Shadowrun: Spells & Chrome (34 page)

The hovel she’d secured was just a few streets over. Frustrated with the crowded streets, Mamba cut through tight alleys, balancing on narrow boards that lay over the thick muck of the alleys. Part swamp mud, part garbage, and part human waste, the stench from the black muck was overpowering. Mamba had left her breather with Pharisee, not wanting to look too much like an
oyibos
, a foreigner. Unfortunately, the disguise she’d taken for this job had been enough to peg her as one anyway
,
and a target for every opportunistic ganger on the streets. Her normal ebony skin wouldn’t have drawn attention, but the exotic Native American face and chestnut-colored skin of her stolen identity stuck out in the Lagosian slums.

“Pharisee, you better be packed and ready,” Mamba said into her ‘link.

“
What have you done now?”
the technomancer asked.

“Cut down a few Igbo,” Mamba sent as she worked on managing her breathing. Even her bioware enhanced muscles needed clean air to function properly.
A tracheal filter would be useful, if I ever manage to salvage my rep from this fucked-up job
.

The guards at the front of the squat “hotel” looked at her askance, but she brushed past them without a word. No doubt, the Igbo would start looking for the
oyibos
woman who’d hurt their gangers. The way the Area Boy gang had their network of informants, it wouldn’t take long. She had to get Pharisee and move out… fast.

“We’re leaving,” Mamba announced, when she got to Pharisee’s room. “I just need to change.”

The Egyptian woman looked over at Mamba, then shook her head.

“I
thought
you were going shopping,” she said, but Mamba had already brushed past her, into her own tiny room. Calculating the time, she stripped out of the bloody clothing, then used a ratty cloth and lukewarm water from a bottle to wipe away the blood on her face and hands. With more care, she cleaned her forearm blades. Luckily, Mamba had a few more outfits in the luggage she’d stolen, despite her general distaste for the clothing. Armor would’ve been nice, but not with the ID she’d stolen. God, she hated playing this part.

Once she was mostly clean and dressed, Mamba felt the wave of nausea coming. Sweating, she fought it down. A flashback hit her; a crowd of men, the smell of sun-baked clay, the pain of her cheek shattering under a huge fist. Mamba closed her eyes, forced herself to visualize the four Igbo today, bleeding, dead, helpless. Forced the flashback away with the image of today’s fight, the feeling of their blood spilling over her hands.
I’m not helpless anymore.

“Mamba?” Pharisee was standing in the doorway, a backpack slung over one shoulder, her fingers gripping the blue hand amulet at her throat. “You okay?”

Mamba took a deep gulp of air, felt it scour her throat. “Yeah.”

•
•
•

The trip to Lagos Island involved getting an
okada
, one of the narrow, modified motorbikes common to the feral city. Mamba dealt with this with cool practicality; she stole one, leaving the driver lying in the street with a broken nose. Pharisee sat behind her, arms clenched around Mamba’s waist, eyes closed as she skillfully wove through the thick traffic, cutting through pedestrians and zipping down the narrow, stinking alleys when the vehicle traffic grew too slow for her taste.

“Our employer wants to talk to you,” Pharisee said after Mamba had come to a stop on the Eko bridge. The Eko was one of two ways onto the secured enclave of Lagos Island, and even the modified motorbikes couldn’t get through the packed traffic clogging it. The heavily guarded gates on the island side of the bridge were clogged by the jam of Lagosians who wanted on the island enclave. “He’s been calling for the last hour.”

Mamba jerked her head. “You talk to him.” She’d replaced her AR glasses and breather, part of her
oyibos
disguise that would prove valuable on the island enclave. For once, the damn disguise would come in useful: as a foreigner, she’d be able to get past the guards with few questions. Unfortunately, the Eko bridge was a heavy spam site. Clusters of garish ads—everything from bridgeside vendors selling palm wine to whores advertising their services—cluttering her view.

Pharisee made a rude noise. “What am I supposed to tell him?”

“Tell him the job’s screwed six ways to hell, that asshole Nubian stole the artifacts, and there’s no fucking way we can rob Lekan’s mansion with just the two of us. And I want my face back.”

Mamba heard Pharisee swear in Arabic, then suddenly a connection was opened in Mamba’s AR view, the Johnson’s very annoyed icon staring at her in the AR window. Behind the translucent man, Mamba saw the packed bridge and the crowds of Lagosians. Pharisee had done some techno thing to get all the spam to drop out of sight.

“Damn it, Pharisee,” Mamba muttered, as the AR image sprung to life in her view. “Stop hacking my ‘link.”

“Buy a better firewall,” Pharisee replied. Mamba snorted. “Sweet goddess, was that a laugh?” Pharisee asked.

“Black Mamba,” Mr. Johnson’s icon said. “I’ve been waiting for your report.”

“Well, fu—” Mamba felt Pharisee jab her in the ribs. She cleared her throat. “We’ve continued onto Lagos to finish the job, sir. I should have more to report later.”

“And the artifacts? My
gift
to the Yoruba king, to gain me admittance to his auction next month? You have them?”

“Ah,” Mamba stared straight through the translucent icon, to the gleaming highrises of Lagos Island. The land of promise for much of West Africa. “Unfortunately, we lost the trail on the artifacts. We’re exploring other options.”

“
In other words, after you’d stolen them, someone else knocked you out, took the artifacts, and left you high-and-dry in the middle of the desert,”
Pharisee interjected. “
You want to tell him how I came to the rescue when those Apep goons realized you weren’t Dr. Madeira?”

Mamba gritted her teeth.

“Black Mamba, your reputation is excellent. I’d hate to find my trust in your abilities unwarranted,” Mr. Johnson replied. The warning was clear. In the shadows, you lived and died by your reputation.

“Understood,” Mamba replied. Mr. Johnson cut the connection. Mamba’s AR view was once again flooded with spam.

As they moved slowly through the traffic, Pharisee asked, “So, do you have a plan? Or are we really screwed?”

“Six ways to hell,” Mamba muttered.

•
•
•

She left Pharisee at a tiny park on the exclusive Victoria Island. The Egyptian woman would be safe enough there. Polite and well-armed guards patrolled the island enclave, and anyone bothering an
oyibos
woman would find themselves facing a squad of security goons. No one would bother her as she did her techno thing and hacked into the mansion of the Yoruba “ambassador” to Lagos. The very foreignness which made the women so vulnerable in the feral slums of mainland Lagos was a magic charm here. Even the air was cleaner, the streets made of well maintained pavement, the buildings sparkling with thousands of reinforced-glass windows.

A completely different world.

The mansion was in the quiet suburban area of Victoria Island. Masses of well-tended, flowering vines grew on every wall lining the streets in the upscale neighborhood, scenting the hot air with a sweet, floral fragrance that covered the stench of the city beyond. Vehicle traffic was light and orderly, pedestrian traffic heavier, but just as polite as they walked down sidewalks shaded by trees and vine-covered walls. The walls all stood two stories tall, pristine white showing beneath the thick greenery. Wide iron gates forged in fanciful designs were guarded by heavily armed men, sweat rolling down their impassive faces as they stood statue-still in the hot December sun, unaugmented eyes hidden by dark glasses. No AK-97s here; those were the guns of the slums, the gangers and the common masses. These guards—and by proxy, their masters—played a blatant game of one-upmanship. If one house was guarded by men with chromed Colt Cobra TZ-118 submachine guns, their neighbor would have upgraded HK Urban Combats with pearl handles and gold-alloy chasing. It was an arms race for the pampered wealthy, an amusing game, nothing more.

Black Mamba thought it was sickening.

The guards ignored her as she leisurely walked down the clean-swept sidewalks, passing within arms’ reach of them. She wore the perfect camouflage for the island enclave: an embedded RFID chip that proclaimed her ID, a commlink broadcasting a valid SIN—even if it wasn’t
hers
—and skin dyed chestnut, with a face shaped to mimic Sioux heritage. Had she looked like
herself
, they’d have watched her behind those dark glasses, and no doubt one or two island guards would have followed her as she meandered along the streets, ready to hassle her if she paused too long in any one spot.

Her AR glasses served a dual purpose, blocking the harsh sun while they displayed images. The map she’d bought for a thousand
naira
from a Festac Town hacker was displayed in her lower view, a birds-eye view of the streets she was navigating. There were lots of maps of Victoria Island available to purchase legally, but none of them listed who lived in each walled-off mansion. And none of them mentioned that Olabode Lekan lived behind the vine-covered walls of 12 Adua Street.

I’m in the system,
Pharisee messaged Mamba, the text scrolling across her AR view.
Cameras embedded in the walls. I can see you now. You forgot to brush your hair, by the way.

Mamba scowled, but ran a hand through the tangles. Luckily, Dr. Madeira had chosen a very short cut for her silky, black hair.

Six guards stood outside the wrought-iron gate at 12 Adua Street, each holding an Ares HVAR with military precision. The gate itself had a clever arrangement of garden-soil filled boxes attached to its base, supporting verdant twining vines, heavy with scarlet flowers, on the gate itself. It was an attractive way to block the only view into the inner courtyard from the street.

Mamba gritted her teeth and continued to walk down the street, pretending to admire the colorful flowers draping the walls. A flock of bright mini-parrots started to squawk in a tree two houses down from Lekan’s mansion. Mamba paused beside the tree, pretending to take a video of the birds with her commlink. Surreptitiously, she continued to scan Lekan’s walls, looking for a weakness.

Pharisee transmitted the inner view of the courtyard and mansion. Mamba saw a dozen more guards standing at attention inside the gates.

Looks impossible,
the technomancer texted.
Sensors in every wall. No drones, but I see where they’ve got some caged beasties. Probably use them to patrol at night.

“Shit,” Mamba muttered, staring back at the place. Olabode Lekan had the invitations to the auction in his mansion; she’d bought that information dearly enough. Goddamned
physical
invitations. Without the two ancient, sacrificial knives to buy his goodwill, they’d have to steal an invitation for their employer. Mamba analyzed the data Pharisee was sending her while she inspected the neighborhood, trying to find the weak point. She didn’t see one.

If she hadn’t had been watching so closely, she’d have missed the man standing a block down, watching the same gates. As it was, her gaze passed over him once before snapping back.

His face was mostly hidden behind oversized black glasses and a fashionable breather, but she recognized him from the cocky way he stood, the breadth of his shoulders under a bright red shirt. When he turned his head, the line of his skull, under the tightly braided rows of black hair, triggered her memory.

Pure rage had her taking a half-step towards him before cool logic overrode her instincts and had her turning away.

Slipping into a group of women, Mamba crossed the street and worked her way past where the Nubian stood, keeping him in her sight. Screw breaking into Lekan’s mansion. If Medjay was here, then perhaps the knives were, too. And if they weren’t, well, he’d know where they’d gone, wouldn’t he?

Mamba?
Pharisee asked,
Where are you going?

“I found someone who needs to die,” Mamba replied, baring her teeth.

What? Who? Mamba!

Mamba ignored the technomancer.

After a few more minutes, Medjay turned back down Adua, going towards the island’s busier commercial center. She shadowed him, using every bit of her skill and inborn abilities to blend into the crowds of shoppers and upscale residents. The Nubian wasn’t a beginner at this himself, and Mamba found herself reluctantly enjoying the challenge of shadowing a professional.

Eventually, he ended up on Anmadu Bello road, the main thoroughfare, where the streets were packed with residents and foreigners alike. When Medjay walked through the gleaming front doors of the Federal Palace hotel, Mamba paused at a street vendor selling iced drinks.

“I’m at the Federal Palace hotel, Pharisee,” Mamba told the technomancer. “I need you to hack the hotel.”

“
I’m on my way,”
Pharisee replied. “
Don’t do anything stupid before I get there.”

The busy AR signage on Anmadu Bello overwhelmed Mamba’s view for a second, until she reset the stupid ‘link to weed out the spam. The frozen-drink vendor had a brightly colored menu available in AR; Mamba picked a frozen limeade and made the 5 nuyen transfer. Drink in hand, she settled down on a bench under a shade tree and pondered the hotel while waiting for Pharisee. To drink the iced limeade, she had to unclip her breather. The air was harsh, gritty from the hot
Hamattan
winds, carrying a faint hint of the stench of the lagoons: putrid vegetation, stagnant water, and rotting fish. The iced drink tasted like heaven by comparison. The hotel had several public AROs broadcasting and she began to browse them idly as she enjoyed her drink. The prices were high, as she’d expected for a hotel on the exclusive Victoria Island enclave, and the history was boring as hell. She browsed through the hotel’s amenities for a few minutes, clicking open panoramic AR views of various hotel suites and even the hotel’s layout. Security procedures looked standard, with MAD scanners at the front doors. Mamba sighed. When no one was watching, she slid off her forearm snap-blades and stowed them under a dense, flowering bush. Idiot wageslaves didn’t see a thing. Mamba had finished her drink by the time Pharisee arrived, the plump Egyptian woman puffing from the long walk and the heat.