We are in the tunnels one day when the trouble begins. I have been going to the Market long enough for Papa Lo and the tribal elders to trust me to go it alone. I am the oldest of the shamans, which gives me the right and the duty to take on more responsibility. A small party of warriors accompanies me when I speak to the merchants and bargain for the supplies the tribe needs. We have some useful information, security codes and diagrams acquired from a Fuchi corporate system, that some people are interested in acquiring. We are promised food, medicine, and blankets for the data.
I am always taken in by the sights and sounds of the Market. Set up in a long-abandoned station of the subway, it has flat concrete platforms lining a deep trench where the trains once ran. The platforms are covered over with lean-to tents, small booths, counters, and other kiosks. Curtains and folding screens make temporary walls between the stalls and create shadowy nooks for talking business and making deals. Over the dark trench of the train tracks are laid heavy boards and pieces of construction plastic in an odd sort of web to create bridges across the tracks to the platform on the other side. The empty pit is used for storage or as a place to conduct quiet meetings under the makeshift bridges. Small scavengers scurry and squeak under the bridges as you cross over them.
The place is filled with different people hawking their wares, examining the merchandise on sale, or conducting their own private business. Some live in the underground, others in the Rox, while a few are visitors from other parts of the city: shadowrunners handling their own affairs and, it
is
said, corporate agents and others doing business in the underground for the goods and services that can only be found there.
The fixer I need to deal with for the trade is named Milo, a fat, pale dwarf who sweats even in the coolness of the tunnels. He reminds me of one of the little rodents that live down here: beady, dark eyes darting nervously from side to side at the slightest sound. Spotting him as soon as we enter the Marketplace, I make my way toward him, followed by my entourage of tribal warriors. We cross the rusting metal stream of the rails on a wobbly wooden bridge of pallets to Milo’s small kiosk. A folding wooden pegboard behind him holds some weapons, tools, and computer hardware. None of it works, of course. This is only the showroom. Milo is careful to keep his valuable goods stashed in safe places: hidey-holes in the tunnels of the underground or elsewhere in the Rox, I don’t know where for sure.
"Hoi, Babel," the dwarf says as I approach the booth. He’s sitting on a tall stool cleaning a pistol, a Colt Manhunter, with an oily rag. The huge gun is nearly the length of Milo’s forearm. He smiles to reveal a row of yellowed teeth peeking through his ragged brown beard.
"Hoi, Milo. I have the data you asked for. It wasn’t easy to come by, either."
"Of course not.
If it was, I wouldn’t have asked you to get it."
I smile at the compliment. "Flattery will get you nowhere," I say.
Milo
’s smile broadens and he gives a hearty laugh.
"Can’t blame a chummer for trying.
Don’t
worry,
the goods are all set as we agreed. As soon as I verify the data’s good, I’ll send word out to begin moving things along."
I nod and reach into my synthdenim vest to withdraw an optical chip. I lay it on the counter with my palm over it,
then
slide it toward Milo before lifting my hand away. The dwarf picks up the chip slowly, not wanting to appear too eager. He pulls a battered chip-reader from under the counter and slots the chip. The reader’s drive unit whirs a bit as the lasers read the optical data off the chip, and it scrolls across the small display screen. Milo’s brow furrows and he scrolls through the data, giving an occasional "hmmm" deep in his throat. The warriors have fanned out and remain alert for any signs of trouble. I don’t expect any. Milo deals fairly with us.
"Data looks good," the dwarf says, pulling a cloth from his pocket to mop his sodden brow and brush aside a few dark strands of hair plastered to his forehead. "You’ll get the goods right away."
I smile and nod.
"A pleasure doing business with you."
Just as I turn to leave, Milo clears his throat. "Babel?"
I stop and turn back toward him. "Yes?" I ask.
"This might be the last deal I can cut for a little while. Things have been going on in the underground, seems like something big might be going down and, well, I don’t want to get caught in the middle, so I’m playing it careful for a while."
"What’s going down?" The dwarf has my full attention. I haven’t heard anything about this.
Milo
shakes his head. "Can’t say for sure, but you should tell Papa Lo I told you things could get ... busy around here. He should know."
I nod. Milo, like most fixers, lives off his complex network of connections. He probably knows people involved in what is going on in the shadows and can’t reveal anything about their activities. At the same time, by passing on a warning to Papa Lo and the Netwalkers, he might curry additional favor in the future, should everything work out.
"I’ll tell Papa you said so." Milo nods and goes back to cleaning the Manhunter.
The dwarf’s announcement of trouble brewing in the underground and the Boston shadows has its effect on our party. On our way out of the Market, I have a strong feeling of being watched and I tell the warriors to keep alert. They are already on edge.
Even so, we are nearly taken by surprise when surrounded by a group of hideous and twisted figures coming out of a side tunnel. They carry different weapons. Some have blades or
clubs,
others just bent and twisted pieces of metal with spikes and sharp edges. The warriors close in a ring around me as one of the dark figures steps out of the shadows and smiles at me, revealing a mouth full of sharp yellow teeth.
"Remember me, meat?" the ghoul says, waving the stump of his right arm. The hand I sliced off has been replaced with a barbed hook gleaming dully in the tunnel-light. "Someone wants to see you," he sneers. "Take them." The tunnel-dwellers howl and charge at us.
There is a loud crack and a flash of blue light as Ricardo strikes out with his stun-baton, sending a powerful jolt of electricity through one of the onrushing ghouls. It drops to the dirty concrete floor of the tunnel, gasping for breath as one of its companions, a huge ghoul covered in bony lumps of armor, leaps in and stabs Ricardo with a long spear of bent metal. The stun baton flashes with a crack and the scent of ozone. The ghoul howls in anger, twisting on the metal spear. Ricardo screams in agony and drops to the ground, red blood pumping from his chest.
The other warriors use their weapons: shock batons and knives for the most part. The melee is too confused and the ghouls too numerous for them to use the few guns we have without risking hitting each other in the dark and crowded tunnel.
The ghouls outnumber us at least three to one and they are quickly overwhelming the warriors. I see one of the others go down under three ghouls who bear him to the ground and rip the weapon from his hands. His name is Joshua, and he paints some of the best designs of the Net-walkers’ totem spirits. But I don’t have time to find out if he is alive or dead. I feel the same cold feeling in the depths of my spirit from the night when I was taken by the
Tamanous,
and the ghoul’s words echo in my mind:
the
meat
is
always
best
when
it’s
fresh
. Then a ghoul comes at me, snarling and hissing like a wild animal.
The monofilament-edged razor snaps out from my forearm, and I slash at the onrushing thing in a blur of movement. The tip of the blade rips across its face, parting flesh and showing white bone. The ghoul shrieks and falls to one side, clutching its torn face. Another just as quickly comes at me and I slash at it, but not quite fast enough. The ghoul’s filthy claws rake across my side, leaving a trail of pain behind them. The light armor in my vest protects me from the worst of it, but the force of the blow puts me off balance. That’s when Crawley decides to make his move.
He lunges forward with a slash of his hook-hand, and I back-peddle out of the way as it makes an arc through the air near where my stomach was.
"What do you want?" I ask as Crawley and I circle each other, each looking for an opening. He only snarls and bares his teeth, like a maddened animal.
My mind races, looking for an explanation for the attack while I try to defend myself.
Is Crawley just looking for revenge? He said someone "wanted to see me."
The other ghoul steps in at me again and a jab of my blade keeps him at bay. I hear one of the other warriors cry out in agony and the sickening sound of splintering bone. The noise makes me break one of the cardinal rules taught to me by Hunter: I look toward the sound and away from my opponent. Only for a split-second, but that’s long enough.
A wiry body crashes into me and bears us both to the ground, pinning my arms. I struggle to bring my arm-spur to bear against Crawley, but I don’t have the leverage this time. He knows to avoid it now. The cold concrete floor comes up in a rush and the wind is knocked out of me with a crack, leaving my sore lungs gasping for breath. Something hard and metal hits the side of my head, snapping it to the side. I taste blood in my mouth and see stars. I look up to see the savage death-mask of Crawley’s face leering above me, lips curled back from his sharp teeth.
"Goodnight, meat," he whispers as he raises his remaining fist. It comes down on me and then everything fades and goes black, like a computer switched off.
Shutdown.
To
travel
to
the
otherworlds,
the
metaplanes
of
astral
space,
an
initiate
must
first
pass
the
trial
of
the
Dweller
on
the
Threshold
.
This
mysterious
entity
may
be
a
creature
living
on
the
narrow,
misty
border
between
the
etheric
plane
and
the
dark
depths
of
astral
space
or
it
may
be
nothing
more
than
the
living
embodiment
of
the
magician’s
own
subconscious
fears
and
insecurities
trying
to
sway
the
traveller
from
his
course
.
In
the
end,
it
makes
little
difference
which
is
the
case
.
The
Dweller
always
challenges
the
traveller
at
the
Threshold
of
the
metaplanes
themselves
.
The
Dweller
seems
to
know
every
dark
secret,
every
hidden
thought,
the
magician
has
ever
had,
and
it
uses
the
knowledge
to
try
and
convince
the
questor
to
turn
back
and
give
up
the
journey
.
Passing
the
Dweller
on
the
Threshold
and
the
dark
revelations
it
offers
is
very
difficult
for
new
initiates
to
conquer
.
Little
do
they
know
it
is
only
the
beginning
.
—from
Otherworld
Quest:
Metaplanar
Experiences,
by Francis O’Rourke,
ThD.,
UCLA Press,
I’m almost getting used to the idea of waking up in strange places from time to time. This time I wake in the depths of the underworld, one of the Lost Stations of the T system. It’s like the Market, but is a place I’ve never seen before and never want to see again. Once quite proud and elegant, the old art-deco platform and archways are now corroded by a century or more of dust and decay, the black and white tile floor cracked and discolored. I can smell the strong musty odors of rust, dust, and oil in the dimness of the place.
There is a shuffling sound as I stir and open my eyes. I see shadowy forms moving in the dim light cast from the glowing lichens and mosses clinging to the dank tunnel walls, shedding a pale greenish light over everything. The dark shapes move closer to me with a shuffling movement and hoarse whispers in some guttural tongue. I cannot make out their words, only the rasping sounds of the voices. My vision begins to clear and I see white, sightless eyes staring back at me. I scramble to my feet, and crawl backward, away from the leering ghouls until my back presses against the cold wall, fuzzy with glowing moss.