Shadowrun: Spells & Chrome (16 page)

By the time I reached mid-street, the part of my brain that understood the vagaries of breezes and the wafting of scents had narrowed her location down to three or four square meters of deeper shadow between an overflowing dust bin and the right-hand loading dock. And there was no doubt it was a
her
. Mixed with the soapy cleanness was the unmistakable musk of a young human female.

Human-
ish
, I amended, with an acrid tang I couldn’t place. I’d never smelled anyone quite like her.

Once my nose told me where to focus my ears, I found her breath—slow and shallow as she tried to be silent—and her heart hammering like she was on the last leg of a marathon. I didn’t swing the muzzle of my Manhunter toward her—let her think I was still trying to puzzle out an empty alley as I cut off her escape.

Truth was, I was ignoring the alley and casting my senses wide to search out who else might be about. I counted seventeen whos else at the very edge of my senses, none moving in our direction. Dog moved a little away from me, following a path that made sense to him. I didn’t bother turning my head to follow.

Three entertainment drones in loose formation whirred overhead, ignoring me as they searched the sprawl for exciting footage to pipe back to their masters in Fun City or Hollywood. Evidently one guy with a gun leveled into an alley did not constitute exciting footage.

Solidly between the very clean girl and her only chance to escape, I lowered my gun. I wasn’t quite trusting enough to put it away, but muzzle to the ground was a pretty universal sign of nonaggression. I let her know I knew where she was by pointing my face directly at her hiding place.

The breathing stopped.

“Come on out,” I said, putting no power behind the words. Just basic, civil communication. “I don’t intend to harm you.”

I stood silent through the long pause that followed.

Finally the girl shape rose from behind a busted crate of junk beside an overflowing dust bin. She stood, not moving, until I holstered my Manhunter. Then she stepped hesitantly into the open.

I saw immediately why she had a
human-ish
scent—one of the few cases of sight trumping scent. She was mid-Expression.

Sometimes when an ork and a human got together a kid resulted. If dad was human and mom an ork, she’d have a litter of orks with maybe a human thrown in. If dad was the ork and mom human, the kid looked human until puberty. Then it was a fifty-fifty crap shoot; emphasis on the crap. At an age when most humans were getting sweaty-palmed over the idea of their first date, hormones hit the poor kid with seventy-two hours of metamorphing hell.

By the time the process was fully done, there’d be no sign she’d ever been human. But mid-process …

Mid-process she should be writhing in ungodly agony as her bones grew and shifted and her muscle mass doubled. I caught another whiff of the acrid beneath the little-girl-changing scent and the penny dropped. She was sweating out some expensive pain killers. Real high-end stuff if it was keeping her upright and scream free.

I could see my little ex-rich girl’s Afro-human features had once been aristocratically sharp, but now her high cheekbones were spreading, flattening as her face became broader. Her tusks were barely big enough to protrude, but her cheerfully bright jumpsuit was stretched taut across her bulking form.

A cloud of pubescent hormones and pheromones washed over me. I twitched as the scent registered. The girl caught the motion and stopped, covering her mouth—her new tusks—with one hand. I knew Dog was amused at my reaction, but I didn’t give him the satisfaction of looking in his direction.

“It’s all right,” I said, knowing how stupid that had to sound. “You surprised me is all.”

She didn’t react. She just stood with her wide eyes staring at me over her concealing hand, blank with fear. And/or expensive pain killers.

Her jumpsuit was expensive—some sort of upscale school uniform with all the identifying logos cut off. Neatly, like whoever had dumped her had cared that her clothes kept her warm. Or maybe they were just thinking about appearances. The hand not covering her mouth held the strap of a kid’s shoulder bag blazoned with advertising that declared her loyalty to a half-dozen trendy products. Among other things, she was a fan/member of
Gang Life! L.A.’s most popular teen P2.0 network!
I wondered if she was plugged into the network now, if anyone was seeing what her life had become. I doubted it. Beautiful people were not interested in the way real life could screw you over.

The bag was nearly empty, but had once been stuffed with what smelled like high protein soy bars, and toiletry articles—including that expensively effective body wash. The fact that she had such a carefully packed bag told me whoever’d dumped her hadn’t wanted her to suffer. Too bad they hadn’t wanted her at all. What kind of person abandoned an innocent kid who’d never been on her own to the sprawl beyond the refugee camps and packed her a lunch?

Family. Nothing but. From the gilded enclave of oh-so-human perfection I was working for.

“My name is Bastion,” I said, hoping the silence hadn’t stretched too long. “What’s yours?”

“Monica,” she said, moving her hand just enough to speak. “Monica Pem—”

Her face crumpled. The name she’d been commanded to never say again got lost in a despairing wail.

I had my arms around her before I thought about it. Pembroke. This was the “missing” daughter of Julius vanVijrk’s dear friends. Lost to the orks. For a long count I just held her, letting her sob her heart out against my still damp chest while I stared into the now natural dark of the alley and weighed options.

•
•
•

“What the
vut
?”

Monica tried to bury herself in my chest—the guttural challenge instantly transmogrifying her wracking sobs into a terrified tremble that threatened to rattle my teeth.

I shifted my weight, shielding the kid with my body before looking over my shoulder.

The broad street was still empty, but now a knot of three ork males stood dead center in the only way out of the alley. My nose belatedly warned of a distant fourth I couldn’t see. Ignoring him, I focused on the more immediate threat.

My canine nose told me two of the three were a sibling set, and all of them about Monica’s age—but full-blooded orks, which meant near-adults with twice her height and three times her mass. I caught the whiff of a pricy floral cologne that had been hip in the clubs around Lacey Park about eight months back, but there was nothing effeminate about their visage. They were dressed for the street—waterproof boots, synthleather thick enough to be body armor and improvised clubs.

I smelled machine oil, gunpowder, and brass—at least two slug throwers—and altered my assessment of the tactical situation accordingly. Screwed pretty well covered it.

“Cruising for some local exotic?” Demanded the ork who was not a brother. “Humanis get hard for a
ken
joytoy?”

For nearly three tenths of a second I considered explaining I’d been down here on legitimate business and the girl had found me, but common sense kicked in. A, I wasn’t all that sure my business was legit, and two, these jokers didn’t give a damn. Anything I said would be
shpita
.

If it came to a firefight I’d never get clear of the girl in my arms fast enough to get off a shot. Worse, ork punks habitually blended maximum firepower with minimum accuracy. From the looks of things, it was a smart money bet any rescue attempt these warrior wannabes launched would kill Monica.

Don’t let the urgent distract from the essential.

I filed that bit of philosophical flotsam where it belonged and kept my gaze level—trying for something between “not scared” and “not confrontational”—while I worked on the problem.

Conventional street wisdom has it that if you kept your mien cool and didn’t look like you’re looking for trouble, four out of five times you can avoid a fight. Standing in a blind alley facing three angry-looking orks with my arms around one of their girls, I didn’t think my odds were quite that good, but I gave it my best.

My three dance partners spread out, positioning to keep me the center of attention. The diverging smells of gunpowder told me right and left carried the guns while the fine mineral oil and steel straight ahead told me middle man favored a blade. Ork tradition would dictate a combat axe, but that would have been redundant, given his twisted steel club. From the scent of sandalwood and the cut of his long coat, I was betting katana.

Keeping all three in my gaze was a trick, but I managed without nervous head jerks.

Visually occupied, I set my canine ears and nose to sweeping the street. I still hadn’t pegged where the fourth strain of
eau d’ork
originated and I strongly suspected that bit of information was vital. I had a sense the real danger was watching and waiting while these picadors got the measure of the
gaijin
.

In my arms, Monica’s seismic shudders had subsided to a tremble. I hoped that indicated she was getting a grip, but under the circumstances exhaustion was the more likely option.

“
Ujnort vut
.” The third ork, the one to my left, revealed himself as a minimalist. Also not much of a curser if he thought “non-ork shit” was a cutting remark.

Dog, ever battle savvy, found a spot a few meters in front of me and sat down. He looked expectantly from one ork to the other, as if hoping for a treat, but none of them acknowledged his presence. Apparently unbothered by the lack of attention, Dog yawned hugely, then rolled his head over his shoulder to cast a sideways look back toward me.

It took me a moment feel safe taking my eyes off the ork turks. I turned my attention to the curly mass of black hair pressed against my chest.

“Monica,” I murmured. “Look at them.”

She scrunched against me tighter. In her heart I was her kind; her protector. The protection part was a given, but the her kind part was no longer true—her genetic expression was unstoppable. In another—day? two?— she’d be fully ork and this scene would not be happening. She was already ork enough that the three thugs—and by extension their distant leader—read her as one of their own. Which, from her size, meant a child of five or six. Hence the chivalrous hostility.

“It’s all right, kid.” I was getting sick of that phrase.

Monica pulled her head away from my chest and tilted her face up toward mine.

“They need to see so they can understand.”

She hunched back down. Pressing her forehead against my sternum, she rocked back and forth. I could imagine her eyes scrunched shut in denial.

Guttural growls made what the gang imagined clear.

Focus
.

A new scent. A fifth ork; female. Near the fourth, wherever that was.

The breeze swirling in eddies worked against me. I might never have gotten a fix if Dog hadn’t simply pointed his nose left to sniff the new smell. A shape—two shapes—in the dark beneath a stoop across the street. A doorway I’d walked past ten steps before getting shot at.

Now that I knew where to focus my senses, I picked up the heady tang of magic. There was a weaving back and forth between the spaces surrounding the ork woman in the shadows. She was one used to both worlds.

I tasted long enough to be certain this was not the magic that had blanked the alley, then withdrew.

“Kid,” I said, keeping my voice low and comforting.

I pulled my left arm—the one on the side away from our audience—down and got my hand between Monica and my chest. Finding her chin, I lifted gently until she was looking up at me. Her face, shielded from the others by the hunch of my shoulder, caught a few rays of sodium light. It wasn’t as wet or as blotchy as you might have expected from the amount of crying she’d been doing—which was good, because I wasn’t sure I could keep a grip on the situation if our ork audience thought I’d been hurting her.

“You got choices. There are places besides the sprawl, orks that aren’t squatters,” I explained, pitching my voice to her alone. “Don’t think facing these guys means you have to stay with them or on these streets. I got places you can go, people you can count on.”

I cocked an eye at the three ork toughs. They were about where I’d left them, shuffling their feet and growling ork-like noises. I didn’t speak or’zet well enough to track everything, but the gist of it was spurring each other on mixed with hints of disgust that no one had smashed my skull yet.

I was peripherally aware of the two shapes beyond them moving forward.

I looked back down at Monica, her chin still between my thumb and finger. She was gazing at me with something like surprise.

“You’ve got choices,” I repeated with better grammar. “And the first one is how we go about getting out of here.

“These young gentlemen,” I tilted my head in their direction, inspiring a fresh chorus of growls, “Are trying to rescue you and I do not want to hurt them. We need to show them what’s going on before things get out of hand. Okay?”

Monica licked her lips, flinching slightly when her tongue hit a new tusk. She nodded.

I let go of her chin and put the arm back around her shoulders. Lowering my right arm, I turned her slowly until our audience could see her clearly in the streetlights.

There was a moment of silence.

“Huh,” minimalist ork quipped cleverly.

The two from the stoop paused mid-street. Standing in the full glare of four sodium lamps, they were still shrouded in shadow—as though they’d brought the gloom of the hidden doorway with them. I knew the reality was I was being persuaded not to look directly at them, but I didn’t bother pressing the issue.

“She got dumped,” I explained. “She asked me for help.”

“How you plan on helping,
ujnort
?” middle ork demanded. “What you think you going to do with her?”

My ears pricked at his awkward phrasing. My guess was street jive was not his default argot. Which appeared to support Julius’ Sons of Sauron theory—you’d expect ork separatists to speak or’zet exclusively.

“I was thinking I’d take her home.”

“You got a nice apartment?” Second ork, ranged to my right, gestured vaguely with his club. “Maybe some pretty pictures and toys for her to play with?”