Shadowrun 01 - Never Deal With A Dragon (17 page)

"I've been doing a lot of thinking."

"Glad to hear it, Sam. More stuffy corporate types should do that."

Did she mean that he was a stuffy corporate type? He hoped not. He didn't think of himself that way, and it disturbed him slightly that she might. He reminded himself that it was Roe's skills and connections that he wanted, not her good opinion. Getting out of Renraku was the most important thing right now.

"I would like to go ahead with the extraction."

"Shush on the E word," Roe warned with a sly, conspiratorial smile. "Even a public place like this has long ears."

Her levity annoyed him, but Sam knew she was right. He should have used some roundabout phrasing that could mean something entirely innocent. The circumlocutions of her business were even more obtuse than corporate slang. But he wanted to stay straightforward and on-track until everything was settled. He was not yet done with business.

"Hanae has to go, too."

Roe's warm smile vanished instantly. "That makes it a little tougher."

He swallowed. This was it, time for his gamble. "She goes, or I don't."

Roe's eyes searched his. He felt the intensity of her bronze eyes and fought to keep his face immobile, hoping to mask his worry that she would call off the deal. She must have been satisfied by his resolution.

"You're lucky I'm a soft touch, chummer. Now listen up. Here's the plan."

Sam turned away from the wall screen and looked around the room again. This apartment had been his home for just over a year, but only a few knick-knacks, some bare spots on the carpeting from the dogs, and a handmade bowl from Hanae said anything about the man who had lived there. The rest was company issue, down to the pictures on the walls.

He would leave behind his clothes, too, for a suitcase would be too suspicious. He would have to make do with what was on his back and whatever Roe promised to provide once they had escaped. His scrapbooks lay on the table by the sofa, their pages strewn over the surface. He had spent most of the night culling them, choosing the few photos most important to him. He had narrowed it down to a couple dozen choice items, a miniature history of his family. He and Janice in Kyoto, her graduation from Tokyo University and his from Columbia, several snapshots from the last family outing before he and Janice were orphaned, his father in his old U.S. Navy uniform, his mother hosting one of her regular card parties, scattered selections from his childhood, the wedding pictures of his parents and grandparents, and finally an old tintype of Thaddeus Samuel Helmut Verner, the first of the family to come to the Americas. They would be his lifeline to the past, memories too precious to give up.

He looked at the bookshelf. There were few volumes among the objects and small electronics. He had never been a real book-lover like his sister or his father. The feel of a hard copy didn't seem to be important. To him, it was always the content that mattered, not the form. The only book he wanted was his Bible. Unfortunately, like a suitcase, it would cause suspicion.

He would not be without its comfort, though. A chip copy was safely snugged into the case in his pocket. Keeping the computerized Bible company were a few other reading chips. Most were references, but he had also taken a copy of his father's diary and a record of his correspondence. On a whim, he had included the instruction manual for his unfinished flight simulation course. He also had the four gray chips.

Those chips held the persona programs from his cyber-terminal. To take them was, technically, a theft, but the programs had been tailored for him and they would be destroyed before someone else took over his terminal. It was actually cheaper to burn a new set for the new man or woman. The chips contained no data, and he was sure his new employer would supply fresh persona chips suited to their own systems. Taking these was symbolic. His Matrix presence would leave along with his physical body.

Maybe that was why he had decided to take the flight manual. Perhaps it was a symbolic statement of his flight from psychological bondage. Or maybe it had to do with the flight he took with those shadowrunners a year ago. He was about to embark on another dangerous experience whose outcome he could not entirely predict.

He checked his watch.

"Almost time," he called to Hanae, who was still puttering in the bathroom.

"Just a minute."

He hoped it wasn't one of her fifteen-minute "minutes." He paced, unconsciously following the track Kiniru used when waiting for Sam to take her for a walk.

Hanae emerged a few minutes later, dressed far more sensibly than Sam had feared. Though she wore a loose, flowing dress, the material was sturdy and the cut unrestrictive. She had a bulging satchel slung over one shoulder.

"Isn't that bag a little large for a trip to a club?"

"It is big," she said hesitantly, "but it should be all right. It's part of the latest look. Lots of leather, beads, and fringe."

"I hope it's not too heavy. We’ll have to cross the club's landing pad to the aircraft in a hurry."

"If they cancel out the signal on the screamer, we should be able to stroll out to the plane. After all, people leave that way all the time."

"Not in Doc Wagon aerial ambulances."

She shrugged. "If it's too heavy, you'll help me. We'll be fine."

He prayed that they would. He didn't want anything to slow them down now that the time had come.

Despite Sam's misgivings, they reached the Club Quarter on Level 6 without incident. No one seemed interested in a couple out for a night on the arcology. The halls of the quarter were already crowded, though it was still early. Music of all kinds bled from the sound-insulated clubs to blend into a puddle of unintelligible sound. The revelers didn't seem to care. Many danced in the halls, moving to music in their heads. Some danced to their imaginations; others wore chipsticks in skull-mounted jacks or carried simsense players that fed the music to their brains.

It wasn't too difficult to find Rumplestiltskin's. Roe wasn't there yet, but hundreds of other hopefuls were already queued up in the vain hope of entry into the fashionable club.

"I had no idea," Hanae said when she saw the line.

"I wonder if Roe did."

"If she did, it must be part of the plan." The quaver in Hanae's voice didn't match her confident words.

"I guess we get in line."

Ten minutes later, Hanae took Sam's arm and pulled herself close. "Maybe she's already inside. Maybe she left without us."

"Don't worry," Sam assured her, hiding his own growing doubt. "She'll keep her part of the deal."

Thirty minutes later, they were still in line. The club doorway had come into view and they caught their first sight of the doorman. Like many clubs, Rumplestiltskin's employed a Troll to handle the lines of hopefuls. Too well-dressed to be called a bouncer, his size and demeanor left no doubt that he could fulfill that function. Almost three meters of muscle and thick hide was more than enough to intimidate all but the rowdiest partyboy. They were still ten meters from the front of the line when Roe suddenly appeared.

"This will never do," she said. Taking each one by the arm, she led them directly up to the doorman. She twirled a shiny credstick in her right hand. The four dark bands on the end of the cylinder marked it as certified for at least one hundred nuyen. She tossed it to the man. "My friends here are late for their table."

She turned back to them. "Giacomo will take care of you, so there's no worry. Everything's wiz, but I've got to make a call to check up on the other member of our party. See you in about half an hour. Have fun."

Sam watched her walk back along the line to converse with a quartet of scruffy men and women. Even at this distance, he could tell that the biggest was an Ork. Her tusks were capped with silver and glinted coldly in the hallway lights. She carried a large case with a casual ease born of enormous strength.

Roe's companions were surely shadowrunners, her team for the extraction. They had a hard, used look about them. Maybe even overused, Sam thought. He had little experience in these matters, but he had expected Roe to show up with a team that was more . . . more what? Imposing? Dangerous? At ease in the Club Quarter? More like Tsung and her runners? It didn't help his state of mind to wonder about their competence.

Roe and the runners walked toward the head of the line for a block, then turned into a corridor that took them away from Rumplestiltskin's. They passed Sam and Hanae, and getting a closer look only fueled Sam's fears. As Roe's team moved in and out of the hall's pools of illumination, the play of light and shadow focused Sam's attention on the person in the middle of the group. That one maintained a steady, if oddly gaited, walk while the others shifted wound. They seemed to be running interference, keeping the crowd from jostling the dark-clothed figure.

The person's long overcoat effectively concealed gender along with almost everything else. All Sam could glimpse was a pallid face showing between the turned-up collar and the slouch hat. The skin looked soft and unlined as a baby's. The eyes were hidden behind some kind of heavy goggles. The face turned briefly, and Sam had the distinct impression he was the object of that stare. Then the face was gone, masked by the crowd. No look of recognition, antipathy, concern, or any other emotion marred the sexless smoothness. Whoever that person was, Sam found the appearance of the dark-coated albino unsettling.

"Sam, you're staring," Hanae whispered. Louder, she said, "Come on, darling. This nice Mr. Giacomo has found our reservation."

"Thought I saw someone I knew," he mumbled as he allowed himself to be led into the club.

The pickup had taken less time than she had expected. Mr. Target—she found it easiest to think of him that way— had been waiting in the quiet little bar, as arranged. Her tardiness must have made him think she wouldn't come and he had begun drinking. He had gotten a good start. When she arrived, his face was already flushed, making the silver metal of the datajack in his temple stand out starkly.

Between his relief that she had not forsaken him and his nervousness about their rendezvous, it was easy to persuade him to a few more rounds. The more alcohol a target had in his system, the less likely he would notice any anomalies in the world around him. She had only toyed with her own drink, waiting for the chance to suggest that they go on up to the executive suite. It was child's play overcoming his propriety and natural caution. So many brains cells, she thought, so easily overruled by hormones and the animal need for comfort.

"Hope I don't have this much trouble with you, Kathy," he said with a leer as he tried a second time to get his credstick into the slot. His corporate rank would open the door as soon as the maglock read the ID encoded on his stick. But he had to get it into the hole first.

"Here. Let me." She kissed the hand from which she took the credstick, then smoothly slotted the stick home. "I can usually put things where they belong."

As the door slid open, she skipped past him. Trailing her scarf along his shoulder, she gave him an inviting smile as she backed into the chamber. She had every confidence that Jenny was monitoring the room and would have the ground team squared away in their hiding places.

Mr. Target followed her in. He was a bit unsteady, as though he'd overextended himself. Not too hard for someone so out of shape. Though not particularly overweight, he was soft from easy corporate life. She doubted he had seen much of the world outside the arcology, which was just as well. His deskbound focus made him more open to her advances.

After two steps, he stopped and turned back to the door. She tensed, ready to drag him back, but relaxed to see him reaching for the control panel. He grinned like a child as he turned from punching numbers into the keypad.

"Wouldn't want to get interrupted. I have my reputation to consider."

"No," she purred. "We most certainly don't want to be interrupted."

Playing her part, she bounced deeper into the room and looked around with wide eyes.

"Wow," she exclaimed, trying to force into her voice all the awe she had felt upon first seeing the chamber. "This place is wiz. Totally ritz."

The street slang was inadequate to describe the room's opulence. From the scattered furs of extinct and endangered species and rare paranormal animals strewn over the redwood flooring, to the masterpieces of art on the walls and carefully highlighted on pedestals, to the cutting-edge trid screens with their vistas of ocean and forest that filled the walls, it was furnished with only the most rare and precious items. A construct of chrome frames and alternating clear and black lacquer panels offered all the standard small electronic entertainments, from simsense headsets and trid screens to cases of dreamchips and illegal wire ports. The spread of expensive liquors, herbs, and exotic delicacies was extensive. The central piece of furniture was an enormous bed shimmering with the silken sheen of its sheets. It was more than sybaritic. It was unconscionably decadent.

"Renraku takes good care of its important people." He tossed his coat over a leather-upholstered Louis XV chair in a gesture of casual possessiveness. "We've got several of these little hideaways on this level. They are convenient for private meetings with special guests."

"Being here certainly does make me feel special."

She detected a flicker of doubt on his face. He had complained to her that people liked him only for what he could do for them. This was no time to make him feel defensive.

"But I always feel special when I'm with you."

That made him smile. He still had that look of awkward nervousness, but he was no longer suspicious. Once again the hopeful suitor, he squared his shoulders with determination to impress his chosen lady. In another time and place, she might have found his naivété charming.

"Attention, computer," he said. The command was spoken with familiarity, but the next words were less assured. "We'd like some music.
Bolero
, I think. Do it."

As the opening chords filled the room, he stepped close and began to paw her inexpertly. He was awkward and focused on his own needs, hardly surprising in a man so wrapped up in his work that he had little time for people. She slid deftly from his embrace, but left him a caress as a promise. "Whoa. Slow down. This is our first time, and I want it to be special. I need to use the powder room."