Shadowrun 01 - Never Deal With A Dragon (25 page)

"Other guy?" Castillano queried.

"Sir Corp, you made no mention of another."

"Well, there was another employee being extracted at the same time," Sam said.

"Shadows say only you and the woman."

"Well, there was another guy, and he must have taken something. The Elves said there was high-tech stuff in the van he was in. He's dead now, too."

"Elves?" Castillano's tone clearly indicated that he expected an elaboration.

Sam explained what he had seen and heard of the border patrol. Castillano's face remained impassive, but Dodger looked thoughtful.

" 'Twould seem that the Dragon's words to the Tir Tairngire authorities were taken to heart."

"A Dragon?" Sam asked, suddenly suspicious. "What kind of Dragon?"

Dodger shrugged. "Whatever the form, they are all trouble. Do you know, Castillano?"

"Feathered serpent. Young."

"Tessien." Sam felt sure of it.

"You have knowledge of this beast?"

"I'm afraid so, if it's the same one." How many could there be? "It was supposed to be Roe's partner."

Dodger sat back at the mention of her name and even Castillano blinked. Sam didn't know what to make of their reactions, but he was sure he wasn't going to like the explanation.

"Roe?"

"Yes. The woman who arranged the extraction. Do you know her?"

Dodger and Castillano exchanged glances. The fixer nodded slightly, but it was Dodger who spoke. "There is someone with a bit of reputation in the shadows. Was your Ms. Roe an Elf with platinum hair and an expensive wardrobe?"

"She would fit that description," Sam confirmed.

"Roe, of course, is not her real name," Dodger said. Looking worried, he leaned back in his chair. "This shadow person of whom I spoke—there are rumors that she has partnered with a Dragon in some of her most recent escapades. That dracoform is whispered to be known as Tessien. I think, Sir Corp, that there cannot be two Elves partnered with dracoforms named Tessien. Very likely, you lady Elf is the notorious runner better known as Hart."

"Don't want any trouble with Hart. Suit, you got to go."

"We need not be hasty, Lord C. 'Twould seem that the border guards believe your guest to be dead. Hart and her employer will have the same information. No one will come looking."

Castillano shook his head. "Unnecessary risk."

"Verily, you worry too much, Lord C. Your enterprise will remain undisturbed."

"What are you doing here?" Sam asked innocently.

"Need to learn manners, Suit."

"Sorry. I thought you were a fixer. Isn't that a city thing?"

"So?"

Dodger spoke up, his light tone an apology for the fixer's gruff reticence. "Lord C. is engaged in a noble and charitable service, Sir Corp. He arranges for those who have an abundance of small, valuable items to dispose of their excess to those who have a dearth of such, but have difficulties dealing with certain arbitrary political boundaries."

"You talk too much, Elf."

"Come, come, Gracious Host. I believe that our friend here is stalwart and trustworthy. He shan't reveal any of your secrets, for it would be most disloyal to betray his host's trust and Sir Corp places a very high value on loyalty."

"Too many mouths; too much talk." Castillano rubbed at the palm of his left hand. "Don't want extra trouble."

"I don't want to give it to you," Sam assured him. "I won't say anything. But I need your help. I need to get back to the metroplex."

"Got a plan?"

"I guess I'll go back to Renraku. This whole thing is so crazy. I don't see any other way to straighten it out."

"Got a lot to learn."

"I've got to do something. From what you've said, someone, either Roe, I mean Hart, or whoever is behind her, deliberately set me up to be killed. That same someone let me drag an innocent woman into their plot. It's my fault that Hanae was killed, and I've got to do something to set that right. They're murderers and I'm going to see that they pay for it."

"Very noble."

"Scoff not at this man, Lord C. He has been wronged and his heart cries out for revenge. Surely you understand revenge?"

"I understand business." Castillano rubbed his palms together. "This is bad for it."

"I'll pay you," Sam offered desperately.

"What?" Castillano asked tonelessly. "Got no credit, no money, no gold. Only a pile of old pictures and a few chips."

"You can have the chips. The persona programs are worth something."

"Too hot. They're tagged."

"Sir Corp offers all he has, Castillano. Surely that is worth something."

"Appealing to my Human nature, Elf?"

Dodger smiled humorlessly. "Call it what you will. If you do not help, I shall. Suddenly I find more merit in his desires than in the lure of your offer."

"Your loss, Elf." Castillano stood. "Got some credit coming. Be in your account."

"Your honor is intact, Lord C."

"Just have the kid leave the clean chips before you leave." Castillano signed to his men and they all headed for one of the other rooms. Freya gave Sam a look that he interpreted as sympathetic before heaving herself up from before the fire and padding after them. Sam thought he heard the Elf add softly, "Though your mercy lags."

Just before vanishing into the next room, Castillano threw a parting shot over his shoulder. "Keep the Bible, kid. You'll need it."

"Eighth Street Mission," proclaimed the sign.

The faded and chipped letters had seen better days, as had the battered and scarred brick building they named. All the lower windows were sealed with opaque construction plastic behind the rusted, bent, and now obviously useless bars that once protected them. Grafitti in sufficient layers to suggest generations of down-Sprawl artists made a riotous skirt around the sedate centenarian structure. One symbol on the wall along the stairs to the main entrance was bold, as though set apart from the other scribblings. Sam had never seen the thistle in a ring design, but he guessed that the emblem proclaimed the building under the protection of the local street gang.

The mission was of a piece with its surroundings. Though much of Portland had been rebuilt, this section was still mostly pre-Awakening. It was only one of the slums that clung to the edges of the revitalized center where neo-Elven architecture, with its graceful curves, eccentric designs, and environmentally integrated architecture, dominated a skyline that would have seemed alien to men of the previous century. Even to Sam, the Elven-style buildings seemed uncomfortably different from either the clean-lined edifices or the retrofitted make-dos of the great urban Sprawls. The shapes and outlines chosen by the Elven architects seemed to proclaim the glories of the Sixth World and to revel in the restoration of magic on Earth. Sam had been relieved when he and Dodger finally crossed into the older parts of Portland and the Elven spires were hidden from view. Despite having grown up in safe corporate enclaves, the littered streets and gloomy Sprawl made him feel more at home.

Dodger led the way up the steps to the mission and into the large room that took up more than half the entry level. The open door and dirty windows let in barely enough of the mid-morning light to alleviate the darkness. Scattered bulbs burned feebly in a pathetic attempt to compensate, while the stench of despairing and broken humanity was strong. Inheritors of the miasma were scattered about the chamber, many slumped or curled in fitful sleep. Some sat silently on the room's mismatched, battered furniture while others chattered in a steady stream, whether or not anyone was listening. The aged and the ageless in their filth partook of the mission's charity alongside dissipated youth and ragged homeless. The mission's occupants were a dirty and smelly lot, but only those obviously in the last stages of chip addiction looked malnourished. Moving solicitously among these refugees from the streets was a broad man in a dark suit. His shirtfront shone with the stark white of a Roman collar, marking him as a priest.

"Father Lawrence."

The priest turned at the sound of his name. His face was wide, in keeping with his frame. His forehead was marred by a large wart, but overall his features were pleasant if somewhat coarse. In the dim light, he seemed to have a faint gray pallor. Only when he smiled did Sam see the enlarged lower canines that revealed the priest as an Ork. A mild expression of the Ork gene complex, perhaps, but definite.

"Dodger," the priest exclaimed with evident pleasure as he recognized the Elf. "I didn't know you were in town."

"Verily, Father, that is good news. For if you did not know, then no one did."

The priest laughed heartily. "You overrate me as usual. Still, I shall have to speak to a few people."

"Not too harshly, I trust."

"No. No. But one must always be aware of the way the wind blows.
Respar sallah tishay a imar makkanagee-ha
. Eh?"

Dodger cocked his head and gave the priest an admonitory look. "Few of your patrons speak Sperethiel. What have you been up to?"

"God's work, as always." Father Lawrence said, waving his hand to encompass the mission.

"God still allows you leeway to deal with criminals, then?"

"Criminals, citizens, nobles, even paladins and shadowrunners are His children." Though his words were pedantic, the priest's voice held firm and honest conviction. "It is to the sinner that we must open our hearts, for where is the merit in loving those who stand high in His favor while spurning those who need aid? God ever favors just causes."

"As is this man's, Father. We come as suppliants in need of a bed and rest. You can call my friend"—Dodger paused for a thoughtful moment, then his face lit mischievously as inspiration struck—"Twist."

The priest looked Sam over, his eyes taking in the details of Sam's attitude and appearance and evaluating them in an instant. Whatever conclusions he reached were concealed behind his ready grin. Father Lawrence reached out and shook Sam's hand vigorously. "Welcome to the mission, Twist. Any friend of Dodger has a place here."

"Thank you."

"Are you a Christian?"

"Yes." Sam felt compelled to add, "But I'm not Catholic, Father."

"That can be remedied with good will and faith, but you won't find me pushy about it. All who observe the rules and peace of this house are welcome here. The good Lord provides as He will. Of course, He understands that we each give according to our ability."

Responding to Father Lawrence's expectant look, Dodger said, "Alas, Father, our current enterprise partakes more of just desserts than just distribution."

"I have never had cause to fault your generosity, Dodger. I will trust in an eventual donation, while praying for your success." If their welcome was less, the priest showed no sign of it. "You know your way around, Dodger, and there are those here who need my attention more immediately. I'll trust you to take care of yourself and your friend."

Dodger led Sam through the room and into the kitchen where two pots were beginning to bubble, overlaying the scent of antiseptic and the pervasive animal-pen smell with the fresh odor of soup. They took a creaking stairway down into the basement. By the time they reached the bottom, musty dampness had wrested control of Sam's olfactory perceptions.

Weaving a path through dusty, mildewed piles of Lord knew what, Dodger moved unerringly in the darkness. Only by staying close enough to catch the faint gleam of the Elf's studded leathers could Sam be assured of not losing his guide. When Dodger stopped, Sam nearly walked into him. A moment later, he felt a whuff of fresh air as the Elf led him forward into a deeper darkness. A slight scraping noise heralded the end of the basement's odiferous confines as the chamber's concealed door closed behind them.

Soft red light burst forth. In its glow, Sam could see Dodger leave the switch he had thrown and cross the room to toss himself down on a bed that creaked in protest at his weight.

"Make yourself comfortable."

Sam looked around. There was not much more than a counter and a couple of cabinets besides the bed that the Elf had commandeered. In one dim corner, he spotted an old folding chair. He retrieved the rickety chair and sat down on it backward, folding his arms across the back rest. "What now?"

"That, Sir Corp, depends upon you. I have gotten you to a safe place to rest, to think, and perhaps to plan. Have you decided on a plan?"

"Not exactly. But I have thought about what you said about going back. I think you're right; it wouldn't be very bright. At least until I know more."

"So you are not going to be
makkanagee
after all?"

"Not be what?"

"
Makkanagee
. Willfully or maliciously stupid."

Sam shook his head ruefully. "I've been stupid enough, but it certainly wasn't deliberate."

Dodger raised an eyebrow but said nothing. Sam didn't know what to say to that and so they sat silently for a while. He knew that the Elf was right. He needed a plan if he were to do anything effective, but first he had to know who his enemy or enemies were.

"If I can get into the Renraku Matrix, I think I can find some answers."

"How do you propose to do that?"

"I've still got those persona chips that Castillano wouldn't take. If I can get to a cyberterminal, I can deck into the mainframe."

"They will have changed the access codes."

"I think I know a way around that. Jiro once showed me a back door he said had been put in by one of the system designers. If I can get into the Matrix, I can get into the Raku system."

"And how many people know about it?"

"Jiro said the decker who told him was the only one because the designer had died in a plane crash."

"Oh. A decker secret passed only to a chosen disciple. Then only several hundred computer jockeys know about it, including all of Raku's roving Matrix sentries. Ah, well. Even if it were a way in, your chips are tagged."

"Castillano said that. What does it mean?"

"My, you really are innocent of the ways of the Matrix in spite of your jack. A tag is a complex set of instructions encoded into a chip. It makes any instructions executed through that chip leave an identifiable mark on whatever programs they touch. If you use those chips as they stand, you will leave very large, identifiable footprints everywhere you go in the Matrix.