From the Street

TEQUILA BLUES

Jong-Won Kim

Q: Why did the Azzie chase his wife?

A: He wanted tequila.*

– Texan joke

"I should have been a dentist."

Dr. Kristine Martin finished her fourth tequila, enjoying the burning sensation as it went down her throat and up to her brain. This was the high point of her daily routine – the rest was what fueled her new drinking habit. For the sixth or seventh time in less than one hour, she wondered how had it all ended up like this.

She should have seen it coming years ago. The constant obsession for profits, the need to stay one step ahead of the competition and the pressure to remain on top of her fellow teammates… She had done her share of questionable experiments – who didn't in this day and age? Dr. Martin had always silenced her concerns about her crumbling ethics by telling herself it was all in the name of progress.

I'm an idiot. Another shot of tequila found its way to her stomach.

This drek is so bad that it's going to kill me one of these days, she thought. Hell, why not? I didn't have the guts to pull the trigger when I had a chance. Now he could hurt her daughter. Their daughter.

"Why did I ever love such a monster?" she whispered to herself.

"Bad day at home?" The English words had a notorious Aztlaner accent.

Dr. Martin looked at the cantina's bartender as he prepared her another shot. Manuel was tanned and chubby, with an amicable smile that invited customers to relax and open up. He probably worked for Aztechnology or Universal Omnitech, just like everyone else in this Central American village.

"You could say so. I have a… rather dysfunctional marriage."

Manuel pointed at the five empty glasses. "That bad?"

"Si… My husband is an abusive bastard who doesn't want to let me go."

"You can always divorce him."

I'd wish. "The problem is that he's a very important man – a dangerous man. He has more than enough influence to make sure it will never happen… and he made it very clear once. So here we are, a happy little couple working side by side."

"Ah, you work at the hill?"

"My husband owns the hill." I bet you didn't see that one coming, Manuel. I'm the Queen of the fraggin' hill and I'm even more of a slave than the lowest corporate employee.

He looked pensive for a few seconds. "Impressive… If I may ask, why are you here? This isn't a bad place, but most of the people up there wouldn't come here for all the pesos in the world."

"I think you just answered yourself."

"If things are so bad, why does he let you come here? Isn't he afraid you could run away?"

"I tried that not so long ago. He took it as an insult and had me hunted like an animal. His men brought me back so that he could break me down, which he did. I'm in Hell and he makes sure that I know he rules it. Even these moments here are just a reminder of what I lost. Friends, prestige, power, family."

"Family? You have kids?"

"A daughter in Tenochtitlan. I'm sure they're feeding her bulldrek about me, molding her into another loyal pawn. When they're done with her, and believe me, they will, she'll worship him just like every other corporate drone here. That is his revenge: He knows I love her so much that I won't do anything as long as he has her secured." And Chavez won't hesitate to kill Gabrielle if ordered to do so… even if he always was Uncle Diego to her as a child. Frag, I hope I'm a nun in my next life.

"I don't think I've ever met your husband, but judging from your words he must be a monster."

"Oh he is, trust me, but he's also an ill man. He stays at home and I take care of him like a good wife." Sarcasm wasn't her strength. Manuel would never fully understand it, anyway, being just another cog in the machine. She finished her drink. "More, please."

"You drink like a man," complimented Manuel.

Advantages of having some of my own toys. "I know."

"And I thought I had problems at home with my chica. What do you want?"

"Just keep on with the tequila," she answered.

"Very well," he obliged, "but I was asking what did you want."

This time it was Dr. Martin's turn to look pensive. She stared at Manuel for a while, giving him a clinical eye. He just gave her another smile.

"You have the right jaw and tan, but you have all your front teeth. Who are you?"

"Why, I'm Manuel of course. A SIN never lies."

"No you aren't. What did you do to him?"

"Are you going to keep asking dumb questions like that? Tempus fugit. Time flies, doctor, I suggest you ask the right questions before your husband requests your assistance once again."

"I had someone following me to this place, he will know…," Dr. Martin looked unsure, having just been reminded of her situation.

Manuel pointed at a corner, where a farmer seemingly slept his siesta. "You mean the guy who entered the cantina a minute after you did? That tequila he asked for was extra strong, if you get me. Unless he wants to report he fell asleep while on duty, he'll just say everything went fine."

"Who are you? Who do you work for?"

"My name doesn't matter, I don't exist. But my employer is an old friend of yours, someone who has followed your career with interest and is concerned about your current situation."

She eyed him suspiciously. "That sounds too good to be true, considering my situation. How do I know this isn't another sick little game?"

"You don't, but I was told to deliver you this." He handed her a small item. "Science without religion is lame…"

"… religion without science is blind," said Dr. Martin, finishing Einstein's quote. She opened her hand and looked at its content. From a small, aging pin, the genius stuck out his tongue. She almost dropped it in surprise.

"The Copenhagen Biotech Convention. I was there with UniOmni's negotiation team, nothing more than a young, bright rookie."

"My employer remembers having some interesting conversations with you and your colleagues at a nightclub. You didn't seem to be interested in mere profits like the others. You had dreams."

She sighed. "That was a long time ago."

"Some people have a long memory."

"Yes."

"Interested?"

"No."

"Excuse me?" It was his turn to be surprised.

"Not without my daughter. I won't leave without her."

"That can be arranged. How tough could it be?" Manuel, or whoever was in front of her, flashed a roguish smile.

"You'll need some serious cojones to do that. Or a death wish – they won't take it lightly."

"We'll take care of that part, it's our specialty. Besides, I've been in worse situations. Back when I worked with the Colombians, I had to spend some quality time in La Gorgona, courtesy of Aztechnology Corporate Security."

Dr. Martin's eyes widened in surprise. "You mean Gorgon Island? The maximum security hellhole?"

"Those words can't even begin to describe it," said Manuel, or whoever it was behind his face. "It is as if there is something evil in there, sucking away your life one day at a time."

I know how it feels, chummer… "So how did you escape? It's not like Televisa would ever mention something like that."

Manuel served himself some tequila. He looked at it for a while before answering. "I was rotting away in the Gorgon's belly, hoping for death to come soon. Then, one day, a strange guy came out of nowhere with an offer from an old friend of mine. Sound familiar?"

"Very."

"Anyway, it's not me or our mutual friend that we should be talking about now. I'll ask again: interested?"

"Yes."

"Good. It will take some time, but I suspect my employer has already set things in motion. She has this habit of making things fall her way, you know."

"What about you?"

"I'll be gone tonight. I need to make sure that Manuel has a terrible accident with his gas oven while sleeping his siesta."

Dr. Martin frowned. "Is that necessary?"

"What would you do for your daughter? For the future?"

Touche. "Anything."

"Then you just answered yourself. Do you have any other questions?"

"No, I just need another shot of tequila."

"Sure, it's on the house."

Manuel watched as Dr. Martin stumbled out of the cantina, half drunk with tequila and hope. His mistress had been right: the doctor was a survivor, ripe for extraction and recruitment. Oh, she would require a little guidance and a few adjustments, but that wouldn't be much of a problem – it hadn't been in his case, at least.

*A phonetic joke; Texans frequently pronounce it "tuh-KILL-ya" or "tuh-KILL-er."

DOG DAYS

by Robert Derie

It's the first real dog day of summer, and the streets of Seattle are baking. Somewhere up above, the sun is a baleful red eye floating above the haze of smog that had descended on Downtown. Puddles of last night's filth evaporate quietly in the gutters outside my destination: Club Penumbra. A few late patrons stumble out, blinking at the glare, and I caught a draft of cool, stale air. I enter, eager to get indoors.

I haven't visited Club Penumbra in years. The stereotypical place-to-be for shadowrunners had finally become cliche. But it's been too long since my last mission, and cred was running low. This is where the principal wanted to meet. My eyes adjust to the darkness and the scattered lights. I take off my respirator to taste the air: sweat, booze, and the faint tang of ozone. It's colder and cleaner than outside.

My Mr. Johnson is occupying a booth, drinking what looks like a red martini with a cherry in it. I study him before approaching: Anglo, with silver hair and blue eyes. By the lines in his face and the slightly-prominent veins on his hands, I guess him to be in his forties-though with modern medicine, he could well be twice that. He was corporate, and that meant cred. I walk over to introduce myself.

"Good morning. They call me Sticks. Our mutual friend said you wished my help in a certain matter, Mr. Johnson."

I sit down opposite him, hands visible and flat on the table.

"Mister John…? Oh, yes. He did say you were someone who could help." The man sighs. "I do hope you can help me, Mr. Sticks. I'm in a terrible state about the whole matter."

Great. A newbie. This close, I note a few more details: a slight Australian accent and a string tie held by a clasp that combined a Celtic knot with a circuit board. Maybe Mr. Johnson worked for NeoNET. Or maybe he'd worn it so I'd think that.

"I'll do what I can. Our friend only spoke in very general terms about what you wanted me to do. Something about a missing family member?"

I couldn't see any weapons on him. He could be wearing form-fitting body armor, though.

"Yes, in a manner of speaking. It's my dog, Chester. He's been kidnapped!"

Mr. Johnson dexterously pulls a hologram out from the inner pocket of his jacket.

"Chester is very rare, you see. A male Australian kelpie. He just came into his full growth and is ready to breed. The Australian kelpie has become very rare now, what with the troubles down in the old commonwealth, you know. I bought him from a farm in New South Wales. He's such a dear animal. Very close to me. It would be horrible if anything happened to him."

Mr. Johnson sniffs, then pulls out a monogrammed handkerchief to dab at his eyes.

I study the hologram. Brownish-black fur, a somewhat long neck, lean body, thin limbs and very prominent erect ears. It looked like any other dog to me. The hologram went through a three-second loop of the canine's ears swiveling to some sound from an unseen source, eyes following the ears by a fraction of a second.

Johnson leans close, his voice no more than a whisper.

"Personally, I suspect foul play. Many other dog fanciers were very jealous of him, and just recently I received a very generous offer for Chester from an anonymous buyer, which of course I turned down. Unfortunately, circumstances prevent me from investigating through… normal channels."

I nod at that. I was a corporate citizen once, and I know how it works. If he asks corporate security to investigate, his superiors see it as a waste of resources – and they'd think far worse of him if he resorts to contacting Lone Star. Apparently Gio, our mutual acquaintance, has convinced him I'm a private and confidential investigator of some sort. Works for me, so long as the Johnson's cred is good.

"I will recover your dog for you, Mr. Johnson. The cost will be a hundred and fifty nuyen per day, five days payable in advance, and a thousand nuyen when I return the animal to you. Do you find those terms acceptable?"

If he wants his dog back, he's probably willing to pay for it. Hopefully, he's too damn green at this to know he can haggle.

"Well… yes, that sounds reasonable. Send me your account number and I'll forward your advance."

We spend a few seconds tapping codes into our respective commlinks, and somewhere in the Matrix a couple of numbers shift from one databank to another. A pop-up window appears on the edge of my vision, confirming 750? had been transferred into an account I hold under a fake SIN at First Nations Bank. The download completes almost instantly.

"Does the dog have an implanted RFID tag or anything of that sort?" I ask.

"Oh, yes. It was the very first thing I tried when I discovered he had been abducted. But the tracking program hasn't been working." He sighs and takes another sip of his drink.

"I'll need a copy of the program, the hologram, a list of anyone you suspect might have been interested in the animal, and your commlink number. I'll keep you informed of my progress," I say as I stand up to take my leave of Mr. Johnson.

I watch him order another drink – his eyes fixed on the hologram in his hand – while I strap on my respirator. Business done, I step out into the heat. It isn't a big score, but it is something to tide me over until I get a real mission. Time for a little legwork.

Data mining isn't my specialty, so I kill hours trawling the Matrix with word, trideo, and image searches. Mr. Johnson's list reads like the membership rolls of two or three breeding clubs… hell, before I started searching, I didn't know what a breeding club was. No Australian kelpies had suddenly appeared on the market for sale or breeding, and no one who was looking for one had suddenly stopped looking. The image search turns up a match: a hologram of Mr. Johnson and his dog at a competition one month ago. Looks like his real name is Hutchison.

The RFID's tracking program looks simple: let it run, and it'll ping the RFID implanted between the dog's shoulderblades and give you a location within a meter. It wasn't working. Either the dog was out of range of AR, or the chip had been removed or blocked. I could hire a hacker to crack the program apart – and I might end up doing that – but hackers are expensive and I wasn't exactly flush with cred. So far, the Matrix wasn't providing many leads.

I go to visit the Seattle Metroplex Humane Society. Rows on rows of mutts stuck in smelly little cages, waiting for their turn to die. The worker I meet is wearing a HazMat suit and insists I sign a release before I can browse the cages. The dogs near the front aren't too bad. Usually pups – clean, healthy. A couple kids are there, picking out one to adopt. The sick, crippled, old, and just plain mean are kept in the back. Monsters throw themselves against the cages as I pass, working themselves into bloody froths, and I can pick out gang signs tattooed on their flesh. One dog must have come from Glow City; its flesh is a mass of tumors and weeping sores, and it's pissing something pink as I stalk by.

Near the end of the hall, armed MHS workers are removing dogs from their cages and guiding them into the back to be put down. The guy in the HazMat suit fits another bullet in his breech-loader as his coworkers lead in another stray.

"We used to use drugs, y'know? But it turns out bullets are cheaper." HazMat man sounds cheerful as he puts the gun up to another mangy skull and pulls the trigger. Some people really like their work, I guess.

I look all through the cages, but I don't find anything resembling the hologram in my pocket.

Nothing but dead ends, so far… but I do know somebody who might know somebody.

Soon's Barbecue is one of the more upscale restaurants on the outskirts of Little Asia. Close enough to Downtown to attract the discerning businesspeople who work there, but only a block away from Little Asia's smorgasbord of whores. Soon's customers pick 'em up like after-dinner mints. It's also my favorite place to eat in the entire sprawl. My old friend Phah is working there as a waiter. With any luck, I could get the information I need and a good meal at the same time.

Back before I left the company, Knight Errant had me infiltrate a gang they were looking to bust up. Phah joined at the same time I did, and we went through the initiations together. Real bonding experience. I made sure Phah got out of the way before the hammer came down. He shows his gratitude by getting me meals at Soon's. Works for me.

I'd changed into my best suit to blend in with the wageslaves coming in on the lunch crowd, but I go around the back and let myself in through the door to the loading dock: the maitre d' and I aren't on the best terms. On the way to the kitchen, I pass a slaughtering room where two undercooks had strung a dog up and were beating it to death, and found Phah taking an order out. He got me a table near the kitchen and a couple cans of Kirin 2.0.

Half an hour and two beers later, Phah's shift ends and he returns with a tureen of soup, two bowls, a bottle of the hot Korean fish sauce called nak mam, and more Kirin. We eat in silence. Maybe it comes from growing up on rancid soy products fished out of garbage cans, but Phah and I are really truly serious about food. I don't even ask what it was until we were finished and sipping beer.

"Bo sin tang. Soup made from shredded dog meat and skin, served hot. Good for your health. One of the lunch crowd ordered it and sent it back when he found out what it's made of."

I watch Phah roll his eyes. He hates to see good food go to waste.

"It's good. You serve a lot of dog around here, man?"

I let my left hand scratch a scar on my right wrist. Phah's eyes followed suit and did the same thing to the identical scar on his wrist. Time for business.

"Sure, omae. We serve the best dog in town. Traditional Korean cuisine, dog," he says, a bit of pride in his voice.

"Lot of Amerinds in here too," I note.

"Boss has been expanding the menu. Lot of the tribes ate dog before the Anglos came. Now you've got the new Amerinds acting old school, wanting to taste what great-great-great-great-grandpa did. Brings in the Tribals, too. Even the pinkskins."

He sneers. Phah is big on any history related to food and hating Anglos. Probably because he's at least half Anglo himself. So am I, come to think of it.

"So you guys serve dog. Where do you get them?" I ask.

Phah raises an eyebrow as he drains his beer, but he doesn't say anything. Maybe he took it the wrong way.

"New mission," I explain. "Salaryman's dog disappeared, maybe kidnapped. But whoever it was didn't leave a ransom demand. That says to me that whoever took the dog had somewhere to offload it."

"Figure maybe old Soon's was that desperate for dog meat, eh?" Phah laughed. "Nah, Sticks. We buy ours legal. Premium dog, raised right here in Seattle. None of the street mutts either."

Phah's brow wrinkles in thought as he opens another new can. I keep nursing my fourth. I can't afford to get shitfaced in the middle of a job.

"I'll tell you what, though… there is someone I know. Not our usual supplier, but sometimes a very valued customer asks for something specific, y'know? Here, let me get you her number." Phah is, if anything, worse at computers than I am. It takes him almost a minute of fiddling with his commlink to send me the number.

I have one more question I have to ask before I go. I'm curious.

"Hey Phah, why do they beat the dogs to death? There must be an easier way to do it."

"The boss is traditional. You could smother it, or slit its throat and let it bleed out, but beating the dog releases adrenaline, flavors the meat. Old Korean practice. It's supposed to be good for your virility too. Eh, eh?" Phah delivers the last line with a comical bit of eyebrow wagging.

I leave through the back door, same way as I came in, and Phah gives me a baggie of kitchen leftovers to take home. I wire him two hundred nuyen on my way out the back. It's still hot as hell outside, but it's gotten darker. I see storm clouds rolling in over the omnipresent smog, and the air feels heavy. I crank up the filter on my respirator – hopefully a little oxygen will help clear my head after those beers – and start walking.

The number Phah gave me is an unlisted commlink number. I don't exactly feel like calling it up blind, which means more Matrix work. I'm not great with computers, so I get others to grease the Matrix monkey for me. Daly, for example, is a secretary at Lone Star and a real wiz at that hacker stuff. Better yet, Daly owes me a little favor, so I call it in.

I ask Daly to run the number Phah gave me through Lone Star's reverse directory, but it turns out he's already familiar with it: the commlink of Miriam Xiu Liu.

"She's the owner of Obedience First, a local canine training facility. Raises a couple breeds and trains 'em – helpers for the blind, K-9 for some of the smaller security corps, guard dogs, that kind of thing. Maybe something shady on the side."

Daly's voice sounds pissed. Speaking of which, that beer was really starting to kick in.

"Uh-huh. How do you know her?" Dammit. Someone showed me how to hack the public toilets in Downtown once, but I forgot. No way I'm wasting 2 nuyen on one now.

"We keep an eye on everyone who supplies the other security agencies in our jurisdiction. Look, I gave you enough, okay? I'm not supposed to tell this stuff to civilians."

Right. So Lone Star keeps tabs on the others cop corps. Makes sense. I sidle over to a handy empty alley and lean up against the brickwork. The air stings a little on my exposed flesh, but I'm past caring.

"What breeds does Obedience First deal in?"

"Bernese Mountain Dogs, Greyhounds, and Australian Kelpies."

Bingo.

"Okay Daly, we're square."

The soft ping of a disconnect signals the end of the conversation. Rude bastard. Obedience First covers a couple acres up in Snohomish. It isn't raining just yet, so I have the cab drop me a block away and walk in. Hopefully, I don't smell too drunk. The secretary isn't thrilled to see me, and even less thrilled when I ask to see his boss. I bluff a little and tell him it's about a special delivery for Soon's. Must be the magic word, because not five minutes later I'm shaking hands with Miriam Xiu Liu.

Xiu Liu turns out to be a petite woman with Asian eyes, a Mediterranean nose, a pale complexion, and a shock of electric blue hair. She looks to be about the same age as I am, and she speaks English with a slight North Seattle accent. Maybe it's the beer goggles talking, but I find her very attractive.

"You say you're here about a delivery for Soon's Barbecue, Mr. Sticks?"

"Just Sticks, please, Ms. Xiu Liu."

"Call me Miriam, Sticks."

"All right, Miriam. A very valued customer has asked Mr. Soon to prepare a special meal for him and some guests."

I scratch my throat, revealing the hints of Yakuza-style tattoos on my left forearm. Hopefully, she'll assume I'm connected with the local gumi.

"I see." Miriam leans against her desk, arms crossed over her chest. "And what sort of livestock are we talking about?"

"A purebred Australian Kelpie, male. The client was very specific."

I watch her brow crease, and note the slight downturn at the corner of her lips.

"You people are ridiculous. I don't know how you found out about my occasional delivery to Soon's, but the old man always comes in person to pick up the meat. I told your people before: I won't be blackmailed. Either meet my price or leave me alone."

Dammit. This wasn't going right.

"I believe you have me mistaken for someone else, Miriam. I'm looking for a dog. This dog." I pull out the hologram and hold it out to her. "That's it."

Miriam eyes me critically, then examines the hologram. "Turn around, Mr. Sticks. Slowly. No sudden movements," she says.

I do. Behind me, three dogs watch me intently. I didn't even hear them come in. One of them – an Australian Kelpie, unless I missed my guess – grins at me, showing off a set of sharpened chrome teeth and a lot of healthy pink gum. I turn back around.

"You see, Sticks, I could have you killed if I wanted. But I'm not going to, because I think I know who took your dog, and anything you do to them will benefit me."

Miriam's left hand types on a virtual keyboard, and an AR display forms in front of me. The AR window shows a small building. It looks completely innocuous, right down to the wage slave removing some AR graffiti from the razorwire fence.

"This facility was set up a week ago. At first, they wanted to buy my dogs. Then they wanted to buy my business. When I wouldn't sell, they tried to break into my kennel."

"Why?"

"They build cybermonsters. Aussie Kelpies and other herding dogs are prime security animal material, but well-trained and well-bred herding dogs are rare these days. When they cannot buy them, they steal them. Then these people use extensive implants to augment the animals. The process also drives the animals psychotic."

"Is it worth it? I mean, it must cost a mint to reverse-engineer human implants for animals."

"Your naivete is almost charming, Sticks. How do you suppose they test implants before they're approved for human use? Animals. Before any product reaches human testing, it's already been field tested by a legion of rats, dogs, and apes."

Miriam Xiu Liu's eyes meet mine.

"I believe this is where you will find your dog, Sticks. Now please leave, and never return." She pauses to let that sink in. "Or I'll let my dogs eat your testicles, rape you, and then I sell the simrecording to the Choson Ring for their next double-feature BTL."

The lab Xiu Liu showed me was in Everett, and on the outside it looks like just one more little industrial park. But little corp industrial parks can't afford to hire Knight Errant to patrol their offices twenty-four hours a day, or that AR-inhibiting wallpaper that prevents the tracing program from locking on the dog's implanted RFID tag. I'm a little worried about astral security, a patrolling spirit or something, but that's just a situation I'll have to deal with that when – if – it comes up.

For the last two days I'd been squatting on the fifth floor of an abandoned apartment building half a mile away, popping caffeine pills, staring through the scope of my paintball gun, and pissing in empty water bottles, staking the place out. I had no doubt that this corp was Mr. Johnson's anonymous buyer. My eyes feel raw and itchy as I set the alarm on my commlink. I've made my plans for tonight, and I don't want to oversleep.

It's getting dark when I wake up. Suiting up in my old armor and uniform feels kind of weird – never figured I'd be sporting a Knight Errant badge again, not after the way I left the company. I pick out my best ID and load it into my commlink, make a few practice swings with the tonfa, and snap it in place. Ready as I'll ever be.

Shift change on the front gate occurs at nineteen thirty-two. I snip through the razorwire in the back while all eyes are on the front, and then slip into the shadows around the corner, holding my tonfa at the ready. Six minutes and change later the first patrol comes around the back of the building, right on cue. I hit the first guard so hard his helmet cracks; the second guard is so busy watching him crumple to the ground, he doesn't see me until my tonfa hits him in the solar plexus, then right across the back of his exposed neck.

I strip them of their commlinks and passkeys, and then let myself in the back door. The unconscious guards won't be missed until check-in in ten minutes, and I slip one of their commlinks on. Good, it's still logged into their network. The interior layout was a mystery to me, but the local network contains a pop-up map to help security contain intruders. With the map, it took me three minutes to find my objective.

Chester lay strapped to the operating table. Four limbs of black-painted metal end in wicked claws pointed up to the sky, and what black fur he had left was crisscrossed with antimicrobial sutures. His nose and tongue looked organic, but something about the shape of the head didn't. Cyberskull, most likely. At the sight of me, the dog whines softly and wags his tail. I hope the principal doesn't mind a few improvements.

Club Penumbra doesn't allow pets, so I arrange to meet the principal around back. His car must be on autopilot, because there's no one at the wheel and he steps out the back. Chester is on the end of his makeshift leash, spraying the traditional area of the wall. Supposedly, Maria Mercurial had pissed against that same spot after her first show here.

The tearful reunion between master and man's best friend doesn't go so well.

"What is that?" Mr. Johnson says.

"Your dog. Chester, purebred Australian Kelpie. The kidnappers intended to use him as a security animal, after extensive implants."

"But… wait, I must see… " he says.

My employer goes down on his knees in the filthy alley, picks up Chester's tail and takes a good, long look.

"Oh, no." Tears were in his eyes. "They neutered him! The bastards… he's worthless now!"

I cough politely.

"I'm sorry your animal has been, ah, fixed, but I've completed my mission and I would like the remainder of my fee."

Hutchinson turns apoplectic.

"Your fee? Your fee! You worthless, bloody low-born gutterscum! Don't you understand? This animal is worth nothing to me now! He can't breed! I won't pay you one red cent! You and that – that beast can go to bottomless perdition for all I care!"

Hutchinson tries to storm off, but I extend my staff and trip him before he can get to the car. I bring the staff down a centimeter from his head and watch my former Mr. Johnson flinch.

"My money. One thousand nuyen. Now."

He looks scared enough to pay. Then the sirens start, and his smile is an ugly thing.

"Money be damned. I've called the police. They'll take you away!"

Dammit. The sirens get closer. I bring my staff down again, but this time on his throat. By the time the police arrive, all they'll find is a miserly corpse. I gotta talk to Gio about giving me deadbeats like Hutchinson.

I run, and Chester follows. It's a dead sprint down the back alleys to Little Asia, but I don't really know where we're going. We stop a block from Soon's. The respirator hums, trying to keep up with my breathing. Chester sniffs the garbage with serious interest.

Now what the hell do I do? No money, and now I've got a dog. Maybe I can sell the dog. Not that I know where to start. All those dog fanciers would probably react the same way Hutchinson did. I make a call to Gio, the fixer who got me into this mess. I watch him on the AR call-screen, tapping away at something.

"I'm afraid I can't help you right now, Sticks. Biz is backed up."

"Fuck your other biz, Gio. You gave me a deadbeat." I explain about Hutchinson.

"Hmm, all right. Won't even charge it against your account."

"You're a real piece of work Gio. Let me have it."

"Well, there are a number of lucrative markets. Livestock is one you've run into already, but from the sound of things the animal doesn't have a lot of meat on it, and they pay by the kilo. You could fatten him up, I suppose."

I don't even know how to take care of a dog, much less a dog with more high-grade implants than most veteran runners.

"Sims. Most of the syndicates have a bestiality BTL or two on the market. They pay a premium for well-trained "actors." Oh wait, the dog is fixed, right? Damn. Well, maybe one of those sims about being an animal."

I watch Chester as he stops sniffing and pads over to me, metal claws clicking on the ground. He's holding a piece of rebar in his jaws, and drops it at my feet.

I reach down to pick it up, and Chester's tail starts wagging. What the hell does he want me to do? I toss the worthless chunk of metal away. Chester leaps at the rebar, catches it in his jaws, and brings it back. I throw it harder this time, and again Chester fetches it. It's like a game. I start thinking while we play.

"Pit fights are a possibility," Gio continues. "The market is always hungy for 'amateur talent.' A few of the gangs in the Barrens raise mutts and beat them to make them mean. Trained dogs usually last longer, and carry a higher price. Dogs with implants are always in demand at the Coliseum."

A pit-fighting cyberdog, eh? Not many shadowrunners can say they have one of those. Could be a serious asset. Take him home; let him chew on my old clubs… I wonder how much he needs to eat? He'd be a nice security system. I'd like to see some gangers try to break in and steal my stuff with Chester around!

"But, if you take my advice, xenotransplants are the way to go. The implants and organs in your animal must be worth a small fortune to certain street docs and veterinarians. Here, I'm sending you an encoded file with a number you can reach someone at. Her name is Butch. I really must be going now, Sticks. I'll call you when I have work."

I barely register the disconnect as Chester stares at me with his dark brown eyes. Break him up for spare parts? Just like that? No. I'll try the pitfighting thing. This could be the start of a beautiful friendship.

I freeze when Chester starts to growl. Three Knight Errant officers are coming down the alley. One is a female ork armed with a stun gun, the other two are male humans with long poles that have loops of wire at the end. Looks like the boys at the lab want Chester back. How the hell did they find us? Then it hits me: the RFID tag. Damn. Well, they won't get my dog without a fight.

Just as I whip out my extendable staff, Chester launches himself at the one with the taser. The humans advanced on me, and I fall back. It's one thing to beat up two guards when you have surprise and a weapon drawn; it's something else to take on two armed, aware opponents working together. I fence with them a bit, feeling out the range of their poles. When one of them makes a move for me, my staff breaks his right wrist, forcing him to drop his weapon.

My follow-up is interrupted when the second officer gets the loop of his pole around my neck, and tightens it. I try to hit him with my staff, but he's out of range. The first human takes it away from me with his good hand. I can't breathe. I try to grab the loop, but my hands are too damn heavy. I can't see…

I wake up to warm, greasy rain on my face. My throat burns, and I rip the loop off of my neck. Must have passed out. But where are the Knight Errant officers? Where's Chester? I look around the alley and open my eyes wide to adjust to the low light.

Chester's snout is buried in the intestines of the ork woman; the bodies of the other two are nearby. The dog is covered with gore, and pulling out wet, slippery bits of meat from the ork's stomach. He stops feasting to look up at me. His eyes glow yellow-green. Chester wags his tail.

I can't take him home. There's no way I could control him. I fetch around for that piece of rebar, and hold it up. Chester comes bounding over, jumping up and down on spring-powered legs. I hold the rebar up, and reach down with my other hand to pet Chester. He looks up at me with brown eyes, totally trusting.

A shock goes up my arm as the rebar penetrates his left eye and into his brain. The dog dies almost instantly. His implants take a little while longer to stop twitching.

I make my way back to Soon's, but somehow I don't think I'm up for any more dog. Not for a while, anyway.

THE MAN WITH THE PLANS

by Dave Barton

I have become invisible and intangible. Nobody sees me anymore. I do my job but nothing changes, nobody benefits. Not anymore.

But still I love the sea, the lift and tilt of the waves. Monty Crane gets land-sick, they joke down at the Bleached Whale, and they're right. Vancouver makes me sick to my stomach. I'm only happy when I'm on this old boat of mine and heading out of the bay.

I am invisible. I keep my eyes on the horizon, my hands on the wheel, my mouth shut, and outside the one-man cabin my passengers chat as if I wasn't here.

"I'm just saying: from what I've heard, Skunk won't take money," says the guy who thinks he's their leader. An ork with stud-covered skin. The rest of his body also infested with metal, no doubt. Hints of a Seattle accent, I think. I get a gut-load of deja vu, then and there. But he's right: Skunk doesn't need money. Money's no good out in the Swamps. I know what Skunk will want, and I know it won't be pretty. This isn't deja vu. I have been here before. Too many times. Maybe I should tell them.

"So we save a chunk of our own pay," grunts his human friend, the Amerind punk with the coat full of knives. "Suits me."

The elf girl's looking a little green. I like her but what can I do? The sea's choppy this morning, and anyway it'll be better out than in.

"And I'm just saying: there've got to be other ways to get the-" she drops her voice to a hoarse whisper, eyes darting in my direction "- blueprints for the place." She needn't have bothered. I could have filled in the blanks even if I didn't have an ear full of electronics. I know how it works with Arty Skunk. I've been there from the beginning.

A cloud of sea spray slaps the elf girl in the face. She retches and folds up onto the deck, cupping her mouth. But she'll be damned if she won't finish her point: "I don't like what I've heard about this Skunk fellow-" she pauses to swallow back the sickness "-and I don't like thinking about what he might ask us to do in exchange."

I smirk, safe in the knowledge that this raggedy old beard will hide it. A shadowrunner with a moral streak. Refreshing. Likeably naive. But I'm guessing she's new to this way of life and she isn't going to go very far with that kind of baggage. More's the pity.

Up ahead their hacker perches cross-legged on the bow of the boat. He's sweeping his hands around in the air like one of those Tai Chi nuts in the park in Chinatown, only ten times the speed. Juggling little panels and streams of information that only he can see. I glance out at the landmarks and the little signs that only I can see. Behind us on the right, the fortress walls of the aerodrome are fading into the morning haze. The silt is merging with the sea. Time to turn hard to port and follow what's left of the coast. And any second now…

Sure enough, the hacker cries out "Fuck it!" and shakes his fists in the air. He stands up and stomps my way.

"No signal? Seriously?" he shouts through the window. I shake my head and shout back, trying to put some sympathy into the tone:

"Aye, and you won't get much in the Swamps either. A few patches here and there, but wireless relays aren't a high priority, I'm afraid."

He curses, and the others fumble with their commlinks to confirm what their friend has just pointed out. There will be moaning and bitching like spoiled children, you mark my words.

"Why are we heading so far out? We wanted to go south, not west!" the ork yells. A Wuxing cargo jet has chosen this moment to roar overhead, spiraling down toward the Vancouver aerodrome behind us. Odd that it isn't heading directly to their facility.

Young punk. Telling me my business? I sigh through gritted teeth.

"Safest way. Lots of Rangers and Border Patrol along the north edge of the Swamps. Watching for trouble and smugglers. Lucky we didn't get stopped already when we skirted it."

Luck, and ten years plying this old fishing boat. I've been stopped so many times they rarely bother me anymore as long as I stick to this route. They never have searched hard enough to find the smuggling bins under the hull, I'm happy to say, otherwise I guess it would be a different story.

They shut up for a while, taking in the view. I think the elf girl's about ready to cry when she first sees the Dyke. And the ork can hardly bring himself to look. All those heads on spikes, looking out to sea-kind of surprised-looking, some of them. I remember when the Dyke was still a symbol of hope. God forgive me. I might as well have put those heads up there myself.

It was over ten years ago when Mother Earth hit the Richmond area with one mother of an earthquake. We were sure it wasn't natural. The aerodrome just to the north got away with a few cracks, and as you'd guess, the corps weren't slow to get it patched up and good as new. But Richmond, sitting on the sands between the two arms of the Fraser River, was a different story. Many of the buildings were reduced to rubble. A few years and another earthquake later and the land had taken more than it could bear. It subsided ten feet or more and let the sea rush in to embrace the remaining real estate.

After the first quake, most of the survivors fled to neighboring districts and the high and mighty managed to pack them all in eventually. The Cascade Crow governors dutifully danced in honor of the dead, then washed their hands and walked away. The place was empty, they said. Nothing more to see. But it wasn't true, especially around the edges of the district. Some couldn't afford to leave (Amerind insurance companies quibbled about "hand of God" clauses and sold their souls to the devil that day), some didn't want to leave, and some people in this world are drawn to suffering like flies to shit. On top of everything else, there were the Shedim zombies: a real nightmare at the center of the district. Not every victim of Richmond took death lying down.

Six years ago, not long before the Crash of '64, I was shipping another team of shadowrunners on this exact same route. In this exact same boat. I remember now: there was an ork pretending to be in charge of that lot too. Razor, I think his name was. Or the name he was giving me, anyway. I don't remember the others so well, but these were the people who gave Arty Skunk his big idea. This was the day that Skunk got a wicked glint in his eye.

Razor wasn't a native of Vancouver either, and although he was trying to pretend otherwise, I don't think he'd even been here very long. I had a feeling that none of them had. They were still buzzing from a trip to the Vancouver Ridge in downtown. Back then it had only been open for a year or two, though I don't think it's mellowed much with age, even after the Crash lost everyone so much money. Two miles of the most expensive shops, bars, restaurants, hotels, and casinos in the Salish-Shidhe Council. Swimming pools, an aquarium, an arboretum in the main concourse, massage and beauty parlors, art galleries, you name it, all of it under the same long roof. The Pacific Prosperity Group's big shiny statement that it could promote greed and glamour even in the tree-hugging SSC. And a shiny slap in the face for all those people trying to rebuild the Richmond Swamps not ten miles away.

I remember our approach to the Swamps that day. Their conversation faltering and the smiles dropping off their faces like iron anvils. Quite a contrast to the Ridge. As I turned inland at the southern end of the Dyke, they saw the sickly thin survivors wading through the water. A long chain of them, hounded by flies, blankly piling up bits of debris on top of rusting shells of cars on top of heaps of rotting branches. It was tempting to think that they shuffled like zombies, but out here it was a good idea to draw a clear line between the barely living and the wading dead.

"What are they doing?" I remember Razor asking.

"They're building the Dyke," I told him. "They think they can reclaim Richmond."

As we slipped on by, he and his friends watched the scene with sour looks on their faces. There were huge makeshift banners laid out along the Dyke, for the benefit of all those wealthy execs flying in toward the aerodrome. "If you won't do it, we will!" was one of them. Others were less polite. But those poor souls were hardly in a state to do anything. I remember Razor and his friends tensing as they spotted a man, a rusting assault rifle in his hands, standing on one of the tiled rooftops that peeked out of the foul water. A second armed man came up the roof behind him.

"Take it easy!" I told my passengers.

"Who are they?" asked one, a young lad with startling white hair.

"You're going to see Arty Skunk? Well those are his men and that there Dyke is his big idea. And there are any number of Gator Gangs that would happily prey on all these people if Arty's men weren't here. But we're all right. They know this boat, so don't rock it." Razor nodded with some sort of approval. Maybe once he'd been a bit of a community leader himself.

I was getting paid (and paid pretty well-they hadn't even haggled) to take this lot all the way to Arty's headquarters: the top floors of an old semi-submerged school just a little way in from the Dyke. The "Skunkworks," people called it. Arty's little community center.

I thought it best to go in with them, a familiar face to lead them up to Arty's "throne room" in the roof space and introduce them. I was almost more worried for Arty than I was for them. They carried themselves like cobras.

"We've heard you've acquired blueprints for the Vitus Grand Hotel," said Razor.

So that was it. The VG was one of the most expensive hotels in the world. The final extravagant flourish at the end of the Vancouver Ridge. The kind of place that didn't do rooms; if you couldn't afford a suite then they weren't interested in your custom. If these guys were planning to hit the VG then they really were playing in the big league. But Arty wasn't going to be intimidated. He was his usual clipped and charmless self.

"We'd considered staging a protest there. What's it to you?"

I wondered what sort of protest he'd contemplated. The VG already attracted all kinds of jealous slurs, jokes, and graffiti: bloggers calling it the "VITAS Grand," and so on. But the VG was too rich and classy to care about a little plague joke. And much too secure for Arty's minions to tackle. I was surprised that he'd managed to get the blueprints in the first place. Vancouver's wealthy Cascade Crow landowners tended to pay well to keep the details of their property away from public eyes. But there were still a few well-connected Amerinds with some sympathy for the plight of the Swamps dwellers. And Arty was the kind of man who could capitalize on bourgeois guilt.

The shadowrunners shifted uneasily. Razor took the lead again.

"We'll pay well for them."

I remember Arty looking at the antiquated datapad in his hands. That's when I saw that glint.

"Money's not much use to me out here," he barked. "But… decent guns and people who know how to use them… those I can use."

I doubted Arty was the only source for the information they wanted. But this would be clean: no risk of alerting the target. I could read the same thought on Razor's face.

"Go on," he said quietly.

"There is a gang that has been terrorizing my people." (My people? The ego of the man!) "They call themselves the Crocs. King Croc is a troll. And there are his two lieutenants, one of them a shaman. They've got a nest not too far away. You bring me… their heads… and then you can have your blueprints for free."

Arty's minions smiled at each other and nodded approvingly. The shadowrunners looked at each other, and asked for a moment to discuss the offer. I stood at the back of the room, hardly daring to breathe. Nobody would be sorry to see the Crocs get their comeuppance. I'd heard all about them many times. The abductions. The drugs. Abuse. Destruction. Black magic. Worse. The Crocs were a menace, but these guys looked up to the task. Yes, I remember thinking I'd be very glad to see my passengers take this deal. From the animation of their huddled discussion, I got the sense that they were not too sure. They asked a whole lot of questions about the gang and its crimes, asked for a glimpse of the blueprint file to confirm it was what they were after, and in the end Razor came back.

"Deal," he said.

I wasn't about to put my boat in danger, but Skunk was more than happy to put one of his at their disposal. I figured I'd hang around. If they came back alive then they'd paid for a two-way trip. At any rate, I could hardly leave without seeing how it all turned out.

After they'd shipped out, Arty Skunk walked straight past me and out onto the adjoining roof. "Monty," and a curt nod were all the acknowledgements he could muster. But then he stopped and turned back. "You think they'll manage it?" he asked me, without looking me in the eyes.

I shrugged. "I reckon they've faced worse."

They must have because they were back within half an hour, with barely a scratch on them. A large head and some other bodies were heaped together on the prow. But they hadn't just brought back gangers. There was also a traumatized huddle of six victims, and the dead body of a seventh-a little girl. I couldn't comprehend how long those people must have been swimming in their own filth in a cage under King Croc's nest, nor the kind of abuse they must have endured whenever they were actually let out. At that point I would have done just about any favor for Razor and his friends, but they seemed satisfied with just a ride back to Granville Island with their precious blueprints. As I was leading them back to my boat, I glanced up at the roof. King Croc's fat head, still dripping blood from its flabby severed neck, glowered down at me from its new home, and Arty Skunk, teeth clenched in a sick grin, was hard at work sawing the head off the foul-smelling shaman.

He's had six years to lead Richmond back into the 21st century! I'm lost in memory and gripped by anger, so the boat hits a big wave sideways on and Elf Girl finally gives up her breakfast over the side.

It didn't take Skunk long to realize he was on to something. And somehow it didn't take him much longer to make himself the go-to guy for Vancouver blueprints. Then the Crash ruined a whole lot of people and destroyed a whole lot of records, and Skunk's stock hit a new high on the black market.

I've shipped in a lot of shadowrunners since Razor and his friends. I've overheard a fair few arguments. But in the end, almost all of them have paid Skunk's asking price. Sure, he could sell for cash-he always could have done that, I guess-but he gets a much better deal this way. Arty Skunk no longer runs the southwest corner of the Swamps-he runs the whole place, near enough, and everybody's terrified of him. But there are still Gator Gangs in the Swamps. There are still drugs and crime, disease and tormented spirits. The Dyke was never finished, and now it's nothing more than a decaying trophy shelf for the self-styled Man with the Plans.

The boat plows on through the conflicted sea. The wind is changing, and the haze is lifting. Gulls shriek and squabble over my wake. My eyes keep getting drawn to Elf Girl, draped wretchedly over the railing, staring at the distant fingers of wreckage.

Only once in my life did I ever take on a business partner: a shrewd young ork woman who loved the sea as much as I did and called herself Sounder. It didn't work out. She was too talkative for my tastes, and I wasn't ambitious enough for hers. We agreed to part ways without any ill feeling, and it was on our last trip together, as she lounged against the side of my boat- just where Elf Girl is slumped at this very moment-that Sounder asked me, out of the blue:

"What do you want out of life, Monty?"

I told her: "I'm saving up for a little bar on a hot beach a long way from here."

Quick as a flash she came back: "How much is something like that worth?"

Sounder loved to lace her questions with double meanings like that. And somehow that one question keeps coming back to me.

I drop the throttle and leave the boat lurching to a halt on the tide.

"Hey, what's going on?" hisses the hacker. "You going to try some funny business, old man?" He pulls out a heavy pistol.

I come out of my cabin, waving my shaking hands to try and calm everyone down. "I think there's something you need to know about Arty Skunk."

"And what's that?" says Elf Girl, perking up.

"Arty Skunk is a shit. And he's got to where he is today by getting folks like you to kill his enemies for a few measly files. He could have fixed all this by now. But he hasn't. And he never will."

Elf Girl looks at her comrades with piercing eyes, but stops short of saying, "See?"

"Start up the boat again, old man," says the ork menacingly.

"Just listen to me. Do what you have to do. Get your blueprints. But when we're leaving the Skunkworks, I want you to do a job for me."

They laugh and look around the battered old fishing boat.

I know what they're thinking. "I've saved up a fair bit of money over the years. Twenty thousand nuyen, more or less."

"Small-time smuggler, eh?" the Amerind punk sneers. "Hide your treasure in a cave through the Crash?"

"It's yours if you take out Arty Skunk when you're leaving."

There. It's out. The deal is on the table. My heart feels that much lighter already. Just for having made it.

"Naughty naughty, old man," the hacker sniggers. "What will Mister Skunk think of you, eh?"

I feel a chill in my spine. Damned fool. They're going to take your money anyway. Kill you, or threaten to tell Skunk what you've said.

"Hey, hang on a minute!" pipes Elf Girl. Beautiful Elf Girl. Make me believe in people again.

"That's a lot of money, old man. More than we're being paid for our current job, in fact," she says looking around the others. They nod slightly, conceding the point. "Are you serious? His death is worth that much to you?"

She has the most bewitching eyes. I start to feel like she's playing with my mind, plucking my emotions and listening to what notes they produce. It makes me squirm inside, but the truth is that I want someone to know what I've been feeling, what I've been hiding under this beard.

"It's worth that much to them." I nod toward the coast.

"We don't care about them," says the ork. But I've been watching him on and off through this whole trip and I don't buy it. Maybe he's playing it tough for the hacker and the Amerind punk? I hang my hopes on that, and try to make it easy for him:

"So care about the money. Let me care about them."

It seems I'm not so invisible now. The runners exchange glances for a long time without saying anything. At first I think they're arguing their cases by facial expression alone, but then I remember the newfangled Linked Area Network that all the runner teams have these days. Zeroes and ones are deciding my fate.

Eventually, all eyes turn to the ork. I guess he really is in charge after all.

"Deal," he says.