Shadowrun 45 - Aftershock

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

  “My employer wished me to express his gratitude for agreeing to assist us on such short notice,” As he said this, Roland bowed in his seat.

  The shaman acknowledged his deference with a curt nod as he broke the seal and unscrewed the cap, breathing in the heady aroma that wafted from the bottle. Roland snatched three small snifters from a rack built into the door and extended one to Hiyakawa, managing to deliver the glass and take the cap without touching the shaman. The Japanese man nodded again, longer this time, and poured the scotch.

  Roland glanced at Lilith, who smiled and shook her head. “Domo arigato, Hiyakawa-san, but I am afraid that I must decline. Alcohol does not agree with me, unfortunately.”

  Unfortunate, indeed, Roland thought, letting the amber liquid settle in his glass as he leaned back again, not daring to try it just yet. Hiyakawa sipped appreciatively and sat back’as well, swirling his glass around in deft, economical movements.

  “We’re coming up on Washington Street now.” Morgan spun the wheel and the Nightsky floated around the corner, the epitome of smooth grace. “Cameras in the area show the thieves’ Roadmaster turning into an alley somewhere around here.”

  Roland regarded Hiyakawa. “I don’t suppose that spirit is still around here, is it?”

  “Unfortunately, no, he had fulfilled his duty, and has discorporated again.”

  “Start cruising, and I’ll see if we get a hit.” The biogeneticist leaned over the sniffer and waited. Roland nodded to Morgan, who turned the limousine down the first alley and slowly drove down it, alert for anyone who might be foolish enough to make a move on the car.

  Roland took a swallow of the Glenlivet, feeling the warm, smoky burn slide down his throat. Then he set the glass in a small recess in the armrest, promising himself that he would finish it only if they got a solid lead on the runners. All three of them waited silently, Hiyakawa barely concealing his distaste for their surroundings as the Nightsky traversed the alleyways, up one and back down another.

  A flash of light from the scanner lit the interior of the limo. Then another. Lilith looked up, a smile on her face. “Got it. Keep going in this direction, the trace is getting stronger.”

  “Take it slow, Morgan.” Roland loosened his Browning in its shoulder holster as they eased down the neglected alley. The flashing increased as they came to the end of the narrow lane.

  “Pull over. It looks like there’s some kind of deposit here.”

  “Maybe they stopped for a moment.” Roland reached for the door handle. “Let’s take a look.”

  “Unless you need me, I’ll remain in here,” Hiyakawa said.

  “As you wish.” Roland, Lilith and Morgan got out of the limousine and began searching the alley for any kind of clue. To his credit, Hiyakawa lowered the window and watched the three as they perused the ground. His apparent squeamishness surprised Roland. The alley wasn’t that dirty.

  Lilith swept the alley with the sniffer, pausing near a large puddle of oil and other less identifiable fluids. “Looks like our quarry did stop here for a bit. I’m getting a high concentration of pollen, most likely adhered to the ground. In fact, didn’t you say they had lost a tire?”

  “Yeah.” Morgan walked over and looked at the ground, seeing nothing out of the ordinary.

  Roland pointed to a fresh scrape line on the concrete. “This is probably their rim mark. However, it stops here, and a tread drives away through this puddle, which means they changed it and—”

  “—If they pulled back out onto any main thoroughfare, that machine probably won’t be able to pick up any kind of signature after the morning rush hour, right?” Roland rubbed his temples at the thought of being so close to their quarry, only to lose them again.

  Lilith stepped to the mouth of the alley, waving the sensor back and forth. “No, I’m not getting anything here now. The air movement would have scattered all trace of the pollen hours ago.”

  “When science has failed, then there is only one thing left to do—use magic.” Hiyakawa opened the Nightsky’s door and stepped out gingerly, his nose wrinkling. “My, you people certainly take me to the most interesting places.” Roland took a few paces back and watched the shaman look around, his narrowed eyes taking in the alley in one pass. Hiyakawa stepped over to the puddle of oil and nodded to Lilith.

  “If you would be so kind as to give me a bit of room.” She did so, shooting a puzzled glance at Roland. The shaman squatted near the pool and stretched out one hand, the sleeve of his suit riding up to reveal a TAG Heuer 9000 titanium chronometer on his wrist. Hiyakawa slowly turned his arm so that the crystal face caught the rays of the late afternoon sun and reflected it onto the puddle. The rainbow-swirled surface of the pool rippled for a moment, then an amorphous face appeared in the sludge, with crude, pupil-less eyes and a mouth that was little more than a wavering hole in the water.

  Hiyakawa kept the light playing over the face while he spoke. “Konban wa, spirit. Tell me everything you know about the vehicle that stopped here at—” The shaman glanced up at Roland.

  “Around four this morning.”

  The shaman repeated the time to the city spirit. Its answer sounded like the creature was speaking through a mouthful of water, gurgling and bubbling as it formed the words.

  “Fooouuurrr beings stopped here this mooooooorning. Right in my pudddddle, spppplashing it everywhhhwhere. They ssssspoke to each other, then leftttt that wwwwway.” A black finger extended out of the pool and pointed toward the street that Lilith had confirmed as the most probable escape route.

  The shaman leaned over to peer at the tire tracks. “They took some of your puddle with them, hai?”

  “Yessssss . . Roland thought he actually saw the city spirit’s face frown at the thought.

  Hiyakawa rose slowly to his feet, keeping his hand above the puddle. A small humanoid form, black as night, formed out of the viscous fluid as the shaman straightened. “I want you to find the rest of your puddle, then come to me and lead me to that place. Can you do that?”

  “Yesssss . . .” The city spirit ran to the end of the alley, then turned left. Hiyakawa smoothed his suit jacket and turned to his companions. “Shall we wait in the car?” Lilith shook her head in admiration. “Please excuse me, Hiyakawa-san, but I have rarely had the opportunity to see magic performed up close. May I ask a question?”

  “But of course.”

  Roland thought he saw the Asian man actually preen at the older woman’s deferential tone. He exchanged a dismissive glance with Morgan as they got back into the limo.

  “I was under the impression that some theorists believe spirits are created by a shaman when needed at a particular moment, but do not otherwise exist or have any contact in this reality. However, you brought one forth that could recall events of this morning. I assume then, that you do not believe in the instant appearance of a new, so to speak, spirit when it is summoned?”

  Hiyakawa had picked up his glass of scotch and sipped again before replying. “For someone who does not practice, you are well-versed in magic theory, Chalmers-chan. Although there are those who believe the theory you have stated, I believe that spirits are much more than random accretions of mana in a particular area. If a spirit was created, then we would say just that—it was created anew from the nearby ambient mana energy, not that it was summoned. The latter implies it was brought to this plane from somewhere else. The very act of summoning brings the spirit into existence on this plane, but it—and every other spirit in the Sixth World—is all around us, all the time. When properly asked, there is practically no limit to what they can do.”

  Roland had been listening to the conversation, but now he shifted uneasily in his seat as he considered the possibility of hundreds, maybe thousands of unseen eyes watching his every move wherever he went. Fraggin’ mages.

  15

  3:45:69 p.m.

  Turn here.” Hood jabbed Max in the shoulder. “Two I more blocks and take a left.”

  The ork snorted. “That’
ll take us near the old neighborhoods of Everett, Hood, quite a bit out of our way. We’re ’sposed to meet the Johnson at a dead end in Ballard.” Still, she made the turn when the troll’s eyes narrowed again.

  “Just a quick detour,” he said. “We’ve got plenty of time and you know it.”

  Close to an hour later, the Bison headed along a street that ran parallel to the bay. The late afternoon sun hit the water and turned the chop a shiny vermillion, making it look like the sea was on fire. Gulls drifted down, searching for small fish in the surf. Max was alternately wistfully glancing at the birds and keeping an eye on traffic.

  “Lovely time the Johnson picked for this meet.” Max kept one hand on the wheel, the other arm was propped out the window so the sun could tickle her skin. “Just when lots o’ places are closing up shop for the day, he decides on the exchange. Roads are gonna get stuffed real quick.” “As tad rightly pointed out earlier, most people downtown take the rail,” Khase offered from the backseat. He had his window down, too, his head stuck out and tipped back so the wind would play across his face and shaved head. Directly behind Max, the elf was on the oceanside, enjoying the offshore breeze. “The light rail’s fast, and the riders don’t worry about finding a place to park by the downtown corps.”

  “And you’d know this why?” Max shot back. “You haven’t worked a regular job in your life.”

  Khase didn’t bother to answer. Eyes closed, the elf took the salt-tinged air deep into his lungs. “It’s sweetest here by the ocean, Sindje, like the odor of the city stops right at the last curb.”

  “Yeah, and the stench of rotting fish and dead seagulls starts.” Sindje rolled her eyes and made sure her window was all the way up. Then she settled back in the leather seat and adjusted the safety belt off her shoulder.

  They drove past the Federated Boeing Shipyards. The noise of the gulls and the traffic was instantly drowned out by ships’ bass horns and the clang of metal echoing from the shipyards sprawled along the coast.

  “Fraggin’ eyesore.” The ork flipped a finger at the twenty-story building perched on the edge of the west waterway. “Hydroplanes and hovercraft for the military, Boeing makes with our tax money. Like Boeing needs more money. Like the military needs more fraggin’ hovercraft.” “Makes them for the Salish-Sidhe Council, too,” Hood added. “And ferry companies, various corps, Lone Star, Ingersoll and Berkley, Aqua Arcana, Ares. . .

  “Like you know everything.” The ork snorted.

  “I’m not going all pedantic on you.”

  “She doesn’t know what that means.” This came from Khase, who still had his head out the window. Max hit the electric rear window control on her armrest, and the adept got his head inside just in time to avoid being choked by the rising safety glass.

  Sindje gave her brother a pained look. “You don’t know what that means, either.”

  The ork snorted again. “Look, Hood, all I'm saying is that the Boeings have nuyen up the ying-yang. People’s taxes go to the fraggin’ Boeing plant for the military. Taxes that could be better spent on . .

  It was the troll’s turn to snort in derision. “You don’t pay taxes, Max. You’re SINless, remember. You live under the city’s radar. It doesn’t affect you. Why are you so worried about taxes you don’t pay?”

  “It can still bother me, neh? And if by chance I paid taxes, it would bother me a whole lot more.” The ork continued along the coast, closing in on the Ship Canal and then turning onto a residential street. “Ballard. This is it.” The homes marked it as an upper-middle-class neighborhood, and the businesses proclaimed its Scandinavian extraction. Along a side street decorations were strung between houses and streetlights, holo-projectors spaced irregularly on several of the strings. Larger holo-projectors were mounted on the roof of a manor house, and a stage was set up on a corner lot.

  “Gonna have a party tonight?” Max pointed to a woman who was trimming an evergreen tree with silvery ribbons. The trees were planted against the corners of a house made fancy with holotrim. Across the front was a row of bushes cut so perfectly they looked like military helmets. “And she thinks that's pretty, I’ll bet, those helmet bushes. Makes it look like she had her yard landscaped at a drekkin’ convenience store or maybe one of them military surplus places. Looks plastic and cheap. Probably got her ribbons there, too.”

  “They always seem to have some sort of festival going on in this neighborhood.” Hood nodded to an elderly gentleman blowing grass shavings off his walk. “Swedish and Norwegian celebrations, mostly. A lot of the older folks living here emigrated from the territory after the Treaty of Denver was ratified. Crime rate’s low here, relatively speaking. Not a bad place to settle.”

  “Mebbe. But there’s a gang.” Max seemed proud that she could provide a bit of trivia about the neighborhood. “The Berserkers. Make themselves up to look like Norse gods and warriors, and they leave other gangs alone, relatively speaking.”

  The troll continued: “Yeah, but the Berserkers supposedly have ties to smugglers.”

  “I know that,” Max countered. “The smugglers take a minor route from SSC territory across Puget Sound and into Seattle. That’s where the smugglers meet up with the Berserkers and conduct their biz.”

  Khase leaned forward. “And you’d know all about these smugglers why, Max?”

  The ork pointed down another side street, this one with no decorations. “Johnson’s directions say at the end of this street.”

  The street was narrower than the others and led to an older section where the houses were not as well maintained and where sections of the sidewalk were cracked and buckled from tree roots. There was one exception to the rundown dwellings, a big place with a wraparound porch and a small balcony on the second floor. Max slowed the Bison to ogle it. The house was painted canary yellow and had green and red piping around fish-eyed windows. There were two columns at the top of steps that led up from a red brick walkway; the trees were far enough back so their roots didn’t threaten the walks. Clearly visible at the tops of the columns were security cameras and uplink boxes. A small placard at the base of the steps warned intruders of a direct connection to the nearest Lone Star precinct. The grass was meticulously kept.

  ‘‘Kentucky-Seven.’’ Hood gestured to the lawn. “Grows seven centimeters high and stops. Expensive stuff.”

  “Bet there’s motion sensors in the lawn, all around the place. Need the security for a historic home like that on this block.” Sindje pointed to the balcony, where two more security cameras were perched. “It’s the only house I’d even think of living in around here. You sure this street is still in Ballard, Max?”

  “The edge of it.”

  “Wonderful, most likely the bad edge. The Johnson picked a great spot, neh?” Sindje fiddled with her seat belt again. “But not as bad as the drop two runs ago. Barrens after dark. Never again, I say.” She shivered, wrinkled her long nose and noted that the faint hairs on her arms were standing up.

  “This street make you . . . itchy . . . chwaer?” Khase shot her a sly look.

  Sindje chewed her lower lip. “I watch the newsvids, Khase. Something you might try instead of inspecting your eyelids all the time. Berserkers might run Ballard, but there’s a splinter group roaming the edge—the Wild Hunt, they call themselves—from the Ancients elven go-gang. And while the Berserkers are into protecting their turf, the go-gang is into picking fights. News is they go after outsiders. You and me, Khase, we’d be all right. But”—she nodded at Max and Hood in the front—“the big ’uns here might attract unwanted attention.”

  The slim elf waved a hand at the crumbling block, her eyes narrowed in a frown. “And the houses here are falling apart, like the city’s already forgotten about this block. You take a good gander at this street and tell me you aren’t itchy, too. Yeah, plenty itchy. And this whole run, I guess that’s made me itchy bad. Babysitting plants, that’s just drek brawd.”

  With another wave of her hand, she spoke directly to Khase’s mind. And m
aybe I’m just fuming because we should’ve been at this drop more than a few hours ago. We were to spend this day paying off a debt, remember? Not babysitting plants. Not stranded on the roof of that condo watching you turn somersaults while Hood played with the foliage and turned his place into a hothouse. I was waiting for him to say “ferns are my friends.” Sheesh. Drekkin’ wasted day. Aloud: “Frag it!”

  Max cleared her throat. “Double the nuyen. Don’t forget I got our fee bumped, keebler.” Hood and Sindje both scowled at the ork as she parked against the curb on a cul-de-sac where the rundown street ended, but the troll said nothing.

  Sindje, however, wasn’t done by a long shot. “An itch like this isn’t worth ten times the payment.” She rubbed the palms of her hands against her knees. “A dead end street. One more thing I don’t like about this. And that house, ugh. Truly itchy, brawd. A real piece of drek. Max, make sure we’re pointed away from the house and back down this skidsville street. Just in case we need to get out fast.”

  The ork didn’t argue. No one did. They had run with the combat mage enough to know when she was talking sense. This certainly seemed like one of those times.

  The house Max parked the Bison in front of, with the RV’s nose pointed back the way they’d come, had been regal once. That was evident from the shabby, carved wood cornices and shattered sections of latticework that ran beneath a massive porch and up the sides of an attached gazebo. It had been white. Through the decades it had also been blue, green, pale orange and drab yellow, the latter of which was the most predominant in places. Where the wood was bare, it was painfully weathered, looking like a corpse’s ashen complexion. Eaves sagged, the steps were crooked, the roof seriously bowed and the entire building looked exhausted, ready to give up one big sigh and fall in.