Driven by the need to get the feeling of being strangled out of her head, Emu reviewed the events of the last few days. The fact that Yu and she had been ambushed at the warehouse didn’t bother her; it wouldn’t have been the first time a Mr. Johnson had decided he’d rather try to kill the team to tie up loose ends and pocket the second half of their fee than pay them for their work. Not that it wasn’t annoying and dangerous when it happened, but it was purely a professional conflict, like the urban brawl matches Zipfile loved so much.
The attack on the team’s safehouse, on the other hand, wasn’t just a greedy, opportunistic employer trying to rake in a few extra nuyen under the guise of “tying up loose ends.” No, this Mr. Johnson actually wanted the team dead—not just “the team who did this job,” but “Emu, Frostburn, Rude, Yu, and Zipfile.”
The weight of the realization broke a dam inside Emu, and the rigger slumped forward against the Commodore’s steering wheel, sobbing. Logically, she had understood that she was in danger the moment she heard the safehouse had been attacked, but she hadn’t really had time to process the situation before her run-in with the assassin. Now she had no choice but to face the reality of the situation, and the visceral fear that accompanied knowing her life was in danger crushed her chest until she could barely breathe—just like the assassin’s garrote. The delayed panic was hitting her full force, making the Commodore’s normally cozy cabin feel like a cage.
I could run, Emu thought. All she’d have to do is reprogram the Commodore’s autopilot, give the Salish border patrol her real SIN so they wouldn’t arrest her on the spot for having a fake, and she could leave Seattle behind forever. It wouldn’t be the first time Emu had started a new life. She’d been on the move for as long as she could remember: between families as a young girl, from her hometown to university on a corporate scholarship, then off the path her parents had chosen for her and into the shadows, first in Australia and now in Seattle. She’d even gotten her runner handle from both her speed and her tendency to “migrate”—a side effect of never quite feeling at home.
You’re letting your fear get the best of you.
The realization shocked Emu upright and out of her crying fit. She didn’t like that thought, not at all, and tried to stuff it back into the recesses of her mind—only to have more unpleasant thoughts spill out, like her head was Pandora’s bloody box. You’re right to be scared. They caught you when you were vulnerable, and they’ll do it again. But being vulnerable isn’t the same as being helpless. Are you going to give in to your panic and let them win, or are you going to pull yourself together and fight back?
Emu sighed and slumped forward again. In her heart, she knew her inner lecturer was right: right now, she wasn’t running the shadows so much as running scared. Renraku was one of the ten biggest corporations in the world. If they wanted her dead badly enough to hire assassins in the first place, skipping town wouldn’t be enough to stop them from coming after her. The only way to do that was to fight back, and that would be a lot easier when she had allies on her side.
With that dilemma resolved—at least for the moment—Emu slipped into a dreamless sleep.
Emu and Zipfile decided to launch their raid in the early hours of the morning—too early for even Grounds for Appeal to be open, much to Emu’s chagrin. The guards would have been up all night by then, they reasoned, and with a little luck, the two runners might be able to catch some of their opponents literally napping.
Neither woman would have any problem seeing in the dark, between Emu’s cybereyes and Zipfile’s dwarven thermographic vision, and it would give her Bulldog step-van a little more camouflage during the approach. Emu had opted to leave the quicker Commodore at home for this run, despite strongly preferring the smaller, nimbler sedan to the clunky cargo hauler, in favor of the Bulldog’s tougher armor and larger storage capacity.
“I really ought to get one of those chameleon coatings,” Emu mused aloud as the Bulldog rolled towards the Yakuza warehouse. She wasn’t jumped in this time, partly to avoid risking any stress on her control rig—the street doc she’d browbeaten into seeing her on a moment’s notice had pleaded with Emu to “take it easy,” but admitted there was no reason to think anything would go wrong—and partly because it tended to creep passengers out when their driver was lying comatose in the front seat of the vehicle. “We could do this in broad daylight and they’d still never see us coming.”
Zipfile glanced sideways at the rigger. “This is why you’re in over your head with the Mafia. ‘Oh, I should get a chameleon coating.’ ‘Oh, I should get a reflex recorder.’ You should get a money manager, lady.”
Emu smirked at her. “Is this when you give me the ‘starving children in Africa’ lecture?”
The dwarf grinned. “Hey, I would know, I was one of them.”
“And look where you are now.” Emu squinted at the Bulldog’s nav system. “The target’s in the next building over. Last chance to change our minds.”
“We’ve got this. Jacking in now.” Zipfile tapped her fingers against the cyberdeck sitting in her lap, and a moment later, her body went slack as she projected her mind into the Matrix.
“They’ve got their own decker,” she continued, switching from speaking in person to “speaking” electronically without missing a beat. “They haven’t seen me, though. Seven other commlinks including yours, and a bunch of drones: Hornets, too many to all be friendly, plus a couple work drones.”
“Do they have a rigger?” Emu checked the sensor feed from her Optic-X2, which was dutifully circling dozens of meters above the Bulldog. She’d sent the drone ahead to scout the area before she and Zipfile arrived at the warehouse, but so far, there hadn’t been much activity; the Yaks had mostly stayed holed up inside the warehouse, not really “patrolling” so much as sticking their heads out the windows every so often. Having a swarm of Hornets—surveillance drones descended from MCT’s Fly-Spy, and too small for the Optic-X2 to spot—would explain why their security had looked so lax.
“Didn’t see any RCC icons except yours.” The rigger control console—or as many riggers called it, the “captain’s chair”—was second only to the control rig itself when it came to the rigger’s most vital gear. RCCs were designed to control large groups of drones, and the higher-end models provided extra-tough firewalls to keep hostile deckers from hijacking the rigger’s automated army. If Zipfile hadn’t spotted any of the Yaks using an RCC, their drones would be no match for hers.
“Found the package—drek,” Zipfile said a moment later. “The data on the RFID says the container’s almost as big as I am.” The decker marked its location in AR for Emu. “Checking out the warehouse’s security now... looks like there’s one camera on the door closest to the package, one in the corridor leading to that part of the warehouse, and one covering the part of the warehouse where the package is. You said it was metal, right?”
Emu sighed and rubbed the bridge of her nose. “That’s what my contact told me. Steel case with a blue stripe.”
An image appeared in her AR field, showing the inside of the warehouse. There were shelves upon shelves of boxes, but the camera was focused on several messy stacks in the middle of the floor, all made of cardboard or dark plastic. “If the GPS is right, it’s in the middle of that pile.”
“Of course it fragging is.” Emu’s forehead hit the Bulldog’s steering wheel with a thunk.
“At least we’ve got the layout of the place now,” Zipfile said. A 3D map of the warehouse’s interior appeared in Emu’s AR field. “I can make one of the hauler drones carry the package outside for us, and loop the cameras so the Yaks don’t see it leave the warehouse. They’ll still hear it moving, but that shouldn’t matter as long as you’ve got your drones distracting them.”
Emu sent a series of mental commands to the Bulldog and her RCC. “How long will it take to get the package?” The van’s rear doors popped open, revealing the small squadron of drones sitting on plain metal shelves inside; proper drone
racks were yet another item on the list of Emu’s things to get, though they were admittedly a few spots above the chameleon coating.
“How fast does an Ares Packmule move?” The question was accompanied by Zipfile’s avatar shrugging.
“Tell me when it has the package. Mark the ’Mule’s path for me?” The four Hornets immediately buzzed off toward the warehouse while the replacement Roto-Drones—now upgraded with FN HAR assault rifles and high-end targeting software—readied themselves for liftoff. The buzzing of various small rotors made the Bulldog’s cabin sound like Emu was sitting inside an armed air conditioner until the gun drones also took off into the night.
A glowing line appeared on the warehouse map in response to Emu’s request. “’Mule’s working, cameras are looped,” Zipfile reported.
“Roger that.” Emu settled back into the Bulldog’s driver’s seat and called up the Hornets’ camera feeds alongside the one from the Optic-X2, marking the positions of each Yakuza member she could see on the map Zipfile had provided. The door the Packmule had to get through was directly below the warehouse’s second-floor office, on the opposite end of the building from the larger loading doors. In the absence of enough team members to carry off a more complex diversion, Emu opted for the tried-and-true “shoot one side of the building while you sneak through the other” strategy. On the Optic-X2’s camera feed, icons denoting the three Roto-Drones circled into position on the loading-door end of the building.
Then came the waiting. Emu wished she could light a cigarette, but neither she nor Zipfile had wanted to risk one of the Yakuza spotting the pinprick of light or its heat signature—not to mention that, the way this run had started, Emu was sure that fishing in her pockets for her smokes and lighter would take her attention away from the situation at exactly the wrong moment.
Instead, the rigger sat around twiddling her thumbs for an eternity that her commlink’s clock claimed had only lasted five minutes until Zipfile spoke again. “Packmule’s got the package.” When Emu checked the camera feed Zipfile had hacked from the warehouse’s security system, she was relieved to see that the work drone was indeed holding a steel case with a blue stripe.
“Distraction on the way.” With a single command through the RCC, all three of Emu’s Roto-Drones started pouring rifle fire into the warehouse’s loading doors, and mayhem broke out. Emu grinned as the Yakuza soldiers flew into a panic, watching from the Optic-X2’s sensors as four of them charged down to the main floor and out of the building to take up defensive positions, giving her Hornets a chance to dart inside before the doors closed. The four Yaks left inside the control room, busy trying to respond to the crisis, didn’t notice the insectoid drones slip through an air vent until a Wasp had landed on each mobster’s shoulder or neck—until all four collapsed, disabled by doses of Narcoject delivered through each Hornet’s hypodermic “stinger.”
With the most likely sources of interference busy or napping on the job, Emu signaled Zipfile. “Door’s clear, get the Mule out!” The Bulldog’s engine roared to life, and Emu guided the van to the warehouse exit.
“Got it. Shutting the cameras down so I can get the doors,” Zipfile said. On the warehouse cameras, Emu saw the warehouse’s interior maglocks flicker from red to green. A moment later, the dwarf started awake, shaking the virtual fog out of her head. Drones could do a lot of things, but they weren’t any better at opening doors with their “hands” full than metahumans were, so it was up to the dwarf to play porter.
While Zipfile hopped out of the van to look after the Packmule, Emu checked her Roto-Drones’ status readouts. The Yakuza weren’t particularly good marksmen, Emu noted, but the muzzle flash of the drone’s assault rifles gave them a pretty good idea of where to aim. All three drones had suffered enough damage that Emu wanted to pull them back, both to draw the Yakuza away from her exit route and to avoid having to replace the drones again.
Unfortunately, a retreat wasn’t in the cards just yet. The Packmule was decidedly not living up to its nickname, the “Hauling Ass,” but rather moving at the speed Emu would’ve expected from its namesake animal—maybe one with a case of chronic depression. Even the normally-chill Zipfile was visibly agitated at how slowly the drone plodded through the warehouse—or maybe at the absurdity of having to hold a door for a drone in the middle of a firefight.
Eventually, though, the Packmule did saunter out and place the blue-striped steel case in the back of the Bulldog. When the package and Zipfile were both safely in the van, Emu recalled her Hornets—only to have all four of them explode into shrapnel and their video feeds cut to black. One of the Roto-Drones wasn’t doing much better, and Emu directed it and its two counterparts to hustle up, up, and away before the Yakuza could finish any of them off. No sense trying to pick them up now when she could just meet them late—
“Mage!” Zipfile’s warning came a split-second before a lightning bolt slammed into the Bulldog’s side. Emu cursed a blue streak as the electrical surge caused the van’s systems to flicker and reset themselves, scrambling to bring everything back online. A string of thunderclaps echoed through the van’s cabin as Zipfile returned the spellcaster’s fire with her Ruger wheelgun, and Emu matched the noise with a quieter, but no less emphatic bang as she pounded her fist on the Bulldog’s dash out of sheer desperation. Thankfully, the impact was enough to get the van’s controls functioning again, and the Bulldog’s wheels kicked dirt and gravel everywhere as Emu stomped on the gas.
Any hopes the two runners had of making a clean getaway were dashed by submachine gun rounds pinging off the Bulldog’s armored chassis; the Yakuza who’d engaged the Roto-Drones had realized they’d been bamboozled. Emu yanked the steering wheel to bring the van around a corner, then used the brief reprieve to order her Roto-Drones to turn around and strafe the Yaks from above.
“Zippo, make sure the cargo’s tied down. Gonna try to lose these slots.” Zipfile grunted an acknowledgment and shimmied into the cabin’s cargo section.
Emu checked the Optic-X2’s camera feed and cursed when she saw the Yakuza set off after her on their racing bikes, then activated her control rig. Compared to the Commodore, the Bulldog felt more like a bull than a dog—an aging bull, half-lame and arthritic after years of chasing rodeo clowns, and barely able to keep its footing when moving at any kind of speed, as Emu was rudely reminded when taking a corner nearly rolled the van on to its side. The internal cameras showed the steel case sliding across the floor with the momentum of the turn, then Zipfile bouncing after it a moment later, like the slapstick comedy beat of an action trid. It took the poor dwarf several more cycles of being tumble-dried before she was able to grab one of the case’s handles and hook it to a cargo line.
Meanwhile, Emu kept the Bulldog zigging and zagging through the built-up area around the warehouse as the Yakuza bikers swarmed around her. One decided to get cute and pull up next to the driver’s-side door with gun in hand, realizing too late that when an armored van swerves into a flimsy crotch rocket, the crotch rocket loses. The impact and the Mirage’s own speed sent the bike careening wheels-first into a building, and left Emu with one less enemy to worry about.
“Their decker’s trying to call for backup,” Zipfile said, informing Emu that she was back in the passenger seat.
The other three bikers kept up their assault as though trying to take revenge for their fallen comrade. Every spang of a bullet against the Bulldog’s sides, translated through Emu’s control rig, stung like being hit with a rubber band.
Around the next corner, Emu spun the van into a hairpin turn—only half-intentionally, though she’d never admit that—and lined the nose up with a biker who was paying more attention to lining up his shot than to how the van he was shooting was headed straight for him. Emu had just enough time to see his Yak-in-the-headlights look through the Bulldog’s external sensors before the two vehicles collided and the biker and his Mirage went bouncing down the street in the opposite direction.
With their numbers
reduced by half, the Yakuza bikers fell back when Emu turned the Bulldog towards the freeway, only following close enough to keep the van in sight—and when Emu’s Roto-Drones showed up and began raining bullets down, the Yaks gave up even that token pursuit. The rigger sighed with relief as she ordered the drones to follow the Bulldog, just in case the Yakuza sent any more trouble after them. Another minute or two, and they’d reach the freeway and make their esca—
Emu hadn’t even finished inputting the Roto-Drones’ commands into her RCC before one of them exploded into shrapnel. What the frag had caused that? Was there something wrong with the Bulldog’s external sensors? Did the Yakuza decker get the better of Zipfile and hack into the van’s systems?
The answer became clear when a fearsome-looking warrior riding a cloud threw a bolt of lightning at the Bulldog, forcing Emu to swerve to one side and confirming that the Yakuza magician had summoned a spirit to assist in the chase. Emu had seen Frostburn use spirits the same way, providing magical concealment that prevented the team from being spotted during runs, and soaking up bullets when Rude was off doing something else. As her Roto-Drones got back into firing range, Emu hoped the hostile spirit wasn’t as sturdy as Frostburn’s were.
The Roto-Drones swooped down on their targets, unleashing a storm of automatic fire, only for the bullets to flatten themselves against the spirit’s supernaturally tough skin without so much as leaving a mark. The spirit returned the gesture with another brilliant elemental bolt that blew one of the Bulldog’s rear doors off its hinges, leaving Emu groaning in simulated pain when her control rig translated the damage. The spirit was happy to drive the point home with another elemental bolt that blasted another Roto-Drone to pieces.
“I just replaced those!” That’s what Emu would’ve shouted if she hadn’t been jumped into the Bulldog. Instead, the outburst came through as an ear-splitting honk from the van’s horn.
Shadowrun Page 11
