Shadows Down Under: Shadowrun, #8

by Jean Rabe

  “List? He told you he had a kill list?”

  “Yeah.”

  “He said you weren’t on his list.”

  “Yeah. Whatever that meant. I was glad I wasn’t on it. I still got me some years left. I don’t need to be on nobody’s list. I didn’t think to tell the elf lumper about the list.”

  “Thanks, Stella.” Ninn glanced up, seeing a dwarf peering over the edge of the bridge, telescope fixed to his face. “C’mon Barega.” She started up the hill.

  “Sorry about your brother,” Stella called. “And next time you come with questions, bring me something to eat, or some pressies all wrapped up pretty.”

  Ninn was tempted to ditch the raincoat—the day was that warm and rain looked blessedly out of the equation. But then she’d have no place to put Mordred, and she wasn’t about to pass the gun back to Barega, and there was thse one remaining opal in the raincoat. Frag, but she should have bought a glittery outfit that had pockets. What was she thinking? She hadn’t been thinking all that hard, had she? Just needed something to wear that fit the tattoos, her need to hide in plain sight and look one-eighty different than she usually did. The raincoat hung loose and when they passed by a big window, she saw her shimmering purple reflection. Benzo didn’t appear in it, but he was at her heels.

  “Hooker. Meh.”

  “Happy Hooker, 1975, Lynn Redgrave. First of three films—”

  She didn’t turn off the smartlink, she just thrust his running commentary to the back of her mind, and in so doing realized she hadn’t used her encephalon to record any of the conversations on the bridge, hadn’t used her cybereye to capture any images. Ninn laughed at going old old old school.

  “You are happy!” Mordred hadn’t realized what she was laughing about. “Happy Hooker Goes Hollywood, 1980, Adam Batman West.”

  The gun talked about the screenplay writer, and again she let the words dissolve in her mind.

  She didn’t get as much nuyen for the opal as she’d have liked, and the broker made a jab at her: “Wot? Some sot gave you this for keeping ’im company last night, doin’ the naughty?” But it was enough to buy her and Barega admission to the Sydney Aquarium, with two hundred left over on a credstick.

  “It’s probably the biggest one in the world,” she told Barega. Remembering she had local facts stored on her encephalon, Ninn called up the aquarium. “The darling of Darling Harbour. A thousand different species, eighteen thousand creatures in ten million liters of water. Two dozen sections…swamps to rivers to—”

  She noticed Barega was staring at the Sydney Opera House in the distance. Scaffolding on one side, drones buzzing around, probably doing repairs from the storm.

  “I wonder if Adoni could have performed there? Adoni had a perfect voice.”

  Ninn realized the Aborigine wasn’t really talking to her. She paid the admission, and they went inside, Benzo heeling. With the pollution from the city blocked, it smelled good; a tinge of saltwater, a little perfume from some of the visitors.

  They walked through the Platypus, Rivers, and Billabongs exhibit and were coming to the Bay of Rays when she spotted Draye and two other AISE officers talking to someone who looked like she was in charge. Edging closer, Ninn kicked on her inscriber and recorded while Barega pressed his face against a tank of barramundi—sea bass.

  “We are all visitors to this time, this place,” Barega said. “We are just passing through. Our purpose here is to observe, to learn, to grow, to love…and then we return home.”

  “Nice,” Ninn said. “Dr. Tarr said that very thing.”

  “It’s an old quote.” Mordred intruded. “One that’s hung around this country for well more than a century, Keebs. It’s an Aboriginal saying. Thought you would’ve memorized that in school.”

  “Chicago,” she said.

  “Yeah, we should go there, Keebs. Easy to get me through customs. Your new pet might be a problem, though.”

  She drifted closer to the AISE officers, one of who mentioned a “suspect in custody.” Draye met her gaze and motioned her away. “AISE business, girl. Move on.”

  “The joygirl bit’s effective,” Mordred said. “He didn’t recognize you.”

  No, he hadn’t. And she’d been only an arm’s length away. Ninn was pleased with the sparkly duds and nanite tattoos. She would indeed rely on disguises in the future. She turned a corner by the sea bass tank and pressed her back up against it, registering the delightful cool smoothness against her palms, and continued recording the conversation. She noticed Benzo clinging to the shadows, all his parts pressed up to a wall and practically invisible.

  Draye was speaking. “Sydney Central took the suspect in about two hours ago. We’re certain he’s the one who killed your employees.”

  “Who?” The woman’s voice was reedy. “Who’s your suspect?”

  “He has to be formally charged, of course. That’ll come tonight, maybe tomorrow morning, and then we’ll release it. No one you’d know. No one from anywhere around here. But I can tell you he’s a dockworker from an Asian freighter, appears he’s from Singapore.”

  “How did you find the man?”

  “Persistence. Been talking to people on the bridge and located a couple of witnesses who’d been afraid to talk. They gave us a good description of him. One actually watched one of your guards get slashed, managed to get a picture of the doer…a cybered ork. We used the picture, found him on the docks. We had to use stunners to take him down.”

  Ninn scowled; she’d asked plenty of people on the bridge plenty of questions, and not one had given her that tidbit. Maybe the joygirl outfit wasn’t such a good idea after all. Maybe the bridge people only talked to lumpers and bags of fruit.

  “Freighter was in port twenty-one days ago.”

  “When my security guards were killed,” the woman said. “And Dr. Elliott. It fits. Thank God it’s over. It is over, isn’t it? All of it?”

  “Yes, ma’am. The freighter was in port other times that match the killings in the Cross. We’re thinking he killed around the docks, maybe got some homeless before or after your security guards, then moved deeper into the city when we stepped up patrols around the harbor. So we’re pegging him as the Cross Slayer. Fortunately, the freighter was still in port this morning, was just getting ready to pull out when we grabbed our man. We were lucky. Hell, this guy might have been killing people in ports all around the world.”

  Ninn heard the woman let out a breath of relief.

  “Caught him with a heater, too,” Draye continued. “Had the murder weapon on him.”

  “Guess we’re done, eh, Keebs? Guess you can hang it up and look for more work. Gotta get some nuyen and a roof over your and Benzo’s heads.”

  “B-E-N-Z-O.”

  “No,” she whispered. “We’re not done yet. Cybered ork? That wasn’t what I saw. This ain’t sitting right.”

  Ninn was glad the aquarium was reasonably busy; the click of visitors’ shoes, their ooohs and ahhhhhs covering up her hushed, one-sided conversation with the gun. Even Barega didn’t hear her. He was still mesmerized by the barramundi. “I think Draye was thorough. Just not thorough enough. I think he’s too quick to close this.”

  “Spill, I say.”

  “Why would an ork from Singapore have a kill list that included security guards and female impersonators?”

  “That’s if you believe the line Stinky Stella doled out. If you believe the whole ‘list’ part at all. Kill List, 2011, Neil Maskell, Harry Simpson as Sam.”

  “I do believe her, about the list. And I know it wasn’t a cybered ork.” Once upon a time Ninn was a good cop in Chicago, was on her way to getting the gold detective shield before the fire changed her course. She bulldogged cases. She could bulldog this for Cadi.

  Ninn tapped Barega on the shoulder.

  “C’mon,” she said. “We’re going to the café for something tasty and no doubt bad for us. Then maybe we can find an empty office.”

  He raised an eyebrow.

 
“And if we can’t, we’ll find a closet until this place closes. Only got about two hours for that to happen because we’d spent so long with the bridge people.” Maybe the timing hadn’t worked out so bad. “Yeah, we’ll sit in a closet if we have to.”

  “Because something’s not sitting right,” Mordred said. “Sitting Right, 1946, educational film on posture.”

  Ninn stopped herself from disconnecting the smartasslink.

  Nineteen

  A Straight Right

  It wasn’t a closet, it was an access tunnel, and she and Barega crept out of it a half-hour after closing time. She found an assistant administrator’s office by accident, and settled at the computer, posting Barega at the door. There was a video feed, but it was easy to disable; that might make someone from maintenance or a security guard come looking eventually, but she didn’t need long. She and Barega would be gone before company arrived.

  The system was password protected and had a retina scanner, but it wasn’t so defiant that she couldn’t wrestle her way in employing a technique Talon had taught her. An older system like this was pretty easy, even for her. God, but she shouldn’t have let him back in her life—he’d still be breathing and sheltered under the bridge with Stinky Stella. An awful way to die, that fire.

  What was she looking for? Why even mess with the aquarium files? Barega had asked that, too, and she hadn’t answered. She didn’t know, she just wanted to take a look—felt compelled to, and knew she couldn’t ask for AISE records—not with her in their crosshairs for yesterday’s arson. Actually, she was probably at the top of their Most Wanted list now, since they thought they had the Cross Slayer locked up.

  What was she looking for? Something. Because something wasn’t sitting right; and that proverbial sixth sense kept twanging—maybe it was the koradji in her, if she really was all booga-booga—that was urging her to dig. But dig where? Here? Go beat the pavement? She called up employee records, getting the names of the slain security guards and the biologist by the most recent survivor benefit payout information, finding no common denominator other than that the guards were on the same shift—different ages, backgrounds, residences, and years employed—and stuffing the tidbits into her encephalon.

  She scanned the other directories…budgets, news, promotion, livestock, food inventory, ichthyologist schedules, and upcoming education seminars. All dead ends. We should leave…

  A light on the monitor flashed, probably a reverse video feed, someone watching her. One more quick skim through. Nothing. Nothing. Noth—

  “Siland…” She spotted his name as she closed out a file. Closed it too soon. What had she been looking at? What file? Accessing her encephalon with its microprocessor, she looked through the aquarium directory again. His name came up under financials…though that shouldn’t have surprised her. When she’d met with him in his office above Cadigal’s, he’d said he owned a lot of things. The Sydney Aquarium apparently was one of them. According to the records, he’d been the major investor when the city sold it, then three years past he bought out the other owners, leaving himself solely in charge. No wonder Siland was interested in the Cross Slayer—the thug had geeked the doc’s favorite singer and four of his employees.

  Small world, indeed.

  She remembered Siland’s office, the photograph with him standing in front of the aquarium. Must be nice to have so much nuyen you can buy one of the biggest saltwater galleries in the world. How rich was he? And no wonder he’d offered to pay her if she solved the crime, he could afford it…too bad. She could have used the nuyen; she was going to need a lot of it now that all she owned was Mordred and a skimpy joygirl outfit. Without cred, she’d be homeless and maybe living under the bridge next to Stinky Stella, swapping Talon stories. She’d need lots and lots of nuyen if she couldn’t clear her name and had to flee Australia.

  “What’s this?” The board of directors of the aquarium had merged with the board of the Sydney Zoo, of which Siland was also a shareholder. The slain biologist had worked for both the zoo and the aquarium, spearheading a program called Renaixement…whatever the hell that was. Apparently the zoo had also been privatized some years back when city coffers were running on empty. Unfortunately, the databases weren’t wholly connected. A trip to the zoo might be next on the list.

  Renaixement…she’d heard the word before. Where?

  “Moses on a moped,” she whispered. The Moon Corporation was listed as a significant contributor to the aquarium—and Elijah Moon, its owner, was the major shareholder in the zoo. The “livestock” file showed shipments of sea mammals to the Moon Corporation for “Renaixement Therapy.” Maybe the zoo was shipping, too.

  “So this Moon is buying research animals, right? I mean, you own a zoo, you can find a way to siphon off some of the critters.” A practice publicly illegal because of animal rights laws, but certainly embraced in the shadows.

  “What you thinking, Keebs?”

  “I’m not, Mordred. If I was thinking, I wouldn’t be sitting here.” She skimmed another file. “Interesting, the sporadic animal shipments.” But it was more the fodder for news reporters and animal rights champions. Nothing to ease her “not sitting right” feeling. So she’d cooled her heels in an access tunnel for wala-lang, and her sixth sense had yielded ekkert.

  “And we’re off,” she told Barega.

  “Now where to?” The Aborigine had been nose-to-nose with Benzo, who was wagging his tail.

  Someplace where I can lean my back against a cool wall and pop a slip, take the edge off, stop feeling itchy. Aloud, she said: “Someplace where we can find out about the Asian freighter and the cybered ork they took off it. ’Cause I’m not sure he’s the guy. But there might be clues there. So probably the docks. Can’t go to Sydney Central. Don’t think they’ve a prayer of recognizing me, but they’re certainly not gonna share any information with someone looking like little joyful me. Hope your feet are rested. We’re probably going to the zoo, too. Hell, maybe we’ll go to the zoo first. It’s just across the harbor. Your feet?”

  “Rested enough. I’ve not been to the zoo. Is it open at night?”

  “Maybe to us. So let’s—” Ninn opened the office door and saw a heavy semi-automatic pistol aimed dead center to her chest.

  “Don’t move,” the gun holder said.

  It was an impressive gun; she’d used one with Lone Star in Chicago. The IZOM HP-49B was favored by military, police, and security. Smooth double-action, tactical flashlight, the upgraded caliber showed it would pack more punch than Mordred. Real impressive.

  Security had arrived faster than she’d expected.

  “Hands up, both of you.”

  Barega complied. Ninn was slow to copy him; she was listening, wanting to know if there were more guards out in the hall. Benzo clung to her ankles.

  “Keebs, we can take him. Bring me out. Bam and he’s down and we’re out of here. Bam. Bam. Bam. He’s alone, by the way, not picking up anyone else.”

  Probably wasn’t the regular office feed she’d cut that had lured him. No doubt it was her prying into computer records, that red light she’d noticed. She didn’t hear anyone else out there. Maybe Mordred was right; this guy was the only soul who knew about her trespassing. She shouldn’t hurt him. At least not too badly.

  “What were you doing in there?” The security guard was human with cybereyes that glimmered an unnatural shade of violet. He wore an earpiece with a comm extension lead. Someone was listening to this.

  “Looking for the ladies dunny. I need to powder my face.” Ninn knew it wasn’t a convincing lie, but it was the first thing she thought of. She tried another one. “Looking for a place I could be alone with my…friend.” She winked and pointed at Barega.

  The guard’s raised lip showed he hadn’t bought it. “Trespassers in Hannah Granger’s office,” he said into the lead. “I got her. A joygirl and her handler, a goose and a gander, stealing something. They were on the computer. Any lumpers still around? Or you need to call them?”r />
  “Oh, you don’t need to call anyone—” As she spoke, Ninn stepped forward, shoving the pistol aside with a sweep block and delivering a straight right into his chest, discovering he had no protective vest. Benzo scampered out of the way. As much power as she put behind the punch, she thought she might have cracked his sternum. He dropped the impressive gun but stayed on his feet, air escaping from his lungs in a great, surprised whoosh. She pressed her attack, a straight left, then three more jabs, this time to his stomach. His shoulders hunched and he groaned. Still didn’t fall, though; must have a little muscle augmentation or bone lacing or both.

  She hadn’t wanted to hurt him, and now there was no avoiding that. She’d make sure not to kill him, though. He was just doing his job.

  There were basically four boxing styles, according to her instructor in Chicago: The out-boxer, who danced and kept a distance; the slugger…the brawler that relied on brute strength and classic moves; the boxer-puncher, a hybrid style her instructor favored; and the swarmer, who crowded the opponent with constant pressure.

  In the close confines of the hallway, she used the last approach, bobbing and weaving right in front of him, reaching up and grabbing his headset and flinging it away, hearing the voice of whoever was on the other end of the comm saying lumpers were still in the director’s office and were on the way.

  “Don’t need more company,” Ninn growled. “Just need out of here.”

  The security guard gathered himself and tried to counter Ninn’s attack, but she retained the upper hand. She hammered at him again, in the back of her mind picturing the ring where she trained, her instructor lecturing that swarmers have great stamina and conditioning, but short careers. The guard kicked at her and drove his elbow up, catching her on the chin. But it was only a glancing blow, and she evaded his next swing and followed through with a series of hooks and uppercuts, all her strength behind them.

  “Oh my,” Barega said. “Don’t hurt him, Nininiru.”