Shadowrun 45 - Aftershock

by Jean Rabe, John Helfers (v1. 0) (epub)

  Frag, I didn’t think a monofilament whip could do that much damage. This guy will have to be taken out hard when we find him. The archer too; no need to have K-Tog get beaten up twice in one day. Stun weapons should do the trick, maybe break out those new Fichetti nonlethal systems we got. Unless they have the plants with them, then all bets are off.

  Roland pulled up to Plantech’s security gate, which was manned by four guards instead of the usual pair. He submitted to the retinal scan and full palm ident, knowing that no one, even the CEO, was above these rules. They raised the gate and waved him through.

  Inside, Roland headed straight for the security offices, a room that was off-limits to the rest of Plantech personnel. His eyebrows raised slightly when he saw Morgan, K-Tog and several other guards clustered around a short woman with a thick braid of long, salt-and-pepper hair. She was dressed in a white lab coat and, from Roland’s vantage point, appeared to be waving a short wand around at the men.

  Roland cleared his throat. “I trust that all of you have a very good reason to he standing here instead of working at your stations!” He stalked toward the group, most of the guards scattering like Barrens roaches under a microwave light.

  Morgan straightened up and gazed past the diminutive scientist’s shoulder, causing her to turn around.

  “Morgan, you know that no one besides security is allowed in this room except on my say-so.” Roland rested his hands on his hips and waited for an answer, but the one he got was a surprise.

  “Calm yourself, Commander Ators, I requested access.” The woman’s voice was crisp, with more than a hint of a German accent. “My son created this little device, and when I heard of our company’s problem, I thought it might be able to help you.”

  She stepped aside to reveal a small box with a handle on the top that looked for all the world like an ancient Geiger counter. Roland didn’t move, except to raise one eyebrow. “And I suppose you’re going to help us solve the theft with that? Your son’s toy?”

  The corner of the woman’s mouth quirked up in a crooked smile. “I hadn’t mentioned yet that my son is currently studying at a Yamatetsu entrance college. He’s thirteen years old. His expertise runs more to the mechanical. This is a project he created in the fourth grade. It utilizes some old micro-cantilever TNT sensors that he modified to pick up anything they get a sample of. It’s several million times more sensitive than the best cyber-olfactory suite, and can pick up thirty picograms of any substance, which, as I’m sure you know, is a very, very small amount.”

  “All right, let’s say I sign on to this possible wild rat chase. What will you be tracking?”

  “Commander, several of the stolen plants contain pollen for reproduction. A few of them are wind-pollinated, meaning they leave a trail behind them. We have samples of all of the plant pollens. For example, this one is from the Escu-lenta Mays hybrid, our corn-manioc blend.”

  She inserted a small chip into a reader at the side of the box, picked it up and walked to the door. “Follow me, if you please.”

  Roland nodded to Morgan and led the other man out of the security room, following the scientist to the elevator. In front of the one they knew the thieves had used, a small light began to flash on the box. She opened the door and stepped inside. The light grew brighter.

  “Going down.” Roland and Morgan crammed themselves into the elevator as the doors began to close. The scientist hit the button for the garage level, the light blinking all the while. When the doors opened, she followed the invisible trail to the space where Roland knew the runners’ van had been.

  “Not bad, but as you can see, they took wheels out of here,” Morgan commented.

  The scientist’s mouth quirked again, and she swung the wand around, heading toward the exit. “The signal is a bit fainter here, but it still can be picked up. Now, out on the street, that may be a different story given the traffic and weather conditions, but unless you have a better idea . .

  Roland bowed. “I apologize for my earlier reaction, madam. In fact, you have me at a disadvantage. I do not even know your name.” He could have gotten it from the Plantech database, but in some ways Roland was still a gentleman at heart.

  “Biogeneticist Lilith Chalmers.” The older woman regarded the sec chief. “What happens now?”

  “Now—” Roland paused while he turned to Morgan and subvocalized: “Scramble Teams One and Two in heavy gear and two transports to garage level three immediately.” He turned back to the diminutive scientist. “If you please, you will accompany us as we go hunting.”

  12

  11:47:19 a.m.

  For several seconds, the only sound heard in the room was breath—the light, feathery, almost imperceptible purrs from Sindje and Khase; the angry wheezing from Max; the even angrier huffing coming from Hood that practically drowned them all out. For several moments they faced off, the low table filled with plants between them.

  Then the furnace kicked on again, with its faint hiss promising to add to the humidity and misery.

  It was Khase who tried to diffuse the situation. He spread his hands in a gesture of peace and gave a slight bow to Hood. “All this negative energy, it can’t be good for the plants, neh?”

  Hood’s eyes darkened even more for a moment, then seemed to return to normal. “The mission was more dangerous than expected, I will concur. Therefore, the payment amount agreed upon was less than satisfactory.” Max and the elves raised their eyebrows; the concession was uncharacteristic of the troll. “However . . .” His heavy brow creased. “Max was also out of line with her little side negotiation. If she—if any of you—pulls a back door deal like that again, I won’t be working with you. With none of you, understand? If you don’t like the way I do business, just say the word and you’ll all be free to find runs on your own.”

  Sindje opened her mouth, but a glare from Hood kept her quiet.

  “You could have talked to me about wanting more nuyen. I wouldn’t have had a problem with going to the Johnson for more . . . given the circumstances. But it was my run, and my call. You getting the pay upped, great. Double the fee, great. Me finding out about it after the fact, that’s not right, Max, and you know it. Not right at all. It’s pure deep and ugly drek.”

  Max shook her dreads, the metal tabs on the wires clacking together in denial. “Not right? Getting more nuyen for riskin’ our hoops for a bit of foliage isn’t right? You can say that, Hood. Look where you’re living. You can say anything isn’t right. You didn’t lose a Roadmaster.”

  “I’m not going to say it again. If anything like this happens again—if any of you do something like this again-— we’re done.” Hood stooped and adjusted a plant on the table so its vine wouldn’t hang to the floor where it could be stepped on. “And, yeah, I’m comfortable, Max. And, yeah, Khase, maybe I don’t need the nuyen from this gig. So I tell you what—I’ll donate my share to the lot of you . . . since you all seem to be so hard up.”

  Hood picked up a plant from the center of the table and carried it to the kitchen island. “When’s the drop, Max? And where? I figure you’ve got that all worked out with the Johnson.”

  “It’s at four, so we’ve still got a few hours to kill.” Max muttered the address, an ethnic neighborhood across town. Then she returned to the roof with Sindje and Khase, where the cool air would dry the sweat off their faces.

  Hood was oblivious to the trio’s departure. He forced down the rest of his anger with another package of cookies, a block of cojack cheese and a jug of peach nectar. He sensed that he was on the edge of some great discovery, feeling anxious, feeling like a thousand gnats were dancing on his warty hide. Some piece of knowledge was just beyond his grasp.

  The ring on the drekking merry-go-round, he mused. And I have to get it.

  “What’s this?”

  The plant from the table he’d just pulled, the one that resembled a ti from the tropics. Pronounced “tea,” Hood knew they were thought to bring good luck and long life, true romance to the
very fortunate. Hardy, they could grow indoors or out—though not outside in Seattle’s chilly fall and winter climes—and thrive in sun or shade. In decades past people in the islands placed it just to the left of the entrance to their homes in an effort to ward off evil spirits. Hood made a mental note to ask Sindje if the plant could indeed do that. The root could be made into an alcoholic drink, the stem ground up and used in candy. Above all of that, it was said to have medicinal value.

  “Medicine.” He returned to the living room and gave the plants another exhaustive study. The largest was three-quarters of a meter tall, and he knew that a full-grown ti could reach two meters. These plants were all “babies,” and most of them could be used in various medicines. “Interesting.”

  He returned to the kitchen and brought his face down to the tropical plant. It didn’t just resemble a ti plant, it was a ti plant. But it was also more than that. Why hadn’t he noticed that it was special when he first ogled the lot of them? He admitted that he’d been so focused on the purple-green vine and the golden pothos look-alike, that this beauty had escaped him.

  The leaves on the ti were larger and thicker than the other two plants, so he could better manipulate them with limited risk. Too, the stems were suppler and bent farther without bruising or breaking. The potting soil mix was different, the fertilizer crystals glabrous. And the mix smelled—

  “Metallic.” He tasted the dirt to confirm. “Definitely metallic.”

  “Just what is . . . by the Green Mother.” He let out a breath so intense it caused all the leaves to quiver. His eyes opened wide, like a child with a pile of birthday presents in front of him.

  “Incredible. Fiber-optic veins.” He looked around the corner of the kitchen, wondering if the others heard him and not seeing any of them. “Wonderful. Now where did they go?” Not far, he knew. There was the drop in a few hours—no, less, since they had to make a stop along the way now. A digital chronometer on the stove told him he’d spent a half hour studying this plant.

  “So this one’s been bioengineered. But to what purpose?”

  If he had a datajack like Max—and countless other tech junkies—he could jack in and delve into the collected wisdom stored in bank upon bank of horticultural research. He could consult biologists in universities throughout the world. He wouldn’t have to rely on the memories of his own studies. And if he had chips and wires embedded in his flesh, like the fiber optics were embedded in these plants, he could better smell them, better see them, perhaps run an analysis as if he were a walking laboratory. For a single moment, he regretted not using some of his nuyen on enhancements. The Green Mother knew Max had likely spent every last cred, and then some, on bioware and whatnot . . . when she hadn’t been spending it on Beetles. She was a fraggin’ cyborg, no doubt, spending too much time in the matrix for her own good.

  “Too hard on her, maybe.” But then Hood pushed all his regrets aside. I don’t need chips and wires. My brains, my skills, my arm, my aim. My own flesh and blood, not some techno-whiz’s cyberware fabrication. Nuyen’s better spent on things that matter.

  Another half hour melted away as Hood carefully examined all three plants, finding fiber optic veins coursing through them to the very tips of their smallest leaves. “This had to have been done when they were seedlings, some kind of cellular graft or manipulation. Maybe they introduced the tech in an embryonic form, to sprout and grow with the plant itself. Amazing. Still ... to what purpose?” He took four cuttings of the ti and added them to his others. Then he carried the salt-glazed pot into the bedroom, past a large window that provided excellent light for a dwarf acacia. He opened his walk-in closet, only half of which was filled with clothes. The rest contained plants under a grow-light, cuttings he’d made from a visit to the Japanese gardens in Portland. He arranged these new cuttings so they couldn’t easily be seen. He didn't want the elves and Max to know just how many cuttings he’d made—not that it was any of their business.

  “So you didn’t find anything juicy about the Johnson?” Sindje had asked Max the same question three different times since they’d come up to the roof. The elves exchanged worried glances.

  The wind was colder than it normally was for this time of year—especially given that the sun was out and reflecting harshly on buildings that appeared to be made entirely of glass. An architect’s palette, the skyline of Seattle, Sindje had said. A nightmare to more refined senses, Khase had corrected.

  “Vut, vut, vut. Nothing, nothing, nothing.” Max was alternately thinking about that massaging chair and about that troll-sized spa that would feel so good. Maybe the troll’s onto something with a pad like that, she thought. Maybe I shouldn’t be downloading every nuyen I make right into my own body. But right now, the greenhouse-that-was-Hood’s-condo was stifling. She shook her head, returning to the conversation at hand. “Not much about Hood, just some scattered reports of a troll runner with a bow on some high-end jobs. Our contacts are pretty much useless on all of this.”

  Khase strolled along the edge of the roof like it was a tightrope, hands in his pockets, paying no attention to how narrow the ledge was or how high up he was. He watched Sindje as he went; this was his eleventh circuit of the large building. She sat next to Max in the center of the roof, where the housing for the elevator and stairwell offered a little shelter from the chill breeze.

  “An omen, sister, this wind?”

  Sindje shrugged.

  “An omen of this curdled ‘milk run?’ Or perhaps just a hint that winter will be harsh?” He walked on his hands now, then his fingertips.

  “Kichigaijimata! Doesn’t he ever get tired?” Max stuffed a fist in her mouth in a failed attempt to stifle a yawn. “Been up going on twenty-four hours.”

  Sindje yawned, too. “Hood’s bed looks real inviting, neh? If it wasn’t so warm in there, I might have tried to grab a little shut-eye. I think he’s got the heat cranked up so high just to keep us out.”

  The ork raised an eyebrow. “It is hotter down there than I remember Plantech’s greenhouse being. In fact ...” A trilling in her pocket stopped her. She retrieved the earpiece and opened the connection, thinking it might be the Johnson. It wasn’t. “1 done told you that Hood’s busy.” It was the same man who had called earlier looking for the troll. “And he’s going out, like I told you before . . .

  Now . . . He’s going out now, so you’re out of luck . . . How long?” Max sputtered. “A while . . . He’s going to be out a while . . . And, yes, I’m going out with him . . . What’s it to you? ... A while, I said . . . He’s going out for a while ... I don’t know for how long . . . Hours, mebbe . . . Probably . . . Didn’t you hear me the first time you called?” She severed the connection. “Drekkin’ stupid trolls . . . Had to be a troll, voice like an old capo on serious ’roids.”

  Sindje seemed to be studying the toes of her slippers. “You could try again, you know, to get something on the Johnson and Hood.”

  “For twelve percent of our double-pay? The idea’s appealing, keebler, but I don’t got the time anymore. Spent my time talking to the Johnson to up our pay. And drek on Hood for getting bent about it.”

  “Speaking of time . . Khase vaulted off the ledge, flipping twice before landing crouched on the balls of his feet. “We’re a handful of hours away from the drop, and no wheels to carry the plants. I’d like to know that we won’t be carrying pots in our hands when we go to meet the Johnson.”

  Max snarled, getting an instant picture of the truck towing what was left of her van out of the parking garage. “Frag, frag, frag.”

  “We could rent a limo,” Max suggested. “After all, you probably have the nuyen to cover it.” The ork was chest-to-chest with the troll, looking up into his dark eyes. “Because we ain’t got a way to get to the drop, Hood. And I don’t think the light rail is a good idea.” She waved a fist toward the plants Sindje and Khase were arranging on the carts.

  “It’s state-of-the-art transportation, the rail. And part of it’s historic.” Hood took
a step back and glowered down at the ork. “A lot of folks’ taxes went to pay for that system.” Sindje frowned. “Drekkin’ funny, Hood. A lot of folks also ride it every hour of every day.”

  Hood grabbed a keycard and nodded to the other three. “Let’s take all of this to the garage and get going. I’ve already got us a ride.”

  3:27:50 p.m.

  The elves and Hood loaded the plants into the back of a Ford-Canada Bison, a gleaming black RV that was at least ten years old, judging by the model style, but looked as if it could have come straight off a lot. It was a little larger than Max’s Roadmaster, with a better suspension, judging how the plants and the elves didn’t make the rear dip a hair’s breadth.

  “Three times as much as my van, that’s what this cost.” Max couldn’t take her eyes off the gleaming machine.

  “When it was new.” The troll pulled a handkerchief out of his breast pocket, blew on a smudge above the fender and gently wiped it off.

  “So why didn’t we take this on the plant-grab? Why my ride? Why ruin my ride?” Max was staring at the spot where her van had been, the only hint of its passing being a patch of oil that hadn’t yet been cleaned up. “This’s bigger, would’ve been better. Could’ve ruined this instead of mine.”

  Hood wiped at another smudge and stared at his bumpy reflection in the mirrorlike finish. “This is more noticeable. And a model in this shape would cost too much to replace.”

  “I’m driving.” Without waiting for an answer, Max got behind the wheel. The leather upholstery was easy to slide across. It smelled new inside, the result of an air-freshener poised on the dash. She studied the dials and levers and made a few adjustments so she sat higher and could easily reach the overlarge peddles. The forward seating and wraparound windshield made her feel like she was in a fixed-wing cockpit. Max took another deep breath, breathing in the alluring, indefinable scent of major nuyen dropped on the RV.