the window, but didn’t penetrate the barrier.

  As Hawke neared the truck, he felt an uncomfortable and oppressive uneasiness that he recognized as magic usage. Nothing else ever caused the writhing, whiplike tremors that raced through his heart that he was currently experiencing. His hand dropped to the butt of the Predator on his hip.

  “What are you doing?” he demanded.

  The man ignored the question, concentrating on the sleeping woman. In the next instant, a multi-segmented creature as large as a German shepherd, sheathed in shiny, black armor, with at least ten legs and four leathery wings appeared, floating centimeters above Rachel. As soon as it manifested, a thin, long tail whipped around from behind it and exploded through the window, sending shards of transplas everywhere.

  Yowling in fear, the man stepped back and grabbed his right hand with his left. The black creature crouched protectively above Rachel. Hesitating a moment, Hawke forced himself to keep walking to the truck.

  The mage fell to his knees as blood dripped between his quivering fingers. Flesh dangled from his palm, and two of his fingers hung loosely. He spoke in a harsh language Hawke didn’t recognize, and shimmering light spun and danced across his wounds. The blood flow slowed, and some of the mutilated tissue slowly pulled together.

  Glancing up, tears running from his pain-filled eyes, the mage fixed Hawke with his desperate gaze. “What is that slotting thing?”

  “Dangerous,” Hawke answered. The hair on the back of his neck lifted as he stood less than a meter from the door.

  The creature continued floating over Rachel, its feet resting on her now. Its clawed appendages didn’t leave a mark on her skin. Ducking its wedge-shaped head under one wing, the thing cocked its gaze to watch Hawke with a dead-white pupilless eye.

  Tentatively, Hawke reached for the door, gripped the handle, and tried to think good thoughts. With his hand on the handle, he paused for just a moment, then pulled the release and opened the door.

  The thing opened a cruelly curved beak to reveal a barbed tongue that extended at least fifty centimeters before slipping back into its mouth.

  “Easy,” Hawke said in a soothing voice, not even sure if the thing understood him on any level. “We’re all friends here. It’s all null sheen.”

  Slowly, he slid into the passenger seat, and tried not to wonder if that barbed tongue could penetrate his reinforced skull. He carefully watched Flicker as she scooted behind the wheel because she had no such protection. Glancing over her shoulder, moving slowly, she released a tense breath and closed her eyes for a second. Then she opened them and remained still. “If it hasn’t attacked by now, it’s not going to.”

  Hawke hoped that was true. If it did come after them, he might be able to distract it enough for Flicker to escape, but he had no idea if he’d be able to follow.

  The creature shifted, turning so it could keep both of them in view, as Flicker started the pickup. Wired reflexes online, Hawke kept watch over the thing in the reflection from the windshield. If it tried to attack either of them, he intended to try to stop it. If he couldn’t, then he would try to destroy the artifact.

  The truck blocking their retreat slid back into the alley, opening the street again. Flicker used the rear-view mirrors to back them into the opposite alley, then turned the truck around and accelerated.

  A block from the smuggler’s offices, the creature evaporated, leaving nothing behind. Only then did Hawke realize he was covered in sweat. He took a deep breath and released it.

  “Hungry, omae?” Flicker’s voice sounded only a little strained.

  “Yeah.” The last of their food had disappeared hours ago.

  “I know a place near the harbor where we can get some authentic Brazilian food. I also know another place where we can get Matrix access so you can leave a message for the Johnson about the new timetable without getting us compromised.”

  “Sounds good. Let’s contact Mr. Johnson first. That way we can enjoy the meal.”

  Games by Cabrice was a small shop on the other side of the sprawl from the import/export biz. The neighborhood was low-rent, filled with street skels, hard guys, and joyboys and -girls hanging out on the corners. The street was a twisting, potholed strand between single-story and two-story buildings that operated behind blackout transplas under neon ads.

  Flicker parked two blocks down from the shop and set up watch with her remaining drones while she assembled others out of supplies she’d gotten from Dorival.

  Hawke walked the two blocks with his hands in his coat pockets, which were cut out to allow instant access to the Predators. The street people noticed him, but they read the warning signs that said he was a man on a mission and wouldn’t be screwed with and kept their distance. A couple joytoys of both sexes tried hitting him, but sidled away quickly enough after getting a good look at the expression on his face.

  Although on full alert, Hawke couldn’t help thinking about Rachel Gordon and the creature that had manifested to protect her. He didn’t know enough about magic to know if a mage could track them through whatever it was. That thought was only slightly less unsettling than knowing the thing could apparently pop out of wherever it hung out when it wasn’t on this plane any time it wanted to.

  The fact that Rachel Gordon was still unconscious bothered him a lot, too. He didn’t know if she would survive three more days in the shape she was in. For all he knew, the artifact was living off her life energy, and he’d be delivering a corpse by the time he got back to Santa Fe.

  Of course, whoever was controlling Mr. Johnson might already know that.

  He entered the shop, and a small silver bell over the door dinged once, a thin note that carried throughout the building. Gamer gear—cyberdecks, sim modules stacked with VR experiences and games, AR gloves that allowed the wearer to interact with the Matrix on a more “physical” level, and simrigs all mixed with tech Hawke didn’t recognize—filled shelves and hung from boards on all four sides of the room. Dubstep club music slammed the walls.

  “Hoi, chummer.” The ork clerk was young and relatively svelte for her kind. Make-up blunted the protruding brow and brought out her sea-green eyes, which must have been cybered, because the color was unnatural. She wore her blonde hair in cornrows that made her pointed ears stand out even more. Her shorts and crop top revealed curves and muscle in equal measure.

  Hawke approached the co
unter, noting the observation blisters on the wall behind her. From the way her right hand dropped behind the counter, he knew she was armed, too. He stopped just out of her reach.

  “You know what you’re looking for?” she asked. The light glinted from her fangs. “Or maybe you want a suggestion? Crystal Phage III just got released this week. So did Milky Way Warlord. That one’s a multi-player RPG that allows you to build a galactic empire. Very wiz, in my opinion. Or if you want some simsense encounters, I’ve got a full range of history sensies. If you’re looking for something more playful, I’ve got bootlegs of A Night With Angelina McAdams.” She smiled. “Lots of replay value in that one, I promise.”

  “I was told I could get private access here.”

  The carefree manner dropped from the clerk’s face. “I don’t know you.”

  “I don’t know you either.” Hawke placed an open credstick on the counter. “I was told you provided special services to people who had the right price.”

  She made no move to pick up the credstick. “The price isn’t all that’s required.”

  “The password’s ‘kestrel.’”

  For a moment, the clerk held his gaze, then she nodded and reached for the payment. “I can hook you up.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  Hawke used the simsense rig the clerk provided to make contact with Mr. Johnson. Although his body was riddled with cyberware, the idea of leaving his flesh while he took a joyride through the Matrix left him cold. The simsense rig didn’t provide the complete immersive kind of experience with the settings he used, so he could still see/hear/feel everything going on around him.

  He opened the commlink to the SIN Mr. Johnson had provided, knowing the System Identification Number was a false one. Chances were, they’d have to burn it after this use, and time spent on the connection wouldn’t last long before it turned up as a fake.