Into the Shadows Read online

  MERCS, MAGIC, AND MURDER

  In the world of the future, reality has shifted. It is a time where supercorporations are the true rulers, and their corporate wars, power games, and espionage missions all too often rampage out of control. The nation is divided into megaplexes, sprawling urban centres peopled by everything from true humans to elves, dwarves, orks, trolls, were-folk, mages, and the occasional upwardly mobile dragon.

  In this world where magic and technology coexist, and where both have become far too advanced for comfort, the shadowrunners survive by the quickness of their wits, the sharpness of their fangs and blades, and their skill at riding the computer Matrix. And if the price is right, or the need is great enough, they’ll sell their services to any bidder. These are their stories.

  THE MISSION

  "We hope you will not be under surveillance, Thorn. While we were concerned that your involvement with the Night Hunters might indicate that you were compromised, that appears to have been a private matter."

  "Wizard! So I make my debut here in Seattle by getting my ass shot off on your run?" the elf growled.

  "If you don’t accept our offer, we can kick your sorry butt back onto the street and let the Night Hunters finish what they started."

  Thorn stared at the magician, his mouth open. "You drive a hard bargain. O.K., chummers, let’s get two things straight, up front. If you want me in, then I call the shots. And if this mess starts to hose up the way the last one did, you won’t see me for dust, savvy?"

  "My dear Thorn, if this operation goes the way of its unfortunate predecessor, dust will be our common destination, as in dust to dust, ashes to ashes. You see, our target is a research lab belonging to United Oil."

  "United ... holy crud, Fortescue, aren’t they the corp with a dragon running security?"

  "Exactly, Thorn. If we should err seriously in executing this commission, we’ll be dead so fast, we won’t know what hit us ..."

  from Tailchaser by Paul R. Hume

  SHADOWRUN : 7

  INTO THE SHADOWS

  A Shadowrun Anthology edited by

  JORDAN K. WEISMAN

  CONTENTS

  PROLOGUE

  A PLAGUE OF DEMONS by Tom Dowd

  GRAVEROBBERS by Elizabeth T. Danforth

  TAILCHASER by Paul R. Hume

  STRIPER by Nyx Smith

  WHITECHAPEL ROSE by Lorelei Shannon

  TURTLE IN THE TOWER by Ken St. Andre

  FREE FALL by Tom Dowd

  WOULD IT HELP TO SAY I’M SORRY? by Michael A. Stackpole

  IT’S ALL DONE WITH MIRRORS by Michael A. Stackpole

  GLOSSARY OF SLANG: 2050

  CONTRIBUTORS

  TIMELINE

  COPYRIGHT

  PROLOGUE

  It is a glinting, glistening, flashing, studded, neon, chrome, mirror, rhinestone, circo conglomeration of humanity.

  —Anonymous

  The year is 2050. Advances in technology are astonishing, with humans able to meld with computers and travel through that netherworld of data known as the Matrix. Not only that, but cybernetic enhancements able to penetrate the skin allow man to behave in ways that are more than human.

  As predicted by the ancient Mayan calendars, magic has returned to the world, with elves, dragons, dwarfs, orks, and trolls assuming their true forms. Magicians and shamans wield the ancient power in the modern world, while the nations of the world are mere figureheads compared to the giant megacorporations whose power cannot be constrained by mere borders.

  Moving through it all like whispers in the night are the shadowrunners. No one admits their existence. They show up in no corporate or governmental database. They have no SINs, System identification Numbers; in effect, they were never born. No one admits their existence, but no one else can do their secret work. When a corp or other individual or group needs some dirty work done, they hire shadowrunners. A runner’s life can be a short but lucrative career.

  Into the Shadows is set in the fast streets and angry shadows of Seattle, now an urban sprawl encompassing some I,600 square rniles, from Everett to Tacoma. Yet even this vast megaplex is but an enclave set amid larger states ruled by Native American nations and other sovereign states of metahumans and Awakened Beings.

  A PLAGUE OF DEMONS

  by Tom Dowd

  He stepped into the street, wincing at the cold rain coming down in sheets. The sun, cursed twelve long days ago after a particularly dark night of shotguns and a bellyful of Absolut ringers, was still something only promised in long-range weathercasts and simsense posters. He pulled his coat tighter, warming himself against the rain, which drummed against him like nervous fingers. For a moment he thought about getting something to cover his head, then decided against going back upstairs. It was too late for hats.

  He caught the electric bus heading south on Kingland and rode it to the turn-around at the Steuben Plaza Mall. The Knight Errant complex was only a few blocks away through the puddles. Halfway, he paused to watch a Lone Star chopper play its halogens over the broken wall of an elven tenement a few blocks down. The mist caught the glow and flashes of emergency lights. Another night in the sprawl.

  He stopped within sight of his destination and thought again about what he was doing. It was a step back, away from where he'd been. A step away from his life as he'd made it. He sighed; trash was best thrown out and forgotten.

  He pulled sunglasses from one pocket and slipped them on against the glare of the lobby’s overdose of flourescents. It helped, and gave him an excuse to run his hand quickly over his hair to flatten it. He smiled; the thug look was back.

  The two guards in the lobby didn’t appreciate his fashion sense. He hadn’t taken more than two steps past the door when they’d set themselves. The first stood behind the reception desk—and four centimeters of carballoy plating, if he remembered it right. The second had begun to walk casually toward one of the tables in the reception area, as though he were merely going to browse through some of the hardzines dropped there. The guards had given him two separated targets and eliminated their crossfire. Slick, he thought.

  "Welcome to Knight Errant Security," said the one at the desk. "Can I help you, sir?" The man’s duty uniform was spotless, perfectly cut and bearing a single silver star under the insignia patch. All of it brought back memories hard as the driving rain. Very carefully, and after nodding once to each of the men, he pulled the clipcase from the upper pocket of his coat and flipped it open toward the sensor over the desk. "Thanks," he said. "I know my way."

  The guard nodded once as the computer whispered the identification from the card into his ear. His eyes widened slightly and he nodded to his partner. The guard stepped from behind the desk, picking up the eye scanner as he moved. "I’m sorry, but new regulations require we revalidate your retina file. If you could just look into the scanner."

  He took the device the man handed him. "Sure, and double-check me in the process. Not a problem." He lifted his sunglasses and looked into the scanner. "Hey, dirty pictures."

  The guard nodded and smiled as the computer ran, crosschecked, and verified the retina pattern. "You’re clear through. Mr. Cross," he said, taking the scanner back. "Have a good evening."

  "Thanks. By the way, who’s got the hot seat tonight?"

  "Rachel Morelle, sir."

  Cross winced, nodded once, and a few steps later had disappeared into the depths of the building. The guard stared after him as the scanner reset itself for its next use. "Son of a bitch," he said.

  "What?" The second guard had come up behind him.

  "That was Brandon Cross."

  "Thought so," his partner said, casually glancing at the row of monitors on the desk. "I’m surprised his ID’s still valid."

  "I’m not.
He had good reasons. The company respected them."

  "Look, everybody has good reasons," said the second guard, "but that doesn’t mean they should fraggin’ just let him walk away."

  * * *

  The color of her hair, a deep coppery red, was the same as he remembered, though her face seemed a little sharper, more delicate. Her eyes, however, were alien to him. Gone was the gentle amusement, something new in its place. Something had changed.

  Her grin collapsed. "You what?" she said, leaning forward.

  Cross sighed; it was the reaction he’d expected. "I said I need work." At least she hadn’t laughed.

  "You want to come back to the company?" She laid her hands flat on the desk. "Just like that?"

  Cross shook his head. "No, that’s not what I said. I need work, but not for the company. Freelance."

  Morelle closed her eyes and leaned back in her chair. She’d barely touched the leather when her eyes snapped open. "OK, I give. What’s the punchline."

  "No punchline. No joke. All I need is a cast-off. You know that Detroit would never approve me back on the payroll."

  "No, I don’t know that, but you’re probably right," she said, playing absently with the light-stylus in her hand. "You certainly don’t have many friends there anymore."

  "You're right." Cross stood and walked slowly toward the window. It was a direct trip; the office was bare except for the desk and two chairs. "That’s why I'm asking you as a friend, Rache."

  "You need money?"

  "No." The street was clear, except for the puddles and the crazy dance of the rain hitting them.

  "Then what?"

  He looked around. "Where’s all the stuff you used to have in your old cube? You know, the books, the figurines, your California prep school photos? I’d have figured you'd bring them all with you."

  She shrugged. "I've still got them. Didn’t see any reason to clutter the place. New office and such."

  "Oh."

  "What do you want. Brand?"

  "I need work."

  She sighed. "You’ve done shadow work. We know all about it." She managed a slight smile. "You’re never far from our thoughts, you know." On the street a lone cycle, its rider’s long white hair whipping in the rain, sprayed water as it passed.

  "I need something a little cleaner." Cross reached out and tapped one finger silently against the glass. "This is new," he said. "At least an eight-degree refraction, vibration dampening, and I bet it could stop a twelve-millimeter slug."

  "Fourteen," she said, leaning forward again. "Look, why don’t you just do a tour with Desert Wars or something. It’s the desert, but it’s clean."

  Cross shook his head. "That much sky gives me hives."

  "You’ve got friends on the street. What about them? That bunch you work with?"

  "No."

  "So this is about the Steuban extraction." Her face seemed to tighten as she spoke, the light-stylus in her hand tapping out a slow beat against the leather arm of the chair.

  "I guess I can assume it's common knowledge. On the street the only thing that travels faster than news of failure is the bullet with your name on it."

  "How poetic—and unlike you. She knew, the risks, Brandon. Kristin Worthly was a professional shadowrunner. It’s a cliche, but it comes with the territory."

  Cross turned. "Worthly."

  The pen stopped. "Lynx, I suppose," she said, shrugging. "Worthly was her birth name."

  "Really? I never knew that." Cross turned back toward the view of the street. "I also didn’t realize Knight Errant was keeping such a tight watch on me."

  "What about Eve Donovan? She’s a friend of yours. Fixer extraordinaire, if I remember the file right."

  "I’m sure you do. I haven’t heard back from her. You have been keeping a tight eye on me."

  She looked away. "I’m sorry, I can’t help you. You know I can’t open the files for you."

  Cross nodded and tapped the glass again. "I know, Rachel.

  I know." He turned to leave but stopped just before passing through the door. He spoke without turning. "So why did you accept the promotion? When we were together you always said you could never sit still long enough to work a desk."

  "People change."

  He nodded and left.

  * * *

  They stood and watched as the lights from the Lone Star light air vehicle passing overhead filled the shadows with pools of shifting crimson and violet. The LAV’s siren was silent, but the throb of its vector-thrust engines reverberated audibly through the misty night.

  "Effective, is it not?" said Diamond, as the vehicle disappeared in the distance.

  "'Yepper," said Cross. "Those v-thrust engines make an LAV damn expensive, but they can lift more armor and more weapons than any chopper. The bigger ones can even pack a light response team if necessary."

  Diamond smiled and looked down at his friend. "I was referring to its psychological impact. What would I know about cerasheet armor and target-tracking radar?"

  "Not much, I expect. Unless ole Coyote's got an active subscription to Soldier of Fortune. "

  "He keeps many things active, Brandon. He is not one who forgets, either."

  Cross looked skyward and blinked as the mist filled his eyes. "Should I steel myself for some of your usual totem-induced statements of foreboding? Or are you going to deal it straight for a change?"

  The black man laughed. "Cynicism does not suit you. my friend. Perhaps sarcasm would serve you better."

  Cross closed his eyes. "I was being sarcastic."

  "Sarcasm is a function of language. Brandon. Cynicism is a way of life."

  Cross ignored the latter statement. "I suppose Eve sent you with something for me?"

  Diamond’s eyebrows raised. "No. she did not. I wasn't aware that you had spoken with her recently."

  "Yeah, the other day. I've been looking for work."

  "Ah! That would explain much."

  "Here we go . . . ," said Cross.

  "I’ve heard your names mentioned on the winds—"

  "Eat less Mexican."

  "Brandon ..."

  "Sorry." he said, stuffing his hands into the pockets of his long coat.

  "I've seen the wheel of change associated with you, and the veil of deception and the mask of the false image. I fear you are again to be the tool of destruction, but not the hand of death."

  "Again."

  Diamond nodded slowly. "Yes, again."

  "I almost died in there. I don’t want to go through that again. "

  "I understand, my friend." Diamond reached out and clasped his hand hard on Cross’s shoulder. "You must always remember that they are abominations, devoid of any trace of humanity, regardless of what form they take."

  Cross stepped back and turned away, moving a short distance off from Diamond. "So it’s got to be me again, eh? When you need a job done, call on the man with experience."

  "This is the path and the sword of fire, Brandon Cross. As you cleanse, so shall you be cleansed."

  Cross looked once over his shoulder as he walked away. "What makes you think I need cleansing?" he said quietly, but he had already left Diamond far behind.

  * * *

  Later, Cross couldn’t sleep. The heat was up too high in his apartment, but he knew that if he complained now he would freeze tomorrow. Through the open window he heard the soft tread of steps on the fire escape. An Ares Predator heavy-pistol, swathed in the darkness and folds of his bed sheets, warmed to his touch.

  The girl was young, maybe half his age. Maybe. The only thing light about her was the paleness of her face, the gleam of her teeth, and the bright sparkle in her eyes. Everything else was black: her long coat, shoes, shirt, gloves, and hair. Dyed black, except for seemingly random splatters of deep red all over her. She was one of the King’s Crimson street gang. He wasn’t all that surprised; sometimes they seemed to be Eve’s personal army.

  He released the gun and stood up. "Eve Donovan sent you?"

  The g
irl stared.

  "Great. What’ve you got?"

  Reaching inside her coat, she pulled out a black optical chip, which she flipped toward him. It was labeled in a woman’s hand with one simple word, "Cross."

  "Thanks. Anything else I need?" He hadn’t expected a reaction, but the girl slowly raised her arm and pointed past him. He turned. Hanging on the wall behind him was an autographed holosheet for Tara Hardcastle’s last simsense production. Blind Faith. He turned back toward the girl slowly.

  "You tell Diamond I hope he burns in hell."

  > > > > > DATAMAIL™ < < < < <

  SOURCE; NA/DNV:BMR (FJ)

  DESTINATION: UCAS/SEA/3206 (82-0071/CROSSB)

  * *BEGIN* *

  Brandon:

  Here’s the info you wanted:

  Ellen Tyler-Rand

  Born 14 March 2023, Sacramento, California Free State Parents

  Barbara (Capuano) Tyler [mother] b. 2002

  Warren Tyler [father] b. 1995 d. 2043 Married Aaron Rand, March 2048 (b. 2023 d. 2050) Background:

  Designated heir of father, Warren Tyler, president and primary stockholder (62.4%) of Western Biosystems, the Redmond hydroponics concern. Maintains ownership and title of Western Biosystems, but leaves control of corporation to younger brother Mitchell Tyler, CEO. Reputedly some bad blood with mother regarding inheritance.

  Husband, Aaron Rand, local Seattle playboy and hedonist, died early last year following a binge at Pulse, the exclusive simsense club. You might remember the event from the datafaxes. Allegedly he was a regular and had the psychotherapy bills to prove it. Shadowtalk has it that someone slipped him a snuff-BTL. He didn’t die happy.

  She’s apparently been something of a recluse since then. None of the keyword or image searches I ran turned up more than a few references to the standard charitable donations (don't worry, no Brotherhood). Nothing much else.

  If you want me to dig deeper, let me know. I really didn’t find anything more than what Evie gave you on the disk (tell her I said hi), but I might if I ring some bells a little louder.

  Oh, my sources estimate net worth at about 2.3 million nuyen . . . So, she’s got lots a yen.