Shadowrun

by Dylan Birtolo

  Rude reached over to the countertop, an easy feat considering he could flat-palm both parallel walls in his room, and grabbed the half-drank soycaf. He upended it into his mouth, winced, and struggled down an oddly-bitter swallow.

  “Aw, drek.” the floating filter end of a cigarillo stared up at him as it swam around in the brown gunk that was going to serve as breakfast.

  The icon started blinking again; another incoming call.

  “This better be important, Zip,” Rude growled, his words translating into a text file within the AR connection with his “favorite” decker. “Ya don’t even know the dream yer interruptin’.”

  Illuminated green letters scrolled across his AR view.

  “Hazards of workin’ with this pretty face,” Rude flicked the soycaf cup toward his waste bin, hitting the lip and splashing foulness down the wall. Sure, he can put a Predator round through the eye of a ghoul at twenty paces, but he misses the shot that will keep his apartment from reeking. “Great. Now, what’s so prime ya risked a smack down?” He sighed gustily. “What we lookin’ at?”

  Zipfile’s reply scrolled across his vision.

  “But I like ta talk!” Rude laughed. “Almost as much as I like ta sing—”

  “Okay, okay!” Zipfile cleared her throat, hoarse from disuse, “We can back and forth like plebs if you want to. It’s your call.”

  “Actually, this is yer call…” Rude plucked an old L.A. Tridents jersey off the top of his laundry pile, gave it a sniff, and ducked his head into it. Struggling to get it over his horns without ripping it, he spun in place awkwardly. In his twisting and bending to get dressed, he caught his back’s reflection in the wall mirror and it gave him pause.

  Puckered bullet wound scars formed a constellation of past combats across his corded, muscular trunk; matched by a roadmap of knitted slashes and surgical stitching. His arm was a quilt of medical wonderment where it went from warty muscle to hydraulically enhanced machine. Each one of these ugly marks came with a story about how Rude had survived something terrible before, but he struggled to remember them all. So much of his past should be easy to recall, especially with these physical reminders scattered all over his body, but things got so cloudy sometimes. It was so scrambled up there, he had to wonder if—

  “Rude?” Zipfile’s voice snapped him out of his fugue. “You okay, chummo? You kinda trailed off there.”

  “Yeah. ’Course I am!” He pulled down his shirt with a grunt and yanked up a pair of jeans that had seen better days quite a few worse days ago. “Just muted out for a second. Cut ta it. What’s on the feed that has ya’ll up in my ears this mornin’, and so quick after our action yesterday?”

  “Yu.”

  “Well, yeah.” Rude snorted. “’Course it’s about me, beetle-brain, why else would ya be callin’?”

  “Ugh! Not ‘you,’” The exasperation in her voice was as thick as fog off the Sound. >YU.

  The name popped onto Rude’s HUD and he had to stifle a genuine laugh. “Honest mistake.”

  “Not if we were text—”

  “Get ta the point, Zip. I gots a bunch to do today,” Rude lied. “What about Elfy-Pants?”

  “Frag.” She sucked air through her teeth. “Yu was all over the wire this morning…really early this morning, something went awry with the rest of the pay for that Renraku run, so it looks like he wrangled Emu last night for a ride over across the stretch to, I don’t know, meet up with their Johnson again? Apparently the guy wants to do everything analog, handing over encrypted sticks in person.”

  “An’ ya’ll call me old-fashioned.”

  “I know, right?” she continued. “It’s why I’m actually calling you. I know he said he had it handled, and that he wanted to follow up on this thing alone, but that elven confidence has gotten him into trouble before, and I just can’t shake the feeling that something isn’t right. I mean, Renraku is a tech corp. Renraku Computer Systems. If there’s anybody’s Johnson that should be fully iced up for protected money transactions, it’d be a Renraku Johnson. Doesn’t make sense and frankly, I don’t like it.”

  Zipfile triggered a few subroutines and an address popped up into Rude’s AR, internal positioning software already figuring out the best ways to get there.

  “A Rip Current storage site? Ooh, nice. Blind alley on one side, and a speck of an office complex on the other. Not far from the waterfront to stem street-level obstructions. Tons of neighborin’ buildings for lease or renno.” He saved the information for later. “Great place fer an ambush. I could really mess some idiots up in that spot.”

  “My thoughts exactly. Even with Emu nearby to back him up, I don’t like what Yu could be strolling in to find. He isn’t exactly known for his self-restraint, and give Emu all night? She can talk anyone into a bad idea if it means an adrenaline rush.” She was biting her lip, and Rude could hear what it was doing to her enunciation. “That’s why I’m calling you. The meet isn’t till later today, and it’s all the way over in West Seattle. I know your place in Puyallup isn’t exactly right next door, but it’d make me feel a whole lot better if I knew you were heading up to check it out. If you leave soon, you’ll make it there long before he does to scope out the site.”

  “I dunno, Zippy.” Rude groaned dramatically. “Can’t see Elfy-Pants being terribly happy to see me hornin’ in on his action. Not that I care what he thinks ’bout a babysittin’ call, but he’ll surely give ya hell over it.”

  “That’s why I think it would be best if you just shadow it?” Zipfile added an innocent lilt to her voice, “Make sure it goes down like they think it will, just to be safe?”

  “Aw, I dunno…” He fingered through weeks of empty entries in his personal planner. “I got a ton of heavy shit ta do today. This is a big ask on short notice.”

  “I know, I know.” She sent a packet of pics to his viewer, “That’s why I come bearing gifts.”

  The pics were digitally enhanced auction-tagged images taken from multiple angles of three specific objects. The first was a long, stormy-sky blue-black colored, NAN-styled duster with a row of internal sleeve and chest pockets perfect to hold all sorts of great toys for easy access; it was nice, and he could use a new coat. His was getting pretty worn out. The second was an automated software suite designed to speed up the friend-or-foe indication on a SmartGun link by putting an emoji-esque overlay of various programmable icons over the faces of pre-coded friendly SIN readouts; kind of a goofy thing, but it could make a firefight fun in the right circumstances. Lastly, a set of pics that left Rude’s jaw open in awe—an autographed physical portrait of Geanna SINnamon, Rude’s absolute favorite orxploitation action/adult-video star.

  “Yes. Deal. I’m in.” Rude accepted quicker than he’d wanted to, but damn…a signed SINnamon? Zipfile had her ways to get a hold of just about anything in the deep Matrix, so he wasn’t about to question his good fortune.

  “Just be careful not to let them know I sent you, okay? Yu has all those pointy-eared feelings, you know?”

  “Elfy-Pants and Emo won’t even know I’m there.” He chuckled—the tiniest touch of malice in his voice. “’less they do somethin’ too stupid, and go forcin’ my hand.”

  “Perfect.” Zipfile punctuated her statement with one last line of text.

  >ThANksoK@YY, he comm’d back after a few seconds, knowing his purposeful delay and terrible textmanship would drive her nuts.

  Rude shoved his finger against the activator for the UV panel that served as his place’s window facsimile, a soft day-like glow cascading down on his far-too-brown-to-be-healthy thornapple cactus, and slid open the door to his cabinet/cooler. There was maybe three sips of H2-Faux in a plastic bottle, the recycled drinking water everyone in Puyallup used
to avoid city plumbing charges. Giving the first two sips to his plant and taking the last for himself, Rude put the empty bottle back in the cooler and slid it shut.

  “Hold down the fort, Sir Pricks-a-Lot.” The door to his place clacked open halfway through the two steps it took for him to reach it, and he smiled at how odd his “leave the hab” ritual was. It was something his friends—no, his squad?—used to do back…back in…

  “Frag it.” He almost hated it more when the little things got foggy.

  Rude’s apartment door swung shut as he walked down the hall in his hab-slab, the automatic mag-locks engaging as soon as his AR signature got a meter away. Between that door, those locks, and hell—the walls; his place was not exactly a fortress. If someone really wanted in to his place, it wouldn’t take much. Combine that with how Puyallup would never be called a “security rich environment” on the best blocks, and no one would question why Rude didn’t keep anything of real value in his hab.

  For that, there was Squid’s Vaults.

  Only a few blocks away from Rude’s place, ol’ Squid had made his claim on a quarter block of primo Puyallup real estate nearly a decade ago, buying up a row of rent-by-the-hour coffin sleepers and one dilapidated Stuffer Shack with a pile of nuyen. Over the next few weeks, he’d bulldozed the whole section and built up some seriously reinforced storage units—The Vaults.

  A ton of rumors floated around about where Squid came up with the cash. The two leading theories were that he was named in a Russian dragon’s will and—Rude’s personal favorite—that he’s a retired ’runner who brought down an entire Humanis Policlub cell. Wherever the funds came from, Squid wasn’t telling.

  The Vaults themselves were built like nothing else in Puyallup. Twin layers of ballistic fiber surrounding a living anti-astral algal web, maintained through internal nutrient threading, which is buried in twelve inches of polymer clay and rooted in place by aluminum posts every meter-and-a-half to form the walls. The scalloped design of the electronically, magnetically, and physically locked access gates were made to collapse inward like a closing flower on any impact with enough force to possibly bend the heavy alloy.

  It took an active AR code, a biometric scan of the body part of the renter’s choosing, and a physical keycard to open one of Squid’s Vaults up—with a remote-triggered hardening foam deployable in each unit just in case. If someone managed to actually break in, in just a second or three they and everything in that Vault would be encased in breathable foam as dense and sticky as wet cement. This place was better protected than some of the corporate bomb shelters Rude had seen—and broken into—in the past.

  Whatever Squid did in his former life, overdoing it on security was likely a plus.

  “Hey, old man.” Rude waved to the front gate camera, knowing the cranky dwarf was surely watching. “I need to come get a few things.”

  “Rent’s due next Tuesday,” a gruff voice barked through the speakers, “try t’have it on time this month.”

  The gate let out a grinding electronic buzz and slowly slid to one side.

  “Thanks.” He walked through, and not three paces later he heard the gate clang shut and its locks clamp tight. “Shouldn’t be a problem,” he answered, hoping it was the truth this time.

  As Rude strolled through the rows of storage units, he wondered what kinds of treasures were hidden behind those sterilized, uniform-looking spaces. Guns, drugs, money, probably more guns…it was basically Schrödinger’s Black Market. Even a powerhouse troll like him knew better than to try and open up any of these things except his own. Squid was always watching through the lens of his camera network, after all, and the locals swore that crazy old bastard had a fragging rail rifle in his office. Yeah, the last thing Rude wanted was an anti-tank round turning his insides into troll salsa, so he plays by the rules every time he stops by.

  “Forty-one, forty-three, and…” he counted out loud, “here we go.”

  He stepped close to unit forty-five, a green icon appearing in his vision as soon as it recognized his AR signature, triggering a small security hatch to drop open to the side of the entrance gate. Behind the hatch was a simple circular slide with a straight slit down its middle next to a flat acrylic panel marked with a scanning grid. Rude fumbled in his pocket to produce a small, plastic keycard, which he carefully slid into the slot until it chimed softly, then turned it awkwardly counterclockwise until it chimed a second time.

  Having set aside his discomfort about getting access to his Vault long ago, he stooped over and leaned in until his face was a few centimeters from the scanning plate—then opened his mouth, let his tongue drop comically out of his tusked lips, and smushed it against the cool, smooth acrylic. The plate lit up a neon green, illuminating his whole face and upper chest for a moment before going black once more.

  “Welcome, Mister Shaw.” Hearing his most commonly used fake name in the soft electronic voice always worried him. Who else could be listening?

  Prolly just Squid, he mused, pulling back from the security panel, flipping the hatch shut with a flick of his wrist, and turning to the entrance aperture. The metallic “petals” of the scalloped access hissed out a series of climate controlling gasps of pressure before shuddering to life, sliding into the unit’s walls in three directions.

  Rude stepped inside, the access mechanism closing behind him. One set a’ programs away from bein’ in lock up, he exhaled coolly. It always bothered him being in here too long. It wasn’t like he was claustrophobic or anything; trolls get real used to being too big for human-centric construction early on, or they’ll go crazy quick. This was something else. Something that reminded him of...something bad.

  “Get it together.” He shook off the feeling and waved on the blinking fluorescent bars set in the ceiling. Horrible, bleach-white light bathed the room. Rude smiled, the last flicker glistening off his titanium-tipped eyetooth.

  The room was two meters wide, four deep, and just tall enough for him to walk around without banging his horns—but he did have to keep his hair down, or it would rub annoyingly against the ceiling.

  Two long tables, stretched out on both sides of the unit to leave him a path in between, were strewn with scattered satchel bags, take out boxes, and shipping crates. In and around these containers was the epitome of organized chaos.

  Bullets and casings of the same caliber were either piled together or stashed in plastic bags. Firearm parts and components sat nestled in black marker outlines drawn on the tables like chalked out bodies in old noir vids. A dozen and a half knives, spikes, and assorted killing tools jutted out of a battered medical training mannequin propped against the far wall. Rude’s modified Desert Strike sniper rifle hung in a chain sling from the ceiling. Heavily marked and noted printouts of city area maps, building schematics, and his three favorite food delivery joints’ menus were taped to the walls. It was a street sam’s dream to have a prep room like this, and only Squid’s renter regs kept him from simply living in the “Rudecave.” Instead, it was the first stop on the way to any ’run.

  Rude slowly walked the length of the unit, stopping briefly to consider each and every piece of equipment he passed. He may have had some seriously fragged up memories rattling around inside his thick skull, but the idea of “situational utility” was as hardwired in his instincts as the synaptic boosting chain was to his neural network. Each item was carefully optioned before he decided to bring it with him to West Seattle.

  The Warhawk? His alloy fingertip traced the gigantic revolver, stopping to tap twice on the scorch mark where there was once a biometric safety. Nope, haven’t gotten the damn thing fixed yet.

  Could sling the Narco. Rude pulled the dart gun out of an old protein bar box and turned it over in his palm. His SmartGun feed synced up with its suite, throwing strings of useful data up onto the corner of his vision but a single, red blinking digit stood out. He blinked away the info and unceremoniously dropped the weapon back into the box. Two tranqs. Really? When we get paid, I need to
scrape up some more.

  Grenades? Rude laughed, not even picking up the container with his last three Aztechnology party favors—two frags and a flash-pak. This is secret babysittin’, not a full ’run.

  Yeah, yer comin’ with me, Babydoll. He scooped up an Ares Predator anodized a dull cobalt blue and reached over to grab a chain-and-leather belt from a nearby box. Made for a gunslinger, the holster had networked magnetics to either hold its weapon in place or help shunt it out for an even quicker draw. Rude checked two magazines for live rounds, slapped one into the pistol before holstering it, and slid the other into his pocket. Even if I prolly won’t need ya.

  Stepping to the end of the unit, he came eye-to-chamber with the hanging sniper rifle. Wish I could take ya out, he ducked beneath it and headed to the half-destroyed mannequin, but your kinda attention’s the last thing I need. Legal enforcement of self-defense weaponry was a lot stricter in West Seattle, not to mention the ride across town.

  Rude plucked two long knives out of the mannequin’s shoulders, ballistic gel inside sealing up as they shlucked upward, and tucked one into the side of each boot. He shrugged on the wide, over-the-shoulder sword-sheath and its deadly contents, adjusting it almost absent-mindedly into its place between bony growths jutting up from his shoulder. Never leave home without ya’ll.

  He traced a few possible routes on his combination subway/monorail map, figuring out the best ways to get across town in the next few hours. It wouldn’t be a fun ride, that’s for sure, but considering that he couldn’t exactly call Emu for a lift, it was an option. This part of planning a mission made Rude really miss having a dependable rigger to call in a pinch.