Shadowrun, p.28
Shadowrun, page 28
While Liontamer helped Orkus down the fire escape, Auriga threw his van into reverse and backed up to Two Shadows. By the time the other two reached the street, he had the old shaman in the back.
“Time to get the frag somewhere else,” Liontamer said.
“The book—we can’t leave the book,” Orkus said.
“No drek, smart guy,” she said. Inside the limo they found the rat-eaten remains of a rigger and the guy with the case. Don’t throw up DON’T throw up. To keep from spewing his dinner onto the street, Orkus had to look away as Liontamer used her combat knife to chop through the guy’s arm and take the case.
By the time they reached the van, Two Shadows already looked better, thanks to one of Auriga’s stim patches. “You got it,” the shaman said as Auriga put the van in drive and left the scene of the run, then let his head fall back onto the headrest, almost instantly asleep.
“No,” Orkus said. “We got it. We did it together.”
“Frag yeah,” Liontamer said. Auriga grinned.
“Let’s have a look at this thing. Drek, we left the keys behind!”
Liontamer dangled a silver key on a broken chain in front of his face. “Whaddaya think, I’m stupid? Got this from around the guy’s neck while you were trying not to puke.”
The case contained high-impact padding covered with purple velvet. Fit snugly into the padding was the grimoire. Formed into the lining inside the lid was a symbol: a rooster-headed man with serpents for legs, wielding a sickle-like weapon in one hand and carrying a shield emblazoned with the letters ASKI in the other.
“Oh, drek,” Orkus said.
“What?” Auriga said, braking.
“The guys buying the grimoire—I know them, I know this symbol. It’s the Lodge of Great Abraxas.”
“Who the hell are they?”
“A group of powerful mages—really powerful, with a reputation for doing anything to get what they want. Rumor on the mystic grapevine says these guys even delve into black magic...and blood magic.”
“So what you’re saying is we may have just pissed off a gang of sorcerers. Fraggin’ great!” Liontamer said.
“It gets worse.”
“Fraaaag. What?”
“I think Two Shadows was right. This book is dark, and dangerous. We should think about what we do with it.”
“You mean we can’t even sell it?” Auriga asked. “This whole run was for nothing?”
“No, no, just that we should be careful about who we sell it to—and for what.”
“Care to explain that?”
“Well, groups like Great Abraxas walk on the dark side, but there are some that stay firmly on the path of Light. Like the Lodge of Helios Ascendant, or the Brotherhood of Horus. They can lock away or destroy things like this to keep the world safe.”
“So let’s get in touch with some of these guys and get our payday!” Liontamer said. “Maybe we can start a bidding war.”
“We don’t want nuyen anymore, though—well, not just nuyen,” Orkus said.
“What the frag else is there?” Liontamer asked. “They got gear?”
“No, something better: protection. If Great Abraxas figures out who took the book and killed their guys, we’re going to need some Grade-A help if we want to stay alive,” Orkus said. “That...and we have to watch each other’s backs. What do you think?”
“Y’mean—form a team for real? Keep working together?” Auriga said.
“Exactly. We did pretty fraggin’ good back there, didn’t we? Let’s stop settling for the little runs and make ourselves some real cred.”
“Frag, I’m in,” Liontamer said. “If you can keep me healed up like that, there’s no telling what kind of drek we can pull off once I get some decent chrome.”
“How about you, Auriga?”
The rigger nodded. “Sounds good...omae.”
Orkus leaned back in his seat with a smile. Some of the sickening feel of drain still lurked in his gut, but for once he didn’t care. Maybe—just maybe—my luck’s finally changed for the better.
THE PLACEBO EFFECT
(6 of Blades)
MALIK TOMS
Nobody clapped.
In the tight, spherical chamber, the absence of applause was a harsh, living thing. It stalked around the room, echoing hollow and demanding. Then, mercifully, someone near the front of the conference room cleared his throat.
Finally, the applause came in light spatters, starting with the department head and trickling down through the ranks as though pulled through a strainer. They were clapping because they had to. Politeness, station, and the power of her name dragged their hands together and flung them back again in a rehearsed rhythm, but it was too late. The damage had already been done. It showed in the red of her cheeks.
Jasmine Mitsui glanced around the small conference room, focusing more on the pictures on the grey walls, the coffee service on the long mahogany table, and refusing to take in their faces. She bowed, partly to hide her shame, collected her tablet from the table, and quickly left the meeting.
Later, when the corporate building was just a shadow blotting the sun, she steered away from the busy throughways pushing toward Melbourne’s Southbank promenade and the river beyond. Water brought Jasmine peace and happiness since she was a child in Fukuoka. Eyeing the elm trees lining the bank of the Yarra River, she suspected here would be no different.
Jasmine parked near the bank of the river, taking a moment to smooth her dress before easing out of the car. No, Melbourne didn’t smell anything like her childhood home. It smelled like cat piss. She did her best not to crinkle her nose. At least the scenery was pleasing. A bench near the water seemed the perfect place to wind down. She buttoned her coat against the cold before checking her commlink.
Seven messages.
Four were from her husband. She ignored those. She knew what they said. Two others were from people in her department, updates on the upcoming Kaya project. The latest was from her VP. He’d called in while she’d been driving. She ignored this one as well, dialing her husband’s number instead.
He answered on the first ring. In the background, she could see the shelves of corporate awards lining the walls of their living room. Behind his head hung the samurai blades that had hung above her father’s fireplace as a child. Takahashi Mitsui wore a grim expression. His eyes looked gray in the false light of the commscreen. His mouth, mostly hidden by a black beard, was turned downward.
“Greetings from Melbourne, my husband.” Jasmine tried to look cheerful. She widened the camera aperture, and the beauty of the Southbank promenade unveiled itself around her.
His expression did not change. “The presentation?”
“It went very well, thank you.”
“I heard it was a disaster. I heard you fucked up.”
Her careful smile slipped just a little.
“You’re surprised? Did you think I wouldn’t be watching? After Hong Kong? After Vientiane? Do you understand how much time and energy it takes to correct your mistakes?”
Her mouth opened and closed, fumbling with an answer, but nothing emerged.
“Do you recognize that when you speak, you do so with my name, my reputation? Do you recognize the disgrace you bring to this house with your fuck ups?!”
But it isn’t your name, she thought. She wanted to say that, to own her own name, but instead she bowed her head and forced an apology through tight lips. It did nothing to slow his rage. He said, “We will deal with this when you get home.”
Afterward, Jasmine sat at the river’s edge, the afternoon damp settling into her bones. In time, she walked back through the busy streets of Melbourne, forgetting her car, losing herself in the crowds. She walked without direction, wrestling with a decision she realized she’d made long before she came here, yet trying to screw up the courage to make it real. Her hands shook when she placed the call.
The man’s voice on the other end was muffled, like someone speaking through a towel. “We thought you might contact us. Find a way to meet me tonight at Izakaya Zen.” After a moment, he added, “Come alone.”
Japanese women of station did not drink, so it terrified her to be seen at a place like this. Izakaya Zen was crowded with candlelit tables. Waiters dressed in bowties scurried between the tables toting sake tokkuris or bottles of wine. One slowed near her table, delivering a bowl of mixed nuts before vanishing into the gloom of the nightclub.
She noticed her contact before he reached the table. He was nothing like what she expected. The man was tall, with orange-red hair. He wore an off-the-rack suit as if it were a straitjacket, looking more accustomed to dealing with joygirls than corporate officers. She felt a thin film of sweat break out at her hairline and started to get up, to get away before he saw her and she couldn’t take all of this back.
“Miss Mitsui?” He spoke in a thick accent that wasn’t quite Australian.
“Mrs.”
“You can call me Ferguson if you like.” He extended a meaty hand. Jasmine returned the stiff handshake and sat back down. Ferguson set an item on the table between them. It looked like a commlink or a large optical drive. He noticed her watching and said, “I call it a babbler. It sends out signals in a dozen formats, designed to confuse anything or anyone that might be trying to overhear what we’re discussing.”
This should have put her at ease, but she clenched her hands around her purse until the blue veins ran like ant tunnels beneath her pale skin.
“Don’t worry, everyone gets nervous when they do this. That’s the reason so many back out at the last minute, but we aren’t going to have that problem are we?”
He waited for a response, but when none seemed forthcoming, he continued. “Please understand, my employer has agreed to pay a significant percentage of the fees for your relocation. However, they do ask that you cover a portion of the cost to ensure that you are serious about leaving your company. Call it insurance, for sticking our necks out so far.”
She didn’t want to make eye contact. She kept on looking at the waiters, trying to hide the fact that she was searching every other table for a face she might know. Ferguson popped a wasabi-covered pecan into his mouth and crunched loudly. “Usually the people I work with can’t wait to tell me why they want to be extracted. It’s the quiet ones that get me curious.”
He kept on staring at her with that lopsided grin, his lips smacking as he chewed. She scanned the room again, checking the other tables. Takahashi’s spies could be anywhere.
“Go on, now. I won’t bite.”
She said, “I explained who my husband is when your people contacted me. He is a very powerful man. Very demanding. If I succeed in my work, he tells me to work harder. But if I fail him…”
“You’re smart and beautiful. It’s no surprise he married you, but you had to know what you were getting into marrying someone with that family name.”
She flushed with anger. “No, Mitsui is my family name. When we were married, he took our name. He claimed it was to honor my father, his mentor.”
Ferguson laughed. “Not sure my employers knew about that part. Good bit of work keeping it a secret.”
“Our family has many secrets, but Takahashi is not one of them. We grew up together. My father always treated him like a son. We were friends, but competitors as well. I was always the better student. I think he hated me for it. He drank and fought and cheated at school, but still my father loved him, so I always cleaned up for him.” She could tell by Mr. Ferguson’s expression that he didn’t care. He’d grown bored with the explanation, but she kept talking anyway. She didn’t understand why. Maybe she needed to hear the words for herself. “I made him appear to be the best version of himself. When we were both old enough, it was decided that we should be married.”
Just saying the words Jasmine felt a nervous thrill of possibility push through her. She went on. “In marriage, I kept on taking care of him. Even after I started my own career, my real job was to bear his anger.”
“So what changed?”
“I have children, Mr. Ferguson. A four-year-old girl, Sumiye, and a baby boy, Kenta. He would never hurt Kenta, but I don’t want this life for Sumiye. I want to leave. I want it to destroy him.”
She laughed and absently set her hand on top of his. Then the reality of what she was doing set in. She yanked her hand back as if she’d been touching a flame. How many of his spies were watching her right now? Jasmine wrapped her arms around herself, her body hot with fear.
Ferguson leaned in suddenly and she scurried backward, almost falling off her chair. He caught her arm and reeled her back to him, speaking in a slow whisper, “Nobody here notices us. If they did they’d see another sheila on vacation, picking up a local spunk for some extra-curriculars. No one cares until you make a scene.”
He rubbed her arm slowly, selling the ruse. His breath stank of tamari and wasabi. Jasmine fought hard not to cringe. In her mind, extractions were meant to be a formal arrangement, negotiated by well-tailored businessmen, not a smarmy man in a tacky nightclub. She straightened and said, “What now?”
“That’s up to you.”
“What will happen if I say yes? Will you send shadowrunners?”
“I can’t go into details on the specifics, but if you agree to our terms, you’ll be contacted by the people doing the extracting. They will give you enough time to get your children, as well as any data you feel might be beneficial to your new employer.”
Ferguson released her arm and leaned back before daring the next question. “So, do we have a deal?”
Jasmine thought about what would happen when she went home. She thought about her children, about what growing up in that household would do to them. She pulled out her credstick and touched it to his, exchanging a sum much larger than she expected.
Ferguson stood up. He scooped a handful of the nuts out of the bowl, popped three more into his mouth, smiled, and left.
Jasmine lingered a few minutes longer, her foot tapping against the base of the chair like a metronome. By the time she’d worked up the courage to leave, her companion was already out of sight.
Mitsuhama’s suborbital touched down in New York at 1500 hours. The markets were still open for another hour so, and she hoped her husband would still be at work. Jasmine fiddled with her commlink the entire flight, praying the call would come in before she went home to Takahashi. She didn’t think she could bear another night of pretending. A company car met her at the airport. When the driver opened the rear door, she had a sick feeling in her stomach that her husband would be inside, waiting. She breathed a quiet sigh of relief when he wasn’t.
Her commlink buzzed on the drive home, alerting her to an audio-only message. Unknown sender. Jasmine played it. She played it two more times before she finally accepted what the caller was saying. It wasn’t Ferguson, but a woman who claimed to be an associate. She called herself Mika. She had a reedy voice and spoke in drawn-out language, like her words were being recoded by a CourtesanSoft, or one of the etiquette manipulators her competitors made. When the message was over, Jasmine played the last part again, a thread of nervous tension building in her chest.
“I will be at your door in forty minutes. Be prompt for pickup. Bring only one bag. We will not have an opportunity to make additional stops once we are underway.”
Jasmine told the driver to take her to the office. She’d decided on the plane to take all the files she could. Jasmine didn’t know what would be relevant to her new employer. She didn’t even know what she would do at this new corporation. Regardless, it was a fresh start.
She grabbed all the specs for the Kaya project. She also took scans of the R9 package she’d been pitching in Melbourne. Then she logged back into the system under her husband’s name. It was an easy matter figuring out his password. Her own name, followed by the date he’d met her father and then the name of their son. She slotted a chip and downloaded the entire contents of his personal datastore. Takahashi would hear about the intrusion, but hopefully by then it would be too late.
The children were in daycare. Jasmine had stopped hiring nannies after one, a girl no more than seventeen, saw Takahashi hit her. Jasmine didn’t think the girl would have said anything, but she wasn’t willing to risk anyone knowing about what went on in their home. She was always polite at the daycare, the consummate corporate wife. She made time to partake in the requisite small talk that turned each afternoon pickup into a social hour. So when Jasmine stormed in and demanded her children be brought up to the front, everyone took notice. She didn’t care. It would make a nice bit of gossip, but she would never see any of them again. Time was all that mattered now.
By the time Jasmine made it upstairs to the apartment, she only had eight minutes left. She set the baby down in his play crib and ran from bedroom to bedroom, moving so fast that it made Sumiye nervous. She’d barely said a word to her children since picking them up. Her daughter stared up at her, firing off a dozen questions. When Jasmine didn’t reply, her daughter let out a nervous cry. Her voice started Kenta crying, alternating wails of panic and grief that made Jasmine want to scream.
Over it all came a knock at the door. The sound shocked them as much as it did her. They settled down immediately in an old habit born from knowing how to behave when father came home. It shouldn’t be him though, not this early. The person knocked again. Jasmine took a moment to settle her nerves own before opening the door.
The woman at the door was taller than Jasmine. In the light of the doorway her bangs looked tipped in red, like fingernails dipped in blood. She had brown skin and a pretty face buried under too much eye makeup. She wore a long black coat with what appeared to be leather pants and a Dolly and the Llama band shirt underneath. She looked like she was going to a club. Jasmine started say something, but the woman cut her off. “Do you mind if we speak inside while you get ready, Mrs. Mitsui?”
The woman closed the door behind herself and locked it. All Jasmine could think to say now was, “How did you get past the building security?”
